Through Waters Deep (5 page)

He made a face. “And you ran and fell—”

“And the doll shattered. One of the boys cried out, ‘She broke Jesus!' That's all I could hear. All I could think about. I did it. In my pride, I broke Jesus.” A breeze blew fake blonde curls across her cheek, and she didn't brush them away.

Jim let out a low whistle. “I can see why you don't like the stage.”

“Do you blame me?” Her voice came out small and strained.

“Not at all.” He rubbed the scars on his palms. “Some moments sear themselves in your memory.”

She nodded, her face still covered.

Now for some encouragement. “But look at you now. Miss Independent Career Girl, living in the big city and standing up to saboteurs.”

Mary peeked at him and raised a tiny smile. “Am I?”

“Absolutely.” He gave her his best serious look.

The smile grew. “Your mom helped.”

“My mom?”

“She was my Sunday school teacher. She heard the snickers in class, saw me becoming more and more withdrawn. So one day she kept me after class and coaxed it out of me, my guilt for breaking Jesus. Your mom sat there watching me, and then she said, ‘I broke Jesus too.'”

A smile twitched on Jim's lips. “Good old Mom.”

“I didn't understand. So she told me when we sin, we break Jesus's heart. And then he went to the cross, willingly breaking himself so we could be made whole. I'd heard the story all my life, but that was the first time it made sense, the first time I felt the weight of my sin and the need to be saved.”

Jim sighed and nodded. He'd felt that weight himself, that burden.

“Your mother was wonderful. She explained breaking the doll wasn't a sin, just an accident, but I'd done other things to break Jesus. I knew I had—my awful pride—and I prayed and asked for forgiveness and received it.”

“Mom always cuts through the nonsense and leads you back to truth.”

“Quintessa helped too.”

Jim's heart jolted at the name, but he kept the same expression. “I'm sure she did.”

“She moved to town that summer and took me under her wing. When school started, everyone wanted to be friends with her, but she told them, ‘Anyone who wants to be my
friend has to be nice to Mary.' Believe me, that put an end to the teasing.”

“It would.” He stared at the dancing blonde curls. That was what was missing in the women he dated. They matched Quintessa for vivaciousness, but none had her compassion, her willingness to stand up for the underdog. “She's unforgettable.”

Mary brushed aside the fake blonde and gave him a soft smile. “You still love her, don't you?”

His face scrunched up, and he glanced away to a Swan Boat being pedaled across the lagoon with half a dozen families and couples on board. “Don't know if I'd call it love. Just a foolish, one-sided crush.”

“Unrequited love is still love.”

“And foolishness is still foolishness.” Something restless squirmed inside him, and he pushed away from the stone pillar. “Now, come on. I promised you ice cream.”

Mary swiped aside the curls. “Then I'll let you help me burn this wig.”

He headed across the bridge. “Arch will be heartbroken. It's his favorite.”

She rewarded him with an amused sidelong glance. Good. He'd actually cheered her up. Even if it meant he had to admit something he preferred to keep hidden. But so had she.

Now her fear made sense. It did. An embarrassing moment like that couldn't be forgotten.

No wonder she hated attention. No wonder she didn't want to draw attention to herself, even for something as noble as catching a saboteur.

Jim stopped in his tracks, and Mary gave him a quizzical look.

Before him rose a statue of George Washington. He circled to the front. The great general rode on horseback, sword drawn and ready to attack, to defend. “Our founding fathers
were willing to fight for what was right, to risk their lives for the sake of freedom.”

“True.” She inclined her head.

“You don't want to report your findings for fear of drawing attention to yourself. But what if something happens? Someone gets hurt?”

Her eyes went from blue peace to silver shock.

Above them, George Washington stared down the future, ready to take on any enemy for the sake of liberty.

“So . . .” Mary cleared her throat. “So I should be willing to stand up and speak out.”

He tweaked her pancake of a hat. “And maybe wear a little red.”

Her expression solidified, and something new lit in her eyes. “Maybe I will.”

Tuesday, April 29, 1941

Mary climbed Monument Avenue on her way to work, notebooks in her arms, her camel-colored spring coat swinging unbuttoned around her knees.

“You shouldn't do it.” Yvette's heels clipped on the sidewalk beside her.

Basswood trees waved their new spring leaves above Mary's head. After all the hard work of talking herself into this, she didn't need any discouragement. This was the right thing to do, and as long as she didn't yield to the temptation of taking pride in her actions, she'd be fine. “I need to let Mr. Pennington know my suspicions and ask his advice.”

“Americans are so naïve. You do not see the danger.”

“But I do see the danger. That's why I need to act.”

“You do not understand.” Yvette waved her red-tipped fingers in front of her face. “The war will come here. The Nazis will not stop. They are ruthless and powerful.”

“If that's true, I need to help.”

Yvette's brown eyes riveted her. “Do you not see? If the Nazis are here, sabotaging our ships, do you not think they
will hurt those who stand in their way? They are brutes. Man, woman, child—it matters not. They can hurt you and no one will ever know.”

Mary let out a sigh. Strange that the thought of public acclaim frightened her more than physical danger. “Don't you always say the biggest mistakes the French made last year were trusting in false security and ignoring the warning signs?”

“Yes, but—”

“I won't make the same mistake.” The Bunker Hill Monument rose high before her on a green hill, the granite obelisk puncturing the blue sky. Almost two hundred years earlier, colonists had hunkered behind wooden ramparts, outnumbered, fighting against impossible odds.

Surely one secretary could dare to share her notes.

At the northeast corner of Monument Square, they turned right, down the hill toward the Navy Yard, past Charlestown's neat brick homes.

Mary filled her lungs with warm spring air. Jim would be proud of her, and her heart leaped. How ridiculous to let herself develop a crush on him. He liked gold, not silver, and he still loved Quintessa, for heaven's sake.

Mary crossed Chelsea Street and frowned. Was she being shallow? She hadn't been interested in him in high school, so why now? The only thing that had changed was the breadth of his shoulders.

That wasn't completely true. In high school, they rarely spoke. Hugh and Quintessa did all the talking, and Jim and Mary listened, enraptured. This was the first time they had truly conversed.

The lovesick boy had become a bright and funny man, kind and insightful, adventurous and thoughtful. And not one bit lovesick.

The whole thing was quite hopeless.

Mary straightened her shoulders. Regardless, she'd enjoy his friendship and encouragement until he shipped out.

She and Yvette showed their photographic identification passes and entered the gate to the Boston Navy Yard. They passed the octagonal Muster House, such a darling Victorian building for a military base. To her left, the long narrow building of the ropewalk stretched for a quarter mile, where men spun hemp fibers into rope for the entire US Navy. They turned left and entered Building 39, a solid structure of brick trimmed with granite blocks.

Yvette headed for Accounting, while Mary headed for Mr. Pennington's office in Personnel.

After she hung up her coat, she set up her desk for the day, her notebooks beside her. Today would be perfect to talk to her boss, in the lull between the busyness of Mondays and Fridays, and before the end of the month with its rash of reports.

Mr. Pennington swept into the office, tossed his hat onto the rack, and hung up his suit jacket. “Good morning, Miss Stirling. Don't you look lovely today?”

“You say that every morning.”

“Because it's true, my dear. You have your grandmother's eyes and her sweet spirit.” He tapped his temple. “You know I had my eye on her until your grandfather stole her from right under my nose.”

“I'm glad he did.”

Mr. Pennington laughed and smoothed his semicircle of white hair. “So am I. Gave me my most efficient secretary ever.”

Mary grabbed her notebooks and followed him into his office, where he plunked into his chair and tugged his vest down over his belly. Now was the time. She inhaled a deep breath and exhaled a quick prayer. “Mr. Pennington, I'd like to discuss something with you.”

“Oh?”

Her ankles wobbled. “You know there's been a lot of unrest among the men lately, a lot of accusations.”

“Ah yes, the saboteur,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I wouldn't worry about it. The entire nation is on edge. First the US declares the Western Hemisphere off-limits to Axis ships, but the British are quite welcome. We've chosen our side, and some people don't like it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He spread out his hands. “And here in America our great hero, Charles Lindbergh himself, appears at an America First rally at Madison Square Garden and tells us the only way to save our country is not to fight. And then our great president calls our great hero a defeatist. And then our great hero resigns from the Army Air Corps.”

Mary smiled. “It's been a busy week.”

“That it has. So I expect some grumbling from our boys on the docks.”

“I've been keeping track.”

Silver eyebrows rose. “Hmm?”

She shifted her weight from one shaky ankle to the other. “You always call me your little spy, so that's what I've been doing. I record everything the men say about the sabotage.” She set the first notebook before him.

“It's in shorthand.”

“Yes. I can take down over two hundred words a minute, so I can write faster than they speak. Since they're used to seeing me take notes, no one thinks anything of it.”

He leafed through. “Very smart, young lady.”

The compliment swelled inside her and threatened to turn to pride. “I'm just doing my duty. Then in the evening, I transcribe my notes into other notebooks. I started with a page per person, but it wasn't enough.” She opened the second notebook.

“It's still in shorthand.”

“In case anyone happens upon it. The left column is what the person said. The right is what others said about him.”

“Very organized.”

“Do you think I should show it to the FBI?”

His head jerked up. “The FBI?”

“They're still investigating, aren't they? Perhaps they'd find this useful. People say things in front of me they'd never say to an FBI agent.”

Mr. Pennington rubbed his heavy jowls. “This is very clever and foresighted of you, but it's nothing but gossip. Smith says this about Jones. Jones thinks Smith is a fink. Am I right?”

“Yes, sir.”

He settled back in his chair. “The FBI wants cold hard facts, not rumors. I'm afraid if you showed this to them, they'd think it was rather silly.”

Mary gathered her notebooks, her chest tight. Innuendos and grudges and name-calling might seem like gossip, but they might point the way to those cold hard facts.

She headed to her desk.

“But Miss Stirling . . .”

“Yes?” She turned in the doorway.

Twin furrows divided his forehead. “It never hurts to keep a record. Keep it up.”

Mary hugged her notebooks. “I plan to.”

Friday, May 9, 1941

The giant crane grumbled as it lowered the number two gun mount to the deck in front of the bridge. Workmen shouted over the noise, pointed, and yanked lines to direct the gun into position.

Jim stood by the bow, out of the way but close enough to watch the installation. The
Atwood
would have four of these multipurpose 5-inch guns, two fore of the bridge and two aft, useful against ships, surfaced submarines, and aircraft.

He looked up to the new Mark 37 fire director, the tank-like steel compartment on top of the bridge superstructure, where the gunnery officer and his crew would direct gunfire during battle. Looked like the head of Frankenstein's monster, with three portholes for eyes and the optical rangefinders sticking out on each side like the bolts.

That would be his responsibility. Well, the responsibility of Lt. Dick Reinhardt, the gunnery officer. Jim served only as his assistant, thank goodness. Better that way.

“Getting arthritis, old man?” Arch nudged him.

Jim was rubbing his hands again. He chuckled to cover a grimace. “Old scars. They get tight sometimes.”

“How'd it happen? Haven't heard this story before.”

Jim could still hear Lillian's screams, see the torn flesh of her leg, smell the blood, feel the bite into his hands. All because he'd tried to make waves for once. And his little sister paid a lifelong price. “Ah, you know. Kids messing around.” He pointed at the workers. “There it goes.”

The crane settled the gun compartment onto the platform that elevated number two above the level of number one. The weight tipped the destroyer slightly down at the bow.

“Excuse me, Arch. I should see if Reinhardt needs me.” He passed the men at work and climbed up to the wing of the bridge. Lieutenant Reinhardt leaned against the rail, chatting with Mitch Hadley.

“Hi, Floats,” Hadley said with a flat smile.

Stupid nickname, but it hadn't stuck. Only Hadley used it. “Mr. Reinhardt, Mr. Hadley. Some sight, eh?” He nodded to the crane.

“Second gun we've had installed.” Reinhardt narrowed his grayish eyes at Jim.

So the man didn't care for enthusiasm. He'd have to find another way to win him over. “Here's hoping we never fire them.”

“That'd make for a dull job.” Reinhardt adjusted his khaki cover over his red hair and gazed across Boston Harbor toward the open Atlantic.

Hadley snickered. “If you like to float, dull is best.”

Jim dug his fisting hands into the pockets of his khaki trousers. “Actually, I prefer a little excitement in life, but either way I'll do my job and do it well.”

Reinhardt nodded once, his gaze unmoving.

A sigh filled Jim's cheeks, but he swallowed it. Once they set sail, Reinhardt would see Jim as an asset. He'd already
befriended most of the enlisted gun crews, black men and white. He'd figured out most of the men's strengths and weaknesses. He'd be able to motivate and encourage them better than cool-as-an-icicle Reinhardt.

Nothing wrong with floating anyway. Not everyone wanted to be an admiral. Jim just wanted to do good work with good people. And he didn't want to hurt anyone along the way.

Down by the number two mount, the workmen swarmed around, welding and tightening bolts.

“Kaplan! Kaplan!” One of the workers beckoned another. “I need that wrench and now.”

“Coming, Mr. Fiske.” A lean, dark-haired man strode over.

Jim squinted at the men. Kaplan? Fiske? Weren't those two of the men Mary had mentioned? “Say, Mr. Reinhardt. Anything you need from me?”

A slight shake of the head. No one would accuse the man of wasting words.

“See you later.” Jim worked his way down to the gun platform and over to the laborers.

The older man who seemed to be in charge—that was Fiske. He took the wrench from Kaplan. “How's it coming?”

“It'd be coming along a lot faster if Bauer weren't on the job.” He gestured with his thumb toward a man squatting nearby with a welding torch.

Bauer? Another suspect. Jim restrained a smile and stepped closer. Maybe he could play detective and pick up some tidbits for Mary.

The welder got to his feet, took off his mask, and ran his hand through blond hair.

“Thanks for the job you're doing.” Jim stuck out his hand. “Ensign Jim Avery, assistant gunnery officer. Those are my guns you're working on.”

“Heinrich Bauer.” He shook Jim's hand and glanced away.

“How long have you been a welder here?”

“Four years. Why do you ask?”

“Just being friendly.”

“You need not watch me. I am not a Nazi.” His tone cut like a razor, and his blue eyes blazed. But something around the edges of his eyes—a flutter—spoke of fear. A purplish bruise covered his cheekbone.

“Say, what happened?”

Bauer's mouth tightened. “May I work, sir?”

“I'll tell you what happened.” The dark-haired fellow, Kaplan, came over. “He got too close to his buddy's ‘Sieg Heil!'” He thrust up one hand in a Nazi salute, then mimed grabbing his own cheek in pain.

Jim stepped between them. “I'd suggest you both get back to work.”

Bauer marched away. “How can I work with this—this nonsense?”

“Yeah, that's right. Slink back to Herr Hitler, report your spying, your sabotage.” Kaplan leaned forward.

Jim planted a hand on his chest. “I wouldn't do—”

“Kaplan!” Mr. Fiske grabbed the younger man's shoulder. “Get back to work.”

He backed off, but sparks arced through his dark eyes. “Yes, sir.”

Emotions certainly ran high on that crew. Jim had findings for his detective friend. Too bad he didn't know shorthand.

“Hey, Avery!” Mitch Hadley called down from the bridge. “You floated into a mess there. You've got to be careful where you let the wind blow you.”

Jim fixed a hard stare on his fellow ensign but bit his tongue and headed to his cabin to change out of his casual khaki uniform into dress blues for dinner. Hadley's words held the sting of truth.

He climbed down a ladder below deck and crossed through the empty wardroom to officers' quarters.

In the cabin he shared with Arch, his friend buttoned up his white shirt. “Time to get ready.”

“Need to take some notes for Mary first.” He opened a desk drawer, pulled out a notepad, and wrote down what he'd heard.

“For Mary, eh?”

“Yeah. Some of her saboteur suspects got into an altercation up there.”

Arch glanced up. The ammunition handling room for the number two mount lay directly overhead. “Should we worry?”

“With all those people watching? Nah.” He finished his notes. “Mary will love this.”

“Is that so?” Arch bent over to knot his tie in the mirror on their locker. “Gloria thinks you should ask her out.”

Jim winced, tossed his cover onto his bunk, and ripped off his khaki tie. “We go out almost every weekend.”

“As friends.”

“Yes, as friends.” He unbuttoned his shirt. “That's what we are.”

“I think you're crazy.”

“And I think you're a nag.” Jim flashed a grin and shrugged off his shirt. “She's like another kid sister to me. There's nothing romantic between us.”

Nothing at all. Sure, she was pretty. Sure, she intrigued him. But she wasn't anything like Quintessa.

Besides, Mary acted like a kid sister around him, no flirting or self-consciousness—just normal. That was best. Things might get awkward if she developed a crush on him.

Jim made a funny face in the mirror over Arch's shoulder. “She'd have to be stupid to fall for a fool like me.”

“Thank goodness the woman's smart.”

He punched his friend lightly in the shoulder. “Thank goodness for that.”