It had happened to Dottie’s older sister, and the poor girl had never been the same from the grief of it. She walked as if she were broken inside, and Margaret would give her life to prevent that for her best friend.
Gladys offered her usual advice. “Nothing a cup of brandy wouldn’t fix, but Dottie isn’t one to imbibe, is she?”
“She’s never had a liking for it.”
“Too bad. Brandy for Belly Aches. Vodka for Viruses. Whiskey for Woman Troubles. Dr. Gladys’s prescription for a long life.”
Margaret grinned and held up an imaginary cocktail glass. “Here’s to that.”
“Cheers, doll.”
They joined the long line of women who were reporting for the first shift at the Navy Yard. They were bright-eyed and chatty, incongruous given the early hour. But they were used to being awake before the light of the morning blanketed the city, and Margaret wondered if she would ever consider the soft-lit dawn as routine.
This shift paid an extra dollar per week, though, and Margaret was glad to have the opportunity to contribute to the family coffers in exchange for a few hours of sleep. She was hoping for a promotion out of the flag-sewing wing and was counting on her punctuality and her ability to adapt to be among her assets when an opening in the new mechanic section became available. The other would be her vocabulary. They accepted only the smartest girls—replacing the engineers and hard-hat workers who had been sent overseas—and though she’d been an average student, she read the Word of the Day every morning and maneuvered it into conversations to help her stand out.
Gladys had already made it into the ranks that most of the women just dreamed about and relished the chance to show the men that she was every bit as capable as they were.
So far, nothing had materialized for Margaret, but the foreman over there promised to put in a good word for her. George was John’s best friend and would do anything for the Beck family. And a promotion like that would mean an additional two dollars per week.
That would leave some leftover money to buy herself a few of the posher cosmetics at the Macy’s counter rather than the ordinary ones from Woolworth’s. Like a Pink Perfection lipstick from Elizabeth Arden. She’d once seen it in an advertisement in a library copy of Vogue and had thought of it ever since.
It would also mean that her father could work a few less hours in their cobbler shop and give his arthritic hands a rest. Though other girls in their early twenties had fathers about double their age, hers had been a good bit older than her mother when they married and was frequently mistaken for Margaret’s grandfather when they were out together.
George Preston was exactly the kind of Brooklyn man her parents would love to see her settle down with. Dependable. Hardworking. Well-mannered. He was as good a guy as they came. But there had never been the kind of spark between them that romance novels promised. She’d not yet felt more than a passing flutter for a boy. Nothing she could call love—nothing that resembled the possibility of longevity she so admired in her parents. Or John and Dottie.
Margaret believed it was better to love vicariously through the printed word in books than to pursue a fleeting feeling built on quicksand, and she was determined to either hold out for the real thing or not have it at all. She’d seen too many marriages among her parents’ friends turn rancid in the wake of the difficulties the world put forth.
Better to be alone than saddled in misery to someone chosen in a bout of head-in-the-cloud youthfulness.
In this regard, she admired how Gladys stuck to her guns.
John and Dottie’s story had started years ago when the Beck and Troutwine families had rented small cottages next to each other on Brighton Beach. Margaret had been excited when she saw a girl her age sitting shoeless on the front porch, sand baked onto her feet. When their parents discovered that they lived only one subway stop apart, the girls became inseparable.
But as soon as her brother was old enough to consider girls as something more than a nuisance, it became forevermore Dottie and John, John and Dottie. As if one name couldn’t be spoken without the corresponding other. And Margaret didn’t mind. The two people she loved most in the world loved each other. It didn’t get any better than that.
Their wedding had been planned for October. But John was drafted and sent out to basic training in July.
War was a particular kind of thief that stole not only the lives of the boys who went overseas, but also the plans and aspirations of the families at home.
Among Margaret’s friends, doubt had seeped into the traditions they’d been raised with as life and loss permeated their conversations in ways they’d never had to consider before. Instead of trifles such as how to make the perfect gravy or what ice cream cone flavor to choose at the pharmacy counter, they worried: What if the men don’t make it back? What if the Germans come here across the Atlantic? And the corollary response: Do what you want to because this all might end.
(Corollary had been a recent Word of the Day, and Margaret had already used it three times in conversation. And once in her thoughts: The corollary to John shipping off unexpectedly was that he and Dottie had the wedding night before the wedding.)
Gladys changed into a pair of flat leather boots just after they passed through the iron gate at the security check. The twin carcasses of the USS Maine and the USS New Hampshire towered above them, sparks flying from welders’ blowtorches as they disassembled the battleships piece by piece. Margaret watched in fascination, never tiring of seeing the power of fire against metal.
Five such ship orders had been canceled here and in Philadelphia and Norfolk, their superior firepower capabilities falling into less favor than the new class of ship that could serve as a sea base for air operations. Aircraft carriers.
Ships built like runways so that airplanes could land and refuel in the middle of the ocean.
The war, at least, produced marvels that might otherwise have been relegated to futuristic fiction.
Margaret regretted the years of toil that Brooklyn workers had poured into the battleships, only to have to erase their own efforts. Thankfully, their shipyard had been chosen to build the vessels that introduced a cause for hope.
It was like a death. A death that also brought new life. Sorrow and joy could only be known because of the existence of the other.
She paused as they passed the third one—the USS Missouri. The last of this class of battleships. Too far into production to cancel. The one that connected the past to the future.
Much like Dottie and John’s baby.
The work siren blew, echoing through the foggy air and shaking Margaret from her wistful thoughts. This was not the time to be defeated by worries and musings. The future of this little child would be secured only by taking action. Not just here at work, but in the hours between.
John’s most recent letter had arrived yesterday and it had given her an idea.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?” she asked as she slipped her yellow card into the punch clock.
Gladys grinned and Margaret watched her sort through some of the more scandalous answers that she would have characteristically given. But she restrained herself, perhaps as eager to get the workday started—and finished—as Margaret was.
“Nothing I can’t back out of. What do you have in mind?”
“Something you won’t want to miss out on. Meet me at my pop’s shop at seven. I’ll tell you then.”