Blue Skies Tomorrow (5 page)

Jay-Jay dug in the dirt under the hedges Mr. Carlisle had planted, oleander hedges that threatened the view of the outside world. Stupid things refused to die, no matter how much Helen deprived them of water.

“He’s a great kid,” Ray said. “A budding musician and a swell daffer.”

Helen smiled and dug in her pocket for more pins.

“Last night,” he said, eyes warm as gray flannel. “I’d rather have been daffing than sitting in my barracks worrying about you and pork chops. I didn’t even know about the scourge of the Llewellyns.”

She experimented with a playful look, but she was out of practice. “Some knight in shining armor you are.”

“I’m no knight.”

“Sure you are. Twice now you’ve rescued me after bike accidents.” She pinned up a bobby sock, so childish, but with stockings unavailable she had no choice.

Ray frowned at the sky. “Knights go to combat and slay dragons. Not me. If I met a dragon, I’d talk him into using his fire for good instead of evil.”

Helen laughed and added the sock’s mate. “I hope you never meet a dragon who won’t listen to reason.”

“Yeah.” His voice sounded tight, but he turned before Helen could read his expression. “How about I deal with this little dragon?”

The wind puffed out the sheet, and Jay-Jay chased it with dirty hands.

Ray grabbed him around the middle, swung him overhead, then glanced at Helen. “Before I get him wound up, does he still take—is it almost time . . . ?”

She nodded. Impressive for a man to remember about naps, especially a bachelor. “Half an hour.”

He gazed up at the giggling boy he held with nice thick arms. “Say, munchkin, how about a story?”

Helen pointed to the back porch. “I have books on the table.”

“Books. Your mommy knows what I like.” Ray flew Jay-Jay like an airplane, sat down with him, and thumbed through the books. “What would you like?
Make Way for Ducklings
?
The Color Kittens
?”

“Da boo.”

Ray looked at Helen, eyebrows twisted in comical shapes.

“His Daddy book.” She made her voice sober. “The brown scrapbook.”

Ray settled back and flipped through black pages while Jay-Jay pointed and jabbered. Helen whipped out piece after piece of laundry and focused hard on how many clothespins each required.

“Did you do this all yourself, Helen? It’s a lot of work.”

“That’s what I needed.” When the telegram arrived, Helen had laughed. Papa told everyone she was mad with grief. For the next month she sequestered herself, pasted photo corners with rubber cement, and mounted photos and mementoes to present Jim as everyone remembered him, as Jay-Jay needed to know him. Meanwhile, Helen learned how to act like a proper widow.

“For Jay-Jay’s sake,” she said.

“It’s a fine thing you did.”

Helen ducked to the laundry basket to shake out two socks. How much longer would she have to endure sympathy and admiration for her bravery? Would she ever get to be herself again? Could she even remember who she was?

“So . . . ?” Betty Jamison Anello stretched the word in twenty directions. “Tell me everything.”

Helen sliced celery at an even pace. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me why Ray Novak’s in my living room.”

“George invited him.” Helen scraped the celery into the mixing bowl while her older sister did nothing. Everyone loved her for being Betty. She didn’t have to work for it as Helen did. “The bread, Betts.”

She heaved a sigh and crumbled bread into the bowl. “Yes, but why did my husband find Ray all cozy on your back porch?”

Helen opened the cupboard and rummaged through a jumble of spice tins. “He went for a walk.”

“Out of his way, don’t you think?”

Several blocks out of his way. Helen shrugged, glad the open door hid her smile. Finally she found the sage. “How can you work in this kitchen?”

“This is so sweet, so right.” Betty leaned her plump hip against the cupboard, hands idle. “Does he know you made up stories about Sir Raymond the Valiant?”

Helen gasped and brandished a wooden spoon in her sister’s face. “Don’t breathe a word or I’ll . . . I’ll . . .”

“You’ll stir me until thoroughly mixed?”

“I’ll swat you like Papa used to do.”

Betty laughed her tinkling laugh. “And break my good spoon? You’d better not.”

Instead, Helen applied the spoon to the stuffing mixture. “Slice the Spam.”

“Well, he’s awfully good-looking and sweet, and here you are with the Carlisle stamp of approval.” Betty ducked her chin to deepen her voice. “I have decided, in my masculine superiority, to permit you to date. Honestly.”

“Slice the Spam.” Helen studied the recipe Betty clipped from George’s
National Geographic
for Spam-birds, slices of Spam rolled around stuffing and fastened with toothpicks.

“The Carlisles think it’s 1844, not 1944. First the insurance, now this.”

Helen lined up the mixing bowl, baking pan, and toothpicks. Jim had made his parents the beneficiaries of his ten thousand dollar GI life insurance policy, which rankled, but the Carlisles did provide a generous allowance and a house to live in rent free.

The kitchen door swung open. “Doo doo?” Jay-Jay asked.

Betty laughed. “I hope he learns to say his cousin’s name right.”

Helen stooped to her son’s level. “Judy’s asleep, sweetie. She’s just a baby, not a big boy like you.”

His moist pink lower lip rounded out. “Pay.”

“I know you want to play, but don’t wake her, okay?”

Betty handed Jay-Jay two old tin mixing bowls of Mama’s. “Judy has the Jamison sleep-through-a-major-earthquake trait.”

Same as Jay-Jay. Helen grinned. “Go play music for Uncle George and Lieutenant Novak.”

Jay-Jay banged the pans together and ran off.

The sisters laughed and got to work rolling Spam-birds, and Helen arranged them in the baking pan.

“Got any spoons we can borrow?” Ray stepped into the kitchen with light in his eyes.

“Spoons?” Despite her flipping heart, Helen slid the pan into the oven without mishap.

George crossed the kitchen, tall and lanky, with his uneven gait. “That drawer on the left. Darling, where do you keep the empty jelly jars?”

“Jelly jars?” Betty asked. “What are you two up to?”

In the doorway, Jay-Jay hopped up and down. “Pay! Pay!”

“We’re forming a band.” Ray gave Helen a lightning bolt of a wink and left the kitchen.

Electricity tingled down to Helen’s fingertips.

Betty opened the icebox and gave the Jell-O mold a shake. “I was going to suggest bridge tonight, but I changed my mind. A little ‘Stardust’ on the phonograph, a little dancing, a little romance in the air.”

The utensil drawer lay open. Helen grabbed a spoon and swatted her sister’s backside.

Helen tried not to watch Ray as they walked down D Street, but he held Jay-Jay asleep on his shoulder and hummed “Stardust” as he studied the night sky. How could she not watch? But did his silence mean contentment, fatigue—or did he dislike the company? “I hope we didn’t wear you out tonight.”

“Hmm?”

Helen scrunched up the pocket lining of her spring coat. “Betty and George talked so much, you barely had a chance to speak.”

“Don’t need it. I had a great time, especially dancing.” He pulled the blanket higher over Jay-Jay’s shoulders, but it slipped.

Helen tucked the blanket around her sleeping son. “Good music, wasn’t it?”

“Good partner.” A rumble in his voice played havoc with her heart. Then his smile edged into place. “You’re a great dancer.”

For some reason, she struck a ballet pose straight from
Swan Lake
, with fluttering hands crossed over her chest. “Thanks to eight summers of torture in Madame Ivanova’s ballet studio.”

Jim would have been disgusted by her display, but Ray’s smile grew fuller. “That’s right. You went away every summer, didn’t you?”

“Off to Aunt Olive’s musty Victorian in cold, foggy San Francisco.” An appropriate place to banish a cripple girl.

“No fond memories, huh?”

Helen strolled down the sidewalk. “I loved the dancing, the music, Aunt Olive, but I hated being away from my friends and I hated the weather and Madame’s switch.”

“Switch?”

“That’s how she corrected us.” She imitated the smarting, flicking lashes. “You are weak, Helena. You must work harder. Deeper
plié
, more turnout, point those toes. You are weak.”

“You’re kidding.”

Helen swung her gaze to Ray. She must have sounded crazy. “Well, she was right. If I worked harder and did it correctly, she wouldn’t have needed to switch me.”

His lips set in a hard line. “Did that ever happen? Was there ever a day she didn’t switch you?”

“I was never good enough. Not with this . . . this foot.”

Embers flared in Ray’s charcoal eyes.

Helen stepped back.

“That’s not right.” His neck muscles stood out. “Children should be punished for disobedience, not imperfection. What does that teach a child? The only way to salvation, to approval, is to be good enough, do the right things.”

Helen turned up the walkway to her house, away from the tension. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Did you tell your aunt?” His voice cooled down.

“She told me not to complain and to try harder. So I did.” She smiled over her shoulder at Ray. “That’s just the way of things. Besides, I got stronger and walked better, so everyone was happy.”

“Except you.”

She climbed her front steps and put on a bigger smile. “Honestly, it was fine.”

“What should I do with the munchkin?”

“Here.” She lifted her son from Ray’s chest, which involved pleasant brushing of arms and shoulders. Jay-Jay’s hands trembled midair. He lifted his head, brought his eyes to focus on Helen, and relaxed into her arms.

Ray leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms over his waist-length olive drab “Ike” jacket. “Are you happy now?”

“I am. I have a sweet boy, friends and family nearby, and plenty of time to volunteer.”

Ray had a delicious way of studying her for a long moment before he spoke. “You looked happy tonight.”

She leaned her cheek on Jay-Jay’s curls and returned Ray’s intense gaze. “Good company.”

5

Sacramento Air Depot
Monday, March 27, 1944

At the typewriter, Ray could almost convince himself he was writing a sermon and doing something useful. Nope, another stupid requisition form.

He returned the carriage, savored the “ding,” and typed, “GLOVES, FLYING, UNLINED SUMMER, MEDIUM, B-3A, CASE, 1 EA.” The
M
key was weak. Ray struck extra hard to press through the carbon paper.

He gazed around his closet-sized office with its file cabinets and shelves full of forms. His winepress. In the Bible, Gideon threshed his wheat in a winepress, hidden from the Midianite invaders. Was Ray any different? The War Department had stepped up the draft, reclassifying fathers and taking one of every twenty men in civilian war work or farm work. While fathers went to combat, Ray hid.

He grumbled and fetched another form, the last in the pile. Swell, he needed to reorder. He leaned out the office door and scanned the warehouse for Corporal Shuster, his right-hand man. No, Ray needed to figure this out. There was a form, a special one, a requisition form for requisition forms.

He flipped through the stacks on the shelves. “If the Germans want to bring down the U.S. Army, all they have to do is cut off our paper supply.”

Corporal Shuster entered the office. “The shipment is ready for inspection, sir.”

Ray followed him out. The corporal reminded him of a mouse with his pointed face, bright eyes, and erratic movements. What kind of man was he? Maybe Ray’s purpose here was to get to know the men.

“Where are you from, Corporal?”

“Originally, sir? Small town in Vermont.” Shuster sneezed and wiped his nose with a wiggle that made him look even more mouselike.

Ray moved to the side to let a forklift pass. “How’d you end up here?”

“Joined up, sir.” He led Ray down a canyon of crates. “Seems like yesterday I was riding the rails, just another hobo, and Uncle Sam gives me a test, says I’d be good in supply, puts me in a smart uniform, and feeds me regular. It’s a good life.”