Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

war was a ubiquitous intruder crouched just outside the door. When, at any hour, another wave of General Tojo’s planes was expected to hail greetings across America, a nation vulnerable in its paranoia.

      On the home front, a gradual semblance of safety had returned. The battles were a million miles away. Or at least that’s how far the distance seemed separating her from Christian.

      She’d been used to his absence, before the war. With his living in Michigan, weekly letters and stretches of longing between visits became the standard after they met three years ago. He had been working in Chicago for the summer, a soda jerk in his uncle’s drugstore, and she thanked every day since for a cherry Coke craving that had led her through those doors and into his life.

      The very thought of him now made the seat beside her feel even emptier.

      Oh, bother, where was Betty? The newsreel had already begun: Allied infantry streaming into a village, a drumbeat added to in-crease the drama. As if local casualty lists in the newspapers weren’t dramatic enough.

      Twisting around, Julia scanned the aisle in search of the blonde, then craned her neck to see the balcony above. Beneath the projector’s tunnel of light, only a scattering of couples came into view, each in the midst of a thorough tonsil check. Couldn’t they wait for the feature to begin? And why did all the guys appear to be sailors?

      Julia flopped back against her chair. She should have met Betty at the house instead. It wouldn’t be the first time the girl had gone to the wrong movie palace.

      Usually, Julia had no issue seeing a picture alone. Only when Christian was the one beside her—bringing her undivided attention to his soft lips on hers, the shawl of his arm—could her focus be swayed from the featured films. All those glamorous characters, exhibiting the latest fashions, entangled in heart-melting romances. They wouldn’t so much as jump off the screen as suck Julia in to enjoy them firsthand.

      Today, though, even the riveting newsreel had to vie for her interest. She felt her irritation spreading like a rash. A mounting impatience, a clock ticking in her ear. The war should have been over by now, she thought for the hundredth time. She wanted the complications to end, the life she was building with Christian to resume and soar.

      A reflection of the same thought played out in the images before her. Freed European villagers flickered in black and white. Stories poured from their eyes. They’d held on to but a thread of hope, and now they could finally grasp the tapestry of their future. With outstretched arms and gifts, they welcomed the liberating GIs. Young girls waved American flags. They were pretty girls, exotic in their features. Girls no older than Julia. Elation brightened their faces; their gazes swam with gratitude.

      But just how far did their tokens of appreciation go?

      A terrible thought.

      Simply terrible.

      But it was one Julia couldn’t help dwelling upon now, surrounded by sailors whose groping hands and searching mouths bobbed like buoys in the shadows. If this was how they conducted themselves back at home, imagine how they acted after months at sea, after being welcomed by those young, exotic girls willing to twirl around far more fabric than a flag.

      The room suddenly turned sweltering. Dots of sweat met the inside collar of her blouse, the lining of her skirt. The clasp on her garter itched. She needed to stand, to move. In an instant, she was striding up the aisle and out the theater. Sunlight choked her vision as she breathed deep of the city air.

      She was being silly, letting her imagination scuttle away like this. She couldn’t have asked for a more devoted beau than Christian. Regardless, with his handsome face and athletic shape, not to mention his dapper uniform, there was no question he would be tested at some point.

      That’s what this was: a test. Just like their long-distance relationship had always been. Just like the internship offer she had yet to decline.

      Only days away from autumn, her deadline imminent, and still she had provided no answer. She’d savored the mere possibility weeks longer than she should have. This, she now realized, was the rash, the ticking clock. This was the test of their love. And the response she would give—today, she’d go there today—would deter-mine if she passed or failed.

      The brick academy loomed like a haunted mansion. At the base of the entrance steps, Julia’s momentum hit a wall. On her way from the theater, her mind had flipped through article after article, recollections from Woman’s Day and Good Housekeeping. Her husband would come first, above all. His needs, not hers. Christian, of course, wasn’t ever one to limit her choices, which was exactly the reason she needed to do this. Because he wouldn’t ask her to. Be-cause love required sacrifice. And, if nothing else in this world, she knew she wanted to be a good wife.

      “Are you going in?”

      Julia tracked the voice to the gal behind her, lustrous with her sleek ponytail and crisscross dress. Tangerine fabric with snaking copper buttons billowed like foam at the upper edge of her hand-held bag. A daring new design.

      Are you going in? the girl had asked.

      Was Julia going in?

      “I don’t know,” she heard herself reply.

      Understandably, the stranger appeared confused.

      Julia glanced at the doors, and a sudden fear came over her. Certainly, the idea of disappointing her instructor had prolonged the answer; Simone had put her faith and reputation on the line. But now it was the challenge—perhaps impossibility—of saying no, should Julia dare to step foot into her beloved classroom again.

      Maybe that had always been her true cause of hesitation.

      Julia turned to the girl. “Could you pass something along for me, to Madame Simone?”

      She shrugged. “Sure. I’d be happy to.”

      Not permitting herself another thought, Julia pulled from her purse a small notepad. She scribbled the same words that had been waiting from the start.

       Dear Madame Simone,

       Thank you again for all you’ve done, for everything you’ve taught me. But I’m sorry. I simply can’t.

       Yours sincerely,

       Julia Renard

      Immediately, Julia handed off the note and walked away. A pound of angst dissolved with every step, and to her relief, she felt no urge to look back.