by Heather Webb
I smiled wryly, knowing nothing escaped her detection.
“It’s from Sidney.”
All conversation stopped, and my cheeks flamed at the knowing glances exchanged and then tossed my way.
“Well?” Mother Rose gestured with her serving fork.
“He’s sent me a steamship ticket to France,” I said, turning back to my corn bread. “A nightclub where he performs.”
Any response was interrupted by the noisy arrival of Charles’s youngest brother, Isaiah, who was promptly chased from the kitchen after he attempted to steal a taste of the golden-battered fried chicken piled high on a plate.
I dutifully trooped behind the line of women bearing trays of mouthwatering dishes with my tins of cornbread to the large dining room, where Cynthia was slowly setting the table with one hand—the other was holding her textbook in front of her face. It was snatched from her hand, and the sixteen-year-old’s mutinous expression smoothed beneath one raised eyebrow from her mother. We set the trays and tins in the center of the table just as the men tramped in, sweaty and obviously hungry.
My hands tightened around the back of the dining room chair when Sidney’s father entered behind them, carrying his Bible beneath his arm. He removed his wide-brimmed black hat to reveal features startling like his son’s, though there was a stern, officious quality to the set of his mouth and the way he looked at the world from his dark eyes. He greeted me stiffly, still, after six months, unable to know what to make of me. Or of Sidney, I suppose, since he was the one to fetch Charles’s bigamous wife from France.
We sat for luncheon after the men washed up and changed their shirts. Reverend Mercer cleared his throat to signal his imminent prayer over the food. His eye fell on me once again and I hurriedly bowed my head. There had been a mild contretemps over this until Reverend Mercer worked out that my vaguely Presbyterian upbringing wasn’t entirely antithetical with the African Methodist Episcopal Church.
The initial hungry silence of eating soon gave way to the Williamses’ rousing, intense conversation. The laughter, the finishing one another’s sentences, the talking over one another, the family jokes—they all reminded me of my life on the stage, whether it was with my mother, or later, with Charles. That give-and-take, that trust, the knowledge that you were with people who understood you and accepted you. Who liked you. Even when they quarreled, there was a coating of love beneath the anger—such as the fiery argument between Charles’s other brother, Ephraim, and two other men.
“Self-determination for everyone but the colored man,” exclaimed Ephraim. “Trotter should have known Wilson wouldn’t press for a fifteenth point.”
“You’ve been reading the Guardian again,” his mother scolded.
“And why not? I wish I had been old enough to fight, and been able to see their faces when I told them why I wasn’t enlisting.” Ephraim threw down his napkin. “Charles died for nothing at all.”
I could feel the eyes on me in the brief silence. “It’s all right,” I said quietly.
“Now you just hush, Ephraim Williams,” Mother Rose replied sternly. “This isn’t proper dinner conversation. Tell us what you’ve been studying, Cynthia.”
I smiled my thanks at Mother Rose, though the pain over Charles’s death and betrayal had long since healed.
It was Sidney Mercer who caused me more pain these days.
THE ONLY PLACE one could find some solitude after luncheon—the men loosened their belts in the dining room and the back parlor after the women departed; anyone was liable to barge into my bedroom—was the small room where Mother Rose did her accounts. What a marvelous woman, I thought, examining the spines of her ledger books and the stacks of correspondence on her desk.
I sat on the low-backed leather chair near the window, rather contented by the warm breeze sweeping through the room. How easy it would be to remain here. The days would pass smoothly, save for the sometimes challenging ups and downs of this region of America, and I would be content.
Or would I?
I turned away from contemplating the window when Charles’s mother entered the accounts room.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten, young lady.” She sat, the wheeled chair squeaking beneath her weight.
“I didn’t believe you did, Mother Rose,” I said drily.
Mother Rose tilted her head, eyes narrowed as she thoroughly scrutinized me. She found something there that pleased her, and she nodded her head. “Do you love him, baby? That is the only question you ought to be asking yourself.”
She had Charles’s eyes—bright and warm like sherry—and I no longer wanted to add more lies on top of the ones that drew us together.
Yes, I did love Sidney Mercer, and I would go to France.
I DECLINED THE assistance of the railway porter and carried my suitcase down the platform myself. It was bittersweet to walk down the same platform where, five years before, I watched the train that took Charles away from me grow smaller and smaller.
Only the faintest traces of the war lingered—a few empty sleeves or trouser legs, the tattered remnants of bunting from the peace conference celebrations last month, much stricter customs and passport bureaus. But instead of poilus and officers in the distinctive blue khaki of the French army rushing down the platforms and spilling into trains, it was children and their nurses, red-faced businessmen, midinettes in their gray frocks, all on their way to the beaches along the Normandy coast to escape the summer heat.
Paris had seen it through, and so, I realized with surprise, had I.
I shifted my baggage into my other hand, my fingers damp and sticky beneath my cotton gloves, and stepped inside the railway station proper. It was then that I saw him, peering about the station, turning this way and that, walking backward through the crowd, and anxiously scanning the faces of passing women. My eyes fell on the wicker carrier he carried and the restless cat inside and I stopped, my heart in my throat, suddenly swept by anxiety.
He was leaner, less imposing perhaps, though his loose summer jacket couldn’t hide the military bearing that held his broad shoulders erect. Those elegant, piano-playing fingers tapped a syncopated beat against the boater crushed in his other hand, and I laughed.
He turned then, somehow hearing my joy in spite of the bustle of the station and the yards between us. When our eyes met, it was as though we’d never parted in anger. I began to walk toward him, one foot in front of the other, and sternly reminded myself to breathe.
I now saw the end of my story, and I wasn’t afraid.
To the torchbearers of democracy
and
the sisters of a certain soldier
Something Worth Landing For
Jessica Brockmole
I FIRST MET HER, crying, outside of the medical department at Romorantin.
She’d been there, hunched on the bench in the hall, when I arrived for my appointment and was still there when I stepped from the doctor’s office. She wore the same bland coveralls and white armband as the other women who worked in the Assembly Building and I might have walked straight past. I always managed to make a fool of myself in front of women—on one memorable evening with an untied shoe and a bowl of chowder—and was sure today would be no different. After all, I’d just been standing stark naked in front of another man and was still a little red in the face.
But she chose that exact moment to blow her nose, with such an unladylike trumpet that I couldn’t help but turn and stare.
I’d never heard such an unabashed sound from a woman. She didn’t even seem to care that she sounded like an elephant. She just kept her head down and her face buried in an excessively crumpled handkerchief.
She looked as healthy as a horse to be sitting outside the medical department. Not as scrawny as the other French girls around here. She had dark hair parted on the side and pinned up in waves, but her
neck was flushed pink. I wondered what kind of bug she’d caught to leave her so stuffy.
“Hello. Are you waiting for the doc?” I asked. The army doc wasn’t much—despite the file in his hand, he’d insisted on calling me “Weaselly” instead of the “Wesley” on my paperwork—but he could probably give her some silver salts or, at the very least, a replacement handkerchief.
She lifted her head and blinked red, wet eyes. I could have smacked myself. I was a dope. She wasn’t sick. She was miserable and sobbing and I had no idea what to do.
If I’d had a sister or a girlfriend or a mother with a heart made out of something softer than granite, I might have known how to handle a teary woman. I’d never gotten as far as breaking a girl’s heart.
Regardless, a clean handkerchief would be a start, and I dug in my pockets until I found a slightly wrinkled one. I held it out, but between two fingers, like feeding a squirrel.
She looked surprised at my offer, though I wasn’t sure why. A nice-looking girl like that, surely she was used to kindness. She stared at me, then the square of cotton, then me again, considering.
I thought to add a few words of eloquence to my offer. “Go on,” I said instead. “I have dozens.”
It wasn’t Shakespeare, but it worked. She swallowed and took it with a watery “Merci.”
That probably wasn’t enough. Chaplains and grandmothers always had a reassuring word or two. I wondered if I should take a cue from the padre and go with a pious Trust in God or an old-fashioned There, there. I realized, belatedly, that I knew how to say neither in French.
She saved me from having to make a decision. “I am fine, really,” she said in quite excellent English. Tears welled up fresh in her blue eyes, but she nodded, almost too vigorously. “Yes, never better.” She crushed the handkerchief to her eyes.
I didn’t believe her. People who were fine didn’t cry uncontrollably in the hallway. “Bad diagnosis?” She looked healthy enough, with those pink cheeks and bright eyes, but I was no expert. Maybe she had just found out she had a week to live.
She blew her nose again, thunderously. “Bad, good, maybe both.”
This was mystifying, but I suppose that was the way of women. “I’m sure the doc can give you something. Aspirin usually does the trick for me.”
“If only aspirin were enough.” She daubed at her nose. “The doctor’s price is too high.”
I had nothing else in my pockets but a pencil stub and a harmonica, but I asked, “Do you need money?” I wasn’t sure how much the women working in the Assembly Building earned. They gossiped in French, met evenings in Pruniers for coffee, and largely ignored the squadrons of American men in uniform working all over Romorantin. I’d never seen her out with the other women, but, then again, I hadn’t been looking. “I can help you.”
“Help?” She straightened and lifted her chin. Suddenly she didn’t look so damp and weepy. “Do I seem like someone who needs help?”
Suddenly “yes” seemed like exactly the wrong answer. She sat spine-straight on the edge of the bench. On the front of her dark coveralls, a button had been sewn back on with Alice-blue thread. She raised two neat eyebrows, as though daring me to utter it.
“Well . . .” I said, and left it dangling unfinished.
“Well.” Apart from her pins and combs, her only adornment was a slim gold crucifix. “I am a woman working in an airplane assembly plant full of men. I can take care of myself.” She might be small and soggy, but she was no sponge. With a dismissive wave of cloth, she held out my handkerchief.
Clearly I was no better with French women than American. This was a new record for me. Two and a half minutes from hello to sodden handkerchief. I nodded down at the well-used bit of cloth in her hand. “Keep it.” When I looked back over my shoulder, I swore, for a moment, she was smiling.
I was halfway down the hall when I heard the door squeak open behind me and the doctor’s nasally voice say, “Why, hello. You’re still here?”
I turned, but the doc wasn’t talking to me. He crossed his arms and looked down at the girl. That quick smile had disappeared and she was back to staring steadfastly at the crumpled handkerchief on her lap. I wondered what had happened to the starch in her spine from a moment ago. I wondered why she clutched the crucifix around her neck.
The doc didn’t seem to notice or care. Though his back was to me, I could see him eyeing her up and down, like she was a roast hanging in a butcher’s window. “Well, well,” he said. “Have you reconsidered my offer, mamselle?”
Even from down the hall, I saw a tear drip from the end of her nose. She shook her head.
“Don’t cry.” He reached down and lifted her chin with a finger. “It’s a small price to pay for taking care of your problem.”
I didn’t know what her problem was or what he’d offered to fix it, but I did know that she was looking even more miserable than before and that the crucifix was probably wearing an indentation into her palm.
“Leave me alone,” she said, shrinking away from his finger. I could scarcely hear her. “Please.”
I wasn’t as intrepid as my older brother Val. He would’ve marched down the hall like Tom Mix with a pair of six-shooters and an “Unhand her, you villain.” Rank be damned. Val would’ve managed it without a court-martial.
I couldn’t be Tom Mix, riding in with guns a-blazing. I was more Charlie Chaplin—clumsy, even a little embarrassing, but always with good intentions. Superior officer or not, I couldn’t leave the French girl crying on the bench.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped into view. “Well, you know me,” I said. I let myself trip over my own feet a step. “I walked straight out of the office and down the hall before I remembered you. Sorry! I forgot we were both walking to the Assembly Building.”
The doctor turned. “This isn’t your problem, Airman.”
I saluted. “You’re absolutely right, sir.” I nodded down at her. “It’s ours.”
She blinked and sniffled, but didn’t argue and she let go of that crucifix.
I offered her a hand. “Are you ready to go . . .” And then stopped. I didn’t know her name. We hadn’t exchanged more than a handkerchief. The doctor stared. “ . . . my dear?”
She hesitated, then took my hand and stood.
“Oh,” he said, glancing between us. “Oh.” The doctor gave me a long appraising look. “Well, then, dad, you’d better get her straightened out before I make my report. Because now, you’ll be on it.”
HER NAME, I learned, was Victoire.
We met that night in the smallest of the taverns in Pruniers. I combed my hair and put on a fresh shirt. When I arrived, she already had a mug waiting for me. It wasn’t hot and was suspiciously maroon.
“I know you soldiers are not allowed to drink wine.” She shrugged. “ ‘Coffee,’ though, is acceptable.”
I glanced around, but saw nobody I recognized apart from the somewhat tipsy padre of the squadron. He was an earnest young man, as fluent in French wine as its language. He wouldn’t peach on me.
“Thank you.”
She’d changed, too, into a shabby gray dress. She’d added a spotted blue scarf and, with that one little touch, somehow made the plain dress nicer and very French. “You are probably wondering,” she said, cradling her own mug.
“I’m wondering about a bunch of things.” I took a big gulp, wishing it were a beer. “Like why you didn’t just tell me straightaway.”
“That I am enceinte?” She put a hand to her lap. “Pregnant?” She shook her head. “It isn’t exactly a conversation for introductions.”
“Introductions. Forgot.” I wiped my mouth and held out my hand. “John Wesley Ward. Wes.”
“Victoire.” She declined my offered hand. “Victoire Donadieu.”
“How did you . . .” Asking how she came to be in a family way, it seemed indelic
ate. “How did you come to speak such good English?”
She sat for a moment, quietly, then said, “I was an ambitious student and the man who raised me an exceptional teacher.”
“The only things my father taught me were how to be unhappily married and miserably employed.”
“It does not sound like much of an inheritance.”
“He never saw me as much of an heir.” Father’s favorite had always been Val, smart, valiant, everything-I-touch-turns-to-gold Val. Even I was half in love with him.
“Surely you’re mistaken.” She looked almost stricken.
“About my old man? Ha!” I shook my head. “I’ve always been a disappointment to him. I can’t even grow a proper mustache.”
“Fathers love their children,” she insisted.
I nodded down in the direction of her stomach. “And that little one’s father?”
She sat quietly for a minute or two. In the corner, the padre was enthusiastically telling the parable of the ten virgins to a sleeping pair of drunks. A woman in a dark apron and scarf came by with a carafe and topped off my mug.
“He’s already done enough,” she finally said. “The rest is up to me.”
I drank and didn’t say anything right away. “And me.”
She straightened. “You?” She didn’t need to sound so scornful. “What do you have to do with anything?”
“Well, you heard the doc. I’m being reported.”
“For ‘fraternizing with the local women’?” This was said with the air of a recitation. She’d heard it before. “You’ll have a slap on the hand . . .”
“On the wrist.”
“ . . . but I’ll be dismissed. Monsieur, our problems are not the same.”
I realized how little I knew about this woman, about what it would mean to her to lose her job and her income. I wondered what she’d miss more.
“You could go home,” I said. “To see your father? If you’re dismissed, I mean.”