So Close to You (So Close to You - Trilogy) (11 page)

“I don’t know.” I run my fingers over the slight bump. “I’ve had it for as long as I can remember.”

“I have a scar on my knee. See?” Mary flips over and lifts one leg. “Fell off my bike when I was nine.” She sits up and jumps off the bed. “Here, I’ll get you a dress to wear. I’d give you stockings too, but this war!”

She throws her hands up and then turns, sticking out her leg. “Look at all the holes I’ve mended in these already. And they were just hand-me-downs from my mother.”

Her stockings are covered in small, carefully sewn lines.

“Sometimes I even have Suze draw a line up the back of my leg so at least it looks like I’m wearing them. I just got some leg makeup, though. Once it dries it looks exactly like stockings, and I saved up a ration so I can buy a new girdle this summer. I had to make the one you’re wearing out of parachute silk.”

My grandfather once told me about the rationing during World War II, how everyone was allotted only a marginal amount of materials like sugar, meat, tea, tinned goods, and even clothes, but I never really thought much about it. I certainly never imagined I would experience it too.

Mary rifles through her open closet. She tosses a thin green dress at me, and I pull it on over my head. It has a high neckline, boxy short sleeves, a small, tucked-in waist, and a swingy skirt. I admire the smooth, emerald fabric. Vintage dresses from the ’40s are always covered in holes or smell like mothballs. I’ve never worn something
new
like this.

Mary hands me a pair of wedged cork sandals and I pull them on.

“You look swell, Lydia, but let me pin up your hair.” She sits me down at a small vanity. I face the mirror as she stands behind me and plays with my hair. “I can’t believe we both have red hair. What are the odds?” I shrug and avoid her eyes in the mirror. “We’re the same age, you know. I just turned seventeen a few months ago. There was a USO dance that weekend and all the soldiers were there and everyone danced with me because it was my birthday.”

“What is a USO dance, anyway?”

Mary’s jaw falls open again, and her hands still in my hair. “How can you not know what a USO dance is? Did you hit your head out there in the woods?”

“Well, I mean, I know it’s a dance for the troops.”

She nods, obviously in some kind of daze.

“What does USO stand for?”

“United Service Organization. How can you not know this, Lydia?”

I shrug again.

Mary sighs and puts one hand on her hip. “The USO entertains the troops in all sorts of ways. They put on dances, and they get big stars to travel all over to sing and tell jokes. Rita Hayworth goes to all the training camps and the soldiers just love her.” She grabs a brush off the vanity and starts to run it through my hair. “I volunteer at the USO center in town at least once a week. We serve donuts and play music and sometimes just talk with the soldiers for hours. They get bored and homesick, and it’s our job to keep them entertained.”

Mary puts down the brush and picks up a few long metal hairpins and a pink plastic comb. “Maybe you can come help me next time I go to the USO center. It’s easy. You just smile and flirt and dance with anyone who asks.”

“Sounds like fun.” I look at Mary in the mirror, but she pushes my head back down.

“You simply cannot move, Lydia! Or I will poke your eye out with this comb. You know, you should consider cutting your bangs shorter. It would soften your face. Like mine.” She fluffs the curls on her forehead, then runs her fingers through a small section of my hair. I haven’t had anyone play with my hair since I was a little girl. It feels nice. “What was your high school like?”

“It was pretty normal. I spent a lot of time with Hannah, my best friend.”

“Tell me about her.”

“She’s really blunt and funny. Stubborn. She can be kind of intense.”

Mary squeezes my shoulder. “Do you miss her terribly? She can always come visit, if you want.”

“It would be hard for her to visit, trust me.” I smile at the thought of Mary and Hannah meeting. The girly-girl and the cynic. Though there is something similar about them: they’re both honest and confident in their own ways.

“So, did you have a special someone?” Mary grins at me in the mirror.

I shake my head.

“Oh well, I bet you were real popular. I bet you’re a gadabout girl and everything.”

“Gadabout?”

“You know, someone who gads about town.” Mary swishes her hips from side to side and purses her lips. “So what do you think of Lucas?” She leans down and lowers her voice. “Isn’t he so drooly?”

“What?”

“Don’t move, I said! Drooly, dreamy. You know, handsome.”

Lucas is definitely cute, but when I think
handsome
, I think of someone untouchable—the kind of guy you never meet in real life.

“There. You’re all done.” Mary’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.

I stare at myself in the mirror. She has twisted my hair up into two swirls on either side of my head. The rest falls gently down around my shoulders. I look older, a different version of myself.

“It’d be better if we could curl it.” Mary reaches up to touch the ends, which fall to the middle of my back. “And it’s so long. Tonight I’ll put it in pins. Or maybe rag rollers, since you just washed it.”

I catch her eye in the mirror. “Thank you, Mary.”

She bends down and presses her cheek next to mine. “Oh Lydia, you don’t need to thank me. I can tell we’re going to be great friends.”

Mary and I sit on opposite sides of the dining room table. Heavy white china and thick cotton napkins rest next to each plate. It’s so formal and different from my family’s meals together. I think of all of us sitting around our kitchen table on breakfast-Saturdays, the loud conversation, the teasing, and a small ache settles into my chest.

“There’s been a rumor that some of the wounded soldiers over in Europe might be sent to Hero,” Dr. Bentley tells us. “If that happens we’ll need more volunteers.” He looks at me pointedly.

“I don’t really know much about nursing.” I push a piece of Spam casserole around my plate.

Mrs. Bentley smiles. “There are lots of ways to help out that don’t involve nursing.”

“Ma volunteers with the Red Cross too.” Mary is wolfing down the food on her plate. “She makes food for the barracks, or organizes clothing drives. Stuff like that.”

“There’s a fundraiser at the church tomorrow. My women’s group is hosting a clothing drive in support of the Red Cross,” Mrs. Bentley says. “We’ll send boxes of clothes and towels and things to victims of war all across Europe. Why don’t you girls come by and help us sort?”

“Sure,” I say. Mrs. Bentley offers me more food and I hold out my plate.

“See, there are lots of ways to help.” She ladles out the casserole. “But if you want any medical training, my church group also meets with Red Cross nurses once a week. We learn simple procedures so we can help if there’s an emergency.”

“Like, when the wounded soldiers come home?”

“Or if there’s an attack on our shores.”

“But there aren’t …” I trail off, remembering myself.

“Billy McDonald told me his dad saw a submarine in the bay last winter. He’s a member of the Home Guard. They walk the beaches looking for enemy ships. We even have air raid drills at night sometimes.”

Mary’s voice is hushed, but excited. She leans forward and the soft light of the room makes her red lipstick look even darker and more dramatic. “And every night we have to put up the blackout curtains. Montauk is on constant blackout—no streetlights or house lights once it gets dark. It’s because we’re so far out on the coast, we don’t want the U-boats to see the lights of the town. But I bet we’d be pretty safe here if the Germans did attack. There are soldiers everywhere, with the base at Hero and the navy up by the bay.”

“The army and navy took over a lot of land to set up their bases,” Dr. Bentley cuts in, his tone serious. “The Killing family was forced to sell their home to the navy and move down near the new town center. And the Parker boys lost part of their fishing business when they had to leave their storefront behind. A lot of families were affected.”

“We all have to make sacrifices during wartime.” Mrs. Bentley stands up, moving to a sideboard to get dessert. It’s a brown, lumpy cake that smells of burnt molasses. “Have some war cake, Lydia.” She cuts it quickly and sets a plate down in front of me.

“What about Camp Hero?” I take a bite and almost gag as the dry, bitter cake breaks apart in my mouth. It tastes like it’s missing butter and sugar.

“What about it?” Dr. Bentley asks.

I swallow with effort. “I mean, what happens out there? Is it just a training camp? And a lookout?”

“Oh, no,” Mary mumbles around the cake in her mouth. “They have watch towers near the ocean and these big guns and a few barracks. But it’s not exciting at all, no dances or shows or anything. The navy lets us have our USO dances over at Montauk Manor.”

“Dean is stationed at Camp Hero. And so is Lucas. In the officers’ barracks. Lucas helps with training,” Mrs. Bentley says as she sits back down at the table. The heavy blackout curtains stir behind her as a breeze comes through the covered window. It’s an eerie effect—like someone is hiding behind the black material, pushing it along the wood floor.

“What about Dean? What does he do?”

“He recently came back from the European theater,” Dr. Bentley explains. “As he tells it, his commanding officers pulled him from his troops in Italy and brought him back home. He was somehow selected to be involved in intelligence training at Camp Hero.”

“He’s always been a smart boy.” Mrs. Bentley smiles proudly. “His officers saw that. He’ll have an important role to play one day.”

Mary scoffs loudly. “
What
role? We don’t know
what
Dean does!” She sits back in her seat. “It’s all
top secret
.”

“Mary!” Mrs. Bentley says sharply. “Loose lips sink ships, remember.”

Mary throws her fork down and it clatters against her plate. “We don’t know anything, just that Dean is always off doing secret training and he won’t tell us a thing, not even if I beg him! It’s all very dull.” She rolls her eyes at me.

I nod absently. Grandpa was right about one thing: Dean is working on something that he can’t tell his family about, and it forces him to spend time at Camp Hero. But is it connected to the Montauk Project?

Intelligence training can mean anything. Dean could be training to become a mission specialist. The government could be grooming him to become a spy. Or the whole thing could be a cover for the work he’s doing for the Montauk Project.

If I’m going to find out what really happened to Dean, I have to start searching for the answers.

Later that night, I rest on Dean’s bed, wrapped in a white cotton nightgown. My hair is twisted around pieces of rags—something Mary had insisted on doing after dinner. The tight curls pull at my scalp.

Dean’s room is all blue in the soft lamplight: blue-and-white-striped wallpaper, a blue quilt spread out over the narrow bed. Model airplanes hang from the ceiling on wires and dull gold trophies sit neatly on a tall bookshelf.

I spent my whole life hearing stories about my great-grandfather’s disappearance, but I never really thought about what he was like. What did he care about? What were his hobbies? How old was he when he fell in love for the first time?

If I stay in the past long enough, I’ll discover the answers to these questions. I’ll spend time with Dean, and I’ll learn about him and his family. My grandfather’s memories of his father are blurred by age and sorrow. But my memories will be new and clear. I can share those experiences with him, but it won’t ever be the same as being here. I might end up knowing more about Dean than my grandfather ever did. It’s a disconcerting thought, and I almost wish it was my grandfather who had gone back in time, so he’d get to relive this through fresh eyes. But would he ever be objective enough to see his father for who he really is, and not as a larger-than-life tragic hero?

Will I?

I walk over to the low, wide bureau and open the drawers one by one. Socks, crisp T-shirts, folded slacks. I run my hand under the clothes in the top drawer and touch the crackled edges of a piece of paper. I pull it out. It’s an old letter, brittle with age. “My darling,” it starts, “you are my everything.” I read to the end. It’s from a girl named Elizabeth—the name of my great-grandmother—and dated 1940. I put it back into the drawer, feeling like a trespasser.