Dream When You're Feeling Blue by Elizabeth Berg Page B

driven from their homes. They had forty-eight hours to dispose of everything—their houses, their businesses, all their furniture. And their ‘vacation’ was to go to a barren camp surrounded by barbed wire.”
    Kitty hadn’t known what to say. It seemed impossible. So she’d said that, and Hank had said yes, but it had happened. He had been an isolationist and a member of America First up until Pearl Harbor, because he didn’t believe in war as an answer in supposedly civilized times. After December 7, he’d become a conscientious objector, doing public service as an orderly in a hospital. Then, because of an injured soldier he had cared for there, he’d changed his mind and enlisted. Why? Kitty had asked. What had happened to make him change his mind? He’d looked at her, contemplating whether or not to answer. Then he’d smiled and said he’d tell her another time, in a letter, how about that? How about if they corresponded?
    He was an Army flier who had just completed training for aerial reconnaissance. These men dropped no bombs—they simply took photographs. He told her they flew at great heights and at great speeds, often in deepest night, and they flew completely unarmed. One reason was that the cameras added so much weight; another was the assumption that if a pilot had guns on his plane, he might want to fight back instead of quickly returning to base with those valuable photos.
    Hank was on his way overseas. Overseas where? Kitty had asked. He’d leaned in toward her and said in a low voice, “Now, you know I can’t tell you that.” And Kitty had felt a zipperlike thrill run up her back, then felt immediately guilty. But what was a girl to do? It was a completely natural reaction. Although it had been only a few weeks, it felt like an eternity since a man’s face had come near hers.
    Mostly, Kitty had just liked talking to Hank. And she’d given him her address. Oh, he knew she was practically engaged—she’d told him all about Julian. She’d told him how they met, how they wanted four children: two boys and two girls. She’d told him about Frank and Margaret and her brothers; and she had pointed out her sisters, about whom he’d said, “Wow! Beautiful girls!” He hadn’t said she was pretty, and she’d rather liked that he hadn’t. She’d liked, too, the light way he put his hand on her back when they waltzed to the slow ones, the way he listened so intently to what she said, not only listened but asked questions in order to understand better. Henry was his name, but he preferred Hank in the same way that she preferred Kitty to Katherine. “I always think I’m in trouble if someone calls me Henry,” he’d told her. “Me, too,” she’d said, and then quickly added, “Well, I mean when they call me Katherine, not Henry!” She’d flushed at the foolishness of that remark; of course he knew that! But Hank had only said, “And if they call you by all three names, you’re really in for it!” He had asked what her middle name was, and she had told him it was Grace; his, he’d said, was Carter, after his maternal grandfather. Kitty thought it was strange, telling a man you’d just met your middle name. In some ways it felt more intimate than a kiss.
    Henry Carter Cunningham III, although about this last he’d said, “Not
that
kind of ‘the Third.’ I’m afraid my circumstances might best be described as modest. More dreams than dollars are generated in my family.” Hank Cunningham, from San Francisco, California. Kitty covered her mouth and held back a laugh, and for the life of her, she didn’t know why.
    She closed her eyes and thought about Julian. Where was he, right now? What was he doing? Playing cards? Dodging bullets? Eating rehydrated pears? When would she hear from him again? What if he…? Her stomach dropped and her hands grew cold. You never knew. You never heard right away. And sometimes the information you got was false. She’d heard about a family who’d