[untitled]

 

The End of the Rainbow

Chapter 1

Tuesday, June 20, 1944

 

I hate the Army. They steal young boys and ship them off to foreign countries, some of them never to be heard from again. It happened with Melinda’s brother. In his last letter, he was in Poland. Then, he was gone. My brother, Robert, went overseas a year ago. We rarely hear from him. Now, they’ve stolen Tommy.

Tommy makes his rounds, hugging all the women and shaking the hands of the men. He grips his army-issued hat under his left arm. His Uncle Pete smacks him on the back and Tommy blushes, a big grin on his face. He looks just like his Pop. His momma clings to his arm, tears streaming down her face.

Tommy scans the crowd until his eyes meet mine. My heart races to keep time with the rain that pummels the tin awning that overhangs the bus station. I duck behind his Aunt Mary in her pink, polka dot dress. He finds me, though, and pulls me into his arms. The tears I’d been holding back began to soak into the scratchy cloth of his uniform. I breathe in the scent of earth and soap, a smell I still love.

A slender hand grasps my shoulder and jerks me away from Tommy. Not wanting to let go, I reach out for him. “Tommy,” I cry. I close my eyes, trying to stop the tears. When I open them again, I am staring into Charlene’s face.

“Meg, wake up! You’ll be late for breakfast.” She tightens the sash of her robe and turns to take her place in line for the bathroom. The last images of my dream drift off and blend with the scent of bacon and eggs. Tommy’s voice is no more than a whisper in the noisy chatter of the 17 other girls with whom I share the basement.

I push away the sweat-dampened sheets and straighten my knotted nightgown. The room is already hot. I glance at the pre-dawn Chicago sky and wonder if it will rain today. Mrs. Robello’s heavy Italian accent drifts downstairs.

“Breakfast is on the table for five more minutes,” she yells. The air fills with muttering as girls tromp upstairs in their heavy workboots.

I share the basement of Robello Boarding House with other girls who, like me, work for Barnes Linen Service. Mrs. Robello was more than happy to open up her basement to us when companies began hiring women to fill the vacancies left by America’s military recruits. I guess the money she gets from us means she can keep the boarding house open to the occasional guests looking for a place to stay. So, instead of  dates with Tommy, I spend my days washing the towels, bed linens and tablecloths used by guests of some of Chicago’s best hotels.

 “Meg! You’d best get your butt up here,” Charlene calls from the kitchen. “Mrs. Robello says you’ll go to work hungry if you don’t hurry.” I hope the Army is feeding Tommy better food than watered-down eggs and dry toast.

            The large kitchen bustles with activity. Mrs. Robello is afraid we’ll ruin her large dining room table, so we eat in shifts of five around a small kitchen table. Girls stand in line against the pale yellow, grease-stained walls, waiting to receive their plates of runny eggs and bacon dripping in grease. Mrs. Robello waits by the stove and watches to make sure no one lollygags. As one girl rises from her seat at the table, scooping the last bite off her plate, Mrs. Robello plops food onto the plate of the next girl in line.

            “Keep it moving girls. I have more to do today than feed the lot of you.”

            Mrs. Robello shoves a plate into my hand and I take the next available seat. I try to ignore the oily film that forms at the top of my mouth as the lukewarm eggs slide down my throat. I get up from the table and rinse my dishes as I force the down the last morsel of stale bread.

Downstairs, I pull the company-issued cotton chemise over my head. Nothing like the pretty dresses Momma sewed for me. I am definitely not the best dressed anymore.

            “Meg, let’s go! The whistle will be going off soon and I won’t be late because of you,” Charlene yells from upstairs.

I smile at her threat, knowing how much she enjoys irritating Mr. Barnes. She waits for me at the servant’s entrance, her hands on her hips. Mrs. Robello slams the door behind us as we scurry off the porch, surrounded by the scent of the first spring roses.

            Charlene punches my shoulder playfully when we catch up with the group. “Where are you this morning? Mrs. Robello was getting ready to haul you up those stairs by your boot straps.” She jerks her damp, auburn hair into a ponytail.

            “I’m right here, I guess. I had my dream again, about Tommy.”

            “I swear, Megan, I’ve never seen someone so devoted. Are you sure you weren’t getting some nookie before he left?” She grins and nudges me with a bony elbow.

            “I already told you that’s not the case,” I say, blushing.

             My bunk mate chuckles. “Yeah, right.”

            We’d had this conversation thousands of times since my arrival eight months ago. Charlene is constantly prodding me to stop hiding behind my “farm-girl mask,” as she calls it. She points out good looking men twice my age and suggests that I get a “daddy” to occupy me until Tommy comes home.

A customer exits Peter’s Pastries as we walk by, releasing the scent of fresh baked bread, cinnamon and memories of the farm. Momma would rise early every Sunday morning to bake a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread while Pop fed the animals.

My job had been to gather fresh eggs for breakfast. I could hear Momma humming in the kitchen as I crossed the porch, basket in hand. Sometimes Pop would be with her, his baritone voice teasing her.

            After breakfast, Momma would hustle my brother and Pop off to get ready for church. She and I would then move out to the porch where she would brush out my wheat-colored hair. 

Old Strawhead, as Pop calls me. It started one night after Momma finished brushing out the day’s tangles. Pop ruffled my hair and said, “Goodnight Strawhead.”

“Oh, Walter, stop teasing her,” Momma replied. “Her hair is softer than the downy feathers of your spring chicks.”

Pop’s eyes twinkled as he leaned down to kiss my cheek, his coarse whiskers brushing against my skin. “Maybe so, Martha. But, with hair that color, she’s bound to catch the eye of the finest scarecrows in the county.”

The nickname had stuck. Even Tommy picked up on it and often addresses his letters to Strawhead.

            The howl of the work whistle bellows through the early morning air. Charlene jabs me again. “Let’s go slow poke,” she calls over her shoulder as she trots ahead.

Mr. Barnes counts heads as we stomp up the wooden staircase and enter the brick building through the employee entrance. “..16, 17. There’s one of you missing,” he growls. “Who is it and where is she?”

            Charlene stops and contorts her face into a forlorn look. “Why Mr. Barnes,” she says in a fake Southern accent, “You didn’t hear? Dee’s daddy was killed in the war. They came and got her just last night.” He sputters his apologies to no one as we enter the building and descend to the basement.

            “You just lied to him!”

            Charlene’s pale face brightens with delight. “I know. Serves him right though. Besides, no one knows where she is. She’s probably stowed away on some ship, looking for Wayne.”

            The Barnes Girls, as we are referred to around town, come from everywhere and nowhere and many of the girls disappear as quickly as they arrive.  Some hang around just long enough to pay for their move to the next city. Others, like me, need the work to help our families.

            The first load of linen waits for us in a bin beneath a flimsy metal chute. The far wall is lined with ten washing machines, their steel bodies dented, scratched and dirty from years of abuse. Their glass eyes, coated with soap scum, stare at us as we jerk the first bin toward them. Charlene says they remind her of the blind men who line the porch of the nursing home on our street. On warm evenings, they sit in a line of rockers, staring without seeing the people who parade by on the sidewalk.

She pushes the bin up to the first washer and shoves several large tablecloths inside. I fall in behind her and cover the smell of wine and cigarette smoke with the fresh scent of detergent and slam the lid.

I wonder if Momma is doing laundry, too. When my brother left for the war, Pop didn’t have anyone to help with the planting and had to cut his acreage in half. To make up the difference, Momma started taking in washing and sewing. Pop had been furious with her until the money started rolling in. He’d not been as quick to forgive me, though, when I took the job at Barnes. It was weeks before he answered any of my letters.

            Once the machines are running, Charlene digs into her bra and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. I plop down at the bottom of the stairs to keep an eye out for Mr. Barnes, even though he never comes into the basement. He says he is allergic to detergent.

            Charlene inhales deeply and pushes blue-tinted smoke toward the ceiling. I lean back against the bricks and stare out the small window at the top of the wall. Beyond the ankles and shoes of the people passing on the street is a cloudless blue sky.

            Where are they rushing off to? Are they happy? Or, are they missing someone like I miss my family and Tommy?

            A deep rumble shakes the steps. Another truck arrives with a new load of linens and the bins aren’t beneath the chutes. I hop up from the bottom step, grab the closest bin and move it into position just as linens spew out.

Author's Note

This is a first draft of a YA novel that is approximately 60% complete. I'm specifically looking for insight on the pace, dialogue and overall sense of whether or not it works. Note: the name Mrs. Robello will be changing to something that is more appropriate for her character, but for now she is who she is. :-)

Reviews

[Lydia Breakfast]

Yay it's here! You already know how I feel about this part...I'm looking for the latest installment. Keep it coming.

[KJVollaro]

To answer specifically your concerns first...I find the pacing to be very good, it flows very naturally from scene to scene without getting jumpy. Very easy to follow. The dialogue may need a little more fine tuning, as some of it tends to feel more like something written than something said. Have no concerns as to whether or not it works overall. I think you've done a really good job here of starting to develop your characters' personalities. They are very believable, especially with the time frame you've chosen. One of your greatest strengths is in your description. You manage to quite easily walk the fine line between ensuring your reader can visualize the scene and not allowing it to get bogged down and too wordy. One of the best examples of this is here:
"A customer exits Peter's Pastries as we walk by, releasing the scent of fresh baked bread, cinnamon and memories of the farm. Momma would rise early every Sunday morning to bake a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread while Pop fed the animals." This not only has great description, but also makes a wonderful, natural transition into the following flashback.

I wish you luck and hope this helps. Welcome into the cafe.....and Keep Writing!