The Way to LA
Jame Rada, Jr.
Waiting for Word
Bill Freeze stopped in the soft glow of the diner’s overhead lamp, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. Through the steam-laced air, he watched Celine Winfrey move with deliberate care as she stacked the last customers’ soiled plates and mugs onto a metal tray. She wasn’t the swiftest busboy he’d ever seen—her slender hands hesitated at each chipped edge—but she handled the china as though it were priceless heirlooms. His mother had tried her behind the counter as a waitress, but her silence—her patchwork English—had quickly doomed her to the back room again.
Noticing Bill at the threshold, Celine offered him a shy, grateful smile before ducking fully into the kitchen. Under the stark fluorescent bulb she set the tray down beside two steaming sinks, the hot water hissing as she plunged each plate into suds and then into a cold rinse, droplets leaping like tiny fireworks. Bill closed the Railroad Diner’s heavy front door behind him, the bolt sliding into place with a reassuring click. Outside, the September air was brisk, scented faintly of smoke from the trains and burning metal from when they rolled to a stop.
His mother, Helen, drifted past him in the narrow hallway, her soft cotton house dress whispering against the hardwood floor. Bill’s left ear, dulled by a childhood accident, barely caught her low voice. “What did you say?” he asked, fumbling for her meaning.
She pivoted, so he stood on her right side, where his hearing was sharp. “I’m going upstairs now. Don’t forget to turn out the lights.” She brushed a kiss across his cheek and disappeared up the creaky staircase, leaving him alone with the hush of midnight in the diner.
Bill lingered by the kitchen’s doorway, watching Celine’s dark hair coalesce into a halo against the steamy haze. His family had taken her in a week ago when she’d meant to ride the train across the country to Los Angeles but somehow was left stranded in Thurmont, Maryland, instead. A French war bride, she’d been sent to live with her in-laws on the West Coast while her husband fought somewhere in Europe’s mud-churned trenches.
During her second day in Thurmont, she sat beside him at the long counter and, in halting French, dictated a letter to her California in-laws. He’d sealed it with a stamp and sent it off in the mail. By now the post should have carried her words to the West Coast—and perhaps back with a reply. How long did such a journey take, he wondered, staring at the wall clock as its second hand limped forward?
In the low lamplight, Celine rose from her stool to scrape the last pot. Bill stepped into the kitchen. “Do your in-laws speak French?” he asked gently in her native tongue.
He was the only one she had been able to communicate with so far since he had learned French. She could probably speak with a teacher or two at school, but they had their work with students to keep them busy.
She was fitting in fairly well, except for the language barrier. Too bad that she couldn’t have been a waitress. Even with her working as a busboy, Bill had noticed more young men coming into the diner to try to make time with her. It made it easy for her to ignore them when they couldn’t communicate.
Celine paused, soap suds slipping through her fingers, and shrugged, her eyes distant. “I don’t know. I think not. That is why I needed you to translate my letter. Why haven’t they written back?”
“I don’t know for sure, but it has probably just had enough time to get to the coast and back.”
“Really? Your country is so huge.”
Bill nodded. “You’ve only seen a portion of it. Wait until you travel across the country on a train. You’ll see mountains, plains, wide rivers, big cities, and towns smaller than Thurmont.”
Celine smiled. “I like Thurmont. It reminds me of my town.”
“I thought you were from Paris.”
“No, I was only there because of the war,” she replied, pressing a damp strand of hair behind her ear.
Bill ran a hand through his hair, the tension in his scalp easing a bit. “Do you miss your town? Do you think you’ll return after the war?”
She tilted her head and considered that, her lashes brushing pink cheeks. “I miss it, but I won’t return. It won’t be the same. I am the only one left from my family. There is no one there for me. My father died in a train accident years ago. My mother and sister were killed by the Huns, and my brother died in the fighting as a soldier.”
Bill’s heart clenched. He pictured his own family’s morning breakfasts, their laughter at the table. What would he do if they were all gone? He opened his mouth to speak but found only a hollow ache.
Bill reached for a towel and folded it with care. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Her hands stilled on the edge of the sink. She closed her eyes, as if letting the basin’s steam reconnect her with fields she’d left behind. “You don’t realize how lucky you are to be here. America is powerful and far from the Germany. You are safe here. You don’t have to fight.”
Bill’s shoulders stiffened. “I tried,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “The Army rejected me. I can’t hear in my right ear.”
Celine exhaled, the sound soft and saddened. “There are other ways to fight the enemy that aren’t in the army or navy.”
“I buy Liberty Bonds,” Bill offered. “I collect tin and scrap metal for the war effort.”
“That isn’t fighting.”
His hands dropped. “The Germans aren’t here.”
She lifted the sink’s plug, and the water swirled away. Then she dried her hands on the frayed towel. “Do you know why I had to leave France?”
“I didn’t know you had to. I thought you wanted to because you got married.”
“I used to fight with the resistance. You know what the resistance is?”
Bill nodded. He had read tales of civilians who slipped behind enemy lines, sabotaging rail lines and rallying hidden fighters in dark forests.
Celine leaned against the counter, her voice dropping. “I used to lead the soldiers into the woods. They thought I was interested in them romantically and wanted to be alone with them. But when we got into the woods, other resistance members would be waiting. We would kill them with knives if we could so not to attract attention, but if we needed to, we would shoot them.”
She shivered as though recalling the forest floor underfoot, the dank smell of fallen leaves. “After a while, the soldiers started to be on guard for a woman trying to lead them away. Instead of me setting a trap for them, one time they set a trap for me. I led a soldier into the woods, but instead of resistance fighters, there were German soldiers waiting.
“They had captured or killed the resistance fighters and were just waiting for me.
“They slapped me and punched me. I thought they were going to rape me, but a squad of American soldiers appeared. They shot the Germans and freed me and the resistance soldiers who were still alive.
“Nelson was one of the soldiers. That was when I met them. When it became obvious that the Huns were searching for me, he tried to help me, but I couldn’t stay with the army. That is when he asked me to marry him.”
Bill studied her profile, her bones delicate beneath the apron. “Did you love him?”
Celine’s shoulders rose and fell. “I barely know him. He helped me when I needed it.”
“And so for that, you married him.”
Her eyes flashed. “People have been happy in arranged marriages for centuries.”
Bill set down the towel, hurt glinting in his gaze. “But you weren’t arranged. You were desperate.”
Celine turned away, wiping a sudden tear with the back of her hand. “It was my choice. I will live with it.”
She slipped past him and climbed the narrow stairs, her footsteps muffled by the runner. Bill watched her slender shape vanish around the corner, the hush of the diner settling back over him like snowfall. He thought he saw her fingers brush at her cheeks—maybe tears, maybe memory. The lights above him flickered once, then held steady in the silent room.
