was for Dad and not for them. They were always “accidentally” interrupting the conversation.
Last night Bertie had tried four times, with no answer from Dad. He never called back. She’d talked to the Morrows, the Fishers and the Jarvises, but not to Dad. Nobody seemed to know where he was. Mrs. Fisher did tell Bertie that a couple of Dad’s best cows and five of his pigs had gone missing two weeks ago. Bertie had heard Mr. Fisher in the background, telling his wife that if Joseph Moennig wanted his daughter to know about the lost animals, he’d tell her himself.
Mr. Fisher was one of the few people in their Hideaway neighborhood who believed in minding his own business. His wife, poor thing, held a dim view of her husband’s antisocial behavior.
Why hadn’t Dad mentioned the animals in his letters?
Mr. Morrow didn’t have much to say about the matter, which struck Bertie as unusual. He’d never lacked for opinions before.
If Bertie didn’t know better, she’d start getting a complex. First, no letters from Red Meyer for six weeks, and now even her father wasn’t answering her calls.
She’d written Red’s mother, but though Lilly Meyer’s reply had been chatty and filled with news, she hadn’t given Bertie any useful information about Red, except that he was “takin’ a few weeks of rest from the battle.”
But where was he doin’ his resting? And if he was getting rest, why couldn’t he write to her? Was he having so much fun on his rest that he didn’t want to waste time on her?
Bertie heard news about the war from everyone but Red.
Until VE Day last month—Victory over Europe, May 8, 1945—which would always be a day of celebration, Bertie and Edith had kept up with the news from the European front through their favorite magazine, Stars and Stripes. They had especially loved war correspondent Ernie Pyle, who’d informed readers about all the things Red never wrote about—such as the living conditions of the men who were fighting so desperately for freedom.
How she missed those articles now that Ernie was dead. How the whole country missed him!
“Roberta Moennig, you know the boss is tough on daydreamers.” Emma, the utility girl, came by with more parts to work on the lathe.
Bertie’s hand slipped, fingers rapping against the shaft, and she yelped when she accidentally did a quick sanding job on her fingertips.
“Hey, you all right?” Emma asked.
“Yes, I’m fine.” Bertie had too much on her mind right now. She’d developed too much of a worry habit.
Emma hefted the parts onto Bertie’s table. “What’s got your goat? Keep this up and Franklin Parrish’ll be chucking you out the door.”
Bertie grimaced and picked up a shaft. She placed it in the lathe, tightened it in, and started polishing it. Today her concentration was about as sharp as a possum hanging from a tree limb.
“Got another letter from my soldier last night,” Emma said, leaning her elbows on Bertie’s worktable, obviously of a mind to gab a while, in spite of the whine of the lathe’s motor, and her own just-issued warning about Franklin.
Bertie nodded, wishing Emma would leave it at that, hoping the noise of the lathe would keep the conversation short.
“You heard from that man of yours lately?” Emma asked, raising her voice.
Bertie frowned. “Not for a few weeks. You know how the mail gets bundled up for days at a time, then a bunch of letters comes at once.” Even to her own ears, the excuse sounded overly bright.
Emma gave Bertie a narrow-eyed look. “Red’s never gone this long without writing to you, has he? He still a scout with the Army?”
Bertie suppressed a sigh and turned off the lathe. “He’s called a fire support specialist.”
“I thought it was a forward observer.”
Bertie released her pent-up breath. How many times had she corrected Emma about Red’s title? She didn’t want to sound boastful, but she was proud of Red and what he did. He’d received several commendations for his skills—and his bravery. It was the bravery that worried her something awful.
Emma stepped closer, her pinched face and mouse-brown eyes sharpening with concern. “You don’t think he’s…I mean…you think he’s—”
“Hush, now.” Bertie gently patted Emma’s thin arm. “Honey, you know we can’t start thinking that way. Gotta have some faith that God’s in charge. Our men are helping to win this war. Besides, bad news always seems to travel faster than good these days. If something had happened to him, we’d know by now. I got a letter from his mother a few days ago.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed even more as she nibbled on her chapped lower lip. “That man that got killed? You know, that reporter out in the Pacific? He wasn’t even a solider, Bert! It’s dangerous all over, and men are being killed every day, and what with our own president dying, it feels like everything’s out of control.”
“Nothing is out of control,” Bertie assured her. “President Truman knows what he’s doing. He’s a Missourian, born not too far from my hometown. He’ll see things through. We Missourians are made of tough stock.”
Emma didn’t seem to hear her. “Lives can be cut short just like that,” she said, snapping her fingers. “It could happen to anybody.”
Bertie shook her head. She didn’t need to hear this kind of talk right now. “It could even happen to you or me if Franklin catches us chatting instead of working,” she said with a wink to keep her words from sounding too harsh. “He’s already threatened to fire me once today.”
To Bertie’s relief, Emma nodded, sighed and returned to her cart. Bertie turned on the lathe again, which she shouldn’t have turned off in the first place; there was no standing around talking except at break time.
At least once a week, poor Emma got all perturbed about her soldier. Every time, Bertie prayed for them both. She’d offered to pray with Emma, but that seemed to be going too far.
As it was, Bertie often felt overwhelmed with the amount of work she and Edith Frost had volunteered for these past months. During her free time, Bertie signed people up for war bonds, and she and Edith helped with the blood drive, which included giving their own blood as often as they could.
So many of her hometown friends had left for the war as boys and had returned as men. Three men from her hometown had returned in caskets.
She switched her attention back to the shaft in her lathe, trying her hardest to shake off the worry that Emma had helped stoke like the cinders of a woodstove.
Red sat with his feet planted firmly on the floor in the swaying railcar, growing more and more conscious of the cane he’d shoved beneath the seat and the attention of his friend, Ivan Potts.
It would be easy to reach down and pull out the cane and show it to Ivan. Everyone in Hideaway would know about it by tomorrow, anyway, so why not show it first to someone he knew he could trust?
But something kept him from it. It was almost like another bad dream—if he kept pretending the problem wasn’t
