The Wedding Tree

by Robin Wells

  APRIL 1943

  NEW ORLEANS

  It was cold that Friday night, a damp cold that went right through you—which was a little unusual, because it had been unnaturally warm that April, although early spring can be a fickle season in New Orleans. I’d worked all day in the darkroom at the Times-Picayune—I’d gotten a job at the newspaper three months after high school graduation; thanks to the shortage of men, they’d taken me on as a photographer’s assistant—then dashed back to the little house in the Irish Channel, where I was staying with my friend Marge and her aunt Lucille. Fridays were dance nights at the USO.

  I wore that green silk dress for the first time. First-time wearings were special. Heck, store-bought dresses were special! I’d bought this one on sale at D. H. Holmes. I talked the sales manager into marking it down even more than the sale price because it had a little rip under the arm right by the seam, so I got it for a song. I was handy with a needle, and all I had to do was take it in, which it needed anyway.

  The dress rustled as I stepped into it. Marge zipped me up. “That dress fits you like a dream.”

  She was wearing a new dress, too—a red one that complemented her permed black hair and clung to her curvy figure like wax. The dress was so low cut as to be a little immodest. She wore a buttoned-up white sweater to make it past the USO door chaperone. We were running late because she’d wanted to style her hair like Barbara Stanwyck and had trouble getting the bangs just right.

  “Tonight’s our lucky night, I just know it,” Marge said as we rode the streetcar down St. Charles. I knew what Marge meant by “lucky”: we were both hoping to meet the love of our lives.

  Marge was looking to marry and settle down, and I . . . well, I was looking for love like the movies portrayed—dramatic, exciting, adventurous. I wasn’t against marriage—no girl wanted to be a spinster; that was a fate worse than death—but marriage was somewhere off in the distant future. I had a hazy, Hollywood-fueled vision of passionate kisses and a deep soul connection—something far more glamorous and thrilling than anything I’d shared with Charlie.

  Romance aside, I was pretty much living my dream, residing in a city and working as a photographer. True, I spent most of my time in the darkroom, but the assignment editor had sent me out on a few stories when they were shorthanded, and I had high hopes that given just a little more time, I’d be out on the street every day. With a little luck, I’d build a portfolio that would lead to a job as a travel photographer, and when this darned war ended, I’d be off to see the world.

  If there were still any world left to see, that is. It was a fearful time, I have to tell you—but I was young, and like all youth, I had an irrepressible streak of optimism. I was more afraid of having to go back to Wedding Tree than I was of the world ending.

  It hadn’t been easy, getting my parents to agree to let me come to New Orleans. They were both strict, tight-laced conservatives, and they thought a young woman should live with her parents until she married.

  I’d worked on them in stages.

  Stage One: I’d swanned around the house, looking bored and heartbroken, complaining bitterly about how there were no decent jobs in Wedding Tree.

  Stage Two: I’d convinced them to let me take the train to New Orleans to visit my friend Marge from high school and her war widow aunt—both of whom worked at the Zatarain’s cannery—for a long weekend.

  Stage Three: While in New Orleans, I’d applied for a job at the Times-Picayune.

  Stage Four: I’d come back talking about the fantastic job opportunities in the city, but complaining about how strict Marge’s Aunt Lucille was (which was a total fabrication; Marge and I seemed invisible to Lucille).

  Stage Five: When I was offered the job in New Orleans, I said I wanted to live at a boardinghouse—which prompted my parents to insist that I live with Marge at Lucille’s.

  Stage Six: Voilà—exactly what I wanted!

  I’d been living there since August, paying a few bucks a week to share a room with Marge. We worked pretty long hours, and most evenings were spent on chores—washing and ironing clothes, cleaning house, grocery shopping, cooking, and tending our victory garden—not to mention shampooing, rolling, and drying our hair. Everything took longer then.

  Like most folks at the time, Marge and I volunteered for the war effort. On Mondays we rolled bandages for the Red Cross, and on Fridays we worked at the local USO club, which was held at the recreation room of the Catholic church on Prytania Street. We were junior hostesses, which meant we helped serve refreshments and clean up afterward (or at least I did; more often than not, Marge was still flirting with one or more servicemen when the lights came up at midnight), but our main job was to entertain servicemen on leave or waiting to be shipped out. We were there to dance and talk and generally boost morale. Not exactly a hardship for two single young women.

  We entered the church rec hall a few minutes before seven thirty.

  “Marge, Addie. There you are.” Mrs. Brunswick frowned as she bustled forward. A tall, stout matron with tight gray curls and a high-pitched voice that seemed incongruent with her size, she was both a senior hostess and in charge of the church’s women’s auxiliary, so she ran the show on all fronts. “You’re late.”

  “The streetcar was running behind,” Marge lied effortlessly.

  “I was getting worried about you. Three of the other girls are out with colds.”

  “Well, we’re here now. And there’s nary a sniffle between the two of us,” Marge said.

  Mrs. Brunswick eyed her uncertainly. She was never sure if Marge was making fun of her or just being personable, as junior hostesses were encouraged to be. I was relieved when she turned away and waved her arms as if she were gathering butterflies in front of the refreshment table. “Girls, attention, please! Circle up. Is everyone wearing their name tags?”

  The twenty or so other young women milling around the room wandered up.

  “Who wants to work the refreshment table tonight?” Marge and I raised our hands, along with several other girls. “Margie, you and Tina can serve cake, please. And Addie, sweetheart, would you pour the punch? And please make sure no one spikes it.”

  “Of course,” I said, although I had no idea how I was supposed to keep that from happening.

  “Last time, some spirits found their way into the punch, and three of our girls got sick,” Mrs. Brunswick said.

  Marge’s eyes widened in disingenuous shock. “How awful!”

  I knew for a fact that Marge had let a soldier from Georgia pour a bottle of hooch into the punch about an hour before the dance ended. A redhead also privy to this misdeed giggled and poked Marge, causing Mrs. Brunswick to give them a suspicious frown.

  I tried to create a distraction. “Oh, what beautiful flowers!” I exclaimed, bending down to examine a vase of yellow tulips on the table between the punch and cake.

  “Aren’t they lovely?” Mrs. Brunswick smiled appreciatively. “Schmidt Florists donated them.”

  “They’re just trying to cover up the fact they’re Huns,” sniffed a girl named Eloise.

  The crease in Mrs. Brunswick’s forehead deepened. It occurred to me that the name Brunswick sounded somewhat Germanic, as well. “They can’t very well help their name, now, can they? They’re a good American family, and I won’t tolerate talk like that.” She glanced at her wristwatch and clapped her hands. “All right, now—places, everyone.”

  Flora, a pale, nervous girl from an upper-crust New Orleans family, whom Marge had nicknamed Florid because she blushed so easily, took her place at the registration book. The other girls scattered around the room.

  Mrs. Brunswick nodded to the two women at the front door. They opened it, and a stream of servicemen poured in.

  The refreshment table was quickly swamped. During a lull in the action, Marge elbowed me.

  “My, oh my, look what just walked in!”<
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  There was no mistaking whom she meant. He was tall, probably six two or six three, with brown wavy hair, a movie-star handsome face, and an army officer’s uniform. His most attractive attribute, though, wasn’t physical; it was his bearing. There was something about the way he carried himself, something deliberate and steady and so self-assured that other men stepped out of his way. He wore the mantle of a leader, of someone accustomed to the respect of others, as surely as he wore a four-button army uniform. When he turned to the side, I could see the Army Air Force insignia on the upper sleeve.

  Marge saw it, too. “Oooh, he’s a flyboy!” she cooed. In Marge’s mind—and mine, too, I admit—airmen were a special brand of wonderful. “I call dibs.”

  He looked around the room, and for a second, our eyes met. My skin felt hot.

  “Seriously,” Marge murmured. “He’s mine.”

  I had always acquiesced to Marge’s preferences, turning down offers to dance with men she liked. After all, I reasoned, she was my roommate, and chances were, we’d never see any of these men again. But this time was different. “I’m making no promises,” I replied.

  “But I saw him first!”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  I watched him bend to sign the registration book. Marge and I weren’t the only girls attracted to him. Flora’s face turned hot pink as she handed him the pen. Two other girls quickly appeared at the registration table as if to help him. One of them—a big-chested brunette from the Seventh Ward, named Betty—leaned over the book directly in front of him, deliberately displaying her generous décolletage. He straightened and handed the pen to Betty, his gaze sweeping up to her face with admirable smoothness. He smiled at her, inclining his head to listen as she said something. I saw him respond, smile, then say something to Flora. Her blush spread to her neck. Her face was the color of a rooster’s crown.

  “He’s coming this way!” Marge whispered, unbuttoning her sweater. She whipped it off in record time.

  But he looked at me. His glance was a physical thing; it warmed my skin like a lingering caress. My mouth went as dry as the inside of a Q-tip box. I tried to smile, but my lips pulled into the kind of unnatural curl that makes for bad photographs.

  “Hello, Flyboy,” Marge said as he approached. She had a breezy way of talking with the soldiers, which I envied. “New to the air base?”

  “Actually, I’m just passing through. I’m here for a couple of weeks to learn the ins and outs of a new plane.”

  She fluttered her eyelashes. “Well, then, you’d better make the most of your time in New Orleans.”

  “I intend to.” He looked at me again. I started to attempt another smile, then gave up and glanced down at the punch.

  “Would you like some cake?” Marge pressed.

  “Maybe later.” His voice was deep. There was a throb in it—or maybe that was my own pulse, pounding in my ears. I risked a glance up, and found him still gazing at me. I nearly melted under the blaze of his smile. “What I’d really like is some of that punch.”

  I picked up the punch ladle. My brain was so fizzed by his smile that it couldn’t send the proper signals to my hands. The ladle slipped through my fingers and crashed to the table, knocking over the vase of tulips.

  His hand zoomed out and caught the vase before it tumbled to the floor—but the good deed came at a cost. Water splattered all over his uniform.

  “Oh no!” I gasped. “Oh, dear. Oh, I’m so sorry!”

  I was beyond sorry; I was mortified.

  “No harm done.” He set the vase upright. One of the tulips had fallen out and the others listed forward.

  “Your uniform is soaking wet,” I murmured.

  “Here.” Marge handed him a stack of napkins.

  Mrs. Brunswick bustled over. “Good heavens, Addie,” she scolded. “You must be more careful!”

  “It was entirely my fault,” the man said. “I was reaching for a napkin and I knocked the ladle out of her hand.”

  He’d done no such thing. It didn’t seem right to let him take the blame, but then, I couldn’t very well call him a liar—especially in front of Mrs. Brunswick. My face burned.

  “I should have had a better grip on it,” I stammered. Not to mention on my nerves.

  He bent and quickly wiped the floor with the napkins. “There. Good as new.” Picking up the fallen flower, he straightened and held out the tulip to me. “Please accept this, along with my apologies.”

  The flower wasn’t his to give, but Mrs. Brunswick gave me a nod, indicating I should accept it. I smiled. “Thank you.”

  He tossed the napkins in the trash can against the wall. Satisfied that the situation was handled, Mrs. Brunswick moved away.

  I twirled the tulip in my hand. “That was very chivalrous, taking the blame for me.”

  “Yeah,” Marge chimed in.

  It was as if Marge hadn’t spoken—as if she weren’t even around. I know it sounds corny, but it really felt like we were the only two people in the room.

  “I’m afraid you’ve gotten water on your dress, as well.”

  I glanced down. Sure enough, water spots splotched my skirt.

  “Well, there’s only one solution for this,” he said. “We’ll have to dance together until we dry.”

  “Oh—I can’t! I have to stay here and man the punch bowl for the first hour.”

  “I’ll get you a replacement.”

  “What?”

  He held up a finger. “Be right back.”

  A crowd of servicemen converged on the refreshment table, relieving me of the need to talk to Marge. As I ladled punch and handed it out, I caught glimpses of the airman heading to the registration table. Flora’s face turned the color of an inflamed tonsil, and Betty put her hand on his arm. He said something to her and she laughed.

  I lost sight of him for a few moments as I served three sailors. When I looked up again, the airman was talking to a chaperone at the door, Betty clinging to his arm.

  A serviceman from Wyoming tried to start a conversation with me. When he finally left the table, a line had gathered behind him. Marge leaned over to me. “Looks like Buxom Betty stole the prize.”

  I followed her gaze. The tall airman was crossing the room, the curvy brunette clasping his arm. To my chagrin, they stopped in the punch line.

  I handed out glasses to the sailors and soldiers ahead of them, my heart racing harder and harder, until they stood right in front of me. “Betty here has generously agreed to do me a favor,” the airman said.

  “Anything to help a serviceman,” she said in a breathy voice.

  “Anything?” Marge asked pointedly.

  Betty didn’t have the grace to blush or the wit to respond. She batted her eyes at the airman.

  “Well, that’s wonderful,” he said, “because I’d like you to take Addie’s spot serving punch.”

  Betty’s face fell. “But . . . I . . .”

  He put his hand in the small of her back and guided her around the table, then took the ladle from my hand and placed it in Betty’s. “This is what I love about you southern girls,” he said. “You’re so polite and helpful and genteel. Not to mention lovely.” He flashed Betty a smile that left her dazed and glassy-eyed.

  He took my elbow and inclined his head toward the dance floor. “Shall we?”

  Feeling dazed myself, I let him lead me through the crowd. His fingers were warm on my bare skin. My elbow had never felt so alive.

  “That was shameful,” I said.

  “I think you mean shameless.”

  “It’s shameful to be so shameless,” I said.

  He laughed as we reached the dance floor. The band was playing “I Remember You.” He took my right hand, put his other hand on my back, and pulled me into a foxtrot. “Well, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.”

  The heat
of him, the brightness of that smile, the scent of soap and faint aftershave and virile male made me slightly dizzy. “And what, exactly, do you have to do?”

  “Get to know you.” He spun me around. “I knew it from the moment I saw you.”

  I felt like I was still spinning even though the twirl had ended. “I’m disappointed,” I said. “I thought you’d have more original material.”

  “That’s not a line.” He pulled me closer, smoothly moving me across the dance floor. “I mean it. And here’s something that’s going to sound even cornier: I feel like I already know you. As if I’ve seen you in my dreams.”

  “You’re right. That did sound even cornier.” But the funny thing was, I felt the same way. It was as if my soul had recognized him, as if a puzzle piece had just slipped into the right slot.

  He guided me backward. “Seriously. Have you ever been in California?”

  “No.”

  “Texas?”

  “No.”

  “Is your picture on a billboard or a soup can or something?”

  “No.” I laughed at the outrageous question as he spun me around. “I tend to stay behind the camera, not in front of it.”

  “You’re a photographer?”

  “Yes. For the Times-Picayune.” I felt so proud, saying it.

  “A newspaper woman? Like Katharine Hepburn in Woman of the Year?”

  “Oh, exactly like that.” I gave a dry smile. “Minus the wardrobe, the salary, the hairstylists, and the ability to dance in and out of the newsroom at will.”

  “Still, that’s really something.”

  I was pleased that he thought so. “I love it, although right now I spend most of my time in the darkroom developing photos shot by more experienced photographers.”

  “You’re far too pretty to be kept in a darkroom.”

  “No,” I said, tilting my head up at him. “I’m far too good a photographer to be kept in a darkroom.”

  He laughed. “Maybe so, but you’re also awfully pretty.”

  I felt my face heat.

  “So what makes a good photographer?” he asked.

  The music swelled around us. “Timing. Getting the moment right. Framing things. Lighting. Trying to see just what the camera will capture—although you never entirely do. It always surprises me how the lens can see things differently.”