Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

crisis?”

      Betty tsked. “Now, why does it always have to be something bad?” She spun around so fast the white polka dots on her violet sundress streaked into lines. Grabbing an envelope from atop her pillow, she belly flopped on her bed to face the vanity. “Fact is, it couldn’t be keener. Just wait till you hear Christian’s latest.”

      Thanks but no thanks. Liz had read all the letters she could handle for one day. “I’d love to hear it, gals, but I really have to get some work done.”

      “Oh, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy.” Betty reached across the path created by the nightstand to pat Julia’s mattress. “Sit, sit, sit.”

      Liz groaned, then stopped short; she did not want to hurt Julia’s feelings. Christian’s posts were, after all, among the redhead’s prized possessions.

      “Believe me,” Betty told Liz, “it’s even better than those Emily Dickens letters you like.”

      A smile crouched behind Liz’s lips. “Dickinson,” she corrected, speaking the author’s name with reverence.

      “Yeah. Well, this is better.”

      A sacrilegious comparison, no doubt. Though who was Liz to deny any writer a fair swing at the title?

      “Fine,” Liz conceded. “But only for a minute.” She strode over to the wrought-iron bed she had given up when she moved into her father’s former bedroom, and started clearing space to sit among Julia’s fabric swatches. Vogue pattern pieces and celebrity shots torn from Silver Screen magazine added to the fashion hodgepodge.

      “Did you happen to pick up some bread at the market?” Julia asked.

      “Yeah,” Liz said, settling in. “I noticed we were out when I tried to make toast this morning.” She should have known then what kind of day she had ahead of her. “Speaking of which, when did Hillman’s start charging eleven cents a loaf? It’s outrageous.”

      While Betty sorted pages from the envelope, Liz glimpsed Julia’s pearly face in the vanity’s oval mirror. The crimson-haired girl contorted her expression at an uncooperative spit curl. Limited reflection space further challenged her efforts, with a mural of photo graphs covering half the mirror: a graduation picture of the three of them amidst her family snapshots, a sepia-toned portrait of her and Christian, and a new photo of her sailor leaning on a signal lamp of his ship, with Love you Red penned across the bottom.

      “‘My dearest Julia,’” Betty began, letter propped before her. “‘Only another week has passed, but it seems an eternity since last seeing you. You’ll have to send a new picture soon. I’ve looked at the one I have so many times, my eyes are wearing your image right off the paper. Unfortunately, thinking of you for hours on end only makes me miss you more. The weather has been sweltering, so I’ve taken to sleeping out on deck. To cool off, some shipmates and I had liberty yesterday and headed for . . .’ Yeah, yeah, yeah, boring, boring.”

      The letter was a typical one from Christian Downing, sweet and smooth as butterscotch. Enough to give you a toothache, Dalton would say; and though from the start, he and Liz had agreed mushy offerings of the like weren’t necessary between them, Liz suddenly found herself wondering: Had the ban been her idea or his?

      “Ooh-ooh, here we go.” Betty resumed reading. “‘Although I am proud of the job we are doing for our country, already I am eager for the day we will hear that we’ve won the war and that it’s time to sail back home to you, my darling, the beautiful woman whom I will soon make my bride. Well, I best drop anchor for tonight. Sending oceans of kisses from your loving husband-to-be. Eternally yours, Christian USN.’” Betty rolled onto her back. She pressed the papers to her chest, tight enough to embed the prose into her heart. “This is sooo romantic,” she said dreamily.

      Liz turned and caught Julia running her fingers over her fiancé’s latest photo, losing herself in the gray tones of their separation. That same look of hers, a pensiveness in her eyes, had made appearances more than usual lately.

      “It really is lovely, Jules,” Liz agreed, feeling the coarse edges within her smoothing.

      A quick nod and Julia abruptly rose. She headed for the wardrobe closet, as if sadness were a garment she could shed at will. Since the three girls had become fast friends in high school, lab partners in freshman science, Liz had only once seen Julia cling to an unpleasant emotion for a notable stretch: It began the morning Christian announced he’d up and joined the Navy. Julia had been beside herself. He’d already planned to enroll in the Naval officers’ program at Northwestern so they could be together, but decided he couldn’t wait to enlist, not even for an officer commission. Then a week before his fleet’s departure, Christian earned her forgiveness; specifically, the moment he knelt and slid the engagement band on her finger.

      “Why don’t I get letters like this?” Betty sighed.

      Julia tipped a smile. “Liz is the poetry pro here,” she reminded her. “Why not ask her to write you a love note? She could even sign it from Clark Gable—oh, wait, that’s my fantasy.” She giggled.

      “That’s it!” Betty perked.

      In the midst of a swallow, Liz sputtered drops of limeade. She wiped her chin. “Betty Cordell. I am not writing you a love letter.”

      “No, no, that’s not what I meant.” The blonde shifted onto her knees with a slight bounce. “Seriously, I do need your help. Please say you’ll agree.”

      Liz blew out a stream of air. She was all too familiar with the plea; Betty had used it for myriad requests over the years—everything from French kissing instructions to leg-makeup applications due to the silk and nylon shortage, an act Betty considered as her contribution to the war effort. In other words, Liz had learned to ask for details up front.

      “What exactly do you want me to do?”

      “Well, you see,” she said, “there’s this soldier I met.” Her opening hardly launched a shock wave through the room. “He’s not the usual kind I date. I mean, he’s handsome enough. But he’s sorta shy. The mysterious type.”

      “And you need my help with . . . ?”

      “Oh, right,” Betty said. “The point is, we met at the USO, where we danced and had a grand time of it. Sadly, the next day he shipped out with his brother.”

       The USO?

       His brother?

      Oh God. With Liz’s luck, she was certain to be talking about Morgan. But why now? Ten whole days had passed since the dance, and not once had Betty spoken of him. Liz had hoped to forget all about that night, all about where foolishness might have led her had she not witnessed Betty and Morgan dancing. Which, incidentally, was the best thing that could have happened to Liz.

      So why did she find herself hoping, with everything in her, that Betty was referring to another guy?

      Liz interjected, “Who is he, this soldier of yours?” She managed a casual tone.

      “I just told you,” Betty said, as if she hadn’t been listening. “He’s handsome and mysterious and—”

      “I mean his name. What’s the fellow’s name?”

      “Oh. Sorry. It’s McKall—no. McLew—wait . . .”

      Liz restrained herself from volunteering what was undoubtedly the final syllable.

      “McClain,” Betty remembered. “It’s Morgan McClain.”

      “Morgan McClain?” Julia paused in the midst of changing into her mauve blouse. “Liz, isn’t that the same guy you—”

      “Yeah, he’s the one we met,” Liz cut in. “You know him?” Betty exclaimed. “Oh, that’s perfect. Then you have to help me write to him.”

      Write to him? This couldn’t be happening.