Through Waters Deep (4 page)

Saturday, April 26, 1941

“It's been a while since I've had a blonde on my arm.” Jim scratched at his upper lip as they stepped out of the orange El train at the Park Street station.

“Don't scratch. You'll undo my artwork.” Mary swatted his hand. “I worked hard to make it halfway realistic. Besides, if I can resist scratching under this wig, you can control yourself too.”

Jim rubbed at the dark eyebrow pencil marks staining the tips of his fingers. “Still have my mustache?”

“For now. But if you keep it up, you'll blow our cover.” Her accent sounded for all the world like some gun moll in a gangster movie.

“Unlikely.” Not only was Jim new to town, but the contrast of his gray civilian suit, fedora, and fake mustache to his usual dress blues would throw off anyone but his shipmates.

And Mary? He couldn't help but laugh again. She wore the curly blonde wig Arch had bought for a roast at the Academy, a red suit borrowed from her roommate Yvette, and a giant red disc of a hat perched on the side of her head. Only her
soft eyes and the notebook in her hand would identify her as Mary Stirling.

That notebook was why they wore disguises. While everyone expected Mary to take notes at the Navy Yard, why would she do so on a Saturday stroll downtown? She didn't want to draw attention to her detective work. Better to play the role of lady reporter.

“This is so much fun.” Her step bounced as they headed down the platform. “I can't believe we're doing this.”

“More fun than visiting the Bunker Hill Monument.” Arch had taken Gloria to Connecticut to visit his family for the weekend, and Jim had hoped to coax Mary on a historical excursion this morning. But when he arrived at her apartment, he found her working on her saboteur notebooks. The more they talked about the escalating situation at the Navy Yard, the more Mary wanted to investigate. Then Jim remembered the America First rally at Boston Common this afternoon, and their plan flew together.

“Oh!” Mary's gloved hand pulled on Jim's arm. “I was so busy showing you my notebooks I forgot to tell you about the incident this week.”

“Incident?” He gave her his best attempt at a detective scowl.

But she laughed at him. “You have a hard enough time looking serious, much less dangerous.”

The curse of having a boyish face. “Just tell me about the incident.”

She scanned the station as if her suspects might be listening. “They installed some decking on one of the destroyers. It passed inspection before installation, but then it failed.”

“So the inspector . . .”

Mary smiled and adjusted her hat. “Frank Fiske. He's been at the Yard over twenty years. He catches a lot of mistakes. In fact, he told me Heinrich Bauer has made some errors lately.”

“The German, right? Did he do it?”

“Ira Kaplan worked on that section. Bauer's most vocal opponent. Fiske says Kaplan must have gone back and altered his work after the inspection, and Kaplan says Bauer did it to frame him. He got everyone stirred up, and Fiske had to break up a fight. It's a mess.”

Jim climbed the stairs. “Do you think it's Bauer? Or Kaplan?”

She waved her notebook. “Those are just two of the men. Over ten thousand people work at the Yard.”

“But they targeted your bottle of champagne. It must be someone who knows your work habits and routines.”

“I agree. And this incident, if it's really sabotage, narrows it down to one crew.”

“So let's look at motive. Bauer's would be obvious. A Nazi—”

“If he is one.”

Jim nodded. “A Nazi would want to keep our ships off the seas so the U-boats can hunt unmolested. But what about Kaplan? He's an interventionist, right?”

“Right. Here's where it gets tricky. Kaplan wants us to fight, wants us to enter the war. What would be a better motive for America to join the battle than if the enemy attacked us on our own shores?”

Jim paused outside the exit, right on Boston Common, and he blinked in the sunshine. “So if they could make it look like Nazis were sabotaging our ships in our own harbors, the American people would get riled up.”

“That's the theory.” Mary pointed to Park Street Church rising in red brick stateliness in front of them, with its tall white steeple pointing to heaven. “Say, do you think I should dress like this for church tomorrow?” She sent Jim an exaggerated wink. Completely out of character.

Yet it wasn't. For a quiet girl, she had a nice adventurous streak. “I dare you.”

“I don't think so. Now, where's the rally?”

“The paper said it was at the Parkman Bandstand.”

“I know where that is.” Mary led him around the station entrance and away from the church.

On the green in Boston Common, people headed toward the bandstand. Some would go because they agreed with the America First organization, which wanted to keep the United States out of the war. Some would go out of curiosity. And some would go to heckle.

Jim's civilian suit felt like a coat of protective armor. Boston, like New York, tended to strong isolationism. Many of the immigrants, especially the Irish, Italians, and Germans, had no interest in supporting Britain or in fighting their own cousins overseas.

“Let's stick to the fringes of the crowd,” Jim said.

“Yes.” Mary's gaze darted around the mass of people, several hundred perhaps.

“We won't let that happen!” a man cried from the bandstand, a round platform with a domed roof suspended on white pillars.

“Who is that?” Mary said. “I don't recognize him.”

“Me neither.”

The speaker stabbed the air with his finger. “They fooled us during the First World War. Remember all the propaganda the British fed us? The Germans were committing grave atrocities, butchering Belgian babies, and ravishing Frenchwomen. We believed it. We fell for it. Then we got over there and what did we find? Did we find those atrocities?”

“No!” the crowd roared.

“No, we didn't. All lies. All so we'd go and fight Britain's battle for them. All so Britain could maintain their mighty
empire—with American blood. Will we let that happen again?”

“No!”

Next to Jim, Mary scribbled in her notebook, filling the page with loops and lines.

Jim looked over her shoulder. “If I didn't know you were using shorthand, I'd say you had the worst handwriting in the world.”

“It's my secret spy skill.” Mischief sparked in her eyes. “Except every secretary in America can read it.”

“What are you writing?”

She gestured to the crowd. “Harvey Mills, George O'Donnell, Curly Mulligan, Ralph Tucker. Let's go that way.”

He followed her around the edge of the crowd, gripping her elbow but glancing over his shoulder at the speaker.

The speaker tugged on the hem of his suit jacket. “And now what are the British telling us? Oh, those Germans. They're committing atrocities, butchering Jewish babies, ravishing Frenchwomen. Do they think we're stupid?”

“You're stupid if you
don't
believe it!” someone shouted from the far side of the crowd.

Mary peered over. “We need to go over there.”

Jim let her lead but kept her to the fringe. If things turned violent, he'd want to get her away in a hurry.

The speaker rocked back and forth on his heels and gestured to his hecklers. “And now a word from London, eh, folks?”

Laughter romped through the crowd.

“No! A word from the real world. You're a Fifth Columnist, that's what you are, convincing people to weaken our defenses so when the Germans—”

The crowd booed so loudly Jim couldn't hear, but Mary plunged onward. Perhaps now was not a good time to float with the current.

“Weaken our defenses?” the speaker said. “Who's weakening our defenses? Our president, that's who. Sending our new ships and planes to England. If anyone attacked us, where would we be? Undefended, that's what. No arms to Britain. Arm America first!”

The crowd cheered and punched the air with their fists.

Mary stopped and wrote hard and fast.

Jim nudged her to the side a bit. “See someone?”

“Yes. The hecklers. Morton Anders, Ira Kaplan. My goodness.”

“You want to defend America?” one of the hecklers called. “Then defend freedom. Defend the democracies. Defend Britain. We're stronger together. Down with the dictators!”

Several members of the crowd surged forward, shouting insults. The hecklers shouted back, brandished fists.

“Okay, that's enough.” Jim steered Mary away across Boston Common toward the Public Garden.

Mary resisted and glanced back, like Lot's wife. “Oh! Al Klingman, Weldon Winslow—and he brought his wife? But she's English.”

“That's enough for today, Agatha Christie.”

She kept writing as they walked. “Oh my. Oh my. It sure got heated, didn't it?”

“That's why we're going to the lagoon, where sweet little families sail on Swan Boats and feed the ducks and eat wholesome picnics.”

Mary closed her notebook and stashed her pen in her purse. “I'll fill in details tonight. Goodness. One page per person is no longer enough.”

“Are you going to show someone? The FBI?”

“Heavens, no.”

“Maybe it's time. Something's going on. You should speak up.”

Mary's forehead creased, and she shook her head.

“Wow. You really don't like attention, do you?”

She glanced around at the budding trees. “It's wrong to call attention to yourself. Pride comes before a fall.”

“Sure, but there's nothing wrong with taking a little pride in a job well done or in accepting a little attention for it.”

Her mouth scrunched up. “Such a fine line between gracious acceptance and reveling in the limelight. Best to avoid attention altogether. Far less dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” This was the same woman he had to drag from a potential riot.

“I know. I know from experience.” Her voice quavered, and she pressed her hand over her mouth.

What could have made her so afraid? “Why? What happened?”

Mary raised startled blue eyes, a strange contrast with the fearless red suit and hat.

If she didn't want to talk about it, he wouldn't force her. That wasn't his way. He never pushed, never made waves.

Jim tilted his head across the street to the Public Garden. “Come on. Let's enjoy the park. Then we'll get some ice cream, catch the El back to Charlestown. You can get out of that fool wig and we can see Bunker Hill. What do you say to that?”

“All right.” Head lowered, she proceeded.

Jim crossed the street and ambled along the flower-lined pathway, but his stomach clenched. He could usually perk people up and encourage them, but he'd deflated Mary's spirits.

She made a good friend, a good companion, but he still couldn't figure her out. One moment timid, the next bold and determined. Quiet and modest, but she loved to explore and try new things. And he wanted to figure her out, find out what made her tick.

He puffed out a breath and glanced her way. He wasn't
falling for her, was he? Getting confused by the blonde wig? Nah. She was a nice girl, a pretty girl, but not for him. He liked women who overflowed with energy and joy and confidence.

At least she didn't seem to be falling for him. None of that simpering and hair-twirling and fussing over him. Of course not. She knew better. She remembered him as a fool, drooling over the unattainable Quintessa Beaumont.

Just as well. Wouldn't be long until they shipped out, and who knew what port they'd call home?

A miniature suspension bridge stretched across the lagoon, and Jim and Mary strolled onto it. On the silvery green waters, ducks floated, bobbing under to feed. Mary stopped and gripped the railing, and Jim leaned against a stone pillar.

On the near bank, a trio of children played with toy sailboats. One of the boats twisted into the wind and toppled over.

“That's me,” Mary said.

“Hmm?”

She pointed, forehead puckered. “It hoisted its sail into the wind so proudly. ‘Look at me! I'm wonderful!' And it capsized.”

Jim frowned at the boat, at the child wading into the lagoon to right it. “I don't under—”

“In sixth grade. The Christmas pageant at school.” Mary traced one finger along the railing. “I was chosen to play Mary. Not only did I have the right name, but I had a lovely voice, Mrs. Cassidy said, the best in class. It was the most important role, and I was proud, so proud. My mother warned me and told me not to put myself above others, but I ignored her. I'd been chosen because I was wonderful. I reveled in the attention.”

“Oh.” Jim sank his hands into his trouser pockets, warmed inside that she trusted him with her story.

“You already know what happened.” She turned a guarded gaze to him.

“I do?” He searched his memory. So long ago. But he did remember one year, going to see his little sisters Lillian and Lucy as angels, and . . . “There was an accident, wasn't there?”

She tucked in her chin. “You could say that. More like I
had
an accident.”

“Oh.” He cringed for her sake.

“I was so excited, so proud, that I forgot to use the restroom beforehand. There I was in my blue gown, holding baby Jesus—the most beautiful porcelain doll I'd ever seen. I was kneeling beside the manger, and I stood up with baby Jesus to sing ‘Silent Night' and—” She shuddered.

Now he remembered. He remembered the laughter spreading through the auditorium and his mother's iron grip on his knee to prevent him from joining in.

Mary covered her face with her hand. “I had to walk to the front of the stage for my solo. Everyone behind me could see. I can still hear the laughter. Mrs. Cassidy realized what had happened, and she screeched and ran to me on stage and lifted up the gown, insisting she had to get me out of my wet things. I couldn't stop her because I was trying not to drop the doll, and I . . . well, she didn't know I was only wearing my little slip underneath. I was mortified.”