A Star for Mrs. Blake (10 page)

He’d known from the beginning the project would be a nut-cruncher, but if he pulled it off, he’d be first in line for an appointment by President Hoover as quartermaster general. Congress was watching. The press was watching.

And one of the mothers was missing.

While Cora Blake and Katie McConnell had been getting to know their new friend in South Station, Boston, an alert had been issued in New York City that a war mother named Mrs. Wilhelmina Russell from Prouts Neck, Maine, was lost. She had allegedly arrived the day before, but somehow, between Grand Central Terminal and the Hotel Commodore across the street, she had vanished.

Thirty feet above the parquet floor, General Perkins chewed his pipe and looked for someone to blame. He was furious. The S.S.
Harding
sailed for Europe in two days, a massive undertaking involving more than four hundred pilgrims, and the departures were always heavily covered by the news services. Sooner or later some local yokel reporter would realize that one of his hometown gals was nowhere to be found to give him a juicy quote on the quality of the laundry service, and start asking awkward questions. Perkins scanned the war room, hectic as usual, and wondered with a jolt of anxiety whether this Russell incident would become the first crack in his personal
Titanic
. Then his eyes fell on Second Lieutenant Thomas Hammond, chugging purposefully up the steps to where Perkins stood on the balcony.
He was carrying a clipboard and looking grim. Maybe the kid knew something.

Hammond saluted with bravado. He was twenty-three years old and in tip-top shape, having survived the rigorous demands of West Point. He had lush brown hair that was almost black, a patrician nose, large wide-set intelligent brown eyes, and polished manners. Perkins’s forebears were dirt farmers and mountain sharpshooters; Hammond had been raised in upper-class Washington, D.C., with a military pedigree that rivaled the general’s, going back to the Civil War. His father, Thomas West Hammond, had commanded troops in France during the war, retired from the army as a colonel, and was now a commissioner of New York City appointed by Mayor La Guardia.

The younger Hammond’s grades were excellent, and he was captain of the baseball team at Western High School in Georgetown, which made it a smooth transition to Shadman’s Preparatory School, where, after just a few months, he was admitted to West Point by presidential appointment—and certainly not without his father’s influence—at the early age of eighteen. Once he was there, he earned a reputation for toughness. A competitive athlete, Hammond stood out at the academy where stars were made: on the playing fields. Sport was the proving ground for courage and teamwork, and great individual plays became the kind of lore invoked throughout careers and even in eulogies. Hammond was a three-sport athlete—baseball, basketball, and football—and again captained the baseball team, which, along with an open and easygoing personality, made him a leader. It followed that on graduation he would land the plum job of one of the liaison officers for the Gold Star Mothers’ pilgrimages, supervising Party A on its sojourn across the ocean to the American cemetery in Meuse-Argonne, France.

Perkins stared resentfully at the young man, seeing instead his four daughters, skinny silly little girls in frilly white dresses with ribbons in their hair. No sons. None of
his
progeny would soldier on. But he was smart enough to see an opportunity. Word would get back to Colonel Hammond on how Perkins treated his son, which would count when it came to a promotion. Coddling would not do. The old
man would appreciate rigor, Perkins decided, and therefore he would bring this newly minted hotshot down to size.

Hammond was looking down at the war room with satisfaction.

“Looks like we’re preparing to take Berlin, sir.”

He meant it as a compliment but Perkins seemed annoyed.

“Glad you approve.”

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to presume—”

Perkins cut him off. “What about that missing woman?”

“She’s not exactly missing, sir. We just haven’t located her.”

“What’s the report from the New York police?”

“Negative. Nothing to report, sir. They’re out there … on patrol.”

Hammond hoped that covered it. He had no idea how the police were proceeding, as the surly detective had given him no clue, scribbled two words in a notebook (
“woman missing”
), and vanished into the hotel bar. He could see that Perkins wasn’t buying. He’d stuck the pipe into the corner of his mouth and bitten down so hard it bobbled up and down as he spit out two years’ worth of exasperation in the young officer’s face.

“You have no idea what it’s taken to get this thing to float.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Do you? I have personally met with every Mickey Mouse agency commissioner in the navel lint of France. Why, of course they’re allies in the trenches tried and true, but try convincing some pompous little bureaucrat to give a centime off the price of admission to the Galeries Nationales, or a place to put your goddamn bus. Remember our orders!” he snapped, as if Hammond were responsible for blowing up a bridge to stop the Germans from taking Paris. “The quartermaster wants us to conduct this business with as little interruption to the way of life of these pilgrims as possible. It’s all about
details
. Wherever American pilgrims go, a U.S.-style breakfast will be served. And who do you think was
responsible
for getting the rest houses at the cemeteries upgraded from goddamn latrines to American country-club standards? That was me, Hammond. That’s how seriously I take this job. Congress has given us quite a task transporting these women and seeing to their safety! They can’t be lost like someone’s old sock.”

“I didn’t exactly lose Mrs. Russell, sir—”

“She is in your party,” Perkins reminded him.

Hammond referred to the papers on his clipboard as if he’d never seen them before.

“Party A, correct.”

“So what has been done to find her?”

Hammond straightened up. “I interviewed the girls on the registration desk and they swear Mrs. Wilhelmina Russell never signed in at the hotel.”

“And that’s supposed to be good news?”

“I believe the duty officer is in error in stating that she arrived at Grand Central.”

“Or,” suggested Perkins, “she arrived at Grand Central and slipped away from the duty officer.”

“He’s a good man, very responsible. I can vouch for him.”

“I see. And now you’re a judge of character?”

“With respect, sir, it seems more likely that there was a mix-up in the transport section, and that in fact Mrs. Russell took a different train—”

“Button it, would you? Your father would not accept lame excuses, so why should I?”

Hammond’s cheeks turned pink. He was never not under scrutiny or being compared to his father. But he stood tall and didn’t blink while Perkins let him broil.

“God help you if she’s wandered off somewhere,” the general said.

At the same time, Mrs. Selma Russell was moments away, on the train from Boston and about to arrive at Grand Central Terminal with Cora Blake and Katie McConnell. After a lovely supper in the dining car of roast duck breast in cherry sauce and wild rice, they had indulged in a glass of sherry, which put them out for fifty miles. Regaining consciousness, they dove into their itineraries, checking off the optional excursions—the Empire State Building and the Central Park Zoo—that they planned to go on together. Bolstered by the unity that had
blossomed almost immediately, they were alert, eager, and ready to take on New York when the conductor announced Grand Central station.

The first-arriving members of Party A were met in style by a brisk employee of the railroad, whose entire job was to see to the needs of Gold Star Mothers. He wore a three-piece suit and a red carnation, organized the luggage and the porters, took them upstairs by special elevator and onto the street. By then it was dark and they were overwhelmed by the grandeur of the city at night. There was so much noise and commotion. The spotlit marquees. The white summer furs. Policemen above the crowds on beautifully groomed horses. Bakery windows filled with trays and trays of éclairs. Everything in New York was larger than life, Cora marveled, and so much more
important
than anywhere else.

The Hotel Commodore overlooked a plaza where taxis buzzed at reckless speeds. As the railroad man forged ahead into the traffic, Cora was seized by an automatic reaction to reach for Sammy’s hand … followed by a wave of emptiness so powerful she wanted to lie down on the sidewalk and go to sleep, if sleep would end it. But her feet kept up their dutiful march, following the neat shoulders of the railroad man, numbed by the wound-up chatter of her companions, as they stepped off the curb and across the mad circle of traffic.

The hotel loomed before them, an enormous edifice of yellow sandstone, two wings and a courtyard, twenty stories high. Every window had a canopy and every window was lit. Cora, Katie, and Selma looked up, eyes rising slowly, incredulously, as if they were scaling the building itself, all the way to the roof, where an American flag was in full display on a stiff breeze, floodlit against the sky—the same gritty breeze that was gusting down Forty-second Street, lifting their skirts, smelling of old iron pipes and corn roasting on a nearby peddler’s cart, a tin stove on wheels with a crooked chimney. The noise of horns and revving motors was like a deafening waterfall. A doorman came forward to guide them past a lush round fountain and up the red-carpeted steps.

While they entered the hotel, Lieutenant Hammond happened to be looking down at the glittering plaza from the floor-to-ceiling
windows of the ballroom on the second floor, hardly realizing that the answer to the problem was right beneath his nose. The records he had requisitioned were in brown folders piled on a trolley, and for the past several hours he’d been poring over barely readable, tissue-thin carbon copies of the rosters detailing every pilgrim who was leaving on the S.S.
Harding
. The names were not alphabetical but listed by county and state, which meant he’d had to go through every one. Under
Maine
he’d located Mrs. Wilhelmina Russell of Prouts Neck, mother of Private Bradley Russell. In
Massachusetts
, he’d found Mrs. Selma Russell, mother of Private Elmore Russell, and saw that she was scheduled to arrive from Boston that night. In fact, she should be here now. If so, where was she?

He’d found the source of the problem but was no closer to finding the missing women. There were two Mrs. Russells on this pilgrimage, both with sons in the New England Yankee Division. Still, the discrepancy didn’t make sense, between the duty officer’s report—that he had personally escorted “Mrs. Russell” yesterday—and this document that said she was about to arrive. He stretched his back, rose up on his toes, and knuckled his head all over to try to wake up. Who had arrived? Who was lost? It was like a math problem that didn’t add up. He’d thought he was through with that kind of worry at West Point, but in fact, memorizing Latin and learning German and military science had been a lot easier than solving a logistical problem in real life. How to find a lost woman in the midst of millions? How to avoid being reamed by Perkins the following day?

“Lieutenant?”

He spun around quickly. It was Lucille—or Linda?—whom he’d just interviewed at the registration desk, standing in the shadowed doorway of the silent ballroom. Like him, she was on a twelve-hour shift. This morning she’d been perky enough, bending over in a revealing sweater. Now she looked like her face had melted.

“Mrs. Russell’s here,” she announced. “You said to tell you right away.”

“Really?! You’re an angel! You have my heartfelt and eternal thanks!”

She didn’t respond. Not even a smile? The girl didn’t care; she just wanted to go home. Not used to rebuff, he followed her to the lobby, where two women were talking. One was tall and dressed in black and spoke with an Irish accent. The other had dark blond hair beneath a red beret and wore a gray dress. She was younger-looking and prettier than most of the war mothers he’d seen. Whatever trouble she might have caused, he was cheered to have her on board.

“Mrs. Russell!” he said gaily. “Lieutenant Thomas Hammond. Delighted to meet you. I’ll be leading your party.”

“Happy to meet you, too,” said the woman. “But I’m not Mrs. Russell. I’m Mrs. Blake. Cora Blake. And this is Mrs. Katie McConnell—”

“Yes, of course! You’re both on my list! Welcome. Please forgive the mistake, we’re a bit scattered tonight. We’re expecting another pilgrim, Mrs. Russell.”

“You lookin’ for Mrs. Russell?” asked a southern voice. “She right here.”

Hammond turned toward a large, grandmotherly woman he hadn’t noticed before, sitting in a big chair near a palm tree. Something short-circuited in his brain and he was paralyzed.

“Mrs. Who?”

“Mrs. Selma Russell,” the woman repeated slowly.

“We all came down from Boston together,” Katie said.

Cora was momentarily puzzled into silence. She thought the lady in her party was named Wilhelmina. Maybe Selma was a nickname.

The longer the young man stood there staring, the more Selma’s expression hardened into the cynical dark brown mask she’d worn outside the waiting room in South Station. It was her habit to distrust, and she was usually right.

Hammond managed to extend his hand, along with a winning smile.

“So
you’re
our Mrs. Russell! Welcome to New York City,” he said heartily, knowing he was doomed.

Things couldn’t be more thoroughly loused up, and they weren’t even on the boat.