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January 21, 1942
The Chancellor Hotel, Room 27
126 Bristol Street
London, England
Dear Addie,
Hope this finds you in a blessed thaw. First, trip details. A friendly passenger offered me cinnamon rolls she kept warm on the wheel housing. I can still taste them. Fresh-faced GIs filled Illinois Central Station and a sign proclaimed, First Chicago USO Station Opening in April. On board again, a stitch in the engine’s rhythm gave me pause. What if the train crashed? What if...? I expected to see farms, but gray buildings lined dismal streets.
“Passengers transferring at Union Station, disembark for Indianapolis, Cleveland, Detroit, Mont....” I thought I’d already boarded the fast train, but the conductor waved me on. “Up ahead, Miss. Leaves in ten.”
An arm steadied me when I bumped into an elderly man. A tall young fellow beside him eyed me. “May we help you?”
“I need the train through Detroit to Montreal.”
“Wait right here, Pa.” His father mumbled in Italian while my rescuer peered at my ticket. “Straight ahead.” He grabbed my case, so I had to lug only my travel bag from our clandestine Cedar Rapids trip—remember?
“Take good care of this young lady.” He handed my case over to a steward and disappeared. A Chicagoan? I’ll never know.
The conductor announced a fifteen-minute delay. Near the restrooms, a sign declared the SECOND USO station, to open in May. Back on the train, it was sleep, eat, read, sleep. I was sad to hear of Carol Lombard’s death. Did you hear she was on her way to raise war bond money? Poor Clark Gable.
I must stop for now. Evelyn, whom I met yesterday right here in the hotel, is showing me around London.
This letter will find you via a charming red sidewalk postbox. By now, you’ve figured out my first letter’s clues, so please write soon.
My very best,
Kate
Tires screeched. Addie buried Kate’s letter in her apron pocket and busied herself in the dining room while Harold clambered to the basement to stoke the furnace. When he went out to do chores, she tiptoed upstairs to conceal her second treasure.
v
The wind blustered through the stovepipe, making an eerie sound as Addie set Harold’s breakfast on the table. But birth certificate in hand, he paused beside the kitchen door. Not again.
“The death count has hit 2,000. A Japanese bomber dropped one right down the Arizona’s smokestack and blew it up like a volcano. The board just has to take me now that they know so many died.” His cheekbones became blades in the ceiling bulb’s glare.
“Have Joe’s parents heard about him for sure yet?”
“No, but he’s gone.” The diagonal vein crossing Harold’s forehead pulsed blue against his year-round tan.
Addie poured hot water into her teapot, all the while tamping down the possibilities that occurred to her. What if Joe had somehow escaped? Why not hope for the best and save room for surprise, like Kate?
“Still don’t believe me, do you? You’re such a romantic, but the world doesn’t work that way.” Harold shook a ragged fingernail in her face. “You’re making tea in the middle of the morning?”
“Why, it’s only...” She glanced at the clock. 8:30, but it was no use to argue. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”
“Breakfast? I’m going without today—don’t you know our troops forgo regular meals? This war calls for sacrifice, and you’d better get used to it.”
He marched out, and she set his plate on the porch, which was colder than the Frigidaire. Then she stole up to the landing to observe Harold’s gait past lilac bushes protruding like toothpicks from massive snowdrifts.
Transplanted from Mama’s soon after their marriage, the rows formed a demarcation line between the two houses and added balance to the farmyard. Deep red dogwood branches complemented the lilacs’ brown and beautified the long driveway back to Berthea’s new house.
Harold’s broad stride showed no hitch.
“I swear, fury improves his bad leg. If this would convince the draft board, I’d find a way to tell them.” The hallway clock showed just enough time to write Kate a letter before George delivered the mail.
February 6, 1942
Dear Kate,
So glad you’re safe, and thank you for the report. You brought those kind strangers to life for me. Yesterday, I slid down the driveway expecting only bills, but your letter awaited me. I hope you soon find Alexandre—can you imagine his surprise when he sees you?
Mrs. Morfordson asked about you at the Mercantile the other day. I still miss her English literature class. How did you know where to go in Montreal? The encyclopedia says it’s actually Mont Royale. Did you see a castle? Tell me about your ship—any submarine sightings?
Cold and more cold here, and Harold is still haunting the draft board office. I’ll turn to happy thoughts—one day long after this war is over, we’ll pore over these yellowed letters while we drink tea in the back yard.
I hope you’re right about the hollyhocks. I do love how they float above a garden. Maybe when the ground thaws, I’ll mulch them with some horse manure—somebody said it’s the best for a garden.
Take care of yourself and write soon.
Sisters at heart,
Addie
The letter occupied her apron pocket while she deboned an old hen she’d roasted this morning. Keeping an ear out for George’s truck, a sudden knock distracted her. Someone must have walked in from the road.
Maynard Lundene hunched on the top step, cavernous hollows lining his cheekbones. He shoved his knitted hat over his blue-tinged hairline, and seeing his pale, watering eyes, Addie’s voice forsook her.
“Is Harold home?”
“He should be soon. Would you like to come in?”
Maynard worked his chewing tobacco. “Nah. Well then—” His rough knuckles scratched under his cap.
“Have you had any word?”
“Today.” His voice thinned to half a whisper. “Our Joe went down with the ship.”
Addie touched his wool coat sleeve. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
Maynard held his cap over his heart.
“You’re sure you won’t come in? I have coffee on.”
“Might wait in the barn a while.” He reached for the door handle with a shy half-turn, revealing feathery late-afternoon whiskers against an icy sky. “War’s an awful thing.”
“Yes.”
He let himself out and tackled the slick driveway. With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, Addie gripped the doorframe—she’d better alert Berthea, who surely suspected the truth when she saw Maynard’s truck.
Might as well check on the hens, too. She stuck her arms into her stiff chore coat and coerced her cold metal overshoe buckles to cooperate. Our Joe went down...
Joe Lundene’s face, so lively and full of good humor, swam before her as she broke ice in the hens’ water pans, refilled the grain tins, and shared awkward tears with Berthea. Orville’s snores from the couch punctuated her mother-in-law’s voice.
“Send Harold over right away when he gets back, will you?”
Just as Addie reached the back porch, he screeched the bubbletop to a haphazard stop and entered the barn. She stirred the chicken and broth bubbling on the stove. Maybe she’d make dumplings for supper, Harold’s favorite.
Ten minutes later, the clash of buttons told her he had dropped his overalls beside the washtub. That meant he’d decided they stunk enough to be washed, so she piled them into rinse water saved from the last washing and rubbed Fels Naptha soap into the stains.
He lingered on the porch, so she reached for him. “I feel so bad about Joe, Harold.”
“I told you he was dead. I’m going over to tell the folks.”
“Your mother already knows.”
He glared at her.
“I knew she would wonder, with Maynard’s truck out by the road.”
“You told her?”
“I thought it would be hard enough, without—”
His voice became a growl. “You knew I’d want to break the news.”
He narrowed his eyes. She knew he could hear her heart thump, just like he read her mind. “I was trying to—”
He stomped his foot and gritted his teeth. Then he ran out.
Addie caught the door and sputtered. “Why do I always make him so angry?”
Out beyond the driveway, George’s truck wavered to a stop beside the mailbox, so she dug out some egg money and raced along the tall pines’ shadow to make the clandestine exchange. Amazing how a few coins could pay for postage to carry her letter all the way to London.
Minutes later, she ran upstairs and pulled the familiar photograph from her drawer. The image stilled her trembling and took her back to October, 1934. Aunt Alvina’s faint lavender still drifted from it, or did she imagine it?
That day, Kate had faked a dramatic swoon. “We have the house to ourselves.” She spun around, chandelier sparkles in her eyes.
“Let’s bring Myrna Loy to life. Come upstairs and hang your coat on my bedpost.”
Addie followed her upstairs, and entered a pink wonderland—white wrought iron headboard with a lacy bedspread, matching nightstands with identical lamps, a tall highboy and a shiny dressing table complete with a gold mirror and brush.
A faint, sweet scent enveloped the room, and everything looked so clean. Addie stared in wonder—the new girl in school had chosen her for a friend, even brought her home.
Kate bounced in and bowed with a flourish. “Sit here, Miss Loy. I’ve wanted to meet you ever since your fans voted you Queen of the Movies. I feel privileged to work on your hair and lovely face.”
Addie hung back, but Kate continued. “I’ll just tweak your eyebrows and apply a few powder sprinkles on your nose.”
Unable to resist, Addie sank on the bench.
“Relax, now. A bit more color here, and...” Kate pulled a pair of tweezers from a sack. “A few less hairs in the arch.”
“Oh, my—my Dad wouldn’t—”
“Miss Loy, in that latest Thin Man episode, you were wonderful—you were divine!”
Fifteen minutes later, Kate stepped back. “There. With that cute nose tip and your hair drawn up, you could pass for Miss Loy’s twin.”
The mirror intensified the chicken pox scar on Addie’s nose, her hesitant eyes, and abundant freckles. But she mustn’t disappoint Kate.
“Why, you made my eyebrows arch like Miss Loy’s.”
“Admit it, you’re a raving beauty. Now, here’s a challenge for you.” Kate pointed to her own reflection. “See what you can do with a straight nose and stringy hair.”
Addie fingered the gold hairbrush.
“Go ahead, it’s not made of glass.”
“How about Barbara Stanwyck? I think she’s as pretty as Myrna, don’t you? I could bobby pin some waves...”
Time had wings, and suddenly Aunt Alvina stood in the doorway. They’d ransacked the attic for satin dresses, hats, shoes, and fur stoles. Kate pretended to smoke an eyebrow pencil and made eyes at Clark Gable under heavy lacquer.
“Girls! What have you—”
An alarm buzzed low in Addie’s eardrums. She winced when Aunt Alvina raised her hand, but a peal of laughter broke from the older woman’s throat. Soon, she was gasping for air.
“Don’t move, now. Let me get my camera.” She bustled off, Kate giggled, and the tightness in Addie’s shoulders gave way.
Snap.
The girls rolled off the bed and laughed until tears smudged their thick powder.
Forever after, they referred to this magical afternoon as Myrna Loy Day.
v
Berthea waved Addie into a chair at the kitchen table, where a letter lay with photographs of Harold’s brother Bill’s children.
“Bill and Sue wrote that Collins Radio is expanding their radio production down in Cedar Rapids, so Bill’s company is hiring more workers.”
“What wonderful pictures of the children—you must miss them.”
Berthea’s short-lived smile faded to a frown. “Bill thinks if Harold could work up there, he’d feel better.”
“Hmm... but doesn’t he have to keep the farm going?”
Berthea pinched her forehead and pushed a cup of coffee toward Addie, who held up her hand. “I’ve had enough for one day, thanks.”
“How about tea?”
“You have some? Oh yes, I’d love a cup.”
“Was your mother a tea drinker?”
Mama’s sparsely supplied, lopsided cupboard flashed before Addie—the tea jar stayed empty most of the time, like everything else. But Berthea had something else on her mind.
“Sue wrote about her cousin in California, maybe near your sister. They’ve had some bad wildfires out there, and with the CCC firefighters gone to war, the danger is even worse.”
“Ruthie lives close to San Diego.”
“Did you know Japanese submarines fired on an oil field there, and even tried to start forest fires up in Oregon?”
“No, I haven’t heard.”
Berthea jerked at something she saw out in the yard. “Don’t mention this to Harold, though.”
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Sue’s father knows a forest ranger there whose co-workers spotted the Japanese off shore. Aren’t you glad we live here?”
Taken by a sudden longing to be with Ruthie out in sunny California or with Kate, Addie drowned her reply in her pungent green tea.
“We Iowans are definitely doing our part. Did you notice Maudie Reicherts drove out to see me this morning? Says they miss me at the Ladies’ Circle. Now wasn’t that nice? Says the Maytag Company is making military equipment, and even children save stamps for war bonds.”
“Rghsh...”
Berthea started up from her chair at Orville’s emission from the back of the house. “Go right ahead and enjoy your tea. I’d better check on him.”
Addie poured a second cup. Not one to run out of anything, Berthea had left her pantry door open, with laden shelves promising a continuous supply of pies, cakes, and cookies.
The table held stacked letters, newspapers, and bills, as well as the Sears Wishbook catalog, opened to a child’s wooden dollhouse in Modern Colonial Style. Seven rooms only $1.99.
Maudie had no idea how much difference her visit made. Berthea hadn’t shown this much life for months.
