Blue Skies Tomorrow (27 page)

“Oh, James, you shouldn’t have.” Her adoring smile was blocked by a welt on her cheek. Heavy makeup disguised any redness, but not the swelling.

Helen’s stomach churned. Two nights ago she’d heard yelling and crying, and now the profusion of gifts and compliments sealed it—Mr. Carlisle beat his wife. Helen had once been foolish enough to fall for Jim’s apologies and gifts and flattery after a burst of violence.

“Hold it up, son,” Mr. Carlisle said. “Show us what Santa brought you.”

Jay-Jay shredded paper, frowned, and held up two black pumps.

Helen dashed to his side, forced a laugh, and searched for the tag. “Goodness, sweetie, those are for Mama. See—
H
for Helen. That’s Mama.”

His lower lip pushed out and quivered.

“Lookie here.” Mr. Carlisle waved a box wrapped in green paper. “This is for my boy.”

Helen returned to the side chair and opened the box from Papa and Mama, which held brand-new black leather pumps and a chic suit in wool the color of wine.

Tears pooled in her eyes. Since rationing only provided two pairs of leather shoes per person each year, Helen used her portion on Jay-Jay’s growing feet. This gift meant Papa and Mama had sacrificed for her. She missed them so much. Papa got mad at Mama sometimes, and he growled and slammed doors, but he never raised a finger against her.

But Papa was Helen’s physician. Didn’t he wonder why Helen’s accidents increased after her marriage, ceased when Jim enlisted, and returned on Jim’s furlough? Didn’t he see? Didn’t he care?

Granted, most of her injuries didn’t require medical care, some weren’t visible, and all were easily explained away. But still, why didn’t he see?

Or did Papa think she deserved it too? He’d never truly forgiven her for catching polio, as if the doctor’s daughter should have been immune, should have been healthy and strong like Betty, should never have stooped to wearing braces. Some parents coddled their invalids, but not Papa. He’d been harder on her, required more of her. And it was never enough.

The doorbell rang. Helen sprang to her feet, composed herself, and opened the door.

Dorothy Wayne stood on the porch. “Merry Christmas. I brought gifts.”

“Come on in. Where’s Susie?”

“I didn’t bring her. I can’t stay.” She leaned in and waved to her parents. “Merry Christmas.”

The Carlisles came over, kissed their daughter, exchanged bags of gifts, and returned to the living room.

Helen stared at them and then at Dorothy. That was all they had to say to each other on Christmas Day? What was wrong with this family?

“Bye, Helen.”

“Wait. I want to talk to you.” Helen closed the door behind her and led Dorothy under the bare sticks of the nectarine tree in front of the kitchen window. Despite the chilled air, heat rose in her chest as she looked into her friend’s puzzled face. “Did he beat you too?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your father beats your mother. Did he beat you too?”

Dorothy crossed her arms and looked away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The heat prickled up the back of her neck. “Oh yes, you do. It’s why you have so little to do with them.”

Dorothy’s brown eyes flashed as if Helen had done the beating. “I thought it was normal. I thought that was how men were supposed to treat women.”

“Did he beat you? Tell me. Did he?”

“No.” Her shoulders hunched up, and her voice shrank. “That was Jim’s job.”

“Jim?” So he’d practiced on his little sister. What kind of family allowed such a thing? That meant . . . that meant . . . “You knew. You knew what he was like. Why didn’t you warn me? Why did you let me marry him?”

Dorothy stepped back. “I—I—”

“Why? Why? You could have stopped me. Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I thought it was normal.”

“Normal? If it’s normal, why do they hide it?”

“I didn’t—I thought—”

“Did you think I deserved it? For being a cripple? For not being as fun as Betty?”

“Helen!” Dorothy’s eyes brimmed over.

Helen pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t cry as well, and she crossed her arms over her roiling stomach. “I’m sorry. I know you wouldn’t do that.”

Dorothy placed a hand over her crumpled face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know how wrong it was until I married Art and went to live with the Waynes. Now I see why Mom and I had to hide it, what Dad and Jim did, because it wasn’t normal, because it was wrong.”

“It took you that long to figure it out?”

Dorothy’s chest convulsed in a sob. “Oh goodness. It was more than that. More. I’m so sorry. You’ll never forgive me. I wanted him out. I wanted him gone. That’s why I didn’t stop you. So—so selfish. I only thought of myself. I didn’t think of you at all.”

Helen stared at her weeping friend, her emotions in a jumble. How could Dorothy do that to her? But her anger sizzled out under the water of truth—she’d also wanted to get rid of Jim. How could she blame Dorothy for doing the same thing she’d done?

“Dorothy?” she said in the low tone they’d used as children to convey secrets. “I wanted him gone too. I did. I encouraged him to enlist. I wanted him to die.”

Her hand lowered from her splotchy face. “I—I understand.”

“Do you blame me? Do you blame me for his death?”

“No. I blame the Japanese, I blame him. But not you. Never you.” She reached out tentative hands. “Oh, Helen. Can you . . . can you ever forgive me?”

Helen tried to nod, but her swollen throat wouldn’t bend. She wrapped her arms around Dorothy, and the women wept on each other’s shoulders.

Somehow the tears released another burden from Helen’s back. Another person knew, another person understood, another person hated it. Ray knew, but he’d never understand like someone who lived with it.

“I’ve never,” Dorothy said. “I’ve never talked about this with anyone, not even Art.”

“Tell him. Even in a letter.”

“When he gets home.”

Helen nodded on Dorothy’s shoulder. It would be nicer to tell secrets like that in the arms of a gentle man who loved you. “I’m glad you got out.”

Dorothy pulled back. “I should have said something when you moved in. But Dad won’t hit you, and he’ll treat Mom better with you around.”

“Maybe, but I’m getting out as soon as I can.” Her smile wobbled.

“I wish the Waynes had an extra room.”

“It’s all right.” The war had created a serious housing shortage in California, and no one had extra rooms. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so quick to turn down Vic’s marriage proposals—at least she’d be out. But the thought brought up a strange moist giggle. She’d have to be desperate to take the name of Helen Llewellyn. And Vic had stopped proposing anyway.

Dorothy gave her a limp smile. “I should go. Thanks for . . . I’m sorry I . . . Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you too, and I’m sorry too, and Merry Christmas to you too.” Helen waved good-bye and headed back to the house. She’d tell Ray in a letter tonight. Surely this was progress. She also wanted to thank him for the picture book he’d given Jay-Jay and the journal he’d given her—in case there was anything she couldn’t tell him, he’d said. As if she hadn’t poured out her entire heart to him—except her love for him, of course.

As soon as she opened the door, Jay-Jay screamed, and an empty box flew through the air and hit Mrs. Carlisle.

“Jay-Jay!”

“It’s all right,” Mrs. Carlisle said. “He doesn’t have any more presents to open.”

Shakes traveled through Helen’s body. No, she wouldn’t allow this to happen to her son. She wouldn’t.

She strode over crumpled tissue paper and grabbed him around the waist. “No. Don’t ever, ever treat someone like that.”

“It’s all right,” Mrs. Carlisle said. “I understand why he’s upset.”

“That doesn’t give him any right.” She clutched her flailing son and headed for the stairs.

“Where do you think you’re taking him?” Mr. Carlisle said.

“To his room.”

“Oh no,” his grandmother cried. “But it’s Christmas.”

“I don’t care.” Helen mounted the stairs, careful with her step since her son writhed and her limbs shook. “He needs to learn he can’t treat people like that. Ever. I won’t let him.”

Footsteps thumped behind her. Mr. Carlisle grabbed her elbow and swung her around.

Helen cried out, dropped to her bottom, and clipped her tailbone on a step. Clutching Jay-Jay, she raised an elbow for protection.

No blow landed.

Jay-Jay whimpered, and Helen’s breath came fast and hard. In the background on the radio, Judy Garland crooned “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

“Are you all right, son?” Mr. Carlisle extracted Jay-Jay from Helen’s grasp. “Your mother should be careful on the stairs. So clumsy. You could have been hurt.”

Jay-Jay’s face twisted, and he blinked at Helen.

Her heart slammed against her backbone. Mr. Carlisle blamed her for his actions, and he was teaching Jay-Jay to do likewise.

“Come on, my boy. Let’s play with your new toys.” Mr. Carlisle took him downstairs, away—away from Helen.

She moaned. Her son. Her little son.

Helen collapsed over her knees, racked by silent sobs. She couldn’t let James Carlisle III end up like his predecessors.

27

Bury St. Edmunds Airfield
Monday, January 15, 1945

“A vital target.” Jack tapped the pointer at the screen in the briefing room, which made the image shimmer as if underwater. “Lechfeld is a base for Messerschmitt 262 jet fighters and is also a training and research facility, which increases its importance.”

Ray studied the slide of a gray field with runways and hangars, bordered on the east by broad black stripes of forest around a silver ribbon. Since H2X radar best showed the contrast between water and land, rivers served as excellent landmarks. The Lech River ran north from the Alps, skirted Lechfeld, flowed through Augsburg, and joined the Danube.

“All right, men.” Jack propped his pointer on his shoulder like a rifle. “You couldn’t ask for better flying weather. Go knock out some jets.”

A low rumble of voices built in the room as the men stood to leave. Despite Jack’s assertion of the target’s importance, Third Division was only sending 297 B-17s. Within the Third Division,
Ascalon
would lead the fourteen planes of the 94th Bomb Group.

Ray lifted a hand to his brother in farewell. Jack wiggled his fingers as if playing a piano, and Ray grinned and nodded. Tonight they’d share songs, coffee, and conversation in the Officers’ Club.

Ray followed the crowd outside. His breath caught at the sight of the moonlight sparkling on the snow. Straight ahead, Draco’s tail curled around the Little Dipper as if hoarding a jeweled goblet.

“Watch out, Draco,” Ray whispered. “Here comes
Ascalon
.”

“Radio to pilot. I heard from division lead. Head for the secondary.”

“Thank you . . . Fitzgerald. Okay, men. Plot the new course.” Ray frowned. He’d had his new crew for two weeks. The names should have flowed off his tongue.

Soon Casey, the navigator, gave a new set of coordinates, and Ray adjusted his heading toward the railroad marshalling yards at Augsburg.

A thousand feet above, P-51 Mustangs flew a zigzag pattern, ready to jump to the rescue if the Luftwaffe came up to fight.

If only someone had jumped to Helen’s rescue.

Ray sighed and adjusted the four throttles. Helen’s most recent letters poured out her guilt over wishing Jim dead. Ray couldn’t blame her—the man had tortured her. Good thing Jim Carlisle was already dead, because Ray felt capable of violence for the first time since first grade, when he’d punched out Bill Ferguson for taunting the Portuguese children.

“We’re at the IP,” the radar operator said.

“Thanks, Kenton.” Ray zoomed his mind back into focus. The Initial Point signaled the beginning of the bomb run.

“Bomb bay doors opening,” said Lieutenant Rogers, the bombardier.

“Firing two yellow flares,” Fitzgerald called from the radio room. The flares and the open doors signaled the IP to the rest of the group.

Over the next ten minutes, Ray concentrated on altitude and airspeed while the navigator, bombardier, and radar operator called back and forth on the interphone, locating Augsburg, which straddled the junction of the Wertach and Lech rivers.

Ahead of
Ascalon
, black blotches stained the sky—moderate flak, but a single well-placed shell could fell a plane.

Ray raised half a smile, which tilted his oxygen mask. Thirty-three missions today, and while he’d never be as cool under fire as Jack, he rested in the Lord’s loving and sovereign hands, where fear had no place and courage wrapped like a cloak about him.

Lieutenant Donatelli, the copilot, cursed the flak.

Ray gave him a pat on the back. “A few minutes and we’ll hightail it out of here.”

“Not soon enough.”

“There, I’ve got it,” Kenton called from the waist section where the H2X resided. “What a sweet, sweet target. Let ’em fly, Rogers.”

“Bombs away.”

“Two red flares fired.”

“Okay, fellows,” Ray said. “Enough sightseeing. Let’s go home.”