The Wind Is Not a River

by Brian Payton

  On his return to the cave, Easley hooks his thumbs into the waist of his trousers and holds them away from his skin. His hip bones have become so sharp that sores have formed where they rub against the filthy material. He walks like this back toward the cave, reveling in the temporary relief, never looking round to see if he is being watched—never looking back toward the body.

  Should anyone be watching, he’d provide quite a spectacle. Easley wonders what his kid brother would say if he could see him now. So many times during this ordeal he has wondered what Warren would have done. Where Easley always played by the rules, Warren instinctively did end runs around every rule or convention. He was usually too careful to find himself in compromising situations, reliably able to charm his way out of the few he could not avoid. When all else failed, he’d turn to his older brother.

  Six years ago, Warren found himself in that rarest of predicaments, facing a problem he could not outmaneuver. He got a girl pregnant. A girl his parents were never to know about, a girl who wanted nothing more to do with him. This was well before Warren landed his job with the timber company. Easley loaned him money to support the girl while she waited for the day she would hand over their child for adoption and put this mistake behind her. Warren wept openly, and was sullen much of the time, but finally agreed not to call or visit her, to simply leave her be.

  It now seems Easley will take the knowledge of this abandoned child with him, along with his and Helen’s own regrets, along with his parents’ belief that they are the end of their line.

  WHEN EASLEY RETURNS to the cave, Tatiana is waiting for him in front of a roaring fire. He is not surprised to see her sitting there, to smell her skin, soap-fresh from the bath. He is aware that she has entered the cave through his imagination. He chooses not to hold this fact against her—then suddenly changes his mind.

  Easley rushes back out into the ravine and stares into the smoke gray sky. He tracks a growing swarm of floaters in his vision until he is dizzy and forced to sit down. Easley can see and feel his body getting weaker, feel it lightening, preparing to float away. He can still tell the difference between the real and the imagined, but for how much longer? How many more hours spent waiting, wandering, hiding from what’s certain to come? The cave contains his only consolations, however they came to be. Must he deny himself the last comfort this cold hell affords?

  She sits in the same dark coat she wore in the photograph, weaving a basket from blades of rye. She looks up at him and smiles. Easley does not disturb her. He continues up to his nest and lies down on the silk parachute. She hums a tune he is convinced he has heard before. When he asks how her day has been, she smiles and looks up at him. He feels something come unstuck, then begin to flow.

  He tells her how tired he is and how he’s ready to sleep forever. He explains that he came to this island to show the world what is happening here but has failed so utterly. Landing feet first in the snow, the hunger and cold. Hunting with Karl, releasing him to the sea. How he tries and fails to conjure Helen. A punishment, he has come to believe, for the way he took his leave. How the past now seems to have forsaken him. Perhaps everything that went before was preparation for this, for Tatiana.

  She tucks and weaves the blades of rye. Fingers graceful and long. The basket takes shape in her hands. Despite the outward flow of affection, there is sadness as he watches her work, knowing she could vanish any minute. He wants to both gather her up in his arms and scatter her like a reflection in a pool. He stands paralyzed, gaping by the fire. Her song surfaces above the hum, she gives words to the tune.

  “A-tisket a-tasket

  A green and yellow basket

  I sent a letter to my love

  And on the way I dropped it . . .”

  Planes growl overhead. The Americans are at it again. Tatiana lets the words fall away, but hums a little louder to drown out the noise. Antiaircraft fire answers in a crackling stream. The bombs tumble down all the same. Thump, thump, thump. She shakes her head and defiantly hums even louder. Eventually, she looks up—Go out so they can see you.

  Easley bundles up the parachute and walks outside.

  He bounds up the ravine. The drone of Navy bombers, unseen in the folds of cloud, is overcome by his own voice calling out for the pilots to look down and see. But they are focused elsewhere: on to the enemy encampment, antiaircraft guns, adjacent airspace. He works quickly, spreading the silk on flattened rye. He hobbles around, pulling the edges out to form a circle. He looks up and sees a plane briefly freed of the clouds. Before it disappears, it makes no sign of recognition, no bank or tip of the wings.

  And then the bombing stops. Through a widening gap, a second plane curves out into the open. It comes in over the hills toward his beach. He cannot tell if the pilot sees him. It continues toward open sea.

  Easley jumps up and down around the parachute, waving desperately. The pilot still offers no response. Then, as an afterthought, or to lighten the load for the journey home, a single, whistling bomb escapes as the plane pulls up and climbs. The bomb traces an elegant line down over Easley’s head. It sails over the cave, and Tatiana. It enters the water just offshore, sending up a geyser of rock and spray. The concussion sends him to his knees. He palms his ears, but this only keeps the pain ringing close to his brain. By the time he looks up, the plane is just a dot, lost in the gauze of another cloud.

  The end is now in view. No—he chides himself, yet again—he only needs a good meal or three, prepared and served by Helen’s hands. But this lie no longer has effect. For too long now, Easley has been consuming himself. If Helen were here she would see a different species altogether. A wretch with another man’s blood on his clothes. Someone who cannot discern between shadow and light. Someone whose heart has been untrue. If only they had succeeded in starting a family. That would have been a form of continuation, a life beyond this one now set to end.

  Easley gathers up the parachute, then walks back toward the ravine. No sound can be heard inside. He glances back at where the bomb shattered the sea. The waves have closed over and healed the breach swiftly, as if it had never been. He spies white specks floating in the surf, sees a couple of fish up on the beach. Easley drops the silk and runs.

  He manages to snatch eight fish before the tide pulls the rest away. He removes the lace from his right boot, threads it through gills and gaping mouths. He dips them back into the water, rinsing sand from glistening skin.

  At the cave, all signs of light and life have vanished. There is no hum or song. Tatiana is back in her frame—only the ringing in his ears remains.

  SIXTEEN

  THE STAGE IS SET AGAINST THE BACK WALL OF THE hangar. Aircraft have been rolled outside to make room for an audience of two thousand, their biggest show yet. A broad, three-foot riser has been custom built, with a little dressing room off stage right. Inside is a bench, a mirror, a washbasin and pitcher. The only notable part of the construction, the truly creative touch, is a row of bombshells lined up along the front of the stage like a row of menacing, moss-colored teeth separating the entertainment from the entertained.

  A man drives nails into fresh plywood. His khaki jumpsuit covers an athlete’s frame. The toes of his boots are nearly worn through from working too often on his knees. Unruly brown hair sticks out from under his cap, considerably longer than regulation. Helen approaches with her arms folded tight against the cold. She watches as he pounds a nail, stands up, then jumps up and down to test its integrity.

  “I hope you made a trapdoor,” Helen says to his broad back. “I’ll need it when the crowd gets ugly.”

  The man stops jumping but does not turn around. He’s been aware of her presence from the start.

  “It looks great,” she adds. “Thanks for all your work.”

  “Lady, you don’t need to thank me. You’re doing us the favor.”

  He turns to reveal a thoughtful, intelligent face, jaw pronounced and set. He hasn’t shaved in days. He avoids looking directly in her eyes.


  “We put an electric heater in there for you to warm up before the show.” He points with his hammer. “Or for when you take breaks between numbers.”

  “We saw it this morning. Thanks again.”

  He jumps up and down in a few more spots, paying her no further heed. When he discovers a board that squeaks, he pulls a nail out of his pocket and pounds it down in two smooth strokes.

  “I’m Helen. I hope you enjoy the show.”

  “Perera. Airman Thomas Perera.”

  She extends her hand and waits. He seems unused to the custom, or civilian company. Finally he steps forward and shakes her hand, all the while avoiding her eyes. His are blue, set deep in the shadow of his brow. Italian, but from the north. He turns and shifts his weight to a new board, which gives no reply.

  “We’ve been looking forward to your show forever.”

  “Well, I hope we don’t disappoint.” She observes a moment more, then catches herself. She turns to leave.

  “The shells are empty,” he says. “Nothing to worry about. I just thought they add a little something.”

  “They do. They do indeed . . . I was wondering. Ever meet any journalists out here? Writers coming out to file a report?” She’s grown skilled at cultivating such entrées, turning most every conversation to her purpose.

  “They say loose lips sink ships . . . I’ve heard of no reporters. But you can bet they’ll be arriving by the boatload once we mop up the last of the mess.”

  “Of course. I just thought a friend of mine might have come through.”

  “But I’ve only been here nine months,” he says, lightening his tone. “Long enough to forget my manners. If you’re looking for someone in particular, you can try asking at the Supply Corps’ office. There’s a manifest for every ship and plane that’s landed here. They might be able to check the records, if they’re in the right frame of mind. You could try Ralph Rosetta. Tell him I sent you.”

  To him, it’s a small thing. A common courtesy. He has no idea how his generosity could change everything.

  “Well, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  After what appears to be serious thought, he says, “Just make me laugh tonight.”

  STEPHEN SITS FORWARD, pipe in hand, elbows on knees. He’s lit it twice, but the bowl’s gone cold from lack of attention. Judith hides behind her wool curtain, feigning sleep. Gladys sets the mirror down with a sigh, unhappy with her hair, the way her nerves have mottled her skin, telling herself she’s ready to take the lead. Sarah purses her lips and shifts her eyes about in a kind of aimless searching. Jane adjusts her earrings, apparently relaxed and content. Helen finds it best to focus on quiet, uncomplicated Jane because she projects confidence. She has proven herself to be their most accomplished actress. Stephen glances at his watch again, stands up, and nods. It’s time.

  Outside, the weather seems determined to drive the audience underground. The troupe, now reduced to a quartet, cinch their coats to the neck, cover their heads with scarves, and hustle to the hangar through the back door, which is veiled in parachutes. The silk leads in an unbroken curtain to the stage and dressing room. The unseen audience asserts itself on the other side, laughing, singing in anticipation.

  The tiny dressing room offers barely enough space to contain them. Gladys, Sarah, and Jane sit on the bench, Stephen stands along with Helen. The heater glows orange in between. The air, saunalike, sets Helen’s cheeks tingling. The multitudes beyond begin calling out for action. Helen reaches into her purse for a jar of Vaseline. She rubs a small pearl’s worth on her teeth to lubricate her smile. She looks at her shoes and mutters a chain of Hail Marys just under her breath. They all freeze when they hear an electric click followed by two dull thuds.

  “Ladies, please take your seats . . . God, what an ugly crowd we have here tonight!” The voice reminds Helen of her father. “Church services will now begin. Please open your hymnals to page two hundred twelve.”

  Laughter.

  “They say no one cares about the heroics of Aleutian flyboys.” This is met with catcalls and jeers. “They say no one gives a damn about the men who provide top cover for America.” More displeasure. “What I want to know is, who the hell are they?” Cheers. “They’ve never flown through a williwaw, or put a B-24 down on a soggy Marsden Mat.” Louder cheers. “Let me tell you a little something about the show you’re about to see tonight, about the girls from the USO. They know where to find the hardest working men in the Pacific. And that’s why they’ve come to Adak—to show their appreciation on behalf of a grateful nation. Now, at ease! Take a load off, enjoy yourselves tonight. And please give a warm, warm Aleutian welcome to the USO Swingettes!”

  The lights go down and the little dressing room is hit with a sustained volley of applause.

  Stephen grabs Gladys’s hand, leads her out the door and across the darkened stage. Sarah, Jane, and Helen follow close behind. En route, they pass the resident twelve-piece band that’s been rehearsing this set for weeks. Each girl takes her place onstage. Stephen mounts the piano stool and taps out the first notes in the dark—then pauses. He starts again, gets a little further, then pauses a longer beat. He’s teasing it out. The tune’s so familiar, it’s the stripped-down piano rendition that throws the audience off. Then, from deep in the crowd, someone lets out a howl. Stephen attacks the keyboard and the horns join in. The lights go up on the girls. They have their backs to the audience, hands on hips, whistling the first phrase of “In the Mood.”

  The response from the crowd is unlike anything Helen has experienced. It hits her at the base of the spine, nearly shoving her off balance. As the applause rolls on, she steals a sideways glance at Sarah, sees the smile stretch wide across her face. One by one the girls turn round, approach the microphone, take up a line of song.

  “Who’s the lovin’ daddy with the beautiful eyes

  What a pair o’ lips, I’d like to try ’em for size.

  I’ll just tell him, ‘Baby, won’t you swing it with me’

  Hope he tells me maybe, what a wing it will be . . .”

  Helen stares into the light, over the heads of the men. When she allows herself to look into their faces, she feels both powerful and disarmed. When it’s her turn to lead, she holds back half her volume. She has to trust it first before pushing it out beyond the front of the stage. The result is that each verse gains weight at the end. She glances over at Stephen for reassurance.

  Four songs in, the lights narrow down to a spot. Sarah steps forward with “T’ain’t What You Do (It’s the Way That You Do It).” Helen slips offstage and back into the dressing room. She opens the door and steps through a wall of heat. It takes a moment, but when her eyes adjust she finds Judith sitting in the corner, blanket around her shoulders, looking up with a colorless smile. She reaches for Helen’s hand and gives it a squeeze. Together, they listen as Sarah works the crowd.

  About halfway in, Sarah’s classically trained voice pulls back and the trumpets clamber over top one another. Helen and Judith pause in anticipation of the shim-sham routine Sarah has honed to perfection. They stare into the shadows, then Helen catches Judith’s eye just as the crowd roars for the pirouette Sarah always breaks out before picking up the verse again. When it’s all over, the applause seems to last as long as the song. Sarah sings two more.

  Helen’s stomach tightens when the time comes to slip back onstage. She’s sung well so far, but now she must carry a song. She leans against the piano and concentrates on Stephen’s shiny black hair, hair too beautiful to waste on a man. Her pulse quickens when she hears men whistle and shout. Time to slow things down. Stephen looks up and nods. He waits for the slightest sign, then leans forward and presses into the keys. A few notes in, Helen sings.

  “It’s not the pale moon that excites me

  That thrills and delights me, oh no,

  It’s just the nearness of you.”

  Helen turns and takes the next verse downstage. Just beyond the bombshells, a man stands, reaches up, and cl
aps above his head.

  The verse wasn’t perfect, but it’ll do. No sour notes, no fumbled lines. She knows Judith’s songs as well as her own, as well as every other song in their repertoire. A little deeper in, she has a high-wire moment, unsure of the next phrase. But she trusts, stays present with the music, and when she reaches for it, it’s there. She finds the current, lets it pull her through. What would John think if he could see her now?

  Helen plays it soft, vulnerable. She turns her back on Stephen, glances over her shoulder at him, teasing, making eyes. But the love she must win is from the crowd in front of her. These men want the song sung to them. They want to believe, for a moment, that if they are not in love, then at least they’re someplace else, someplace warm and easy. To help keep her equilibrium, she scans over the heads of the audience, avoids making eye contact with individuals, tries to think of them as one.

  But by her final verse, she can no longer help herself. Through the glare and haze she picks out tall ones and short ones, men swaying, leaning, standing transfixed. She has made herself the object of unblinking attention for two thousand men. She takes an unsure step, then looks to Stephen. His smile pulls her up, brings her back into the moment.

  “I need no soft lights to enchant me

  If you’ll only grant me the right

  To hold you ever so tight

  And to feel in the night the nearness of you.”

  Stephen rises with the cheers. He takes Helen’s hand and strides to the middle of the stage. They bow deeply as the men jump to their feet. Sarah, Gladys, and Jane emerge from the shadows to join Stephen and Helen at center stage with the trumpet player from the band. They cap the set with “Tuxedo Junction.” By the first Way down south in Birmingham, some of the men have opened up a hole in the crowd at the foot of the stage, taking turns at the Lindy Hop, lead and follow, a few attempting lifts and tricks. At last, the girls wave and bow into the wings as the crowd calls out for more. And this is only the intermission.