Late May 1942
Betty paced fretfully back and forth in the manager's office, her hand absently rubbing her forehead. She hadn't slept well again last night, an all-too frequent occurrence in the two months since Scott's departure for overseas. She could attribute her sleeplessness to the stress of daily life in wartime Pittsburgh, but she knew it was really because of the dream.
"Dream," Betty spoke the word aloud ruefully. More like nightmare, the worst she'd ever experienced.
It had first come to her about two weeks after Scott left for New York and was repeated with alarming frequency during the ensuing weeks, and now she'd had it three successive nights. The loss of sleep was beginning to affect her, confusing her thoughts and turning her body into a mass of jangled nerves. Her mind was in a tangle and the normally simple process of settling the station's accounts was an insurmountable task today.
She could have ignored the dream as a manifestation of her darkest fears, fears that were normal considering her husband was thousands of miles away and quite probably in danger-- if it wasn't so vivid and she didn't feel that it was somehow connected with his welfare. What made it even more disturbing was it's resemblance to the fleeting vision she'd had during the wedding. She fumbled through a thick, cloying fog that threatened to suffocate her as she searched endlessly for something just beyond her reach. Each time she dreamed, she was increasingly sure that the thing she was seeking was Scott, that his life was threatened and if she could only reach him, he'd be saved. Just last night, she'd felt her hand grasp his sleeve, but it was slippery and she couldn't hold on to it. He'd been moving away from her, far too fast for her to keep up, the fog too thick to allow her to see him. She opened her mouth to scream his name, knowing he'd stop if only he knew she were there. The fog infused her mouth, clogging her throat, stopping the scream before it could emerge. She'd awaken suddenly, the scream still on her lips, her body bathed in sweat as her lungs struggled to draw in the clean, dry air of her apartment.
Last night had been the worst by far, when she'd felt he was within reach, yet still failed to save him. As usual, she'd been unable to get back to sleep after awakening and had lain through the long hours of the night, staring sleeplessly into the dark, her mind working incessantly as she tried to rationalize the dream. She hadn't received any word from Scott in nearly two weeks, a fact which greatly compounded her fear. Despite what he'd said regarding his abilities as a correspondent, he'd written regularly ever since his departure, always including a note for everyone at WENN...until now.
A bright knocking at the door interrupted the random flow of her thoughts. "Come in," she called distractedly, resuming her seat behind the desk.
Maple's head peeked around the door. "Hiya, hon, do you have a minute?"
Betty mustered a weak smile. "Of course, what do you need?"
Maple came fully into the room and sat across the desk from Betty. "I have an idea for an interview- Betty, are you all right?" she asked, concerned at seeing Betty's wan expression and the dark circles under her eyes.
Betty waved off the question. "I'm fine, I just haven't been sleeping well lately. What was your..." Betty's stomach gurgled noisily, interrupting her.
"Haven't you had lunch today, Betty?" Maple asked, trying to disguise her alarm at Betty's appearance.
"I had a sandwich about an hour ago. I can't imagine why I'm already hungry again." Betty laid a hand on her stomach with a puzzled expression.
"If you ask me, it's all the worry. What with not knowing where Scotty is and this war that isn't exactly going our way, it's no wonder you're not feeling better," Maple reflected ruefully. "You've got to take care of yourself. I like to think about all the really good guys I know that are fighting for us, then I start to think this war can't go on much longer. It might be wishful thinking on my part, but it makes me feel better."
"Thanks, Maple, I'll try that. I'm sure I'll sleep better tonight. What was your idea for an interview?"
Maple eyed her warily for a moment before deciding now was not the time to press Betty for more particulars. She switched gears back to her original purpose. "I have this cousin who's been working for the last several years in the Far East as a mercenary...."
"Gee, Maple, a mercenary, isn't that line of work sort of...dangerous?" Betty asked diplomatically.
"Oh sure, but he really loves it. He even set up and ran a mercenary school in India a few years ago. He loves teaching kids how to read and write," Maple explained.
"Oh," Betty nodded with sudden enlightenment. Missionary, she added silently to herself. "Why is he coming back now?"
"Well, the situation's getting worse and worse where he's been living, and he decided to come back to the States to spread the word about conditions over there. He's starting a relief campaign for all the families in his village. I thought it would be great if he could start it right here at WENN," Maple finished triumphantly.
"That sounds wonderful, Maple. When does he get here?" Betty asked, her interest piqued.
"Sometime within the next couple of weeks-"
"Betty, this just came for you," Gertie cut Maple off by suddenly appearing in the doorway, a stricken expression on her face. In her hand, she offered a thin yellow envelope to Betty.
Betty placed her hands flat on the surface of the desk in front of her to stop the room from tilting wildly. "What is it, Gertie?" she asked in a voice that was surprisingly firm.
"It's a telegram, Betty. From the war department," she clarified, a quaver betraying her emotions.
Maple glanced sharply at Betty, trying to gauge her reaction. The other woman remained strangely calm, though the color had completely drained from her face, making the dark circles under her eyes stand out in stark relief.
"What does it say?" she asked quietly, her eyes boring into the receptionist's.
Gertie shrugged helplessly. "I didn't open it. I thought you might..." She offered the paper again with a limp hand.
With a slight nod, Betty pushed herself up from her chair. "You're right." She took the telegram from Gertie and Maple crowded anxiously next to her.
Slowly, Betty tore open the envelope and read the message inside. She stood, frozen, for a moment or two, the words swimming in front of her eyes before she collapsed, letting the paper flutter harmlessly to the floor.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Betty floated slowly towards consciousness, gradually becoming aware of her surroundings one element at a time. She was lying on something soft, except for that thing that felt like a spring digging into her hipbone- definitely the couch in the green room. Vaguely, she heard a far-off voice.
"The poor dear, her hands are like ice. Jeffrey, hand me that blanket."
Her body was covered by something soft and warm and Betty felt immensely grateful to whoever had suggested it. It was Hilary's voice, wasn't it? The side of the couch sank down as someone sat next to her.
"What happened?" the voice, Hilary's definitely, was nearby and sounded anxious. Why did she sound like that?
In the background Betty heard a low buzz of voices, one of which might have been Gertie's. She only caught the words "telegram . . . Scott . . . wounded" and the memories flooded back. Her eyes flew open and she drew a ragged breath.
"Oh, good, you're awake. Drink this now," Hilary forced a dixie cup to her lips.
Believing it was water, Betty swallowed deeply, then gasped and sputtered.
"Brandy," Hilary explained helpfully. "There's nothing like it for a faint."
Betty had to agree with her. It certainly cleared her thinking. Her hand floated to her forehead, the pounding there was excruciating.
"Betty, are you feeling better? Maybe I should take you home?" Mackie's worried face materialized above her.
Betty suddenly sat up, only one clear thought in her mind.
"I have to see Victor," she announced decisively.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Nervously, Betty twisted her gloves in her hands and glanced once again at the door through which the receptionist had disappeared five minutes ago. Her stomach quivered and she was astonished once again that she should be anxious about meeting with Victor. Of course, her nervousness probably had something to do with the fact that she'd arrived in Washington this morning, completely unannounced, and was about to ask an enormous, and very probably impossible, favor that she had no right to expect would be fulfilled.
Perhaps she should have called ahead, Betty wondered again. In the three days since she'd learned that Scott had been wounded in action she'd poured all of her energy into arriving at this moment; she hadn't wanted to risk a call to Victor in which he would outright refuse to grant her request without hearing the whole story.
The handle of the door on the far wall finally twisted and the portal swung outward. The receptionist beckoned to Betty and ushered her into an office that said "V. Comstock" on the door.
"Betty," Victor crossed the room and warmly clasped her hand. "How are you feeling?"
Startled by Victor's seeming lack of surprise, Betty nodded slowly as he escorted her to a chair. "I'm fine," she began uncertainly. "You almost seem like you expected me."
Victor took a seat across from her and gave her a long, searching look. He spread his hands helplessly. "I have to be honest with you, Betty, I was expecting you."
Betty shook her head in puzzlement. "How could you know?" Realization suddenly dawned. "Gertie called you didn't she? Then you probably know why I'm here."
"She did tell me about Scott. I'm very sorry, Betty," compassion showed in every line of his face. "He's at Charing Cross Hospital and I know from personal experience that he's in very good hands. Which leads me to wonder why you needed me?" his voice trailed off expectantly.
Remembering her long journey on a jostling train filled with servicemen, the bad food and a nearly sleepless night, Betty realized that Victor might think she was slightly unstable to have made such a trip for no apparent reason. She'd deliberately kept her reasons to herself, not telling anyone at WENN out of fear that someone would divulge them to Victor before she got there. She knew they'd all felt she was behaving irrationally, but in light of Gertie's secret phone call, she'd definitely made the right choice.
With a deep breath, she plunged ahead, desperately clinging to her faith in the feeling that had led her here. "Victor, I needed you because you're the only one I know with the connections that can help me."
"Help you with what?" Victor prodded, greatly confused.
"I have to get to London," Betty announced, with all the conviction of a guiding belief.
Victor exhaled explosively, leaning back in his chair. "I was afraid it was something like that. Betty, what makes you think I can get you to London? And even assuming I could, what makes you think I'd let you go?" A trace of anger underscored his words.
Betty stood her ground confidently; she'd prepared herself for this reaction. "Because you trust me, and my judgment. You know I wouldn't ask this if it wasn't imperative. And, you told me several months ago that you were able to obtain journalistic passes for travel overseas if necessary."
"Is this necessary, Betty?"
"Yes, I believe it is," she answered, not wavering for a moment.
"Why? Scott's wounded, but still alive and stable. What possible good can it do him for you to put yourself in danger?" Victor demanded sternly.
"He needs me, Victor. I can't explain how I know, I just do. It may not even be connected to his wound; I just know that his life is in danger and I can't shake the feeling that I can save him. I know this probably sounds completely irrational to you, but I'm asking you to trust me like you've trusted me in the past. I'm right about this and if you won't help me get to London, I'll find someone else who will," Betty spoke with passion, a blush staining her cheeks.
Victor sensed the depth of her conviction and knew it would be virtually impossible to deflect her from her path. He had grave misgivings about the consequences of his actions, but also realized that with her combination of determination and common sense, not to mention her writing skills, she'd be an ideal candidate to fill a position he'd been pondering for some time.
"Betty, I'm reluctant to suggest this, but we just may be able to kill two birds with one stone."
"How do you mean?" she asked, her brow knit in a frown.
"For quite some time now, I've been contemplating sending a female correspondent to London to report on the lives of everyday people, sort of an Edward R. Murrow with a feminine perspective. If I can get you a pass, would you be willing to do some work for the United States?" he offered.
The load on Betty's shoulders suddenly lightened. "Yes, of course."
"The Germans have virtually stopped bombing London now and are concentrating in other areas. The city is relatively safe, it's the journey there that gives me some concern. I'm not willing to risk sending you on a ship because the u-boats are too successful in the Atlantic to take that chance. There's a transport plane leaving early next week, that's our best bet. Can you be ready that soon?"
"Yes, of course," Betty said, feeling like a parrot, but too stunned by her victory to come up with anything more original. Besides, Victor had that gleam in his eyes that usually meant his mind was too preoccupied by plans to even remember she was in the room with him, let alone hear what she said.
"I can have your papers ready by late afternoon. What about WENN? Who's going to do the writing?" Victor turned his intent gaze upon her.
"Enid. I've been working with her for months and she's really improved. She should be able to handle the writing for a few weeks, anyway."
"Good!" Victor's eyes sparkled, as they used to when his plans for a new show came together exactly as he'd imagined them. He quickly outlined more particulars of her assignment, making sure she understood what he would require of her reports. Then he called the receptionist and instructed her to procure the necessary paperwork. When everything was done, he sat back in his chair and regarded her seriously.
"What is Scott going to say when he sees you in London?"
Betty shook her head. "I don't know. With Scott, it's almost impossible to guess what he'll say next. I think he'll be glad to see me, though."
"Let's hope so. And let's hope he doesn't put you right back on a plane bound for America. That won't do either of us any good. Do you think you can convince him to let you stay for a few weeks if he's against the idea?" Victor questioned.
"Piece of cake," Betty said with the first real smile she'd produced in weeks.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"So, I'll be gone for at least a few weeks, but I'm fully confident that Enid can write your scripts as well as I can- you'll probably hardly even notice I'm gone," she announced brightly to the assembled WENN cast and crew in the green room. It was the day following Betty's trip to Washington and she'd gathered them all after sign-off to tell them her plans. Not surprisingly, she received a less than enthusiastic response.
"Enid," Hilary pronounced with scathing clarity. "What does she know about writing for a legend of Pittsburgh radio? Betty, your scripts are often bad enough, but Enid-" her voice trailed off, suggesting the young writer's capabilities were unspeakable.
"Enid has improved greatly over the last several months. I've been working very closely with her and I'm sure you'll be pleasantly surprised. Any other objections?"
"If Victor wanted to send someone over to England it should have been me," Jeff practically growled.
"Mmmhmmm, Jeffrey love, have you considered the fact that it might be difficult for you to understand the feminine viewpoint of the effects of the war in London? Scratch that, I'm sure you could find some way to worm your way into that information," Hilary sneered.
"Hilary, when are you going to stop..."
"'Stop' is the operative word in that sentence," Betty said decisively. "It's late. Let's all go home. We can talk about this tomorrow."
Amid murmured good nights, the cast and crew shuffled out the door, leaving Betty to collapse onto the couch and close her eyes for a moment. She was feeling decidedly lightheaded and hungry and resolved to make a better effort of eating at normal times.
"Betty."
Though her name was spoken softly, it startled her and her eyes flew open at the sound. "Mackie, I thought everyone left."
"Not quite," he smiled kindly down at her. "Mind if I join you?"
"Not at all," she scooted over to make more room for him.
"Betty, what's in back of all this?" he asked directly.
"What do you mean?" she asked, feigning confusion though she realized he knew her too well to be put off.
"C'mon, kid, we've always been straight with each other. You're no reporter. Victor could have gotten anyone else for this assignment, but he chose you because you wanted to be in London anyway. I know you're worried about Scott. We all are, but don't you think you can help him more by staying here where he knows you're safe?"
Betty was momentarily taken aback by his choice of words. They so closely echoed the ones Scott spoke to her at the train station almost two and a half months ago. The memory of her nightmares steeled her resolve and she knew there was no going back. If only she could convince Mackie of that.
"I know you're probably right, Mackie, but I can't stay here. Something's wrong with Scott and I can't help but think I'm the only one who can fix it. He's in danger and I have to save him. I know it's impossible to understand, but please try. If I don't do this and something happens to him, I'd never be able to forgive myself." Her voice cracked with emotion.
"Betty, I know how hard it is to wait safely at home while someone you love is in danger, but believe me, if there was ever anyone who could take care of himself, it's Scott. He wouldn't want you to follow him," Mackie reasoned.
"You don't know that, Mackie." Angry now, Betty pushed herself off the couch and headed for the door. "And there's nothing in the world you can say that will change my mind about going."
Mackie slowly stood up.
"You're pregnant," he said quietly.
Far From Pittsburgh
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