Sentimental Journey (Home Front - Book #1) (11 page)

It was clear from Cathy’s tone of voice that she didn’t think Nancy was up to the task. Truth to tell, Nancy wasn’t entirely sure she was, either. Her mother and Catherine left the room, whispering together as if they had secrets too important for a girl like Nancy to hear.

On the couch Johnny grew fitful. She tried to hold his hand the way her sister had, but he pulled away. “Cathy...” His voice was weak but insistent. “Cathy...”

She patted his hand. She wasn’t even a good substitute. “Cathy’ll be back in a minute, Johnny. I promise.”

He fell back asleep. She watched his chest rise and fall beneath the blankets and a sadness so deep it took her breath away rose inside her chest. “Welcome home, Johnny,” she whispered.

* * *

Catherine worked as if possessed. Her mother had scarcely had time to fill the teakettle with water from the tap before Catherine had the eggs cracked and the skillet heating atop the stove. “Toast!” She lit the oven, then pulled a cookie tin from the cabinet beneath the sink. “Do we have any bread?”

Her mother’s low chuckle floated across the kitchen. “In the bread box, honey.”

Catherine sliced two thick slabs of homemade bread and set them in the oven to brown. Then as she cooked the eggs her mother set up a tray complete with a pot of warm cocoa, clean linen and silverware.

“Now comes the hard part,” said Dot, leading the way into the living room with the piping hot supper. “Getting him to eat.”

“That won’t be hard at all,” said Catherine, shooing her little sister away from the ailing soldier’s side. “I’m sure he’ll do whatever I say.”

“Sick men are as stubborn as little babies,” said her mother. “Especially men as under the weather as Johnny. You have your work cut out for you.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Catherine confidently. “You’ll see.”

A few minutes later she was ready to throw in the towel and admit defeat. Not only would Johnny not take a single morsel of food from her, he persisted in dozing off with his head against her shoulder. Nancy was outside shoveling snow off the steps. The scrape of metal against brick sounded loud against the Christmas Eve silence. Thank God, because her sister’s teasing would have driven her insane.

“I give up,” Catherine said at last. “This is harder than feeding a two-month-old child!”

Dot laughed and placed a shiny red ornament on the tree. “Why don’t you take over Christmas-tree duty and let an old expert have a try?”

“I know when I’m licked.” Catherine rose to her feet and exchanged a plate of scrambled eggs for a garland of popcorn. “He must eat something, Mother. It’s very important.”

* * *

Dot did her best to hide her smile as she took her daughter’s spot on the floor next to Johnny. How many nights had she spent nursing a sick child, trying to tempt a finicky eater into taking some nourishment? How quickly children forget the days when they were as helpless as this young soldier.

Of course, she voiced none of this aloud. Her darling and serious older daughter was standing by the Christmas tree watching her as if she had never so much as warmed a baby’s bottle in her life. Gently Dot put her arm behind Johnny’s shoulders and cradled him in a sitting position. His eyes opened and he gave her a dazed glassy stare that she remembered well from the girls’ bouts with fever. A rush of maternal emotion flooded through her, and she had to blink rapidly to clear her vision.

Sentimental old fool
, she thought as she coaxed him to open his mouth.
Just because it’s been ages since you’ve had someone you can really mother
...

“I’ll be darned,” muttered Catherine as she arranged the popcorn garland along the boughs of the tree. “He’s eating.”

“Of course he is, honey.” Dot swallowed around a huge and painful lump in her throat. “He knows I won’t budge until he’s swallowed every single bite.”

It was a long and tedious process, getting the meal into Johnny, but Dorothy persevered. When he fell asleep again, it was on a full stomach. Nancy came in after shoveling the walk, grumbling loudly that her parents could at least have had the foresight to make certain they had a son, as well as two daughters. Both Catherine and Dot laughed, and to Dot’s amazement, Nancy did, too. There were times she felt as if she was living in an armed camp, with the two sisters on opposite sides, but for once there was nothing barbed in Nancy’s comment and nothing angry in Catherine’s laughter.

Nancy disappeared into the kitchen, then returned a few minutes later with three mugs of hot cocoa. “Wonderful,” said Dot, smiling up at her younger child. “I’ve been envying Johnny his supper.”

Catherine finished placing the popcorn garland on the tree, then brushed her hands against the legs of her dungarees. The tree looked wonderful with the glass and wooden ornaments and popcorn garland; with the lights on, you’d scarcely notice the missing tinsel. “Why don’t I go into the kitchen and rustle something up for us?”

“I don’t mind doing it,” said Nancy. “How about tomato soup?”

“Sounds wonderful,” said Dot, her heart soaring at these signs of amity between her children. She looked at Catherine and mentally crossed her fingers for luck.

“I could make some egg-salad sandwiches to go with it,” Catherine volunteered after a moment. She hesitated. “That is, if you don’t mind company in the kitchen, Nance.”

“Just don’t tell me how to cook, okay?”

Catherine laughed and ruffled Nancy’s red bangs. “That’s a promise.”

“Well, well, Johnny Danza,” Dot said as the two girls left the room. “You’ve brought me quite a wonderful Christmas present tonight.”

She couldn’t remember the last time such a feeling of harmony had existed in the Wilson household—and it had taken the arrival of this young man to make it happen. Her eyes misted once again and this time she did nothing to stop the flow of tears. There was nothing wrong with crying, after all. These were tears of joy, not sorrow, joy that Johnny had sought them out, that Catherine had opened their door and her heart to the desperately ill young soldier.

The war made you feel so powerless. Reports about cities with names that lay strange upon your tongue were made by voices on the radio that had become as familiar as that of your local butcher. It took something like this, the simple act of caring for another human being, to remind you that there was still goodness in a world gone mad.

“Where’s my Tom?” she whispered to the sleeping soldier. “Is he all right?” She was thankful for Johnny’s safety, but she longed to know that the man she loved was alive and well somewhere across the ocean.

“Here we are,” said Nancy as she entered the room with a tray of soup and sandwiches. “It isn’t fancy but it tastes swell.”

Catherine, hands clutching silverware and napkins, brought up the rear. She looked happier than Dot had seen her since Douglas went into the service. “I have to hand it to my baby sister,” Catherine said. “She heats up a mean bowl of Campbell’s soup.” She set the items on the end table near Dot.

“It’s Christmas Eve,” said Nancy, putting the tray down on top of the coffee table. “No wisecracks allowed.” She glanced at Catherine, who was throwing a few more logs on the fire. “At least
I
know how to cook.”

Catherine sat down on the floor near the sofa. The look she gave Johnny made Dot’s chest feel tight with remembered emotion.

“I may not be Fanny Farmer,” said her older daughter, ‘but I know my way around the kitchen.”

They kept up a stream of easygoing banter during supper, broken only when Catherine jumped up to get a damp cloth to mop Johnny’s brow. Dot watched as she pressed her lips to the soldier’s forehead. “His fever’s broken,” she said, a wide smile on her lovely face. “Dr. Bernstein said that would be a good sign.”

Oh, honey
, thought Dot as Catherine sat back down and reached for her soup,
do you know what’s happening to you
? It was the oldest story in the world. Was there a woman alive whose heart didn’t beat faster at the sight of a helpless man? All those deeply female instincts Catherine had had to bank when Douglas died were coming to life again as she tended to the wounded soldier. An old story but a good one; Dot only wished she could play God and ensure a happy ending.

The clock struck ten. Dot rose and moved to peer out the front window at the snow-blanketed street. St. Mary’s Church was only eight blocks away, but considering the storm it might as well have been eight miles. She looked forward to midnight mass all year long. There was something ineffably beautiful about the ritual: candles twinkling on the altar amidst masses of poinsettias and holly; the priest’s deep voice intoning those ancient and wondrous Latin phrases of hope and joy and salvation; the choirboys, in their white robes with bright red bows tied at the neck, whose voices seemed to bring the angels right down here to earth.

She leaned her cheek against the cool pane and let her mind drift back to Christmas two years ago. Tom had made the decision to enter the service, pulling every string there was to pull in order to have the rules bent just enough to allow him to serve. They had fought bitterly for weeks about his decision. Her heart had ached, because the man she loved, the father of her children, could care so little about them that he would put his life in danger.

Tom, however, had other ideas about how best to care for his family. How like a man to see the bigger picture, to focus in on Hitler and Hirohito and Mussolini, and completely overlook the day-to-day needs of the wife and daughters who loved him so.

That last Christmas Eve together they had walked to St. Mary’s without speaking. The girls had walked ahead of them with Edna and Les Weaver, laughing and singing carols. Tom and Dot had maintained a silence as brittle as the icicles hanging from the eaves on the buildings they passed, a silence they’d maintained for the previous two days. But with the first soaring notes of “O! Holy Night,” Tom’s hand had found hers and they’d looked at each other. “I love you,” he’d mouthed silently, as those glorious voices filled the church. She’d squeezed his hand tightly and made her peace with his decision.

“Mom.”

She turned at the sound of Cathy’s voice to see both of her girls looking at her with concern. “Just daydreaming,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “I guess I’m getting old...”

Cathy pointed to the pile of clothing stacked on the wing chair. “His uniform and things. Do I wash them myself or take them to the Chinese laundry? Maybe the dry cleaner on Continental?”

“Depends.” She held out her hands. “Let me see them.”

Cathy scooped up the stack of drab clothing. “Oh, darn!” She bent down to retrieve his wrinkled shirt. “What on earth is this?” She reached into the breast pocket and withdrew a thin white envelope with no address, then a thick pale blue envelope with a name scrawled across the front. “Oh, my God.” Hand trembling she pressed the letter into Dot’s hand, “It’s for you, Mom.” A pause, then, “It’s from Daddy.”

Dot didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The letter seemed to have a life of its own; it fairly burned the skin of her palm. Catherine put her hand on Nancy’s shoulder. “Why don’t we take these dishes into the kitchen and straighten up?” she suggested to her younger sister. Nancy’s eyes were wide with fright, but she got to her feet and dutifully did Catherine’s bidding.

Dot ripped open the envelope and unfolded the thin sheets of letter paper. Her eyes misted over at the sight of his beloved handwriting. She didn’t know what to expect, but a refrain sounded over and over inside her head:
Please... please... please
...

Catherine placed the soup plates in the sink and rubbed a sponge across a bar of brown soap. “Bring me the cups, Nance,” she said, keeping her voice level and unconcerned. “May as well wash everything while the water is nice and hot.”

Nancy stared at her from the doorway. “How can you even think about washing dishes at a time like this?”

Catherine glanced over her shoulder at her sister. “Is that a rhetorical question?”

“Yes—I mean, no! Darn it, Cathy, don’t you ever care that we finally have a letter from Daddy after all these months?”

“Correction.” Catherine plucked the cocoa cups from the tray her sister was holding and placed them in the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes. “Mom has a letter from her husband.”

“I don’t see the difference.”

“Believe me, there is one.” Catherine started to say that Nancy was too young to understand but caught herself. “Think about your pen pal, Nance.”

Nancy slumped into a kitchen chair.

“Think about Gerry and how you feel when his letters arrive. Would you like Mom and me peering over your shoulder when you first read them?”

Nancy plucked at the fringed edge of a Christmas-red place mat. “No, but that has nothing to do with Mom and Daddy.” She paused a moment. “Does it?”

Catherine wiped her hands on her apron and sat down opposite her sister. “First they’re husband and wife, Nance,
then
they’re parents. If they forget about that first truth, nothing else they do will matter very much, will it?”

Nancy’s cheeks flamed and Catherine longed to comfort her but knew she didn’t dare. Nancy’s moods were as changeable as the weather; her internal barometer measured highs and lows that made it impossible to guess her reaction to anything.

“I’m scared,” Nancy whispered, still staring down at the place mat. “I’m scared something terrible has happened to Daddy.”

“If something terrible had happened, wouldn’t we know about it by now?”

The expression in Nancy’s eyes was easy to read, and it was Catherine’s turn to look away. The news of Douglas’s death had come with terrifying swiftness. She would never forget the horror of receiving a letter from him the day after the funeral.

“Daddy’s not at summer camp, Nance,” she said after she collected her emotions. “He’s fighting a war. You can’t expect him to write every day—or for the letters to get through with no problem.”

Nancy pushed her chair away from the table. “I can’t stand it another second. I have to know what’s in that letter.”

Catherine sighed and admitted defeat. “So do I.”

Nancy tilted her head in the direction of the living room. “She’s not crying. Is that a good sign?”

“I don’t know.” The Wilson women cried when they were happy and they cried when they were sad. They also
didn’t
cry for the same reasons.

Slowly they headed toward the living room. Catherine’s heart beat so loudly she was sure her mother could hear it from a room away.

“I know you’re out there, girls!” Dot’s voice sailed down the hallway.

They ran into the living room and found their mother clutching the letter to her bosom. “He’s all right.” Dot’s words mingled with her daughters’ cries of joy. “Your father is going to be fine and we have Johnny to thank for that.”

Both girls looked at the soldier asleep on the coach. “Was Daddy injured?” Nancy cut through to the heart of the matter.

“Your father’s hale and hearty,” said Dot, eyes glistening. “They were out on patrol and walked straight into an enemy ambush.” Her voice trembled, but she cleared her throat and continued. “Five men were killed. It would have been six if Johnny hadn’t thrown your father into a ditch and shielded him with his own body.”

“You’re a hero,” Catherine whispered, crouching down near Johnny and adjusting the quilt. “How can we ever repay you?”

Her mother, of course, knew exactly how. “‘Our house is his for as long as he wants,’” Dot declared, reading from Tom’s letter. “‘There’s no guarantee the army will welcome him back once he’s well. He seems gruff and hotheaded but he’s a good Joe. He had no family. Now he does.’”

“You bet he does!” Nancy wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her pink cardigan.

“You don’t have to worry about a thing.” Catherine brushed a lock of dark hair off his brow. “We’ll take good care of you.”

Dot read selected portions of Tom’s letter while Nancy threw more wood on the fire and Catherine sat on the floor next to Johnny and listened to her father’s graphic description of battle—and of death.

“‘Johnny will be going home on medical furlough any time now. I am passing this letter on to him through a medic. I hope it reaches him—and you. You were right, Doro. I had no business leaving you and the girls. War is a young man’s game and I don’t feel young anymore. I feel tired and I want to come home....” Dot’s voice cracked but then she continued, “‘Take good care of Johnny. He’s one of us. Tell Nancy I’m proud of her independence and determination. Tell Cathy that her hard work has made her old man prouder than he can say. And most of all tell them both that I love them....’” Dot refolded the letter and put it back in the envelope.

The only sounds in the room were the crackle of wood in the fireplace and the soft sounds of Johnny’s breathing as he slept. Tom’s letter had brought the war into the living room the way no newspaper article or radio broadcast ever had. They could almost smell the gunpowder and feel the bitter winds of a European winter.

But there in the house on Hansen Street it was Christmas Eve, and for the first time in years Catherine felt like celebrating. “Look,” she said, pointing to the living-room window. “The Weavers are on their way over.”

Dot leapt to her feet and smoothed her hair with the palms of her hands. “Will you look at the time! It’s after eleven. They must be on their way to midnight mass!” She untied her apron and hurried toward the stairs. “You answer the door, Cathy! I have to powder my nose.”

Catherine met her sister’s eyes. “It’s been a long time since Mom’s been that happy.”

Nancy, whose eyes were suspiciously wet, nodded. “A very long time.”

Catherine flew to the front door and opened it wide. “Merry Christmas!” She hugged Edna and Les. “We’ve received the most wonderful present! We—”

“So have we, sweetheart,” said Edna, hugging Catherine in return. “Our Mac is home for the holidays!”

Catherine looked up in time to see Mac Weaver, resplendent in his navy uniform, march up the snowy path. “Mac!” She flew down the steps and hurled herself at the handsome man. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

“Merry Christmas, princess!” He swept her up into his arms and spun her around.

“What are you doing here?”

“They sent me back to speak at a fund-raiser in D.C. You think I could resist coming home for Christmas?”

She threw her head back and laughed. “I’m so glad to see you.”

He put her down and draped an arm around her shoulder. “We’d better get in before you catch cold, princess.” He bent down and playfully scrutinized her face. “Am I crazy or have you gotten prettier since I last saw you?”

“You’re crazy,” she said, laughing as they entered the house. How wonderful it was to see Mac again! He was Douglas’s big brother and had always felt like a big brother to her, too.

She took his scarf and overcoat and draped them over the banister.

“What’s going on in the living room?” he asked, inclining his head in that direction. “Sounds like a revival meeting.”

“We have company.” Quickly she explained about Johnny and Tom and the shock of finding the young man unconscious on the welcome mat just a few hours ago.

“That’s one hell of a story.”

“Don’t go turning into a reporter on me, Mac Weaver. It’s—”

“Mac!” Nancy’s squeal split the air and the teenager catapulted herself into Mac’s arms. Dot wasn’t far behind. Edna and Les stood in the archway to the living room, beaming proudly, while Dot’s smile could have lit up Times Square before the dimout.

The grandfather clock tolled the half hour.

“Thirty minutes to get to church for mass,” said Les. “We better hit the road.”

“Do you think we can get there through the snow?” Dot asked.

“Christmas isn’t Christmas without midnight mass,” Edna said. “Father O’Herlihy has had kids out shoveling the sidewalks.”

“Goodness knows we have a lot to be thankful for,” said Dot, glancing at her daughters. “What do you say?”

“I love the snow,” said Nancy. “I’m game.”

“I think you’re all forgetting someone.” Catherine gestured toward the living room. “Johnny.”

“I’d better pass this time, Edna,” Dot said. “I’ll stay home with Cathy.”

“No!” They all turned and looked at Catherine, whose cheeks reddened. “I mean, why should you and Nance miss out? I don’t mind staying home with Johnny.” She could attend mass the following morning.

“Don’t have time to stand there debating the issue, ladies.” Les Weaver winked at his son. “Father O’Herlihy doesn’t wait mass for anyone.”

Catherine waved goodbye from the top step, then went back into the house. It seemed as if laughter still echoed in the hallway. It had been a long time since the old house had been so filled with holiday spirit. The Weavers—including Mac—would be over for dinner the next afternoon. How wonderful it would be to celebrate the Christmas season with the people she loved most in the world!

Her blood fairly bubbled through her veins with excitement. Johnny Danza, a hero. In an act of stunning courage he had risked his own life to save her father. She’d never imagined she would ever know a hero—or that the hero would be someone as unlikely as the wisecracking Johnny. She stood in the archway to the living room and looked over at him. A fire still crackled cheerfully in the grate, casting an orange glow over the room. Shadows danced against the walls, throwing strange patterns of light and dark across Johnny’s face.

Dr. Bernstein had said the medicine would make Johnny sleep deeply, and he was right. He had slept right through the excitement when they found her father’s letter in his jacket pocket, and he hadn’t so much as batted an eye when the Weavers arrived. She supposed she should be thankful that he was getting his rest; sleep, after all, was the body’s best healer. But still...

“Wake up, Johnny,” she said softly, leaning her head against the archway. “There’s so much I want to say to you.”

“I’m listening.”

She took a step into the room. “Johnny?” She hadn’t seen him so much as move his lips. “Are you awake?”

“Mmm.”

What she wanted to do was run to his side, take his hands in hers and pour out her gratitude for all he’d done for her father. What she did was stand in the doorway, feeling as awkward and foolish as she had at her first high-school dance.
This is ridiculous, Catherine. You’ve bathed this man, for heaven’s sake. Certainly you can talk to him
. She took two more steps into the room.
If you’re awake, Johnny, I wish you’d open your eyes
.

“You don’t have to tiptoe....” His voice was foggy but his words were clear. “I said I’m awake.”

She jumped, startled. Was he a mind reader, as well? “If you’re awake, why don’t you open your eyes?” Ten more steps and she was at his side.

He opened one eye and looked up at her. “You always so bossy?”

“Yes. I take after my father.”

His laugh was sleepy, his smile a bit goofy. “Sit down. You look ten feet tall.”

“I am ten feet tall.” She pulled a chair close to the sofa and sat down. “I’m surprised you’re awake.”

“So’m I.” He swallowed with obvious difficulty, then ran his tongue across parched lips. “Those pills could knock out a horse.”

She placed her hand against his forehead. “They’re also doing a pretty good job of knocking out your fever.”

He glanced around the room. “Y’know, I don’t really know how I got here. Last thing I remember, I was in a cab with a guy who smoked cigars.”

She laughed and smoothed the quilt that covered him. “You’re heavier than you look, Private Danza.”

“You carried me into the house?”

“Let’s say I managed.” She told about finding him on her doorstep and getting him in from the storm. “You did give me a little help.”

“I don’t remember a damn—excuse me—darn thing.”

“I’m not surprised. You were running a high fever. When Dr. Bernstein got here you were hallucinating.”

He grinned that cocky grin she remembered from the night at the Stage Door Canteen. “I owe you one, Cathy.”

“I’d say we were even.”

Color stained his cheeks. “You, uh... you know about it?”

“Yes, I know about it. We gathered up your clothes to clean them and found the letter from Daddy.”

He looked away. “The old man exaggerates.”

“I don’t think so.” He looked so embarrassed that her heart went out to him. “Not many men would do what you did, Johnny.”

He shrugged. “You asked me to take care of him.”

Please take care of him, Johnny
.... She took his hand and held it. There were no words for the emotions churning inside her chest. The grandfather clock tolled midnight, and from the church eight blocks away came the sound of bells.

“Merry Christmas,” she said, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

He held her hand more tightly, “Merry Christmas.”

`I’m glad you’re here with us.”

He nodded. How simple—how amazing!—it was to sit there by the fire and hold his hand, to feel hopeful when for so long she had felt nothing but despair.

“Cathy?”

She looked at him, eyes misty. She was awash in Yuletide cheer. It wouldn’t surprise her if Santa Claus himself came bounding down the chimney. “Yes, Johnny?”

“Am I naked?”

* * *

Maybe she hadn’t heard him, he thought. He’d try again.

“I said, am I naked?”

He wouldn’t have figured her for the type to blush as red as the Christmas stockings dangling from the mantelpiece.

She released his hand and stood up. “Wh-why would you ask such a thing?”

“Something itches. I figure I’m either naked or I have sand in my shorts.”

“Good grief!” She stared at him as if he was wearing his shorts on his head. “You’re not naked. You’re wearing your... your underwear. The blanket’s what’s making you itchy.”