A young woman struggles with life and love while trying to live up to her familial heritage and dealing with her own embarrassing past.
This story is written for the "
Heroism - the Oggbashan Memorial Event 2023
" in memory of long time Lit writer and contributor Oggbashan who died in May of this year. I didn't know Ogg well but read a number of his works over the years and we swapped several story-related notes over time. He often wrote heroic tales of times past so I believe that this one, taking place between 1925 and 1950, is something that he might have enjoyed. Rest in peace, Ogg.
I don't like giving warnings but this one be warranted for some. Some abuse, both mental and physical, occurs in the story though I tried to keep this to a minimum and focus more on the outcome than the events themselves. Please avoid this tale if you are concerned.
© SouthernCrossfire - 2023. All rights reserved.
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Most little girls believe their daddy is a hero.
I sure did. I even found the medal to prove it while going through his drawer one day. My momma was extremely proud of him when I showed her but she wasn't too pleased about my snooping. Still, she told me that daddy had been in the war and had been injured doing his job helping save other soldiers.
"Is that why Daddy walks funny sometimes?"
I didn't understand why but she made an odd face and nodded. And then she told me that if I got in Daddy's drawer again, or hers either, I'd get a spanking.
I was much more careful about checking out my parents' drawers after that.
While Daddy never wanted to talk about it, it was several years later when I was old enough to really understand that Momma finally told me about what Dad had done. It was about that same time that she and Dad also told me about my mother I'd never known, how I'd come to be, and how Momma had helped save me when no one thought there was a chance.
They were all heroes to me, each one in their own way making me want to do better and live up to what they'd done.
When the United States was forced into World War II, Christopher, my big brother, volunteered to fight like Daddy had in the first war. Since he already knew how to fly a plane, Christopher wanted to be a fighter pilot but the army needed him to fly a big bomber instead so that's what he did. He got a medal, too, but he said it was just because he was lucky enough to only get shot up to high heaven but not shot all the way down to hell in any of the twenty-five missions he flew. Though they lost several crew members injured and some (he never would tell me how many) killed and he flew on three different planes, the army air corps people must have thought he was pretty good because they eventually brought him home to train other people how to fly those big bombers and make it home.
Neither Dad nor Christopher wanted to be a hero, but they did what they had to do to get the job done. However, as I grew into womanhood, Mom said I looked more and more like my mother with each passing day. I got Mom to tell me stories about her and, when I was old enough to understand, she let me read my mother's journal of her time in England during The War. Reading about her wanting to become a nurse and help people, I realized that was how I felt, too, so I got an after-school job at the nearby hospital as soon as I turned sixteen.
When I told my dad, he gave me a big hug, told me how proud he was of me, and told me how much he loved me. Picking up a photo from the mantle, he looked at it with tears in his eyes before turning to look at me. "You're so much like her, sweetpea, both in looks and with what's in your heart. She's been gone a long time but she cast a very long, and very good, shadow."
I turned to see Mom standing in the doorway nodding as tears streamed down her cheeks. She came in and we all hugged each other before she took the picture frame from Dad, laid a tiny kiss on the tip of her finger, and then touched it to glass over my mother's forehead. She placed it back on the mantle where it always sat before hugging me again and whispering that she loved me. Mom fled from the room then to deal with her tears and the memories.
When America entered the Second World War about nine months later, Mom and Dad encouraged me to continue working at the hospital rather than getting something at the cannery or another nearby plant like a lot of kids my age were doing.
"We don't know how long the war is going to last," said my father, "so getting some nursing experience may be more important to you and to our country in the long run than sealing boxes or loading trucks at the cannery. Besides, you working at the hospital may free up someone else to help in the effort overseas."
Since so many kids my age were doing what we could to help, we didn't think it was anything special but the radio, the newsreels, and innumerable signs and banners all reminded us that everyone had to do their part. I thought about it a lot as the months passed and as my high school graduation approached, I reread my mother's journal, talked to Mom and to Grandma when she came for a visit, and decided that helping people, including our soldiers, by becoming a nurse like my mother had been was what I really wanted to do. Therefore, Iike my mother before me, I entered the nurse training program at the hospital shortly after graduation.
Due to what they perceived as my aptitude, my nursing teachers encouraged me to take the full training course rather than the practical course that could be completed in a year.
"You could end up on a front somewhere a lot faster, that's true, but you're a smart girl, Miss Walsh, and you might be wasting potential we'll need in three or four years if this war stretches on, as well as for your career, I might add, rather than the warm and willing body we need right now."
When she said that, I sure hoped that the war wouldn't stretch on for another three or four years; fortunately, it ended in just over two years in the late summer of 1945.
***
For the first three years of the nursing program, I lived at home with my parents and younger siblings. During that time, I studied and worked, worked and studied, and, in general, put my social life on hold. However, in the months following the end of the war, things began to be a little more relaxed and as our service men and women began coming home, they entered the workforce and the need for overtime and volunteer efforts was reduced accordingly. Some girlfriends, mostly friends from my high school days and fellow nursing students, began to go out on weekends to relax and have a good time. I relaxed a bit, too, but was determined to avoid any type of entanglements, romantic or otherwise, with men until after I was out of nursing school.
That plan ran into a problem in the summer of 1946 when I met Jeff. He was tall, dark headed, and, like many of our vets coming back from Europe or the Pacific, in very good shape. In addition, to my great surprise, he seemed quite happy to follow me around like a puppy no matter how much I tried to shoo him away.
I reminded myself over and over again that I'd always avoided relationships with boys, during high school and since, but no matter how hard I tried to convince myself to continue that course, I couldn't help myself and neither could he (though in truth, I really don't think he was trying). It wasn't long before we were both head over heels in love and the desire I'd never felt before was soon burning within me. Having been raised as a good Catholic girl, I was determined to live by the letter of the law but I got advice from some of my friends on how one could push the limits without actually stepping over at least the important line. This kept Jeff quite happy and always trying to do more for me to win my hand and my heart. As much as I hated it, his efforts were working and it wasn't long before I realized I was rather pleased with my repertoire of new dexterous and oral skills in spite of what Father Bartolomé, our elderly parish priest and an old friend of my parents, might have had to say about it.
Still, the pressure to continue on was too much for both of us so just over three months later, in the fall of 1946 when I was twenty-one years of age, we married. Due to my school and his work, we postponed taking the honeymoon trip to the Falls that my parents gave us, but Mom gave me enough instruction, with what I'd already learned, that I kept a smile on Jeff's face all weekend following our little ceremony.
The first few months were bliss, with Jeff learning to take me to heights I'd never imagined just as I tried to do with him. Despite the church's prohibition, we followed the advice of both my parents and his and used condoms religiously, with plans to dispense with them once I was out of school and had some real nursing experience.
Unfortunately, to my great chagrin, the trouble started well before we reached that point.
***
"Jeff, you're going to be late for work if you don't get up," I said, trying to urge him out of the bed. Mr. Lonergan had already warned him that he'd be fired if he was late again without a damn good excuse. Based on the way Jeff told me Mr. Lonergan had said it, I doubted that anything short of a death in our family or Jeff's complete dismemberment would be good enough.
Jeffrey pulled the pillow over his head to drown me out; he had, I'd noticed, been trying to do that more and more frequently in recent months as his drinking had gotten worse. With me still having a few months of school left before I could contribute anything substantial to the fund for our house or most anything else, keeping his job was critical so I shook him again. "Jeff!"
"Leave me alone, woman!" he growled as he pushed me away.
It wasn't a violent shove but it was enough and I fell backward, hitting my head on the dresser or something. It hurt like the dickens and I started to yell at him until I saw the look in his eyes, one I'd never seen before. It sent a chill through me so I scrambled to get up and out of the room before he could do anything more.
In the bathroom with the door locked, my fingers probed through my strawberry blonde hair but found no blood. I focused my eyes and concentrated for a few moments, feeling it unlikely that I had a concussion, but in the process I realized something far more important. For the first time in our marriage, I'd been afraid my husband might hurt me...again.
Gathering my things quickly, I ran out of the apartment and headed to the hospital before he had the chance.
Jeffrey came home from work that evening at his usual time; I don't know how but he must have made it out of bed and gotten there in time to avoid being fired. Not noticing my hesitation, or perhaps ignoring it, he gave me a quick kiss on walking in the door and then walked to the chest where he kept his alcohol. He threw down the first shot and poured another as I watched.
"You gonna' have dinner ready soon, or you just gonna' stand there?" he asked.
