by Sarah Sundin
“So . . . ?” Betty Jamison Anello stretched the word in twenty directions. “Tell me everything.”
Helen sliced celery at an even pace. “Tell you what?”
“Tell me why Ray Novak’s in my living room.”
“George invited him.” Helen scraped the celery into the mixing bowl while her older sister did nothing. Everyone loved her for being Betty. She didn’t have to work for it as Helen did. “The bread, Betts.”
She heaved a sigh and crumbled bread into the bowl. “Yes, but why did my husband find Ray all cozy on your back porch?”
Helen opened the cupboard and rummaged through a jumble of spice tins. “He went for a walk.”
“Out of his way, don’t you think?”
Several blocks out of his way. Helen shrugged, glad the open door hid her smile. Finally she found the sage. “How can you work in this kitchen?”
“This is so sweet, so right.” Betty leaned her plump hip against the cupboard, hands idle. “Does he know you made up stories about Sir Raymond the Valiant?”
Helen gasped and brandished a wooden spoon in her sister’s face. “Don’t breathe a word or I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”
“You’ll stir me until thoroughly mixed?”
“I’ll swat you like Papa used to do.”
Betty laughed her tinkling laugh. “And break my good spoon? You’d better not.”
Instead, Helen applied the spoon to the stuffing mixture. “Slice the Spam.”
“Well, he’s awfully good-looking and sweet, and here you are with the Carlisle stamp of approval.” Betty ducked her chin to deepen her voice. “I have decided, in my masculine superiority, to permit you to date. Honestly.”
“Slice the Spam.” Helen studied the recipe Betty clipped from George’s National Geographic for Spam-birds, slices of Spam rolled around stuffing and fastened with toothpicks.
“The Carlisles think it’s 1844, not 1944. First the insurance, now this.”
Helen lined up the mixing bowl, baking pan, and toothpicks. Jim had made his parents the beneficiaries of his ten thousand dollar GI life insurance policy, which rankled, but the Carlisles did provide a generous allowance and a house to live in rent free.
The kitchen door swung open. “Doo doo?” Jay-Jay asked.
Betty laughed. “I hope he learns to say his cousin’s name right.”
Helen stooped to her son’s level. “Judy’s asleep, sweetie. She’s just a baby, not a big boy like you.”
His moist pink lower lip rounded out. “Pay.”
“I know you want to play, but don’t wake her, okay?”
Betty handed Jay-Jay two old tin mixing bowls of Mama’s. “Judy has the Jamison sleep-through-a-major-earthquake trait.”
Same as Jay-Jay. Helen grinned. “Go play music for Uncle George and Lieutenant Novak.”
Jay-Jay banged the pans together and ran off.
The sisters laughed and got to work rolling Spam-birds, and Helen arranged them in the baking pan.
“Got any spoons we can borrow?” Ray stepped into the kitchen with light in his eyes.
“Spoons?” Despite her flipping heart, Helen slid the pan into the oven without mishap.
George crossed the kitchen, tall and lanky, with his uneven gait. “That drawer on the left. Darling, where do you keep the empty jelly jars?”
“Jelly jars?” Betty asked. “What are you two up to?”
In the doorway, Jay-Jay hopped up and down. “Pay! Pay!”
“We’re forming a band.” Ray gave Helen a lightning bolt of a wink and left the kitchen.
Electricity tingled down to Helen’s fingertips.
Betty opened the icebox and gave the Jell-O mold a shake. “I was going to suggest bridge tonight, but I changed my mind. A little ‘Stardust’ on the phonograph, a little dancing, a little romance in the air.”
The utensil drawer lay open. Helen grabbed a spoon and swatted her sister’s backside.
Helen tried not to watch Ray as they walked down D Street, but he held Jay-Jay asleep on his shoulder and hummed “Stardust” as he studied the night sky. How could she not watch? But did his silence mean contentment, fatigue—or did he dislike the company? “I hope we didn’t wear you out tonight.”
“Hmm?”
Helen scrunched up the pocket lining of her spring coat. “Betty and George talked so much, you barely had a chance to speak.”
“Don’t need it. I had a great time, especially dancing.” He pulled the blanket higher over Jay-Jay’s shoulders, but it slipped.
Helen tucked the blanket around her sleeping son. “Good music, wasn’t it?”
“Good partner.” A rumble in his voice played havoc with her heart. Then his smile edged into place. “You’re a great dancer.”
For some reason, she struck a ballet pose straight from Swan Lake, with fluttering hands crossed over her chest. “Thanks to eight summers of torture in Madame Ivanova’s ballet studio.”
Jim would have been disgusted by her display, but Ray’s smile grew fuller. “That’s right. You went away every summer, didn’t you?”
“Off to Aunt Olive’s musty Victorian in cold, foggy San Francisco.” An appropriate place to banish a cripple girl.
“No fond memories, huh?”
Helen strolled down the sidewalk. “I loved the dancing, the music, Aunt Olive, but I hated being away from my friends and I hated the weather and Madame’s switch.”
“Switch?”
“That’s how she corrected us.” She imitated the smarting, flicking lashes. “You are weak, Helena. You must work harder. Deeper plié, more turnout, point those toes. You are weak.”
“You’re kidding.”
Helen swung her gaze to Ray. She must have sounded crazy. “Well, she was right. If I worked harder and did it correctly, she wouldn’t have needed to switch me.”
His lips set in a hard line. “Did that ever happen? Was there ever a day she didn’t switch you?”
“I was never good enough. Not with this . . . this foot.”
Embers flared in Ray’s charcoal eyes.
Helen stepped back.
“That’s not right.” His neck muscles stood out. “Children should be punished for disobedience, not imperfection. What does that teach a child? The only way to salvation, to approval, is to be good enough, do the right things.”
Helen turned up the walkway to her house, away from the tension. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Did you tell your aunt?” His voice cooled down.
“She told me not to complain and to try harder. So I did.” She smiled over her shoulder at Ray. “That’s just the way of things. Besides, I got stronger and walked better, so everyone was happy.”
“Except you.”
She climbed her front steps and put on a bigger smile. “Honestly, it was fine.”
“What should I do with the munchkin?”
“Here.” She lifted her son from Ray’s chest, which involved pleasant brushing of arms and shoulders. Jay-Jay’s hands trembled midair. He lifted his head, brought his eyes to focus on Helen, and relaxed into her arms.
Ray leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms over his waist-length olive drab “Ike” jacket. “Are you happy now?”
“I am. I have a sweet boy, friends and family nearby, and plenty of time to volunteer.”
Ray had a delicious way of studying her for a long moment before he spoke. “You looked happy tonight.”
She leaned her cheek on Jay-Jay’s curls and returned Ray’s intense gaze. “Good company.”
5
Sacramento Air Depot
Monday, March 27, 1944
At the typewriter, Ray could almost convince himself he was writing a sermon and doing something useful. Nope, another stupid requisition form.
He returned the carriage, savored the “ding,” and typed, “GLOVES, FLYING, UNLINED SUMMER, MEDIUM, B-3A, CASE, 1 EA.” The M key was weak. Ray struck extra hard to press through the carbon paper.
He gazed around hi
s closet-sized office with its file cabinets and shelves full of forms. His winepress. In the Bible, Gideon threshed his wheat in a winepress, hidden from the Midianite invaders. Was Ray any different? The War Department had stepped up the draft, reclassifying fathers and taking one of every twenty men in civilian war work or farm work. While fathers went to combat, Ray hid.
He grumbled and fetched another form, the last in the pile. Swell, he needed to reorder. He leaned out the office door and scanned the warehouse for Corporal Shuster, his right-hand man. No, Ray needed to figure this out. There was a form, a special one, a requisition form for requisition forms.
He flipped through the stacks on the shelves. “If the Germans want to bring down the U.S. Army, all they have to do is cut off our paper supply.”
Corporal Shuster entered the office. “The shipment is ready for inspection, sir.”
Ray followed him out. The corporal reminded him of a mouse with his pointed face, bright eyes, and erratic movements. What kind of man was he? Maybe Ray’s purpose here was to get to know the men.
“Where are you from, Corporal?”
“Originally, sir? Small town in Vermont.” Shuster sneezed and wiped his nose with a wiggle that made him look even more mouselike.
Ray moved to the side to let a forklift pass. “How’d you end up here?”
“Joined up, sir.” He led Ray down a canyon of crates. “Seems like yesterday I was riding the rails, just another hobo, and Uncle Sam gives me a test, says I’d be good in supply, puts me in a smart uniform, and feeds me regular. It’s a good life.”
Ray sighed. Too bad he didn’t share the man’s positive attitude.
Shuster’s gaze skittered over the crates. He probably knew the contents and destination of each one. “This is good, orderly work,” Shuster said. “When I do my job right, the boys on the front get what they need to fight.”
“Yeah.” Why did Ray let an avalanche of forms bury that truth? These supplies helped his brother Jack in England, his friend Bill Ferguson in the Pacific, and all the men on the front.
He stepped outside into the cool morning sunshine. Throbs of airplane engines filled the air. A C-47 cargo plane pointed its snub nose into the sky while another turned onto the downwind leg of the landing approach. Pain built in Ray’s chest, and his fingers curled, missing the feel of the control wheel.
Ray had inquired into a position with the Air Transport Command, but ATC also served as a reward for returning combat pilots. For heroes.
“Lieutenant?” With a strained smile, Corporal Shuster held out a clipboard. How long had he been waiting?
“Sorry. Where do I sign?”
Shuster led him to a truck and pointed out crates and boxes and labels, and had Ray sign here and here and there, and initial here and here and—no, over here. Ray served as an officer’s rubber stamp, a bureaucratic hurdle for Shuster, who could roll out shipments a lot faster without him.
“Ready to go, sir?” Shuster asked.
Ray chuckled. “You tell me.”
Shuster flagged down the driver and pitched an imaginary fastball. “Move on out.”
The truck rumbled away and revealed a clear view over the flat Sacramento Valley to Mount Diablo some fifty miles south. The Diablo hills slouched like lazy students in their desks, but Mount Diablo stood several thousand feet above the others, the only one in class who knew the answers.
Antioch snuggled at the base of the foothills, and somewhere in Antioch, Helen bustled around.
The weekend glimmered in his memory. He’d gotten his Friday shipment out on time, caught his bus, and whisked Helen and her son to his parents’ for dinner and piano playing. When Jay-Jay fell asleep on the sofa, Ray and Helen danced to the radio.
Saturday she invited him to join George and Betty Anello at her place. After many long looks over dinner and too few dances, Ray tried to leave, but the Anellos left first. Ray and Helen talked past midnight on her porch swing under the rustling branches of a cherry tree. Every time he said he should go, a new wave of conversation carried them away.
He held her hand under the pretense of examining the fine scars from cooking accidents. He could have kissed those scars and those on her face, and he could have kissed her, but he had to be careful.
Jay-Jay needed stability. Before Ray crossed that threshold, he wanted to be rock-solid certain. Granite, not pumice.
“Lieutenant, where’d you want this pallet?”
Ray blinked at the forklift operator. He pointed to an open spot inside the door. “Park it there while I find out.”
Shuster jogged up to the forklift and examined the invoice. “Nice fellow, the lieutenant,” he said to the operator in a not-low-enough voice. “Real bright too, but his head’s in the clouds.”
All his life. Ray returned to his office and those mind-numbing forms. At least with his head in the clouds he could see that golden lining.
Antioch
Friday, March 31, 1944
“Excellent job, ladies.” Helen smiled at the members of the Junior Red Cross in the classroom at Antioch High. The children’s pageant, “Vaudeville for Victory,” had energized them far more than preparing surgical dressings or collecting funds. However, the Antioch Branch had surpassed its goal in the War Fund Campaign—over twelve thousand dollars—thanks in part to a sizable donation from Carlisle’s Furniture and Upholstery and Della’s Dress Shop.
“Let’s go over this again. Be at El Campanil Theatre no later than . . . ?”
“Nine o’clock,” the girls chimed.
“Right.” Helen scanned the list in Mary Jane Anello’s rounded handwriting. “Nancy Jo, Rita, Anne, and Peggy will take tickets then pass clipboards and collection cups. Evelyn, Margie, Carol, and Gina will put the children in order, check costumes, and keep the children occupied backstage—quietly occupied—while Mary Jane and I run the program.”
Evelyn Kramer raised her hand. Her strawberry-blonde pompadour rose higher than anything the Andrews Sisters attempted. “Mrs. Carlisle, may I bring a game?”
“Yes. Anything to keep them quiet.”
“I know what I’m bringing,” Margie Peters said. “Handcuffs and gags.”
When the giggles died down, Helen turned to the president of the Junior Red Cross. “Thank you, Mary Jane. Excellent work.”
Her round face lit up under her black curls tied back with a pink bow.
Helen dismissed the girls and checked her watch. An hour at the dress shop, a visit with Jim’s sister, Dorothy Wayne, and her new baby girl, and then dinner with Ray and his parents.
Bubbles tickled her insides. She hadn’t felt this way since the early years with Jim, but this felt different, a continual escalation without jagged peaks and valleys. Something steady in Ray gave her a sense of inevitability and rightness. This relationship wouldn’t be passionate, but it also wouldn’t have the undercurrent of desperation, the constant fear that if she messed up she’d lose him forever.
Helen headed down the hallway she’d walked four years ago as a senior agonizing over her decision. The acceptance letter from Mills College had hung on her bulletin board, but Jim’s face grew darker each day. Mills might be a women’s college, Jim said, but they had socials with men’s colleges. Why should he wait for her, when he knew she wouldn’t wait for him?
Helen opened the door, drank in cool air, turned the page in her memory book to where it belonged, and pictured handsome blond Jim Carlisle stopping her on these steps and asking her to the Winter Ball.
“You’re kidding. Not our Mrs. Carlisle. She’s old.” Evelyn Kramer’s voice floated around the corner of the building.
Old? Helen stood still. She’d never yet been called old.
“You ninny,” Margie Peters said. “She’s not old. My brother went to school with her.”
“But she’s a widow and a mother.”
“So what?” Mary Jane Anello’s laughter rang out. “I’m glad to see her happy for a change. Didn’t she look radiant?”
H
elen touched her cheek. Did she apply too much rouge?
“My brother George says they’re sweet on each other,” Mary Jane said. “And Pop says Ray Novak’s a fine man. It’s so romantic.”
People were talking about them? Already? Gossip made it more real somehow. The bubbles inside rose to her head, and she grasped the staircase handrail. She wanted this relationship, didn’t she?
So why did her hands shake?
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Jeffries.” Helen nodded and smiled to her next-door neighbor as she walked up G Street.
Two posters hung in the window of Molander Repairs. One showed a pilot gazing skyward—“Keep ’Em Flying.” The second read “Vaudeville for Victory.” Young Donald Ferguson’s crayon writing started bold, shrunk, and the T-O-R-Y dripped down the right side of the poster. Darling.
The next block boasted a neatly lettered sign for the pageant on the lawn of Holy Rosary, and a bit farther up, Antioch Tire and Electric displayed little Linda Jeffries’s sign proclaiming “Vauddeville for Victory” with a big X through the extra D. Helen smiled. The children’s errors made the signs more winsome, just the angle she wanted.
“There you are, Helen.” Victor Llewellyn ran across G Street on scissor legs like a quail. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Boy, you look swell.”
“Thank you.” She hoped Ray would agree. She loved her new caramel-colored suit with its asymmetric jacket and swingy box pleats in the skirt. One of the benefits of being a Carlisle.
“I like your hair up like that,” Vic said. “It’s perfect for tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“We have reservations at Milan’s at seven.”
“What?” Helen stopped in front of the Women’s Club, and a hard knot formed behind her sternum. “You can’t make plans without asking me.”
“I couldn’t get hold of you. I decided to act first and ask later.”
Typical Llewellyn arrogance. She strode down the street. “I’m sorry, but I have plans.”