Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris
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Название: Letters From Home
Автор: Kristina McMorris
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9781847562920
isbn:
“Uh-huh.” He dragged in a breath. “What about typing?”
“Mmm, not really.”
“Shorthand?”
“Nope.”
“You don’t . . . speak another language?” The doubt in his voice made the question rhetorical.
She shook her head anyway.
“Didn’t think so,” he murmured, before shifting to a lighter tone. “Well, like I told you, there’s loads of exciting duties out there. Everything from weather forecasting and glass blowing to working as a control tower operator. Even issuing weapons. Sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?”
Not really, she wanted to say, but held back. The reply could come off as unpatriotic, which she undoubtedly was not. On the contrary, she was no less patriotic than, say, that nurse near the bus stop. What with her fancy cape, her white exclamation of a hat, both serving as badges from years of schooling.
Oh, there had to be another option. Something similar yet more appropriate for her personality. Granted, it was just an unlikely backup she was choosing, but Betty preferred not to have anything remotely ordinary in her file.
She then thought of her roommates. For extra spending money, Liz and Julia held jobs in a nursing home—a semi-medical field— and they’d never indicated it being strenuous.
“What about hospital work?” she asked him.
“If you mean the Army Nurse Corps, the Red Cross handles all—”
“No,” she broke in. “Just something like it. But without the blood and mess. And not all that long, tedious training. After all, I do want to help out before the war’s actually over.” She smiled.
The fan in the corner ticked away the seconds. A useless breeze passed by.
J.T. gave his head a weary rub. Lacing his hands on the desk, he sat forward as though it took great effort. As though being back in action would be a relief in comparison. “Look, Betty. You’re a nice, pretty girl . . .”
She cringed at the familiar phrase. It had been a favorite from her guidance counselor, a guy who smelled like pickles and always ended their conversations with a verbal pat on the head, a why don’t you run off and play with your dolls conclusion.
Though tempering herself now, she interjected, “Are you trying to say that pretty girls can’t be WACs?”
“Of course they can,” J.T. countered. Then he threw a conspiratory glance around the empty room and continued in a hushed tone. “You already got a gig as a singer, right? Why not just focus on that, sweetheart, and forget about all this Army stuff. Didn’t you say something about touring with the USO, trotting the globe?”
The USO tour. The aspiration she had so often boasted about. Suddenly, tossed back at her in the presence of her filthy diner dress, the possibility seemed stripped down, naked in its unlikelihood.
“But I wanna help,” she managed to assert.
“And I’m sure you’d be great at . . . something. I’m just not confident the Army is the best place to utilize your talents.”
Like serving malts and meat loaves was?
“Thanks for coming by, though. It was swell seeing you.” That cocky recline again. “Hey, maybe we can go out to dinner some night, after one of your shows.”
Disgusted by his nerve, she couldn’t bring herself to reply. She stood up, head pressed against the ceiling of her crushed hopes, and started for the door. When she reached for the handle, however, a harsh truth slammed into her, one she never saw coming:
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