Blue Skies Tomorrow

by Sarah Sundin

  Helen dumped the peas into the bowl, and they turned into a green blur. She hadn’t sought passion with Ray. It had just been a pleasant surprise. Was she supposed to turn down this delicious relationship for appearance’s sake?

  “I . . . I . . . ” She turned and startled at the look in her mother-in-law’s eyes—pure grief.

  How would Helen feel if Jay-Jay died and his wife moved on? It would be as if her son were dying all over again, as if even his memory were dying.

  As long as Helen mourned Jim, a piece of him lived.

  Mrs. Carlisle sniffled. “I won’t breathe a word of this to Mr. Carlisle. I told Mrs. Llewellyn she was mistaken. But you—you need to act like a proper widow.”

  Helen wiped the back of her hand over her eyes. She’d acted like a proper widow for seventeen months, but now she had a new role, a bright and fresh role that didn’t even require pretending. How long would she be expected to maintain the old role? How long before her mask cracked?

  The aroma of roast chicken wrapped steamy tendrils around Ray and drew him to the kitchen, where he found Walt plucking skin from a drumstick.

  Ray inspected the second bird and found a morsel in the pan juices.

  Mom stepped in from the dining room and gasped. “Go away, you vultures.”

  “Can’t leave the kitchen even to set the table, can we?” Allie Miller nudged Walt away from the poultry. “Shoo.”

  He pulled her into the dance position and sang out, “ ‘Shoo, shoo, shoo, baby.’ ”

  Allie laughed, and her brown curls puffed out as he swung her.

  Ray took advantage of the distraction and snagged a piece of chicken thigh.

  Mom grabbed his arm and marched him to the doorway. “Out with you, both of you.”

  “I don’t know how you manage, Mrs. Novak.” Allie danced her fiancé to the door and pushed him out.

  He puckered his lips at her. “Don’t you love me?”

  “With all my heart, darling. To show my love, I want to put dinner on the table—unmolested.” She smiled and shut the door.

  He frowned. A black curl hung over his forehead. “Almost nabbed a drumstick.”

  Ray licked his fingers now that Mom couldn’t see. “You could have had it. We had Mom outnumbered, but then you had to bring in feminine reinforcements.”

  Walt grinned. “Isn’t she swell?”

  “Yeah, she is.” Ray was amazed at the changes in Walt, partly due to Allie’s love and partly due to—well, his experiences flying a B-17 over Nazi-occupied Europe. “Less than a month until the wedding. How are you holding up?”

  “Can’t wait.” Walt headed for the dining room and flashed Ray a smile. “You thinking of joining us in matrimony?”

  Ray laughed. “Helen and I have only been seeing each other about a month.”

  “Yeah, I guess you need to take things slowly after all she’s been through.”

  “Yep.” At the dining room table Ray burrowed in a towel-lined basket. “Hey, look, sourdough rolls. No butter to put on them, of course. Stupid rationing.” He took out two and tossed one to Walt.

  He bobbled it and trapped it against his chest.

  Ray’s stomach contracted. “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be. I’m still learning to be a southpaw.” He took a bite of the roll. “Was Helen okay last night? She seemed . . . high-strung.”

  Ray shrugged and pulled up a chair next to the basket. “Doesn’t like nights on the town.” He also spoke with his mouth full. Mom’s sourdough rolls were the best, hot and chewy inside a crispy crust. And, oh, the tang of them.

  “Mom had better teach Allie to make these.” Walt used his prosthesis to pull out a chair, sat down, and tipped the chair back. “That sounds right.”

  “The rolls?”

  “No, Helen. She and Jim kept to themselves. They’d get together with the gang, but not often. They preferred privacy.”

  Ray chewed the last bite, and his chest felt as light as the roll. A love of privacy? Was that all it was? Seemed odd for an energetic young woman, but if she wanted privacy with Ray, he wouldn’t argue.

  Thank goodness last night’s apology worked. Helen seemed relaxed at church. Those looks she gave him—boy, oh boy. And that note she returned with the hymnal, the note now tucked in his Bible: “How am I, you ask? I’m torn between the Pastors Novak. My mind tells me to watch the elder, but my heart longs to watch the younger. If only you were in the pulpit, both would be satisfied.” To be back in the pulpit with that lovely face adoring him from the pews—what could be better?

  Walt held up his hand. “Toss me another roll.”

  Ray coiled for the pitch. “Watch out. You know I’ve got a mean curve ball.”

  “Raymond Novak!” Mom stood in the doorway with a platter, Allie right behind her.

  He twisted to face them. “Want one? Catch.”

  Mom’s eyelashes fluttered. “Allie, dear, pray for daughters.”

  She laughed. “I do.”

  Mom set the platter of chicken on the table. “Boys, please call your father for dinner.”

  Ray and Walt grinned at each other and called out, “Your father for dinner!”

  “For heaven’s sake,” Mom said. “Really, Allie, I did raise them with manners.”

  “I know. More importantly, you raised them with love.” She blinked her large green eyes and arranged the serving bowls at the head of the table.

  Walt patted her lower back.

  Ray sighed. If only he could sit down with Allie’s parents and persuade them not to boycott the wedding because Walt wasn’t the society gentleman they desired for their only child. Walt was a fine man. What could they have against him?

  “The Distinguished Unit Citation,” Dad said to Grandpa Novak as they entered the dining room. “And Jack flew the lead ship.”

  “A big honor.” Grandpa held out a chair for Grandma.

  “He won’t take credit for the DUC, but it was his doing.”

  Walt chuckled. “The air exec flew with him. Jack didn’t make the decisions.”

  Dad lifted the carving knife to punctuate his sentence. “If he was there, he had a say.”

  Ray nodded and stroked the glossy crust of the roll. Jack’s pride would make sure he did.

  Mom set a bowl of steamed asparagus on the table. “I wish he wasn’t there. A second combat tour in England? After all those missions in the Pacific?”

  “What was he supposed to do, Edie? Take a desk job?” Dad sank the knife into the first chicken.

  Ray felt as if the knife plunged into him instead. Desk jobs were for men of no consequence.

  Grandpa shook out his napkin. “A desk job would kill Jack faster than the Huns.”

  “Sap his vitality.” Dad carved, and piece after piece dropped off, revealing pale bones.

  The roll’s crust cracked in Ray’s grip. He identified with Gideon when he told the Lord, “I am the least in my father’s house.”

  “It was more than that.” Walt passed a full plate to Mom. “He wanted to make up for his mistakes, make it up to the people he hurt.”

  “Make it up to himself also,” Ray said. “Sometimes the hardest person to forgive is yourself.”

  “That’s the truth, boy,” Grandpa said. “No one can beat up a man harder than the man himself.”

  “Yep. Jack didn’t like what he saw inside.” Ray dug his fingers into the cracked golden sphere and ripped it open. “He wanted to make himself a better man, prove himself a better man.”

  Comments volleyed and plates passed, but Ray stared at the peaks of flavorful dough and the gaping holes.

  What lay inside Ray Novak? Towering peaks of strength or gaping holes of cowardice? A tangy aroma or bland nothingness?

  “Amen” sounded around the table.

  Ray startled. Dad had said grace, and he’d missed it.

  Mom sliced her asparagus. “I’ll never understand why men feel they have to hurl themselves into danger to prove themselves, but thanks for trying t
o explain, Ray.”

  He gave her a wan smile.

  “That’s my brother,” Walt said. “Always smoothing things out.”

  Dad gave Ray a stern look from under salt-and-pepper brows. “Can’t always do that. Sometimes pastors have to be mean.”

  Ray swallowed a bite of chicken. “ ‘Speak the truth in love,’ Dad.”

  “Yes, but speak the truth. As Jesus did.”

  “He came as the Prince of Peace.”

  “And the consuming fire.”

  “ ‘Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.’ ”

  “ ‘Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.’ ” Dad leaned forward. “That means we’ll make enemies. Jesus did.”

  “Goodness,” Allie said. “In this house the Word of God truly is a sword.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Don’t mind them,” Walt said. “They love a debate.”

  Mom sent a soothing glance between Dad and Ray. “And they both know Jesus came as the Lion and the Lamb, full of grace and truth.”

  “Hear that wisdom?” Ray lifted an eyebrow at Allie. “I take after her.”

  She smiled back. In time, the prim heiress would get accustomed to this rough-and-tumble household.

  “Raymond,” Dad said in a low, solid voice. “Have you ever confronted a member of your congregation?”

  He blinked a few times. “I only had two years in a church, and as the assistant pastor. I did sick calls, funerals—”

  “A pastor must confront sin before it destroys the person and the church.”

  “I know that.”

  “You can’t tiptoe around it. You have to face it head-on. When you do that, you don’t always keep the peace. You create conflict. You make enemies.”

  “For crying out loud.” Grandpa frowned at Dad. “Why do you try to make your sons your mirror image? Ray is Ray, just as the Good Lord made him. You be yourself, boy.”

  He gave a sharp nod and bit into some asparagus, a bad stalk, bitter as Dad’s words and the knowledge that he needed a grandpa’s protection. Both men thought he was weak.

  Dad’s neck muscles stood out. “Be himself, yes. But he needs to be willing to confront, to face opposition.”

  Ray’s shoulders edged back, and he lifted his chin. If Dad’s brusque ways were best, why did the Carlisles dislike him? Why couldn’t he mend that rift? “So, Dad, how do these confrontations of yours work out?” His voice came out tight.

  Dad poked his roast potatoes around like shells in a shell game. His cheeks twitched. “Some repent. Some don’t. That’s between them and the Lord and the people they hurt.”

  Just as Ray thought. He’d stick to the ways he knew best, the ways that worked for him. But an entire glass of water failed to remove the bitter taste.

  9

  Saturday, April 15, 1944

  “ ‘Let freedom ring.’ ” The voices of the primary school students filled the high expanse of El Campanil Theatre, followed by a round of applause.

  In the wings, Helen adjusted red bows at the tips of Connie Scala’s French braids, then corralled Connie and her brother Alfie closer to the heavy curtains and beckoned to the children’s choir. Thank goodness, the bustle of pageant preparations took her mind off her romance with Ray, the Carlisles’ disapproval, and the black puffs of gossip in the air.

  After Mary Jane Anello led the choir backstage, Helen smoothed her red skirt and navy and white linen jacket and walked to the microphone.

  Over the stage lights, she smiled at the black blobs of the audience. “Next we have Alfredo and Constance Scala tap-dancing to ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’ ” She nodded to the Antioch High School band before her and retreated to the wings out of sight.

  One of those faceless blobs was Ray, who made Helen feel like a giddy schoolgirl. Two were the Carlisles, who expected her to grieve for the rest of her life. On stage, under those blessed lights, Helen could be a competent, energetic Red Cross volunteer, the only performance that pleased everyone.

  She scanned her clipboard. Right on schedule, Mary Jane brought Donald Ferguson from backstage. “Are you ready, Donald?” Helen whispered.

  “I can’t remember a word.” The fifth-grader’s freckles stood out stark under his red hair.

  Helen brushed the shoulders of his suit. “With those lights, all you see is a bunch of black blobs. Pick one blob, way in the top row, pretend it’s your mama, and recite as you’ve recited to her all week.”

  He cracked a smile. “Mother said if she heard it one more time, she’d go nuts.”

  She chuckled. “Then go make her nuts.”

  Helen turned to watch the last of Alfie and Connie’s dance, and tapped her toes in her navy and white spectator pumps. The children ended with a flourish, then scurried offstage without waiting for their applause.

  Helen patted Donald on the back, led him to the microphone, and returned to her post. “Mary Jane,” she whispered. “Bring Jay-Jay up, please.”

  Donald recited Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address in a firm and emotional voice, declaring the truths to the top row of the ornate theater.

  What did Nora Ferguson think about Helen introducing her son? Nora had been awkward around her lately, and Helen pretended she was too young to know Ray and Nora had been high school sweethearts. And what did Ray think watching a boy who could have been his son?

  Donald raised his hand high. “ ‘It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion.’ ”

  Arms wrapped around Helen’s knees. “Mama!”

  “Ssh.” She scooped up her son and burrowed a kiss in his soft cheek. “I missed you.”

  He flung his arms around her neck and gave her a smacking kiss. Was anything sweeter than a child’s love?

  Mary Jane straightened Jay-Jay’s sailor hat. “He’s so cute. I can’t wait to be a mother.”

  “Wait.” Helen locked her gaze on the girl. “Wait until you find a good man.”

  “As you did.”

  Helen nodded, all part of the performance. When Donald’s applause receded, she gave him a handshake and faced the audience. Jay-Jay shielded his eyes and buried his face in Helen’s shoulder, and the audience responded with “aahs.”

  Helen smiled. “The Lord has blessed us here in Antioch. Our land has never been trod by enemy boots, or pocked by enemy shells, or shadowed by enemy planes. Our children live in freedom because our men fight tyranny. Our children live without fear because our men face danger. Our children live because of the sacrifices our brave soldiers and sailors make.”

  She nudged Jay-Jay so he would look up. The hushed silence ran deeper than polite listening, and sniffles rose from a few spots. Helen’s breath caught. To this community, she and Jay-Jay symbolized that sacrifice. Her role as mourning widow was essential to the war effort. The town needed her grief to motivate them to give and serve and fight. As long as the war lasted, she would never be free.

  “The children,” she choked out. “The children. They are the reason we must be ‘dedicated to the great task remaining before us.’ As in Lincoln’s day, our war is far from over. We must not grow weary. I beg you to give generously of your time and effort, your money, and yes, even your lifeblood.” She raised half a smile.

  “For our final number, all the children will sing ‘God Bless America,’ but first Jay-Jay has a message for you.”

  He leaned forward so far, Helen grabbed at him. “Give!” he yelled.

  “Use your manners, sweetie.”

  Amid the laughter, a ham was born. He grinned. “Pease.”

  If that didn’t move this town, nothing would. Helen stepped to the side. The children trooped onstage, the boys with Sunday suits and slicked hair, the girls in curls and braids and starched crinolines. They all wore red, white, and blu
e sashes, one of many donations by the Carlisles to the pageant.

  The audience joined in with throaty voices, and goose bumps shivered up Helen’s arms. The show was a success, but would the emotional impact lead to action?

  Once the pageant concluded, the parents came down to the stage to collect their children, the boys in the band packed their instruments, and the Junior Red Cross girls fell to work at sign-up tables or cleaning up.

  Helen ticked into the final phase and rearranged papers on her clipboard.

  “Mrs. Carlisle?” Peggy Lindstrom asked. “May I please play with Jay-Jay?”

  Helen smiled at the tall blonde. “That would help immensely.”

  Peggy squealed and swung Jay-Jay onto her hip. “Let’s go play.”

  Whatever would mothers do without teenage girls? Helen smiled and tapped Evelyn Kramer on the shoulder. “Wait about ten minutes before you get out the carpet sweeper.”

  Her face brightened. “I know where it is. I work here.”

  “That’s why you signed up to do it.”

  “Hi, Helen.” Ray stood at the foot of the stage stairs in dress uniform.

  Her heart did a shimmy. “Hi there.”

  His parents stood behind him. “Excellent show,” Pastor Novak said.

  “A very moving speech. Not a dry eye in the house.” Mrs. Novak chuckled and raised a wadded handkerchief.

  “You’re a gifted speaker.” Ray smiled, but his eyelid twitched.

  “Thank you.” She swallowed hard. Her speech had wounded him, hadn’t it? Did he think she didn’t respect him because his contribution lay in the rear rather than on the front lines?

  He set one foot on the bottom step. “Can I help?”

  “Oh yes.” She smiled at the chance to show how she appreciated him. “I could use some manly muscles to take down the set.”

  “You’re looking in the wrong place, but I’ll do what I can.” He winked, unbuttoned his service jacket, and tossed it to his mother. “See you at home.”

  Helen said good-bye to the Novaks, pointed Ray to a ladder backstage, and glanced at the diminishing crowd. The Carlisles. The Llewellyns. A nervous flutter rose in her stomach. She needed to keep busy far from Ray, so she wouldn’t feed the gossip.