There had to be an explanation for all that, and the most logical one was alcohol. She had had more to drink since coming to Muku Muku than she could ever remember having at one time in her life.
Not as much as poor Flo. Flo really got plastered.
Understandable, of course. Flo had learned all at once that her man—her husband—had come through Guadalcanal intact, was on his way to Pearl Harbor, and that he’d been promoted to master gunner. It wasn’t just a promotion. With a bar on his collar rather than stripes on his sleeve, Flo and her husband would no longer have to hide from the Navy the very fact of their marriage.
Officer-enlisted marriages were forbidden.
All the same, Carol didn’t think it likely that the Navy would court-martial a nurse who’d earned on December 7th both the Purple Heart for wounds and the Silver Star for valor, no matter what she did. But there would still have been serious trouble for both of them if it came out they had defied Navy regulations and gotten married.
I wonder if they’ll have to get married again, or whether they can just confess they’ve been married all along?
Flo would probably have had too much to drink in any event…even if that nice old Denny the Steward and his assistants hadn’t passed out liquor as if the one who passed out the most would get a prize.
Everybody got drunk, even that nice Colonel Dawkins, and she didn’t think he was the type who got drunk very often. And while they were throwing it back, they talked about Guadalcanal, even the Colonel. Carol had never heard anyone who’d been there talk about it. She suspected they didn’t like to do that in front of people who hadn’t been there…in front of people—women, especially—who wouldn’t understand. But Flo was different. Flo was a regular Navy nurse; and her husband was a regular Marine who’d been a flying sergeant probably before Pick Pickering and Billy Dunn were born. They could talk in front of her, she was one of them. And after a while, when they all got drunker, they seemed to forget about Carol Ursery…or at least that Carol Ursery wasn’t one of them.
She heard things about Billy Dunn that she had a hard time believing, to look at him. He was a double ace. He’d shot down ten Japanese airplanes. Nobody would believe that, to look at him. He looked like a boy.
And Pick Pickering, who came across initially as such a wise-ass: He wasn’t that way, really. He told Colonel Dawkins he was going to turn in his wings after his buddy was hurt so badly—that poor kid wrapped up like a mummy in Ward 9D. He told him he didn’t want to fly anymore; that he was afraid. But Galloway wouldn’t let him.
And then Captain Galloway, who was just as drunk as the others, said with great affection: “The truth, Colonel, is this sonofabitch can really fly; I couldn’t let him go; The Corps needs him.”
And she learned that Galloway had taken Pickering with him when they flew to some Japanese-occupied island and rescued some people who were there reporting on Japanese aircraft movement.
And that Billy Dunn had been the squadron commander while they were gone. He really looked like a college cheerleader, Carol thought. How could this kid be a Marine officer, much less a double ace and an acting squadron commander?
The first time she saw him in the hospital, she actually thought that he looked like a cheerleader wearing his big brother’s uniform. A drunken boy.
And then she remembered that Billy didn’t seem as drunk as the others, later on…that he’d been quiet and thoughtful. They stopped dancing after Colonel Dawkins came. At the time, she was grateful; she thought she was probably going to have to fight him off, the way he was dancing so close to her.
Especially early on, when he had an erection. But he was a perfect gentleman about that, Carol now recalled. He was terribly embarrassed, and swiftly moved his middle away from hers.
But it meant he was interested in her, excited by her. And that alarmed her: While she wasn’t a virgin, neither did she sleep around, especially with a kid she’d just met…especially with a kid five or six years younger than she was—at least five or six years.
Well, he hadn’t even made a pass at her, tried to steal a quick feel or anything like that. He was really a nice kid…. A kid? How could she call this man a kid? A double ace, who was going to get both the Distinguished Flying Cross and possibly the Navy Cross too, Colonel Dawkins said?
And then he just disappeared, even before Colonel Dawkins left. And this solved Carol’s problem of how to handle him when he made a pass at her. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but she was not about to go to bed with a kid…even if he was cute as a button and a genuine hero. And more mature, more of a man, than he looked like.
Well, it really didn’t matter. No harm done. No feelings hurt. Thank God. Colonel Dawkins said there would be a car at Muku Muku at five in the morning that would take them to Honolulu to catch the Pan American commercial flight to San Francisco. She’d probably never see him again. Which was probably a good thing, because the truth seemed to be that she was more attracted to him than was good for her.
She looked at herself in the mirror one more time, lifted the towel off of her head and brushed her hair out, then turned the light off and went out of the bathroom into the bedroom.
She could hear the surf crashing on the beach below. This was the first time this evening she was conscious of it. She went out onto the balcony and looked down. There was just enough light to see the surf. It was a beautiful night.
She stood there, looking out at the stars and the water for several minutes, and then she turned around and started back to her room. She would have to somehow wake up early enough to rouse Flo and get the both of them back to the Nurses’ Quarters before the other girls started to get up—and started to make wise-ass remarks about where they’d been all night.
And then, farther down the balcony, she saw the coal of a cigarette glow bright; and in the light, she could make out Billy’s face.
I could pretend I didn’t see that and just go back in my room. But he has seen me. And he knows that I have seen him.
She walked down the balcony to him. He was wearing a robe like hers; and when he saw her coming, he got up from the chaise lounge where he had been sitting.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Carol asked.
“No,” he said.
I am making him uncomfortable. It’s almost as if he’s afraid of me.
“This is really a beautiful place, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Billy, are you all right?”
“Yes, of course I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I be all right?”
“I’m sorry I asked.”
“That’s all right. Forget it.”
“Billy, did I say something wrong? Did I do something?”
“Of course not.”
“You had a lot to drink….”
“Yeah.”
“Is that why you…just disappeared?”
He didn’t answer for a moment.
“When I disappeared, I was getting sober,” he said finally.
“Then why?”
“Sober enough to realize I’d been making an ass of myself with you.”
“Don’t be silly. I didn’t feel that way at all.”
Why did I say that? Not only isn’t it true, but it’s encouraging him.
“The reason I left was because you had just decided to stay over,” he said. “I was afraid.”
What the hell is he talking about?
“Afraid? I don’t understand.”
“I was drunk, and we were fooling around. But that was all right, because you were going to leave, and that would be the end of it.”
I will be damned! He thought I was interested in him!
“And you thought I was staying because of you?” she blurted.
“Pretty dumb, huh?”
“Billy, I did nothing that gave you any right to think anything like that.”
“I know. Now I know. I’m sorry. The thing is, I don’t know much about women. I don’t know anything about women.”
&n
bsp; What does that mean? That you’ve never had a girlfriend? That you’re a virgin, for God’s sake?
“You’ve never had a girlfriend? Come on!”
He did not reply.
“I can’t believe that, Billy.”
“Yeah. Well.”
My God, he means it!
“Oh, Billy,” she heard herself say; her hand, as if with a mind of its own, reached out and touched his cheek.
“I don’t know what to do now,” Dunn said.
She pulled her hand away from his face.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know whether that meant you felt sorry for me, or whether it meant…that maybe I should try to kiss you.”
“Billy, I feel like your big sister.”
Or maybe your mother. What I would like to do is put my arms around you and comfort you, and tell you everything is going to be all right.
Carol, who do you think you’re kidding?
“Yeah. Well. I figured that was probably it. Sorry.”
“You’re very sweet,” she said.
She leaned forward and kissed him chastely on the forehead. His arms, awkwardly, went around her. He had his face in her neck.
“God, you’re so beautiful!” he said.
What I should do now is push him away. This is getting out of control!
“Billy, now stop,” Carol said, and pushed away from him. This caused him to raise his face so that it was level with hers. She felt his breath on her lips.
“Oh, Billy, this is insane,” Carol said in the instant before her hand went to the back of his head and pulled it toward her.
[FIVE]
The Commissary
Metro-Magnum Studios
Los Angeles, California
1330 Hours 22 October 1942
Veronica Wood had come to the commissary to eat. She was famished. She’d gotten up at half past four, had one lousy four-minute egg, one piece of dry toast, a glass of skim milk, and not a goddamned thing else since.
Since then, there was the twenty-minute ride in the studio limousine, at least an hour and a goddamn half for makeup, and then twenty-two—count ’em, twenty-two—takes of one lousy scene.
Veronica was convinced that the first take was the one that would finally be used: The others were imposed on her because (a) Stefan Klodny the director wanted to polish his reputation as a perfectionist, or (b) the Hungarian pansy had overheard her saying that the worst kind of queer was a faggot Hungarian with a beard. Or both.
She ordered the Metro-Magnum Burger. This came on a Kaiser roll with sesame seeds, and with onions, lettuce, cheese, and some kind of sauce, and with french fried potatoes. The temptation was to wolf the whole goddamn thing down, and then top it off with cherry pie à la mode.
But she was an artist, and aware that artists are called upon to sacrifice. Her fans wanted Veronica Wood svelte, not chubby. When the Metro-Magnum Burger was served, she carefully salted and delicately let her mouth savor one french fry. She chewed it with relish, then pushed the rest of the french fries to the side of the plate. After that she removed the hamburger from the Kaiser roll and deposited the roll on top of the french fries. So far as she knew, onions and lettuce were not fattening, but that goddamned sauce was probably a hundred calories a taste. Consequently, she carefully scraped off as much of the sauce as she could. Then she ate the hamburger patty and the lettuce and the onions…slowly, slowly, savoring each bite. And if the onions made her breath bad, fuck it, she wasn’t planning on kissing anybody anyway.
When she finished her lunch she was still hungry. She ordered a cup of black coffee. It would probably make her even hungrier, she thought. And, God, it was five hours until supper!
She was in a foul mood. Not in the mood for company, and especially not in the mood for the company of H. Morton Cooperman, of the Metro-Magnum Studios public relations staff.
“May I join you, darling?”
“What if I said no?”
“I was on Stage Eleven, looking for you,” Mort said as he slid into a chair and picked up one of her french fries. “Do you mind?”
“I hope you choke on it,” Veronica said.
“Stefan told me he’d been hard on you,” Mort said. “He said the final result was magnificent.”
“How would he know?”
“We all admire your professionalism, darling,” Mort said. “Your willingness to strive for perfection.”
“What do you want, Mort? I’m really in no mood for your bullshit.”
“How do you feel about going on a war bond tour?”
“No way. I’m tired. I get a month off. Read my contract.”
“Mr. Roth thought you’d be pleased we’ve been able to arrange this for you.”
“Mr. Roth is as full of shit as you are.”
“This is not an ordinary war bond tour, darling. This one is worthy of you. These are Marines, fresh from Guadalcanal. An absolutely magnificent Marine named Machine Gun McCoy, who’s going to get the Medal of Honor. And a group of pilots, all of them aces. The publicity will be wonderful.”
“Listen carefully, Mort: No!”
“All orchestrated by the master flack of them all, our own beloved Jake Dillon. You’ll almost certainly get a Life cover.”
“Jake is in Australia, or some goddamned place like that.”
“Jake is in Los Angeles.”
“Since when?”
“I don’t know since when, darling, all I know is that he’ll be here tomorrow at half past nine to set this thing up. I’d love to be able to tell him that you’ll be going with it.”
He didn’t call me, the sonofabitch!
“Fuck you, Mort, and fuck Jake, too,” Miss Wood said, then rose from the table and marched magnificently out of the commissary to a waiting studio Lincoln limousine.
The chauffeur pushed himself off the fender and opened the door for her, after which he ran around the front and slipped behind the wheel.
When he paused at the gatehouse, the chauffeur turned around.
“Would you like me to stop anywhere, Miss Wood?”
“Just take me home, please,” Veronica replied. But then asked: “Do you think you could find Mr. Dillon’s place in Malibu?”
“Yes, Ma’am. Would you like me to take you there?”
No, you jackass, I’m just asking for the hell of it; I’m writing a goddamn book.
“Would you, please?” she asked sweetly.
The nature of Miss Wood’s relationship with Jake Dillon was such that she did not feel it necessary to knock at the front door and seek admission from one of Jake’s Mexicans. When the limousine pulled up before the house, she was out of the car before the chauffeur could get out from behind the wheel.
“Wait!” she called over her shoulder, and went around the side of the house, down the path to the beach, and up the circular stairs to the sun deck.
A black-haired woman in shorts (young, good skin, nice legs, boobs a little too big) was sitting in one of Jake’s chairs. A skinny kid in swim trunks and a T-shirt was in the other.
If these two didn’t just get out of the sack, my name is Ethel Barrymore.
“Who the hell are you?” Miss Wood inquired.
The broad with the too-big boobs stood up.
“My name is Dawn Morris, Miss Wood,” she said. “I’m a nurse.”
“You’re a what?”
“I’m taking care of Corporal Easterbrook, Miss Wood,” Dawn said, indicating the Easterbunny.
“I’ll bet you are,” Miss Wood said. “Where’s Jake Dillon?”
“He went into Los Angeles,” the kid said. “Are you who I think you are?”
“That would depend, honey, wouldn’t it, on who you think I am?” Veronica said, and immediately regretted it. He was just a kid.
But what the hell is going on here with Jake and a hooker and a kid?
“She said she was taking care of you,” Veronica said. “You’re sick?”
“I had a little malaria,�
� the Easterbunny said.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Jake Dillon said from behind her, in the house.
She turned and looked at him.
“You could have called me, you sonofabitch!” Miss Wood said.
“Hi there, Veronica!” Jake Dillon said with a cheerful wave, then smiled and opened his arms.
“Oh, goddamn you, Jake!” Miss Wood said, rushing over to him and wrapping her arms around him. “You bastard! I was so worried about you!”
Over Veronica Wood’s shoulder, Major Dillon winked at the Easterbunny.
I don’t believe any of this, the Easterbunny thought. That’s really Veronica Wood, the movie star, even if she does swear like a drill instructor. And I just talked to her. And now Major Dillon is hugging her and she’s crying and he’s patting her on the back.
And I’m not on the ’Canal anymore, and it doesn’t even seem like there is a war, or there ever was a war.
And thirty minutes ago I did it again with Dawn, who is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, better looking even than Veronica Wood, now that I can see her in real life. And she liked it. She didn’t push me away or anything, just asked if she was sure I could, that she didn’t want me to exert myself too much, and get sick again.
Veronica Wood let go of Jake Dillon and turned to face Dawn Morris and the Easterbunny, but she kept her arm around his back.
“I was just introducing myself to your friends, Jake.”
“That’s Bobby Easterbrook, a Marine from Guadalcanal,” Jake said. “He’s been a little under the weather, and Dawn has been taking care of him.”
“He’s a Marine?” Veronica asked incredulously.
“He’s a Marine,” Jake said firmly. “You saw the Life cover of the Marine firing the Browning Automatic Rifle?”
“The one who was bleeding? What about it?”
“Easterbrook made that shot,” Jake said. “He’s a hell of a photographer.”
“I’ll be damned,” Veronica said, and then, sweetly, asked, “Would you two excuse Jake and me for a minute?”
“Certainly, Miss Wood,” Dawn said.
“Actually, it’ll probably take longer than a minute,” Veronica Wood said. “So you two just go on with whatever you were doing before I showed up.”
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