(Special thanks to @hey-fangirl-hey for the graphic)
Part 7: The Finale
August 29, 1944
From the day of William’s birth, time seemed to fly by much too quickly for MC. It seemed like only yesterday she was holding him in her arms for the very first time in the hospital, looking down into his cherub-like face, her heart swelling with love and joy, her eyes welling with tears.
These days, he was teetering around the apartment, his plump legs and thighs weighed down by white shoes with soles as hard as rocks and repeating words after his mother.
Since the arrival of the telegram on July 15th, time has however seemed to slow down. There has been no jazz music from the phonograph that was once alive with the music of Lizzie’s favorites like Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday. Holiday’s 78 of My Man sits on top of the turntable, a light sheen of dust collecting on the top. The dust had also settled on the Bible next it on the table. Lizzie no longer believed in prayer or the words of the book.
There were days where Lizzie did not get out of the bed and refused to eat. Jack was gone and for a time, so was the life within her. It finally took a tough love conversation with MC to get her up and on her feet again. “You have to go on Lizzie, for Daniel. He has lost his father and he needs you more than ever. He can’t lose you too!” MC stated adamantly as she sat next to her on the bed. She helped Lizzie to take a bath and wash her hair and started feeding her slowly with some crackers and broth before finally getting some stew into her system.
“I don’t even get to bury him, MC,” Lizzie said in a daze as her friend scrubbed her back in the bathtub. “He’s in some cemetery in France. I don’t even have a grave to go visit. I’ll never get to tell him goodbye or how much I love him,” Lizzie began to sob, resting her forehead on her knees, sitting in the warm, soapy water.
MC blinked back tears. “Maybe someday you will,” she offered.
Weeks later, MC has still received no word about PFC Christopher Powell. Fort Lee had been reluctant and painstakingly slow to post a list of the wounded and dead from the D-Day invasion. Many of the critically wounded were still being tended to and the identification process for the dead was a lengthy and strenuous task. Communication from overseas was often plagued with errors. More than 150,000 were part of the D-Day invasion, more than 4,400 would not come home. A misfire in sending word to a family of a fallen soldier could be catastrophic during the sensitive time. Lizzie had received the title that so many other women across on Earth had to endure in the wake of the invasion: War Widow.
When Lizzie was finally feeling well enough to tend to Jack’s final business and financial matters on base, she had inquired about Chris on MC’s behalf. She pleaded with a Captain for any helpful information she could provide to the mother of Powell’s son. He took a few minutes and was not able to confirm or deny that PFC Powell had died on Omaha Beach that day in June.
For the last few days, MC has considered reaching out to Chris’s family in Cherryfield, Maine. She has contemplated how to do so at length without stirring suspicion from Chris’s mother. All she has is a name and a location, but a phone call or a letter to Barbara Powell may provide her with peace of mind or much needed closure.
MC never thought she would give up hope for Chris’s return. She has continued to light candles for him and pray, but she wonders with the violent nature of man and the destruction of the planet so widespread if God was even listening to his children any longer.
It is a hot and humid Sunday afternoon in Prince George. As MC left mass that morning with William on her hip, her dress and brassiere stuck to her skin. Strands of wet hair stuck to her forehead and the back of her neck. The walk back to the apartment in the stifling dankness of midday was not eased by the increasing weight and heat of the child she carried.
When she arrives at the apartment, Lizzie is sitting in her chair sewing the torn hem of a pair of Daniel’s shorts. A rambunctious four-and-a-half year old now, Daniel is full of energy and spirit. There are parts of him that are loving and considerate just like his mother and other parts that are stubborn and tenacious, a quality both of his parents possessed. Daniel is tearing the latest edition of the newspaper into strips. Lizzie cares not. He’s entertaining himself and she can focus on another pair of pants he has managed to rip.
“Good afternoon,” MC says trying to sound chipper as she sits William down on the floor. He gallops across the floor, his shoes clattering over the hard floor as he heads towards Daniel.
“Hi….” Lizzie says distantly. She chews her bottom lip as she keeps her eyes on her stitching. MC eyes her friend with sympathy. She is up and functioning again in the last two weeks but the fire inside her has burned out. There is no passion for life, only a sense of duty to push on for Daniel’s sake in response to the challenge MC had issued.
Lizzie tried to explain to Jack’s son that daddy would not be coming home. She fought off the urge to cry as she spoke the word’s to her child. He only tilted his head quizzically. Lizzie was not sure if Daniel could even remember his father anymore.
She is considering moving back to South Weymouth and in with her mother and father so that Daniel can be around her family and Jack’s. The only thing keeping her in Prince George is MC and the bond the two women have formed. They need each other.
MC’s salary has helped to pay rent and buy groceries to support them but Jack’s salary and any benefits to Lizzie are in limbo. She is seeking employment but does not know who will provide care for the two small children. Home might be her only option.
MC had tried to convince Lizzie to join her for mass that morning. Lizzie refused.
“I didn’t know what you might like for lunch,” MC says. “I could make us and the boys some sandwiches?” She fans her hand at her damp face and takes a deep breath.
“That sounds fine,” Lizzie says, still not looking up.
MC nods and makes her way to the kitchen. William and Daniel sit in the middle of dozens of strips of newspaper, tearing them further and laughing. They both toss them up into the air letting them rain back on top of them like confetti.
MC grabs a clean rag from a drawer and holds it under the faucet, letting cool water soak into the fabric. She wrings it out before pressing it to her face. The coolness is soothing on this sweltering day. She takes another deep breath blowing the tension out of her body.
She is startled when there is a knock at the door. She jumps, her heart feeling as if it will leap out of chest at the sudden, rapid sound.
Lizzie stops her sewing and stairs at the door. She is struck by the recollection of a similar moment just one month prior. Her face goes pale and she turns and looks at MC.
“Probably Mrs. Schmidt,” MC says with a nod. “It’s almost the end of the month. She may be coming by for rent.”
“On a Sunday?” Lizzie questions and cocks an eyebrow.
There is another knocking at the door and the two women stare at one another, neither moving for quite some time.
MC throws the rag down onto the counter, inhaling and exhaling before closing her eyes. She heads to the door and as she turns the knob, she prays to herself. Please God, please don’t let this be more bad news.
Her hand begins to tremble around the knob, her grip slipping. She composes herself. She looks back at Lizzie whose eyes are filled with silent terror, haunted by her own experience.
MC gulps and twists the knob, the door whining on its hinges as she pulls it open.
The ground beneath her feet shifts. The earth seems to tilt on its axis. She grips the door knob, bracing herself against it. That small rounded piece of metal is the only thing supporting her. Her face is slack, her mouth falls open with a gasp that cannot be heard. Shock courses through her veins like blood and she is numb to every sight, sound or smell around her for a heartbeat.
“Ch…” she stammers. “Chris?” His name is a whisper of disbelief. She is still asleep in her bed she reasons. That’s the only way. There is no way this vision of a man standing before her is real.
From across the threshold, he begins to tremble. He props himself up, the cane in his hand shaking with his own body’s subtle convulsions. The portrait of beauty that he had kept with him in his pocket is in front of him in the flesh. She peers back at him, shock and uncertainty in her wide eyes and opened mouth. Slowly MC raises a hand. It tremors and bounces unsteadily as she lifts it, pushing it towards him. She takes a step forward, her hand still on the door knob for balance. Her hand makes contact with the spot near the tie of his uniform, just above his heart and she jerks her hand back. It flies back to her mouth covering it as the gasp finally erupts loudly from her.
This is real. He is real.
“Hello, MC,” he says in a tremulous voice. He never truly knew if he would be able to speak those words to her again. He only hoped, prayed and dreamed of this moment. Now it was here and the only thing he could think to say to her was a “Hello.”
The simplicity of those words draws a joyful laugh from MC before the first tear falls from her eyes. She lunges forward, all of her despair, heartache and worry left behind her as the form of her body presses into his. She knocks him back with the force of her embrace, throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing him with such fervor, he feels a tightness in his chest.
He lets out a relieved sigh, keeping one hand on the cane to hold himself up, lifting his other arm to hold her close to him. His eyes close and internally he let’s go, dropping the cane to the floor and wrapping his other arm around her. After the first tear fell from her eyes, more streamed down each of her cheeks in a ceaseless river of joy.
Chris inhales the scent of her perfume and her hair and in that moment, the woman who could have become a stranger to him is as a part of him and will be for the rest of their lives. He raises a hand and cups the back of her head, feeling the softness of her hair as her runs his fingers through it. He presses a kiss to the side of her neck, sweeping his lips up to her cheek and her ear.
“My darling,” he whispers to her.
MC feels the tiny vibration of her trembling body in his arms as she cries into his shoulder.
“You’re home?” she says and pulls back. He looks at her tear stained face and reaches up, running a thumb over each cheek to brush them away.
MC reaches up, taking Chris’s face in her hands. She takes inventory of every centimeter of his countenance. There are a few crinkles at the corners of his lips and eyes that would suggest he is a man older than the 22 years he is. MC knows the hardness of war has put those lines there. His blue eyes are bright but do not shine the way they did that night at Tantilla. She knows these eyes have viewed horrors and atrocities he will never be able to speak of. She strokes his cheeks with the back of her knuckles as she stares into his face. A tiny smile comes to his lips and he closes his eyes, leaning in towards her. The softness of MC’s lips meets his own and there is a deep breath of satisfaction from Chris.
His hands move to her back drifting down to her waist as he kisses her and the world falls away. England, France, the war, none of that matters in this moment.
She drops her hands from his face as he presses his forehead against hers.
MC’s eyes remain shut and she revels in the feel of him against her.
Then, she twitches with a sudden realization.
Her eyes fly open and she looks up at him horrified.
Chris pulls back, his eyes surveying her and the maelstrom of emotions she is mentally wrestling with.
“Chris, I…” She stutters. “There…is….” She feels as though she can’t breathe. Her chest heaves as she chokes on her words. Her body lurches as if she might vomit. Her words are strangulated. “I…need to tell….I need to tell you,” she says and closes her eyes. She shakes her head and looks away from him.
She does not know what to expect. The son Chris Powell has never met is playing on the floor feet away from his mother and father. Will Chris be angry at this news? Will he leave her and shun William? Will he hate her for keeping it a secret?
Those questions fade away when Chris reaches down and takes her hand in his.
“I know,” he says and gives it a gentle squeeze.
She freezes, her eyes lifting upwards towards him. Staring puzzled at him, she breathes out, “What?”
He runs his thumbs over her knuckles. “I know, MC,” Chris nods. “I know we have a son together,” he says.
MC shakes her head. “How?” She chirps.
They both give pause when the feel of a warm hand meets both of their knees. They had been so lost in their reunion and their embrace, they had not heard as William trotted towards them, crossing the threshold and reaching up to touch his parents.
When they look down, he smiles up at them, rows of teeth visible with his bright smile. His dimpled, full cheeks are lifted, his blue eyes dancing as he looks up at the curious man standing with his mommy.
Lizzie hangs back in the doorway. She had reached out to stop William but he had already made it to Chris and MC by the time she made it to the door. She folds her arms over her chest as she watches the scene in front of her. For the first time in more than a month, she feels a sprout of happiness within.
Chris stares down at this tiny boy, seeing himself in his face. He bends slowly, wincing as he does. He reaches his arms out but then stops himself. He is afraid to touch him. Hands sullied by murder and war are afraid to reach out and touch this innocent being just beginning life and still trying to understand the world. Chris hopes to shield him from the wickedness of it all. He had watched Charlie, a young boy entering a war, transform to a man out of necessity. Chris prays William will enjoy his childhood, slowly entering adulthood under his guidance. He vows to let his son be a kid for as long as he can.
Chris reaches his hands out once more but this time his large hands enclose the waist of the child. He staggers a bit, almost losing his balance as he lifts him, and MC jumps, startled they might both fall. But Chris finds his footing, standing tall with his son in his arms as he brings his face close to his.
Stubby fingers reach out and hold the face of the man in front of him. The feeling of fatherhood burns into Chris like a brand and he closes his eyes before opening them. The soldier releases his tears unable to tame and control them. He is overwhelmed. He is stunned. He is in love.
He leans forward and kisses the thin brown hair on top of William’s head. “Hello William,” Chris says. “I’m your daddy.”
MC presses her fingers together over her nose as her own tears flow with abandon. She sniffles and Chris hears her sobs. He glances at her and reaches his arm out, beckoning her to him. He grips his son and his love in the hallway, never wanting to part from them ever again.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I didn’t write and tell you. I was just afraid,” MC sobs.
“Shhhh,” Chris whispers and kisses the top of her head, holding them both. “I understand…”
“How? How did you know?” She shakes her head and looks up at him. Her eyes beseech his.
Chris tucks his lip before letting her go. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand. He shifts William in his arms and looks past his child and MC at the woman standing in the doorway.
Lizzie’s back straightens and then she looks at MC with a meek nod.
“You?” MC questions. “But how?”
“I wrote to Jack and told him and asked him to tell Chris,” Lizzie begins. She puts her hands up defensively. “Now before you get angry MC, I was only doing what I thought best for Chris and for William. He needed to know he had a son he was going to come home to,” Lizzie says. She speaks with conviction but then claps her hands anxiously in front of her. She shifts from one foot to the other before lifting her chin and staring directly into MC’s eyes.
MC sighs and shakes her head. She runs her fingers through her hair and then covers her face. She huffs and then drops her hands and looks at Chris holding William. Their son is all smiles. Chris kisses his cheek and William lets out a delighted giggle.
“I’m not mad,” MC says. “In fact…thank you,” She blinks back her tears. “I was just so scared he wouldn’t want to come back to me…to us,” MC says. She glances at Chris who frowns.
“MC, of course I was going to come back to you. I meant every word of every letter I ever wrote to you. I love you,” he says. “Though we just met, I love William too,” he smiles at his son.
MC lets out a cry of joy and then wraps her arms around the man she loves and her child, laying her head on Chris’s shoulder. They stand in the hallway as a family for quite some time before she pulls away. Chris hands William to her, feeling a sharp pain in his leg and no longer able to hold him unassisted. MC grips William, bending down and handing Chris his cane.
He takes it from her, embarrassed at the use of the object. He studies Lizzie before wiping the Garrison of Forage cap off of his head. He holds it against his heart.
“Mrs. O’Sullivan?” He says meekly.
Lizzie stands tall and eyes him curiously as he steps forward with his cane, his hat in his hand.
“Ma’am, first, let me say thank you for everything you have done for MC and my boy while I was away. Jack told me how you took her in and…what all you had done for them and I can’t say thank you enough. I hate I wasn’t here to look after them myself,” Chris says to her.
Lizzie swallows down her emotions at the mention of Jack’s name again. She shrugs off Chris’s statement. “It’s what human beings are supposed to do for human beings.”
Chris nods but frowns. “I didn’t always get to see the best of what human being’s do to other humans during the war ma’am,” he says. He clears his throat. “Also, I owe you and your family a debt of gratitude,” Chris says. His lip quivers and he bites into it to stop the rush of pain and sadness he feels. Tears shimmer in his eyes and he thrusts his eyes away from her and upward. He takes a deep breath. “Ma’am,” he chokes out. “Your husband,” he sniffles in wetly and looks at her. “Your husband saved my life. More than once, but…that day on the beach, it was Jack who saved me.”
Lizzie’s hand lifts to her chest as she wordlessly stares back at Chris. She clinches her other fist. She forces herself to barely nod back at him.
“Jack is a hero,” Chris continues. “You need to know that. He’s a hero.”
Lizzie licks her dry lips and winces, the hand on her chest clutching at her skin. She shakes her head rapidly and wipes at her eyes.
“Come on in out of the hallway,” she says suddenly. “Don’t need everyone in the building knowing our business,” she motions to them turning her back as she walks towards Daniel on the floor.
MC reaches up and touches Chris’s cheek, wet with his tears and rubs William’s back.
“We have a lot to talk about,” she says.
He nods and follows her into the apartment.
***
That evening, Lizzie went to the store. Meat was a scarcity and an added expense during the rations period but she did not care. It was a time of celebration for Chris and MC.
She bought a roast and some potatoes and the fixings to make a cherry pie.
Before dinner, Chris sat with MC on the sofa and explained everything that had happened to him since the invasion of Normandy.
He had been struck by fragments of a German mortar shell that had blown up not far from where he and Jack lay. Chris relayed to Lizzie that Jack had jerked him back from the mine that killed Charlie and thrown his body on top of his. He explained to her that fragments of the shell had hit Jack as well, piercing his neck. He told her he went quickly and painlessly. Although the details of her husband’s death were difficult to hear, it gave her some level of peace knowing how it happened and that he didn’t suffer. She silently left the apartment to prep for dinner after talking to Chris.
The fragments of the shell had struck Chris’s left arm, hip and upper thigh. He had some burn wounds on his body and permanent scars from the multiple surgeries he had undergone to remove the fragments. He was left with a permanent limp, a drag in his leg from the wound and use of his left arm and hand was limited now.
Lieutenant Thomas, the second man Chris credited with keeping him alive during the war, had survived his gunshot wounds. They would take quite some time to heal fully and there were a few lingering effects like numbness in his arm and leg, but he had survived.
When the second wave of the invasion arrived, the medics tended to the treatable wounded on the beach, loading them onto the same landing crafts they had arrived on. Chris and the Lieutenant were sent back to England, where they were put onto a train that carried them to one of the many American-built hospitals in the English countryside for treatment.
Both severely wounded and unable to carry on their duties as soldiers, Lieutenant Thomas and PFC Powell boarded a ship and returned to the states and Fort Lee. They would both be discharged from duty.
As soon as the bus had rolled into the base, Chris checked in as required and phoned home to his mother and siblings. Frantic for weeks, his phone call had eased their fears. He didn’t know when he would be home, he had matters to handle he told them, but he would be home soon he assured them. He then hailed a taxi, making it as quickly as he could to the address listed for Sergeant O’Sullivan’s wife.
After dinner, he and MC sat on the sofa side by side, watching their one year and seven month old son bouncing a ball back and forth with Daniel. Lizzie cleaned up the kitchen.
“Okay boys, in with me tonight, time to get washed up,” Lizzie announced with her hands on her hips. Daniel nodded and William looked up at her curiously. “You’re coming with me tonight kid. Let Mommy and Daddy have some privacy,” Lizzie said.
“Lizzie that’s-“
“Ah-ah-ah,” Lizzie waved her off. She bent down and scooped William up. She walked over to MC, letting Chris and William’s mother say goodnight before she whisked him off, Daniel trailing behind her into her bedroom before she shut the door.
Chris and MC stared at the closed door then timidly looked at one another before each let out a nervous giggle.
“Well, I guess that’s that then,” MC chuckled softly.
“I guess so,” Chris said and took her hand in his. He clutched it and took a deep breath.
“You don’t know how good it feels to be here with you right now,” he said.
“Yes, I do. I feel it too,” she said and looked over in his eyes. “But, I know, from all of your letters, you’ve been through so much. I truly can’t even imagine what it was like.”
“Your picture…I lost it,” he sighs. “After the invasion, they cut my jacket off of me and…they threw it away. It was in the pocket.”
“It’s okay, Chris.”
“No,” he shakes his head. “That picture meant everything to me.”
Chris falls quiet, knitting his brow as he thinks. He blinks away the terror of the war and squeezes her hand again. “I’ve been trying to make sense of all this chaos,” he says. “I survived, but why? Why am I here and Jack isn’t? How did a bullet hit the Lieutenant, barely missing his heart, but another bullet hit a guy right in the head? How is it that a guy who was a new husband and maybe a father of many kids got taken away but a single fella survived? How did we make it out of all those perils just to see so many of our friends fall on the beach that day?”
He stares into nothingness in front of him, his eyes trying to grasp what neither his heart nor mind can seem to comprehend.
“It’s war,” MC says. “It makes no sense. The whole of it.”
“That’s the thing though,” Chris looks over at her, his eyes squinting as he studies her. “I think I know what saved me. What kept me alive.”
“What is that?” She frowns slightly.
“You,” he states. “You, MC. You prayed for me, you lit candles for me, you wrote to me, your photo, all of it kept me alive. You were my angel in the darkest hours, sweetheart. It was you,” he says.
He sees the waviness of salty tears in her eyes and she shakes her head and looks away. “You give me too much credit.”
“You gave me everything,” he says. “Now it’s time to give my all to you. I…” he fumbles on his words and licks his lips. “I don’t exactly have a ring right now but…I said it as soon as I boarded that ship for England,” he looks at her and her eyes widen. “I said if I made it home, I was coming straight to you and I was going to marry you, MC. I made myself that promise and you didn’t know it but I made it to you. See, I had to come back. I had a girl and my son waiting for me.”
She breathes out. “Chris…”
He gets up off of the sofa and she watches in astonishment. He winces and tries not to grunt as he shifts onto his good leg, gingerly bending his other. He remembers Jack’s words to him in England. He had already committed himself to her but he is fulfilling a promise he made not only to himself but his comrade.
He reaches out and takes her hands in his. He feels them shaking again.
“MC, will you marry me?” Chris’s oceanic orbs nervously dance as he focuses on her. He gives a tiny smile as he waits.
“Are you sure?” She questions.
He lets out a loud laugh. “I am very, very, very sure, MC. Will you marry me?” he repeats.
MC holds his hands tightly. “Yes, Chris! Yes!” She exclaims gleefully.
He lets out a joyous laugh and leans forward, his lips crushing into hers. She matches his eagerness, gripping the sides of his face as he parts her lips, slipping his tongue into her mouth. They swim in the feel of each other before Chris pulls back and looks in her eyes. He puts his hand on the edge of the sofa and pushes himself up to standing. He wobbles for a moment before balancing. MC stands swiftly, putting his arm over her shoulder to help him. He looks at her apologetically.
She walks with him to her bedroom, opening the door and stepping inside. She helps him to sit down on the edge of the bed, before she closes and locks the door behind her.
When she turns around, Chris is studying every curve of her body in her dress.
She steps towards him and his hands move to her hips as he looks up at her.
“MC, I…I don’t know if, I…want to, it’s just…my hip,” his brow creases and he lets out a groan of frustration. He drops his hips from her and dejectedly looks away. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
She reaches out her hand, using her index finger to turn his face back to hers.
“It’s okay,” she says. “Let me….” She drags the index finger up and down his cheek and his eyes close at the tender caress.
She bends down and unties his shoes, sliding them off of each of his feet. His eyes penetrate her with pure desire. It’s been more than two years since he felt a woman’s touch. Two years since MC let him experience a pleasure neither of them had ever known before.
She removes his socks and Chris begins to unbutton his shirt, watching MC kneeled before him. One by one his fingers move over them, his eyes never leaving her. He strips the shirt away and MC gives pause when she sees him. In just a white tank, the sinewy curves of his shoulder and arm muscles are accented in the dim light of the bedroom. The boy from the blueberry farm has only added more muscle since the war. But his left arm is marred by several scars and burns. MC reaches out and gently runs her fingertips over the scars. Chris looks away from her again, tucking his lips bashfully.
She rises, crouching in front of him and again turns his face back to hers. She brings his mouth towards hers, kissing him softly before the need and ache surfaces.
As Chris’s mouth dances hungrily against hers, she reaches down and unbuckles his belt and slacks. She drags the zipper down as his tongue wetly massages hers, a deep groan escaping his lips. Her hand brushes over the hardness in his pants as she unzips them, Chris unable to suppress the immediate and swollen response to her kiss and touch.
MC steps back from him, keeping her gaze tracked to his.
She reaches behind herself and tugs the zipper at the back of her dress down. She pushes it off of each of her shoulders, before it drops to the bedroom floor. She steps out of it, her eyes remaining on Chris.
Chris swallows and MC hears the intake of breath as his eyes scan over her body. She reaches between her shoulder blades and unclasps the brassiere she is wearing, letting the straps slide down her arms before it falls to the floor along with her dress.
She pushes the slip she is wearing to the floor, pushing it away with her foot. Her breasts bounce with the heaviness of the breaths she is taking. Night after night she has dreamed of Chris’s kiss and touch. She has fantasized about him taking her body again. The lustful raggedness of his breathing and the look of starvation in his eyes lets her know she was not the only one who had held onto hope for this moment.
She peels her girdle down her thighs, kicking it away before stepping towards Chris again. His hands lift to her hips once more, his thumb running over the flesh below her navel. He kisses the valley between her breasts before his lips capture one of her nipples in his mouth. He sucks gently, swirling his tongue over the hardening bud. MC’s head falls back and she gasps. Chris is so ready for her, his swollenness pushes out of his boxers, straining against the fabric of his slacks.
She cradles his head as he suckles at her breast. His hands move from her hips to her bottom, caressing and squeezing the soft flesh before he moves a hand around the front of her thigh and between her legs.
She flinches at the touch, a surge of power making her body jerk as if electrocuted. His probing fingers explore her, wetness slicking his fingers down to the knuckles. She tries to stifle her moans, mindful of Lizzie and the boys in the next room but Chris’s touch is so overwhelmingly good.
He pumps his fingers and something begins to happen to her body. She clamps her hands down onto his shoulders. The tingling starts between her thighs, but it begins to feel like a pulsing. The explosion rolls from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head and she lets out a cry of deep ecstasy as her thighs shake around his hand. Her eyes clinched shut, she can see an explosion of colors like fireworks behind her lids. Chris lays his head against her breast, feeling her heartbeat pounding in her chest. She bites into her lip as the moans subside and slowly steadies herself. The vice like grip on his shoulders releases and she opens her eyes peering down at him breathlessly.
She says not a word, but pushes his shoulders, guiding him to lie back on the bed. He needs no encouragement, and pulls his white tank over his head before lying back into the pillows.
MC tugs at the waist of his pants and boxers, pulling them down his hips. As she does, she sees the bright red, violent looking scar on his hip. She tries not to stare at it, continuing about her work of undressing her fiancé.
She drops the pants to the floor and then puts a knee onto the bed.
She crawls onto it, then delicately throws a leg over Chris, straddling his waist. The skin of his aroused member is stretched tightly, the head a deep maroon with his expectation.
She runs the tip back and forth over her wet, swollen folds, drawing a deep moan from him. When she lowers herself onto him, inch by inch accepting him into her, Chris groans deeply. He grips her hips in his hands.
He feels like he could explode inside her right then. She lets both their bodies adjust to the sensation, letting the recollection set in before she begins to move on top of him. MC rolls her hips, grinding down back and forth, lifting herself on him, before letting him slide back into her again.
Chris grunts and breaths hard, a deep primal growl rolling from his mouth. One hand grabs ahold of her hips, the other one of her breasts, bouncing with her movements.
“MC,” He moans hoarsely. “Ah….So good!” He moans.
“Chris, I’ve missed you so much. I wanted you inside me again so bad,” she moans and bites her lip. The pace of her grinding quickens and he cannot hold out any longer.
“Ungh!” He grunts. He thrusts his hips upward and she feels the warm sensation spilling within her.
MC falls forward, laying her head against his chest. Chris wraps his arms around her and kisses the top of her head as he takes shallow breaths.
“I love you,” he says.
March 7, 1945
On the sidewalk in front of the three story building that houses MC’s and Lizzie’s apartment, Chris Powell tosses a rubber ball to his son.
“Good, good, you are getting the hang of it!” Chris smiles. “Now, throw it back to daddy,” he coaches.
William launches the ball into the air and it goes straight up before bouncing towards his father. It rolls to his feet. Chris chuckles and smiles. “Good. We will keep working on that buddy.”
As he bends with grunt at the pain in his hip to grab the ball, he slowly rises and spots a man in uniform getting out of a military jeep parked a few yards down on the side of the road.
He recognizes the confident gate of the intelligent leader approaching.
“Lieutenant,” Chris says and stands at attention and salutes.
Lieutenant Patrick Thomas smiles and lets out a brief laugh. “At ease Powell, at ease. No need for formalities. My days in this uniform are numbered. I’m only sticking around to help with some intelligence. Then my discharge is official and I head home to Connecticut,” he explains and then tilts his head. He looks down at the little boy squinting his eyes from the blinding sun.
“This must be William?” The Lieutenant asks.
“Yes, sir. This is my boy,” Chris smiles proudly.
“And what a boy he is,” the Lieutenant grins. He smiles at William and ruffles his hair, causing the little boy to laugh. He turns his attention back to Chris who is smiling from ear to ear with pride. The Lieutenant briefly mourns the loss of the child he never had the chance to meet in that moment. He will never know the type of joy PFC Powell is experiencing as far as he is concerned.
At the hospital in England, as the Lieutenant made the rounds to check on the few of his men that remained, bandaged and hobbled he visited the bedside of PFC Powell. The private told him how lucky he felt and about the child that waited for him at home.
“I told you Powell,” the Lieutenant said at the hospital. “We had to get you home to that young lady and we will,” he comforted.
Now on the sidewalk in front of their apartment, the Lieutenant feels a small sense of accomplishment that at least one of his men was able to make it home to loved ones.
“Did you come to see me?” Chris asks.
“Uh no,” Patrick shakes his head. “I’m here to see Mrs. O’Sullivan. Is she home?”
“Yes, she’s upstairs. Apartment 2B,” he nods.
“Might I also get the chance to meet the legendary MC?” Patrick grins.
“Unfortunately she is at work, but some other time for sure,” Chris nods.
“Some other time,” Patrick nods. “I’ll let you get back to your game of catch.”
Chris grabs the ball and the Lieutenant enters the building, making his way up the stairs. He grips the banister with each step, the movement in his hips still aching from time to time.
He arrives at the door of Lizzie O’Sullivan and knocks.
When she opens it, the pretty brunette peers back at the uniformed man in surprise.
“Uh, Lieutenant Thomas, right?” She says putting a hand on her hip as she thinks.
“Yes ma’am,” he says and tips his hat to her. “I am sorry for any inconvenience, but I was hoping for a few minutes of your time to have a word with you?” He asks.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” she nods. She looks around at Daniel’s toys on the floor, using her feet to kick a few under the coffee table and hide them out of the way. “Sorry for the mess,” she says. “Daniel pick up your things,” she instructs the child. He is wearing a denim jumper and begins to grab his toys and put them in a crate in the corner.
“Sorry,” she says as she frantically moves paper and knitting materials off the sofa.
The Lieutenant removes his hat as he enters, tucking it under his arm. “It’s no problem at all,” he says to calm her. He shuts the door.
She turns and motions to the freshly cleared couch, fluffing a pillow. “Please have a seat.”
“Yes ma’am,” he nods.
She sits down in her chair, smoothing her dress down behind her as she lowers herself. She hooks her ankles and then stares expectantly at the Lieutenant.
“First, let me begin by saying, I am so very sorry for your loss,” Patrick begins.
Lizzie gulps and nods, looking down. She places her hands in her lap.
“I know this is a difficult time for your family and I wanted to express my sorrow at his passing. I considered Jack a very good friend. We were about as opposite as two opposites could be,” he says and gives a small chuckle that makes Lizzie laugh. She tosses her head from side to side and lifts her eyes to him laughing as well with affirmation. She stares at the raven-haired man with blue eyes. His words have the dictation of a college professor and from the way he sits, she knows he has had training in the ways of society, deference and wealth.
“But he was my friend and there was no one else that I would have wanted to be on a battlefield with than Sergeant O’Sullivan,” Patrick nods and blinks. He takes the hat from under his arm and sits it down on the sofa.
“Thank you,” Lizzie says. “I know that when he was on base here, Jack thought very highly of you. He mentioned you more than once and how much he respected you.”
“It was mutual,” he nods. “Mrs. O’Sullivan-“
“Lizzie, please,” she corrects. “At a time like this…let’s just forget the formalities. Please. Lizzie,” she says her eyes imploring his.
He nods. “Uh, Lizzie, I wanted to let you know that I have submitted Jack’s name for the Distinguished Service Cross,” Patrick states.
Her brows shoot upward. “Oh,” she says stunned. “Really?”
“Yes,” he nods. “It is presented to an army officer or enlisted man for actions of extraordinary heroism during military operations against an armed enemy of the U.S.,” he explains. “Jack showed valor more than once. There were a few instances when we came under fire that it was his quick action and work that saved us all. Then, that day on the beach….” Patrick trails off and takes a minute to compose himself.
“With Chris?” She questions.
He nods slowly. “Jack deserves to be honored,” Patrick says and locks eyes with her.
Daniel begins to drag the crate of toys he just filled to the center of the floor, turning the adults attention to him. He turns over the crate and more than a dozen toys roll and fly across the room. Lizzie closes her eyes and takes a deep breath throwing her head back.
Patrick cannot suppress his chuckle.
“He looks a lot like Jack,” he says watching him. “Acts a lot like Jack it seems too,” he laughs.
Lizzie joins him. “You do not know the half of it, really.” She shakes her head.
They fall silent as they watch Daniel.
“Thank you, for wanting to honor Jack,” Lizzie says after some time. “I would rather have him than a medal but…at least I know his death wasn’t in vain.”
Patrick nods. “There…there is something else,” he begins. She looks at him quizzically.
“I know what you are facing, Lizzie. I myself am a widow and I know how difficult it can be,” he nods and stares down at the space in front of him.
“I’m sorry I had no idea,” she offers.
“It’s alright,” he replies. “I cannot imagine as a woman in your position how difficult it can be. As a personal tribute to Jack, I want to help,” he says and turns to her. “I will provide for Daniel’s education, should you choose to send him to a private school and also, I will support any efforts for him to attend college or a trade school,” he says. “I want Daniel to have every opportunity to succeed in life the way Jack intended.”
Lizzie’s mouth hangs, speechless. She runs her hands up and down her thighs before she shakes her head.
“Lieutenant-“
“Patrick,” he corrects in similar fashion.
“Patrick,” she shakes her head frowning slightly. “I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You didn’t ask. I’m offering. Jack died on my watch. It is my responsibility to make sure his child lives a life uninterrupted because of his death.”
Lizzie takes a deep breath. She rises to her feet and heads over to the book shelf in the corner. She grabs a small picture frame with Jack’s picture inside. His blue eyes and full lips were stern, that of a grizzly soldier in the picture but even in a photograph he couldn’t full her. Lizzie knew and would always remember the beautiful heart inside of that man. She touches the face in the picture before looking over at Patrick.
“Thank you.”
***
July 4, 2004
Locust hiss and crickets chirp as the sky settles into nighttime blackness.
The elderly couple has been sitting on the front porch of the home they have shared for the last 50 years in Portland, Maine.
Over the line of trees, the first rockets of gold and red burst into a glittery shimmer as the fireworks of the Stars and Stripes Spectacular delight festival goers. Every year, MC and Chris have watched the fireworks right from this spot on their porch. Some years it was with their children, then their grandchildren, and occasionally some summers their great-grandchildren. But as time has marched on, their kids have developed new traditions and have left Chris and MC to time all to themselves.
William and his wife had given them three grandchildren, and his daughter, Sarah, had given Chris and MC two great grandchildren. Their daughter, Elizabeth or Lizzie for short, had given them two grandchildren.
The house is a safe distance from the thunderous booms of the fireworks. In the early days, they called it shell shock. Chris had been with MC and William at a celebration for the end of the war when fireworks lit up the sky. The thunderous explosions had sent him into a panic, the anxiety choking him. It was then that Chris knew the war would never fully be behind him.
From the porch, they can only see the colors and the boom is barely above that of a thump. A man of 82, his hearing isn’t what it used to be and even the thumping is muted in his ears.
The war and those he lost during it remained a part of Chris’s life for decades. After returning to Cherryfield to see his family, Chris sought out work in Portland. The veteran picked up work at a shipyard where he would work for the next 40 years. He and MC married at city hall in Prince George before he moved her and William up to Maine when he had the funds to provide for them.
Living in Portland, Chris had stopped by the home of Charlie Roberts. He met his sisters and kid brother and his mother, offering his condolences and telling them of Charlie’s heroics overseas.
Chris would often visit Charlie’s family and check in on them, providing for them here and there when he could. Charlie had been just like him, a fatherless kid from Maine shipped off to war.
MC and Lizzie had become like sisters and the bond endured. Jack was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross and Purple Heart posthumously. When Daniel was of age, Lizzie gave his father’s medals to Daniel.
Chris and MC were somewhat surprised but no less happy for Lizzie when she and Lieutenant Patrick Thomas wed in the summer of 1950. Time helped to heal Lizzie’s soured heart, and she found passion for helping people and for life again over time. As Patrick checked in on her and Daniel, over the years, the budding of something more grew very, very slowly. When Chris thought about it, it all made perfect sense. Patrick had lost his wife, a woman he said was full of passion for helping people and he had also lost a child. Lizzie had lost her husband, a good man with a sense of duty to all those around him. Jack’s memory was never forsaken with her, but Patrick showed love and devotion to her until the very end. He died of lung cancer in in 1984.
Lizzie passed away 10 years later after a fatal bout with pneumonia, surrounded by her son, Daniel, and her daughters, Mary and Ana.
For years, Lizzie lamented that she would never have the opportunity to visit Jack’s grave. In 1962, Patrick made it possible for him, Lizzie, their oldest daughter Mary and his stepson, Daniel, to travel to the Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial overlooking Omaha Beach. Lizzie laid a bouquet of flowers at her late husband’s gravesite finally able to bid him to rest in peace now. “Patrick is a good man and he’s good to Daniel,” she said kneeling beside the cross of his headstone. “Rest well my love.”
The 94th Infantry had played a vital role in the war by helping the French Resistance. Because of the munitions they had delivered to them, train tracks were blown up and German arms warehouses destroyed. The intel they had gathered from the French was also critical in the D-Day Invasion.
Chris and the Lieutenant received the Distinguished Service Cross for their actions to support the French Resistance. Both receive the Purple Heart for their injuries as well.
On May 29, 2004, PFC Christopher Powell, at the age of 82, travelled to Washington, DC with MC and their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren for the dedication ceremony of the WWII Memorial. Chris walked the monument, still with a cane, reading the names. He found that of Archibald Walsh and remembered his blonde-haired friend who had eyes for MC the first night they met. He glanced over at her as she walked with slow steps around the memorial.
He kept circling around until he found the R’s. There was no burial site for Charlie, but his name was listed on monuments in Washington, Normandy and eventually New Orleans. Chris remembered his young friend. Charlie’s crooked innocent smile and wheezing laugh still played out in his dreams from time to time.
He touched his fingers to Charlie’s name before closing his eyes that day. He still did not know why he made it home but he never regretted that he had.
Watching the fireworks from the comfort of his porch, Chris looks down at his wrinkled hands. They are spotted with age, the blue lines of thick veins visible through loose skin. He sighs. He has lived a good, long life. He looks over at MC.
“What you thinking about Powell?” She teases with a wink. Her silver hair is swept up on her head and she adjusts the glasses on her face.
“Us,” he says and moves the rocker so that it begins to sway.
“Oh, yeah? What’s that about now?” she asks, her eyes humored.
“You have been my reason to live for the last 60 years, MC,” Chris says. Her face drops slightly at the seriousness of his words. “I hope when you look back on our lives together, you don’t feel like I ever, not for once, took you for granted. I have tried to show you each and every day since I returned to you that you are beautiful, loved and cherished.”
MC’s eyes get misty. “I’m not as beautiful as I once was Chris.”
“My bride is as beautiful tonight as she was when I spotted her straightening her stockings near the dance floor at Tantilla.”
MC reaches over and grabs Chris’s left hand. He curls his aged, weak fingers around her hand as their eyes meet.
“A boy never fell in love harder or faster than I did that night,” he grins.
“Nor did a girl…” she says.
Their eyes linger on each other in reflection at the good memory before turning and watching the fireworks, silently rocking in their chairs, their hands clasped together.