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She’d gotten a far-off look, like Mack’s gran when she slipped into a tale of island lore and legend. “When I found a mark, I’d settle in, play a bit of the fool. Then I’d be sure early on that I got caught tilting my head to look at the cards of the man next to me.”
Ginny frowned. “You wanted to get caught?”
She nodded. “Sometimes the fellow would get spitting mad, and that’s when you knew it wasn’t safe to go on. But most times, he’d give me a stern look and a chuckle at the same time, telling me to keep my eyes straight ahead. After all, who hasn’t snuck a glance like that?”
“Then you’d palm the cards, or pull one from your sleeve, or whatever it was,” Ginny finished. Gosh, she never knew her mother was so clever.
“And no one would ever notice or guess.” Ma gave the dough a particularly rough knead. “Remember that, Ginny. The ordinary lies, the ones easy to admit to, often hide something worse.”
Ginny looked over at Freddy, all smiles now, posing for a snapshot with a spade someone had brought, the younger and older Buckwolds beaming on either side of him.
So what if Freddy was a liar? She was used to playing it cool, staying aloof, not trusting a person until she knew them inside and out. This was nothing new.
Then why, when it came to Freddy, did it hurt so much?
From Russell to Avis
July 20, 1942
Dear Avis,
Well, our first days at sea are under our belt, and it’s almost a shame to be back on land after all that salt air. It was good to find the letters from you waiting for me. I read them all twice already.
No derring-do yet, I’m afraid, just testing equipment and running our route. I’ve got an important role, anyway, because our skipper, Captain Arthur Sherman, said the ones with music training do better sorting out sounds. Fellow without much of an ear might mistake a whale for a U-boat engine, that sort of thing. I talked up my career in brass instruments, so he put me as the sound man on overnights, when the U-boats are most active. Good for me he didn’t have a tuba handy, or I would’ve shown I don’t remember much from high school except how to aim a spit valve at the school bully.
We’ve got a simple underwater listening device—nothing special to look at, just a heavy rubber-coated sausage attached to a cable. When it’s light out, a lookout’s posted in case we spot a sub. We’re also supposed to smell, at night especially, for diesel fuel, the stench when a U-boat surfaces. They have to do that sometimes, for fresh air or pressure sickness, and our craft is small enough that it won’t show up on their radar. They’ll think they’re all alone in the ocean. That’s when we’re supposed to report them by radio. Or as our training manual said, “Once contact with the enemy has been established, it will not be broken off as long as it is possible to maintain it.”
None of this is classified, by the way, from what I’veheard. That’s the brilliance of it. We’ve got the coast guard’s backing, but almost none of their rules. No uniforms, no roll call, no censors reading our mail. Just the open sea and a job to do.
If only they’d let us off from coast guard food too. My taste buds are going dull from all the military rations we slug down on days when we don’t catch any fish to fry up. I can’t tell you what I’d give for just one slice of your meatloaf right now.
Thanks for the update on all that’s going on with you. Not surprised your mother had a fit when she heard where I was off to. She always was one for dramatics. Talk up the patriotism to her and tell her I’ll be home by October tenth, and she’ll come around. I’ll even agree to Thanksgiving at her house to smooth things over. Probably won’t feel that different from facing down armed U-boats.
Book club’s still going strong, I take it? Glad to hear it. Haven’t read much since I was a boy—Treasure IslandandRobinson Crusoeand all that. Guess there’s no chance those will be on the list, huh?
Signing off. These days on land are the only time we get a good bed and decent meals. Got to take advantage.
Yours, dreaming of meatloaf,
Russell
From Anthony to Avis
July 10, 1942
Dear Sis,
Well, look who got a haul in mail call today! I’m late in responding, but you can blame the army for that.
I’m not surprised Russell finally found some war work, but I’m worried for you. You say you’re fine with his leaving, just not the way you let him leave. As I’m currently living the bachelor foxhole life with nary a wife or sweetheart in sight, I can’t say I understand exactly what you mean. But as they say, “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread” (Alexander Pope, long poem, you’d hate it for sure), so I thought I’d venture some advice: Tell the man what you’re thinking. Chances are, he hasn’t got a clue.
Note that I never claimed to be profound. But you, dear sis, have always lived so much in your own head, all worries and wondering. Russell’s my best friend, and if you’re upset with him or fear you’ve hurt him or whatever it might be, you’ve got to talk it out.
But there. Enough of my meddling from an ocean away. Say, thanks for copying down some of the book club notes regarding Wodehouse. Had a good laugh over them.
If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you’re actually starting to like reading. I should be offended that twenty-five years of being related to me didn’t do the trick, but I’ll rest content in the knowledge that you’ve finally agreed to my motto: “He was fond of books, for they are cool and sure friends.” (That’sLes Misérables. It’s an undertaking—the French like their prose the way they like their baguettes: very long—but you’ve got to take a crack at it. Maybe during the winter when everything is frozen, and you can stay in with tea and wool socks and voluminous great novels.)
Speaking of France ... I can’t. Censors, you know. So I’ll keep to praising the care package you sent with the compact paperback of Wells’sThe Invisible Man. I’vepassed it around to three fellows so far. We might start a book club of our own at this rate.
