She lifted her head and looked at him. His head dropped to the back cushion of the sofa, and wisps of dust rose up.
“All right,” she said, fanning the air above his face.
The doctors, good men that they were, wanted to call the home Charity House. They thought it was vague enough to appeal to potential donors, with no specific reference to the clientele. And they already had a house—from a woman who had willed it to the doctors, knowing their intent. It was a gigantic Victorian, all gables and porches, sitting on two acres just out of town.
“Charity House sounds like Dickens,” Cora said. Like The New York Home for Friendless Girls, she thought. A Home for Fallen Women.
“How about Monica House?” asked the younger doctor. “Saint Monica? She was a mother.”
“Too Catholic,” the older doctor said. “Sorry.”
The younger doctor was Catholic.
“How about Kindness House?” Cora asked.
The doctors frowned at each other.
“It’s a bit…” The older doctor shook his head. “Sorry. It’s a bit twee.”
“Kindness isn’t twee,” Cora said. “Sweetness is twee. Not kindness.”
She looked from one man to the other. Both were kind. Neither was twee. “I’m just thinking that idea should be the cornerstone of our mission. Our guide.”
“What idea?”
They both looked at her, waiting. She tried to think. There was just one way to say it. “Well, that… compassion is the basis of all morality.”
The younger doctor smiled. “You read Schopenhauer, Cora?”
“A little.” She smiled back. “He’s often right, isn’t he? But I don’t know about Compassion House.”
The older doctor shook his head. “If we say ‘compassion,’ people will hear ‘passion.’ That’s not what we want with this population. No. That’s no good.”
It was difficult work, raising funds for Kindness House, especially in those early, lean years. Lots of people had a hand out for good causes, and, as some of Cora’s rejecters plainly told her, she was competing with charities that served completely innocent children, who’d done nothing to deserve their suffering. Unwed mothers, one woman at the club told Cora, had sealed their own fates. “I feel sorry for the babies,” she told Cora. “But the girls chose to uncross their knees.”
“Some of them, certainly,” was all Cora said. She would gain nothing with impoliteness. But it hurt her to hear the mothers talked about this way, especially after she got to know a few of them. She and the doctors had hired a house manager, along with a teacher and a live-in nurse, and Cora didn’t help with the day-to-day running of the home. But she often stopped by just to see what was needed, and though some of the residents saw only a middle-aged woman in hat and gloves whom they didn’t want to talk to, others seemed pleased to have someone smile and ask how they were. There were girls as young as thirteen, as well as two women in their thirties. Clearly, some were from good homes. A few sounded more educated than Cora, though the girl who seemed the brightest—a former college student—admitted being duped by the claims of Lysol. Some of the home’s residents were from Wichita. A few were from smaller, drought-ridden towns, and one came from Oklahoma City. Whether they were locals or not, they couldn’t go into town, certainly not once they were showing. Cora would take requests for little luxuries—chocolates, hairbrushes, books. One girl, six months along, asked for a teddy bear.
But Cora’s main duty was to raise money, and it turned out that she was good at it. She’d raised money for many causes over the years, but now, perhaps because of the unpopularity of her cause, she felt more inspired, more determined. She learned to apply for aid, both state and federal. She held well-planned lunches and teas. She went to parties with Alan and worked on his colleagues, and she did the same when she visited each of her sons. She was smooth. She could be both polite and persuasive. She learned to talk more about the babies than the mothers. Yes, she answered, again and again, most of the mothers would choose to give their babies up for adoption. Either way, she always emphasized, it would serve the babies’ interests if the mothers were treated well.
Raymond gave her one of her largest donations. There was no fanfare, and there didn’t seem to be a hidden meaning or message. He just came out of Alan’s study one evening and handed her the check. He thought her project worthwhile, he said. And what else was he going to do with it? It wasn’t as if he had children.
“Thank you,” she said, or tried to say—she temporarily lost her voice. They were both surprised by the reddening of her face, and then Cora was compelled to put her arms around his wide shoulders and pull him close, to breathe in his clean, soapy smell. He was clearly startled, and for a few moments, he kept his back straight, his arms at his sides. She didn’t let go. Under her hands, under the layers of Raymond’s fine suit and shirtwaist, were the same freckled shoulders she had seen that awful day she thought her life was over—and when she was sure this decent, beloved man was her enemy.
She was grateful life could be long.
On a mild winter day in 1937, Cora went downtown to Innes Department Store to do some Christmas shopping, and Greta, home from college on break, came with her. Cora was glad for the help, as she still needed to get presents not just for Howard and Earle, but for their wives and for Howard’s two small children, who would all be at the house by Christmas Eve. For the last week, Cora had been making up beds and beating curtains and even baking misshapen and slightly burned gingerbread men. She’d also purchased two pairs of warm, soft socks for every resident of Kindness House, and she’d bought Greta a tube of the lipstick she liked and a good-sized bottle of Chanel No. 5. She got Joseph a nice suit, having realized he would never buy one for himself, and she bought Alan and Raymond matching neckties, hoping they would find the inside joke inside enough to be funny.
“Greta? Do you think Howard’s boys would like a pull toy?” Cora rolled a tiny wagon across a shelf, causing Mickey Mouse, the only passenger, to wildly thump a drum. “Walter’s four now. Is that too old for something like this?”
When Greta didn’t answer, Cora looked up, and just then, the bell of the front door clanged and Myra Brooks walked in. She wore a black beret and a long black coat, the neck lined with fur. She looked very pale, perhaps because of her brick-red lipstick. But it was her. Their eyes met, then Myra’s darted away. As she moved down the center aisle, Cora was silent. There was a chance Myra just didn’t register who she was—so many years had passed, Cora’s hair was now streaked with gray. But it seemed as likely that Myra just didn’t want to talk—to Cora, maybe to anyone. In any case, Cora, still holding the pull toy, was resigned to let her pass.
But just as Myra was beyond the toy section, she stopped, facing the opposite direction. Even in heels, she seemed small, shrunken. Her shoulders rose and fell twice before she turned around.
“Hello, Cora.”
“Hello, Myra.” Cora tried to hide her surprise with a smile. “How are you?”
Myra appeared to find the question amusing. “Well,” she said finally, “I’m here.”
Cora wasn’t sure what to say. Myra’s voice and expression were both so resigned that a cheerful response would seem doltish. And now that she was close, Cora could see she really was unwell, her beautiful face now gaunt, her neck thin under the fur collar. She stared at Cora as if waiting for something, until Cora, uncomfortable, glanced away. Greta was over in women’s accessories, smiling at Cora and pointing to the red knit hat she’d tried on. Cora gave an appreciative nod.
Myra seemed irritated.
“Sorry,” Cora said. “That’s my niece over there. She’s home from school. I don’t know that you ever met her?”
“Hmm.” Myra, clearly uninterested, didn’t bother to turn around. She continued to stare. If she was going to be rude, Cora thought, Cora might as well ask what she really wanted to know.
“How’s Louise?”
“Hmm.” Myra didn’t smile, but the
lines around her eyes deepened. “I somehow guessed you would get to that quickly.”
Cora put the pull toy back on the shelf.
“I’m not trying to pry,” she said. “I assumed she must be doing well. I saw her new movie last year.”
“Ah, yes. The western. You endured it, did you? I heard it was awful.”
Cora looked at the black buttons on Myra’s coat. Again, she didn’t know what to say. She’d gone to see the movie because it was the first one Louise had been in in years. It had clearly been made on a low budget, with silly special effects and men jumping off horses to fight one another. Howard and his family had been in town, so Cora took her two young grandsons to see it. The boys loved the film, with all its rough riding and gunshots, but Cora had found it both inane and depressing, as Louise seemed bored and dull in her simple role as a love interest. Her hair was different—the back reaching almost to her shoulders, her bangs swept back from her forehead. Cora couldn’t discern if it was really just the hair that had changed. Louise still looked young, and she was still pretty, though in a more common way. And even as she’d smiled and preened for the camera, her eyes appeared exhausted.
“I think she has to take what she can get these days.” Myra pulled the fur collar close. “But in my opinion, she should let Hollywood just take her out and shoot her, get it over with, rather than dragging out her death like this.”
Cora let her voice go cold. “Myra. What a thing to say.”
She shrugged. “I’ll say what I mean. It’s true. She’s already thrown everything away.”
Cora moved close and lowered her voice. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t, either. I only know Louise is an idiot. And an ingrate. She could have been Hollywood royalty by now. Instead she’s fast on her way to being nothing. And it was her own fault. She had every chance, but she was consistently stupid and difficult. You know she was offered the lead in Public Enemy? She didn’t take the part because she was running around with some man who never planned to marry her. Jean Harlow was the second choice, but she was smart enough to take on the career Louise threw away.”
“Is she still in Hollywood?”
“Oh, I’m not sure.” Myra waved her gloved hand as if clearing the air of the question. “Do you know what I would have given to have her chances?” She stared, as if waiting for Cora to give her the opportunity to actually list what she would have given. “I poured everything into that girl, everything.” She pushed back the sleeve of her coat and showed Cora a thin, blue-veined arm. “They sucked everything right out of me. I have nothing left. Nothing.”
“But is she all right, Myra? Is she all right? That’s what I’m asking.”
Myra seemed annoyed again. “Yes. She’s all right, to use your word. That’s all she is, it seems.”
Stupid woman, Cora thought. She was the ingrate. But any anger she felt was quickly subdued by pity. It was hard to feel much else, looking down on this frail, small woman spewing so much bitterness and rage because fate wouldn’t let her live her dreams, even vicariously. Even now that she was sick, Cora could see how beautiful she’d once been, certainly as lovely as Louise. And as talented. With the same love for music and books. It was hard to know what Myra might have been had she not married at seventeen, if she hadn’t been the unhappy mother of four. Would she now be a famous musician? A nicer person? Happy? An inspiration?
“I’m sorry,” Cora said, surprised by the sincerity she felt. “I don’t know what else to say.”
Myra, too, seemed taken aback. She nodded, gazing at Cora. “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate that.”
“But if you do speak to Louise, please give her my best. Tell her I hope she’s doing well.”
Myra made no reply, though the red lips almost curved into a smile. Cora would later wonder if even then, Myra knew her daughter better than anyone. For it was Myra—even with all her failings as a mother—who seemed to know, before anyone else, that Cora’s good wishes would be in vain.
TWENTY
The reasons Wichita got the war contracts were clear: several of its companies had already been producing aircraft for years, and it was nestled in the middle of the country, safe from enemy attacks. Coincidentally, as continually noted by its promoters, the city had one of the highest percentages of American citizens of any metropolitan area in the nation. The census of 1940 counted 115,000 people living in the city limits, and over ninety-nine percent of them were American citizens. Wichita’s entire foreign population consisted of 123 Syrians, 170 Russians, 173 Canadians, 272 Mexicans, and 317 Germans—not including Joseph, who’d been naturalized long before he was interned in Georgia during World War I. He fared much better in this next war, as his salary doubled when Wichita’s Stearman got the contracts for B-17’s. In 1941, Stearman became Boeing-Wichita and started hiring fifty people a day. The company would soon begin work on the new B-29’s, though Joseph would honor his confidentiality contract and tell no one about the new bomber, not even Cora, until the new weapon against Japan was formally announced to the press.
By then, Wichita would be a different city, having doubled in size in just two years, the population swollen with newly trained aircraft workers and the masses needed to feed, clothe, and house them. The city had to change the timing of the stop lights so the larger crowds on the sidewalks could cross. There were traffic jams, and long lines at the post office, and even when Cora had the necessary ration cards, trips to the market took twice as long as they’d taken before. Garbage blew about on the street, as the city’s services were overwhelmed, and it was nearly impossible to get a phone call through in the middle of the day. Still, there was energy in the air, a feeling of grand purpose. Everyone understood that the city and its newcomers were united in one endeavor: at any hour, day or night, the sky might be loud with Boeing’s new bombers racing overhead in neat formations of four.
Cora stayed busy. The number of unwed mothers boomed right along with the general population, but there was once again plenty of money in town, and she was determined to put some of it to good use. She raised enough funds for a new wing for Kindness House, and within a week of its completion, every room in the new wing was full. Most of the girls and women had sad stories about fiancés gone to war and killed. Cora guessed some of them were lying, having calculated that there would be less judgment against premarital sex that was at least patriotic. Either way, she nodded and listened, and let them tell the stories they wanted to, reassuring them all the same. She knew some could be telling the truth. She’d seen flags in windows with blue stars, and some with the devastating gold ones. Trudy Thomas’s son had been killed in North Africa, and Winnifred Fitch’s nephew was still missing in the Philippines. Not a day went by when Cora didn’t think about how fortunate she was—Howard still practiced law in Houston, and Earle was a physician in St. Louis. They had just turned thirty-eight. She was the mother of sons who’d been young men during a brief window of peace.
So she didn’t have any suspicions when, in October of 1942, Earle announced that he’d cleared a few days from his schedule at the hospital so he could come to Wichita for a spontaneous visit. He only explained that he wanted to spend some time with his parents, as well as Uncle Joseph and Greta, now grown up and a mother herself. He would maybe see some of his old friends and teachers while he was in town. He didn’t want to wait for the holidays. He would come alone, he wrote, as the children would be in school and their mother would of course need to be there for them in the evenings.
Cora and Alan were happy to welcome Earle home, even with the attending complications. They—along with Joseph and Raymond—had gotten used to having more privacy in the house since Greta had left for college. Greta had since returned to Wichita, but she’d married a schoolteacher and given birth to a baby girl, and she and her new family lived in a bungalow five blocks away. Greta rarely called before she came by, so there was still a need for caution. But Cora and Joseph weren’t as vigilant as they’d been when she
lived in the house. Late at night, when the front and back doors were locked, they moved freely between their rooms. Raymond came over more often, though he still left before ten o’clock so as not to arouse the suspicion of neighbors. A few had made good-natured remarks to Cora about their bachelor family friend, and how good Cora was to open her home and give him some sense of family life.
It was certainly worth the adjustment, those few days of having Earle at home. He did spend time going out and about in town, playing poker with friends from high school and visiting his and Howard’s old haunts. But he had breakfast at the house every morning, much to Cora’s pleasure, and he was as friendly as ever to Joseph and Greta, getting Greta’s baby to laugh as he bounced her on his knee. He was perhaps more quiet than usual, but Cora didn’t think much of it. One evening, he asked his father to take a walk to the river with him, and Cora was pleased by the sight of them headed down the street side by side, father and son looking so much alike.
It wasn’t until Earle’s last afternoon that she learned the real reason for his visit. Alan and Joseph were at work, and they were alone in the house together. She was out on the porch reading, and he came out and sat beside her on the creaking swing. It occurred to her, just then, how perfect the day was, bright with a gentle breeze, the leaves on the big oak just starting to turn red. There’d been plenty of rain in the last year, and the sunflowers along the gate had come in nicely.
She closed her book, smiling at Earle. He wouldn’t be home much longer, and she could read anytime. He didn’t smile back. That was her first hint something bad was coming. She watched his eyes, his gaze soft and thoughtful, so much like Alan’s, as he told her, in words that sounded firm and practiced, that there was a great need for doctors overseas, and he could no longer stand being a mere spectator at a time like this, especially as a surgeon. When she started to shake her head, he ignored her. He and Beth had already discussed the matter at length, he said. He’d signed up as a medical support to the infantry. He would leave in a month.
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