by Jina Bacarr
My breath catches.
The impatient train whistle warns me to hurry, but I don’t know where Jeff is. I twist my head around, looking everywhere for him. A deep chill cuts through me, sending me into a panic. In spite of my fake fur collar, my teeth chatter as I try to cope with the cold. What railcar did he say? I dig my hand into my coat pocket for my ticket and feel only the folded-up drawing he made of me on an October autumn day. A loving memento I keep close to me. No, he has our train tickets, surely he’s looking for me. He was supposed to pick me up down the road from my house, but something must have happened. I fret, and play with my gloves. I can’t give up, I’ll find him. I wouldn’t have been so late if the minister’s wife, Mildred, hadn’t had a flat tire while giving me a lift. She is an angel in my eyes, a woman who finds strength in helping others and she knew how important it was for me to get to the train station this morning.
I ran the rest of the way. I breathe out hard. Jeff won’t leave without me. He loves me.
I break into a run dramatically like they do in the pictures, my hair blowing wild in the wind, tears running down my cheeks. I jam through the turnstile at the train station, looking down for only a moment when the bottom gold button on my coat rips off. I don’t stop.
I race up and down the platform, but I don’t see Jeff anywhere. Breathless, I look right then left. Where is he?
‘Miss Kate Arden,’ calls out a crotchety voice behind me. ‘Miss Arden!’
I wave at the stationmaster. ‘I’m Kate Arden.’
‘For you, miss.’
My legs crumble beneath me when he hands me a letter and I rip it open. My hand goes to my mouth when I read the hastily scribbled words.
My darling Kate,
I don’t have much time to explain, but I’ve been called up to report for duty in Washington without delay. Please understand, it happened so fast. But it’s urgent that I leave this morning. A change of plans. I wish I could say more, but I’m under orders and can’t tell you the details except I have no choice but to report earlier for pilot training school.
My heart aches to tell you this, Jelly Girl, but we have to wait to get married till I come home on furlough—
A sudden spasm makes me hunch my shoulders, a pain that radiates to my heart which is beating so fast, too fast. I crumple up the letter without finishing reading it. No doubt Jeff didn’t want to upset Ma and Pop by showing up at the house, so he gave the letter to the stationmaster. Still, I can’t stop shaking. No, this isn’t happening. It can’t be. There’s got to be a way.
Breathing hard, I scan every face I see, looking for Jeff. I have to find him. The 7.10 train to Washington hasn’t left yet. Our train.
I fly through the train station, a cold winter air rushing between my legs, the hissing steam of the big locomotive filling my ears.
I shoot a glance at several young men boarding the third railcar. All going to camp, I imagine. Then I see him. Brows crossed, running his hand through his dark hair, eyes shooting a painful look as he boards the next car but suddenly he turns around, as if looking for me. That moment of pure longing on his face is forever seared into my mind. Of course he knew I’d search for him, but if we missed each other, he didn’t want me to think he didn’t love me so he wrote the letter.
‘Jeff, Jeff!’ I yell as I race madly toward him and he jumps off the three rail steps with ease and jams toward me. Tall and strong, his long overcoat whipping against his muscular legs, no hat as usual, eyes blazing hot with so much love for me, my legs buckle. I want to grab him, kiss him, but I control the urge because I’m still reeling over the painful words in his letter. It’s a mistake, it has to be. We’ll be celebrating Christmas together this year and for years to come.
‘Kate, how did you find me?’ His laugh is anxious, but still I hear mirth in his voice like he’s happy to see me.
‘It’s our wedding day, Jeff.’ I snuggle up to his broad chest, once again feeling safe and protected. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
‘Didn’t you read my letter?’ His joy turns to something dark in his eyes I can’t read, a raw fear I’ve never seen there before. Even the tiny jagged scar above his right brow deepens. As if he’s unsure how to explain the awful words he wrote with a shaky hand.
‘Yes, but it doesn’t mean we can’t get married anyway,’ I plead, looking at him, my lashes wet with tears I refuse to let fall.
‘Oh, Kate… Jelly Girl, my orders came through and I have to go alone. That’s why I couldn’t pick you up,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I gave the stationmaster directions to deliver the letter to you at the mill if he didn’t find you.’ Then, before I can speak, he cups my face in his hand. ‘Just know that whatever happens in this war, I love you and always will.’
‘Then show me, Jeff,’ I whisper with so much need for him, and we both forget we’re in a train station filled with soldiers and civilians, porters. Smoky and loud, but not for us. As if time stands still. I’ll never forget his hand sliding around my waist and, before I can rise up on my toes to kiss him, he presses me close to him.
‘I have to go, Jelly Girl.’ He blurts out the words in a hot whisper in my ear and panic overwhelms me.
‘You can’t get on that train without me, Jeff, you can’t!’
I pout, curl my lower lip, and stomp my foot. Yes, I’m acting like a silly schoolgirl, but I have a right. I’m supposed to get married today.
I look around at the civilians seeing off soldiers, the anguish on their faces. A child’s trembling hand brushing the sleeve of an Army uniform, the mumbled words of a man telling his wife not to worry with a cracking voice, the sniffling sounds of a mother who can’t look into her son’s eyes because she doesn’t want him to see her crying.
Oh, what a selfish girl you are, Kate Arden. There’s a war going on and all you think about is yourself. Let him go. Do his part, while you do yours here on the home front.
I glance back at Jeff, the sun spilling down from the heavens through the glass ceiling, his jaw set with a purpose so true I accept what I know now is my job in this war. To be the strong woman I purport to be. To keep him in my heart, but let him go.
The train whistle drags me out of my stupor with a sharp blast. The piercing look in his eyes makes me tremble. It tells me he doesn’t want to leave me like this, hurting so.
‘It’s not goodbye, Jeff,’ I begin, that holy voice that keeps whispering inside me louder, clearer than ever. ‘What is it you always tell me in French?’
‘Au revoir.’ He nuzzles his cheek against mine. ‘Till we meet again.’
I repeat the words with what I’m certain is a horrible accent, but he smiles. Slow and heartfelt. His face bears the smoothness of youth, but his expression is that of a man who knows he’s facing the brutality of war, something I can’t grasp no matter how many newsreels I see. But I see it on his face and it scares me.
Taking a breath to fuel my courage, I pull up something deep inside me that’s been brewing for a while. I knew this day would come when Jeff went away to camp, I just didn’t expect it so soon. So, like the supportive officer’s wife I want to be, I let him go. Without any more drama, without breaking down, I remain strong.
But not before I give him my most precious possession.
His drawing of me.
‘So you don’t forget me, Jeff.’ I press the folded-up drawing into his hand and he flinches. ‘This way I’ll be with you wherever they send you.’
There’s a longing in his dark eyes that tells me everything I want to know, a deep pain he struggles to keep under control that transforms his handsome features into sharp edges. His lips are tight as he says. ‘You don’t know how difficult this is for me, Kate.’
His words reverberate with a longing so deep that just hearing him say them triggers a crazy set of emotions that make me want to plead for him to take me with him. Ride on that train as far as I can go, holding him, loving him with every clickety-clack of the wheels.
When he wraps
his arms around my shoulders, pulling me so close I can’t breathe, my blood heats up and some unforeseen spark in my brain reminds me he’s just as scared of the future as I am. It’s up to me to allay his fears.
With our hearts beating in unison, hands clasped together, foreheads touching, we speak in low whispers to each other. Reaffirming our love, making our peace with the winds of war that tear us apart because we know there is no other choice if the world is ever to be free.
‘I love you, Jelly Girl.’ His low, gravelly voice chills me, his words vibrating in me even as he lifts my hat veil and kisses me warmly. I hug every last moment with him to my heart and button it up to keep his words safe from the fraying embers of time.
‘I love you, too, Jeff. For always.’
With a sudden blast of steam, the great locomotive comes to life, wheels turning, gray smoke pouring out of its belly, and even I can feel the urgency in the air pushing us forward. Jeff gives me one more kiss that stings because I know it’s the last kiss I’ll have from him until he returns.
Then he’s gone.
And my soul goes with him.
I stand there as the train pulls out of the station, watching and waving, until my arm is so tired it turns numb. Long, lonely months without his arms around me, his lips on mine. I tune out everything around me as passengers gather on the platform, waiting for the next train. The choked sobs, passionate farewells, the hurried whispers of soldiers’ promises to their mothers and sweethearts, promises they pray they can keep. The heaviness hanging in the air. In spite of the well-meaning holiday Santa posters and posts entwined with red and green and silver ribbons, nobody says Merry Christmas. It hurts too much, wondering if it will be the last time they say it to their soldier or sailor.
It’s then I realize I have a job to do in this war, too. At the paper mill. Typing government requisitions, checking on the factory production of ration cartons and ammo boxes. Doing whatever I can to bring Jeff and all our boys home. I bite my lip, determined not to cry. He’ll be back. I know he will.
And I’ll be waiting for him.
3
December 20, 1955
I never saw Jeff again.
It was Christmas twelve years ago, and it still hurts. A throb of pain that acts up around this time every year. I ignore the rest of the world and go into my shell. For years I questioned why I didn’t get on that train, ride as far as I could go until I had to get off.
Now I go through every detail like it’s a typed word upon the page that never fades with time. Then I go about the rest of my day until next year when I go through the same ritual all over again. Because I can’t let him go.
I still love him.
The memory of that morning is more painful this time of year when my usual, busy routine is interrupted with dodging the mistletoe hanging in the doorway of the breakroom. Every sprig of holly is like a thorn pricking my heart.
This obsession of mine hasn’t done wonders for my personal life, which is why I’m a single thirty-one year old woman who prefers to think of herself as a career girl and not an old maid sifting through her memories like they’re tear-stained dance cards. Not easy to do in this couples’ society when everyone is striving for that cookie-cutter life. I haven’t embraced it nor do I intend to.
I’m successful. I worked my way up at Holtford Company to food editor. It’s an established publishing company that’s been around for over a hundred years.
I came to New York in 1947 after realizing life in Posey Creek was a dead-end for me. I had no desire to be pitied because I didn’t marry right after the war like most girls. I’d lost Jeff and no one could replace him in my heart. So I took the money I saved and headed to the city to pursue a career. I was more determined than ever to make something of myself. I worked as a proofreader for a while then I jumped at the opportunity when there was an opening in the fashion section, attending trunk shows and writing about poor little rich girls’ weddings. From the small towns to the big cities, brides-to-be wanted to copy their swanky designer gowns. According to the columns, every girl of marriageable age is tying the knot as fast as she can in this postwar world and moving to suburbia. Except me. I haven’t moved on from my wartime romance.
I tried. I was engaged to a Wall Street guy for longer than I want to admit. We always found an excuse not to tie the knot. His job, my job. The market was up, then down. It never felt ‘right’. As if I was cheating on Jeff. So I threw myself into my work. Finally, we went our separate ways. That was a year ago.
I check the time, looking down at my tiny, gold-plated wristwatch. Thirty minutes to go.
I’m lucky to be sitting at this desk in a tall building on Park Avenue. My break came when I started submitting stories to the food column about the ins and outs of modern home cooking. Fate and a kindly food editor stepped in and opened up a new world to me. When I was growing up, Ma was so dedicated to her cooking, we kids swore she slept with her apron on over her nightgown.
Sweet angel of the frying pan, I called her. She passed her love of baking and cooking on to me.
I savor the last drop of coffee in my cup, letting it linger on my tongue, but the sugar is long gone. It tastes bitter. I set my cup down and it rattles on the saucer. The last time I saw Jeff is a day I’ll never forget. Yet I relive it with a temerity that gets stronger every year, as if by wishing things had turned out differently I can make it happen. Turn the past upside down like a snow globe and make everything come out better. That I jump on that train with him and somehow we get married. If only. Two little words.
In spite of my efforts, nothing changes. Everything is the same. Well, not really. Ma devoted herself to taking care of Pop after he had a stroke. He passed in 1951, his heart broken. He got hit real hard when we got the news about Frank Junior getting wounded in Korea during the winter offensive in late 1950. When my brother came home from the war, he was never the same. It killed Pop more than if he’d died in action. I wish I’d spent more time trying to understand the gangly boy who wanted to be a baseball player, not a mill worker. Pop started drinking heavy when his boy left town to cure his mental scars from the war on his own. It did him in. He was a good man and worked hard at the mill. I wasn’t close to my father, but I respected him. He didn’t know how to show his feelings, which was common in men of that generation.
When I lost Ma a year later in 1952, I cried for days. I adored my mother. She was apple pie and pink yarn and smelled like rainwater. Ma carried on the best she could after God took her boys with Frankie making his way across the country to handle his problems in his own way. It hurt her bad, not knowing how her son was doing pained her more than she let on. I saw her crying on my last visit, her shoulders hunched as she hung up the laundry outside, thinking no one heard her. In the end, she died from pneumonia, like she was just exhausted from living.
Then there’s Lucy. My spinning top. Never sitting still. My scatterbrained sister never let up teasing me about Jeff, but she never left my side when I heard the heartbreaking news. MIA, came the whispers at the mill, then months later we heard Jeff was killed when his plane was hit by flak and went down over Germany. No one in the crew of ten survived. The next day I saw a Gold Star pennant hanging in the window at Wrightwood House. My whole world ended. My little sister cried with me.
She was there for me when Jeff’s mother ignored me at the memorial. Mrs Rushbrooke had seen me enough times at the house when Jeff was around to know I wasn’t just another girl from the mill stuck on her son. I always wondered if she suspected we were dating later on, but as long as it didn’t upset her world, she didn’t make a ruckus. Until Jeff didn’t come back. As if it was my fault. She ordered me to never, ever cross her doorstep again. Then she smashed the jar of cherry jam I brought for her against the wall. I never understood why, if she was just grieving or she really knew about us. I told no one. Not even Ma. I never told her about my secret plans to marry Jeff, though she had a notion I was seeing him. She hoped I’d get over him, find so
mebody else and get married. How could I? I loved him so much, I couldn’t let him go. It was a deep romantic love left unfulfilled. No man could ever compete with that. I didn’t want anyone but him.
Lucy kept my secret. I lived my life through her after Jeff left. I was more excited than she was at her wedding after she found her soldier, Jimmie, and corralled him with her freckled smile. She wrote to a lot of soldiers during the war, but this boy won her heart with his dimples and big strong hands. Now she’s got three kids and a loving husband and lives in the big old house where we grew up. Built over a hundred years ago and nestled among oak and cherry trees, the house has belonged to Ma’s family since her grandpa won it in a poker game.
Which brings me to part two of my yearly scenario. Lucy’s annual phone call, when she begs me to come home for the holidays. I can’t. Ma understood the memories were too painful and welcomed me home whenever I could make the trip, though I haven’t been back since she’s been gone. The pain of losing Jeff at Christmas is too raw. I keep my memory of him hidden in the deepest pocket of my heart. With a button on it. I never look inside except this time of year and then only for a little while. Because it hurts so much, I want to avoid going home for Christmas this year. Again. Besides, I have plans. A quiet holiday in Vermont. Lounging before a roaring fireplace. The notes for that book I’m writing spread out on a bearskin rug.
I glance down again at my watch. Fifteen minutes to go. Which means it’s time for my sister to ring me. Her youngest, Billie, is probably napping and the twins, Maureen and Melinda, are ensconced in front of the television set with their coloring books. No doubt Jimmie, her hunky husband, is out somewhere banging nails on a new house for a lucky family. He’s a builder and recently became a partner in a construction business. She couldn’t have gotten a better man. Hardworking, a strong father, and he loves her to pieces.