Blue Skies Tomorrow

by Sarah Sundin

  “What delicious tea, Miss Anello.” Betty knelt beside the little white table Papa had built long ago for Betty and Helen, and sipped from a tiny blue willow china cup.

  “Mo?” Little Judy pushed a big hat off her face and lifted the teapot.

  “Why, thank you. You’re a delightful hostess.”

  “I don’t want tea,” Jay-Jay said, his face dwarfed by George’s fedora. “I want coffee.”

  “No.” Judy shook her head, and her dark curls brushed the shoulders of her pink dotted swiss dress.

  Helen dropped her notebook onto her lap. “Honestly, Betts. You ask about wedding plans, then don’t listen to the answer.”

  “I’m sorry.” Betty heaved herself up, not easy with the baby due next month, and she flounced onto the sofa. “I wanted a single sentence, but I should have known you’d read every detail from every notebook.”

  “One notebook.” Helen raised a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry. I know I’m more Martha-like, but we only have three weeks, I’m working full time, and I have so much to do.”

  “So why the rush? Slow down. Wait a few months.”

  At the little table, Judy put a graham cracker on Jay-Jay’s plate. “Cookie? Dee?”

  “Tea’s for girls. I want coffee.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, a perfect imitation of his grandfather.

  Helen shivered. “Why should we wait? Vic and I know what we want. We know each other well. We want to start our life together.”

  Betty leaned close, her eyebrows drawn together. “Come on, what’s going on? I want the truth. I know you don’t love him.”

  Helen turned pages in her notebook, and her eyelashes fluttered. She ached with the desire to be genuine and open with her sister.

  She had nothing to be ashamed of. Jim’s beatings weren’t her fault. But what was her motive for revealing the abuse? Would she end up as the next gossipy Mrs. Llewellyn? She had no business exposing Mr. Carlisle’s shame—not just his, but Jim’s, and because of that, Jay-Jay’s. What was one more performance for her son’s sake?

  Helen raised a smile. “You have no idea how crazy I am about Vic.” Worded that way, she hadn’t lied.

  “No tea! I want coffee. Do as I say.” Jay-Jay stood over his cousin, his face red, and he lifted a china plate over her head.

  “No!” Helen’s chest constricted and shoved all the air from her lungs. She dashed to her son, hauled him down the hall to the bathroom, and slammed the door behind them.

  She plopped him on the linoleum. Fire snaked up her spine and stretched her tall over her son, who gaped at her. “Don’t you ever,” she said through clenched teeth. “Don’t ever talk that way to Judy, to a girl, to another human being. Don’t ever hit a girl. Ever.”

  “But she din’t—”

  “I don’t care what she did or didn’t do. Gentlemen don’t talk that way. Gentlemen don’t hit girls.”

  Jay-Jay pursed his mouth. He’d lived in the Carlisle home almost a year now, forever in his mind. “But—”

  “No. The Bible says be kind to others. No hitting.”

  “But—”

  “No.” She shook a finger in his face. “You—will—be—a—gentleman. You will be kind. You will not hit. I won’t let you.”

  Jay-Jay squawked and kicked at her.

  She stepped out of the way. “Stay in here until you’re ready to act like a gentleman.”

  “Helen?” Betty called from the hallway. “Are you all right in there?”

  She left the bathroom and shut the door on her son’s cries.

  “What a temper,” Betty said.

  The fire worked its way into Helen’s head. She stood toe-to-toe with her sister. “That’s why I need to marry a gentleman, quit my job, and spend more time raising my son. So mind your own business.”

  She turned on her heel and strode down the hallway. Then she groaned. She couldn’t leave the house, not with her son in solitary confinement. Now Betty would want to talk, but Helen had already said more than she should.

  She entered the living room and stopped short. Esther Jones and Allie Novak sat on the sofa. Helen summoned a smile. “Hello, ladies. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Betty brushed past Helen and cocked an eyebrow at her. “They came while you were helping Jay-Jay in the bathroom.”

  Even Betty understood the importance of concealing the family shame, and she didn’t know the extent.

  Esther stared at an envelope on her lap, her jaw jutted forward. “Helen, may I speak with you alone?”

  “Of course.”

  Betty headed to the kitchen. “Allie, why don’t you help me with dinner? You can bring Frankie’s carriage. Judy, you come too, sweetie.”

  They retreated behind the kitchen door.

  Esther’s knuckles tightened around the envelope, and she raised hard, dark eyes to Helen. “I thought you were on our side.”

  Helen’s lips tingled. “I—I was. I am.”

  “How do you explain this?” She brandished a Western Union envelope.

  “What is it?”

  Esther pressed her lips together, and her neck muscles stretched taut, in contrast to the floral fabric of her dress. “When I mailed Carver’s documents to Mr. Marshall, I cabled to notify him, so he could stop searching in Washington.”

  Helen gripped the armrests of her chair.

  “This was his reply.” The thin paper shook in Esther’s hand. “We couldn’t find the documents in Washington because they never arrived. Lieutenant Llewellyn never filed an appeal for my husband.”

  “That can’t be. I typed the paperwork myself.”

  “It was never filed. The Judge Advocate’s office has no paperwork for Carver, not since Admiral Wright denied clemency in November. Lieutenant Llewellyn never filed the appeal.”

  “But he said . . .” Helen’s airway clamped shut. They’d gathered the documents, filled out the forms. Why wouldn’t he file it? That made no sense. Of course, he had.

  Esther’s jaw thrust further forward, and her eyes glistened. “I thought I could trust you. I thought you were different.”

  “But he . . . but he said. He promised. This can’t be.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  Helen lifted her hands to her temples. Her eyes burned. “This can’t be. He said. There must be a mistake.”

  “Why do you think he hid those documents?” Tears shimmered on Esther’s cheeks. “He didn’t misfile them; he hid them.”

  Saint Jude, the patron of lost causes. The burning in Helen’s eyes intensified, and she squeezed them shut. No, this couldn’t be. Vic was a man of integrity, who fought for the oppressed, who had words of justice stitched on his wall.

  “I trusted him.” Esther’s voice broke. “He promised to do right by Carver. He didn’t do his duty to his client. Did you know we can press charges for that? My sweet husband’s in jail, convicted of mutiny—mutiny!—and no one fights for him. No one.”

  Helen pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes until white sparks appeared. Vic wouldn’t lie. He wouldn’t break a promise. Maybe he forgot, misplaced the forms, or thought she’d mailed them. Yes, there had to be an explanation.

  So why did her stomach writhe?

  France

  Monday, April 9, 1945

  A nurse circulated among German POW patients in the airfield tent hospital and belted out “Marching Through Berlin” in a Broadway-worthy voice. Most of the men ignored her, but some glared at her—the ones who spoke English.

  Ray wanted to smile, but his broken jaw forbade it. The pain and swelling, the wires, and the bandages binding his face prevented speech and smiling, and even made it difficult to suck eggnog and bouillon through a straw.

  And with his burned hands swathed in petroleum jelly and thick gauze pressure dressings, he couldn’t even write.

  He remained Johannes Gottlieb.

  Army Air Force intelligence officers had tried to interrogate him, but they never got past the first question, when they a
sked if he was Johannes Gottlieb and Ray shook his head. “That one may have brain damage,” one officer had whispered to his physician.

  The nurse set hands on hips and tilted her head of short brown curls. “Okay, boys, time to load you up. I know you wanted to see England from an invasion barge rather than from a C-47 cargo plane. But, oh well. That’s what happens when you lose.”

  Ray had never cared for brashness, but now the very American-ness of it warmed him like one of Mom’s sourdough rolls.

  “Be nice, Lieutenant La Rue.” A blonde nurse carried an armload of blankets past Ray’s wheelchair toward the brunette.

  “Can’t help it. I hate these POW flights.”

  “You’ll have Sergeant Rosenberg with you and an armed MP.”

  “Still. Gives me the willies.”

  Something about the blonde struck a familiar chord—the soft voice, the Minnesota accent. Charlie’s girlfriend—what was her name? May Jensen. Could it be?

  Ray’s heartbeat quickened. He’d only seen May a few times. Could she recognize him? How about . . . ? His heart went into double-time. How about Ruth Doherty? May and Ruth served in the same evacuation squadron.

  Ray whipped his gaze around the tent. Would Ruth be able to recognize him? He hadn’t seen himself in a mirror. How much had he changed? Between the extreme weight loss and the bandages covering his lower face, could he even recognize himself?

  The brunette checked the tag pinned to Ray’s bathrobe and scribbled on a clipboard. “Johannes Gottlieb,” she said with the J sound instead of the German Y. “Ugh. Sounds like I’ve got something stuck in my throat. I’ll call you Johnny.”

  She pushed Ray’s wheelchair out onto the tarmac toward a twin-engine C-47. Engines purred, and the warm air carried the delicious smell of aviation fuel, but Ray searched for his future sister-in-law.

  Lieutenant La Rue parked Ray’s wheelchair by the rear door of a C-47. “Keep an eye on this one, would you?” she called to an MP in his white helmet. “I’ll get the next one.”

  At the plane to his left, a nurse bent over a patient on a cot. When she stood straight, her auburn hair glistened in the sun.

  “Ruth!” he tried to scream, but it came out as a loud grunt and sent an electric jolt of pain through his jaw.

  She glanced at him, then to the hospital tent.

  He waved his arms over his head. If he weren’t strapped into his wheelchair, he would have run to her. This whole ordeal could be over in a minute, then Helen and his family would know he lived. Please, Lord, get her over here.

  “Hey, buddy, you got a problem?” The MP strolled over with his rifle across his chest.

  Ray aimed a desperate gaze at him, pointed his giant white oven mitt of a hand toward Ruth, and beckoned her.

  She walked over, frowning. “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s one of those Germans, Lieutenant.” The MP tapped Ray’s shoulder with his rifle butt. “Sprecken zee English, buddy?”

  Ray nodded and waved Ruth over until she stood in front of him. He hadn’t seen a familiar face in almost three months, and he wanted to grab her and hug her, but he’d probably get shot.

  Instead he pointed at his eyes. Look at me.

  “Are you hungry, sir?” Ruth asked. “Thirsty?”

  He shook his head and tapped his cheekbones. Had she seen him often enough to recognize him? Did he look enough like Jack?

  “Do you have a headache? Do you have something in your eye?”

  How could she see with all the stupid bandages? Ray rubbed his hands down his cheeks and worked the bandages down a bit.

  “No, sir. Don’t do that. Nein.” Ruth grabbed his forearms, but Ray resisted.

  A rifle barrel pressed into his chest, and someone grabbed his elbows from behind. Ray sagged back in his wheelchair and groaned. Now he’d never remove the bandages.

  A medic tied Ray’s arms to the armrests of the chair. “This one making a pass at you, Lieutenant?”

  “No, he’s—I think he’s trying to tell me something.” Ruth leaned over and tightened the bandages, her face pale and furrowed.

  This was his last chance. He strained forward, lifted his face as close as he could to Ruth’s, and spoke with his eyes. Yes, I’m telling you something. I’m Ray Novak.

  Her eyes widened. Her lips parted.

  Ray’s heart swelled. See it? Lord, help her see it.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

  Footsteps thumped up. “Oh my goodness,” Lieutenant La Rue said. “He looked so harmless.”

  “I’ve got him under control.” The medic gave the knot a tug, and the cloth restraint cut into Ray’s elbow. “But harmless he ain’t. Get a sedative.”

  Lieutenant La Rue put her arm around Ruth’s shoulders and guided her away. “Are you all right? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

  Ruth cast a glance back at Ray, her eyes haunted. “In a way, I have. He—he reminds me of someone I used to know.”

  Ray slumped in his chair. His eyes slipped shut. Fresh pain throbbed in his hands and jaw. How long until he could write or talk? Until he could be Raymond Novak again?

  39

  Antioch

  Saturday, April 14, 1945

  On the dance floor at the Forum Club, Helen swayed in Vic’s arms as the band played “Stardust.” She stretched her eyes wide and sucked hard on her teeth to keep the tears at bay. It had worked on the polio ward during painful procedures, because good little patients didn’t cry. It had to work now. The song drew memories that pricked her tear ducts—dancing with Ray in his parents’ parlor, Ray humming to the starry sky, his smell and taste and feel.

  Helen blinked, and a tear dribbled out. She rubbed it away. Two months had passed since she’d learned of Ray’s death, but grief—true grief—had a way of sneaking up and knocking out her breath.

  Tonight the grief was even less welcome. She needed courage to find out the truth from Vic. For the past week she had tested excuses for him in her mind. All failed.

  He nuzzled in her hair. “Two weeks from today, we’ll be man and wife.”

  Two weeks. She had to know what kind of man he was before then. She and Jay-Jay couldn’t afford another marital disaster. “Vic, I need to ask you something.”

  “Yes?”

  Her throat slammed shut as if someone had yanked a noose, and she almost gagged. She coughed to conceal it.

  “Darling, are you all right?”

  She wrestled her lips into a smile. “I’m fine.”

  “Good. I’ve been worried. You’ve been out of sorts this week. Of course, everyone’s upset since President Roosevelt died on Thursday. I assume you have wedding jitters too. At least you’re no longer working, so you can focus on the wedding and the house.” He smiled, but the tightness between his eyebrows gave him away. He was scared.

  A sigh seeped between her lips. He was so close to fulfilling his dream of marrying her, and he was afraid he’d lose her.

  The band shifted keys and started playing “Every Time We Say Good-Bye.”

  Helen couldn’t let pity or fear drive her, only the Lord. “I talked to Esther.”

  “How nice.” He pulled her close. “When is she leaving for DC?”

  “A few weeks. She has a bit more work.”

  “That’ll be good for her. DC sounds like an exciting place. Always wanted to see the Capitol and the Lincoln Memorial.”

  She dragged in a breath. “She heard from Thurgood Marshall. The Judge Advocate’s office in Washington—they have no record of Carver’s appeal.”

  Vic groaned. “Bureaucrats. Always misplacing things.”

  “Please don’t. They have no record. Not in Washington, not in Oakland. The appeal was never filed. You didn’t file it.”

  “Ridiculous.” His shoulder tensed under her hand. “You know I filed—”

  “Please don’t. Don’t make it worse. You lied, Vic. You lied to Carver, to Esther, to me.”

  “You’re not a lawyer.” His voice
came out stiff. “You know nothing.”

  That stung almost as much as one of Jim’s blows. “I may not have an education, but I know you said you filed the appeal, and I know you didn’t.”

  “You don’t understand.” His gaze bore down hard. “It’s a lost cause. The Navy convicted two other men with documented medical excuses. Carver didn’t have a chance. I had no choice.”

  “That wasn’t your decision to make. You promised—”

  “Don’t you know what I’ve been through? Haven’t you seen?” He kept his voice low, and his gaze swept the dance floor. “I tried to help, you know I did. I had justice on my side. I had the law on my side. But when that conviction came through, I saw the truth. I was just a pawn so the Navy could pretend they’d done the right thing.”

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  “It means I’m on the wrong side. The wrong side. You don’t know what they’ve said about me. I’ve lost friends in the Navy, in the legal profession, because I defended colored men. You don’t know. If I’d kept fighting, my career would have been finished.”

  “Your career?” She blinked back tears. “What about Carver’s career? His life?”

  Vic squeezed his eyes shut. “His career is already finished. There’s nothing I can do. The best thing for him is to lie low and earn an early release. I have other things to worry about.”

  “Other things? What could be more—”

  “You, for example. You deserve so much.” His gaze melted, as soft and sweet as molasses. “I can’t have you marrying a man with a lackluster career and a tarnished name.”

  “Tarnished?”

  He sighed and tried to pull her closer, but she resisted. “I didn’t tell you earlier, because I didn’t want to worry you. My dad’s gotten letters—threatening letters for being my father, because I took up the Negro cause. He’s afraid he’ll lose his judgeship, and if I’d kept fighting, that’s exactly what would have happened.”

  Helen blinked at the wavering image of the man in her arms, a man swayed by politics as surely as those men in the jury had been.