Heartbreak Warfare

“Do you want coffee with that?”

“What?”

She laughed a little, tapping her pencil against the small notepad in her hand as she looked at us. Vernon shot me a look, frowning at me.

“You asked for some cheesecake. Would you like some coffee with that or what?”

“Um…yes. Yes. Coffee’s good,” I stammered.

“Want anything else?”

“No, we’re fine, thank you,” Vernon cut in, kicking me underneath the table.

“I’ll be back in a flash,” she smiled, tucking her pencil in her hair as she walked away.

“What’s the matter with you?” he chided, scowling at me angrily. We were training at a camp a few miles away, and were free for once, so we decided to scope out the town. The first stop was that small diner.

It’s not my fault.

I mean we had been pretty much locked away for the last couple of weeks and hadn’t seen any other people but each other. I liked my mates, I did, they were pretty nice and strong and brave or whatever and I think it’d work out fine, perhaps, but I kind of wanted to be around other people for a change.

And she was pretty.

I mean, really pretty, like the kind of pretty that pouts at you from billboards in the city or from the centerfold of the kind of magazines dad kept in his lockbox in the garage.

It wasn’t fair, and I didn’t even know what to do or say and I’ve never really been great with words and stuff, so I just tensed up.

“What do you mean?” He made a face.

“You’re all red.”

“Am not.” I picked up a spoon and looked at myself, and sure enough, I looked like my mother’s prizewinning roses.

“Are you getting sick or something? Wanna go wait in the car? I’ll ask for a carry-out box or something.”

“No, I’m fine,” I mumbled, setting the spoon down. “I’m just gonna go splash some water on my face. I’ll be right back.” I stood up and turned towards the washroom, only to bump into someone, and there’s coffee—hot coffee—and cheesecake and shattering plates and a huff and god I didn’t know coffee could be so hot and Vernon’s yelling at me as he picks up the broken plates and coffeepot and I don’t know what just happened.

Pretty girls have always made me nervous.

I mean, it’s not like it’s their fault or something, I’m just flustered and distracted and then things happen.

Like this, for example.

“Oh—oh god,” I said, trying to fix it, but I really can’t, and she’s asking me if I’m okay, and I should be asking her that, but I’m not and I’m just embarrassed and this is awful and all I can do is hold out my handkerchief—momma monogrammed them before I left and they still kind of smell like home on account of the fact I never really used them—and offered a stuttered apology.

She simply smiled and laughed a little as she wiped down her apron, apologizing between laughter.

“What’s so funny?” She laughed some more, turning the handkerchief inside out, wrapping them around her fingers.

“You have cake on your face.”

She giggled as she wiped down my cheeks gently. She smiled brightly at me when she was done.

“Good as new. I’m sorry—”

“It’s not your fault. Theo’s just a klutz,” Vernon cut in, shaking his head at me. “If anyone’s sorry, we are. We’ll take the check when you’re done. Sorry.”

“No worries,” she said as she took the tray away with the broken fragments of what was going to be dessert.

“You’re a mess,” Vernon said to me, passing me some paper tissues. “Clean yourself off.” As I did, he looked at his watch and sighed. “We have half an hour to get back.”

I sighed. “I’ll get the check, you get the car.” He nodded and left as I tried to scrub out some of the strawberry syrup out of my shirt. She’s at the register, doing some figures in a notebook as she bites on the eraser on her pencil.

“You guys ready then? It’ll be two dollars and fifty cents, please.” I dig my hand into my pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar and some coins, and add a couple of extra coins in the tip jar on account of I feel bad that I kind of made a mess of things. “Thank you,” she says, grabbing the money from the counter, turning to go, and I kind of just let her and don’t say anything because I’m sure I’ll just muck that up too, and Vernon’s honking at me from outside so I should probably just get going anyway.

“Sergeant’s gonna kill you,” he said, shaking his head at my clothes when I got in the car, tuttking at me.



About a week later, I’m out with Buster—no really, his mom actually put Buster on his birth certificate (Serge couldn’t believe it either)—and we’re out a little later for once on account of the officer’s party tonight (which basically means it’s no holds barred and as long as we don’t interrupt the festivities, we can pretty much do as we please).

We see her walking around with her friend, and I kind of want to hide because, you know, I made a fool out of myself and I feel kind of dumb about it. So I sink down in the seat as much as I can and think I’m going to get off scot free, but it turns out Buster actually knows her friend—he grew up around these parts—and he just can’t help but to pull over in a rather creepy fashion and say, “Heya, girls, need a ride?”

She shoots one look at him and scoffs.

“Aw, good grief,” she groaned. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“I could ask you two the same thing, Diane.”

“It’s none of your business,” Diane said, turning up her nose at him.

“Just get in the car.”

“Why? Don’t try any of that slick coochie-coo stuff now,” she warned, glaring at us.

“’Cause it’s dark outside and it’s not proper for two young ladies to be roamin’ around by themselves at night,” he says a little flatly. “Now c’mon, get in.”

Diane made a face, and then turned to her friend, and they whispered in the sort of conspiratorial way that you do in front of company just ’cause you don’t wanna seem rude, but it comes off as kind of rude anyway just ’cause it looks like you have something to hide.

“We’ll be walkin’,” Diane replied. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“But Diane!” her friend protested. “It is kind of dark, and I gotta get home ’fore I get into any more trouble, and—”

“Twiddledee over there could get you into way more trouble,” she warned, shooting Buster a glare. “Trust me.”

“C’mon, Diane!” Buster protested. “You don’t know that now. Say we leave, right, and some slick creep comes up to y’two, talkin’ ‘bout havin’ a goddamn good time, and you say no, but he says yes, and drags y’all two off and does some sketchy stuff to ya? Got no one to blame but myself then, and I’mma feel awful about it, and if your momma finds out…well, you already know. She’s gonna call my momma and you know how momma is,” he sighed. “So just do me a favor and just get in, huh?”

“Fine,” she huffed. Buster quickly jumped out of the car and rushed to the other side to open the door on account of the fact that it got jammed sometimes and no one of us ever really fixed it and all the cars looked the same and drove the same anyway, so a little door wasn’t a big deal ’cause we never had much company back there, until now, anyway.

I mean it was kind of our duty to protect the citizens of these United States of America and such, and she was one of them and I guess Diane was too. So even if the Serge found out we had girls in the back, I could just say I was doing my civil duty.

Which I technically was.

“Still live near the milkman?”

“Yes. She’s stayin’ with me, so y’all can just leave her there too.”

“Thank you,” her friend chirped, voice honey sweet and soft. “We really do appreciate it.”

“Don’t say thank you. Twiddledee and Twiddle-dumb here are as dumb as bricks,” Diane chided. “Buster’s just persistent, see?”

“Hey! Okay, just ’cause I’m not the sharpest tool in the box—”

“You’re not even in the box, Buster,” she cut in flatly.

“Very funny, Diane. Just ’cause, you know, I’m not entirely bright don’t mean that Theo here’s a dummy. Have you met Theo? Smartest kid I know, tell you what. He’s brighter than all the other kids in our infantry combined.” He nodded, turning a little to look at the girls. “That’s a bon-a-fide fact.”

“Aw, c’mon,” I laughed, embarrassed. “Vernon’s real smart too. I’m not really that bright.”

“Obviously,” Diane said, “if you’re hanging around the likes of Buster, of all people.”

“Lay off them, will ya? They’re giving us a ride home.” Diane was whispering. “What?”

We drove onto a pleasant street with picket fences and chalk drawings on the sidewalk, bikes and toys littered on front lawns. It seemed pretty nice.

“Theo, I haven’t properly introduced you to the girls, have I?” Buster said after a momentary silence, looking over at me. I shrugged.

“I don’t know, I mean—”

“Motor mouth here’s my momma’s best friend daughter, Diane.” Diane leaned over and cuffed him upside the head, scowling at him. She turned to me and held out her hand.

“How’d you do?” I shook it limply and she sat back down, huffing. “And her friend there’s Belinda.”

Belinda.

Belinda.

B-e-l-i-n-d-a.

“Hiya, butterfingers,” she said cheerfully as the car rolled to a stop near the end of the road. I flushed red.

The house was behind a thicket of bushes and the like, small and kind of quaint looking.

“Say hi to your mommas for me and flick the lights on and off so we know you got in okay,” Buster said as Diane hopped out of the car without so much as a goodbye. Belinda leaned in between the seats.

“I will. You take care of yourself now, hear?” She kissed his cheek and got out of the car, then tried chasing down Diane.

“Diane? Hey, Diane, wait!”

It had just rained, I suppose, because she kind of got stuck, and Buster’s such a wuss about everything that he told me to go out and make sure she was okay. So I did, and it turned out that her shoe got sucked in by the mud—nothing like good old South Carolina mud to swallow everything up—and she was trying out how to hop to Diane’s without falling on her face.

“It’s ruined,” she mumbled, holding up the now mucky shoe.

“C’mon, I’ll help you out,” I say, holding out a hand.

And somehow it gets to the point where she’s got her arm around my middle and I’ve got mine around her shoulders, and she’s hopping with her other foot and holding the ruined shoe in her free hand. It’s nice, kind of, but I don’t really get to enjoy it much because I’m still thinking about last week’s disaster, and I feel like I should try to make it up to her or something because, you know, I kind of made a mess out of everything and it’s only fair, I suppose.

So I start rambling on with this long winding apology, and she laughs, pearly white teeth and pink lips, lightly freckled cheeks stretching a little.

“It’s not your fault I got stuck back there. I needed some new shoes anyway.” She held up her shoe. “These are kind of old anyway.”

“No, I mean—I mean, last week, at the diner—”

“That’s what you’re all tense about? Some plates?” She laughs. “Why, I never. You’re probably the silliest boy I’ve ever met, you know, and I don’t even really know you.”

“Well, lemme make it up to you.”

“Make it up to me?” She raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Lemme—lemme take you out or somethin’, like to a dinner or somethin’?”

Girls like that right? I mean, everyone likes dinner. I dare you to find one person who doesn’t. I’ll save you the trouble, because you can’t. It’s not like there was much to do around those parts anyway, save from going to eat, going shopping, or going to the movies.

“Seems like I should get to know you first. I mean, dinner’s pretty serious and all,” she muses thoughtfully, a playful grin on her face. “If you come by, maybe—maybe—I’ll let you buy me a slice of pie and some ice cream.” She laughed. “Maybe.”

“That sounds like it could work—”

“What’re y’all doin’ out there?!” someone hollered, slamming the screen door shut. It was a man, the spitting image of Buster—but with less hair and more of a gut and a shotgun—a shotgun? My eyes widened and I gulped. “Belinda Mae Sliver, what in tarnation—Child, it’s eight, almost nine in the evenin’,” he argued. “What’re you doin’? And who in the hell is this?!”

“That’s Theo, he’s Buster’s friend. They just gave us a ride, ’cause it’s so late and dark and all. Real friendly type, you know—”

“What are you doin’ with your arms ‘round her like that?! Belinda—”

“Listen, it’s not what it looks like, okay? It’s just—my shoe,” she tried to explain. “It got kinda messed up, see, and—and Theo’s just helping me out.” She stepped onto the stairs daintily, slipping out of her not so dirty shoe.

“Just lendin’ a helpin’ hand to a damsel in distress, sir,” I added awkwardly, trying to get this man to not hate me, but it seemed like he was just hell-bent on it, really.

“Boy, better keep your hands to yourself if you know what’s good for ya.” He glowered in the paternal sort of way, and I guess if some strange boy was draped all over my daughter, I’d look at him like that too. Probably not with the shotgun, though. “If I were ya, I’d get to movin’ on outta here.”

“Yes sir. Y’all have a nice night now.”

So I turn before he has an excuse to load it—I mean, I can probably maybe probably not dodge it but still, and there’s the slam of doors and yelling and protests, and it’s faint, so faint I really can’t even hear it, but I swear, she yelled, “Bye, butterfingers!”



“You’ve turned into mush,” Vernon says one afternoon in the canteen. “Straight ol’ goddang mush, man.”

“What?”

“All you’ve been doin’ is callin’ this waitress girl,” he says between bites of the actual mush we call our lunch. “’Stead of callin’ your momma or somethin’ everyday, you’re callin’ this girl you don’t even know—”

“She has a name, you know.” He makes a face, unimpressed. “It’s Belinda.”

“Yeah. Belinda or whatever.” He eats it like it’s his last meal, no matter how putrid it tastes. But that’s ’cause his momma didn’t really sent him much of anything but the occasional box of underclothes one week, and even then it wasn’t really much. I can’t stand it because I know what food, real food, still tastes like.

And it’s nothing like this garbage, that’s for sure.

“I’m concerned.” He rips his bread apart, sopping up what’s left on his bowl. I push at my food gingerly with my spoon. “You not hungry today or what?” I shake my head and push it to him. “Fine, but don’t complain later when you’re dying of hunger pains.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, I’m concerned.”

“For?”

“For who else? For you, genius.”

“Why?”

“’Cause, Theo, listen, I’ve been diggin’ around—”

“Not more your detective work?” He nodded and I cradled my forehead in my hands. See Vernon’s smart, okay, and I mean, sometimes he has really great ideas, but for every good idea, there were at least three bad ones that came before it. One of Vernon’s bad ideas was that he could be a private eye, which he really couldn’t, because an elephant had more stealth than he did, but nonetheless, he did try.

I used to think that after a while he’d abandon his harebrained ideas—but he didn’t, and I’m almost positive if we weren’t training, he’d be off in some fancy city trying to make a quick buck off his ‘investigating’.

“But of course.”

“Vernon, god—”

“Just hear me out, okay? So…apparently little Belinda here’s one of those heartbreaker types.”

“Vernon—”

“I talked to Bobby about it, you know.”

“Because Bobby’s the most reliable source of information,” I muttered.

“He knows more about her than you do, that’s for damn sure. Girl’s a world of trouble.”

“Bobby doesn’t know his right from his left. Remember the other day during target practice? Remember? He almost shot himself in the face. He’s not exactly the most viable source, you know.”

Vernon grimaced.

“You’re missing the point.”

“And how exactly does Bobby know all this?”

He grinned.

“I’m glad you asked. Bobby knows Belinda.”

“Oh, really? I couldn’t have guessed.” I shot him a look as he scraped his spoon against the metal bowl.

“No, I mean he knows her. Took her out a couple of times.” He wipes his mouth with the back of his hands.

“Okay…?” I asked, trailing off. I mean, was I kind of bothered? Maybe just a little bit, but I didn’t know why Bobby thought that he knew her all of a sudden just because they went out for a bit. So what? “We’re not going steady or something. We’re just friends, Vernon.”

“Mmhm.”

“I’m serious!”

“Of course you are.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“You’re a moron.”

“Okay.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “But you know I’m gonna say I told ya so when this blows up in your face.”

“Yeah, I know.”



Calls took place every day, but at different times. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, calls took place between 1 PM and 4 PM, and only last ten minutes. Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, call times were between 4 PM and 6 PM—we were usually allowed out between 7 PM and 9 PM. On Sunday, we could call whenever, because that was usually our day off and we never really did much unless Serge was pissed, in which case we scrubbed the whole place top to bottom on our hands and knees.

But anyway, you’d think that since we were only allowed to make ten minute calls—Serge was really strict about it—that no one would really think that it’d be worth it, but sure enough, whenever calling time came by, most, if not all of us, were lined up in the main building, counting down until it was our turn.

Normally, I only used the phone to call momma on Sunday afternoon, on account of the fact that the building got all hot and clammy and it was just muggy and it wasn’t my favorite place to be. But after I met Belinda, it was kind of hard not to want to talk to her, and if I had to stand in line for the better part of an hour for a ten minute phone call, I would.

“So, where’s that dinner you promised me?” she asked, laughing a little.

“Oh, well, I mean, I’m free on Saturday night, and—”

“Sounds perfect. Got a pen handy?” He rummages around for one and Vernon taps my shoulder with a pen, still shaking his head at me. I write what she tells me down on my hand.

When I hang up, Vernon’s already going for the phone, shooting me a look as he shoves in his own coins and dials the number.

I have a date on Saturday night.



The house is dainty and clean, with tulips lining the walkway up to the door. I parted my hair with my hand nervously for the umpteenth time, grabbed the flowers—I actually had to ask Buster for advice because Vernon was all fussy—and opened the door. The only outfit I had that actually looked decent was my uniform, so I wore that, and I paid Buster in my cigarette rations so he would polish my shoes.

Well, it’s now or never. I walk to the door and before I even get to the door, I hear someone yelling in what I’m assuming is Polish. The only reason I know that is because my grandmother was Polish, and she used to speak—well yell, really—all the time, and it sounds so much like home that for a second I feel homesick. But I push those thoughts away as I knock on the door.

Belinda opens it, turning and yelling, and no, yeah, that’s definitely Polish. I’m assuming it’s her mother or her older sister, a woman in a robe with curlers in her hair, yelling at her and pointing at me angrily—it seems like everyone remotely related to Belinda doesn’t like me very much. Belinda blows a kiss and shuts the door, dragging me down the stairs by my elbow.

“C’mon,” she urges, running quickly. The woman comes out onto the porch and starts yelling, and it’s something about Belinda (I don’t speak it very well) because she keeps saying her name. I don’t even get the chance to open the door for her because she jumps in the car. “Ciao, matka!”

The woman huffs and goes back into the house as we pull out, slamming the screen door.

“I’m sorry about that,” she says, hands in her lap as she sighs.

“That was fun.” She looks at me with a small smile. “What? That wasn’t fun for you? I had a blast.”

“Very funny, butterfingers.” She looks at the small bunch of flowers and takes a couple, tucking them behind my ear. “You should wear carnations more often.”

“Those are for you, Belinda.” She looks at them thoughtfully, stroking the petals with her fingers. She sets them down and laughs, pulling the carnations into her fingers.

“So where are you taking me?”

“Well, I was thinking maybe we’d go eat and then to a matinée or something.”

“A matinée?” Her face fell a little and she started to fiddle with the buttons on the skirt of her dress, gulping a little.

“Yeah…unless you don’t want to? We can do something else, like—”

“No, no, it’s fine. I haven’t been to a film in a very long time. It’d be nice.”

I kind of wanted to ask why, but it seem like the kind of resolute answer where it’d just be better not to push it, so you don’t sound impertinent or inconsiderate, so I just asked her about her job instead.



“So I had a nice time tonight,” Belinda says, arms wrapped around the streetlamp pole. The night is muggy in a sort of calming, heavy way, and I can’t say I don’t like it.

“Yeah?”

“It was lovely.”

“Me too.”

“Good. We should do this more often.” She leans up and I think she’s going to kiss me, but she doesn’t, she just kisses the corner of my mouth and laughs, “I’d kiss you, but if you’d be so kind, look at my window. My mom’s staring at us, and I’m pretty sure she’s been sitting there since we left and if I kiss you now, well…” She laughs. “You’re gonna come pick me up tomorrow afternoon, okay?”

“Okay.”

She stands up right, readjusting my shirt with a small smile, patting my shoulder.

“I’ll see you around. Thanks for the flowers.”



“So…”

“So?” I asked, looking over at Vernon, who slept in the bunk next to mine.

“How’d it go?”

I rolled my eyes, bunching up my pillow as I turned onto my belly.

“We shot up a liquor store and robbed a bank, Vernon,” I said dryly. “How do you think it went?”

“That could happen with Belinda.” I groaned, pulling the thin sheet over my head.

“Go to sleep.”

“Goin’ out with her again?”

“Yes, actually, I am. Why?”

“She’s a world of trouble and heartache, Theo. I’m tellin’ ya.”

“And I’m telling you to shut your trap already and go to sleep!” I whispered, trying to go back to sleep.



She’s wearing a pair of old sunglasses and a shirt that ties at the waist and some pants, hair braided down her back. And like last night, her mother is on the porch, except she’s still angry and she’s dressed, a pair of thick glasses on her nose.

“Belinda!”

“Sayonara!” She hugs me happily, putting a picnic basket in the backseat. She hops in—she was really independent, you know, did everything by herself and for herself—and grins at me, wriggling her eyebrows. “Well, are you gonna get in or just stare at me all day? We have places to go and things to see, c’mon.” She pushed my door open.

“Where exactly are we going?”

“Oh, nowhere and everywhere,” she replied breezily. “Just drive and I’ll tell you when to stop, hm?”



“We’re going on a picnic!” she exclaims, clapping her hands together as we park across the street from the actual park, turning over to get the basket from the back seat.

“A picnic?”

“Because you look like no one’s feeding you,” she joked, jumping over the door—she could never just open and shut the door, but that was what made her Belinda—with a small laugh. “Let’s go!”

We found a spot near the lake, and Belinda sat in the mildly high grass, pulling the basket onto her lap. She looked up at me, making a small face.

“Are you gonna eat standing up? That’s bad for you. Sit with me.” She patted the grass and smiled, passing me a sandwich. “Matka—I mean, my mom—made a bunch of them for you, because she thinks you’re starving to death, and when I got back last night, she was making you a bunch of food. Now, I eat a lot, but I don’t think I can eat these all by myself, so you should help me out.”

“What’s in it?” I asked, unwrapping it.

“Food,” she laughed, covering her mouth. “So, how do you know Buster?”

“We’re in the same infantry.”

“I should’ve known. The uniform gave it away.” She chews in silence for a moment. “He’s a goofball. I don’t think he’ll really make it.”

“Eh. He’s pretty serious sometimes, even if he is kind of funny.” She shrugs, taking off her sunglasses as she leans against the tree. “How do you know him?”

“He used to go steady with Diane, but then split up ’cause she’s kind of um…loud?” Belinda laughed, wiping at the corners of her mouth. “I dunno. But I think we’re all still friends, and maybe Diane still likes him a little. I mean, maybe if they could learn to get along, maybe they’ll work out or something.”

“Maybe.” Belinda looks at me, propping her head up with her hand, a small smile on her face. “What?” She bits her lip and I swallow, confused. “Do I have something on my face?” She shakes her head, mischievous. “What?” She leans over and kisses me, laughing.

“I just really wanted to kiss you.” I laugh and kiss her back and she laughs, fixing my hair. “You taste like sandwiches.”

“That’s good. You know, I’ve always wanted to be one.”

“I love sandwiches.”



And so that’s how I spend my weekends, going out with Belinda and getting away from everything for a couple of hours. As much as I hated calling hours, it was worth it, ’cause she was kind of like this motiving distraction, you know? It was nice.



“Theodore,” my mother says, sighing in relief. “I thought something had happened to you! I was waiting for the telegram and everything. Where have you been? Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine, momma—”

“Then where have you been?! I have been worried sick about you!”

“Momma, just—”

“Are you so busy that you can’t call your little ol’ ma, huh? I worry about you. What have you been doing? Are you okay? Want me to send you anythin’? You eatin’ and sleepin’ okay? They’re not workin’ y’all too hard are they? Wanna come home?”

“Momma—”

“I’mma make you a package right now with some of your granny’s pies, just—”

“You don’t have to, momma, I’m fine.” She gasped.

“You never say no to granny’s food. What is goin’ on with you? Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine! I just met someone’s all and I’ve been kind of busy—”

“You did?! Really? Tell me about her!”

“Well, um, she’s, you know, she’s nice and uh, she laughs a lot and, and she’s kinda silly sometimes and she’s just real fun and pretty, you know—”

“Better not be stringin’ that poor girl along now, hear?”

“Momma, I’m not, I’m—”

“I’m serious!”

“Alright, alright—”

“I’ll be sending your pack out when the mailman comes, okay? Love you!”

“Bye, momma.”



“Where are you going dressed like that?” my mother asked in quiet Polish, watching me from the doorframe. She stirred something in the bowl angrily, narrowing her eyes at me. I rubbed my legs with lotion, shaking my head. “Don’t tell me you’re going out with him again?”

“I actually am if you must know,” I muttered sullenly, sitting on my bed, trying to make sure my skin isn’t horrifically dry.

“You’re not leaving this house dressed like that.”

“I am so.” I slip a belt through the loops on my shorts, avoiding my fuming mother’s glare. “Can I help you with something? I’m trying to get dressed.”

“I’m not letting you leave this house dressed like that!” I braid my hair in the mirror, shaking my head with an eye roll. When I finish, I turn around, looking for something to tie up the ends. “Belinda—”

“Matka, please! Would you cut it out? He’s gonna be here any minute!” I throw some things into the bag on the bed, and then sling it over my shoulder, groaning under my breath.

“What is he going to think of you if you dress like that, huh?” I tie a bow on the end of my hair, smiling a little at myself. “He’s going to think you’re some—some—”

“Would you stop it?” I slip past her, shaking my head as I slip my feet into some tennis shoes. “He’s not going to think anything! We’re going swimming! What do you want me to wear, a potato sack?”

Her lips set in a thin line as I rushed past her.

“Well wear a sweater or something! You can’t leave the house in a brassiere, of all things—”

“It’s a top!” I protested. “It’s too hot today! I’m not wearing a sweater.”

“What about the cute one I made you for school? That one’s fresh, right? It’s—”

“No.” I walk back into my room and she makes a face as I dig through my closet.

“Why not?!”

“Because,” I say simply, pulling a striped one off the hanger, tossing my bag on the bed as I slip it over my head. “Happy now?” I heard the familiar rumble of the car outside and I grinned. “He’s here!”

“Where’d you get that sweater from?!”

“He bought it for me!” I yelled as I ran to the door. “I have to go!”

“Belinda—”

“Ciao matka!” I shut the door behind me and ran down the steps, jumping on him. “I thought you weren’t coming for a minute,” I murmured, pulling away.

“Belinda, get back here!”

“Let’s go before my mother jumps off the porch, hm?”



Vernon’s date is a pretty blonde curvy girl who makes me look like a stick. Her name is Christine. Her eyes are blue and she looks like she’s busting out of her bathing suit, waist thin, legs long. I’m a little jealous, to be honest.

“You know,” Christine says, moving her wispy hair out of her face, “Vernon says Theo talks about you all the time.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He’s crazy about you!”

“No he isn’t,” I laughed, shaking my head.

“He is so! Vernon even tried bringing my sister, Tracey, by the base the other day, and he didn’t even look at her.” She looked at me, pulling her sunglasses down her nose a little. “She’s really pretty, you know.”

“That’s nice.”

“Are you guys going steady or what?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, are you together?”

“I don’t understand—” Christine groans, throwing her head back. She rolls on the towel, sucking in her breath as she lies on her back, arms hanging over her head.

“Vernon!” she exclaims, propping herself up on her elbows. He looks at her and she smiles, biting her lip. “Could you guys get us some ice cream please? It’s awfully hot today, honey.” When they leave she huffs, slipping her sunglasses back up. “It’s like taking candy from a baby, I swear. Anyway, as I was saying, are you together or not?”

“I don’t know,” I say, bunching up my sweater as I put it in my bag, shaking my head. “I don’t know what you mean!”

“You’re so dull sometimes.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I mumble, confused.

“I mean, are you exclusive or what?”

“Exclusive?” I mean, English wasn’t exactly my first language, but I spoke it well enough, I think, to get by. The problem was that I didn’t really get the customs. Well, I did, just not all of them. America is a strange and wonderful place all at the same time. So, Theo and me went out… a lot…and we talked… a lot…but were we exclusive? What did that even mean? “I don’t know.” I shrugged, readjusting the straps on my shoulders.

“How do you not know!? I mean, he’s such a hunk and for all you know, he’s seeing other girls and what if he dumps you for some Suzy Homemaker or something!?” she rushes out, face pink.

“What? He’s not.” My face fell a little.

“How do you know?”

“Because—’Cause he wouldn’t.” I shake my head.

“Oh, but he would. I mean, Vernon and me aren’t exclusive, ’cause, well, I can’t tie myself down yet!” She flips her hair over her shoulder. “I mean, look at me! I’m gorgeous. And I mean, Vernon’s wonderful,” she says, blowing him a kiss from across the beach, “but… I’d like to keep my options open. And before you get any ideas, I’m not going after Theo. I already tried,” she mumbles with a pout. “He won’t even give me the time of day!” Christine sighs, deflated. “So I figure I’d ask, ’cause I was just wondering why he wasn’t interested, and if he’s with you, that’d explain it. But since you guys aren’t together, I don’t know what it is.”

“But we’re kind of together?” I half ask, confused. “That’s not right, Christine.”

“So? It’s nothing serious,” she says as they come back bearing ice cream cones. “Thank you sweet pea,” she coos at Vernon, a sweet smile on her face.



I chew on my fingernail, staring straight ahead. Vernon was eating dinner at Christine’s, so we were alone.

“Penny for your thoughts, buttercup?”

“I’m just thinking.” I shake my head, gnawing some more on the nail.

“About?”

“Christine and me were talking today and I’m just thinking about something she said.”

“What’d she say?”

“She asked me if we were going steady and I told her I didn’t know, because I don’t even know what that means, and she said that if we weren’t, then you could see other girls and I wouldn’t even know it. I mean, if that’s what you really want, then I guess I—”

“I don’t wanna see other girls, though,” he protested. “I just want to see you.”

“But Christine said—”

“Forget what Christine said, okay? We don’t have to be anything but you and me.”

“You and me?”

“You and me.” He kissed me. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

He was so simple—everything was so simple and black and white when it came to him. There wasn’t any kind of middle ground. He was so determined and driven and humble and sweet all at the same time.

He made me feel safe.



A couple of nights later, I sneak in kind of late. He came to the diner—surprise!—and picked me up. We went for a drive, and we kind of got distracted in the car—the kind of distracted that takes place in dark alleys and might steam up windows.

And maybe I came home a little late.

The next day is a Thursday, and it’s our “official” date night, even though he calls or drops by or sends a note every day. I button my shirt and comb my hair hastily, trying to cover my neck. Someone might have gotten a little carried away last night and now I have to cover it up. I put some powder over the small bite, but it’s still kind of there. Groaning, I push my hair over my shoulder. If my mother sees it, she’ll get the wrong idea, and then she really wouldn’t let me see him.

“Belinda! You’ll be late for work, misiu! Come on!”



At five, I change out of my work clothes, bathe, and change into something pretty. It’s a favorite of his—he’s told me himself—and it’s cute, so why not? I fix my hair, trying to figure out what to do with it. If I have it down for work, it doesn’t matter, because work is work and no one pays me much mind anyway, but with him, it’s different. I don’t want to hide, but if my mom sees what he left, I’m dead meat. Huffing, I pull it all to one side and put some combs in, remembering that I saw it in a magazine once. It’s not my favorite, but it’ll do.

By the time I’m set and ready to go, it’s almost six thirty. He’s usually here by quarter to seven so I sit on the couch and wait.

My aunt Sanne is in the kitchen, gossiping with my mother. I guess they think I’m deaf, because I can hear them and I know they’re talking about us. I don’t understand what the problem is. I mean, he’s not that much older than me and my last year of school starts next Tuesday anyway, so what’s the problem? We’re happy together.

My mother thinks he’s going to take advantage of me, but he isn’t and he doesn’t. She thinks he’s going to make me lose my job, but he isn’t. She thinks he’s going to distract me from my studies, but he isn’t going to do that either. I don’t want to go back to school, but he thinks it’ll be good for me—it won’t, but to make him happy, I’ll go.

And when he comes and we leave, my mother’s yelling at me and telling me things that I don’t want to hear.



I know the war’s getting kind of intense, but it’s not coming here and he tells me it’s probably going to be over any day now, so I try not worry about him being there. I mean, if he wants to enlist, let him—he did it before he met me anyway so what does it matter? But I don’t want him to actually go.

It scares me more than anything in the whole world.



On Tuesday afternoon, they’re having an airshow at the base and Theo volunteers to take me after school, so I spend the whole morning looking forward to it. When Diane and I make it to the positively ancient building, there’s a bunch of commotion, and some of the girls are crying, and some of the others are yelling and spitting and saying something about going back to where you came from and other things I’d rather not remember.

Frowning, I dodge a flying wad of spit, rushing into the school with Diane. We go to our homeroom. The teacher calls roll, looking uneasy. After she finishes, she calls Diane, Marguerite, Hanna, and me to the front of the room, and tells us we need to go to the office. Confused, we leave.

There’s more yelling outside and there are sirens.

It’s like I’m back in Poland all over again.

In the office, they tell us we need to go home and we shouldn’t worry about coming back.

“Wait, what?” Diane asks in disbelief. “Why? We didn’t do anything wrong. It’s the first day of class!”

“Politics,” is the only answer the principal gives us as he dismisses us. “Be careful on your way out.”

Hanna and Marguerite cry in the hallway.

I don’t want to think it’s because of the war, but isn’t? After all, Poland is kind of a big deal nowadays and isn’t everything lately because of the war? I know it’s getting bad back home, but I didn’t think it would get that out of hand. What’s next? Am I going to lose my job? Are they going to kick my mom, Sanne, Diane and me out of our homes?

It’s a lot crazier outside now, and Hanne runs off to find her sister, Marguerite went to go find someone to explain what was going on to her, and Diane and I stood on the stairs, just trying to make sense of it. Weren’t we supposed to be able to come here and learn, regardless of where we were from?

I didn’t understand.

Wasn’t this supposed to be our home? Why is everyone treating us like we’re the criminals? We’ve done nothing wrong. We walk home in a stunned silence. Diane drags her feet in her new penny loafers.

“Could this really be happening all over again?” she asks me quietly as I open my door, numb. “This can’t be happening again.” She shoves her hand into her pocket, pulling out a familiar star. I close my eyes, shaking my head. “It reminds me why we’re here, why we left, why this place is supposed to be better—I told you!” she exclaims, suddenly angry. “We can’t leave it, Belinda! It never leaves. Everywhere we go, this is gonna happen!”

“Diane—”

“Don’t you understand!?” she exclaims in angry Polish. “It’s everywhere. It’ll be Kristallnacht all over again!”

“Don’t say that!” I yell, covering her mouth. Sanne and my mother poke their heads into the living room, frowning.

“What’s going on?”

“It happened. Finally, matka! I told her it would!” Diane points a finger at me. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“What?”

“They kicked us out of school,” I say. Sanne frowns.

“Why?”

“Why else?” Diane asks, shaking her head. She throws the star on the table, lip trembling. “It never changes.”

“So you can’t go back?” my mother asks, hands wringing her apron. I shake my head, still numbed. I can’t believe it. “This isn’t right. I’m sure it’s a big misunderstanding.”

That’s what she said last time this happened. She goes into the kitchen and we all follow her, watching her as she dials a number nervously, twisting the cord between her fingers.

“Allo? Yes. It’s, uh, it’s Belinda Sliver’s mother, and I… I don’t—oh. I see. Could I speak to him? It’s important. Please? Thank you.” She’s quiet for a second. “Mr. Bell? Hi. I just…you sent Belinda home early for no reason—” She makes a face. “Excuse me? What did you just say? Filthy—what? How dare I? How dare you!” She’s steaming by now and starts cursing at him. He’s obviously upset her, because the last time I heard her curse like that was when my father decided to stay in Poland with his beloved secretary instead of come to America with his family. “Go home?! This is my home! It isn’t? Whose name is on the bills then? Not yours, no, mine, because this is my home! I pay my taxes, I work, I try—” She scowls. “Fine—Fine!” She hangs up, huffing, mouth in a line. “Well, girls, seems like your summer break is gonna last a little while longer.” She sighs. “It could be worse.”



Diane’s brother and father comes to take her and Sanne home an hour or so later.

I lie in bed in listen to some old records, mostly because I don’t know what’s going on and I’m confused and I don’t want to deal with anything right now, and I would much rather listen to some old symphonies—it’s the only thing that calms me down—than deal with my life.

I know that he’s coming in a couple of hours and that I should probably get ready, but I don’t get out of bed. I don’t cry, I don’t yell, I don’t say anything. I think I’m still numb.

“Misiu?” my mother asks, sitting on my bed, stroking my hair. “Hungry? I made your favorite,” she coaxes.

“Why?” I ask, looking over at her, quiet.

“Why? You haven’t eaten today, have you?”

“No, no. I mean…why is this happening to us? What did we do wrong?” She’s quiet, a demure look coming over her pale face. She sucks in her thin lips, gnawing on them. She opens her mouth but says nothing, and then says, “I don’t know, misiu. I really don’t.” She sighs. “You know that he’s eating in the kitchen without you, right?”

“What?”

“He’s here.” I sit up, rubbing my face. “Just go out with him for a little, yeah? Have a nice time.” She kisses my forehead and lets me go. I walk to the kitchen slowly, almost a little shy.

I swear, he can’t be eating there, because whenever we eat anywhere else, he stuffs his face. He’s eating like he’s never seen food before in his entire life. I cough a little and he looks up, licking his thumb, grinning.

“Belinda! I was gonna surprise you, but you’re already home, so…” He shrugs. “This is really good. What’s it called?”

“Food,” I smile, sitting down across from him.

“You’re funny.” He eats another spoonful. “You look upset. Still wanna go to the show? We don’t have to, you know, if you don’t feel up to it…”

“Let’s go.”

He finishes the bowl a minute or so later, sighing dreamily. I wash out the bowl in the sink and he turns to watch me. I look back at him.

“What?” He shakes his head, and we go after I finish. My mother looks at us sympathetically from the window. It’s raining, so I take my coat. We drive in silence for a couple of minutes, and then he pulls over, turning off the car. I look at him, frowning.

“What’s wrong?”

“What are you talking about?” He makes a face. “I’m fine.”

“You’re really quiet today.”

“I’m always quiet.” He raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “I’m just…”

“Did something happen in school today?” I bite my lip, looking away. “Belinda?” I shake my head, gulping. “What happened?”

“N-Nothing,” I stammer, wiping at my eyes quickly, embarrassed. He looks like he doesn’t believe me. “I just—they kicked me out.”

“Of where?!” he exclaims, surprised.

“School. Again.”

“What do you mean, again?”

“Back home,” I begin to say, trying to steel myself into not crying, “we—there’s this—this crazy person, no? And he thinks that because of our beliefs we can’t do anything. Can’t go to school, can’t work, can’t shop—can’t live in our own homes,” I finish softly, thumbing the yellow star absentmindedly. I didn’t really wear my coat often, and when I did, it was usually to the temple with my mother, so I didn’t really see why I had to take it off. I tug at the sewn on fabric, huffing as hot tears drip down my face.

“C’mere,” he says, pulling me onto his lap, wrapping himself around me.

“We have to wear the Star and it’s—it’s like they’re making fun of us or something,” I stammer, head hanging as all the shame comes rushing back. “We come here, and we think we’ll find a better life. We’re away from the war, we’re with our family, and we’re safe. We’re lucky, we think. I’m happy here.” I smile a little, trying to breathe. “And today, the principal says to Hanna and Marguerite and Diane and me that we need to leave, and he won’t tell us why, but I know, I know it’s because of the war and—and I don’t—what did we do wrong?” I ask, crying into his shirt. He tries to shush me, rubbing my back as I shake my head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, kissing my forehead. “It’s just a big mistake, honey, and you’ll see, you’ll be back in no time. It’s gonna be okay.”

And even though I don’t believe him because I’ve seen how things like this end, I want to, because he sounds so firm and sure of himself that there’s no way he isn’t right, and he’s all I have left to believe in anyway.



“Hold still,” my mother says, pins in her mouth as she crouches on the floor. I stand impatiently on the chair, arms crossed defiantly across my chest. She’s rolling down the hem on all my skirts and dresses because she doesn’t have enough money to buy enough cloth to sew me new ones—she’s a seamstress—or just buy them, like everyone else.

“Matka!” I protest when she pokes me, jumping a little.

“I told you to stay still, no?” She looks up at me with dark brown eyes—they have circles and bags around them now—annoyed. “Still!”

“But—”

“But nothing! Stay still. You can’t leave this house with those hemlines.”

“But—”

“Shush!”

My birthday’s next week. And Diane says she has a surprise for me, but I don’t know what it is. Everyone’s acting very secretive and strange, and even Beau—I call him Beau because it sounds pretty and it just suits him better, because I looked it up once and it means handsome in French, and he is pretty handsome—is keeping mum about it. It’s suspicious.

I wonder what they’re up to.

“I’m almost done. Sanne is coming by to cut your hair later, okay?”

“I don’t want to cut my hair!” I stomp my foot and she sighs, mumbling something under her breath.

“Don’t move!” She starts sewing again. “You need a little trim. It’ll look pretty!”

“The last time Sanne cut my hair I looked like a rag doll.”

“Because you wouldn’t stop moving! Stay still.” She squints at the dress as she sews, pushing her glasses up her nose. She sighs after a few minutes, sitting on her knees with a small smile. “All done!” She stands up and helps me down, smiling. “You’ve become a beautiful young lady, you know?”

I nod.

“Thank you.”

“Take that off so I can wash it, yeah? Get dressed. Sanne should be here any minute.”



On Friday, my mother makes me a small cake with a candle from the menorah in the middle and Sanne and her family came over to eat it with us. Later that afternoon, Diane and Buster—now that school’s out (well, for us, anyway) Diane is back with Buster and they seem pretty happy—pick me up, whispering back and forth.

Something’s up.

I sit in the backseat, narrowing my eyes at them.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise,” Diane grins. “Just you wait and see.”

We go to her house and I scowl at her. I told Beau not to pick me up today because Diane and I were doing something special, and there wasn’t anything special about her house.

“You have to close your eyes.”

“No.”

“Just do it!” Buster exclaimed, wriggling his eyebrows at me. “I promise I won’t try anything funny.” He raises his hand. “Scouts’ honor.”

I sigh, covering my eyes with my hand.

“This is for babies,” I tell Diane and Buster as they lead me through her marshy front yard. “Just tell me what’s going on!”

“It’s called a surprise for a reason,” Buster chimes. They lead me up the stairs slowly. I hear Diane bumbling with the keys in the door.

“Okay, open!” she exclaims. I hear a light switch and open my eyes, ready to yell at her, but I can’t, because it’s a surprise party—for me—and it’s so nice, I don’t even know what to say. I see Beau hiding in a corner, sheepish. After Diane gets over her initial rush, she sneaks off to be with Buster somewhere. A record—I don’t recognize it—is playing loudly, and everyone’s having a nice old time.

“Hey, stranger,” I say to him, hands on my hips.

“Darling,” he grins, hugging me tightly, my feet lightly skimming the floor.

“This wasn’t your idea, was it?” He looks sheepish. “Beau!”

“Well—I just—you looked so sad lately and I just wanna cheer you up ’cause, you know, your smile’s kinda pretty and—”

“You didn’t have to.”

“But that’s why it’s worth it,” he says, touching my face. “Let’s dance, hm?”



Sanne made me a cake too, it turned out, and Diane carted it out with eighteen pink and white candles, lighting them with some matches. She makes someone turn off the record player, and drags me—I’m embarrassed from all the attention—to the cake, Beau in tow.

“Happy birthday to you,” they start singing. I blush when Beau squeezes my hand, biting my lip. The last couple of weeks have been kind of horrible, but little moments like this make me think it might be okay. Maybe.

“Make a wish!”

“What kind of cake is it?” They laugh.

“What does it matter? Just make your wish!” I make a face, unsure. I mean, there’s so many things I can wish for, and I can only pick one.

“Um…”

There’s the sound of car doors shutting outside, and I think that more people are coming to the party. I smile a little. More friends.

“Belinda! Hurry! The wax is gonna melt into the frosting!” she exclaims, eying it worriedly. I take a deep breath and nod, closing my eyes, and wish to be happy.

That’s all I can really ask for, right?

There’s a cheer. Diane wipes the knife on her skirt, then starts cutting into the cake, handing out pieces. She’s just given Beau his plate when there’s the sound of breaking glass and something crashing. We all look over, only to see a hole in the window and a brick on the floor. Buster picks it up and his face falls as his hands tighten around it, suddenly upset.

“What does it say?” Diane asks. He blows past her, goes around the room to all the guys, and the more he goes around, the more people get upset. He saves Beau for last, whispering something in his ear, leaving the brick on the table. Diane takes it, frowning. Beau makes a face.

“Beau?” I ask as he sets his plate down.

“I’ll be back,” he says, grabbing his coat of the chair.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ll be back.”

I make a face, watching him leave with Buster and all of them. Diane pales, running out after them.

“Buster! Buster, come back!” she exclaims, waving it around. “Don’t do anything stupid, now! Come back!”

“Beau!”

But they don’t listen, they just get in their cars and leave. I look at Diane.

“What does it say?” She just holds it up, shaking her head.

GO HOME.



“Do you think you guys are really gonna go over there?” Belinda asks me the Sunday after the infamous birthday, on visits day (my mother is supposed to be here sometime after five, and Belinda won’t be here by then on account of Diane wanting to take her shopping), legs bunched up beneath her. She’s curled up in her jacket, the fading yellow star hanging limply on her chest. I tell her that she should just take it off if it makes her so sad, because she doesn’t have to wear it here, but she says it’s a symbol of courage, so she keeps it.

“No,” I say confidently—it’s the only time I ever lied to her, I swear.

“Then why are you training so much?”

“’Cause… I don’t know. Just are, suppose. I think they want us to be prepared, but I don’t know for what. I mean, I’m tellin’ you, it’s gonna be over any day now. We’re just, you know, training in case something happens.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “But don’t get all upset about that, okay?” I ask, holding her hand. “I’m stayin’ right here.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

She smiles.



My mother is the kind of lady who’s kind of the enthusiastic type. She gets really emotional and intense about things and I know she misses me, but when she comes later that afternoon, she almost knocks me over, hugging me and crying and touching my face and head, saying something that I don’t understand because she’s crying and talking too fast. My grandmother’s more on the quiet, reserved, reverential side. No makeup, hair in a simple braid wrapped around her head, a scarf slipping onto her shoulders, small smile on her face. My mother was loud and gaudily dressed, bright blue dress and her brown hair a curly frizzy mess and a white hat on her head, dragging a suitcase loudly behind her.

“Momma—”

My grandmother sits quietly in a chair. “Eleanor.”

“You got so big and—and—oh, my poor—”

“Eleanor, let the poor boy breathe.” My mother sucked in her red lips and sighed, sitting down across from me. “How are you, my child?” she asked in her quietly accented voice, sounding like an older version of Belinda’s mother.

“I’m okay.”

“You sure? You don’t wanna come home?” my mother asks, leaning forward with concern. “’Cause I can take you home today—”

“I want to stay.” She raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

“And why, might I ask? This war’s a joke, at best, and even if we do get involved, you guys aren’t going anywhere. The sergeant told me that himself,” she says proudly. “So why won’t you come home?”

“Well…”

I’ve kind of met Belinda.

“Well?”

“I’m having fun,” I say. It’s not a complete lie, and I know if I tell her about Belinda she won’t let it go, so I don’t. “I have friends here, and three hots and a cot, and I feel like I’m doin’ somethin’ useful, you know? Like, like I mean somethin’, like I could be a somebody maybe…”

“Do you now? You’re somebody to me,” she says. “Just come home! We miss you somethin’ awful.”

“But you’re happy, no?” my grandmother asks.

“Ma, don’t encourage him!” my mother protested quietly.

“I’m happy.”

“Then I’m happy too. He’s fine,” my grandmother says simply.

“You’re staying!?”

“For the last time, mom, yes.”

“You’re serious about this?” I make a face. “There’s nothing I can do about it, then?”



On Thursday, she asks me to come get her from the diner. I manage to sneak out most Thursdays because even the sergeant is convinced nothing much is going to come from the war in Europe, so he’s been pretty lazy lately.

I’m planning on taking her by surprise—I’m taking her to the field where they lay all the old war planes to rest because it’s something she’s always wanted to see—but when I see her sitting on the corner in front of the diner, I know I something’s wrong.

“Belinda?”

“Hey, Beau.” She looks up. I sit down, frowning a little.

“Aren’t you cold?” I take off my coat and put it on her shoulders. She sighs quietly.

“I lost my job. They don’t have work for people like me, apparently,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself. “I told you this would happen.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she says quietly, getting up. “Let’s go.”



“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” Vernon said, scowling at the letter. “Swear to god, it’s like reading chicken scratch.”

“Where are your glasses?”

“Christine says they make me look dinky.”

“But you can’t see without them?”

“Christine hates them.”

“Are you guys married or something? No, so what does it matter? You guys are just kind of seeing each other.”

“Sort of.” He sighs, rolling over on to his back. “Girls are crazy.”

“What does she say?”

“She says we should elope.”

We start to laugh.



“Boo!” Belinda exclaims, popping up from behind a tree, lips in a pink pout. I jump, startled, turning around. Her arms are crossed as she comes closer, hair falling into her face. “Did I scare you?”

“No.”

“I did so,” she says knowingly.

“What are you supposed to be?”

“Guess!” she exclaimed, hopping onto the road, grabbing my hand. She wrinkled her nose, making a small face. “C’mon! It’s easy!”

“Um…”

“Judy Garland! The actress? You know! The Wizard of Oz…?” I make a face and she sighs, playing with the bow onto the end of her plaits. “And who are you? A dead sailor? How very original.”

“I know.” She takes my hat and puts it on, hands on her hips.

“Suits you,” I say as she loops her arm with mine, tossing her coat into my hands.

“So where’s the party?”

“Vernon’s friend…Christine, right?”

“I don’t like Christine,” she mumbles. “She’s rude and mean and she has no manners and she makes eyes at you all the time, and she’s all, ‘Ooh, Theo, geez, you’re a such dream boat, golly what a hunk,’” she mocks, rolling her eyes.

“She does not,” I laugh, watching as her face screws up.

“‘He’s such a babe!’”

“Belinda!”

“‘And he’s so dreamy!’” She brought a hand to her chest, throwing her head back. “‘Oh! He’s perfect, I swear!’”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m so serious!” She snickers, nodding. “Christine really likes you.”

“I don’t even talk to her! She bought her sister the other day by and it was just awkward because Vernon got all pissy because he thought I was trying to put the moves on her or her sister or something—who knows how he thinks?—and it just got really complicated and annoying.”

“Did you think she was pretty?”

“No.”

“You can say yes you know? I’m not going to get upset or something. I mean, there are lots of pretty girls out there…” she sings, humming.

“I know. But you’re the prettiest.”

She blushes.



“That movie was awful,” she laments. “I mean, you know he’s gonna die at some point but they just dragged it on and on and then, out of nowhere his wife just leaves him for his best friend?!” There’s a breeze and she shivers, wiping at her nose. “Because that’s obviously not predictable!”

“Cold?”

“I’m always cold,” she says as I put her coat on her shoulders. “Stop babying me. Anyway—next time, I’m picking the film.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” She’s silent, looking at me blankly. “Was it?” She nods, laughing.

“Matke made you some soup, if you want some?” She smiles a little. “They have the little doughy things you like, you know? Like with the little—what?”

And then it hits me like—like I don’t know, like something hard, like a skillet to the face or something, I don’t know—that I’m in love and it’s with Belinda and I don’t know why it’s just hitting me now, but it is and it’s like this epiphany minus the angelic choir and the sun breaking through the clouds and I’m stuck still because I can’t believe this is happening—but it is and I’m in love.

“Beau?”

“Soup sounds wonderful,” I say, shaking my head.



“You’re pathetic,” Vernon says, watching me as I pick out some flowers at the florist, shaking his head.

“Says the one who’s eloping with Christine.”

“We’re not eloping, okay? We’re just going on a trip of sorts.”

“Mm.” I squint at a price tag, gnawing on my lip. “Irises or peonies?”

“The fact that you know what these things are even called is a cause of great concern,” he says, eyeing some roses.

“Momma likes flowers.” I shrug. “I don’t know what you want me to do. I think I’ll get the peonies. Maybe Christine wouldn’t mind getting flowers too?”

“She hates them.”

“Every girl loves flowers.”

“No, every girl loves diamonds.”

“Just get her some flowers. Maybe you guys will stop fighting for three seconds.”

“Funny. Roses?”

“Romantic.”

“So you and Belinda, huh?”

“Yep.” He wriggles his eyebrows at me. “What?”

“Am I gonna be hearing wedding bells soon?”

“What?”

“Well, all I’m hearing from everyone is about Belinda and you and I just assumed, you know, that you’d probably be tyin’ that knot soon.”

“Um…” I hadn’t ever really thought about it like that before. Being with Belinda and marrying Belinda were two different things, and I wasn’t sure which one I liked more. Were we even ready to get married? “I think we’re just seeing what happens now.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“Vernon—”

“Christine’s gonna be thrilled,” he says flatly.



November 30, 1941

Fort Jackson, South Carolina

Private Theodore A. Beaumont

Momma—

How are things? I’m sorry I missed Thanksgiving. I don’t have much of an excuse, either, I’m afraid. I hope your column’s going okay. I got the socks and shirts. Thank you.

I know we haven’t spoken much in the last few days but that’s my fault. I’m kind of busy, and I’d call, but I can’t figure out what I want to say or how to say it, so I’ll write it and hope you understand.

There’s a girl.

She’s not just a girl, though.

She’s soft and pretty and strong wonderful and I don’t know if I am but it feels like I’m in love.

Her name is Belinda and she’s from Poland, like grandma, and she lights up the place when she smiles and her eyes look like you just took a bunch of grey and green and sorta blue paint and mixed them all up. She doesn’t like her laugh. She’s small, kinda, but not really, and she’s the kindest person I know.

I just thought I’d let you know, because you seem to be pretty good at this advice giving thing and all. Figured you might be interested in knowing and all.

Much love,

Theo.



The day it happens starts out perfectly innocent and quiet. It’s a Sunday. Beau is coming tonight because he’s teaching me to ice skate with Diane, Christine, Buster and Vernon. It’s supposed to be fun. Diane comes over early because she wants to get all gussied up for Buster. We tried to invite Christine too, but she didn’t want to come. Oh well.

We’re listening to the radio and Diane’s singing a song by The Ink Spots, brushing her hair with a smile, and then the song just stops and there are sirens, and the radio host is saying something about a bombing or something like that and we stop, and look at each other and it’s like this mutual horror takes over us.

We’re scared and panicky. We shake as we cover the windows and shut the radio off, and it’s so, so hard to hear over the sirens going off and I just want them to be quiet for a second, but it doesn’t stop. We shut the lights and find some candles.

Diane and I go into the kitchen, trying not to trip over our feet. I dial the base slowly, trying to make sense of what’s going on.

No one answers.

“Would you like some tea?” she asks, going through the cupboards. I shake my head and she sighs softly, wiping at her eyes.

It’s like Warsaw all over again.



It’s all over the newspapers on Monday morning—some country bombed a base overseas, and now everything’s a mess. Beau calls and tells me it’s going to be okay, but I can’t believe him, because I’ve seen this and I know how it ends—and it’s not a pretty sight.

And granted, it’s all the way on the other side of the country, but what’s to say it won’t happen here too?

“It won’t,” he assures me and he sounds so sure that I almost want to believe, but I can’t.

“How do you know that?”

“Because I do. It’s gonna be okay, Belinda. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Bye.”



The invitation comes in the mail a few days later. The envelope is heavy and creamy and white, addressed to a Miss Belinda Magdalene Sliver. Sanne slides it over to me, wiping her hands on her apron as she goes back to what she was cooking. I grab a letter opener and cut it open slowly, trying to figure out where it could have come from.



“What does it say?” Sanne asks. She peers over my shoulder and laughs, shaking her head.

“You can’t tell matka,” I plead, looking over at her. “Please.”

“You’re my niece, and I love you, and I’m doing this for your own good.” My face falls as she sets the bowl down on the table. “You can’t help who you love, because it’s just one of those things that just can’t be helped, I suppose. But your mother doesn’t understand that, so I won’t say anything to her, but just be careful, okay?”



I’m embarrassed and mortified and oh god, if anyone I know sees me here, I’ll just die. I asked Diane about it because she’s kind of experienced and she knows more about this kind of thing than I do.

“What about this?” I blush, sinking further into the chair. “It’s pretty.”

“I can’t wear that.”

“Why not?”

I get the harebrained idea to surprise Beau because of the rumors saying they’ll be deployed any day now, and I’m hoping this is something he wants. I mean, all guys want this, right?

“Because,” I mumble.

“Look, Belinda, if you really wanna do this, then you’ve gotta tell me what you like.”

“Just pick something and let’s go home!”

“Why? C’mon, these are actually nice! Look, nylon garters!”

I make a face.

“I don’t have any nylons, Diane.”

“Your mom does.”

“She wears them for work. Don’t you think she’ll notice if they go missing?”

“Fine, I’ll lend you mine.” She rolled her eyes. “Try this one!”

“Put that down, Diane!”



Sanne tells my mother that I’ll be spending the night with Diane and that we’ll be going to a museum in the morning. I don’t want to lie, but I severely doubt my mother is going to let me go to a dance two hours away with people she doesn’t know.

And normally, I wouldn’t be this reckless and taking all these risks.

It’s just that I’m in love.



It’s only a couple of blurry moments now. A handful of dances, some punch, some dinner, but I’m afraid that’s all I have left. He’s leaving soon, I don’t know when and I wish he wouldn’t—he promised he wouldn’t. I just want him to stay here, safe and sound, with me.

And he is, he’s here now and he’s holding me and mumbling sweet nothings in my ear and he’s tangible now, I can feel and see and hold him—but for how long?



It’s raining after the last dance. It’s late and we’re both kind of tired, and this is a hotel, after all, so we decide to get a room for the night. The receptionist at the counter makes a face at us as she tells us that the only rooms left that evening are singles.

She slides the room key over and tells us the room is upstairs and that we should take the elevators. We do, in a comfortable silence. I don’t know what to say about anything anymore, so I just don’t say anything.

The room is pretty. There’s a nice window, and the curtains aren’t sheer or thick, the carpet’s plush…and then there’s the bed. It’s kind of big and the sheets are sky blue, and there are too many pillows on it, but besides that, it’s pretty nice too.

I bite my lip and he shuts the door.

“I think I’m gonna go wash up,” he announces quietly, sounding tired. I glance over as he goes into the bathroom, whistling a little. The sink runs and I look around, suddenly nervous. I mean, this is it—I’m doing this. Maybe. No! Not maybe—I’m ready. I’m really ready. I want this. It’s a mantra I keep repeating in my head, trying to arm myself with courage.

“It’s all yours,” he laughs, drying his face off with a white towel. I don’t—can’t—say anything as I walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me, leaning against it. I know I can’t go back, but for some reason, I really don’t want to. I slip out of the dress and my shoes, folding the pale yellow fabric, setting them on the counter.

These underclothes were all Diane’s idea.

What if he hates them?

I look at myself in the mirror and try to smile a little. This is going to be one of the few times we’re going to be together before he leaves, and I want to make it special. Taking a deep breath, I shut the lights off as I open the door, standing in the doorway, trying my hardest not to blush. He’s reading one of the flyers from under the lamp, and I think that maybe I really can pull this off, until he looks at me, wide-eyed and slack jawed.

“B-Belinda?”

“Sh.”

“If you needed pajamas, you could’ve just said so, I would’ve found you somethin’—” He stammers as I sit on him, trying my best not to look like I knew what I was doing.

“It’s okay, I wasn’t really planning on sleeping anyway.”



It’s hot.

This entire room is stifling hot. The window’s open. The sheets are tangled somewhere near the foot of the bed. The air is sticky and humid, and the sheets underneath us stick. I feel loose and limber.

“That was nice, Beau,” I say softly, tracing a pattern on his arm.

It was and it wasn’t what I thought it’d be like. Diane said it would hurt, and it did, but not as much as she made it out to. And she said I’d feel guilty and kind of sad, but I’m just tired and happy and a little sleepy. I was expecting it to feel right, and it did.

“Nice? Just nice? I was hoping to be a little better than nice,” he laughs. I sit up a little, looking at him.

“You were great.”

“Now we’re talking.”



“Details!” Diane exclaims after he drops me off the next afternoon. I’m not really sore as I am tired, and I just want to eat some soup and then go to sleep. “I want details!”

I yawn, falling down on her bed. “It was…” I don’t know what to say. What do I say? I don’t have anything to compare it to, but it was pretty good.

“Was it good? Bad? Decent? Just got the job done? C’mon, gimme something!”

I’m silent, throwing an arm over my eyes with a small sigh.

“It was lovely and when we finished Beau told me he loved me.”



I feel sick.

“Belinda? Honey, listen—”

“Beau?”

“I have to tell you something—”

“I’m gonna be sick,” I say, leaving the phone to hang as I rush down the hallway into the bathroom. I don’t actually throw anything up. It’s more of a dry heave. I lie there, weak from coughing and crying.

I hope it’s just the flu.



“I made soup!” my mother exclaims, setting dinner on the table. “It’s lentil!”

“Oh, joy,” I mumble quietly, clutching at my belly. She smiles obliviously, serving me some. I try to eat, but I can’t, nauseated.

“Belinda? Aren’t you hungry?”

“No—yes—I’m just—” I run to the empty sink, bending over it as I start to cough up my lunch—half a sandwich, some soda crackers, and water.

This can’t be happening to me.



“What’s wrong with me?!” I groan, glancing at Diane. She puts her hand to my forehead, making a face.

“Well…you don’t feel hot, but you do look kind of…sick.” She frowns a little.

“I’m tired. I can’t eat, can’t sleep, I just can’t sit still and I have to pee all the damn time and my feet feel—”

“When?”

“When what?” I look at her, confused.

“When was your last… you know.” My face brightens into a bright shade of pink.

“On the twenty-second,” I answer shyly.

“Last month?”

“Yes…” I trail off hesitantly.

“Oh sweet mother of pearl,” she says softly. “Today’s the thirtieth. Didn’t it come yet?”

I shake my head.

“What are you trying to say?”

“You’re pregnant!” she whispers loudly, covering her mouth. “Didn’t I tell you to be careful?!”

“Don’t say things like that! I’m not pregnant, okay? It’s just running late…”

“A week late? Really?”

“You’re wrong. You’ll see.”



When I get home, I pull my calendar off the wall to see if Diane is right. It came in November. The party was on 19 December. It should’ve come, but it didn’t. I sit there with the calendar on my lap, staring at my wall. She couldn’t be right. I wasn’t pregnant. I just wasn’t.



“They’re moving us to Charleston,” he says one afternoon a week or so later. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“Beau?”

“Yes?”

“You love me, right?”

“Of course. Why?”

“No matter what?”

“Yes.”

“You swear?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. When are you leaving?”

“Either tomorrow or the day after.”

“So soon?”

“The war, baby doll, it’s just…”

“I know.”

“Charleston’s two hours away.”

“I’ll write.”

“And I’ll call.”

“Every day?”

I’m skeptical.

“Damned if I don’t.”



I spend all of 22 January a nervous wreck, waiting for just a hint or spot of red. It doesn’t come. Before I go to bed, I pull my nightshirt up a little, looking at the very faint, almost imperceptible bump. I put my hand over it, biting my lip.

As much as I would rather not tell him, he has to know.



“Congratulations!” the doctor chirps, smiling at me brightly. “You’re expecting!”

I wait until he leaves so I can burst into tears.



I want to tell him before he gets on the bus, but I can’t, and all I actually can do is cry and beg him to stay with me, and all he can do is wipe my face with one of his fancy handkerchiefs, which only makes me cry harder.

“Beau—I—please don’t—I just—I need you here,” I say, crying into his chest. “Please!”

“It’ll all be over before you know it,” he says, moving some of my hair behind my ears. “Stop crying, please. I’ll be okay.”

But I won’t be.



A few days later, I scrounge up some money and borrow a few bucks from Diane (I’m pretty much flat broke after my visit to the doctor), walk to the bus station, and take the earliest bus that day to Charleston. He wrote the address down on a piece of paper in case I wanted to send him a letter or something. I wring it in my hands nervously in my window seat, wrapped in an old coat, scarf, and hat. It’s cold today.

I was debating telling him in a letter, but this is a big deal and I can’t just be so impersonal. I want to be there, I want to see him, I want him to hold me and kiss me and promise me that I’m going to be okay, that we’re going to be okay, that this baby is (hopefully) going to be okay too. I need to see him.

The bus ride doesn’t last long enough for me to figure out a way to tell him. I ask the bus driver for direction and he writes them neatly on the back of the folded piece of paper.

It’s not too far, but it’s still a pretty long walk in this weather.

By the time I get there, I can’t feel my cheeks and my fingers are red and stiff. I pull the scarf down a little, walking into the main building. There’s a man at the desk, reading a book stoically. He takes one look at me and puts his book down, bored.

“How may I help you, ma’am?”

“I need to see someone here. A Private Beaumont?”

“They’re trainin’ right now, little lady. I’m afraid he’s kinda busy.”

“Please,” I say, twisting my scarf in my hands. “It’s really important.”

“Well, I’m sure whatever you need to see him for can wait, ma’am. Our visiting hours are on Saturday and Sunday afternoons between noon and five in the afternoon.” He points at a black and white sign on the wall behind him. “See?”

“It can’t wait.”

“Why not?”

“It’s an emergency.” He blinks once, twice, tells me to sit, and then picks up a heavy black phone, dialing a series of numbers.

“Get Beaumont out here. He’s got company. I know—no—no, I know—it’s an emergency,” he says, shooting me a quick look. I pretend not to notice, looking up and around. It’s pretty nice in here, a little quiet. He hangs up. “He should be here in a minute, just sit tight.”

“Thank you.”

We sit in a slightly tense silence.

“Make yourself comfortable, ma’am.” I slip out of my coat, taking off my mittens, sliding them into the pocket. My hands are starting to thaw, thankfully. I sigh, rubbing them against the fabric of my dress.

“It’s warm in here.”

“Hm.”

I feel myself heat up when I hear his footsteps in the hall. I sit up straight, trying to fix my hair. He pokes his head in the door.

“You called me, sir?”

“Got company, boy.” He points a pen at me, then stands up, folding the newspaper under his arm. “Y’all have five minutes.” Tapping his watch, he looks at him. “I’m countin’.” He slips past Beau, who turns his head to look at him strangely, then looks at me. I stand up, willing myself not to knock him over.

“Hi, Beau.” He looks at me like he can’t believe it’s me, here, now, but I am, I’m here, and when it actually dawns on him, he scoops me up and holds me tight, sighing.

“Belinda.”

“Hi.” He sets me down and looks at me properly, then kisses me, hard, almost knocking the wind out of me.

“I miss you so much.”

“I bet I miss you more.” I smile and try to keep the lump from rising in my throat. “I’ve got somethin’ to tell you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’m kind of, um…” I want to avoid the p-word, just because saying it makes me dizzy and sick and it just freaks me out. “I’m late.”

“For what? The bus?” He checks his watch. “It’s not leavin’ for an hour, but if you want I’ll ask—”

“That’s not what I mean,” I say, looking down. “I mean, I’m late.”

“Late?” I look up at him, nodding guiltily, hands behind my back. “Late, late?”

“You’re the only person I’ve ever, uh, been with,” I say softly, “so, it’s, you know, yours.”

“No—”

“What do you mean, no?!” I protest angrily.

“—it’s ours.”

“Ours,” I repeat quietly, face softening.

“Are you sure? I mean, maybe it’s just a couple of days—”

“It’s been two months.”

“Oh,” he says with a small smile. “And here I thought you just filled out a little,” he jokes, holding me close. “So, you’re sure?”

“I went to the doctor.”

“We’re having a baby?”

“We’re having a baby, Beau.”

“We’re having a baby!” he yells, picking me up tightly, kissing me all over. “I can’t believe it! I have to call Momma and—”

“Beau, relax!”

“We’re havin’ a baby,” he says softly, kissing my nose. “I love you so much right now.”



“Please—” She throws whatever’s in her reach at me. I duck down to dodge it, trying to get out of her way.

“How could you?!” she shrieks, face red and ruddy. “You’re not even married, Belinda! Why did you do this?!”

“I—”

“I trusted you! I trusted him! I told you he would take advantage of you—”

“But he didn’t!” I exclaim, crying. “He loves me and I just wanted—”

“Don’t say things like that! How could you be so irresponsible?!”

“We’re in love—”

“Love?! Belinda, please. What do you know about love?! You’re eighteen years old! You have no idea what love is!”

“I love him—”

“You don’t love him. You can’t possibly love him! You’re too young, Belinda!” She groans.

“No, we’re not! We’re in love and we’re having this baby—”

“No, you’re not. Don’t be stupid, Belinda. You’re getting rid of it!” Pinching the bridge of her nose, she sighs. “Tomorrow, I’m taking you to the doctor.”

“No, you’re not! It’s my baby—” A glass shatters next to my ear and I cringe.

“Your baby? That thing is going to be—” She sighs, shaking her head. “Just—we’re—we’re getting rid of it.”

“No! I’m an adult now! I can do what I want and I’m keeping it and—”

“Oh, you’re an adult? You’re an infant. A baby having a baby. How do you propose to take care of it? You don’t have a job, Belinda!”

“Beau’ll help me—”

“How!? He’ll be dead by the time that thing is born,” she says scornfully. I wipe at my face.

“No, he won’t. We’re taking care of this baby together and we’re gonna be a family!”

“You’re just children!”

“We’re two adults having a baby—”

“Adults?! Adults aren’t so irresponsible!” She opens the door. “If you’re such an adult, go! Leave!”

“Matke—”

“Out! Pack your things and leave, little Miss Grown Up!”

“But—”

“Get out!” she hollers. “Just get the hell out!”



I stay at a motel that evening. It’s dirty and grimy and I hate it, I hate it, I hate all of this. I curl up into a small ball, eying my small suitcase in the corner, trying to breathe through the flood of tears and hiccups.

I need Beau.



“You did what?!” my mother yells on the other end. I can see her now, falling into her favorite chair near the telephone dramatically, strewn about. “Lord Almighty,” she sighs. “Theodore!”

“It was an accident, but we’re kind of havin’ a baby now.”

“Kinda? You can’t kind of have a baby, Theodore! It’s a livin’ breathin’ human bein’!”

“I know—”

“And you’re not even married—”

“I’m working on that.”

“What?” she asks quietly. “Are you gonna ask her to marry you or somethin’?”

“I was thinking about it, maybe.”

“Oh. I see. So things are serious.”

“She’s pregnant, momma. Seems pretty serious to me.”

“That’s not funny, Theodore. Are you tryin’ to give me a heart attack? I can’t have grandchildren at my age! I’m barely—barely—forty. I could still be having babies of my own, you know. I’m young.”

“I’m sorry?”

“But maybe a little baby would liven this place up.” She hums. “I’d like to meet her at some point, Theodore.”

“I’m working on that too.”

“Okay. I know you’re busy, so I’ll let you go. Love you!”

“Bye, momma.”



“Hey, Theo?” I look up from my breakfast, only to see that Vernon’s at the pay phone, covering it with his hand as he waves me over. “It’s Belinda. I think she’s crying.” I frown, taking it from him.

“Hello?”

“Beau!” she cries, sniffling.

“What’s going on?”

“She—I—My mother sort of maybe kicked me out after I told her about the baby,” she murmurs softly, hiccupping. “And I’ve got nowhere to stay and I’m scared and I’m tired and I don’t have any money and—”

“Easy, easy, Belinda. Just breathe. Where are you?”

“I dunno, Motel 6 or something,” she huffs, sniffling some more. “I’m scared, Beau, I’m so scared.”

“Don’t be. I’ll—I’ll see what I can do.”

“I need you.”

“Don’t cry, you’ll stress yourself out and you really shouldn’t, considering. Where can I call you?” She stammers through a phone number, crying again. “I love you, okay? I’ll call in a minute.”

“I love you too, Beau.”



“I need a favor, Momma,” I say, gnawing on my bottom lip.

“Need some new underwear? I keep tellin’ your daddy that you—”

“No, no, it’s not—listen! Belinda’s kinda in a pickle.”

“What happened? Is the baby okay?”

“The baby’s fine.”

“Then what’s going on?”

“Her momma kinda freaked out on her about the baby and kind of kicked her out.” My mother sighs.

“Where is she?”

“At some creepy dive motel,” I say. “And that’s no place for a lady, momma, ’specially one that’s pregnant and all and I’m just worried about her ’cause she’s all alone and she just needs to be with people right now—”

“Why didn’t you bring her here?! It’s your baby too,” she says plainly. “Just bring her here. She’ll stay with us.”

“You sure? ’Cause, I mean, she is pregnant and all—”

“With your baby,” she reminds me. “Bring her here.”



Belinda sits on the bed with her legs pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them.

“Momma’s really lookin’ forward to meetin’ you,” I say quickly, throwing her things into her suitcase. “And my grandma’s from Poland, like you.” She smiles a little, sighing. “What’s wrong? Don’t you wanna meet ’em?”

“I do. I’m just tired. I can hardly sleep.” I sit, shutting the suitcase. “I’m exhausted.”

“Come here.” She crawls over to me, resting her head on my lap. “You’ll sleep and eat and do whatever you want at momma’s okay?” She nods, looking up at me with those big green eyes. “You know I love you.”

“I know.”



Momma’s house is in the city now, this really fancy place with concrete streets and paved roads, a ‘townhouse’ sandwiched between brown buildings. It’s pretty, I suppose, and her column gets a lot of money so I guess that’s how she affords it. There are three floors—I don’t know for what—and she even has her own parking space in front of it. I don’t know what for. She doesn’t own a car and my father uses a car service to get to work.

This place is new. I grew up in Savannah, all the way the country, in Bubbe’s old house. But since Momma’s job pays her pretty nice, they sold it and moved here. I still kind of miss it.

“Belinda?”

“Five more minutes,” she mumbles, turning towards the window sleepily.

“We’re here, baby doll.” She turns and sighs, eyes closed as she yawns lightly. She blinks, rubbing at her face tiredly.

“Already?”

“We were driving for three hours,” I laugh. I shut off the car and go around to open her door, but she’s fallen asleep again. “Belinda, c’mon.”

“Carry me.”

“I can’t carry you to momma.”

“Calling me fat?” She opens one eye, peeking at me playfully, a small smile on her face. I shake my head, slipping my arms beneath her legs and neck, pulling her out of the car. She laughs into my neck, kicking her legs. “Put me down!”

“Thought you wanted to be carried?”

“I changed my mind.” She shrugged, watching me as I grabbed her suitcase. “Thank you.” I kissed her forehead, walking her up the steps. I pressed the buzzer, waiting for someone to open the door. My grandmother was the one who came, quiet serenity in pasty white wrinkled skin and greying black hair.

“My child!” she exclaimed happily, hugging me tightly.

“Hi, Bubbe,” I say, laughing.

“Oh, look at you,” she says, patting and squeezing my cheeks. “So handsome.” Belinda laughs quietly.

“You’re embarrassing me.”

“I embarrass you? Bah.” She shakes her head, wrinkly skin stretching as she smiles. “Don’t be silly.” She pats my cheek again, then leans over to peer at Belinda. “And who’s this pretty little girl, hm?”

“This is Belinda.”

“How do you do?” she asked shyly.

“How are you going to have this poor thing out here freezing to death?!” Bubbe exclaims, frowning sternly at me as she pulls Belinda inside. “What’s wrong with you? I taught you manners!” She sits Belinda down in the hallway chair next to the phone, tutting at me. “You just sit right here, no? And I’ll get you something warm to eat, hm?” She nods and Bubbe stands, smoothing down her hair. “I’ll be right back.”

She shuffled down the hallway.

“I’m kinda hungry too!” I exclaimed laughing. She shrugged, shaking her head.

“Your Bubbe’s nice. Mine just used to sleep and yell a lot,” Belinda laughs, taking off her coat and scarf. “Where can I put this?” I take it and put it in the closet. “It’s a nice house. Open.”

“Momma likes open spaces. I think she’s at the office today.” I turn and she’s looking up and around, combing her fingers through her hair. “You like it?” She nods, biting her lip as she stands up.

“Are you staying with me?”

“I can stay tonight, but I have to be back by tomorrow morning.” Belinda turns away from me, bringing her hands up to her face. She turns into me, crying quietly.

“I need you here,” she says quietly, looking up at me.



We wait for Momma in the parlor, sitting on the plastic covered couches. I squeeze her hand and she looks over at me, nervous.

“What if she doesn’t like me?”

“She’s gonna love you.”

“But what if she doesn’t? I don’t want her to hate me.”

“She won’t hate you,” I laugh. Belinda frowns. “She’s really excited to meet you.”

“I—”

There’s the sound of the key in the door, and my mother sighs, heels clicking against the floor. She passes by the parlor, hand in her hair, then comes back, a smile on her face.

“Theo?” She gasps, running into the living room, hugging me tightly. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.” She sits in the arm chair, sighing. “You must be Belinda.” She picks her head up and smiles a little, nodding shyly. “Well, it’s no wonder why he’s crazy about you now, look at you.” She blushes. “How far along are you?”

“I think two months or so.”

“I see.” She’s quiet for a second, staring at Belinda for a couple of seconds. “Are you hungry? ’Cause I’m hungry. I think you’re hungry. Let’s eat.”



After dinner, Bubbe goes to upstairs. Momma goes back to the office. I sit in the living room and put on a record. Belinda stands in the doorway, a small smile on her face.

“I finished settling in,” she says softly. “It’s a big room. It’s pretty, right next to your Bubbe.” She starts to sway, laughing. “You should dance with me.”

So we do, and it’s quiet, but it’s nice, because this is the only quiet moment we’ve had to ourselves in a while. I mean I know I miss her but this makes me actually see it and I don’t want to leave. I want to stay, I want to be here, but I’m leaving in the morning and I know that, and it kills me. But I’m here now and I would like to stay here, even if it’s just for a couple of hours.



“Come here,” Bubbe says, wriggling her finger at me. I jerk my thumb down the hall, confused.

“Belinda’s waiting and—”

“She can wait. Come sit with your Bubbe for a second,” she says softly, patting the bed. I sit down and she sighs, patting my knee. “Talk to me, hm?”

“I love her. I mean, I really do.”

“I noticed.”

“And I just want her to be happy, you know? I mean, her momma’s just… I don’t know, she’s really upset about her momma, ’cause her momma doesn’t exactly want her to have the baby, or even be around me, and she kind of gave her the boot when she told her about it. I wish I could be here, you know? ’Cause I just think she’d take it a little easier if someone was around, so maybe you could just, you know, help her out?”

She nods and stands up slowly, shuffling in her slippers to the drawer. She opens one of them and starts rooting around, mumbling under her breath.

“What are you looking for?”

“You’ll see.” A minute or two later, she pulls out a small bundle, sits, and then wraps my hand around it, smiling. “Take it.”

“What is it?”

“Open it later and you’ll see. I think you’ll know what to do.” She picks at the folds of her nightdress, smiling softly. I open it and look down at a thin band of gold and a diamond and shake my head.

“I can’t take this from you.”

“I’m giving it to you, so you don’t have to.” She looks at me. “I want you to have it.”

“Bubbe—”

“Don’t Bubbe me. I’m telling you to keep it! All I want is to give something to you, and you won’t even let me do that? Bah. Just take it.” She squeezes my knee. “Please? For your Bubbe?” I make a face. “Please?”

“Fine.”

“You make your old Bubbe so happy,” she sighs, laughing.



“What are you doing?” I ask, sitting up sleepily, rubbing my face. Beau shakes his head, shoving something into the pants hanging off the chair. “It’s…it’s late,” I mumble, yawning.

“I know.”

“So what are you doing?”

“Going to sleep,” he says, sneaking into bed. “Kind of like you should be.”

“Why are you up so late?”

“Why are you up so late?” he laughed, pulling the covers up.

“You woke me up.” He apologizes quietly, pulling me closer. “So you’re leaving tomorrow?”

“Yes.” I sighed, propping my head on his chest, gnawing on my lip. “I’m sorry.”

“Stay?”

“If I could, I would—”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because I can’t.” He plays with my hair.

“Please? We can—We—We’ll run away!” I exclaim, feeling my face light up. “We’ll go somewhere really far away, and—”

“We can’t run away, Belinda,” he laughs.

“I know,” I mumble quietly. “Just dreaming out loud.”



I wake up early the next morning because I can’t sleep anyway and there’s no point in trying if I know I can’t. He’s combing his wet hair in the mirror, frowning a little. I sit up a little, watching him. He catches me staring in the mirror and grins, setting the comb down.

“Hey.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He sits down, nudging my leg.

“I don’t have to be there for a couple of hours.”

“Hm?”

“So let’s do somethin’, c’mon.”

“We can’t spend the day in bed?”

“I have a better idea.”



“Beau?” I ask, looking around. “Hey, Beau?” I frown, turning around, only to see him kneeling, tying his shoe. I smile a little, looking down at him. He looks like he’s about to stand up, but he doesn’t, he just reaches into his pocket instead. “What are you doing?”

“I just have something I kind of need to ask you.”

“On the floor?” I half ask, confused. “You’re silly,” I laugh.

“Would you listen to me, at least?” I nod, laughing some more. “I love you, okay? I’m horribly, madly, terribly in love with you, Belinda. It drives me crazy. And I mean, I’m happy with you, really happy. But I think the only thing that’ll make me happier is if I could call you my wife.”

“What?” I ask quietly, eyes wide. The ring is pretty and delicate and all simple, and I smile a little, looking down at him.

“Will you marry me?” People stare and I blush, trying to figure out where my words all went. “Belinda?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes!” I exclaim. He holds me tightly, kissing me all over.



I’m getting married.



I’m eating breakfast with Bubbe, some oatmeal and milk. We’re talking about going into town to find some things to make the room livelier, and she mentions some fabric for curtains she saw the other day.

“They’re perfect for the room,” she says, smiling brightly. “They’re cream, you know, and the walls are blue so it goes nicely together.” I feel my stomach churn, bringing the napkin up to my mouth. “I think I have a ration for textiles somewhere in my room…” she trails off, thinking. “What do you think?”

I nod quickly, closing my eyes.

“Belinda?”

“I’m going to be sick,” I say, practically tripping over my feet as I run up the stairs to the bathroom. I fall to my knees and start coughing into the bowl. Bubbe’s patient footsteps are in the hall a minute or so later. She sets a glass down on the floor and sits down next to me, pushing my hair back.

“Breathe through your mouth,” she says patiently, rubbing my back. “You’re okay.”

When it’s over, I sigh, trying to sit up. She passes me a hand towel and a glass of water, a sympathetic smile on her face. I start crying and she sighs, wiping my face slowly.

“Why’re you crying?”

“I—I—I dunno,” I blubbered. She turned the towel over and wiped at my eyes. “I’m—I just—I—”

“It goes away,” she soothed, pulling me to her chest.

“The throwing up?”

“Missing them.”



Beau—

I need you here with me.

I miss you.

I’m tired and I’m lonely and I just need you here, now, right now, not there, training or something.

I love you and I need you.

This baby needs you.

We need you.

Just come back.

Please.

Love,

Belinda.

I crumple it up and toss it at the wastebasket, digging my palms into my eyes. That wouldn’t help, and it’d probably just upset him if he read it. Grabbing another sheet of paper, I start over.

27 February 1942

Beau—

Bubbe sends her regards, and your mother is making you another care package. I can’t send or buy love, so I’ll send this instead.

We miss you, but I think that goes without saying, doesn’t it? How goes the training? Is it okay? Is it hard? You keep saying it’s worth it so I hope it is. I miss you something awful, and the baby’s getting a little bigger, but that happens, I suppose.

Your mother’s planning this huge elaborate wedding. I guess that’s her outlet now, with you being gone and all. I don’t care what she does, as long as it actually happens and we’re both happy.

I love you and I can’t wait to see you again.

Love,

Belinda!



I start huffing and puffing, throwing myself back on the bed lightly, frowning at the button on my pants. Scowling, I kick my legs a little, shimmying it up my hips.

“C’mon!” I say quietly, pulling them closer together. I finally get it together and triumphant, I sit up, blowing my hair out of my face. I stand up and bend over for my shoes. The button flies off and clear across the room. Groaning, I slip out of the pants, scratching my head. I try a zip-up skirt, but the zipper won’t come up all the way.

I pull the blouse off and walk to the closet, trying to find something to wear. I pull a dress of the hanger, pulling it down and over my head. It comes on and there’s no stuck zipper or popping buttons, but the bump is a lot more noticeable now.

Sighing, I stand in front of the mirror, looking at myself. This is my life, I realize sadly. This is what my life is going to be like for the next six months.



Beau—

I hate this.

I can’t fit into anything anymore and I’m tired all the time and people are touching my belly for no good reason all the time now and if your mother brings up OUR wedding ONE more time, I’ll hang myself.

I tear it up and start over.

10 March 1942

Beau—

Hope all is well! Bubbe is teaching me how to knit so I can make hats and blankets for the baby, and I just made a really pretty pink one. I guess I’m kind of hoping it’s a girl. Wouldn’t that be lovely?

We should think up some names, don’t you think?

The wedding planning is going nicely. Your mother wants to do it at the cathedral downtown. We’re going to look at it tomorrow. I don’t know, she seems to be handling everything so well that I almost don’t even want to get involved. Maybe I should just let her take care of everything.

I’m excited, Beau.

Love,

Belinda!



“So I was thinking about lilac centerpieces for the reception,” Eleanor says, poking at some flowers. We’re at the florist. We’ve been out and about all day. My feet hurt and I’m hungry—but I’m hungry all the time now, and it’s for the weirdest things too. I don’t even want flowers at this point. I just want him to come home, and then I’ll worry about the wedding. “But, see, I don’t know, you know, ’cause Farrah Byrne did that for her son’s wedding, and I don’t want her to think I was copying her or somethin’. What about lilies, huh? You like lilies?”

“Lilies are okay.”

“Can I get them dyed?” she muses, stroking her chin thoughtfully. “Or maybe we’ll get these big red roses, huh? With some nice baby’s breath!”

“Roses are nice.”

“Roses! We’ll have roses everywhere!” She smiled, giving me her hand. “C’mon.”

“Where are we going now? Home?”

“Home? Don’t be silly, Belinda. We’re going to the caterer next.”



Beau—

Beau, please come home. I’m achy and I’m tired and I’m starting to show and I need you here and I miss you and your mother is DRIVING ME UP A WALL with all this wedding talk and the only good thing about this place is your Bubbe…

I just need you here right now.

I shove the crumpled letter in the drawer.

15 March 1942

Beau—

The wedding is going swimmingly. Your mother is doing such a nice job with everything. She helped me pick out flowers and the food and everything and I just can’t wait! I’m so excited. Bubbe made me another blanket. The care package goes out this afternoon, I think, or maybe tomorrow morning?

Training seems to be going well for you. Are you happy?

I’m seeing a doctor tomorrow about the baby. Don’t get scared. Your mother just wants to make sure everything’s okay. Have you thought of any names? I don’t know what I like. I saw a book of names in the store the other day. Maybe I’ll pick it up and see if I find anything.

Love,

Belinda!



I poke at my belly in the mirror, narrowing my eyes a little. I should probably start buying maternity clothes, I think, but maybe I can just let the waist out on a couple of my dresses and take them back in after the baby’s born.

“It won’t come out any faster if you do that,” Bubbe says sagely, poking her head in. I smile sheepishly, turning around.

“What do you think it is?”

“It’s a little early yet.”

“I want a little girl.”

“Eleanor wants another boy,” she says, laughing. “You be careful, now. She might just take that baby from you and raise it herself.”

“She wouldn’t.”

“Ah, but she would. She wants another one.” She pauses. “Another baby, I mean. Her husband doesn’t want more children. Bah. Children are a blessing.” She smiles a toothy grin. “You are blessed.”

“Thank you.” I sit down.

“How’s it all going?”

“I think it’s going okay. I mean, I’m swelling everywhere and my back hurts sometimes, but I’m still pretty okay. I think what I need is a job or a hobby or something to keep me busy, you know? I’m tired of just sitting around sewing and knitting all day.” I lift up my hands, laughing. “I keep pricking my fingers.”



WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM SERVICE
29 MARCH 1942
BEAU STOP
PLEASE COME HOME STOP
LOVE YOU BUTTERFINGERS BELINDA STOP



CHARLESTON AIR BASE

PRIVATE T.A. BEAUMONT

4 APRIL 1942

Belinda—

I’m happy to hear you’re happy. I was afraid Momma’d be a little overbearing, because she can be like that sometimes, but I’m happy you’re getting along. Bubbe talks about you all the time and I wish I could see you now, but I can’t, so I’ll just have to hold on.

The baby’s okay? Are you okay? Do you think you know what it might be yet? I’m kind of hoping it’s a girl, but let’s let that be our little secret. Momma wants a boy. I don’t know what for. She’s not raising him—or her?—if I have anything to say about it, anyway. As long as you’re okay, I’m okay.

I can’t think of any names. Maybe Theresa if it’s a girl? And for a boy, I like Zachary.

Momma’s planning the wedding? That doesn’t surprise me. She kind of likes controlling everything. Just let her be, she’ll get over it in a week or two.

Probably.

I love you.

—Beau


After pleading and wheedling and pretty much shamelessly begging, I manage to get fifteen days—I feel lucky—to see Belinda at the beginning of May.

I’ll keep it a surprise.



I sit on my bunk, pulling a book and a piece of paper onto my lap. I want to write and I want to tell her everything, but I can’t. I don’t know what to say. I can’t say anything, because it’ll just bring her spirits down, and she seems so excited about the wedding and the baby that I can’t bring myself to ruin it.

So I won’t.

CHARLESTON AIR BASE

14 MAY 1942

PRIVATE T.A. BEAUMONT

Belinda—

So Bubbe thinks it IS a boy after all? Did you tell Momma? She’ll be over the moon. She called me to tell me she’s turning my old room into the nursery. Do you really want to live there after the baby’s born? I don’t know. I was thinking that maybe we could find our own place.

If you want.

I mean, I love Momma and everything, but she’s just TOO nosy sometimes and I don’t think we’ll get a moment’s rest between her and the baby. But if you really want to stay there, let’s stay. Momma probably won’t let us leave anyway.

Do you want the big wedding? It seems pretty big. Momma’s excited about it and Bubbe isn’t. Are you, though? Seems like Momma’s just taken over everything.

How are you? Are you feeling okay? How’s the baby doing?

We’re shipping out at the end of May.

I love you.

- Beau


“What do you mean, you don’t want a fancy wedding!?” Momma hollers, sounding angry. “This isn’t for you. It’s for her. Every little girl wants a big wedding, and you kind of took that away from her, so I’m just trying to let her have one dream at least.”

“Did you ask her if she wanted one?”

“What?”

“Well, did you?”

“Why would I do that? I’d want my future mother-in-law planning my wedding if I were in her shoes.”

“So you didn’t even ask?!”

“Don’t raise your voice at me, young man. She wants it, okay?”

“How do you know?”

“Because.”

“Momma—”

“Is that the caterer at the door? I think it is. Ma! Hey, Ma! Get the door, please! Quick question: chicken or fish?”

“I don’t like fish—”

“So chicken then? No… I think I’ll go with the fish. Okay, bye honey!”

“Momma—”

“Love you!” she coos, hanging up.



WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM SERVICE
26 APRIL 1942
BELINDA STOP
I LOVE YOU STOP
SEE YOU SOON STOP
LOVE BEAU STOP



I roll over after another restless night of tossing and turning, sighing as I finally roll onto my back. It’s pretty obvious now, and most people aren’t hiring pregnant girls right about now, so my dreams of getting a hobby or job are officially dashed. I got a telegram yesterday. It was from Beau, but it didn’t make any sense.

But still, a telegram is a telegram, so I keep it in my box with the rest of his letters.

I pull myself out of bed dozily, setting out a dress—thankfully, Bubbe’s been teaching me how to let things out and I’m supposed to be going out with her for maternity clothing sometime this week—and some shoes like I do every morning. I don’t even know why I bother. All I do is sit and look at wedding dresses, eat, try not to throw up, take a nap, cry after I wake up, then eat again. I might as well not even get out of bed. I don’t want to, but I do it so that Eleanor doesn’t start arguing with me about the baby again. I don’t think it’d kill the baby if I slept the day away once.

I slip into a robe and go into the bathroom, which is really one of the only places I can cry in privacy here. If I cry in my room and Eleanor’s around, it’s this whole argument about how much crying harms the pregnancy. If I cry in my room and Bubbe’s around, she just brings me food and tells me to relax. George—Eleanor’s husband—just brings me milk, like that’s going to do anything. I don’t want anyone to do anything, because none of them can bring him home, which is all I really want.

I soak in some Epsom salts for a half hour and doze off after my morning cry. When I wake up, the water’s starting to get cold, so I get out, wrapped in a towel and my robe. I rub at my eyes as I dress, sitting on the edge of the bed. Any minute now, Bubbe’s going to tell me to come and eat something. I don’t even want to eat, but I have to.

I eat slowly and make conversation with George and Eleanor until they leave, then sit in the garden with a book because the sun is finally starting to come out. At some point, Bubbe makes lunch, picks flowers for the vase, then makes me sit down inside and eat. After lunch, I don’t want to go outside, so I just sit in the living room with that stupid set of knitting needles and ball of yarn and try to concentrate on making little booties for the baby.

The doorbell rings. I wait for Bubbe to get it because she usually does and she doesn’t like me getting up very often, but after a few minutes, she still hasn’t come.

“Bubbe?” I ask, setting my things down.

“I’m upstairs! Answer the door, lovey!” she yells down the stairs. So I do, and I’m almost positive Eleanor sent the tailor to lecture me about watching my figure or something, as if I can help the fact that I’m swelling up like a balloon. I’m annoyed and ready to tell the tailor to come back sometime after never, but it’s not the tailor at all.

“Miss me?”

“Beau!” I exclaim, jumping on him.

Maybe I’m going crazy, but I guess not today, because he’s here, he’s real and I can feel him and he’s kissing me and talking on a mile a minute, and as happy as I am, I can’t help but to start crying.

“What are you doing here?”

“What’s it look like? I’m here to see you.” He wipes at my face. “I hate seeing you cry.”



So Eleanor’s angry that he just dropped by out of the blue, but he’s here and that’s all that really matters, so I don’t even care. She gets over it in fifteen minutes, then starts shoving wedding plan after wedding plan in front of him, giddy.

Here we go again.



I rub some cocoa butter on my belly and chest, because it’s starting to look like someone tried ripping me in half—there are stretch marks everywhere—and I hate it. I do it all the time now so I don’t get them, and they’re starting to go away, but still. I’d like to avoid them if I can.

He peers at me over the newspaper.

“You know I can see you, right?” I ask, laughing a little as I look down at my small pot belly. I pull a nightshirt over my head, still excited. He covers his face with the paper and I roll my eyes, shaking my head. I set the butter down and sigh, rolling my neck a little, looking over at him and he’s staring again. “What?”

“Nothing. Can’t a guy look at a girl nowadays?”

“Mm…no.” I sit down on the edge of the bed, taking off my slippers. I jump up a little when the baby moves, laughing.

“What happened?”

“It moved,” I say with a small smile, swinging my legs over. I crawl onto his lap and sit there, taking his hand and put it on my belly. “See?” The baby wriggled around. “It doesn’t do it a lot. The first time it happened, I almost fainted, I was so scared,” I laugh. He just smiles a little, looking up at me.

“We’re having a baby, Belinda.”



“What do you think? Navy blue or marine blue?” Eleanor asks, holding up two swatches that honestly look exactly the same to me, but there has to be some difference somewhere. “Maybe I’ll use it as a trim?”

“Momma, no one trims tablecloths,” Beau says flatly.

“Yet. No one trims tablecloths yet.” She grins. “So? Navy or marine?”

“Neither,” he replies, shaking his head.

“Who asked you?” she sneered, shaking her head. “Belinda?” She sounds hopeful.

“Uh…I don’t know?” She shook her head, stomping out of the room, mumbling something about how clueless we were. I look over at Beau. “This is one of her good days.”



“Arms out,” the tailor says later that afternoon, measuring me with a measuring tape. Honestly, I’d like this wedding to happen after I have the baby, so I don’t look a bloated whale, but no one’s listening to me, so I bite my tongue and just do as I’m told. She takes one look at the belly and looks at me with this taste, measuring. She turns to Eleanor, who sits on a stool, watching me with fascination. “Would you like a, uh, bigger dress to cover…that?”

“Of course. We’ll be taking pictures. Maybe we’ll use lots of white taffeta? Or tulle? Maybe lace. Definitely lace. Lace everywhere.” She smiles brightly and I sigh, closing my eyes. I’ll just let her be.



“Momma, no,” Beau says, looking up from his mother’s book—she has an actual book with all her plans. “This is too much. You’re getting carried away.”

“Three words for you: little girl’s dream!” she exclaims, stomping past me and into the parlor, where the florist and Bubbe sit.



“Do you really want a big wedding?” he asks me, wrapping his arms around me.

“Your mom wants one.”

“Do you?” I sigh, staring at the ceiling as I shake my head.

“I don’t even feel like having a wedding anymore,” I mumble, watching the sun start to peek through the sheer curtains. “She’s taking all the fun out of it.”

“Well, I mean, we don’t have to do things her way.” I look over at him, confused. “Why don’t we just do it our way? I’m here for a couple more days. It’s our wedding, isn’t it? That’s what I thought.”



The backyard is my favorite thing about this whole place because of the garden. There’s a stone path and there are just flowers everywhere. I think it’s beautiful, like a small piece of paradise in a concrete jungle. It’s where we decide to have the ceremony.

Diane comes with her ‘friend’, Hudson, and Beau invites some close family friends. Diane, ever the sentimentalist, makes me a crown of flowers because she’s just that kind of person. We get a justice of the peace to come to the house. Bubbe sets out chairs and sits in the middle, a simple, patient smile on her face.

Bubbe and Diane sign the witness papers and cry.

“I now pronounce you man and wife.”

I can’t say I’d have it any other way.



Eleanor is, to say the least, furious.

“How could you!?” she yells, throwing her things on the table. “Do you know how much planning and detail and—ugh! I had everything set, the caterer booked, the florist ready to go—the tailor was even going to do the lace dress! The reception was going to be at the Yves and it was going to be so beautiful and—” She breathes through her nose, pointing a quivering, angry finger at her son. “You! This was all your idea. You just couldn’t stand to see her do things her way instead if your way—”

“You were trying to do this wedding your way! This wasn’t our wedding, it was yours!”

“It was not!” she protests, mortified. “How could you say that?!”

“Because you didn’t let us have a say in anything?” he asks, shaking his head.

“She’s eighteen and you’re barely¬—barely—twenty. What do you know about weddings, exactly? Nothing? Mm. Who knows weddings? Oh, it’s me! Not you! Of course I planned it. How do expect her to plan it when she’s got the baby to think of?!” She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “It’s like you eloped, right in my own home! Why didn’t you call me?”

“Because this would have happened.”

“Damn right it would! All she really wanted was a normal wedding. Look at her, the poor thing.”

“All you wanted was a big wedding. Maybe if you asked her what she wanted, you wouldn’t have wasted all your time,” he says simply, standing up, taking my hand. “Now if you’ll excuse us, I think we’re going to go out to dinner to celebrate.”



“Beau,” I laugh as my back hits the mattress, threading my fingers in his hair. He grins into my neck, laughing as he starts unbuttoning my dress. “Beau, c’mon, cut it—oh.” We move up the bed, and the dress starts slipping off my shoulders. I sigh, wrapping my arms around his neck, kissing him. He looks down at me, moving my hair out of the way. “Do you think—” I hum quietly when his hands slide up, up, up, turning my head to the side.

“Just excited to see me, huh?” he laughs, slipping my dress down and off. I start trying to undo his tie and shirt with shaky fingers, trying to keep quiet. I manage to get them off and start tugging at his belt impatiently. He laughs some more. “I think you kind of are.”

“St-Sto—Take—Just—Please—” I gasp, closing my eyes. “Your Bubbe’s right next door,” I mumble softly, looking up at him. “We can’t do—huh—oh—but she’s there and I just—I mean—she’s asleep, Beau—”

“And she sleeps like there’s no tomorrow,” he murmurs, kissing me, groaning a little when I finally get it all off. “We’ll be okay.

“But—” I feel my face flush when I feel him there and close my eyes, trying not to. It’s dark anyway so he can’t even see me, but still. “What if—What—hm—the baby, Beau—what if you…”

“What if I what?”

“Poke it or something,” I mumble, embarrassed. He starts laughing louder and I cover his mouth, embarrassed. “It’s not funny.”

“I’ll do my best,” he says, trying to stop laughing, failing horribly. “Just relax, okay?”



“I think you woke up Bubbe,” he says quietly, laughing under his breath. I hear her door open in the hallway and dig my head into his shoulder, embarrassed. She stops in front of our door, then keeps going. I hear her go downstairs and sigh, mortified.

“You’re not funny.”

“It’s my fault now?”

“I told you we’d wake her up.”

“Oh, of course, because I was the one who was all, Oh, Beau!”

“Shush!” I exclaim, turning pink.

“I kind of like it when you say my name like that, I don’t know. It probably scares Bubbe, though.”



“I’m sure you look fine.”

“I look fat,” I whine, sitting on the bench, frowning at my reflection. “Nothing fits me anymore.”

“You could always walk around naked,” he says, poking his head into the door. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind, but maybe other people might stare a little.”

“You’re not funny,” I pout. He closes the door behind him, grinning at me.

“I’m hilarious, that’s why. I think you look fine.”

“You’re supposed to say that,” I mumble. “I feel like a whale.”

“A very pretty whale, yes.”

“Funny.”

“It’s not going to last forever.”

“I know.”



So now that she can’t plan the wedding, she’s planning the nursery. She’s insisting that it’s a boy because she wants a boy, not because she actually thinks it is. She’s wearing a set of overalls as she paints the wall, looking at different colors.

“What do you think, Belinda?”

“I think it’s a girl.”

“It’s a boy,” she says flatly, looking back at me. “Theo?”

“Kind of think it’s a girl too.”

“Because you’ve had children before, of course? You would know. Don’t make me laugh.” She turns to the wall. “I don’t know which one I like best. Maybe I’ll do yellow? I like yellow. Yellow might just work.”

“Can’t we just wait until the baby’s born?” I ask.

“Uh, no?” She turned around, frowning at me. “You’re almost—almost—six months along. We need to do this now, of course. Also, while you’re here, we need to talk about the shower.”

“I don’t really want one.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you do.” She sighs, peering at the wall a little more. “I don’t think yellow’s going to work.”

“Momma—”

“Beau, please. Shush. I’m trying to think…” she trailed off. Beau and I exchanged a look. “I wonder if grey is too dreary.”

“We don’t need a nursery.”

“Where do you think the baby’s going to sleep, then? I’ll have to start looking for a nanny—”

“With Belinda, of course. It’s her baby.”

Eleanor snickers, shaking her head.

“And you think she’s just going to sit around waiting on him—”

“Or her.”

“It’s a boy, Theo. Do you really think she’s going to wait around on a baby all day?”

“I was planning on it, yes,” I say quietly.

“No. You’re getting a nanny. A nanny practically raised Theo, and look how wonderful he turned out.”

“I’d like to take care of my own baby.”

“You’re eighteen years old. You’re still a child, for crying out loud. You’re not raising this baby. Don’t be absurd.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t.”

“I think I can.”

“That’s so cute,” she laughed, hands on her hips. “But you can’t. I was twenty when I had Theo, and I felt so overwhelmed.” She sighed. “I had to get a nanny, I just had to. And when I did, it felt like I had this huge load taken off my shoulders.”

“Well, I guess that works for you, but I don’t want some stranger raising my baby. It just doesn’t sit right with me.” She sighed impatiently, wiping her hands on her legs.

“Fine. Have it your way. You’ll change your mind, you’ll see. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to freshen up. I have to start shopping for cribs.” She pushed past us, slamming the door on her way out.



“Beau?” He groaned, turning over. “Beau.”

“What?” he mumbled, pulling the covers over his head.

“Do you think we can really do it?”

“Do what?”

“Raise this baby. I mean, maybe your mom is right and maybe I really can’t and—”

“We can. You’re gonna be such a good mother.” He kisses my cheek. “I know you will. Don’t listen to her.”

“But what if she’s right?”

“But she’s not. You’ll see. Don’t be scared.”

“It’s moving again,” I laugh, taking his hand. “Look.”



“She’s driving me crazy, Bubbe,” I say quietly, looking over at her. “First it’s the wedding, and I guess I can see where she’s coming from, but I didn’t want any of it. And now, it’s the baby. I mean, how does she know what it is, huh?”

“She just wants a baby. Personally, I don’t know what it is. You don’t know until you actually have it.” She smiles a little. “When Theodore was born, Eleanor was over the moon with the baby, but she kind of got over it after a few weeks. And then she wanted a nanny because she didn’t want to deal with a crying baby all day. He was colicky, you know? Her husband indulges her every whim, so she got one. I think he turned out alright, but still. Do you want one?”

“No! I just want to take care of my own baby. Why would I hire someone to do it when I can do it myself, for free? We’re hoping for a girl. It moves a lot more lately.”

“Belinda!” Eleanor exclaimed. “Where are you?” I sighed, shaking my head.

“Here I am,” I answered flatly, resting my hands on my belly.

“You won’t believe how pretty this crib is,” she sighed dreamily. “It’s beautiful and they’re bringing it on Friday afternoon. I have to go tell George. George!” She walked out and I sighed, sinking into the couch. “Where are you, honey?”

“It’s like it’s not even my baby anymore.”



“Beau, please,” I say quietly, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “Please.”

“Belinda—”

“I need you here,” I cried, holding him tightly. “You can’t leave me.” He pulled me onto his lap, rubbing my back. “Beau—I—I’m so scared, and I just—you can’t leave me.”

“You’re going to stress out the baby if you keep crying,” he murmured.

“But you’re leaving and I’m scared and I just need you here with me right now and—”

“I’m here now.”

“But you’ll be gone tomorrow morning, won’t you? I can’t just leave. You’re gone and I have to stay here and I have to swell up and I have to wake up alone and I have to be stared at when I go out and I have to be poked and prodded and I—I hate it,” I mumbled. “Please just stay.”



“You have to get up,” Bubbe says, sitting on the edge of the bed, a tray of food on her lap. She set it down on the nightstand.

“I don’t want to.” I turn over, trying not to cry. “I want to be alone.”

“Belinda.”

“I’m tired, Bubbe.”

“You’ve been in bed all day.” She leans over and grabs the bowl and some spoon. “Sit up.”

“I don’t want soup.”

“You need to eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Did you eat yesterday?”

“I’m not hungry,” I say again. “Please, Bubbe. I just want to be alone.”

“You can’t spend so much time by yourself. Now sit up. I raised three teenage girls by myself, Belinda. I can sit here and do this with you all day. Or you could just eat and make this easier on all of us.” I sit up grudgingly, arms crossed over my chest. “Open.”

“No.”

“Belinda, starving yourself won’t make him come running back.” She sighs quietly, stirring the soup. “Just eat.”

“I’m not trying to. I’m just not hungry.”

“Think about the baby. You’re eating for two,” she coaxed. “Come on, Belinda.” I made a small face, taking the bowl from her. I eat slowly, looking down. “You know he loves you.”

“Hm.”

“And he would hate seeing you like this.”

“Mm.”

“And he would do anything for you.”

“So why wouldn’t he stay?”

She’s quiet.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Sometimes honor and pride and duty come first.”



The train station is loud and busy, so loud I can hardly hear myself think. Eleanor refused to come down to the station, and Bubbe wasn’t feeling well, so George dropped me off on his way to work.

“You take care of yourself now, you hear?” he says, rubbing my face. I nod. “Gotta take care of yourself for the baby.”

“Yep.”

“You’re brave.”

“Mm.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“You know where to send your letters, right?” I nod, hugging him tightly. “Don’t cry, Belinda.”

“I’m not.” I looked up. “See? You just, you stay safe, okay?” I fixed his shirt, frowning a little as I hiccupped. “Just be really careful, and don’t, uh—don’t—please don’t die on me, okay?”



“Belinda—”

“Everything hurts,” I cried, doubling over. “It all—” I stopped myself, trying to breathe through my nose. “I’m in pain.”

“Just sit down,” Bubbe says.

“I can’t,” I gasp, biting down on my lip. “What’s happening?”

“Are you bleeding?”

“I don’t—I don’t know, it just—it hurts,” I mumble.

“I’ll call the doctor, okay? You just lay down, okay?”



“Well, you look okay,” the doctor says, putting away his stethoscope. “It was probably just a cramp or something. The baby’s fine. You’re fine. But…”

“But?” Eleanor asked, frowning.

“You should try to stay in bed for the rest of the pregnancy, just to be safe. Keep off your feet unless you really need to get up for something. Eat lots of fruits and vegetables, try to keep your strength up, and whatever you do, try to stay calm, okay? Be careful. Don’t yell. Don’t get upset. Just take it easy, it’s very delicate, alright?”



17 June 1942

Beau—

All is well. Your mother is painting the nursery for the umpteenth time, this time because she didn’t like how shiny the last coat of blue was. I don’t know why she’s so adamant about this, but I’ll leave her be. It’s not like I can do much anyway.

It’s also official: I can’t bend over to tie my shoes anymore. This belly’s huge. I can hardly see my own feet. I’m going to have to start borrowing Bubbe’s house coats. We’re running out of textile rations, and your mother’s going crazy about it.

I don’t know. Bubbe says she’s going to take the old blankets and start making clothes for the baby. My due date is set for some time after 10 September.

I’m really excited.

I love you horribly and I can’t wait until you come back.

Belinda!



8 July 1942

EDITOR’S DESK

From: Eleanor Beaumont

To: Private T. A. Beaumont

Theodore—

Since you refuse to answer your own poor mother’s phone calls, I must resort to good old fashioned pen and paper. I hope all is well over there, that you are safe, dry, and well-fed. Please be careful. Your father and grandmother send their regards. I, of course, am worried sick about you.

Not that you care.

However, this letter is not intended to guilt trip you or make you feel guilty—though you should, leaving your poor mother and grandmother alone. And your wife, and I use that term loosely. In any event, this is letter is merely to tell you the infant is having her infant—what a wonderful play on words, I know—around 10 September, according to the doctor.

Thought you might be interested.

Also, I’m writing to ask you about how things are and to remind you that if you find the time, between flying and doing whatever it is you’re doing over there, to pick up a phone and call the poor thing before she just goes off the deep end.

I think she’s worried sick about you, frankly.

Since she’s obviously in no position to do so right now, I’ve been picking out names for the baby. You’ll thank me later. I’m narrowing it down between Robert and Carson. I’m not sure yet.

Also, your father decided to purchase a new camera because of the baby and enclosed is one of his first photos.

Love,

Mother.

Belinda is sitting on the veranda, a small smile on her face, waving.



14 JULY1942

Theodore—

My eyesight is not exactly what it used to be, so I hope you can read this.

I’m not trying to make you feel upset. Did you get the picture of Belinda? She’s sad. She’s hardly eating and she cries a fair bit, but I just think she’s scared and worried. It’s her first baby after all. I was scared too.

I’m just wondering how you’re holding up.

Knowing Belinda, she probably isn’t telling you about your mother, or about how she’s pretty much trying to take over every aspect of her and the baby’s life. But you know your mother, so it shouldn’t surprise you when I tell you that she won’t let Belinda pick out a single blanket or pillow or anything for the nursery, nor is she letting her pick out names—she’s overstepping boundaries.

Belinda is still too upset about you to tell her otherwise, and whenever I try to say anything to Eleanor, she just go on and on about how she knows best and about how everything is going to work out HER way instead of Belinda’s way or your way.

She’s a mess, so if I were you, I’d try to come home soon. If not for your mother, or for your father, or even for your Bubbe—do it for your wife and the mother of your child.

Bubbe loves you.



24 JULY 2012

PILOT’S DESK

From: George Beaumont

To: Private T.A. Beaumont

Son—

This is going to be brief and quick.

Your mother is driving us all crazy.

Your grandmother does nothing but take down all the older curtains from the alcove and cut them up to make clothes for the baby.

Your wife needs you. She sits and cries and sleeps all day. I don’t remember the last time I saw her eat anything.

You might want to consider sending her a telegram or some flowers.

- Dad



31 JULY 1942

Beau—

I’m wonderful and everything is simply perfect. The nursery is just beautiful. Your mother’s doing a wonderful job. Lately, I feel like staying in bed more often than not, but that’s mostly because my feet are swelling and I don’t like walking very much anymore anyway.

Bubbe made a bunch of jumpsuits for the baby, and they’re all white so it doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl. Your mother picked out some names, but I’m not sure which one she likes best. I don’t know. I’ll pick out a name as soon as I have the baby. Seems silly to do it and plan everything out if I don’t even know what it is yet.

I made some more blankets. Bubbe made me a dress and a skirt, so now I don’t have to lounge around in my robe all day.

The baby kicks and moves a lot more. Bubbe’s happy.

Your father is away on business.

Your mother’s being honored at a dinner next week, and I hope I can make it out of bed to go. If not Bubbe will stay, but I kind of want to get out of my room for a night.

I’m tired, but excited, and I can’t wait for this baby to come.

I love you bundles.

—Belinda!



“Stay still,” Bubbe says, looking up at me. “I don’t want to poke the baby.” I jump, laughing. “It’s kicking again?” I nod, almost proud. “Theodore was like that with Eleanor too, you know. Moved around all the time. Eleanor thought she was losing her mind,” she laughed. “I think I’m done.” I sit down, sighing, propping myself up with my hands. “If you’re feeling up to it, maybe we can go out for some fabric? A friend of mine gave me some of her textile rations. She lives alone, she doesn’t need them.” Bubbe stuck her pins into the small cushion, smiling. “It’ll be nice, no?”

“Okay.”

“Have you spoken to your mother?”

“I don’t want to,” I say, lying on my back. “I know what she’s going to say—she’ll say that I’m making a mistake, this baby’s a mistake, my whole life is this big mistake because I didn’t do things the way she wanted me to. Right before I met him, she was trying to set me up with the rabbi’s son. It’s not that I didn’t like him or anything—he was just…boring. But I was pretty sure that if she had her way, she’d make me stay with him and just—she’d probably make me marry him at some point. But then I met Beau and I fell in love and I can’t help it—whenever I think about him, it just drives me crazy. And this baby… we weren’t trying to have one or something—and it wasn’t like we weren’t trying to be careful. We were. It just happened.”

“What happened when you told your mother?”

“I didn’t want to. It was his idea.” I laugh a little. “He thought everyone would be just as thrilled as he was. When I told her, she got really, really angry and she said some things and threw some things and then threw me out on the street. I tried calling her, but whenever she hears my voice, she hangs up.” I shrug.

“Don’t you think she’d want see the baby?”

“No.”

“I’m sure she would.”

“I don’t think so, Bubbe.” She played with my hair, sighing.

“Don’t be so sure. Want me to call?”

“She’s not the nicest person in the world.”

“I can handle myself,” Bubbe says, standing up. “I’ll see what I can do.”



“Your mother is a stubborn and hardheaded woman,” Bubbe says grudgingly that evening, peeling some potatoes.

“I could have told you that.”

“I asked her if we could just meet for tea or something somewhere so we could talk about you, and she gets all angry and upset, like I asked her to commit some unspeakable crime. Bah. I tell her that you’re about to pop any day now, and she says, ‘I don’t care,’ like I’m talking about the weather or politics or something. Bah.” Bubbe shakes her head. “You don’t need people in your life like that anyway.”



I can hardly get out of bed anymore, but it’s not because I don’t want to, it’s because this belly is just too big for me to do anything useful anymore. I basically have to roll over until I end up on my back, then try to shimmy myself out. And as sad as I am, as lonely as I am, as helpless as I am—I can’t help but to be so excited for this baby I can hardly stand it.



I’m sitting on the bed in a thin cotton night dress because it’s honestly too hot for clothes anymore. Panting, I stare at the window, waiting for a breeze to come through, as if staring will make it come faster.

“Belinda?” Eleanor asks. I sigh. As if the heat isn’t enough, here she comes. If she talks to me about color swatches one more time, I might just scream.

“Yes?”

“I have something to show you!” she sings. Here we go, I think, groaning quietly. She shuts the door behind her, sitting down on my bed. To my surprise, it’s nothing nursery related at all. “Look!” she exclaims, shoving a book in my hands.

“What is it?”

“Open it!” I open it slowly, only to see what looks like a younger Eleanor and George with—

“Is that Beau?” I ask, squinting at the chubby baby in the pictures.

For a couple of hours, I can sit and look through them and get away from it all.

It’s nice.



“Silk? No silk? Cotton…? Definitely cotton. It’s the only thing that breathes,” Eleanor muses, going through my clothes. She has a valise on the floor, and starts throwing dresses and under clothes in it.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, look at you, Belinda. You’re gonna burst any day now,” she says plainly, looking back at me. “I want to get a bag ready for when we go to the hospital.”

It hits me then—any day now, I’m actually going to be having this baby and Beau is an entire ocean away.



I’m downstairs with Bubbe because it’s too hot upstairs. We’re sitting next to the open window. She’s darning an old quilt, squinting at her handiwork. I’m going through one of Eleanor’s old magazines, reading an article about how to make shampoo out of sunflower oil when it happens.

It’s like this flood or something, and scared I look down. Water drips down my leg and onto the carpet.

“Bubbe?”

“Hm?” She looks up and down, then sighs, setting down her knitting. “I think I’ll call the car service.” She helps me up and it’s this like this horrific pain just starts out of nowhere. I almost fall. “Deep breaths, hm?” She sits me down in the hallway, picking up the telephone.

“Bubbe!” I yell, starting to cry. She shushes me, hand on my shoulder. She nods and says something about the hospital, but I can’t hear her because I’m too busy trying not to scream. And as quickly as it comes, it stops. I sigh, hands on my belly.

“Let’s get you dressed before the car comes, okay? Don’t get up. I’ll bring your clothes down.”

“The bag’s in the closet!” I exclaim, slumping into the chair.

Here we go.



In the hospital, I meet Eleanor’s niece, Mary-Ellen, who’s a nurse on the floor where I’m having the baby. Eleanor calls her sisters and brothers, and in less than an hour, they’re all flocking the room. I feel suffocated.

“Bobby! We’ll name it Bobby!” one of them exclaim. The room is hot and it’s even hotter with the rest of them yelling over each other and laughing.

“Eric!”

“Carl!”

I close my eyes and dig my fingers into the blanket, willing myself not to start screaming. But it’s bad, it’s awful and I hate it and right now, just for these next couple of hours, I hate him. I hate him, I hate him, I just hate him for doing this to me, leaving me with this baby by myself and the rest of his crazy family.

I can’t hear myself think in here. It’s a madhouse.

“Betty?”

“I’m Belinda,” I mumble quietly, annoyed.

“Betty, Belinda, it’s the same thing,” his aunt says dismissively. “So, you like Kevin or Calvin better?” She’s chewing her gum too loudly and I wonder if it’s just that they don’t understand that I’m kind of in the middle of trying to have a baby or something. I shoot her a look, breathing through my nose.

“I—I don’t—I—oh, god,” I groan, throwing my head back, starting to cry again.

“Jeez, it’s just a question,” she replies, miffed. “Someone’s a little sensitive.”

There’s a knock and I hope it’s Mary-Ellen with my ice chips. Instead, it’s a little better, it’s the doctor.

“Out,” he says, slipping on some gloves. “I need all of you to get out.”

There’s the chorus of protests and the doctor makes a face.

“We need some privacy, if you would be so kind. There are chairs in the hall and the lobby.” They all shuffle out slowly, shooting me looks as they leave. Eleanor is tied up at the office—thankfully—so Bubbe stays with me, knitting patiently in the corner, humming under her breath.

After more poking and prodding, he tells me than I only have an hour or so to wait, and if I feel like pushing, I should call for the nurse.

An hour turns into two, and two turns three, and three turns into four, and finally four turns into five.

And the pain just gets worse and worse and time goes on. I’m ready to tear my face off. It’s like I’m being torn in half, and the doctor says, “Just push,” like it’s that easy, and there’s this crying howling sound and I realize it’s me and god I’m just in so much pain.

Bubbe’s holding my hand and stroking my hair, telling me it’s going to be okay, but it’s not okay, none of this is okay and—

“You’re crowning,” the doctor says, looking up. “Just keep pushing, you’re doing wonderfully.”

I can’t do anything but cry, so I do, because this is the worst kind of pain and I wouldn’t ever wish this on anyone and oh, god, I just want him to be here, and I know he can’t be because of obvious reasons, but if he was this might be a little better. And even though Bubbe’s here, coaching me on and telling me that it’s going to be over soon, I still feel lonely.

And then it’s over, I’m done, and there’s crying that isn’t mine and I sigh in relief, deflated.

George comes in with Eleanor and they cut the cord.

“It’s a very healthy baby girl,” Mary-Ellen says, laying her on my chest.

I’m happy, and Eleanor’s crying in the corner with George, and Bubbe’s even tearing up a little, and we’re all happy, but I’m still miserable because he’s not around. And when she opens her eyes and looks up at me, I could die, because she has his big blue eyes.



31 August 1942

Beau—

In case your mother hasn’t called you yet, in case Bubbe hasn’t, or in case your father hasn’t, the baby came last night. She’s the cutest thing in the entire world. She has Bubbe’s freckles, and she has your eyes.

I think the only thing she has from me is my hair.

Her name is Lisette Marie Beaumont.

Do you like it?

She weighs a little over seven pounds, so she’s a little small, but I still think she’s beautiful. Bubbe fusses over her all the time, and she says that she reminds her of you when you were a baby. She’s pretty quiet so far, but we’ll see.

How are you? How’s it all going? Is everything alright? We’ll be waiting for you.

We love you!

--Belinda and Lisette!



The only thing better than my baby being a girl instead of a boy is that every single time Eleanor holds her, she screams like there’s no tomorrow.

It’s beautiful.



“Oh your Bubbe loves you so much,” Bubbe coos, dressing the baby. “Yes, she does. Who’s Bubbe’s big girl? That’s you, precious, yes it is,” she says, swaddling her. “You should eat, Belinda.” I poke at the food in front of me, sighing. “She looks so much like him. Yes you do,” she says, making a face at the baby.

“Don’t remind me,” I mumble, eating a spoonful.



“It’s okay,” I mumble quietly, fixing a bottle for the baby, who’s like a clock—every two hours, it’s a feeding, a changing, a burping, a putting back to sleep. I fumble in the dark, stumbling over some discarded shoes and slippers on my way to the crib. I pick her up and shush her quietly, swaying back and forth. I sit in the rocking chair, eyes half lidded as I feed her, propping her head up a little. “C’mon, Lissie, it’s okay,” I say sleepily, yawning.

I’m exhausted.

I don’t think I’ve slept a full night in weeks.

I start rocking, and she finishes the bottle in almost ten minutes. I burp her and I think she’s fine, and I’m about to put her down when she starts crying again, face red, fists clenched. So I sit on my bed and put her to sleep again, singing quietly.

When she finally settles down, I hold her with one arm, fixing a bunch of pillows with the other, laying her down next to me. She looks up at me with those blue eyes and I can’t help it, the tears come hard and fast. She just coos and wriggles around, yawning quietly.



10 September 1942

Beau—

She’s getting a little bigger every day. It’s pretty official at this point—everyone is convinced that the baby looks just like you. Bubbe’s losing her mind over her, and your mother…well, they don’t get along very well. I don’t think the baby likes her—every time Eleanor even tries to touch her, she cries and cries and cries.

I don’t whether or not I should laugh or what.

I miss you, but every day it gets a little better.

I’m getting my strength back, and Lisette seems to be getting a little healthier too. My only worry is that winter is coming soon, and she might get sick, what with her being so small and all.

I love you and I still love you and I’ll always love you.

--Belinda and Lisette!



My birthday is quiet, a small cake from Bubbe and a telegram from Beau.

HAPPY NINETEENTH STOP
LOVE BEAU STOP



“You’re spoiling the baby,” Eleanor says, watching me. I test the milk on my wrist, then set the bottle down, waiting for it to cool.

“How?”

“You’re with her all the time. Here, let me hold her.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea…” I trail off. I finally—finally—have her calmed down for the day, and all I want to do is give her a bottle and set her down for her nap. That’s it. Maybe, just maybe, I can get some rest. But no, because Eleanor has other ideas.

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. Give her here.”

“Eleanor—”

“I know how to hold a baby,” she says, snatching her out of my arms.

And, on cue, the baby starts wailing up a storm, wriggling and crying and trying to push Eleanor away. I sigh tiredly, shooting her a look.

“I don’t—I don’t know what’s going on—” I take her from her and start trying to calm her down, narrowing my eyes at her.

“You scared her.”

“I didn’t scare her,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m her grandmother, for crying out loud. How could she be scared of me?”

“I was going to put her down for a nap, Eleanor.”

“And that’s my problem because…why?” I shake my head, turning around. “I’ll be upstairs taking a nice long bath if you need me. I had such a long day at the office today, you know?” She sighs, stomping up the stairs loudly.



“When I first had Beau,” Eleanor says, nose up, “no one bottle-fed their children.” I sit with Lisette, trying to get her to take the bottle.

“Mm.”

“You should breastfeed.”

“I’m sore,” I say flatly, looking up at her. “The bottle really won’t hurt.”

“How do you know? Breastfeeding is a way to bond with your child.”

“I’m with her every second of the day, Eleanor. I think I’m covered.”

“Breast milk is full of nutrients and vitamins for the baby!”

“I tried breastfeeding her thirty minutes ago and she didn’t want any. Milk is really good for babies too.”

“Says who?”

“The doctor, if you really must know.”

Eleanor makes a face and leaves, indignant.



Beau—

Your mother is driving me crazy.

When did she get her doctor’s license? Because she keeps acting like she knows more than they do and all she does is criticize me and I’m sick and tired of her barging in on me and if she says one more thing about how all I do is ‘lounge around all day’—like taking care of this baby isn’t enough work—I think I’ll just lose it.

I can’t sleep, I can’t eat—my entire life is now on a two hour schedule ruled by little Lissie and I’m going crazy.

I can’t tell you the last time I had two seconds to myself.

I miss you so much.

I sigh, grabbing another sheet of paper.

29 September 1942

Beau—

Your mother is such a wonderful help. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her. George just dotes on the baby all the time. Personally, the might be spoiling her a little, but why wouldn’t you? She’s the cutest thing, I’d spoil her too, if I could.

Bubbe made her some new jumpsuits and one of your aunts bought by some hand-me-downs, so for now, I think the baby’s set.

She’s so wonderful.

She’s eating and she’s big and healthy, and I think that if you saw her, you’d say the same thing.

George is supposed to be sending you some pictures of the baby and me soon.

I love you oodles.

--Belinda!



“You should really clean yourself up,” Eleanor says over dinner. I’m trying to feed the baby. Bubbe shoots her a look. “What? She should. She’s a mess.”

“Excuse me?”

“Have you looked at yourself lately, darling?” She tilts her head at me, shaking it.

“I’m sorry?”

“Look,” she says, sliding a compact across the mirror at me. “Look at yourself. You’re falling apart, Belinda.”

“Eleanor—”

“Mother, please.” I look down at the baby, settling the bottle down on the table. I hold her, patting her back. “Belinda, you’re a mess. I mean, I don’t know why, it’s not like you do anything around here that would explain it—”

“What do you mean, I don’t do anything? I just had a baby!”

“A month ago! That’s not an excuse to look so slovenly.”

“Well, gee, between my morning feedings, and scrubbing out the cloth diapers, and changing and bathing her, getting all gussied up isn’t exactly the first thing on my mind, Eleanor.”

“You don’t have to get all gussied up,” she mocks. “Just some rogue, some lipstick, maybe a comb for your hair? A little effort goes a long way, darling.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“When I had Theodore, I made sure to look my best each and every day, no matter how I was feeling.” She shakes her head. “You can’t just go out looking like that.”

“I don’t go out.”

“And that’s whose fault?”

“I kind of have a baby to look after right now.”

“That’s your excuse?”

“Eleanor, please,” Bubbe says.

“I’m just saying, maybe if you went out sometimes and fixed yourself up a little, you might feel a little better.”



8 OCTOBER 1942

EDITOR’S DESK

From: Eleanor Beaumont

To: Private T. A. Beaumont

Theodore—

I don’t know what you expect me to do with your…wife.

I don’t know why I should even call her that.

It’s not that I don’t like her. She’s a perfectly nice girl in her own right, but she insists on doing things her own way instead of letting me help her. She’s OBVIOUSLY turned the infant against me, although I don’t know how. In any event, when I try to hold your daughter, she wails.

You should talk to Belinda about that.

She also REFUSES to use the nursery.

Like’s it’s the worst thing in the world for her to walk a few extra steps to the crib. Oh no!

She’s letting herself go, and every time I bring it up, she gets upset.

Okay, so she had the baby in August—like that is supposed to be an excuse to look a hot mess.

I don’t know what you want me to do.

She’s driving me up a wall.

--Mother.



1 NOVEMBER 1942

Dearest Theodore—

Your baby is bigger and beautiful and is your spitting image. I thought you would like to know. Belinda is starting to take night classes at the hospital downtown. I stay with the baby. I think it might be nice for her to get out of the house for a little while every day.

Your mother is a bit over bearing.

Your father is gone again.

Belinda misses you.

A telegram might be nice.

Love,

Bubbe.



15 NOVEMBER 1942
WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM SERVICE
BEAU STOP
YOUR MOTHER AND I ARE TAKING A BREAK STOP
WRITE SOON STOP
DAD STOP



17 NOVEMBER 1942
EDITOR’S DESK
FROM: ELEANOR FISHER-BEAUMONT
TO: PRIVATE T.A. BEAUMONT

Child of mine—

I don’t know what to do. Your father’s leaving me. We’ve been married for twenty-one years and he’s just leaving me, like we had nothing but some sordid summer fling. Do I mean nothing to him anymore? When I met him he was nothing but some sniveling intern at the airport in Miami.

I was sixteen. He’s all I’ve ever known, Theodore. What does he expect me to do? I spent my life dedicated to him, to you, to our home—to be repaid with this?

He’s sent the divorce papers.

I’m at a loss. My only consolation is Belinda and the baby. Please come home. I need you here.

--Mother



24 NOVEMBER 1942

Theodore—

Belinda is well. Lisette is bigger and sits up now. She laughs often. Smiles. Her colic is practically gone.

As for your mother? Well, let’s just say it doesn’t look so good. She’s taken a leave of absence from the paper. I don’t think she’ll be back just yet.

Your father wants her to sign the papers so he can—get this—shack up with some stewardess. It’s a crying shame. I just wanted to bring you up to speed.

Happy Thanksgiving.

--Bubbe



1 DECEMBER 1942

Beau—

Your mother’s so torn up about your father. I feel awful. The same thing—sort of—happened with my own parents. It gets better with time, I suppose. She’s quiet lately. I don’t know if I really like her like this.

Bubbe’s helping her out the best she can. So am I, but between the baby and night school, I don’t know if I’m really doing much good.

I’m joining the Red Cross next week.

I still love you.

--Belinda and Lisette!



10 DECEMBER 1942
WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM SERVICE
SON STOP
SENDING GOOD CHEER STOP
DAD STOP



“How could you do that to her?” I ask, frustrated.

“You don’t understand, son. Your mother and I—”

“She loved you.”

“And I loved her too, but—”

“You don’t do that to people you love.”

“You don’t exactly leave them alone with a baby either, huh?”

“Dad—” I groan.

“Georgie?”

“Is that her?”

“Son—”

“George!”

“I don’t believe this. Dad!”

“Are you coming back to bed?”

I hang up before I can say anything else.



24-25 DECEMBER 1942
WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM SERVICE
BEAU STOP
I DON’T DO THIS BUT MERRY CHRISTMAS (AND HAPPY HANUKKAH) STOP
LOVE BELINDA AND LISETTE STOP



1 JANUARY 1943
CONTENTS:
TWO PHOTOGRAPHS
THREE SWEATERS
FIVE PAIRS OF UNDERGARNMENTS AND OR SOCKS
ADDRESSED TO:
PRIVATE THEODORE A. BEAUMONT
FROM:
BELINDA M. BEAUMONT


15 JANUARY 1943

EDITOR’S DESK

FROM: MISS ELEANOR FISHER

TO: PRIVATE T.A. BEAUMONT

Child of mine—

I’m better. I’m back and well, I’m completely over it. We received your telegram. Your Bubbe can’t wait to see you. And of course, I’m thrilled. We’re not telling Belinda—it’ll be a surprise.

When will you be here, exactly?

--Mother



I fix my hat in the mirror, biting my lip.

“I look nice, right Lissie?” She just gurgles and coos on the bed, rolling over. “I’ll take that as a yes.” I pick her up and she starts tugging on my hair. “You gonna be good for Bubbe?” She coos some more. “Yeah?” I grab my bag and coat, then make for the stairs. “Bubbe?” I call out. “I’m leaving!”

She comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron, taking the baby.

“Look at my big girl,” she fusses, blowing raspberries in the baby’s neck. She laughs, pulling at Bubbe’s face. “You’re gonna be back for dinner, right?” I glance at my watch, sighing.

“I should be,” I mumble, putting my coat on. “I’ve got to run, my shift starts in ten minutes.” She shoves my lunch into my hands, kissing my cheek quickly.

“Go! Don’t be late!”

The hospital isn’t so far on foot. I get there with a minute to spare, thankfully. Today is quiet so far.

Breakfast is the usual chorus of, “Hey, sweet cheeks!” and other cat calls. Most of them are wounded soldiers, so I let it go. I change bandages, give sponge baths, give out painkillers, and so on. And all the while, I wonder if any of them knew—or know—Beau. None of them ever mention it and I’m too afraid to ask, so we don’t talk about it.

During my lunch break, I usually hang around the nurses’ station and read a magazine. My lunch isn’t anything fancy, just an apple, a sandwich, and some cold coffee. I save the sandwich and coffee for later and eat the apple instead, reading an article about the First Lady with mild disinterest, leaning against the counter with my back turned.

“Excuse me—”

“I’m on my lunch break,” I answer, taking a bite.

“But I—”

“Sir, I can’t help you right now. If you want a morphine drip, you’re gonna have to get back in bed and wait five minutes. That’s when my break ends and I’ll be more than happy to help you.”

I toss the apple core in the trash can, picking up some charts, holding them to my chest.

“I just—”

“Sir, please. I need to bring these charts down to the lounge,” I say with annoyance. Turning around, I look up, feeling my knees go weak. “Beau?” He leans in to kiss me but I push him away, shaking my head. “You can’t just do that here,” I warn quietly, dragging him down the hall, turning off into one of the more quiet corridors.

I kiss him, then look at him with concern.

“What are you doing here? Desertion is a crime, and you can actually—”

“I’m just visiting, sweet pea. Relax.”

“For how long?”

“Three weeks.”

“Really?” He nods, holding my face.

“Let’s get out of here, hospitals give me the creeps.”

“I can’t just leave, Beau. I work here. I could get fired.” I frown, glancing at my watch.

“Where’s the baby?”

“With Bubbe. Haven’t you gone home yet?”

“No. I had my things sent there and I came straight over to see you.”

“I don’t get off until five thirty. If you’re going to hang around here, please try to stay out of trouble.”

“Trouble’s my middle name,” he grins, kissing me.



I feel jittery.



It seems that time flies when you’re having fun. One second I’m saying bye to Beau and the next, I’m fixing a patient’s drip when Mary-Alice—not to be confused with Mary-Ellen—is dragging me down the hallway excitedly for no good reason.

“There’s just this dreamboat who’s asking for you,” she gushes as we turn the corner. And of course, there’s Beau, and pretty much all of the on-call nurses, the latter of whom are staring at him with these dopey grins on their faces.

“Oh, good grief,” I groan, a little embarrassed and maybe the tiniest bit flattered. He’s got flowers and chocolates from the gift shop down the street, and he looks all clean and polished, and for a minute, I want to melt. Until I remember that he really can’t be here and the nurses have jobs to do and if any of the doctors knew he was here, I’d get in serious trouble.

“And, I don’t know if y’all know her. I mean, you probably do, but still,” he says, sheepish, looking around.

“Do you know him?” Mary-Alice asks.

“You could say that, sure,” I mumble, cutting through the nurses.

“There you are,” he laughs. “Surprise.”

I think they kind of all get over it once they realize that it’s for me and that there really isn’t much to see, they leave, disinterested.

“These are for you.” I smile, trying to avoid the nurse behind the desk, Sally, and her prying eyes.

“Let’s go home,” I say quickly, practically dragging him as I punch out my card, grab my things, and leave.

“What’s the rush?”

“No rush,” I lie. “I just want to go home.”

And we’re the same, but we’re not, and we’re different, but we’re not, and I want to pinpoint the changes, but they’re too many that I don’t even know where to begin. And they’re not bad changes, but they’re not exactly good either. The Beau I love is here, but he isn’t, and we’re kind of awkward and we’re trying to pretend we aren’t, and I don’t know why.



Bubbe and Lisette are playing in the parlor with some old blocks. She stares at them determinedly, sticking her tongue out a little. Bubbe holds her up as she pushes them with her small hands, giggling.

I take my hat off and set my things on the chair in the hallway. Beau stands in the doorway, watching Bubbe and the baby.

“Is that her?”

“Yeah. Wanna say hi?” I take his hand and walk with him. He seems shy all of a sudden. When Lisette sees me she starts leaning forward, arms out. I kneel across from them, hands on my lap. “Who’s my big girl?” I coo, picking her up. She pulls at my face with her chubby fingers, making a face at me. “Happy to see me?”

“I think I’ll go heat up dinner,” Bubbe says, picking herself up off the floor.

“Wanna hold her?” He sits next to me, nodding. “Here, be careful. Keep her head up.”

Lisette doesn’t like strangers. Every time one of Eleanor’s friends come over, or whenever any of the nurses come by for dinner and pick her up, she kicks up a fuss so big I’m not sure she’ll ever calm down. But with Beau, it’s different. Even if he is her father, they don’t really know each other well and I’m bracing myself for the ear piercing shriek that I know is coming, but it doesn’t. She just looks at him very seriously, like she’s sizing him up or something.

“Hi, Lissie.”

She digs her fingers into his cheeks, a small smile on her face.

This is what I’ve been waiting for and I know it is, and I feel my heart strings pull a little when he makes her laugh.


So I’ll be lying if I say there isn’t a single ounce of resentment, because there is. Of course there is. He leaves me by myself with a baby and just comes to see her out of the blue—kind of—and acts like it’s just that easy, like there isn’t anything to it and like the last year or so haven’t been this horrific nightmare, and like taking care of a baby isn’t really that hard.

No, of course not.

But I’ll smile and laugh and kiss him all the same because it’s not like he has any idea anyway.



It builds.


The first inkling of resentment shows itself later that night. I managed to get Lisette to bed. We go to sleep quietly, because I guess he’s tired and I’m a little tired too. I sit up and wait, because any second she’s going to wake up for something, and I might as well just wait up to see what it is.

I doze off, though, so when she wakes up, it’s Beau that gets up first. The bed shifts and I yawn, moving over until I hear the baby crying. Beau sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

“I’ll be up in a minute,” I mumble sleepily, sitting up.

“I can do it,” he says, standing up.

“You sure?”

The baby just cries more when he picks her up. He tries shushing her, but it’s no good.

“Just go back to sleep, Lissie,” he says, like it’s just that easy.

I sit up and wait for him to give up so I can just do it and we can all go back to sleep.

He tries to give her a bottle next, but she just pushes it away, practically screaming at this point.

“So you’re not hungry, huh? I’m not funny, I know, take it easy,” he laughs, propping her up on his shoulder. I don’t know why he’s acting like this is such a joke.

I’m pretty sure she’s woken everyone up by now. Almost a little annoyed (I honestly don’t even know why), I crawl out of bed, taking her from him. I cradle her to my chest, then sit against the wall, eyes closed.

“She just woke up, Beau. That’s it.”

“I would’ve gotten it.”

“But you didn’t,” I mumble under my breath.



The second inkling comes two days later, but it’s not so much resentment as it is annoyance and anger, working in tandem.

At work, I manage to get two weeks off after Friday, which means I can spend them with Beau and the baby, which is a good thing, I think. The last few days have been tense in a strange sort of way. And by that I mean that I’m mad at him—I’m still trying to figure out why myself—and he doesn’t even notice or care, and if he does, he doesn’t say anything about it, which only makes me even madder.

So Beau says he wants to take me to dinner on Friday night, so I let him because maybe if we just spent some time together without the baby this weird awkward thing we have going on will go away.

Right?

I don’t get out until six, and by six it’s cold and dark outside. When I actually do get out that night, it’s windy and pretty much freezing, which is why when I see Beau with the baby in this kind of weather, I kind of freak out. Of course, he’s acting like it’s no big deal at all.

“What are you doing?!” I exclaim, taking her from him. “Are you crazy?!” I take her from him, wrapping her in my scarf, bundling her in my coat.

“I just wanted—”

“It’s freezing out here, Beau. What are you thinking?!”

“I was trying to—”

“Whatever,” I say, shaking my head. “Let’s just go home.”



“Are you mad?” I shoot him a look from across the table, spearing a piece of potato with my fork. Bubbe’s in the kitchen with the baby. “I wasn’t trying to get her sick or something, Belinda, I was just—”

“What were you doing, Beau?” I raise an eyebrow, chewing slowly.

“If you’d let me finish, you’d know that I was trying to surprise you.”

“Surprise me?” I laugh humorlessly, shaking my head. “Of course.”

“What?”

“Are you out of your mind?” I ask quietly, looking back down at my plate. “It’s dark and cold and she’s a baby,” I say slowly.

“I’m sorry. I was just—”

“She could get pneumonia. That kills them, you know? It’s not like she’s a toy or something. Sorry can’t fix that.” I take my plate and stand up, walking away.

I don’t know what’s happening to us.



He’s playing with the baby on the bed, making faces and cooing and fussing. I hold the towel around myself tightly, watching them with a small smile. I sit at the vanity, combing my hair as I watch them in the mirror. It’s not like I don’t want him here, because I do.

I really do, and I’m happy he’s here, and even though we’ve been fighting a little lately, I’m still happy to have him here, and I’m happy he’s bonding with the baby or whatever. Maybe we can get over this. Whatever it is.



So the argument—which we both know is coming—finally comes on Saturday morning. It’s not so much an argument as it is a venting, but still.

“You’re different,” he says quietly. I’m dressing the baby, but she’s fidgety and won’t stay still, so it’s not easy.

“Different?”

“You’re not the same anymore.” I button her onesie, making a face at her.

“I’m not?” I frown at the baby. “Stay still.” I pull her little arms through the dress, sitting her up.

“No. You’re…distant, cold, like—like you don’t want me around or something.” I look at him, then back down at the baby. “And if you don’t, I guess I understand. I can leave, if that’s what you want.”

“Isn’t that what you always do?” I ask, standing up with the baby. I set her down in the crib with her toys, then turn around, leaning against the railing. “You just leave me. You always leave, like I don’t matter to you or something—”

“I don’t leave because I want to, Belinda, I leave because I have to and I’m sick and tired of people acting like this is something I want. You think I like this, huh? Think I like seeing you for a couple of days then having to pack up and leave right away? That I like just seeing pictures of you and the baby and that’s it? That I like only hearing your voice? That I don’t want to be with you? Feel you? Hold you? Tell you how much I miss you and love you? Do you think this has been easy for me?”

“Easy for you?! For you? What about me, huh? I get knocked up, kicked out of my own home, my mother and my family refuse to speak to me, and then you just leave. You know how scary that is, huh? How people look at you? How people act? How they whisper about you when they think you can’t hear but you can hear them anyway? I needed you, okay? You didn’t even have to help me—I just needed you there, Beau. And you weren’t. The only time I’ve ever needed you for anything, and you’re not there. I had the baby—your baby—and everyone was there. Bubbe, your aunts, your uncles, Mary-Ellen, your parents, your cousins—everyone but you. It’s been hard, Beau. Really hard. I’m happy you’re here, I really am, but I need more from you. A lot more. I’ve been trying to raise this baby and I can’t do it by myself. I have Bubbe and I have your mother, but I need you. I need you to help me.”



He spends the entire day and night out, and for a couple of hours, I wonder if he’s even coming back. When he actually does, I’ve just put the baby down after one of her late night feedings. I’m pulling the covers over my head when I hear the door creep open. He kicks his shoes off and crawls into bed, curling up with me.

“Where were you?” I ask quietly.

“You’ll see in the morning.”



“What are you doing?” I ask with a laugh, balancing the baby on my hip.

“You’ll see,” he laughed in my ear, hands over my eyes. “Just keep those pretty peepers closed, okay? Watch your step.”

“Do we even know anybody around here?”

“Just wait here. Don’t look!” So I stand with the baby, opening an eye curiously, looking around. It’s pretty here, a bunch of apartment buildings everywhere in the middle of the city. And before I know it his hands are over my eyes and he’s telling me to just keep going. “Okay, open!”

“What is this?” I ask, looking around the decorated apartment.

“It’s ours!” I glance over at him. “Do you like it?”

“What do you mean ours?”

“Our apartment.”

“Our apartment?”

“’Cause you’re always talking about how much you wanna get out of the house and all and I just thought that maybe it’s about time we get out of momma’s house.” He smiles a little, laughing. “So…you like it?”

“It’s nice.” I sit on one of the couches, bouncing the baby on my knee. “Where’d you get the money for this?” He shrugs, shutting the door. “You didn’t have to do all this, Beau.”

“I wanted to help, you know? I mean, there’s space for the baby and all her stuff and now, you know, you won’t be so cramped and everything.”

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

“But I wanted to! It’s the least I can do.”



I’m putting the groceries away in the icebox. Beau and the baby are playing on the floor. He’s pretty much putty in her hands. She sits on him, laughing as she pushes the blocks off of him. He sets her on the blanket on the floor, propping his head up with his hand, looking at me.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I go back to the groceries, shaking my head. When I turn around, he’s there, grinning.

“What?” He kisses me, arms wrapped around my waist. I laugh, swatting him away.

“Stop,” I mumble, blushing.

“Why?”

“The—the baby’s right there,” I say, turning around.



Lisette giggles, playing with her food. I’m still trying to fix diner, so Beau is feeding the baby. She sits in the high chair, making faces at him.

“It’s really good for you,” he coaxes. She just laughs, banging her little hands on the surface. “Lissie, c’mon, don’t play with your food,” he laughs. I peel potatoes against the counter, glancing over at them. “It’s…” He looks at the glass jar on the table, squinting. “Peaches and squash?” He looks at me and makes a face. “You still need to eat it.” He cleans off her face and hands. “Just try it!” he laughs. He takes a spoonful, holding it up. She moves away from it, making a face at him. “It can’t be that bad.” She pushes the spoon away. “C’mon, open wide.” He holds it up, smirking at her. “Vroom, airplane’s coming in for a landing!”



“But the baby,” I say, trying not to laugh.

“The baby’s asleep,” he mumbles, hands sneaking up my nightdress.

“But the dishes—”

“I did the dishes,” he laughs, face in my neck.

“I mean, I think I left the food out and—”

“I put it away.” I laugh, kissing him softly.

“You thought of everything, huh?”

“You could say that.” He squeezes my sides, sighing. “I missed you so much, Belinda.”

“I’m just—I mean, with the baby and all, I’m not exactly, uh I mean—”

“I think you’re wonderful.”

“But I—”

“I’ve been thinking about and waiting for you for the last…only god knows how long. I don’t care, I just wanna be with you.”



“She’s teething!” I exclaim one morning over breakfast. I set the spoon down, pulling her bottom lip down a little. “Look!”



“Are you crying?” I sniffle, digging my face into the wet pillow.

“No.”

“Belinda—”

“I’m fine.” I hiccup, trying to breathe.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” I snap, turning over. “None of this is okay! I—I’m tired and I’m lonely and you’re leaving and I don’t want you to and the baby needs us, together, not just me, and when you leave I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself.”

“Baby—”

“I’m scared, Beau.”

“Don’t be.”



WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM SERVICE
11 MAY 1943
IMPORTANT NEWS STOP
MAYBE STOP
I DON’T KNOW STOP
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY STOP
BELINDA AND LISETTE STOP



WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM SERVICE
19 MAY 1943
THEODORE HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND STOP
NEED TO SPEAK TO YOU STOP
MOTHER STOP



WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM SERVICE
23 MAY 1943
CONGRATULATIONS THEODORE STOP
YOU’RE GOING TO BE A FATHER STOP
AGAIN STOP
ALSO CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR PROMOTION OF SORTS STOP
BUBBE STOP



“I went to the doctor after work today,” she says quietly. I hear the baby in the background.

“Yeah?”

“I’m due sometime in December.”

“That’s great.”

“You’re not going to be here, are you?”

“Belinda,” I sigh.

“I’ll take that as a no. I need to get off the phone, it’s almost time for me to put the baby to bed.”

“Baby—”

“Goodnight, Beau. I love you.”

The line goes silent.



WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM SERVICE
30 MAY 1943
CONGRATULATIONS STOP
DUE DATE 14 DECEMBER
HAPPY BIRTHDAY HONEY STOP
KISSES BUBBE STOP



“How could you be so irresponsible?!” Eleanor hollers, and for a second, it feels like when I told my mother all over again.

“I just—”

“Did you even think?! How are you having another one?”

“I’m sorry?” I shake the baby’s rattle distractedly in front of her, glancing at Eleanor. “It wasn’t like we planned on it…”

“When do you two ever plan anything?” She sighed, shaking her head. Bubbe took the baby, cooing something about giving her a bath. “How do you suppose you’re going to take care of them?”

“I’ll figure something out.” I turn, watching Bubbe wash Lisette in the sink. The baby throws a rubber duck on the floor, giggling. “We’ll be okay.”

“Stop it,” Bubbe chided, frowning at Lisette.

“If you need anything—” Eleanor begins.

“We’ll be fine.”



“What are you gonna do?” Mary Alice asks me over lunch. I peel an orange, shaking my head. “You can’t actually keep it. You’re only nineteen.”

“I know. But…I can’t not keep it, it’s my baby.”

“So who’s gonna help you take care of it? I mean, okay, so his grandma watches Lisette while you work. She’s gonna watch them both?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you gonna quit?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can’t quit. How are you gonna buy them what they need?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I mean, you should probably figure that out soon. You’re kind of…you know.”



16 June 1943

Beau—

Lisette’s first teeth are all the way in. The little ones in the front? Yes. Our little girl’s growing up. Speaking of little girls, I’m kind of excited this time around. I mean, the first time I was just kind of scared because I didn’t know what to expect. But now that I actually know what I’m in for, I’m kind of looking forward to it.

A little.

I wonder what it’s going to be this time.

Love,

Belinda.



The hospital closes at the end of June due to ‘lack of funding’ and other things that don’t make much sense. I feel bad for the soldiers and other people who actually depended on the help we gave, but I feel even worse for the girls. We’re all out of jobs now.

And now I’m faced this grim reality—war is an awful thing, being alone with an infant and with one on the way is even worse.



I have to swallow all my pride, but at least we have a roof over our heads.

For now.

Eleanor just smiles smugly at me as she fixes up the room, all holier-than-thou.

“It’ll only be until I can get back on my feet,” I say, holding a sleepy Lisette. “Honest.”

“Of course.” She made a face at the baby. “Dinner’ll be ready soon,” she says as she leaves, shutting the door behind her.

I need to find a job, and quick.



“Belinda! Come here!” Bubbe sounds worried, scared, which is strange, because I’ve never seen her scared, ever. I’m in the kitchen, bathing the baby. I pull here out with a towel wrapped around her, drying her off. I walk into the hallway, hesitant. Bubbe’s at the door.

“What’s going on?” She takes the baby, telling me that I have company. I open the door, wiping my hands on the skirt of my dress.

They’re dressed in uniforms like Beau’s, somber and serious looking.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Are you Belinda?”

“Um…yes?” I answer hesitantly.

“May we come in? You might want to sit down.”

This is bad. I can feel it in my bones.

So we go into the parlor, and they tell me to sit because of my ‘condition’ but I can’t, I just can’t because I need to know why they’re here and what they want and why they look so hesitant.

“What’s happening?”

“How do you know Private Beaumont?” one of them ask.

“I’m his wife.” They exchange a look. “Why? What—Is he okay?”

“Ma’am, you should really sit down.”

“No! No, I’m not—I can’t—Just tell me what’s going on.”

“Last Friday afternoon, there was a battle, ma’am, and your husband—Private Beaumont—uh, well, he saved most of our team, you know? He’s a brave soldier. The problem now is that, uh, well—”

“He’s missing in action, ma’am.”

“I don’t understand. What does that mean?” I feel my bottom lip tremble.

“We can’t find him.”

I feel like I can’t breathe, like there’s just no air anymore and I’m crying and they’re telling me that they’re sorry but I don’t think that really matters because he’s probably dead in some ditch in the middle of Europe and I’m here and I’m kind of pregnant and we have a baby and what am I supposed to do without him now?



“Are you going to get up today?” I look over at Bubbe, then turn over, sighing. “It’s nice outside. There’s a nice breeze.” She comes into the room and draws the curtains, letting the bright morning sun into the room.

“Can you shut those please?”

She picks up the baby, who just leans over and tries to climb into bed with me.

“Maybe we can take Lissie to the park today?”

“I don’t want to.”

“You can’t stay in bed all day.”

“Oh, yeah? Watch me.”



My eyes feel scratchy and my throat is sore. The bed isn’t a comfort anymore, but I can’t bring myself to get up. I’ve memorized every single aspect of these four walls. Eleanor sits on the end of the bed.

“Belinda?”

“Please go away.”

“You can’t keep this up.”

“I’m tired.”

“Should I call the doctor?”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay. Lying in bed like this for such a long time isn’t good for you or the baby.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“When was the last time you got out of bed?”

“I took a bath this morning and gave the baby a bottle.”

“Think about the baby. How is this fair to that little thing or Lissie? Or you?”

“Life isn’t fair.”

“Would you like some lunch now?”

“Just leave the tray by the door.”



“That’s it,” Bubbe says one morning, early August. “Get up.”

“Go away.”

“Get up,” she says again, tugging on the blankets. “Enough.”

“Bubbe, please, I’m tired—”

“Enough!” she exclaims, tearing the curtains open. She pushes the window open and turns to me, hands on her hips. “Get out of that bed this instant.” I look at her blankly, wiping the sleep from my eyes. “Out!” She takes the covers off, balling them up in her hands. She tugs my legs over the edge, making me sit up. “Enough.”

“Bubbe—”

“Snap out of it!” She glares harshly at me, frowning. “Enough of this moping and crying and acting like your whole life is over.”

“Isn’t it?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. She glowers.

“No. You have Lisette and this baby! How is it over?”

“He’s dead, Bubbe.”

“You don’t know that.” I look at her blankly. “He’s missing. That doesn’t mean anything—”

“He’s not coming back, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to take care of two small children all by myself.”

“You’re not by yourself. You have me, huh? And you have Eleanor and—”

“I can’t live with you guys forever. That’d be like taking advantage.”

“So you’re just going to lie in bed and cry all day because he might be dead?”

“That’s kind of my plan.”

“What about the baby? What about Lisette? What about you?”

“Bubbe—”

“Your children need you.” She tucks some hair behind my ear. “Do you think he’d really want this for you?”

“I don’t want to be sad anymore.” She smiles a little sympathetically, sighing.

“Let’s get you all cleaned up, okay?”



The only job I can get now is on my hands and knees for twelve hours a day scrubbing floors for a little over a dollar an hour. I hate it, but I hate being in that lonely house all day even more.



“Come here,” I say to Lissie, taking her hand. She sits on my lap, grinning cheekily at me. I put it on my belly and she jumps when the baby kicks, looking up at me. “That’s your little brother or sister,” I coo, tickling her.



“I really, really like the name Casey for a boy,” Eleanor muses at dinner. Lissie’s in her high chair, making a mess, as per usual.

“Don’t play with your food!” I exclaim, wiping her face, feeding her a spoonful. She just laughs and giggles, sticking her hands into the mashed potatoes and swirling it all around. “You really think it’s a boy?”

“Probably. Wouldn’t it be lovely? A little boy and a little girl.”

“It could always be a girl…” I trail off.

“Or maybe Oliver?” She props her head up with a sigh. I wipe the baby’s face and hands, shaking my head. “Oliver Beaumont. You don’t like it?”

“Not really, no.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I’m not sure yet. We’ll see.”



“Mommy!” Lissie yells, crawling on me. “Mommy!” She tugs at my face, excited. I sit up, startled, glancing at my watch.

“I’m late—”

“Mommy!” Lissie says, kissing my face sloppily. She wraps her arms around my neck. Bubbe and Eleanor come in with a small round cake, secretive smile on their faces.

“Happy birthday!”

“Make a wish!”

Lissie blows out the candle and has her hands in the cake before I can even close my eyes.



“Up!” she pleads in whiny Polish, little arms stretched upward. I laugh, trying to, but I kind of really can’t because my belly gets in the way. I groan as I kneel, picking us up off the floor with a huff. She just giggles and yells, “Park!”



“You ready, honey?” Bubbe asks. Lisette fidgets on the chair under the blanket cape, a small frown on her chubby face. “Here we go…” She holds up the scissors and a comb, and snip by snip, trims Lisette’s golden brown hair.

Lisette cries when Bubbe finishes.



I shake my head at her, sighing as I sit on the edge of the bed.

“Mommy!” she whines. I reach over for her but I can’t quite pick her up—belly issues and such—so I sigh, sinking onto the floor next to her. She puts her hand on my belly and stares at it with her serious face, the same face she made at Beau when she first saw him, inspecting. When the baby kicks at her hand, she juts out her bottom lip and starts to cry, scared.



One day in early December, I have the day off and spend it with Lisette and Bubbe. Bubbe sits in the rocking chair in the corner, making Lisette a doll made out of cloth and yarn. We sit on the floor and play with the ball, which Lisette likes to very casually toss in the direction of her grandmother’s figurines.

“Be gentle,” I warn, rolling the ball to her. She holds it to her chest tightly, making a face at me.

“Mine!”

“Lissie—”

“Mine, mine, mine!” she yells, standing up. She waddles to Bubbe, shooting me a look. Bubbe sets her sewing down for a second to take the ball from her. Lisette shoots a look at her, waddling away. “Mine!” She raises the ball over her head and I narrow my eyes at her, lips in a line.

“Don’t you dare.” She reaches back a little, equally as unpleased as I am. “Lisette.” She throws the ball with a giggle, knocking over a vase of flowers. I sit up on my knees, upset. “Get over here. Now.”

“No!” Bubbe starts going after her as I try to pick myself up off the floor. When I finally manage it, there’s a trickle down my legs and a sharp pain. I dig my hands into my sweater, trying to breathe.

“Bubbe?” I ask, whimpering a little. She’s holding a squirming Lisette by the waist, looking at me with concern. “I think my water just broke.”



So it’s the same but it isn’t, the room is the same, his family comes, and they yell over each other, and I can’t hear and it’s just really warm in here—or maybe I’m just sweating a lot, who knows? But it’s different because Eleanor actually comes before the baby’s born and isn’t being all overbearing and George isn’t here, all pride and nostalgia. Bubbe’s not crying this time around and Lisette keeps trying to climb into the bed with me.

And Beau’s kind of sort of probably maybe dead.

“Vernon!”

“Isaac!”

“Isaiah!”

“Kurt!”

I groan, sticking my hand into the bowl of ice chips next to me. I chew slowly, narrowing my eyes at them. I just want them to leave and go away and not be here right now, but I can’t just kick them out (they won’t hear me over their own loud voices).

“She’s going to name him Oliver, aren’t you honey?” Eleanor asks, looking over at me with a syrupy sweet smile. I can’t answer because there’s another contraction. I start crying, fingers curling into the sheets. “She’s going to name him Oliver,” she says, looking over at her sisters and brothers.

“Mommy?” Lisette asks, peering over at me from Bubbe’s arms. “No cry, mommy,” she says reaching for my face.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I wasn’t supposed to be twenty years old and a widow with a baby and another one on the way in a couple of hours. I wasn’t supposed to feel so alone with the people who were supposed to love me the most. My mother was supposed to be here and not act like I’m some horrible person because I might have made some mistakes. Beau wasn’t supposed to die on me.

“I’m not crying, honey,” I say, wiping at my face. “I’m fine, see?” She pouts at me, curling into Bubbe.

This wasn’t supposed to be my life.

The doctor comes into the room and ousts everyone but Bubbe and Eleanor. Lissie goes with Mary-Ellen.

“You’re gonna be here for a while,” he says, taking his gloves off. “Sit tight.”

Bubbe fixes my hair, kissing my forehead after the doctor leaves. “It’s going to be okay.”

I wait.

And I wait.

And I wait some more.

And while I wait, I think about us and about everything that happened to us and how everything panned out, and about where I want to go and who I want to be. I don’t want to be sad and I don’t want to cry, but I am and I do and I just can’t help it, I’m just scared and lonely and tired, and I don’t want to raise these kids by myself, and it dawns on me that I might have to do this all alone after all.

I don’t really know if I’m ready for that.

But ready or not, here this baby comes.

The doctor comes in and the nurses are fixing up the things for the baby, and Beau isn’t here. I mean, he wasn’t here the first time either, but at least I knew that he was coming around at some point. Now he’s not coming at all.

Bubbe tells me that I’m going to be fine and this baby’s going to be fine, but I don’t believe her. I could barely believe Beau.

“Are you ready?” the doctor asks, smiling a little.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

“Yep,” I say with a nod, sighing quietly.

“A nice push, okay?”

I don’t want to push.

“Okay.”

Did it hurt this much last time? I don’t think so. I can hardly breathe, it hurts so much and why are people yelling in the hallway and are they crying? I don’t know, I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t care anymore, I just don’t and I can’t and this hurts too much, everything just hurts and—

“Push.”

The door opens and I look up, curious, and then I start crying because it’s official, I’ve officially lost it and I have to be seeing things and I can’t afford to go crazy right now and—

“It’s okay, I’m here,” he murmurs when he squeezes my hand, kissing my forehead. I shake my head because he can’t be here and he’s not here and I’m just going crazy and this just can’t be happening to me right now.

It can’t and it’s not and oh god it just hurts and I don’t know why he’s holding my hand or kissing my forehead or telling me that it’s okay because he’s supposed to be dead and I’ve spent the last couple of months thinking that and living by that and it’ll just throw me into this complete state of shock if he isn’t dead after all and—

Oh, god this hurts.

And then the baby cries and it doesn’t hurt so much anymore and someone’s yelling that it’s another girl and he’s smoothing my hair back and telling me that it’s okay and that our baby is beautiful and that I should probably open my eyes to see her. And when I do, I see the baby and him and nothing is really making much sense, so I’ll just fall asleep and wake up when it does.

If it ever will, anyway.



So he’s sitting with the baby next to me. The baby’s kind of quiet, holding on and letting go of his pinkie with her small pink hand. He looks up at me and smiles a little.

“How’re you feeling?”

“You’re supposed to be dead,” is my quiet reply. I glance up at the ceiling. “They said you were missing, which is pretty much the same as being dead. Isn’t it? I kind of think it is.”

“I did kind of go missing.”

“What happened to you?”

So he explains, explains how fought and how they all got separated and how some died and it was either stay and die or try to get out and not die, and how they really couldn’t find each other and how he spent most of his time trying to find a city—on foot, mind you—then get a job of sorts so he could get enough money to come back here.

And he got there that morning, reported to his base, how he was going to get a medal for ‘bravery’ and how he spent all day trying to get up here to find us, but when he got home, no one was here, and how that nosy lady from across the street, Mrs. Yves, told him we were at the hospital, and that’s how he got to be sitting in that chair with our baby.

“She looks like you,” he says. “Wanna see?” He gives her to me and I sit up. Big green eyes stare back at me, small pink lips, pale face, chubby cheeks. She wraps her hand around my thumb tightly, closing her eyes. I swaddle her, smiling a little. “I like Isobel.”

“Isobel?” I shook my thumb a little, making her open her eyes sleepily. “Isobel. I like it.” I fix her blanket, rubbing her cheek. “When are you leaving?” I have to ask because I know he is and I would much rather know so I can brace myself for losing him all over again, as morbid as it sounds.

“I’m not.”

“What?”

“I’m not leaving.” I look over at him, confused. “I’m staying.”

“For how long?”

“I’m not going back, Belinda. Not for a long time.”

Isobel squeezes my thumb tighter, yawning quietly. And I realize, looking down at her sweet little face that maybe Bubbe is right, that maybe sometimes honor and pride and duty do come first, but maybe it’s in different ways, like how my honor and pride and duty is to my children, and how his was to, obviously, this war, and how maybe now his is towards me and the baby and Lissie, and how maybe it wasn’t exactly okay before, but maybe he’s right, and maybe we will be okay after all.