The Wind Is Not a River

by Brian Payton

  When Helen told Ruth about John, and her plans to find him, Ruth rose to the occasion. She spent the better part of a week reviewing her previous USO show for Helen, breaking down—step by step—the various numbers and routines. Helen tried her best to imitate Ruth’s dancing, the way she delivers a song, the way she moves across the stage. Ruth offered practical critiques, words of encouragement where appropriate, demands of more work where required. She examined Helen’s dancing from every angle. Of course each touring show will be unique. Their goal was to deliver Helen to her own rehearsals with as much “stage presence” as possible.

  Helen’s childhood ballet classes came back to her; the impossible height of the barre, her father sitting patiently near the door of the studio with the other mothers, thumbing through a fishing magazine. Even as a child, Helen suspected she had no innate talent, no resident grace. And yet, under Ruth’s tutelage, she threw herself into this new role without reservation. Progress was uneven, but they were making progress all the same. Then suddenly Helen found herself on a train bound for California.

  By the time she reaches the high school’s gymnasium, Helen has worked up a sweat. The place appears abandoned this Saturday morning. The only light comes from the stage at the far side of the gym, behind the wings. She removes her shoes, not so much a conscious decision to save the hardwood floor, but a conditioned response from her own student days. She stops just past the free-throw line, where she catches a whiff of smoke. She hears a snap, then metallic clatter as something hits then rolls across the floor. “Goddamn piece of . . .”

  A man steps out from behind the half-open curtain with a pipe in his mouth and a rope in his hand that disappears up into the rafters. He wears a herringbone blazer, cream trousers, shiny black shoes. He tugs the curtain aside. The light strikes the man and his smoke from above, making him appear as a character in a play. Then Helen catches his eye.

  “This was ruined long before you or I ever arrived,” he says, looking up into the lights. “I’ll be damned if I can’t get it to move.”

  She approaches the stage then stops, unsure how to proceed. The man tosses the rope away, wipes his palms, then smoothes down his wavy black hair. He bounds down the stairs at the corner of the stage, pipe stem clenched in bright white teeth, hand stuck out before him. Helen shifts her shoes to free her right hand.

  “I’m Stephen Brooks.”

  “Helen Easley.”

  “Pleased to meet you. Long way from Broadway, aren’t we?”

  “Well, actually—”

  “And this is Carnegie Hall compared to where we’re gonna be performing.”

  He looks around the place, and Helen feels she should too.

  “Am I early?”

  He glances at his watch. “Right on time. The others are late. C’mon. Let’s check that piano.”

  Helen follows him up onstage and helps remove a canvas cover from a battered upright piano. Stephen pulls out the stool and cracks his knuckles. He plays a few scales, and then launches into “Daisy Bell (Bicycle Built for Two).” After the first verse, which he sings alone, Stephen turns toward Helen, raises his head and eyebrows, nods when it’s time for the chorus. She feels the flush in her cheeks.

  She shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders, as if she doesn’t know the words. He continues solo until she tentatively joins in. Halfway through the song, his voice trails off, leaving Helen to sing it alone. Her voice is tremulous at first but gains strength. He purses his lips approvingly.

  Four women stroll into the gym. They take the stage as if it has been in their family for generations. They slip out of sweaters and pile handbags atop the piano. None of them have bothered to remove their shoes.

  Stephen spins on the stool and introduces himself. Each woman gives her name, where she’s from, and her résumé as an entertainer. Judith, a “resident” of Hollywood, has hair in the style of Ingrid Bergman, cascading in big brown curls around her cheeks and shoulders. The effect is diminished by thin lips and a lazy eye. She’s had three small roles in movies Helen has never heard of but stands out for her confidence and winning smile. She’s worked with Stephen before. Sarah has a somewhat solemn disposition, along with plucked eyebrows and bleached hair approximating Marlene Dietrich. She hasn’t quite managed to launch an opera career in San Francisco. Jane, a chain-smoking mouse of a girl, has sang back up for both Peggy Lee and Woody Herman. She hopes this ticket out of Los Angeles will help ease an aching heart. Gladys seems the most pleased to be here. A gangly stage actress from Chicago, she’s dramatically overdressed in a pink linen skirt and matching jacket and has clearly had her nails done. Perhaps she thought this was an audition.

  It doesn’t appear as if they know each other—despite their communal arrival—yet they behave as colleagues, like they have earned their right to be here. As Helen’s turn approaches, she says a silent, preemptive prayer for forgiveness.

  So this is it. This is how she abandons her father and searches for her husband in a shooting war in the North Pacific. With showgirls and a string of lies. But how many teenage boys have left their local bar jacked up on draft beer and whiskey, pledging loyalty to one another and revenge for December 7? At the recruiter’s office they’re allowed—encouraged—to lie about their age. Adolescents, the military, Roosevelt himself—as the war rolls on, who hasn’t bent the truth?

  Helen introduces herself and her invented accomplishments. She is originally from Seattle, she says, but worked at a theater company based in Vancouver, most recently in a production of On Your Toes, the lesser-known Rodgers and Hart musical she made a point of studying at the library, a show that shouldn’t be familiar despite its famous composers, a show she prays they haven’t seen. She chose Vancouver over Seattle to avoid any possibility of encountering someone familiar with the Seattle theater scene. Vancouver, she was sure, would be well beyond anyone’s experience. Her great fear is that they might ask for details or, god forbid, a song or a couple of lines. She is met with blinking eyes and vacant nods.

  Stephen congratulates them on their patriotism and bravery. The opportunity to entertain the troops is an honor, an experience they will relay to their grandchildren. He says that, unlike the fascists, who believe soldiers must concentrate exclusively on annihilating the enemy, Uncle Sam wants his men to take a well-deserved break now and then. The chance to have a couple of laughs or to see a flash of milky thigh spurs them on to victory, reminds them what they’re fighting for.

  Helen is reminded of her father’s warning. She masks her reaction to this description of their assignment, telling herself that Stephen is only exaggerating for effect.

  Everything is moving fast, he says, everyone’s under pressure. With more tours going in every direction, there is less of everything to go around, especially time. They will have ten days—ten long, working days—to put a show together. They will have to work harder than ever before. They will create a musical review with some as yet unnamed star to build it all around. They probably won’t learn who it is until they’re ready to pack their bags. Certainly a recognizable star, but suffice it to say, there will be no Bob Hope this time around. Songs, dance routines, a skit or two, jokes and comedy throughout. Their dresses will be made by volunteers, who will take the girls’ measurements tomorrow. Stephen will choreograph and play the piano. He will direct the production and manage the tour.

  Stephen has broad shoulders and is well built, aside from what appear to be bandy legs. Lips, full and rosy. Handsome. Within ten minutes of meeting him, however, Helen begins to suspect why he’s not on the front lines, serving his country in a more conventional role, why he might be a safe choice to chaperone five women from base to base, living and working in close quarters.

  It’s nothing overt. It’s more in the way he looks, or rather doesn’t look, at them. He is a man with little interest in women. He takes a turn dancing with each of them, and by the end of this exercise, there is even less room for doubt.

  Stephen plays piano and they
all sing along to “I’m Nobody’s Baby.” Each night and day I pray the Lord up above, please send me down somebody to love . . . The second time through, he groups the girls together according to vocal type and pulls a little harmony out of them. Helen intuitively follows his conducting style of looking directly at a girl, nodding his head, and fine-tuning with his eyebrows—narrowing them when he wants her to sing lower, raising them for higher. The big, toothy smile means he is pleased, closed eyes signal the opposite. As naturally as she follows his lead, Helen is inclined to trust her instincts about the quality of his character.

  Lunch is brought in by volunteers, and they eat leaning against the piano. Stephen takes the opportunity to review the schedule. Immediately following rehearsals, they will be flown north, take a layover night in Seattle, then up and into the territory. For security reasons, they won’t receive their itinerary until after they’re in the air. He takes a look around. As soon as he’s convinced that everyone is finished their sandwiches, he calls them back to rehearsal.

  At the end of the day, Helen pulls on her sweater while everyone else is still laughing, trading gossip and boasts. There is talk of an icebreaker dinner downtown, away from this dingy locale. Everyone agrees this is a fine idea. Unfortunately, Sarah, the Dietrich devotee, has a previous engagement. Helen knows she should probably go, to make a good impression, but she has told Joe that she would telephone him tonight at seven. She doesn’t want to give him any extra grounds for worry. The others walk out, laughing and singing across the basketball court, leaving Stephen and Helen to cover the piano.

  “At least I know who I can rely on,” he says. A fog of dust rises from the canvas. “I’m sure the other girls wish they were heading to Hawaii. They pulled the short straw and ended up with me. If I remember correctly, you asked to go north.”

  Whether he’s already guessed she has something to hide, or is simply making conversation, remains to be seen.

  “I’ve been to Hawaii,” Helen says. “Overrated.” She aims for sophistication but fears she’s come off like a spoiled child.

  Before this trip, she had been as far south as San Francisco, as far north as Vancouver. It makes her light-headed to concoct a new life on the fly.

  “I see,” he says, giving it some thought. “No. Actually, I don’t. But I suppose your reasons are your own.”

  He holds the door open for her and switches off the gymnasium lights, allowing her the grace to escape.

  “I’ve wanted to go to Alaska since, forever,” she says feebly.

  “Well . . .” He searches his pocket for the keys, then locks the door behind them. “Let’s see if we can make that dream come true.”

  AT A QUARTER PAST SEVEN, Helen sits alone in her host family’s parlor after having said good night to Joe. Her father was never any good on the telephone. He seemed stumped for conversation and offered little more than one-word answers to her questions. His interest was piqued, however, with her report of the California weather, which they tell her has been unseasonably warm.

  Helen rests in the shadows, perspiring, listening to a record playing in the background. If it’s this hot in springtime, how do they stand it in summer? Her thoughts drift to Seattle’s cleansing rain, her scramble to procure enough warm winter clothes for Alaska.

  That first winter they were married, Helen had been secretly admiring a red coat in the window of Leahman’s department store. John was between assignments at the time, and money was tight, so she only window-shopped when she was alone. The coat was gorgeous, finely cut and tailored, with three oversize buttons. Elegant simplicity. She tried it on twice and would stop by now and then to admire it. One day she dropped in to see if, perhaps by some miracle, it had gone on sale. When she saw that it was missing from the display she felt strangely relieved. Either it was gone and she could put it out of her mind, or it was inside, hanging on the discount rack. The salesclerk informed her that the last one had indeed been sold. Helen turned to leave but the woman called her back. “Are you Helen?” She reached under the counter and pulled out a garment box tied with a bow. “A gentleman was in last week . . .” Had he been watching her? Had he asked one of the girls at work? Half an hour later, when she strode through the door at home, John looked up and broke into applause. “It’s about time,” he said. “I was wondering when you’d fall into my trap.”

  During the day, the memories come in waves, in social situations and when she’s alone. Sometimes she fails to even conjure the specifics of his face. The guilt makes her clench her teeth. Other times, she can feel the dent in the air beside her, and the memories rush back so fast and warm she almost forgets to breathe. When the sun goes down, his absence is even more acute.

  Helen stares at the telephone a moment more, then turns out the light.

  * * *

  FOLLOWING TEN CONSECUTIVE and exhausting days, Helen is dropped off in front of an immense open door—the biggest she’s ever seen. Inside the empty hangar, a volunteer from the USO hands her a box, half again as big as her single piece of luggage. It is identical to the boxes now being given to the other girls. Each is packed with items they are told will be in short supply or unavailable where they are going: cigarettes, makeup, stockings, tissues, tangerines, chocolate, cotton batting, powder, soap, shampoo, cream, handkerchiefs, needles and thread—many of the things Helen had planned to pick up herself on their layover in Seattle.

  Stephen claps his hands and gestures for everyone to gather round. He wants them to take a moment to appreciate his achievement. They have worked hard, he says, and he has molded their individual talents into a cohesive and pleasing form. He claims that one hour of rehearsal for each minute onstage should more than suffice. Altogether, they’ve had one hundred hours to build and polish their show. Curtain-to-curtain, their act comes in at just over ninety minutes. By his estimation, they are now overqualified. If only Helen could allow herself to believe him.

  A crew of airmen arrive. They gather up the boxes and luggage, load it all onto a trolley, push it out into the stark morning light. Helen follows Stephen and the girls across the pavement and toward a waiting plane. At the bottom of the gangway steps, Helen feels compelled to reconfirm just how much time they will have in Seattle. Will they still get the full twenty-four hours they’ve been promised? There’s been a change, he explains. Seattle’s out. It’s overnight in Portland, along the coast of British Columbia, then points north and west. A small detail that appears to have slipped his mind.

  “I just found out myself,” he claims, reading the expression on her face.

  Helen pictures Joe preparing for her arrival. He’s swept and mopped, put fresh flowers on the dining room table and in her room. Filled the icebox for the one meal they had planned together. He glances at the clock with increasing frequency.

  This was to have been a kind of dress rehearsal, a trial run for her father to be on his own before she finally took off for Alaska. Time to assess how he was getting on with the household chores and his work at the church, time to check back in with the new doctor, and Mrs. Riley next door. Time to finally say good-bye.

  She must find a telephone as soon as they arrive in Oregon. She will tell him how much she misses him, how terrible she feels about this sudden change of plans. Remind him that she will be thinking of him each day, that she is counting on him to be careful, sensible, and patient with himself—for her sake if not for his own.

  As she steps up and into the plane, Helen tells herself that she will find her husband and she will return to her father in just over six weeks’ time. She has made the right decision for her family. She will bring them together again.

  NINE

  A SORTIE OF B-24S AND P-38S SPLITS THE SKY. Strangely, no bombing ensues. Instead the American aircraft fly over the island then turn around, as if the pilots have suddenly changed their minds. Easley draws comfort from the hum of the engines, the man-made, manufactured silhouettes sailing above land and sea. But when they’re gone, the awareness of isolation gro
ws more acute. He tells himself that he is not the only one. There must others like him, hiding from the enemy all over Europe, north Africa, China, maybe even here in the Aleutians. At first this thought gives him a lift, but it soon conjures images of people taking cover together, in pairs and even in groups. But as he now knows, this form of hiding bears almost no relation. They are not alone.

  Easley removes the boy’s dog tags from around his own neck, where they have hung for four days. He holds them in the palm of his hand and reads aloud:

  “KARL A BITBURG

  12870763 T41 A

  ANGELA BITBURG

  242 BORDEN ST

  ROAN TEXAS P”

  He guesses the “A” near the hole is his blood type, he assumes the final “P” stands for “Protestant.” Easley has no doubt that the key in his pocket will open the door of 242 Borden Street. He did not divide the pair of dog tags, place one in the boy’s mouth, as he once heard he was meant to do. Nor did he bury the body. In this matter, he has no regrets. He didn’t want the Japanese finding it, and more important, he didn’t want the boy becoming part of the island.

  The past four days were spent with the book Karl had liberated along with the pencil, pliers, coal, and wood. Easley no longer wondered what information the book might contain. He turned it sideways and stopped seeing the alien spider words for the white space in between. He has passed the days inside the cave transcribing his memories of Karl. Impressions, conversations, the times Karl had made Easley laugh. He hopes that by recording these things, and carrying them into the future, he would remember Karl as completely as possible. By remembering him, Easley hopes to honor him. Karl’s story will become part of Warren’s story, part of Helen’s and his own, then be folded and tucked into the narrative of this unknown and expanding war. He has filled nearly thirty pages with this tribute and now he is hungry. Easley puts the dog tags back around his neck. They clink as they settle against his skin.