They were both shaking as if in the final stages of delirium tremens as he pressed her awkwardly against the door, moving his back to the steering wheel.
Light blazed into her eyes.
“Roll down your window, sir,” said a muted masculine voice from behind the glass and glare.
“Jesus Christ,” Linc whispered, moving from her to crank down the window.
Cold, she was frozen without him. Then mortification overtook her. The glare revealed that her good dress was rumpled up to her slender thighs, which gleamed white where the wartime rayon stockings did not reach, and the unzipped bodice was pushed awry to expose one very round pink-tipped breast that had slipped out of her bra. She yanked her coat over her, sarong style.
“May I see your license and ID, sir.”
Linc extricated papers from his wallet.
“So you live around here, Lieutenant,” said the policeman. “Listen, it would be better all round if you parked in your own driveway.”
“Listen, it would be better all round if you minded your own damn business!” Linc retorted. Lipstick smeared his furious mouth.
“I could give you a ticket for that.”
“You’re scaring the hell out of me! Go ahead, write the damn ticket. Just quit shining that flashlight on my girl, okay?”
The glaring light was turned away. The policeman handed back the license. “All right. Move along,” he said, returning to his squad car, waiting while Linc started the big Packard.
As they turned on Carmelita, Linc said, “So much for amor.” Reaching over for her shaking hand, he held it briefly to his recently shaved cheek. “Marylin, stop me if I’m wrong, but offhand I’d say you’re a virgin.”
She never had submitted to more than a good-night kiss from those hot-handed children. “Yes, but I . . .” she stammered. “Linc, I wanted . . .”
“Given luck, you’ll have another chance to seduce me.”
The mention of her wild passion brought the heat of humiliation to her face, and she turned to refasten her bra.
“Marylin, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he said. “For a few hours, wouldn’t you say we’ve had a stormy relationship?”
“Very.”
“It’s not the real me,” he said. “Prior to the war—except with Big Joshua, of course—I was the most phlegmatic oaf you could ever hope to meet.”
“Never an oaf.”
“More of a bookworm, actually. The quiet type who later retreats behind horn-rims and a pipe.” He slowed the car, kissing her cheek, then pointed to the dashboard clock. “Fifteen minutes late already. I’d better get you home.”
* * *
The next morning, as she emerged from the apartment, she saw Linc across the street, sitting on the Packard’s running board. He wore slacks and a sweater. “What do you have first period?” he asked.
“Study hall.”
“The perfect class to ditch. Have you eaten breakfast?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll go over to Simon’s and you can watch me eat.”
She did not go to school that day.
Or the next.
Rehearsing BJ’s play no longer seemed important. The important thing was to go down to the deserted iodine-scented beach and sit in front of Roadside Rest on the cold sand while gulls screeched endless circles over their heads.
They held hands, sometimes they kissed, gently, lingeringly, but mostly they exposed what they were.
She told Linc about the family in Greenward that she had never met, the Waces and Roys and Fairburns who each Christmas sent red-ribbon-tied cartons of hand-me-downs; she told him of their constant moves, the failures the Depression forced on her father, his pitifully futile death. She told Linc of her closeness to her mother, her skills and deficits as an actress, her less-than-joyous two years at Beverly High.
Her life sounded a puny thing, drab and unimportant, when compared to Linc’s.
His father, Joshua Fernauld, was a lapsed Catholic who at one time had belonged to the Communist party; his mother was Jewish, a niece of the fabled Lou, Maxie, and Hesh Cotter, the flamboyant three who had founded Cotter Brothers Studio. The Fernaulds held traditional Sunday barbecues, where Linc had met most of the movie greats and some whose names lit up Broadway, people so famous that Marylin never thought of them as drawing human breath: Spencer Tracy, Gertrude Lawrence, George Gershwin, Maxwell Anderson. Linc extravagantly admired Anderson’s work.
Looking at the huge, curling breakers, he declaimed: “And if you seek forgiveness then pass it over in silence and consider it forgiven. Forget it utterly. It won’t help to remember some fatal awkwardness.”
An insane joy quivered through Marylin that she could reply: “But I have to say it and say it honestly, and then wait to hear a verdict from you.”
He hugged her shoulders. “Hey, you know it.”
“Key Largo.”
“That’s my girl.”
He talked about his great-uncles, now all dead, who had been part of the rough, scandalous early Hollywood, he talked about boyhood fears and saints, his ambivalences toward his father, his struggles to write.
Marylin was always conscious of his superiority, not only in age, family, schooling, and sophistication but also in the depth and quality of his intellect.
There was a sweetness to him, a niceness that she could never reconcile with those sudden lapses into dark, bitter rage.
Once—he had been telling her about a short story he had worked on aboard the Enterprise—he fell abruptly silent, gazing with fierce, brooding dread at the gray, chill horizon of the Pacific.
“What is it, Linc?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
Hunched over like that, he looked so desolate that she risked provoking him. Touching his shoulder, she said, “It’s bad out there, isn’t it?”
He flung off her hand. “Wonderful, just wonderful! Two times through high school and you can read minds. Listen, didn’t I get it across to you? If you want to get your jollies about the war, listen to H. V. Kaltenborn or Gabriel Heatter. Or better yet, go see Wings of Eagles!” It was Joshua Fernauld’s latest box-office triumph, a story of “gallantry in the Army Air Corps.”
Tense, stiff-legged, he covered the long stretch of dry sand to where big breakers hurled their final shreds of foam. She watched him standing there with his back to her, hands thrust into his pockets. Why did I push him? she thought desolately. When he returned, his eyes were red. “Buy you a hamburger,” he said quietly.
Those two days they talked about everything—except the war.
On Thursday, around five, she handed Linc her key, and he unlocked the door.
NolaBee sat facing them in the sagging armchair. A cigarette was clamped between her grimly narrowed lips, her thin shoulders held high, her expression robbed of its usual liveliness.
“Mama,” Marylin said, tugging nervously at her long shirt (a relic of her father), whose tails hung over her blue jeans, which she had rolled up above her slim, shapely calves. “Linc brought me home.”
“You,” NolaBee said, jerking her head toward Roy, who was gazing curiously at them, “go on outside.”
“It’s Antarctica,” Roy protested.
“Go!”
Roy grabbed a library book and the sweater that this past Christmas she had inherited from Cousin Doris Fairburn. The door slammed on her and there was only the squeak of NolaBee’s rocking chair.
“Mama . . .” Marylin started, and her voice broke. She coughed. “Perhaps Linc ought to go too.”
NolaBee did not answer until Roy’s footsteps on the outside staircase had faded. “He’ll listen to what I have to say. It concerns him too. Where have you been Wednesday and today?”
Marylin blinked and stepped backward.
“Well? I reckon if I ask a question, I deserve an answer. Some woman from the attendance office called an hour ago, asking about your absence. I had no answer, but I want one now.”
“She was with me, Mrs.
Wace,” Linc said quietly. “Don’t blame her, I talked her into it, explained it was a patriotic duty.”
“Duty. I reckon Marylin’s got her own duty. Maybe she hasn’t explained to you what a struggle it is for us to live here in Beverly Hills, where she can get the best education there is.” NolaBee crossed her arms. “Marylin knows she can’t fool around. She’s not one of these spoiled Beverly Hills girls who has everything on a silver platter.” NolaBee stubbed out her cigarette. “The thing that gets to me is how she could play hooky when she has her rehearsals.”
“The junior play,” Linc said, “is not so crucifyingly important.”
“She’s the star. The others depend on her. I depend on her.”
They were talking to one another, yet both were looking at Marylin. Her heart thumped slowly, and her chest ached as if she were being stretched apart by implacably hostile forces.
NolaBee rose from the chair, drawing a breath so that her meager bust showed in her old red pullover. “I reckon you better not come around here anymore, Lieutenant.”
“Mama . . .” Marylin murmured, a wretched sound more like a groan.
Linc reached for her hand, gripping it, pressing his large firm palm against her cold, trembling one. “Mrs. Wace, Marylin’s old enough to decide that for herself.”
“A little girl. Sixteen.”
“Eighteen.”
NolaBee’s mouth opened in a round O, and her eyes went dull with confusion and betrayal. She crumpled back into the sagging springs of the chair, homely in cheap, garishly bright sweater and slacks. Marylin took a step forward. Linc gripped her hand, not letting her move away from him.
“Frankly, Mrs. Wace,” he said, “your plans for Marylin stink. Take it from me, Dad’s in the industry, I know what goes on. All the odds are against her making it.”
NolaBee looked up. “I reckon she’s as pretty and talented as Teresa Wright or—”
“She’s beautiful. She’s luminous and special. And certainly she’s a good-enough actress. But she’s too gentle. She lacks the killer instinct, she’s got no bitch in her. She’ll be mangled.”
“That’s downright ridiculous talk,” NolaBee snapped. “What all have you been telling him, Marylin? That I push you?”
“I want to act, Linc, you know that,” Marylin said reproachfully.
“For your mother,” Linc said. “Not yourself. Think about it, and you’ll realize I’m right.” He released her hand. “I’ll see you at seven tomorrow night.”
Marylin glanced at her mother, who was hunched over in the rocker. “Linc, I can’t disobey Mama,” she said with a long sigh.
Linc’s expression was as unhappy as hers. “Mrs. Wace,” he said, “I give you my word there’ll be no more ditching school. Sunday night at twelve my leave is up. At twelve hundred hours I report back to the Enterprise—we’re docked in San Diego for repairs. That’s classified. Until we sail, there’ll only be weekend leaves.”
A sad little whimper was wrested from Marylin.
NolaBee’s forehead puckered. She turned from her beauteous child’s desolation to Linc’s dark, pleading eyes. Suddenly she gave a snort. “Sailors!” she said. “Don’t reckon I could stop a Navy pilot, could I?”
“You’re tough, Mrs. Wace, but not that tough. Dinner, Marylin. See you at seven.” The door closed quietly behind him.
“Thank you, Mama.” Marylin went over to her mother and bent to kiss her.
“Cutting school,” NolaBee reproached.
“I’m sorry, so sorry. I know how hard you work for us—for me.” Tears were rolling in large drops from the lovely eyes.
“You’ve been right foolish. You might try thinking of Roy and me, always pulling for you.”
“I do, I do. But I’ll die if I can’t see him.”
“Looks like he knows it, too. Marylin, that sailor takes you for granted. You’ve let him think he’s the be-all and end-all. It’s puffed him up. Men! They’re so vain! Imagine him believing that your acting’s not your real life!” The snap had returned to NolaBee’s eyes. “I’m amazed at how little sense you’ve got, lettin’ a man think he’s so much to you.”
“He’s very important, Mama.”
NolaBee gripped her wrist tightly. “You haven’t done anything really bad with him, have you?”
Marylin turned crimson, and shook her head.
NolaBee tightened her grip. “I know what’s best for you. Certainly a girl with your looks has scads of beaux. But you mustn’t let any man get in the way of your career. You’ve got every single thing it takes to be a real star.”
“No I don’t, Mama. Besides, all I’ve ever wanted is someone to love who loves me, to get married.”
“You’re not some poky, ordinary little girl.”
“It’s what matters to me.”
The ash of NolaBee’s cigarette fell on her sweater, smoldering. She brushed at it, continuing to peer into her daughter’s tear-streaked face. “Honey, listen to me, I’m not denying he’s a mighty attractive young man, and that Navy officer’s uniform would turn any girl’s head. Sooner or later, though, he’s going to try to take advantage of you.
“Oh, Mama.”
“Don’t ‘Oh, Mama’ me. I’m not so old I don’t remember. Men’re all out for one thing, and this war gives ’em their excuse. They’re sweet-talkin’ fools until a girl gives in, and after that they lose all respect.”
“It’s not like that at all.”
NolaBee frowned. “He hasn’t tried anything, has he?”
“I’ve only been with him in the daytime,” Marylin whispered.
“They’ll try in the daytime what they can’t do at night,” said NolaBee.
“Mama, you’re hurting my wrist,” Marylin said.
Peering at the beautiful red face, NolaBee let go. “You’re a good girl,” she said finally. “But always remember, you have your career. That’s first and foremost.”
“Mama, I want love, a husband . . . babies.”
“That’ll come later.”
“I wish you didn’t count on me to accomplish so much. I worry I’m going to let you down.”
“Sometimes you’re right silly, Marylin. You’re not going to let me down. When you’re at the top, I reckon you’ll thank me for bein’ a believer.” She gave Marylin a gentle push. “Now, go on down and call Roy. She must be freezing out there.”
6
The next day, Friday, in the break before last period, when she had Drama, Marylin stood pressed against the wall by the thunderous crush in the hallway. As she worked the combination of her locker, BJ Fernauld shoved through the crowd. “My leading lady returneth,” she said.
Despite the full mouth caked with orange lipstick, the pudgily round face, the messy pompadour, there was so much of Linc in his sister—the Indian hair, the prominent nose—that Marylin felt huge waves of affection. “Hi,” she said.
“Where have you been?” BJ demanded. “Did you have a cold?”
So Linc hadn’t mentioned being with her. Marylin fumbled past the number. Composing herself, she turned two revolutions, starting the combination again. “I’m all better,” she murmured.
“Praise Allah. You have no idea what it’s like, rehearsing around you. Well, what happened at Chapman’s?”
“We talked.” Briefly Marylin rested her cheek on the cool metal. “He took me home.”
“Listen, he’s a very unusual person, very talented in all sorts of ways.” BJ’s voice rose. “I hope you don’t get the idea he’s a creep, taking you out.”
“That,” Marylin said, “is hardly my criterion for creephood.”
“I didn’t mean it as a slap, but, well, you are a junior in high school, and he’ll be twenty-four in February.” BJ sighed. “He’s sure been weird since he got home.”
“What do you mean, weird?”
“I mean weird. He really was a sweetie, even for a brother. Before the war, he was never mean. Oh, sometimes he battled Dad, but then again, Dad’s not an easy man to live
with—We’re cursed with one of those fathers who tries to run a person’s life entirely.”
“What about Linc now?” Marylin asked, pushing her biology book into the locker.
“He can be perfectly normal, then all at once, for no reason at all, he explodes like a bomb. He barges out of the house. Either that or he’s going around touching everything, as if he’s blind.”
Twisting the dial of her lock, Marylin asked, “BJ, has he had a bad time out there?”
“No, he’s been lolling around on paradisiacal Pacific islands,” BJ snapped. “Of course it’s been rough. He’s a pilot and there’s a war on, or haven’t you heard?”
They began pushing their way through the noisy hall.
“What happened?”
On the crowded stairs, BJ said, “I guess it’s no big military secret. He flies a TBM, a torpedo plane. Torpedoes have to be dropped right on target. Which means he has to zoom right down onto the Jap ships. So not only are Zeroes chasing him, but those Kongo battleships and Hayataka or Shokaku carriers are training their guns on him.” BJ’s voice rounded magniloquently as she classified the Japanese ships. “He was shot down.”
Marylin closed her eyes. She stumbled on a metal-edged step and bumped into a short, frizzy haired boy. “Shot down?” she whispered.
“In November. He floated around for nearly a day before he was picked up. He got the Distinguished Flying Cross—but he positively blows up if anybody mentions it. I mean, he keeps flying off the handle. Yesterday I heard my parents talking. They’re worried sick.”
Marylin clutched her notebook to her breasts, dizzy with a sickening urgency to hold Linc, to interject herself between his body and Japanese flak.
“You sure you’re better?” BJ asked. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you look punk.”
“It must be terrible, knowing every day you might have to face enemy fire.”
“He has the Air Medal and the Distinguished Flying Cross!” BJ barked. “They don’t give those medals to chickens.”
“I didn’t mean that he was a coward, BJ. But I know I couldn’t keep forcing myself to risk my life.”
Before BJ could retort, the warning bell sliced like a buzz saw through the other sounds. They bolted toward Room 217.
Everything and More Page 5