The Wind Is Not a River

by Brian Payton

  Now that the constant motion has finally ceased, her fears gather round. The unbearable emptiness she experienced high above the wilderness, where so few signs of civilization could be seen. The unending expanse of the North Pacific. The knowledge that John must be in a place more desolate still.

  In her prayers, Helen includes the flight crew that safely brought her north, her weary companions, and the unaccountably sweet and joyful men who did their best to make them feel at home. She wonders if John has such good company as these men seem to be. These are the thoughts she tries to hold as she lies in wait of sleep.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Helen carries a tin tray to the edge of the empty mess hall and slides in next to Judith. The girls are seated at the first of several dozen sets of long table and benches. The place is remarkably clean and well ordered for having just accommodated hundreds of hungry men. On the opposite wall, a USO poster features the disembodied head of Teresa Wright throwing her hair back in some kind of musical ecstasy, phallic microphone shining in front of too red lips. Under the name “Teresa Wright” appears “& the USO Swingettes” in smaller, humbler type.

  The USO failed to inform the men that Miss Wright won’t be performing. Stephen only broke the news to the girls two days before their departure. This led to a tantrum, in which Sarah called into question the professional ethics of Stephen and the entire United Service Organizations, and to Judith’s smoldering, cinematic exit. Unmoved, Stephen simply puffed his pipe and declared that the songs Miss Wright was supposed to sing would have to be divvied up among them, the more difficult tunes going to Judith, who was no longer present to protest. Let there be no mistake, the show would go on.

  The coffee is bitter from having sat too long on the stove. Helen chases corned beef hash around her tray with a fork, failing to uncover the appetizing bits. She takes refuge in toast, which she butters and dunks into her coffee. It is half past eight in the morning and the sun is already climbing in the sky. The men have long since disappeared to the airfields and hangars, otherwise occupied with the business of moving planes, men, and materiel from the States out to the Aleutian Islands. There is an excellent chance that John passed through this base on his way west, took a meal in this very same room.

  “They’re making an announcement today,” Stephen assures them. “They’ll know long before we show up that Teresa isn’t here. Trust me. They’ll be falling all over themselves to see you girls. You’ll see.”

  “Put yourself in their shoes,” Gladys says.

  “It’s like ordering filet mignon and getting a lousy frankfurter instead,” Judith snaps. “How happy would you be?”

  Jane, who recently ended her relationship with a married doctor, declares, “I wouldn’t say no to a hot young frank.” She smiles and blows steam from her coffee.

  “I didn’t hear that,” Stephen says. “And don’t let any of them hear it either. They get the slightest inkling one of you is in heat and we’ll have more trouble than the Japs.”

  Judith unsuccessfully attempts to conceal the fact she is picking hash from her teeth. “You can’t drag us all the way up here, then push us out onstage when the boys were expecting a star,” she says. “It just ain’t fair.”

  “Who promised you fair?” Stephen folds his arms across his chest. “There’s no fairness in this world and it’s our job to help these guys take a vacation from that fact for one night a year.”

  The girls glance at one another, then look to Judith.

  “For cryin’ out loud . . . This isn’t Forty-second Street!” Stephen pauses, then quickly collects himself. “These guys will love you. We’ll knock ’em over.”

  “I’m talking about communication . . .” Judith says, tension rising in her voice.

  In eleven hours, they will be onstage. Helen feels her nerves constricting both body and mind. A year ago, if she’d asked herself where she thought she’d be now, Helen would have imagined pushing a carriage around the park at Green Lake with John, breathing in the delicate fragrance of apple blossoms, trying to figure out how to successfully mother an infant without the benefit of help or advice from a mother of her own. But she knows everyone on this base should be someplace else. How many millions of lives have been diverted by this war? Unlike the tally of ships, dollars, or casualties, there is no math for personal losses, losses quiet and unseen. No restitution for what could have been.

  Helen stands with her tray and backs toward the door. She dumps her uneaten meal into the garbage and sets the tray on the counter. A kid in a white apron intercepts it and asks if there is anything else she wants. Bony, drooping shoulders. Adam’s apple sharp to match the chin. He appears all of seventeen. Turn him sideways and he’d be five inches wide. The only thing to recommend him is a pair of stunning green eyes.

  “Lookin’ forward to your show,” he says. “We’re real pleased you’re here.”

  “Teresa Wright didn’t make it. It’ll just be us girls tonight.”

  “Heard yesterday. We got word from the boys in Prince Rupert that she wasn’t on the plane. I never believed she was comin’ anyhow.”

  “You don’t care?”

  “She don’t even seem human to me. At least you girls seem like the real thing.”

  Helen wants to tell him that this is the nicest thing anyone has said to her in months. That his words give her courage. She says, “That’s one gorgeous set of eyes you’ve got.”

  The resulting smile surprises and incapacitates him, transforms him utterly. He looks away, then backs off a few steps. He brushes a hand over a head of short-cropped hair, makes a sound meant to resemble a laugh, then disappears into the kitchen.

  * * *

  BEFORE THE APPLAUSE DIES AWAY, Helen flees to their Quonset hut through the dark, splashing slush halfway up the inside of her thigh. She can’t get away fast enough. She pulls the door closed behind her, then stops—her pulse racing to catch her. At the stove she finds the embers glowing still. She tosses in a scoop of coal.

  Helen sits with crossed arms and legs, considering the disaster of her performance, the shame of having let everyone down on opening night, the danger that being found a fraud will pose to her chances of finding John.

  Up onstage, it began with a confused, sideways glance from Judith at the top of their third number. As the other girls each took up a verse from “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree,” Helen somehow missed her cue. It was a small thing, really. Gladys tried to give Helen a lift with a big, encouraging smile. The men didn’t seem to mind, they cheered wildly each time one of them turned around, shifted position, or—heaven help them—bent over. But Helen’s throat had already tightened with nerves. That first mistake grew into a dark cloud that seemed to shadow her every move. Try as she might, she never really recovered.

  Halfway through “Cow Cow Boogie,” Helen’s harmony truly went south. On the first verse following the musical interlude, Judith looked back over her shoulder. Stephen glanced up from the piano—eyebrows raised, then lowered, then narrowed in frustration. Undaunted, he tried again even bigger, making it a part of the act. Despite this comic direction, Helen couldn’t find her way to the note. Eventually Stephen just smiled and blew her a kiss.

  Helen had hit her mark consistently during rehearsals. Tonight she was forced to abandon singing harmony altogether and silently mouthed the words for the remainder of the song. She sang faintly on the easier melodies, and felt a little more secure with her dancing on “Chattanooga Choo Choo.” But when she looked to Stephen for reassurance, he tugged the corners of his mouth and aped a grin. Throughout the entire second half of the performance, her goal was sheer survival.

  Helen gazes up at the arching ribs of the ceiling overhead. What is she doing here? John will be as close to the action as possible, and that is still over a thousand miles away in the Aleutian Islands. After Anchorage, their itinerary calls for shows in Fairbanks, the better part of a week spent, before finally heading out to the islands. Stephen confirms that they will be performing o
n Adak, halfway down the chain, the forward base of operations for the ongoing assault on the Japanese. Of all the places on Earth, this is where John is most likely to be. Once there, she will have only four days to find him. But as Helen has learned, itineraries change. What if suddenly they’re sent not west, but farther north or south? What if the Japanese advance and they are ordered out of the territory altogether?

  The door opens and Stephen steps in, stamps the snow and mud from his shoes, unravels his scarf. He whistles the tune to “Tangerine,” the encore number of their show. He stands next to Helen, contentedly gazing into the fire as if nothing were the matter. As if everything had gone according to plan.

  “I feel like Santa Claus,” he says. “Or the owner of a strip club. Someone who spreads cheer.”

  “I had a case of nerves.” Her prepared remarks are barely audible. “It won’t happen again.”

  He unbuttons his collar and loosens his tie.

  “We were all a little shaky,” he says

  “No, we weren’t. I was.”

  “Okay, you’re right. You were. And you looked like someone was holding a gun to your head. But at least you didn’t fall into the audience.”

  “I kept expecting you to get the hook and yank me offstage.”

  “Forget it,” he says. “We have plenty more shows ahead. Everyone has an off night or two. You just used one early.”

  She is unsure whether he is trying to rally what’s left of her confidence, or just going easy on her in advance of the storm headed her way.

  “Where are the girls?”

  “Still signing autographs.”

  “I haven’t been in front of an audience since . . .” Helen searches her memory for the lie. “Vancouver.”

  Stephen pulls a flask from his jacket and offers her a drink, which she declines. He helps himself to a taste, then squats down and checks the fire. He smiles and nods his head, as if reliving the highlights of the night. Helen is struck with the urge to trust.

  “You knew I was a fake. Didn’t you?”

  Stephen gets up, grabs a chair, and sits down next to Helen. He props up his feet on another chair and studies his flask before tilting it to his lips again.

  “You made great progress in rehearsals. You’ve a beautiful voice, as good as the rest of them. You just need to spend some time in front of an audience.”

  “You knew I lied about my experience.”

  “You came recommended, and I liked you from the start.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I wanted to see if you could pull it off.”

  “Stephen—”

  “Who hasn’t lied to get themselves where they want to be? You think I haven’t invented a few accomplishments to get steady work in Los Angeles? Look. This business is all about perception. You know how you get hired to direct a three-act musical, with orchestra, and cast of twenty in Sacramento? Tell ’em you’ve done it in New York. Then you move on from there. Producers don’t ask you to swear on a Bible. Perhaps they should start.”

  He takes another swig. Not long ago, Helen would have judged him for being so casual with the truth.

  “People don’t care about what you’ve done,” he concludes. “They only care about what you can do for them. Is this all really news to you? Sweetheart, come on.”

  “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

  “Then don’t. Just learn to hear your own sound coming through. Then find the melody and tail it. It’ll pull you along. And smile, for God’s sake. Don’t stop smiling. If I don’t see you smiling every second of every song, I’ll throw something at you. Smile at the other girls, smile at individual guys, smile at the audience in general. Make eye contact and tease.”

  Judith arrives alone. She hangs her jacket on a hook, then staggers over, shoving Stephen’s feet off the chair before sitting down. The cloud of gin isn’t far behind. “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever done and no one even touched me.”

  “Congratulations,” Stephen says. “Need a cigarette?”

  Helen is relieved that Judith has arrived to pull the spotlight in her direction. If she’s waiting to deliver a damning critique, it’s not the first thing on her mind. The other girls push their way through the door together, swinging hips so wide they almost knock each other over. They drop coats on cots, kick off shoes, slip on thick wool socks over silk stockings. As they gather round the stove, Helen’s sense of isolation grows. Her stomach tightens as they circle in, boasting over who gave the most autographs. When the chatter subsides, Helen looks over at Stephen, who winks. She gestures for his flask. When the whiskey reaches the back of her throat, she has to fight the urge to cough. Instead a single tear escapes and begins to roll down her cheek. She instantly wipes it away and clears her throat. “My God. I was a disaster. I couldn’t sing to save my life and I’m sorry.” Helen holds up the flask again as the girls focus in. “Maybe this will help.” She takes another drink.

  “Oh, boo hoo,” Judith says. “I blew it on ‘Just Squeeze Me,’ Jane went flat on ‘A Good Man Is Hard to Find,’ and—if you can believe it—Gladys farted on ‘All of Me.’ ”

  “I did not!” Gladys feigns shock at the accusation.

  “I nearly burst a seam,” Judith says. “You learn that at Julliard? Or whichever schools they have in the wilds of Illinois.”

  They pass the flask and take their time scrutinizing the tiniest nuance of each and every song. No one is spared.

  When the festivities show signs of winding down, Judith lets fly about secret parties she heard about while on a show in New York. Parties where husbands and wives come in masks and end up with strangers. Parties where people wear masks and little else. “I haven’t seen it myself, of course, but you’d be shocked to know who’s involved. I mean big names.”

  The girls take turns guessing the names of actresses and actors but must take a swig with each guess made. The game continues until the whiskey is gone. But then a bottle appears in its place and continues the established rounds. Soon, half the stars of the silver screen are ensnared in Judith’s tale.

  Deep in the night, Helen lies down and picks a bolt in the ceiling above and stares at it to keep the room from spinning. She has only been drunk like this once before. This time, she has no regrets. She has been pardoned, accepted by a group of women determined to look after their own. Worldly women with little thought of starting a family anytime soon. The kind of women Joe would warn her about, the kind of women Helen would have otherwise avoided. Helen recognizes this as a gift she does not deserve. She falls asleep thankful for their kindness—and the grace it affords on her way to finding John.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Helen finds herself in the mess hall, gazing into the emerald eyes of the skinny dishwasher, who now blushes hopelessly over a tray of reconstituted eggs.

  Men. Despite the unsettling wave of testosterone she felt barreling toward her onstage last night, Helen pities their weakness. Here, among soldiers rallied for war, she is embarrassed by her inordinate power—a power derived entirely from her gender and appearance. She and the other girls are the fleeting reflection of their hopes and desires, a temporary release from their worries and fears. If she had encountered John, her own brothers, or her father at this age, in such a state, how would she want them treated?

  With Stephen and the girls distracted at their table, Helen gestures for the boy to approach. When his shiny face is within reach, she takes it in both her hands and plants a kiss on his cheek—then turns and walks away.

  ELEVEN

  THE RAIN HAS CEASED BUT THE SEA CONTINUES TO boil. The wind whips up to astonishing speeds. Easley wonders if the island is being hit by an arctic hurricane. The strongest gusts force their way into the cave, but stumble and wear themselves down by the time they reach his cheeks. Easley lies entombed in parachutes. The blackest time of night.

  The edges of the little frame are smooth in the palm of his hand, the glass flat and cool. Easley has stared at the image for so long now, he no longer needs to see it. He sometimes t
hinks that she is more than her photograph, more than a real, living woman—that he can feel the brush of her wings in the cold heart of night. Do angels take on human form when they descend into the lives of men? His mind warns him to fight such thoughts, but his soul does not hesitate to embrace them. Tatiana encourages him, gives him strength to carry on.

  Suddenly, the wind ceases altogether.

  Get up. Time to go.

  THERE IS NO NEED to see when traveling this beach. He knows every boulder and gully, can hear the surf rushing up to knock him over and pull him into the deep. Walking in the dark, arms outstretched, gives him the sense of flying.

  He has been without coal for nearly a week. His last incursion into the village was cut short when he noticed three Japanese soldiers fixing something in the low spot near the shed. Jammed machine gun? Land mine? They were there for what seemed like hours. Yet by diverting his course he discovered where kitchen slop had been tossed behind the camp. Under the cover of fog, he found a half-rotten onion and some rice, which he consumed on the spot. It was only when he had finished eating that he noticed a wad of bloody bandages mixed in with the scraps.

  Now, through his boots and ears, he reads sand, then grass, then sand again. Blindly marching on in the dark.

  “What’s come over me?” he wonders aloud, startled by the sound of his own voice. Falling for a snapshot of a woman he can never know. And Helen—the guilt of having let her down. Hungry and exhausted, he must fight to keep his wits, avoid indulging in philosophy or fantasy. But the question grows and crowds out other thoughts: What if Tatiana is the last person waiting for me?

  THIS TIME AROUND, his approach is marked by shades of dawn. Sentries should be posted, but Easley can detect no movement. The village now appears abandoned, the camp itself tightly battened down. And then he sees them, a group of six, setting out from the tents together, arms swinging as they set a respectable pace. Easley has seen this before, a show for their superiors. As soon as they are beyond the camp, they will shuffle through the motions, stopping now and then to peer up at the clouds above or out to sea. Having easily subdued the island’s few inhabitants, the Japanese are convinced they have Attu to themselves. Easley cautiously makes his way to the ridge in the dim, colorless light. From there, he waits and surveys the blight of more than a hundred tents, which appear as a vast Hooverville. Hopeful no eyes are staring back, he cautiously approaches the dump.