When The Geese Fly North

by Dragon, Tracey L.

  Lynne set the pin on the hospital table and shrugged. “I guess it’s a mystery we’ll probably never solve.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Did you eat dinner yet?”

  “No.” She swallowed. “I didn’t want to leave her alone.”

  “I’ll sit with her awhile. Why don’t you go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat? I bet you could use a good meal.”

  “I think I will if you don’t mind. I skipped lunch, and I could use a break.”

  At five o’clock the cafeteria was nearly overflowing. Sara paid for her meal and turned to search for a seat. The only table was in the far corner of the room. She made a beeline for it hoping to head off anyone else.

  Focused on the booth, she didn’t notice the man to her right. As she neared her goal, she sensed a presence veering toward what she now considered her table. She picked up her stride and set her jaw with determination. She’d be damned if she’d easily give up the only available seat. She reached the table first, plopped down her tray, and ignoring the looming shadow, slid onto the cool vinyl seat thereby staking her claim. Then feeling churlish at her petty victory, she glanced up apologetically and almost swallowed her tongue.

  Shit. He was gorgeous. Simply gorgeous. All six-plus feet of him. The amusement in his stunning blue eyes made her flush.

  “Mind if I join you? There doesn’t seem to be any vacant tables.”

  Flustered, she waved at the empty bench. “No, it’s fine.”

  He studied her for a moment as if sensing her reluctance. “You sure? I can wait for another place to clear.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’m just in a hurry, and I don’t have a lot of time to chitchat.” Sara cringed at her rudeness.

  “Got it. No idle chitchat.” He put his tray down and took a seat. “Does that include introductions?” Humor laced his voice.

  Damn the man. Sara bit down on her lip to keep from smiling. She reluctantly stuck her hand out. “Sara Kennedy.”

  “Paul Anderson’s the name.” His hand engulfed hers. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Sara picked up her fork and attempted to ignore the hunk sitting across from her then set it down again. “I’m sorry.” She glanced over at Paul. “I’m not usually so rude. It’s been difficult with my grandmother ill. I don’t want to leave her for long.”

  He reached for his coffee mug and took a sip. “I get it, believe you me. My Uncle Johnny’s in the last stages of cancer. I hero-worshiped him as a kid, still do. It’s been pretty hard to watch him suffer.” His glance shifted to the window, his mouth set tight.

  They ate the rest of their dinner in a comfortable silence, each trying to finish their meal quickly.

  Sara took the last bite of her lasagna and picked up her tray. “It’s been nice meeting you, Mr. Anderson,” she said, then strode off without a backward glance.

  “Same here, Red,” she thought she heard him mutter but couldn’t be sure over the din of the cafeteria.

  She returned to her grandmother’s room not thirty minutes later to find her awake and speaking with Lynne. Sara tossed her purse aside and rushed to the bed to kiss her cheek.

  “Sara,” Gram’s weak voice rasped. ”You’re here.”

  “Of course.” Sara reached for Gram’s hand and blinked back the tears threatening to slide down her cheeks. “Where else would I be while you’re in this dreadful place?”

  Her grandmother squeezed Sara’s fingers then her lids closed again, obviously exhausted.

  “Sorry,” Lynne said. “My cell died or I would have called you.”

  “How long was she awake?”

  “Only about ten minutes.”

  Sara glanced down at the bed, disappointed she’d missed the opportunity to speak further with her grandmother. Hopefully, she’d have another chance.

  Lynne got up and slid into her coat. “I best get going. I’ve dinner to fix and kids who need help with their homework.”

  Sara walked her to the door and gave her a hug. “Tell Kevin and the boys hello for me.”

  “Will do.” Lynne squeezed Sara back then left the room.

  Sara returned to Gram’s side, hoping her grandmother would wake again and give her a chance to speak with her. She plopped down beside the bed and took her grandmother’s fingers in hers. She lightly stroked the coarse, dry hands that had comforted her when her parents had been killed, spanked her when she had been naughty, and kept her well-fed when she was hungry. They were hands of strength and character, shaped by the trials and tribulations they had endured.

  Sara glanced at her own hands, although much younger and smoother than her grandmother’s, they were similar in size and shape. Not so different, really. Gram’s hands bore her scars on the outside. Sara’s were deeper under the skin.

  A slight whisper punctured her thoughts. Grams. Unable to understand her words, Sara leaned forward placing her ear closer to her grandmother’s lips. “Jack.” Sara thought she heard but wasn’t sure. Sitting back again, she noticed her grandmother’s eyes were focused on the table in front of her.

  Gram’s wrinkled hand turned over and opened.

  Sara glanced from the upturned palm and followed her grandmother’s gaze to the tray table in front of the bed. Ah, the wings. She reached over, picked them up, and placed them in Gram’s hand.

  Her fingers closed around them.

  “Jack, who?” Sara couldn’t help but ask.

  Her grandmother’s lips formed into a semblance of a smile as she drifted back off to sleep.

  Sara stayed with Grams for a while, passing the time by answering emails and trying to focus on a manuscript she was reading. She had just decided to pack up and leave when her grandmother spoke to her.

  “Snooping through my things, were you?”

  Sara’s cheeks heated. “I’m sorry if you’re upset. I wasn’t intentionally nosing through your stuff. I was just cold and needed a flannel nightgown.” She found herself rambling like a child caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar.

  “And I can tell you found one.” Gram’s lips quirked up into a smile—a gentle one. The one Sara remembered from her years growing up with this wonderful woman who often said to her when she’d made a mistake. “There’s no use crying over spilt milk.”

  “It’s fine.” Her grandmother fingered the pin she held in her hand. “I’m glad you did. Now that you have, I’ve one request.”

  “Anything,” Sara responded without hesitation.

  “I’d like to be buried with it.”

  “Grams,” she began to protest.

  “Now dear,” her grandmother interrupted her. “Please don’t make this any harder than it is. I’m old and it’s my time. I’m ready.”

  Sara blinked back tears as she fought a hopeless battle to contain them. She covered her face and struggled for composure. When she thought she could speak without weeping all over again, she asked the woman who meant everything to her, “Will you tell me about the wings? About Jack?”

  Her grandmother’s lips firmed into a line as she gave Sara the look—the one that penetrated the skin to the tender flesh below. Then she sighed. “I haven’t spoken about Jack to anyone in over fifty years, and I wouldn’t now, if I didn’t think it’s a story you need to hear.”

  Sara slid her chair as close to the bed as possible, short of climbing into it, to keep Grams from straining her voice. Once settled as comfortable as she could get in the hard hospital furniture, she reached for her grandmother’s hand. “Ready, whenever you are.”

  Gram’s face softened and for a moment Sara could have sworn her grandmother appeared young again like the images in the black and white photos still at the house.

  “It happened so very long ago,” her grandmother began. “It was 1943 and we were at war.”

  Chapter 2
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  October 1943

  Fran tapped out the final numbers of the shipping invoice and yanked the paper from the carriage roller of the Remington typewriter that had enslaved her for the past year. Glancing up at the large circular clock on the dingy white office wall, she sighed with relief that her ten-hour shift at The Novelty Shoppe would end in precisely five minutes. The three-story red brick factory located on the corner of Main and Caroline Street in Albion, New York, had originally sewn various novelties such as children’s rain jackets, matching hats and bags.

  But after Pearl Harbor, like many other factories, the company began producing military gear for the soldiers, and Fran’s hours along with the rest of the other twenty-odd employees had increased to meet the needs of the government. Everyone did their part for the war effort.

  “Hey, Fran.” Her best friend, Amy Lake, sparkling with her usual energy, stuck her black curly head inside the office door. “You doing anything tonight?”

  Fran picked up the black lid to her typewriter and covered the machine. “Probably not. Why? Did you have something in mind?”

  “Yeah, let me get my stuff and I’ll meet you out front. I’ll walk you home.”

  Fran finished straightening her work area then gathered her things. Slipping on her worn woolen sweater, she nodded to her coworker. “See you Monday, Evelyn.”

  “Have a nice weekend.” The secretary’s eyes never strayed from the letter she was typing. Fran gave her a final glance before leaving the office. Her heart went out to the elderly woman who had recently lost a son in France. Two more of her boys were fighting in the Pacific.

  Times were hard on everyone. Just about every family had a relative serving in the military—Fran’s brother, Hank, was fighting in southern Italy, her brother-in-law in North Africa. When a Western Union delivery boy rode his bicycle down the street, everybody held his or her breath, only to let it out again when he passed.

  Fran saw Amy move ahead of the crowd exiting the factory door like a herd stampeding a gate. It was Friday after all. With five grueling days of work behind them, everyone looked forward to blowing off a little steam—to forget there was a world beyond their shores where friends and family members were being shot at and killed.

  Waving to a co-worker, Fran turned to her friend as she drew up beside her. She tucked Amy’s arm through her own and led her toward Caroline Street and home.

  She could feel Amy’s suppressed excitement waiting to explode. “All right. Spill it.”

  Amy squeezed Fran’s arm against her side. “You’ll never guess in a million years.”

  Fran rolled her blue eyes at the amber-flecked ones sparkling up at her. Amy with her short curly mop of hair looked like an elfin imp compared to Fran’s five feet, six inches. She brought energy and lightheartedness to Fran’s serious world. “If I’ll never guess in a million years, why should I bother trying?”

  “Aw, Frannie Jones, did anyone ever tell you, you’re absolutely no fun. None whatsoever.”

  “On more than one occasion,” she said dryly. “But that’s why I have you for my best friend, you manage to find more fun than you can handle.”

  “Fine. If you won’t even attempt a guess, I shan’t tell you.”

  “Don’t. See if I care. I’m not the one needing company tonight. I’ve a good book at home. I planned to take a long soak in the tub then curl up and read. Mom and I are rolling bandages at the Red Cross in the morning.”

  “Aw, Frannie, do you have to be so difficult? I just need a tiny, itsy-bitsy favor.” Amy moved ahead of her, skipping backwards as she continued to talk. “Red’s coming home tonight, and he’s bringing a Navy buddy of his. The one I told you about. The handsome one.”

  “And . . .?” She put her hand on her hip and raised a brow. “I’m hearing about this now, because . . .?”

  “Well, I would have mentioned it sooner, but we didn’t know until Mom received a wire this morning from Red saying he got a 72-hour liberty pass. They left on the eight o’clock train. My mom’s going to strangle him when he gets here, too. She about fainted when the telegram came. What with Fred fighting the Germans.”

  “Oh, quit pussyfooting around, Ames, and spit it out?”

  Amy barely took a breath before continuing. “I thought you, me, Red, and his friend could make up a foursome tonight. Get together, maybe drive over to the White Elephant. I heard there’s a smashing band playing this weekend.”

  “No, absolutely not. I’m too tired, and I have to get up early again tomorrow.”

  “Come on Frannie, pretty please. You must go. If you don’t go, then I can’t. I’ve heard so much about Red’s pal. I’m just dying to get to know him.”

  She dug in her heels. “You know how I feel about going out with your brother, Red. It’s awkward with his crush on me.”

  “Yeah, but now that he’s in the Navy and stationed in New York City, I’m sure he’s had the opportunity to meet more sophisticated women. Not that I’m saying you’re not sophisticated or anything,” Amy backpedaled. “I’m sure he’s long since outgrown you by now. Besides, it won’t be like a real date or anything. I’ll just tell him we want to catch a ride with them is all.”

  Fran mentally groaned at her friend’s mildly insulting remark. Anyone would be more sophisticated. After all, Albion, population 5,454 was Small Town USA.

  “I don’t know, Amy.”

  “You’ve just got to do this for me. I’ll owe you big time. Come on, pretty please.”

  Amy’s puppy dog eyes were Fran’s Achilles’ heel. She usually didn’t have the heart to say no when Amy gave her that begging look. That look had caused her to suffer through numerous blind dates with pimply faced, awkward guys whom she’d been told had great personalities, but not tonight. “How about we do it tomorrow instead, Ames? I really don’t feel up to going out tonight.”

  “Aw Fran, that will be one less night I get to spend with Red’s friend. You could be keeping me from my one true love.”

  “Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you? Besides, who’s to say Red won’t let you tag along. After all, he hasn’t seen you in quite a while.”

  “Yeah, right. That will happen when pigs fly.” Amy made a face at Fran. “Well at least go to Newberrys and Landaurs with me so I can find something new to wear tonight. Maybe they’ll have something half decent since we went last. I wouldn’t mind a new blouse to go with the rose skirt I bought.”

  “Okay, but first let’s go into the house so I can let Mom know where we’re going. See if she needs anything. Then we can stop at your place before we go.”

  “Mom, I’m home,” Fran called as she opened the screen door to the white clapboard house with its listing front porch.

  “I’m outside,” her mother’s voice carried in through the open, screened window.

  Fran led Amy through the square, uncluttered living room, into the kitchen, and out the back door. The sprawling porch commanded a view of the long, rectangular yard that extended from the house all the way back to the Barge Canal. A gentle breeze flowed through the maple trees that shaded the porch with their yellow, red, and orange leaves.

  The rounded shape of her mother relaxing with her legs resting on a footstool came into view. “I’ve just made a fresh pitcher of lemonade if you girls would like some. Grab a chair and join me. It’s a beautiful Indian summer evening—not too cold.”

  “Thanks Mom, but Amy and I are headed to the stores to do some shopping. Do you need anything?”

  “No, but thanks for asking. I plan to sit here with my feet up until the mosquitoes begin to bite. Dinner will be ready about six-thirty.”

  “We’ll be back by then,” Fran called over her shoulder as she and Amy started off across the lawn toward the street and Amy’s house.

  It didn’t take them long to shop. With the war ratio
ning so many things, there were slim pickings. Amy managed to find the exact shade of polish she’d been searching for but was disappointed when she couldn’t find a blouse her size to match the skirt she wanted to wear tonight. Fran had suggested she try the girl’s department which had earned her an eye-roll. Being petite had its disadvantages.

  Fran hadn’t planned on buying anything new to wear, but when Amy thrust a turquoise sweater at her and insisted it was the perfect color to match her eyes and would go wonderfully well with her auburn hair, she’d given in and tried it on. That was the first mistake. The second was paying the outrageous sum they wanted for it. But for some reason beyond her cognizance, she gave into the urge to purchase it. “Frugal Fran” as Amy had dubbed her on more than one occasion, agreed with her friend. The sweater was perfect for her. She knew the minute she put it on she would buy it.

  After dinner, she enjoyed a long soak in the bathtub and had just gotten out of the tepid water when her mom called up to her.

  “Fran, telephone.”

  Fran grabbed a towel and quickly dried off. She slipped into her terrycloth bathrobe and rushed downstairs. “Who is it?”

  “Amy.” Her mother handed her the phone.

  “What now?” she said ungraciously, afraid she knew exactly what Amy wanted.

  “Just called to warn you.”

  “Warn me about what?”

  “Red’s on a tear and said no way were we going to the White Elephant without you. Said he hadn’t seen you in months and that we would just all come over and sit at your house until you agreed to come. We’ll be there in ten minutes, and believe you me, you don’t want to be caught in your ratty old housecoat when Red’s buddy arrives.”

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “Fraid so, and I’ve got to run. Just wanted to give you a fair warning before we left. After all . . . what are friends for.”