by Brian Payton
“Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll start. Can I ask a question?”
Helen nods.
“Why’re you here?”
She feels the blush bloom across her neck and face. “I told you I need the company.”
“Up here, I mean. With us. For springtime in Alaska.”
“To find someone . . . and bring him back.”
“I hear you’ve been asking questions.”
She pauses, holding back for one last moment, then finds she can no longer bear it. “I’m here to find my husband.” How pathetic she must sound, abandoned, unaccepting. She takes a deep breath. “There’s something sad about the way love boosts your confidence. You fool yourself into thinking you can do anything, but then . . .”
Stephen unscrews the cap again and takes another swig.
“He was always committed to his work,” she says, feeling the cliché in a complaint that must echo across the generations. “But after his brother was killed in Europe, he took it up like a cross he had to bear.”
Stephen offers her the flask again. This time, she accepts.
“His name is John. He’s a writer. He used to write about wildlife and nature. Now he writes about war. He was in the Aleutians when the Japanese attacked, and he’s one of the few journalists who could find them on a map. He feels he has a duty to get the story. He is the most honorable man I know. I also know he’s somewhere in the Aleutians right now and he must be in trouble. All I want is to bring him home.”
Helen tips the flask. She crinkles her nose at the harshness of the whiskey, wishing instead for a taste of her father’s sweet rum. She watches Stephen sort the information, reconciling this new person with the one he knew before.
“You’re married . . .”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was afraid that if the USO knew what I was up to they’d never let me come. Or that you would think I was some hysterical, jilted wife.”
Stephen nods slowly, chooses his next move with care.
“Was there another woman?”
She shakes her head. This suggestion is dismissed with such swift assurance that Helen suddenly realizes it is a gift. Not once has she questioned whether she is the only woman in John’s life.
“So, he left you for his work . . .”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Always is. Let me get this straight. You think you can find him in the Aleutians, convince him to pack it in and go home with you because you’ve come all this way.”
“You make it sound so hopeless.”
“Hopeless? I know it would work on me.”
Helen studies his eyes and finds sincerity.
“So, tell me what he’s like.”
What’s been long packed deep inside wells up with such force, she’s barely able to get her hands in front of her face in time. At last, she weeps. Stephen gets up, grabs a clean undershirt from his bag, nods for her to take it.
“He’s determined.” She wipes her face, takes a breath. “He is kind and loyal to a fault. He can concentrate on one thing to the exclusion of all else. Once you’ve been the object of that kind of attention . . .”
“Sounds possessive.”
“Devoted. You’d think he’s quiet if you met him, but once you got to know him . . .” She brushes the hair away from her face. “And here I am in a musical review, chasing after him. I feel like a fool . . . He would have contacted me if he could. I need to do this carefully.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
Stephen stands and extends his hands. Helen gently places hers in his. He helps her up and holds her in his arms.
“Sometimes I wonder if anyone will ever feel that for me,” he says. “I’ve felt it for other people, but it never seems to come my way.”
Stephen releases her with a kiss on the forehead, then fetches his wingtips, shoe brush, and polish. He sits down and sets about shining his shoes. It occurs to Helen that in relaying her story she may have triggered some memory for him.
“Stephen, is there—”
“It’s late.”
She nods, hands back his undershirt.
“You’ve seen how frantic they are up here,” he says. “This war could change in a heartbeat. And we’ll be heading toward the front . . . I just hope this guy deserves you.”
* * *
THE SKY IS ASWARM over Fairbanks. Helen is so distracted by the roar and purr of aircraft flying in formation, circling overhead, landing in turn, she has to force herself to look down now and again as she walks along the airfield. One after the other, the planes bounce, then taxi down the runway. They park in haphazard rows near the edge of the pavement and the forest of stunted black spruce beyond.
Some of the pilots have to be lifted out of their seats and carried by other men. Others exit their plane on their own power, but then stumble after a step or two, grabbing hold of the ground crew for support. When Helen enquires what’s afflicting these men, she’s told no more than that they’ve been aloft so long that their legs have gone numb and useless. But at a dinner in their honor that night, Stephen is pulled aside and informed that it’s all a part of Roosevelt’s plan to send thousands of planes to the Soviets, quietly delivering them through the back door, from Montana to western Canada, then here to Ladd Field at Fairbanks. This is where the Soviets take over and fly them on to Siberia.
The following morning, the temperature plunges to minus ten degrees. Helen has never experienced air so cold that it burns her nose or causes her lungs to ache. Under her coat, she bundles up in several layers of clothes, covers her face with her scarf, but sees the Russians wandering between the airfield and barracks in relatively light coats and jodhpurs, trousers flared at the hip and tight at the knee. These are older, hardened men who, the Americans say, have considerable experience killing Nazis and seeing their own people slaughtered. To Helen they seem suspicious, ill at ease. When they catch sight of her and the other girls, they don’t respond with the usual wide grin or comic flirtation. These men leer and stare. They whisper to one another and blow thin streams of smoke through bad teeth while sizing up their quarry.
In Helen’s search for her invented cousin, she hears of American and Canadian pilots passing through on their way to serve in the Aleutians, but none coming back in this direction. There are about two thousand enlisted men and nearly as many civilians at Ladd Field. They are busy getting planes refueled and on their way west, constructing hangars and barracks, and conducting cold weather aeronautical research for arctic warfare. The men boast they’ve had perfect conditions of late. This past winter was one of the chilliest in memory, with drops to minus fifty-two degrees.
Their three-night run goes remarkably well. The show has gotten sharp and tight even as Helen feels her search unraveling. But then a thought occurs to her up onstage, staring out at the crowd of uniforms. A winning idea that has her flushed with hope again. What about that other organization with personnel in the islands, and around the world? Men who are bound and dedicated to helping their fellow men? That organization in which she is a lifelong member.
A CROSS HAS BEEN NAILED to the front of the last in a row of bleak Quonset huts. Icicles hang from the crossbar like feathers of outstretched wings. A red candle glows inside the window, signifying the presence of the Blessed Sacrament. The pile of snow outside the door is pockmarked with discarded cigarettes. Helen knocks twice. Hearing no response, she lets herself in.
Rows of benches lead to a simple wooden altar at the back. The arching walls are unadorned, the room bare and utilitarian—practically Presbyterian, she thinks. Not a church, but a chapel. It is meant to welcome soldiers of every faith. She walks up the aisle and genuflects. As if freed by this gesture, a chaplain emerges from behind the screen. But he seems taken aback when he sees her. Like most men she encounters these days, he is unaccustomed to seeing a woman dressed in something other than a nurse’s uniform. Under a heavy green cardigan, he wears a black shirt and white collar. He is perhaps
forty-five, but exudes an air of authority and weariness that makes him seem far older. He fumbles with bifocals when Helen presents her hand. He introduces himself as the local chaplain, Father Michalski, and apologizes for the cold. The place never really warms up ’til it’s packed full on Sunday.
“Father, I need help and I don’t know where to turn.”
“Well, with God’s help let’s see what we can do.” He pulls a handkerchief from his sleeve, blows his nose, and stuffs it back down his wrist. “You’re in the show tonight?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s a great comfort to the men. But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”
She smiles. “It’s always nice to hear.”
He studies her, tilts his back head for a better view.
“Having something to look forward to makes all the difference . . . Don’t you think?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Where’s home?”
“Seattle. St. Brigid’s parish.”
“Seattle. The word’s starting to sound nostalgic.” He removes his glasses and pulls out the same handkerchief. He uses it to clean the lenses, then inspects the result. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, it’s a private matter.”
“You want a confession.”
“No. But I was hoping to speak with you . . . in confidence.”
“I see.” He crosses his arms and cocks his head, preparing—it seems—to dispense judgment.
She’s an adult, married woman, twenty-five years of age. Yet nothing changes. Perhaps he doesn’t intend it, but the priest’s gaze makes her feel like a nervous child. He gestures to the front pew, and they sit down together.
“My husband’s a war correspondent. He was working in the territory when the government ordered them all out. But he came back.”
“I see.”
Again, he “sees.” For Helen, this exchange has none of the release that comes from a good confession. It’s as if he doesn’t want to get involved.
“No one’s heard from him in months.”
“Well, if he’s up here, against government orders, there’s a good chance he’s been caught. There’s a great sensitivity about information, as you can understand.”
“I believe he’s in the Aleutians. Most likely, Adak.”
“That’s a long way from here.”
“Well, I was hoping you might know someone out there. A fellow priest or pastor? Maybe you could contact him and see if he’s heard anything about a reporter being captured, or . . .”
An airman enters the chapel and removes his cap and gloves. He meets the priest’s eyes for less than a second, then sits shyly on a bench near the door.
“Mrs. . . . ?”
“Easley.” A name she hasn’t claimed in months.
He considers her expression, perhaps recalling what it was like to minister to women. Remembering a time when he was one of several priests in the rectory sharing the load, when he did not have to perform emotional triage on men regularly risking their lives.
“You must know there are other men missing.” He lowers his voice. “Men in uniform. Now, I have a young airman waiting for me.”
“People have a right to know what’s going on up here, if this war is coming their way. This is American territory.”
“Let’s trust our president about what people should and shouldn’t know.” He puts a hand on her shoulder in a perfunctory manner that lets her know he’s done it a thousand times before. “Can we arrange a time later?”
“Father, that’s just it. I’m running out of time.”
Father Michalski lifts a purple stole from a shelf next to the altar. He kisses it, places it over the back of his neck, then turns to face Helen again. “I’ll make a call to the chaplain on Adak. I don’t know if it will do you any good, but he has a feel for what’s going on out there. Come back and see me tomorrow morning after breakfast.”
Helen turns toward the man in the pew. Receding blond hair, the hunched shoulders of the condemned. He musters the strength to go in and face the priest.
On her way out, Helen glances down at his hands. Dark yellow stains begin at the bandaged wrists and disappear under the sleeves of his coat. In that moment, the man reaches out and gently touches the hem of her dress where it protrudes from under her coat. Stunned, Helen does not flinch or step away. The man neither looks up for permission nor moves closer to her leg. He simply traces swollen fingers underneath the hem, then lets it fall back in place again. Navy blue, with small flowers yellow and white. She glances back to see Father Michalski watching silently from the altar. The priest meets her gaze for only a second, then turns and disappears behind the screen.
The airman rises and Helen steps aside. He walks up the aisle, genuflects to the altar, then bows behind the screen. There is nothing left to do but pray. At first, she sits on the bench where the airman had been, but rises as soon as she senses his lingering warmth.
On her knees, she feels remote—from God, other people, herself. Regardless, she gives thanks for this new, slim chance.
At the door, she instinctively reaches a finger into the holy water font and finds it turned to ice.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Helen returns as instructed to find the chapel locked. She bangs on the door until she’s certain no one is inside. She marches to the office next door, where a plump airman is seated behind a desk. It’s only midmorning, but he already seems weary. He forces a smile. The chaplain is in town ministering to the Indians, he explains, and won’t be back until supper.
“He told me to meet him here this morning.” Helen measures her tone, but leaves no mistake about her frustration. She never expected the priest’s coldness toward her would develop into a complete rebuff.
“The last twenty-four hours have been difficult.” He leans back in his chair. “His schedule’s all shot to hell. We got word yesterday that a plane lost a month ago was finally found. Crew of six, still strapped in their seats . . . The chaplain was up all night waiting to receive the bodies.”
“I’m so sorry.”
The clerk hands her a folded slip of paper.
“He said you’d be by.”
Dear Mrs. Easley,
Like myself, the chaplain on Adak works hand in hand with the chain of command. He makes it his business to keep track of the comings and goings from the island. He has no knowledge of any journalists visiting Adak. Reporters are not welcome at this time. My advice to you is to return home and await your husband’s return, or notification through official channels. I wish you God’s blessing. I will pray for you and your husband. Please pray for me.
Yours, in Christ,
Francis Michalski, Chaplain, Captain, USAF
THIRTEEN
THE STONES HAD BEEN SELECTED AND HAULED UP from the beach by the pack load. Easley dumped and sorted them at the mouth of the cave. The renovation project has been under way for two days and the end is now in sight. Karl would surely have been pleased.
The wall was a grand idea. The best he’s had in weeks. It has given him something to think about—other than the fact that he can count his ribs, that his legs have withered to sticks, that he questions the difference between the real and the imagined. Still, he is feeling revived. For this he has the dog to thank. Seeing the wall take shape gives him the feeling of progress. He picks up a flat capstone and sets it snug in the new wall. He takes a step back into the mist and says, “Shoulda been a bricklayer!”
Easley speaks to himself as a reminder that he was once with other people. He sings to himself, recites poetry, puts on accents like actors in amateur Shakespeare. He has taken to describing aloud everything he does, so as not to lose track of what the point is supposed to be. Mostly, he speaks to the woman in the picture.
The wall rises clear to his chest. A narrow opening provides access. It will help keep out wind and rain, make the most of the fire within. Easley thinks it gives the place the look of one of those ancient Pueblo cliff dwellings in Colorado, a little Mesa Verde. Ho
w it might appear from the beach below, should the enemy happen by, concerns him no more.
When finished, Easley changes out of his own filthy clothes and into the new Japanese underpants, trousers, and socks. To celebrate the completion of the project, he allows himself an extravagance of coal. Easley never did find where the Imperial Japanese Army moved the little coal depot, or locate another, but he did manage to find a small cache inside one of the empty Aleut houses. Enough perhaps for two meager, or one bright night. He now gathers a handful of dried grass and kneels to light the fire. When it becomes clear the lighter won’t work, he slides it back into his pocket. Although he knows the lighter fluid is long gone, he had hoped for one final spark. He covers his face with trembling hands.
Easley collects himself and stares down at the pile of kindling and coal. He stretches out his hands, imagines the flames, the pinpricks in his fingers and palms as the skin begins to thaw. Conjures the smell of smoke, the loosening of muscles as the warm air swirls. Moves his leg back a safe distance because the heat soon has these new trousers too hot to touch.
If he turns and looks just now, will he find his shadow enlarged, cast up on the wall of the cave? Then there would be two of him. A kind of company.
There was a lecture in university. Plato? Prisoners in a cave, chained in darkness their entire lives, held facing away from a fire kept burning behind them. A parade of animals and people pass between the fire and the prisoners, but the poor wretches see only the flickering images on the back of the cave. Do these men perceive the difference between real life and the shadows on walls that imprison them? Once released from the cave, shown light and life, they turn back to the cave because shadows are all they’ve ever known.
Better not sit with these thoughts too long. Best not turn around.
COME MORNING, Easley finds himself staring at the picture of Tatiana. He has memorized every fold in her coat, the way her black hair brushes her neck, the number of rivets in the wall of the ship. An old man stands behind her, his back turned to the camera. Easley cannot see his face but envies his proximity. And then it reveals itself: the pearl earring. Japanese pearl? How could he have missed it? She never fails to show him something new. He lifts the image to his lips.