Letters From Home

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“Water’s perfect, thanks,” she said, and drew a polite sip.

“So tell me, Betty. What brings you down to my neck of the woods?” Smugness lingered in his smile. It was clear he believed she’d hunted him up in hopes of a rendezvous; no doubt plenty of other girls had done the same. Awaiting her answer, he took a drink, eying her as if examining a rack of lamb at the butcher shop.

That’s when Betty realized why she had actually remembered his name: J.T. Wessel sounded remarkably similar to Just a Weasel. Fitting. She could have opted for another recruiter, but seeing J.T.’s reaction would be worth every second.

She straightened in her chair, and with her chin determinedly set, she reported, “I’m here to enlist.”

His cup crinkled slightly in his grip. He pulled his water away and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, did you say you—”

“Wanted to enlist.” Evidently, his enticing pitches about overseas service had filled his little black book more than his enlistment quota. She grinned with satisfaction. “Why, yes, I did.”

To his credit, he gathered himself quickly. “I see,” he said. Then he scrounged a pencil from his torrent of papers. “Did you have a particular area in mind?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Time to unleash her idea on the world: essentially, a civilian’s role with all the perks. “I’d like to sing,” she replied.

He went still for a moment before raising his head. “You . . . wanna sing. For the Army.” Confusion stretched his words, his eyes. She was rather enjoying this.

“The Army has bands, doesn’t it?”

“Well . . . yes . . .”

“Then it should have vocalists as well. Obviously, the USO sees the importance of singers in raising soldiers’ morale. I think the Army would agree, don’t you?”

He opened his mouth, but no argument formed, which only fed her confidence to continue.

“The military believes in promoting entertainment. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have the likes of Joe DiMaggio playing baseball for the Armed Forces. And I for one don’t see how this is any different.”

J.T. nodded slowly, as if receiving the information through Morse code. Then a broad grin returned. “Betty, I’d be happy to look into that. For now, though, let’s just get some basic paperwork going.” He poised his pencil. “How about we start with your full name and age.”

Right away, she rattled off her information, enunciated all but her middle name—“Betty Jo” sounded like such a hillbilly.

“So you just turned twenty?” he confirmed.

“That’s right.”

“In that case, as you probably know, you’ll need parental permission.”

“Say again?”

“Since you’re under twenty-one.” He scribbled and looked up. “Is that a problem?”

A problem? He could say that.

But how could she tactfully phrase that her father had been some married guy who’d split before she was born, and that her mother, the fool who fell for him, was the last person Betty wanted help from? Besides, her communication with her mom had slimmed to mere holiday cards years ago, after Betty was dumped on relatives in Evanston—supposedly a means to curb the high schooler’s rebellious nature.

At least in the end, with all her aunt’s plastic-covered furniture and earmarked Bibles, Betty had realized that living with a mother who was home every minute of the day, versus always out working like her own, could be just as miserable.

“My mother,” Betty explained, “actually lives in Kansas.” She couldn’t say the state name without it sounding raspy and rushed. Like a sneeze from a cold she couldn’t kick. “Do you need to see her, or is there any other way?”

“We do need her signature in person, but I could send a local recruiter to get it.”

“Great,” she said, before catching the disappointment ground into the word. She was about to divert with a peppier sentence when the clicking of footsteps interrupted, saving her.

“Afternoon, Sergeant,” a uniformed female called from the doorway. She was hardly as attractive as the Women’s Army Corps on the poster, but was just as magnetic. Everything from the shiny captain’s bars on her shoulder loops to her authoritative chin commanded attention.

J.T.’s posture stiffened like a pole. “Ma’am.”

“Busy recruiting, I see?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Nice to see you’ve been paying attention.” After a brief pause, the captain produced a chiding smile. “Back at it, then. We need every fine lady we can get.” She tipped her billed hat at Betty and strode into her office, shutting the door behind her.

How fascinating to see a woman in power for a change, specifically over a man.

A down-to-business look tightened J.T.’s face, only an ounce of resentment leaking through. He glanced back at his document. “So tell me, is there any other area you might be interested in?”

“Other area?”

“Outside of singing, that is. An alternative you might consider.”

She was about to say no—why would she need one?—when he added in a whisper, “Just have to put something on paper. A formality for the file.”

“Oh. Oh, right.”

He resumed his spiel. “You know, there’s lots of exciting things you can do in the WAC, and with skills you already have. For instance, do you know how to drive?”

She shrugged. “Never been a need, with me living around Chi cago.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, understanding. “How about cooking? You like to cook, don’t ya?”

“Once in a while. Unless it requires heat.”

He started to laugh, then stopped when he saw she wasn’t kidding. Betty was tempted to explain. But there was no sense relating the hazardous brownie episode that could have burned Liz’s house to the ground. She swiftly pointed out, “Cold things, though, are a breeze.”

“Uh-huh.” He dragged in a breath. “What about typing?”

“Mmm, not really.”

“Shorthand?”

“Nope.”

“You don’t . . . speak another language?” The doubt in his voice made the question rhetorical.

She shook her head anyway.

“Didn’t think so,” he murmured, before shifting to a lighter tone. “Well, like I told you, there’s loads of exciting duties out there. Everything from weather forecasting and glass blowing to working as a control tower operator. Even issuing weapons. Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?”

Not really, she wanted to say, but held back. The reply could come off as unpatriotic, which she undoubtedly was not. On the contrary, she was no less patriotic than, say, that nurse near the bus stop. What with her fancy cape, her white exclamation of a hat, both serving as badges from years of schooling.

Oh, there had to be another option. Something similar yet more appropriate for her personality. Granted, it was just an unlikely backup she was choosing, but Betty preferred not to have anything remotely ordinary in her file.

She then thought of her roommates. For extra spending money, Liz and Julia held jobs in a nursing home—a semi-medical field— and they’d never indicated it being strenuous.

“What about hospital work?” she asked him.

“If you mean the Army Nurse Corps, the Red Cross handles all—”

“No,” she broke in. “Just something like it. But without the blood and mess. And not all that long, tedious training. After all, I do want to help out before the war’s actually over.” She smiled.

The fan in the corner ticked away the seconds. A useless breeze passed by.

J.T. gave his head a weary rub. Lacing his hands on the desk, he sat forward as though it took great effort. As though being back in action would be a relief in comparison. “Look, Betty. You’re a nice, pretty girl . . .”

She cringed at the familiar phrase. It had been a favorite from her guidance counselor, a guy who smelled like pickles and always ended their conversations with a verbal pat on the head, a why don’t you run off and play with your dolls conclusion.

Though tempering herself now, she interjected, “Are you trying to say that pretty girls can’t be WACs?”

“Of course they can,” J.T. countered. Then he threw a conspiratory glance around the empty room and continued in a hushed tone. “You already got a gig as a singer, right? Why not just focus on that, sweetheart, and forget about all this Army stuff. Didn’t you say something about touring with the USO, trotting the globe?”

The USO tour. The aspiration she had so often boasted about. Suddenly, tossed back at her in the presence of her filthy diner dress, the possibility seemed stripped down, naked in its unlikelihood.

“But I wanna help,” she managed to assert.

“And I’m sure you’d be great at . . . something. I’m just not confident the Army is the best place to utilize your talents.”

Like serving malts and meat loaves was?

“Thanks for coming by, though. It was swell seeing you.” That cocky recline again. “Hey, maybe we can go out to dinner some night, after one of your shows.”

Disgusted by his nerve, she couldn’t bring herself to reply. She stood up, head pressed against the ceiling of her crushed hopes, and started for the door. When she reached for the handle, however, a harsh truth slammed into her, one she never saw coming: