Truths and Half Truths

Chapter Twelve - Truth? Or Consequences ...?

Justin counted down the numbers on the street signs as the bus rolled along.  Fifty blocks to go.  Forty-five.  Forty.  He began to fidget.  Thirty-five.  Thirty ...

Justin fanned himself - was it getting awfully close in this bus?  Nobody else semed to notice.  Did the windows open?

Twenty-five.  Twenty.  Fifteen ...

Justin wrestled with the window, but a wicked Edmonton winter had welded the windows shut, and nothing would budge the damn thing.

Fourteen.  Thirteen.  Twel --

Justin yanked on the bell cord and the driver guided the slowing bus up to the next stop.  It coasted to a halt with a grunt and a hiss, and Justin pushed on the exit door, trying to will it open, and stumbled forward off-balance when it finally did.  He gasped in some fresh air,  slung his kit onto the grassy boulevard, plopped down on it, and lit a smoke.

"Christ.  What am I doing?" he thought.  "What am I going to say to her?"

Verna Hextall's words echoed in his head.  "I can only imagine her heartbreak,"  Verna had said.  "I would have thought the Christian thing to do would have been to write the occasional letter.  Do you know how long that silly girl mooned over you, young man?  She may be mooning still.  I think she's well shed of you ..."

Now, even allowing for the old bat's meddling and exaggeration, she did have a point.  He should have written.  He'd thought of writing, dozens, scores, hundreds of times.  Anybody else would have.  But he hadn't written a single letter in more than two years.

He'd received lots of letters.  Dozens  (although none from Mary ...).  All had gone unanswered.

He didn't suppose it would matter that he hadn't written his Mom or Dad, or his sisters, or Eva.  (He winced, and thought "Until two days ago ...").  That wasn't going to be a good enough reason.  Other guys had written their sweethearts; he'd seen them in the barracks, hunkered over their bunks, scribbling, using clipboards and cookie tins from home and whatever was to hand as a writing surface. 

Paul had written his parents religiously every Sunday (if you could call skipping Mass to write a letter "religiously").  And since Paul's parents and his were friends, Justin knew that the two families would talk, and his parents would call on Eva's folks, so everybody would know things were fine and nobody would be unduly worried.  His Mom had even said she didn't expect him to write.  Eva's letters had started off plaintively begging for - then sulkily demanding - replies, but had settled into pouting resignation on the subject. 

He just wasn't the kind of guy who wrote letters.  Ever.  "Until two days ago ..." . Another wince.

"What can I say that would make her understand?" he wondered as he stood, slung his kit over his shoulder, and started walking the ten blocks to her parents' street.

"First things first," he thought. "Her mom is going to hate me.  And her dad.  If I can make them understand, maybe they can help with Mary.  And if not, they'll never give me her new address anyway.  So I'll deal with them, and that will give me time to figure out what I'm gonna say to her."

Satisfied with this orderly, sensible plan, Justin picked up his pace along the quiet thoroughfare.  The sun was doing its best to come out, and as he walked briskly along he became warm enough to stop, stow his jacket in his kit, and check in a store window for wrinkles in his shirt. 

(It was the only really nice shirt he had - a light blue Oxford weave he'd bought in Liverpool.  He'd carefully tucked it away against the day he arrived home.  A quck shower at the YMCA in Calgary was all he'd been able to manage, and that had been yesterday.  So the best he could hope for in terms of how he looked was "not dishevelled".)

Eight blocks.  Five.  Two.

What would he say?  How could he convince them there was a good reason to not write their daughter? 

He stopped short as an idea hit him.

"Brilliant," he thought.

Lots of servicemen went overseas and found themselves in sensitive assignments.  Top secret.  Unable to write home.  It was a war, after all.  So, maybe that was it.  He would love to tell them why he didn't write, but he was still not at liberty to say.  All whispered with a knowing wink and a finger alongside the nose.  Top secret, don'tcha know?  And by the time everybody realized there was no need for it to be Top Secret anymore, either they'd have forgotten the whole matter or it wouldn't seem all that important.

And wouldn't that same little ruse work for Mary, too?  I mean, he'd been at a small base in Wales.  He didn't recall any guys from Edmonton.  And even if there had been, what were the odds she'd have run into anybody who'd met him overseas?

"Brilliant," he told himself again, and rounded the corner onto a tree-lined street as a mother walked past pushing a squawking child in a stroller.  Two kids barrelled along the sidewalk on bikes; he executed a nmble side-step to miss them.

Justin checked the numbers as he walked.  10173 ... 10175 ... and there it was.  10177.  He wondered if he'd even remember what Mary's mom looked like.  He was just hoping it wouldn't be her dad to answer the door ...

"Top Secret," he thought.  "That's the key."

His foot hit the bottom step and the door opened.

. 

Chapter Eleven - On the Sidewalk

Verna's heels clicked crisply on the sidewalk.  She rounded the hedge on two wheels, and Justin suppressed a grin at the fleeting image of a siren and a red flashing light on the top of Verna's straw summer hat.

"Imagine that.  Look who's home from over across," said Verna.  "Well, not home, I guess.  Home is ... where, again?  Somewhere in BC?  Katzenjammer?"

"Kitsilano.  Hi, Mrs. Hextall," said Justin, pleasantly.  "More flies with honey than with vinegar ... " he thought, and smiled politely.

"Hello, Verna," said the woman who now lived in Mary's house.

"Alice," sniffed Verna, dismissively. "I suppose you've heard of this young man.  Fancy him showing up on your doorstep.  And wasn't Alice a bit of a surprise for you?"  This last to Justin.

"Well, yes, I suppose --"

"Might not have been, if you'd kept in touch with poor Mary Lou.  Dear, sweet thing.  I can only imagine her heartbreak."  Verna was a force of nature when provoked to umbrage on behalf of others.   "Still, I suppose that's how you young people do things now.  Flit in and out of one anothers' lives, toying with affections, taking advantage.  Shameful, I say.  And now you've come crawling back."

"Actually, I think he took the bus, Verna," said Alice.  Justin sensed an ally and was warmed after Verna's wilting first assault.

"I took the train up from Calgary," he corrected Alice, and glimpsed a twinkle in her eye that matched his own.  "But the bus got me here from the station.  I just landed back in Canada a week ago.  Troop ship from Liverpool."

Verna sniffed.  "Don't matter to me how you came to be here.  As you've seen, they're gone.  Moved away, they did.  Shame.  They were good neighbours ..."  Verna left a delicate but palpable pause before adding a perfunctory " ... as are you folks, Alice.  But of course, they were here for years."

"So you've said, many times," observed Alice, drily.  "I imagine the young man is looking to find the Houttons.  I suggested that he talk to you, Verna, since you seem to know so much about everything that goes on in this neighbourhood."  She smiled innocently, and Justin marvelled at the surgical precision.  "That one drew blood, and the old bat never even felt it," he thought.

"Won't do you much good," said Verna.  "Poor Mary went off to live in a girl's residence downtown.  I have no idea where.  She may still be there, or perhaps she got married for all I know.  She never wanted for young men, that one.  Moths to a flame."

"I'm sure you'd have been invited to a wedding, wouldn't you, Verna?  You've always said the Houttons were such good friends ... ,"  said Alice, neatly trumping the larger woman in front of her.  Justin saw a flicker of annoyance in Verna's eyes.  Something told him that Alice would pay for this conversation through skilfully placed tidbits of gossip in the years to come.   

For her part, Alice seemed not to care.  "I think the Christian thing to do is help this young man find who he's looking for, don't you?  Wouldn't want to stand in the path of romance."

Verna snorted, but her fight was gone.  "I would have thought the Christian thing to do would have been to write the occasional letter.  Do you know how long that silly girl mooned over you, young man?  She may be mooning still.  I think she's well shed of you, but it's her decision, I suppose."

Verna grudgingly gave him the Houtton's new address - from memory, no less - spun on her heel with a barely polite nod to Alice, and Justin could almost hear the steam engine inside Verna roar to life as she chugged back down the sidewalk, round the hedge, and on her way.

Alice watched her untill she was out of earshot, rolled her eyes, then turned back to Justin and examined him afresh.  "So, you're the dashing young pilot we've all heard so much about, are you?"

"I guess, ma'am.  Kinda felt like dashing when she started in on me."

"Well, you'd best get on the bus before Verna gets home, has a moment to think, and comes barelling back to offer more pieces of her mind.  Honestly.  It's a miracle the woman has any left to give." 

Alice offered Justin a firm handshake and a wink.  "Off you go.  And good luck to you."

As Justin reached the corner, his kit slung on his shoulder, he turned back to look one last time at the street; a quiet, treelined street of immaculately kept older houses, a street where families grew, where people sat on their verandahs on summer evenings and smiled at their neighbours as they walked past and all the women agreed that Monday was the day you hung your clothes on the line and all the men agreed that Saturday was the day you mowed your lawn.

"One day I'm going to live on a street like this," he thought.

Then Verna burst out her front door and Justin turned and stepped quickly to the bus stop.  The bus roared up and he was on board before she'd even reached the corner.

                                                                **********************************

The truth was, Mary had mooned over Justin for a long time and would still think of him from time to time with a real sadness. But life did go on.  There were dances, and days at the beach and a succession of young fellows, some duds, some with promise, but none who could make any real headway against the memory of her "dashing young pilot".

Vera would roll her eyes as Mary dismissed suitor after suitor.  "Oh, for cripes sake, kiddo," she'd say.  "You're not wearing black.  You're not a war widow.  Time to find a new fella.  Maybe one who actually cares enough to write."

Gradually, Mary was coming around to Vera's way of thinking, and yesterday's trip to Sylvan Lake was another step along the path.  A handsome boy from St. Albert, a few miles north of the city, had asked for the phone number at her block, and Mary had obliged.  Ken something.  MacDonald?  McGregor?  Something Scottish.

"Maybe he'll call," thought Mary as she looked out the bus window.  She smiled to herself as she pulled on the signal cord indicating her stop was approaching.  "Oh, come on," she thought, "He'll call.  No maybe about it."

They always called.

Mary got off the bus and walked the two blocks to her parents' new home, a smallish, red brick bungalow that always reminded Mary of a poem about a young woman with extravagant tastes:

Little I want, my needs are few,

All I want is a simple house

(A simple Brownstone house will do) ...

She would often tease her mother about living in their fancy brownstone mansion, now that the kids were gone and they could finally open up the hidden safe filled with all the money they never spent on ponies and summer homes in the Rockies.  Helen and Hugh Henry would be the toast of the town, attending elegant soirees wearing shimmering evening gowns and top hat and tails.  Helen would giggle as Mary Lou would waltz her around the tiny kitchen.

No waltzing today, though, as Mary added her hamper with a week's worth of laundry to the pile in front of the wringer-washer.  She helped Helen take the sheets off the line (skilfully clipped on the line inside each sheet were Helen's "unmentionables".  Helen had once had a neighbour who had actually hung those out in plain view of passersby, including children.  That had been straightened out very quickly.).  The two women chattered away happily, more like sisters than mother and daughter.

Mary cranked as her mother fed the soggy, soapy clothes through the wringer.  Helen was glad of the help, and the company.  She'd missed having her Mary Lou around, but that was what happened, wasn't it?  Birds do finally leave the nest, as God intended.

Her laundry on the line, Mary went inside to wait for it to dry.  With Hugh Henry out for the morning, she took his chair by the window - the light was better for reading.  She opened her book and as always, fell inside it.  Now and again she'd glance up as something outside would catch the corner of her eye - a dog patrolling for cats, two boys on bikes, a pregnant woman pushing a stroller, shushing her squealing child.

She first saw him quite a distance up the block.  She'd looked out, absently noted a young man walking along carrying something on his shoulder, then returned to her reading.  She looked up a few minutes later - the young man was still quite a ways away, but now it was clear that the "something" he was carrying was a soldiers' duffel - anyone could recognize that.  She cast her eyes back to her page, but the words suddenly weren't making any sense. 

It was like reading a Jumble.

She looked up one more time, slowly, knowing exactly who she would see.  Knowing.

How many times had she played this scene out in her imagination?  How many times had she rushed into his arms and into a magical, neverending kiss?  Or stood stolidly, coldly resolute and unforgiving as he grovelled and begged forgiveness?  Or walked boldly up to him and slapped his face?

How many times had she rehearsed what she would say, how she would spit venom at him for the misery he'd inflicted on her; or stand regally silent and force him to explain himself; or collapse into tears ...?

And now, he was here.

Mary pushed herself out of Hugh Henry's chair, stood still for a moment to will her knees to stop shaking, and opened the front door at the same instant that Justin's foot hit the bottom step.

Chapter Ten - A Delivery

June, 1945 - Vancouver, British Columbia

The platform was crowded as Paul stepped off the daycoach car.  In a crush like this, being tall and gangly was an advantage; his eyes swept over the heads of the reuniting families, the couples long separated, the mothers and fathers and sweethearts and wives all searching for their own special returning serviceman.

It was a joyous, raucous scene, filled with couples in embraces, babies and young children hoisted up for inspection, tears of relief and happiness, shouts of recognition, frantic waves as each young man in uniform would emerge from one of the cars.

How his mom and dad had missed him, he didn't know, but Paul could see both of them eagerly waiting near a pillar, eyes darting from car to car as the soldiers and sailors and airmen disembarked.  He slipped easily through the crush and was almost in his mother's arms before she spotted him; she fairly leapt into his arms and cried a mother's tears for the safe return of her boy.  His father waited, shuffling self-consciously, and once Paul broke free of Mom, offered up a man's handshake and a brief, awkward embrace. 

His dad took hold of Paul's duffel.  "If we hurry, we can be the first to the bus," he said.

But Paul was back to looking over the heads in the crowd.  "I have to find someone first."

Finally he spotted her - it was hard, with her being so tiny - near a wagon being loaded with luggage.  He broke away from his parents.  "I'll be just a sec," he promised.

She saw him approaching, and her face lit up in recognition.  She rushed to him and gave him a warm hug.

"Welcome home, fella," she said, but even as she was saying it she was back to searching the crowd.  "Which car is he on?"  Paul would know.  He and Justin were inseparable.

Paul shifted uncomfortably, and reached into his pocket.  "I have something for you," was all he could think to say.  He offered up a small, slightly crumpled envelope.

Eva took it, frowning now, and Paul wondered if it would be more polite to stay while she read the letter, or to get while the getting was good.

Because in about thirty seconds, the getting would not be very good at all.

Chapter Nine: Two Ships

Our story so far: 

Justin and Mary met at a Saturday night dance in Edmonton, Alberta, in August, 1943.  He walked her home and she invited him to dinner Sunday.  After that big family supper, he caught a bus to the train station and  shipped out to England.  Two years (and no letters, postcards, phone calls, or contact of any kind) later, he was shipped back from England, landing at Halifax and boarding a train bound for his home near Vancouver, B.C.  In Calgary, he got off that train and hopped on board another - this one rolling towards Edmonton - and the girl he'd met two years before.  The story begins here, if you just joined us.  Go, catch up.  We'll wait.

                                              *****************************

June, 1945.  Edmonton, Alberta

Justin stepped down onto the platform, his duffel slung over his shoulder. "This is crazy," he thought, as he walked out into the cool of a late spring morning.

He looked up and down Jasper Avenue, searching for landmarks, visual references, anything that would twig his memory and get him started in the right direction.  He'd spent part of his training in Edmonton, but didn't know much of the city beyond the Royal Canadian Air Force base on the north side.

A short walk brought him within sight of the MacDonald Hotel, and he began to quicken his pace.  It was Monday morning and the downtown shops were opening.  He passed by a bookseller, a hardware store, and a bakery (the smell of fresh bread wafting out the open door reminded him of his father's bakery in Kitsilano.  "Dad would be getting ready to open right about now," he thought.  Then: "If I'd stayed on the train, I'd be pulling into the station in Vancouver in about an hour."

Across the street, a boy on a ladder was changing the marquee on a movie theatre.  Beside it was a jewellery store:  People's Credit Jewellers.  Justin didn't think; he stepped off the curb, dodged a milk truck and a car, and made for the front door just as the owner turned the key and flipped the sign to "Open".

                                   **************************************************

Mary Houtton finished making her bed and gathered up the last of her clothes, dumping them in the cloth hamper her mother had made for her. She yawned, still exhausted from the weekend, especially yesterday's trip with her sister Vera and Kay Donald.  They'd set out early Sunday morning on the Calgary Trail in Kay's father's car, and three hours later pulled into the gravel parking lot at Sylvan Lake.

Halfway between Edmonton and Calgary, Sylvan Lake featured a beautiful beach, a boardwalk, crystal clear water (albeit chilly at this time of year), and most importantly of all:  boys.  Scads of boys, everywhere, boys from Calgary and Edmonton, country boys with farmer's tans and city boys with their own cars. 

There were girls, too, of course, but that was more of a concern to Vera and Kay than to Mary, who turned heads wherever she went. 

On this first trip of the year to the beach she had worn her brand-new bathing suit, a yellow flowered one piece with the requisite modesty skirt purchased at the Hudson's Bay Co. store in Edmonton. Repeated checks in the full-length mirror back in the dorm (and assurances from her sister and Kay) gave her confidence that it showed her off to best advantage. 

But it was only with the first of the wolf whistles - moments after setting out their blanket on the beach and dropping their wraps - that Mary felt at ease with how she looked.  Vera often snorted that Mary Lou never had any sense of how pretty she really was.

They'd had a wonderful time, the three of them, lazing in the sun, fending off the fellows, eating ice cream and daring one another to brave the frigid waters of the lake.  Mary was athletic and fearless, and when a handsome young man from Red Deer had plunged into the water and dared her to follow, she dove in and stayed under, only her head above the surface, until he'd dog-paddled shivering for the shore.

Vera and Kay had dropped her off late last night.  Today she had woken up early, ironed her "work dress", and put her face on for the job interview downtown at 10.  When it was done, she decided, she'd jump on a bus and go see Mom and Dad. 

Now that they'd moved to the new place, she didn't get to see them more than once a week.  This would be a nice surprise for her mom, and Mary made a mental note to find a fruit stand and see if they had any fresh strawberries.  It was early in the season, and they would be dear, but if the interview went well she could risk the extravagance.  Strawberries were her mother's favourite.

As she passed the mirror in the hallway of the dorm, she checked her hair one last time.  She pulled her lips back, practicing her smile and checking for lipstick on her teeth.  Nothing.  She set off into her morning, and as her feet hit the sidewalk outside, she felt a lightness.

"This is going to be a good day," she thought.

                     *****************************************************

 Justin hopped off the bus and slung his duffel onto the grass at the side of the road.  He plopped himself down on it, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, and lit up.  He thought once again about what he planned to do.

Thousands of hours behind the stick of twin-seater fighter aircraft had created a young man who mixed caution and boldness in equal measure.  He was fearless, but never reckless; methodical about eliminating risk but willing to accept that no matter how sound the plan, risk would always be there.  He had stayed alive when so many others hadn't because he always seemed to know exactly where that fine line was etched between acceptable risk and foolhardiness.

Now his instincts were muddled.  This wasn't a lame-duck landing approach on a foggy airfield.  That kind of thing didn't scare him one bit.  He'd done that, crashed, and walked away.

If this went badly, there was no escape, no chute, no colourful story in the Officer's Mess.

He stubbed out the cigarette, threw his duffel over his shoulder, and crossed the street.  In front of the big green house, he paused for a moment, gathered himself, and walked briskly up to the front door.

                                     *************************************
The interview had gone well; Mary was sure of it.  She'd been relieved when she was ushered into the office and it was a man behind the desk; she'd been charming and deferential and had impressed him (she thought) with her knowledge of simple book-keeping principles.  He hadn't offered her the job - he had other girls to interview.  But she figured she had a good chance.

As the bus rumbled and bumped towards her parents' house, she considered whether or not to give her notice at her current job. " Best wait till I have this one," she thought.  "A bird in the hand ... ."  Mary was always the sensible one.

                                      ********************************************
Justin was confused.

"Moved ...?" he repeated dumbly.

"Last year," the woman said.  "We moved in last September.  Not sure where they moved to.  The Post Office just took the mail and forwarded it.  But I think they're still in Edmonton somewhere."

"Is there anybody who might know where they are?"

The woman wiped her hands on her apron.  "Let me think," she said.  She looked up at Justin, then over his shoulder.  Her face darkened.  "Well, if anyone will ..."

Justin turned.

A grim-faced Verna Hextall was barrelling up the sidewalk towards them like a tall ship under full sail.

You What ...?

This morning, I got up at 8:30 to make breakfast for our three remaining guests.  My wife's sisters and a brother-in-law were all that remained of a steady stream of guests that started Wednesday, July 5.

Since guests began arriving, first in a trickle but soon after in one huge clump, we have had, at our comfy little farm house, the following events:

2 medium-sized parties.
1 giant party with live music and full-on BBQ
2 sit-down dinners for 12 or more
1 buffet dinner for 12 or more
2 sit down dinners for 8
2 sit-down breakfasts
8 informal gatherings and at least that many "Let's just stop at our place for a beer and figure out what happens next ... "

Average number of houseguests on a given night:  4
Number of bottles of wine consumed:  49
Number of empty bottles of liquor to be recycled:  12
Number of cases of beer/coolers to be recycled:  19
Number of kegs of beer consumed:  2

Number of lobsters consumed:  55
Number of 5 pound bags of mussels consumed:  6
Number of bags of chips/snacks consumed:  24
Number of burgers slapped on the grille:  52
Number of hot dogs/sausages consumed:  35
Number of quarts of strawberries consumed:  9

It has been energizing and tiring, rewarding and frustrating, heart-warming and exasperating.  I love both my family and my wife's family, and I adore our dear friends, but I think anybody reading this will understand that this morning, I was not saddened at the thought of finally having the house back and having nothing to do but clean in blissful silence.

So, you know, it wasn't one of the highlights of the week this morning at 9:30 when my sister-in-law checked their tickets and said "Oh, shit.  We don't leave at 11:35!  We leave at 9:35!  We missed our goddamn flight!".

Give me a fair judge and a compassionate jury and no court in the country would convict me.

Update:

They finally got away late this morning (coincidentally and not ironically, thank you Alanis Morrisette, at 11:35).  There is quiet in the land.

I want to reiterate that I do love my sisters-in-law.  But I think even they would be unsurprised to hear that there was a certain degree of relief when they boarded their flight.

So, to add to the tally above:

Number of fresh new bumps in the crawl space:  0

 

Glitch

(Say that word a few times.  After a while, it stops sounding like a real word.)

I guess Typepad had some sort of "event" between 12:30am and 10:30am PST on Wednesday. July 12th.  As a result, some very nice comments people made about the Wedding Album have evaporated into the ether.  Please know that I read your comments - as did my girls - and we all appreciated them very much.

Just wanted you all to know that I didn't go through my comments and capriciously delete nice things you had to say.  I mean, really.  What kind of person would do that?

I am so smirking right now.

The Wedding Album

... is on the right.  Enjoy.  I did.

So, It Went OK, I Guess ...

Still inundated by family, still being hosts, but since you're curious, yeah, it went just fine ...

She wasn't too terribly homely ...

People said we didn't look all that bad coming down the aisle together ...

And (note the footwear) she was able to maintain her grace and elegance throughout the evening, even when the dance started ...

I will, at some point, get a raft of pictures up and onto an album on the sidebar.  But not today.  Today I am still surrounded by family and friends, there is still beer in the keg, there are still stories to be told, and the celebration continues.  I'll be back when I can ...

This Vehicle Stops For Real Life

While I'm enjoying telling the story of my mom and dad and how they came together, I need to pause for a bit as present day love takes precedence over the past.  To be more specific:

    My daughter is getting married this weekend.

    OK, let me try that again: (ahem) My daughter is getting married this weekend.

    Nope.  Still not registering.  I can say the words, I can write them out, I can sing them, shout them from the rooftop, or tap them out in Morse Code but they still don’t seem to be catching hold in my brain.

My daughter?  Is getting married?  This weekend?

    Even with the different punctuation, it’s more than my brain can handle.

    For one thing, it is physically impossible for me to have a daughter who is old enough to be getting married.  That would make me ... well, old.  And I’m a lot of things, but old?  No way.

    Besides, it is patently ridiculous to suggest that a young girl I can clearly remember having to gently push across the threshold of her nursery school on the first day could be considered of marriageable age.  I mean, we do have laws in this country.

    Okay, she’s not in nursery school any more, obviously, but it was just a few months ago that I dropped her off for her first day of middle school.  She didn’t want to take the bus and I was up early in the morning anyway, so what the hell.  As I dropped her off, I expected her to leap out of the still-rolling car to avoid the humiliation of actually being seen with her father because “ ... Omigod he is sooooo embarrassing!”

    Instead, she leaned over and gave me a kiss.  Right there, in the car, in front of all her friends.  And it occurs to me even as I write this that never once has she ever bailed out of giving me a kiss goodbye, no matter what she was doing or how many cool friends were around, waiting to tease her.  There’s incontrovertible evidence that she’s a little girl, right there.

    The point I am making is,  these memories are far too clear for them to be more than a quarter of a century old.  They must be far more recent.  Ergo, I couldn't possibly have a daughter getting married this weekend.  Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. 

    I will now go and weep the bitter tears of a father for whom everything is happening just a bit too quickly.

    When she was a baby, I thought we'd never get that damn kid out of diapers.  Then she was barely walking when all of a sudden whoooosh it was her first day of kindergarten.  But elementary school dragged on and on until I realized she'd somehow made it into junior high when I wasn't looking.

    It was only a week or so later that I was helping her pick her high school electives - and then of course she had to decide what her major was going to be in University and  that was only a month ago.  So don't even try to tell me she's getting married.  Not buyin'.

Maybe it's just a dream.  That's it.  I'll wake up and she'll be bringing in a handful of dandelions to put in a vase for Mom.  Or she'll be rushing out the front door to find the bird that hit the picture window, and making a little nest in a Kleenex box and bringing the damn thing in to me and asking me to make it better. 

Or maybe I'll wake up to find her climbing that stupid tree that I've told her to stay out of a million times, then calling me outside to see how high she's gotten and making my knees go weak when I look up at her.

Well ... I can still look up at her, but now she's standing right beside me.  And my knees still go weak, but ... well, she's always had that effect on me anyway. 

And this weekend, unless someone fixes the tear in the Space/Time Continuum, she’ll take me by the arm and support me as I walk her down the aisle because I know my knees will be too weak for that.

I need to go and lay down, close my eyes, get some perspective on all this.  But now I'm afraid to do that. 

I mean, you can see why. 

Look what happened the last time I closed my eyes for a bit.

                     *****************************************************************

So, I promise to come back to the story.  I'm just not sure whether I'll be able to do much this weekend.  You'll be the first to know.

Chapter 8 - An Ocean Away

October 7, 1943 - Edmonton,  Alberta, Canada

"You can write it all you want, Pollyanna, but Mom still won't let you post it," said Vera.  She mimicked their mother perfectly:  "Girls don't call on boys, boys call on girls.  You write when you are written to.  We do not chase boys.  We conduct ourselves with dignity and grace."

Mary crumpled the note paper and sighed.  "I know.  I wouldn't know what to say, anyway, without looking like a dope.  I mean, if he'd wanted me to write him, surely he'd have written me by now ...?"

"Some boys just don't write letters, and sometimes when they go over there they ... can't.," said Vera with a shrug.  "But I wouldn't waste another moment's thought on him.  There are too many fish in the sea ..."

" ... and you can call me Annette," grinned Mary, finishing the joke.  "There's a poster up for a dance Friday night.  I'm game ..."

"... she said, so the hunter shot her," said Vera with a giggle.  "Friday night it is.  Wear your new sweater.  We'll be the ees-bays ees-nays.  Take that, Justin the Ding-a-Ling, wherever you may be!"

Mary grinned, happy with the plans, finally forgetting all about Justin, banishing him from her thoughts completely.  Except, of course, for the constant wishing that he would write her.

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October 7, 1943 - R.A.F. Flight Training School, near Wrexham, Wales

"You reading that thing again?" Paul Steen snatched the flimsy  blue airmail letter out of Justin's hand and his voice slid into falsetto as he pretended to read: "Dear Jussy-Wussy,  Oh, how I miss you, my dearest, darlingest, sweetie-pie.  I miss you ten million kissie-wissies.  Please give my regards to your handsome friend Paulie-Wolly and tell him I can't wait to see him again -- "

Justin clipped Paul across the back of the head and grabbed the letter back as his best friend roared with laughter.  "You're such a gone goose, Ling.  Stop mooning over your lovey dovey letters and come on into town with us tonight.  There's some sort of show at the Music Hall.  Maybe we'll find us a little Welsh rabbit or two."

"You guys go on ahead.  I might catch up."

"Oh, fer chrissakes, just throw it on the pile in your damn footlocker.  It'll be there when you get back.  Come out and have some fun."

"Alright, alright,"  Justin opened the lid of his footlocker and placed the carefully-refolded letter on top of all the others.

"A lot of letters ..." he thought, as he regarded the pile.  He checked his tie in the mirror on the post near his bunk, straightening it before he  grabbed his cap.

As he headed for the door, he couldn't escape the rest of the thought: " ... and none of them from her."

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October, 1944 - Edmonton, Alberta, Canada

"Ling?  Yeah.  Jus Ling.  I remember him.  Wasn't he Steen's buddy ...?"  The airman, freshly returned from England, was having a smoke outside the dance hall at the end of the evening.  This last was directed to his pal, who was hungrily eyeing Mary up and down.

"Steen?  Yeah, there was Steen and Walker and Ling and a couple of Brits, all hung around together," said the buddy, and added,    "Didn't have much to do with the rest of us.  Always out looking for girls."  Even if it wasn't true, it could be, and a fella could be forgiven for trying to get any advantage he could muster with this one.  She was a looker, for sure.

Mary thanked the young men, neatly deflecting their innocent (or perhaps not-so-innocent) advances, and rejoined her sisters.  Edna read the look on her face.

"They knew him," she said, and Mary nodded.  She was damned if she would cry over this, but ... it made her feel empty to know she'd been just cast aside.

"Well, that's that, then.  No more mooning over him," said Vera.  "He'll live to rue the day he turned his back on Mary Lou Houtton!" 

The three girls linked arms as they walked home from the dance hall, singing in decidely imperfect harmony.  They sang "Don't Sit Under the Apple Tree With Anybody Else But Me", and "I'll Be Seeing You" and  the latest song on the radio, "You Always Hurt The One You Love"

    You always hurt the one you love
    The one you shouldn't hurt at all
    You always take the sweetest rose
    And crush it till the petals fall
    You always break the kindest heart
    With a hasty word you can't recall -
    So If I broke your heart last night,
    it's because I love you most of all ...

After a while, Vera and Edna noticed they were reduced to singing two part harmony, and they stopped.  The girls walked on in silence.

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May, 1945 - Marshalling Area, Liverpool Waterfront

"If it doesn't fit in your duffel, it stays here, boys," barked the ship's Executive Officer. 

The weary pilots and aircrew sat gathered in clumps on the pier, waiting for orders to embark.  "You board the ship, officers to the right, enlisted men to the left, find a bunk, make as much space for yourself as you can, and please, gentlemen, we all hope you have a lovely voyage, but stay the fuck out of our way.  We're working men, not dainty little flyboys."

Catcalls and fart sounds followed the XO as he smirked across the yard to the gangplank and boarded the vessel.  A whistle blew and the Canadians began streaming onto the ship.  Paul and Justin stuck together, found a couple of cramped bunks, stowed their gear under the bottom one and set about exploring the ship.

"Ten days or so across, then maybe six days on a train, and we're home," said Paul.  "Home from the war, we'll be heroes!  What are you going to do first thing, when we get home?"

"I dunno.  Spend some time with my folks, I guess," said Justin.  "My kid sister will be sixteen - maybe I'll take her out somewhere."

"That's it?  Aren't you forgetting somebody?"  Paul said.  "Jussy-wussy's getting homey-womey ..."

"Oh, sure, yeah.  No I didn't forget her.  I thought you meant after I saw her.  Sure, she'd be first."

Paul looked carefully at his best friend.  Justin avoided eye contact.

"What?  I just didn't mention her, was all it was.  Let's go see if they have a kitchen on this scow."

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June, 1945 - Calgary, Alberta, Canada

"Forty minutes, boys.  Forty minutes and the train pulls out.  Don't wander too far away." 

The conductor would be glad to see the end of these cross-country runs, offloading soldiers and sailors and airmen in their home towns.  Military discipline didn't have too strong a hold over these boys now that they'd been demobilized.  He was more than a little tired of cleaning up vomit, breaking up fights, and shushing drunken soldiers when other passengers were trying to sleep.

"What are you gonna do?" asked Paul.

"I don't know.  What would you do?"

"A promise is a promise."

"I guess so.  So, I should just ... go home?"

"You asked me."

"That would be the right thing to do."

Paul nodded.  "Yep."

"The smart thing, too."

"Definitely."

"I mean, for all I know, she's already married."

"For all you know, she's dead."

"Don't say that."

"She's probably not.  But you haven't written to her or heard from her in two years.  For all you know, she could be."

"She's probably married.  Girls like that, the guys are all around them."

"Maybe she has kids."

"She doesn't have kids."

"How do you know?"

"I just know.  Anyway, it'd be dumb to go.  I should just go home."

"That's the smart thing to do."

"I've known her - what, nine, ten hours?"

"If that."

"Compared to ..."

"... years."

"So, no comparison."

"None at all."

"So a smart man would just stay on this train."

"That he would."

"So ..."

Paul grinned.  "So, call when you finally do get back to Vancouver."

"Is this crazy?  This is crazy, isn't it?"

"Definitely."