Vivian Schurfranz - Laura

The next morning, humming "Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning," the tune which was the hit of the army, Laura went into the kitchen in her robe and slippers. As she yawned and stretched she thought how lovely Saturdays were and that today she felt particularly vibrant.

Her mother, wearing a checked apron as long as her ankle-length skirt, was scraping carrots while the aroma of beef chunks and onions browning in the cast-iron skillet permeated the large room.

Impulsively Laura nuzzled her mother’s neck, where a thick bun at the nape smelled of antiseptic soap.

Pleased, Maude turned and smiled, peering above her small glasses at her daughter. "You’re in a good mood, young lady. Any reason?"

"Hmmm," Laura murmured noncommittally. "Just happy to be alive." Her mind flickered briefly over last night and the walk with Joe. There had been a closeness between them that she had never experienced before. Joe had really noticed her at last. Now it was only a matter of time before he took her in his arms and smothered her with kisses. The delicious thought caused her to wrap her arms around herself and sway back and forth. It was wonderful to see such a bright day; to be in love and to be loved.

"I like to see you this happy," her mother said, returning to her carrot scraping. "The more energy you have, the more work we’ll get done around here." She turned and lifted her brows teasingly.

"Okay, Mother. What’s on your mind? What do you want me to do?"

"Will you run to the Menottis' store and buy a bunch of celery after you’ve had your breakfast?"

"Sure, anything else?"

Slicing the carrot into a bowl, her mother frowned. "Seems like I’m forgetting something." She hesitated. "Oh, yes! I need a package of chocolate. I’m packing a box for Michael, so I’m baking cookies. I just hope it gets to him."

"How wonderful!" Laura took a deep breath. "I wish the war would end. I’m weary of heatless Mondays, wheatless Mondays and Wednesdays, meatless Tuesdays, and porkless Thursdays and Saturdays." She wrinkled her nose. "To ask us to substitute whale meat for beefsteak is downright heartless!"

"Laura, it’s the least we can do for our boys. Mr. Hoover, the food administrator, knows what he’s doing." Her mother moved to the stove, turned down the flame, and put a lid on the skillet. "As long as we follow his directions, it’s not that much of a sacrifice."

"You’re right, as usual, I guess. I just get tired of hearing about our belt-tightening Hooverizing programs." She poured a cup of coffee, buttered a slice of brown bread, and sat down at the kitchen table. "Maybe we’ll hear from Michael today. It’s been over a month."

"I know," Mrs. Mitchell said softly, stopping to gaze out the window. "I worry about him in the trenches, always waiting to fight."

"Michael can take care of himself," Laura answered confidently. "Besides, he’s in the Fighting Sixty-Ninth, one of the crack regiments in the army."

"No matter how good the soldiers are, it’s hard to fight against machine-gun fire or mustard gas." Her voice quivered as she dumped the carrots into the frying pan. Laura knew she voiced the concern that was on all their minds. Mustard gas was one of the worst weapons of war. When the insidious vapor filled the trenches, the men didn’t stand a chance unless they had a gas mask.

"Speaking of mustard gas," Laura said, jumping to her feet, trying to forget the soldiers in the trenches. "How many peach pits have we saved?"

Her mother shrugged. "Check the jar."

Laura pulled back the curtain and lifted from the shelf a jar half-filled with dried peach pits. "About a quarter of a pound, I’d guess." She shook her head. "And it takes seven pounds to make a filter for one gas mask! We’ve got a long way to go."

Maude Mitchell wiped her hands on her apron. "I’m going to the Red Cross office this afternoon."

"Red Cross office! Mother, can’t you relax, even on Saturday?"

Her mother smiled, and her well-scrubbed face shone. "I’ll only go for an hour or so to finish a sweater I’m knitting. Besides, I enjoy the women at the office." She studied her daughter and said stiffly, "Almost as much as you enjoy your motorcade friends."

Laura’s mother had always disapproved of her lying about her age to get into the corps, even if it meant that she was helping on the home front. A small smile emerged, and her mother said dryly, "Better the motorcade, I suppose, than these suffragists you’ve been admiring."

Laura swallowed her last bite of bread and said quickly, "I’d better start on my errands." No arguments, she thought, on such a glorious day. The pleasant sun’s brightness warmed her back as she drained her cup.

"That would be nice, dear," her mother murmured. It seemed she, too, was not interested in an argument as she dragged out a sack of flour and emptied part of the contents into the tin canister.

For a moment Laura watched her energetic mother, then rose. "I’ll run to the store and be right back to make my bed and dust."

Pulling on her galoshes, she wondered why her mother and Sarah were so far from her way of thinking. Well, that’s supposed to be what makes the world interesting. If it weren’t for differences of opinion, there would be a sameness in the country, and that would be boring, she thought as she flung her cloak around her.

At the Menottis' grocery, Joe greeted her warmly. "How are you, Laura?" His eyes and smile were admiring, and the look on his face was new and oh, so marvelous. Her heart leaped when she knew that he hadn’t forgotten last night.

Joe dipped into the pickle vat, offering her a large dill. His hand brushed hers, and she was sure it was deliberate.

"Thanks," she said shyly, taking the pickle. What was the matter with her? Every time she was around Joe now she became flustered. "Mother needs a bunch of celery and some chocolate." When Joe left to fill the order, she perched on top of a cracker barrel and nibbled on the sour pickle.

Upon his return Joe handed her a brown bag and began arranging a display of apples and oranges.

His movements were so graceful, she thought. Whatever action he performed, she observed it in a new light. Every once in a while he would glance in her direction and she would blush and think, Here I am with a silly pickle in my hand, instead of looking mature.

"Did you enjoy the movie last night?" he asked. There was a hint of tenderness behind his words, or did she imagine that?

She nodded. "It was fun, but I enjoyed our talk afterward even more." There! She had been courageous and said what was on her mind to get his reaction.

Before she could find out, however, Aldo Menotti, Joe’s burly father, entered from the back room with a slab of beef slung over his massive shoulder. He was whistling, but when he spied Laura, he stopped and his eyes opened wider. He knowingly looked first at her, then at his son. "Laura Mitchell! What you do? Eat up my profits, eh?" He laughed good-naturedly, and his wide mouth curved up to touch the edges of his bushy mustache. He flung the side of beef down onto the wooden block table and, with hefty strokes, began to chop it into pieces. "My profits fly out the window!" His huge hands reached to the roof in supplication.

"We’re not doing too bad, Papa," Joe said, winking at Laura. "The account books are in the black."

"Not bad? I say, not good!" Whack! Another slice of meat was cut from the bone. "The army wants fifty pounds of beef a week! Salting and wrapping for export is big job!" He wiped his hands on his leather apron, which was so long that it almost touched the sawdust on the floor, and so snug that it stretched tightly across his ample stomach.

"The army pays well," Joe countered.

"Santa Maria! Ten cents a pound? For all my work?"

"Doesn’t Joe help you?" Laura asked innocently, knowing well that Joe often stayed at the store until after midnight, getting the army shipments ready.

"Ah, Joe!" Aldo threw out his hands, but the sharp jibe died on his lips, and his brown eyes softened as he glanced in his son’s direction. "Joe is a good boy," he said gently. "Good boy."

"Hey, Papa! I’m no saint," Joe said, scooping up an orange that had rolled across the floor.

Aldo let out a bellow. "I agree. Saint you are not!"

Bertina, Aldo’s wife, bustled in with a tray of freshly baked cookies. Her face lit up when she noticed Laura. "Good morning, Laura. How fresh and pretty you look. By all the saints, Joe, what you give Laura? A pickle?" The plump, short woman chuckled. "I can do better than that!" She reached over and encircled Laura’s upper arm with pudgy fingers. "We need to fatten you up. Here’s a warm biscotti."

Laura bit into the Italian sweet. "Delicious," she said. It tasted doubly sweet after the dill pickle. It was such fun coming to the Menottis' store. She needed to go home, however, as her mother was waiting. "I must go," she said reluctantly, slipping down from the barrel.

Joe, hands on hips, surveyed her and then spoke hesitantly. "You liked the Charlie Chaplin movie so well, would you like to go again tonight?"

She opened her eyes in astonishment. "Joe Menotti!" she exclaimed. "Two movies in two nights? Whatever has come over you?"

He grinned, tossing the orange in the air and catching it. "Sure, why not?"

"Sorry, Joe." She felt wretched, hating to refuse him. "I promised Sarah I’d go with her to the Liberty Bond Rally." She glanced at Joe wistfully. "I have to go. Sarah’s been talking about it for weeks. Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford are going to be there. Sarah wouldn’t miss dashing Douglas or America’s Sweetheart for anything!"

"Oh," Joe said, his smile disappearing. "It’s just as well you can’t go tonight, anyway. I should stay home and dive into the books. I’d better know all about the digestive system for an exam on Monday."

Bertina arranged the cookies on the counter, muttering the whole time. "You two work all day… study… bond meetings… If they had their way they’d turn the world around, wouldn’t they, Aldo?" A wisp of her raven-black hair, pulled back from her face, spiraled down over a gold loop earring.

With a loud snort Aldo sharpened his butcher knife on a whetstone, then began to trim away the fat on a large roast. "The two of them run here and there like a chicken before my hatchet. Too much activity!"

Pretending not to notice Aldo’s reaction, Laura turned to Joe. His disappointment was evident. Was he that upset that she couldn’t go to the movies again? "Why don’t you come along, Joe? The bond rally will be fun!"

Joe’s grin reappeared. "I just might do that. Are you certain Sarah wouldn’t mind?"

"She’d love it." Laura reached out and touched his arm. "Do come with us, please."

"When you put it that way, how can I refuse?"

"Seven, then?"

"I’ll be there!" His pleasure was as evident as his disappointment had been a minute ago.

As Laura crossed Cherry Alley she was pleased that Joe had wanted to go with her to the movies again. This was the first time he’d asked her for both Friday and Saturday nights. Now that Joe would be along, tonight would be twice as much fun.

As she walked along the sycamore-lined street with the charming rows of brick-red homes, she met Clara Jurowski, a large-boned woman in an ill-fitting postal uniform who had taken over Mr. McKay’s route.

"Any mail?" Laura called.

Clara’s long face lengthened. "Sorry," she said, knowing how much the Mitchells were all waiting for a letter from Michael. "The only thing is the Sears Roebuck catalogue."

She handed the heavy book to Laura, who took it reluctantly. Usually she was overjoyed to see it, but now the only mail she wanted was from Michael. What was wrong? Why didn’t he write?

Dejectedly she walked into the house and was surprised to hear voices in the parlor. She took off her galoshes, threw her cape on the clothes tree, and hurried in to see who was there. When she entered the room, one of the handsomest young soldiers she had ever seen leaped to his feet.