Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris
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Morgan,
Take care of yourself.
Betty Cordell
Morgan’s mind pinched in confusion. “Betty Cordell?” He flipped over the paper and discovered it was a photograph, a black-and-white close-up of the girl from the dance. Just not the girl he was hoping for. He managed a closed-lipped smile as angst revisited his gut.
“Damn, Chap,” Jack said, “you didn’t say it was the foxy blond singer.” He snatched the wallet-sized keepsake from Morgan’s fingers. “I can’t believe you got a dance with her, you lucky bastard. Where the hell was I?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Charlie said. “She only wanted Fred Astaire, here. Must have a thing for his fancy promenades and do-si-dos.”
Morgan flicked his brother’s temple. “Dry up, why don’t ya.”
“Man, that’s so unfair,” Jack grumbled, ogling the image until Frank swiped the photo.
“No need to get jealous,” Charlie told him. “I’m sure she’s got a few friends who would gladly talk to you outta pity.”
“All this from a kid who hasn’t hit puberty.” Jack launched his toothpick with a puff. “Enough of this shit. Are we playing cards, or what?” Not waiting for an answer, he began dealing them out, each card featuring pinup models in garters and brassieres.
Morgan gazed out the window at the passing urban scenery. It was his first trip to the East Coast, his first journey out of the Mid-west. Across the ocean, a battle-raging continent awaited their platoon, but all he could think about was Liz.
Chapter 4
July 15, 1944 Evanston, Illinois
All day, Liz had avoided opening the envelope. She sat on the rumbling bus, staring at her name and address penned in Professor Emmett Stephens’s meticulous longhand. Like the best of carnival fortunetellers, she could report what was inside before even breaking the seal.
Dear Elizabeth,
I trust life is keeping you well. I was extremely pleased with your academic marks from last term. Your decision to take extra classes this summer is commendable.
I leave tomorrow for New York to guest lecture at several universities. I shall return to Washington D.C. in approximately three weeks. Should you need to reach me in the interim, my secretary at Georgetown will have my itinerary and contact information.
Please congratulate Dalton on my behalf. From what I have heard, he is running a powerful senatorial campaign for his father. I wish them continued success. Respectfully, Your father
Respectfully. Such distance conveyed in a single word. A sad reflection of the fissure between them that had widened into a canyon.
Liz turned to the half-open window and closed her eyes. A gentle breeze swept over her sun-drenched face. Once again, she was eight years old, poking her head out the window of his shiny black Ford Victoria. Zooming past the California palm trees, she and her daddy would talk, laugh, and improvise silly songs, their excursions drastically warmer than those spent with her mother.
Isabelle.
In Liz’s memory, she embodied a caricature in a household appliance ad, her cool disposition offset by her grace and beauty. How close their family could have been had Isabelle exuded the warmth and affection of a mother like Julia’s.
Then again, ruminating on the impossible was as useless as deferring the blame.
A jolt from the bus’s brakes brought Liz back to the present. Familiar landmarks and rising passengers reminded her of her stop. She stuffed her father’s form letter into a skirt pocket and dashed down the aisle, her grocery bag slipping in her arms.
Around the bend of Kiernan Lane she pushed against the humidity. Sweat rolled down the slide of her spine as she passed the string of contemporary bungalow homes. The sharpness of newly cut grass clung to the air, blocking pollutants from the bordering city of Chicago. Service flags paraded in window after window; their proud stars of blue outnumbered the dreaded gold symbols of loss.
Willing herself to smile, she returned waves from neighbors relaxing beneath their shaded porches. Sun lovers basked in the late afternoon rays and giggly children played tag through the rainbow sprays of sprinklers.
Liz adjusted the bag, ripping the bottom corner. She cupped the protruding soup can to keep it inside while crossing the street to reach her house. Her favorite accents on the modest, brick-red structure remained the same since her childhood visits: a small garden of irises, a large picture window in the kitchen, facing the street, and a two-person swing her grandfather, “Papa,” had built for the covered porch. Best of all, a towering cherry tree shaded the east side of the house, a finishing touch as sweet as the turnovers her grandma used to bake from its abundant fruit. Papa had purchased the home more than twenty years ago for his wife, his “sole reason for living.” It was a claim he literally proved after she lost her battle with cancer.
“Your grandfather’s had a stroke,” Liz’s father had announced. “We’re moving to Illinois.” The triangular plane of his face had concealed all emotion, a defensive mask not unlike her own. It was one he’d acquired six months before, the day her mother left their lives forever.
Correction: the day Liz sent her away.
And so, with Isabelle gone, there was no discussion, no call for a vote. By the eve of Liz’s fourteenth birthday, they had packed up their boxes, along with their unspoken feelings, their devastation and sorrow too potent for words.
The paving of Liz’s regret had stretched clear across the country, permanent as concrete. And there it took up residence, beneath Papa’s roof, where she and her father coexisted for the next four years. The cordial but mechanical nature of their exchanges, maddening as a blackboard screech, gripped even his farewell words after her graduation: “I’ll send your tuition payments directly to the university and quarterly allowances to the house. We’ll touch base once I’m settled at Georgetown.” With a nod, he’d grabbed his suitcases and left her on the front porch. It was at that moment she had realized: Abandonment struck in degrees.
Standing now on that same rickety platform, Liz squeezed the grocery bag to her chest. She closed her eyes and gave her head a brisk shake, as if emotional wounds were cold droplets she could simply cast off.
When she lifted her lids, the memory prevailed.
Liz placed the food items on their designated kitchen shelves. Cans of Scotch broth soup and corned beef hash, Mello-Wheat cereal, bread, oleo, and a splurge of Cocomalt. With the sleeve of her blouse, she dabbed her temple while washing her hands with a bar of lavender soap. The thick, purple lather failed to soften her calloused mood, and the dry texture in her mouth—like flavorless cotton candy—only irritated her more.
She tossed some ice cubes into an empty glass, a ricochet of clinks.
“Liz?”
She cringed at the distant voice, not in the mood for company.
“Liz, is that you?” Betty called again from her bedroom, a room Liz would have to pass to reach her own.
Reluctantly she answered. “Yeah, it’s me.” She poured herself the last of Betty’s freshly squeezed limeade and downed half the glass. Sourness puckered her cheeks, stung the corners of her eyes. Of all the items rationed for the war effort, she missed sugar the most.
“Hurry up and get in here!” Betty’s trademark impatience.
“Hold your horses, I’m coming!” She dragged herself down the narrow hallway lined with framed photos of deceased and twice-removed relatives.
“Come on, slowpoke.” Betty reached through the doorway and tugged her inside. Liz nearly tripped over the girl’s old teddy bear doubling as a doorstop. His lone button eye hung by a thread, his cream fur