Letters From Home. Kristina McMorris

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Not my fault,” he gasped. “Army time still confuses the hell out of me.” He wiped his sleeve across his forehead and flipped a grin. When he straightened, his service shirt showcased its unevenly fastened buttons, a perfect complement to the dark circles under his eyes.

      Morgan was about to ask where he had slept last night—assuming he’d slept at all—then decided he’d rather not know. “I swear,” he muttered, “I may shoot you before the Nazis get a chance.” With a sharp turn, he led Charlie through the coach packed with noisy servicemen and an undercurrent of nerves. A craps game ensued in the corner. As the train increased speed, a cross breeze through the open windows lessened the lingering smell of sweat.

      Frank Dugan, facing their two vacant seats, glanced up from his magazine, his leg stretched in the aisle. “Good of you to join us, Chap.”

      “Thanks, Rev. Always nice traveling with a man of the cloth.”

      At basic, word had spread quickly that Frank was a ministry dropout whose call to arms had come into conflict with his call to religion. And lucky for their platoon. Built like an ancient redwood, he brought practical fighting know-how from the tough streets of Brooklyn.

      “Shit, you’re coming after all?” Jack Callan smirked at Charlie while fanning a deck of cards. “Thought maybe you’d chickened out and gone home to play with your barn animals.”

      Charlie tossed his bag up onto the luggage rack. He pushed and shoved the bulky contents into place as if the clothes inside were putting up a fight. “Just had to make a quick stop on the way, Jack-ass.”

      “Why, you forget to pack your underwear?”

      “Actually, I left them in your sister’s room last night.”

      Jack glared. He slid the toothpick in his mouth from side to side. “One pull of the trigger, Chap. That’s all it takes.” And that was the truth. The lean, red-haired kid from Wisconsin was a crack shot with a rifle.

      “Ah, c’mon, Jack,” Charlie said. “You wouldn’t do that. You need me around.”

      “Yeah, what for?”

      “How else you gonna get any broads to notice you? Other than your mother, that is.”

      Frank looked to Morgan, who had just settled into his window seat. “Mac, your brother ever shut up?”

      “Not without a big piece of tape.” Morgan smiled, remembering the day he’d taped Charlie’s mouth closed and tied the rambunctious grade-schooler to a pole of their mother’s clothesline. It was the most effective way to stop him from telling a girl in class that Morgan wanted to “milk her udders.” Their father cut a whimpering Charlie loose an hour later, in full agreement with the punishment.

      Morgan almost wished he’d packed some tape for this particular trip.

      “Forgive me, Reverend Frank, for I have sinned. Again.” Charlie genuflected like the devout Catholic his mother had hoped he’d become.

      Frank scratched the crook in his nose and continued browsing the latest issue of Yank magazine. He didn’t bother to fake interest. When it came to Charlie’s racy tales, Jack always showed enough for them both.

      “Okay, Chap, let’s hear it,” Jack said, a smile in his eyes. “Which one of the twins did ya end up with? The one with the knockers or the long stems?”

      “Are you kiddin’? I was too much man for them dames. Scared ’em off with these enormous cannons.” He flexed his biceps as if he had the physique of Captain America. When Frank tossed the magazine at his head, Charlie sank back into his seat and grinned. “Did some neckin’ with the broad from the coffee shop, though.”

      Jack crumpled his face. “The one with bad teeth?”

      “No, you dumbbell. The tasty dish with glasses.”

      Frank turned to Jack. “Well, that explains it. She needs a new prescription.”

      “Ha, ha. You’re hysterical.” Charlie removed his soft garrison cap and rubbed his hair with both hands.

      If only their mom could see him now. She used to say that someday girls would go wild over his golden waves. That they’d even be willing to pay to run their fingers through them.

      It’s funny the things you remember. Morgan regretted not paying more attention, regretted not seeing the truth behind his father’s lie. Charlie had only been eight, but Morgan, at eleven, should have known better. Farm families avoided doctors like the plague. When he watched his parents climb into their old pickup truck that cold January night headed for the hospital, he should have realized their mother was never coming back.

      “Hey, speaking of hysterical,” Jack said, pulling Morgan from his thoughts. “Went to a tattoo joint last night. Rev ended up knocking the owner’s lights out. You gotta see it—the stupid sap put ‘Joan’ instead of ‘June’ in the big ol’ heart on Rev’s arm.”

      Frank’s lips flattened into steel rails, his dark eyes trained on Jack. “And you think that’s funny, do ya?”

      “Look at the bright side,” Charlie interjected. “Instead of Joan, it could’ve said John.” He punctuated his wisecrack with a grin.

      Frank picked up his magazine from the carpeted floor, still eying Jack. “At least mine don’t make me look like Mussolini’s branded cattle, ya dope.” A jab at the unfortunate birthmark on Jack’s collarbone, shaped like a sideways stamp of Italy, was one of the few ways to ensure the last word with the guy.

      “So, uh, Mac, what about you?” Jack shifted the spotlight. “Get chummy with the brunette you went after?”

      Morgan coughed into his fist, the question taking him off guard. “Nah. Not really.” Considering how Liz had given him the brush-off, their encounter was the last thing he wanted to discuss. “How about you fellas? What else you wind up doing?”

      Frank crossed his arms. His expression lightened. “Chap, I believe your brother’s trying to change the subject.”

      “It’s all right, Mac,” Jack assured him. “You shouldn’t be ashamed. First time getting lucky can be a scary experience for any young man.” He grinned, impressed by his own sarcasm.

      “What a coincidence,” Charlie said to Jack, “I’ve heard that dames think every time is scary with you.”

      “Can it, both of ya.” Frank angled to Morgan and jerked a nod. “Go ahead, Mac. You were sayin’?”

      Morgan suddenly wished he’d jumped off the train after all. “Really, there’s nothing to tell. She just had to skip out early.”

      “You’re saying she ditched a McClain?” Jack asked in mock disbelief.

      “Not his fault,” Frank said. “If I was her and knew he was related to Chap, I’d double-time it outta there too.”

      “Oh yeah?” Charlie said. “Well, it just so happens that last night—on account of yours truly—my brother reeled in a broad any fella would give his left nut for a chance at.”

      Morgan СКАЧАТЬ