After the Fall

by Lisa Bingham

  All too soon, the darkness swallowed up John’s shape, but she lingered where she was, her hand still lifted, until the island and the surf disappeared from view.

  The machine gun fire continued and the night seemed to be lit by a thousand flashbulbs. Bending low, he continued to protect Petey as more explosions rocked the compound, sounding very much like grenades.

  Were bullets too personal? Had they decided to blow them up, hut by hut?

  From outside, they could hear the pounding of footsteps, shouting. Maybe the other huts were fighting back, because it sounded like a fucking battle was going on outside.

  Then suddenly, a figure stormed into their shelter, another, and another.

  The men cowered against the walls, but he remained where he was, sheltering Petey from harm, covering his battered body with his own, anticipating the storm of bullets that would finish them off, once and for all. But somewhere, from the confused recesses of his brain, he realized that they weren’t shouting at them in Japanese.

  “U.S. Army Rangers! We’re getting you out of here! If you can walk, follow this man here. If you can’t, wait where you are. We’ll send someone in to help you.”

  He looked up, up, wondering if he’d finally snapped, wondering if this was what happened to a man who was about to die. Was he imagining what he wanted most to hear?

  But then, as he stared at the man at the door, his brain slowly took in the olive drab uniform, the Army issue rifle. And, all be damned, if the man didn’t speak with a southern drawl. A southern, fucking drawl.

  He looked at Kilgore. His friend was equally stunned.

  “Out, out! Move in an orderly fashion, but head toward the gates as fast as you can.”

  Needing no further encouragement, he bent low over Petey. “You hear that, Petey? They’re here. Just hold on a little longer. Help is here.”

  There was no response, but a quick hand to the kid’s chest assured him that the kid was still alive.

  “Help me, Kilgore.”

  They wrapped Petey’s arms around their shoulders and tried to stand. But it had been days since they’d been fed and the dead weight between them was too much.

  “Dammit!” he shouted. “Help us. We need help!”

  Another man with a rifle dodged through the door. Hearing his cries, the man changed course, ran toward him, then came to a shuddering halt.

  In that instant, his gaze clung to the tall, dark-haired man as if he were a revenant from another life.

  “John?” he whispered, sure he was imagining things.

  But the figure with the rifle grinned, saying, “Well, if it isn’t The Great Gilhouley. I’ve been hoping to run into you.” Then, the man known as Padre bent to haul Petey up and over his shoulder. “Time to get you all out of here, Lieutenant.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  December 8, 1944

  Washington, D.C., U.S.A.

  Glory Bee Macklin hurried up to the next available window of the post office. Around her, Christmas shoppers rushed to mail last-minute packages and letters to sweethearts overseas while Bing Crosby crooned a ballad on the radio from somewhere in the storage bay. She’d been waiting in line for nearly twenty minutes, and a glance at her watch reminded her that she needed to get back to the restaurant across the street where Rosemary was entertaining Hope with a new paper doll book featuring the “Heroes of the Armed Forces.”

  Not that Hope needed any reminding about the Heroes of the Armed Forces. She’d heard enough stories about her daddy and Uncle Gilhouley and how they’d arranged a daring escape from the Pacific for the women. And with the adults’ preoccupation with radio and news’ reports, the little girl could school a congressman on Capitol Hill about the current status of the war against the Japanese.

  “May I help you?”

  Glory Bee slid the slip toward the woman on the other side. “I have a notice about a package.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The woman strode toward the back while Glory Bee tapped impatiently on the counter. Rosemary needed to be at the hospital by one and Glory Bee had meetings with the USO committee at three. That left just enough time to finish their lunch, drop Hope off at the sitter’s, and return.

  Again, her eyes fell on the calendar bolted to the back wall, latching onto the large black letters declaring Dec. 8.

  America had mourned Pearl Harbor the day before with special religious ceremonies and patriotic speeches. But it was the eighth that Glory Bee and Rosemary found to be one of the most difficult days of the year. For them, the news of Pearl Harbor and the subsequent bombing of the Philippines had occurred on the eighth. That was why they’d decided to meet for lunch.

  Especially when no mention had been made of the Philippines at all in the memorial services across the nation.

  So Glory Bee and Rosemary had held their own quiet ceremony.

  “Here you are.”

  The postmistress handed Glory Bee a thick manila envelope that had seen better days. The edges were frayed and dirty, the inner wrapping of newspapers visible in spots. But when she saw the stamps and postmarks from Australia, Glory Bee’s pulse began to knock in her throat.

  Australia.

  Several times before, John had managed to get a message to her via Australia by giving the packets of letters to soldiers bound for reassignment or with the sailors on the subs that occasionally brought him fresh supplies.

  “Thank you!”

  She was turning away when the woman halted her.

  “You need to sign first.”

  “Of course.”

  Glory Bee’s hands were shaking so badly that her signature became an illegible scrawl, but she didn’t bother to correct it. She clutched the packet to herself and all but ran out of the building.

  She was moving so quickly that she didn’t see the man who stood outside the door. She wouldn’t have seen him at all if she hadn’t barreled into him, nearly sending him to the pavement. But as he righted himself and she turned to offer her apologies, the words stuck in her throat.

  Michael.

  Senator Michael Griffin.

  He was just as astonished to see her, his eyes widening with shock, his mouth dropping as his gaze swept over her head from the perky fur hat poised on her fiery curls, to the rich wool coat, and down to the fur-lined overshoes that protected her best pumps from the snow.

  “Glory Bee?”

  His eyes flashed with an old familiar heat, and then, so quickly she might have missed it, a hint of guilt.

  And in that instant, she knew—she knew without a shadow of a doubt—that he had sent her to the Philippines knowing full well that trouble could erupt.

  “Hello, Michael,” she said stiffly.

  Although it had been years since he’d seen her, his gaze flicked in the general direction of her stomach, and she hated him in that moment. Hated him for not knowing how precious a life she’d once carried there, for being willing to throw Glory Bee and his unborn child into the path of the oncoming Japanese.

  No. Not his child.

  John’s.

  Just as quickly as she’d felt the wave of disgust, it flittered away, leaving her feeling…

  Nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  “You’re well?” Michael asked cautiously.

  “Yes. I’m doing very well, thank you.”

  “I…haven’t seen you at the theater.”

  “No. I work for the USO now.”

  “You perform for the troops?”

  “No, I help to organize the tours that go overseas.”

  “Oh.”

  It was beginning to snow. Light, fluffy flakes that fell from the gray sky like downy feathers.

  “You’re alone?”

  She knew what he was asking. In his own roundabout way, he wanted to know about the baby. But there was no regret in his expression, no melancholy. Nothing that might tell her that he truly cared about what had happened to the child that he’d created. The only emotion she could read in hi
s features was wariness. So she quickly reassured him.

  “You don’t have anything to worry about, Michael.”

  “Oh. Oh, good!”

  His relief was so immediate that she found herself wondering what she’d ever seen in the man. Had she really been that lonely, that unsure of herself, that Michael’s self-absorbed affections had been enough for her?

  “We should have a drink some time. Get caught up on old times.”

  She couldn’t help laughing, and when he appeared put out by her reaction, she tugged on her gloves. “I don’t think so. I’m married now. To a pretty possessive man. A guerrilla soldier with an enormous amount of experience in jungle warfare. And I really don’t think you’d want to tangle with him.” Offering him a distracted smile, she said, “Goodbye, Michael.”

  Then, after checking the traffic, she darted across the street and into the coffee shop where Rosemary and Hope were sitting at a table.

  “Did you finish your ice cream?” Glory Bee asked as she took her seat.

  Hope nodded enthusiastically, her curls bouncing. “Mommy, who was that man?”

  Glory Bee had been trying to work off the string of the package and glanced up.

  “What man, baby?”

  “The one you were talking to over there,” Hope said, pointing across the street.

  “Oh. Nobody, sweetie. Nobody at all.” And in that moment, truer words could not have been spoken.

  “Look what came in the mail, Baby Girl!” Glory Bee managed to wrestle the string free enough to rip open the end of the envelope. Tipping it upside down, she spilled the contents onto the table—letters, pictures, and a lamb made from rice sacks and stuffed with coconut fibers.

  “Daddy!” Hope exclaimed latching onto one of the pictures.

  Glory Bee’s heart flip-flopped against the wall of her chest as she took the picture, examining the dark-haired man who grinned at her, a rifle slung across his chest. He looked thin and his hair had a few more flecks of gray, but the love shining from his eyes was unmistakable.

  “I think this is yours,” Glory Bee said, pushing the homemade lamb toward her daughter, wondering if John had traded for the toy or lovingly stitched it himself. Her fingers sifted through the rest of the items, stacking the letters for later when she was alone, then hesitating when one of the envelopes caught her eye. Unlike the others, there was no address, merely one word.

  Rosemary.

  “I think this is for you,” Glory Bee said quietly, handing the envelope to her friend.

  Rosemary had been carefully stirring her coffee, trying not to show any emotion, and Glory Bee was immediately contrite. She knew it was hard for Rosemary. John had been able to get sporadic letters to his wife and child, but Rosemary still didn’t know if Gilhouley was even alive.

  Glory Bee’s stomach knotted in fear. “It’s John’s handwriting,” she said, offering Rosemary the envelope.

  Rosemary’s hands trembled so badly, she nearly dropped the note, but taking a deep breath, she used a butter knife to break the seal and withdraw a single piece of stained, ragged paper. The lettering was spaced so tightly together that, from where Glory Bee sat, it was difficult to discern any words. Instead, it gave the appearance of having been tattooed with a looping, angular design.

  Unfolding the paper, Rosemary bit her lip, beginning to read. But then her eyes brimmed. Fearing the worst, Glory Bee was ready to jump to her feet and comfort her friend, but Rosemary sobbed openly, then whispered, “He’s alive. John has found him.” Tears streamed down her face. “He’s alive!”

  Epilogue

  June 9, 1945

  Bluebell, Nebraska, U.S.A.

  The taxi pulled to a stop in front of a dusty dirt lane next to a shiny new mailbox. A few feet farther, a stake leaned precariously to one side proclaiming: For Sale. Over the bold blue letters, another word had been printed in dark black paint: Sold.

  Climbing from the back, Gilhouley waited as the driver hurried to grab his duffel from the trunk. There wasn’t much inside it—the new clothes he’d been given, a shaving kit, and a couple of books he’d brought with him from the hospital in Hawaii where he, Petey, and Kilgore had recuperated. But there was also a conch shell that he’d carefully wrapped in newspaper. And in his pocket was a shiny gold band that he’d bought in Honolulu before shipping out. He wanted to make sure Rosemary had a proper wedding ring. Especially if they were going to live this close to her folks.

  “You see any action?” the driver asked as he slammed the trunk door.

  “Yeah.”

  “Germany?”

  Gilhouley shook his head. “No. Bataan.”

  The cabbie grew instantly still. “You had it rough,” he finally said. Word of Bataan had only been released to the public at large a little over a year ago.

  “Yeah,” Gilhouley said, the word holding a wealth of meaning. He reached for his billfold. “How much do I owe you?”

  The man shook his head, handing Gilhouley his bag. “Not a red cent. I don’t charge any of the boys coming home from the station. It’s the least I can do.”

  Gilhouley slid his wallet back into his pocket. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Are you sure I can’t take you up to the house?” the cabbie asked as Gilhouley shifted the bag onto his shoulder.

  “Nah. I didn’t have a chance to let her know I was coming. So I thought I’d surprise her.”

  The man grinned. “Good luck to you, then.” He laughed, then added, “But I suppose you’ve already had all the luck you need since you’re back in one piece.”

  Gilhouley couldn’t help touching his pocket where he’d carefully tucked the remains of the silk violet.

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  He waited until the cab had rolled away, the brake lights flashing in the early morning light as it merged back onto the main road. Then he turned and began making his way down the lane.

  According to a letter Glory Bee had forwarded to John once he’d begun getting regular mail through the army, Rosemary had bought this place in April, not long after their third anniversary. The little farm was about three miles away from her folks—near enough that she could keep an eye on them, but far enough away to ensure some privacy. From what Glory Bee had said, the house stood at the top of a slight slope, and down below, there was a creek and forty acres of prime land for planting. She’d rented the land out to a local farmer, and as he walked, Gilhouley could already see the first shoots of corn pushing through the loamy earth.

  He’d never been to a farm before. Not really. But after the bustle and noise of troop ships, reporters, hospitals and railway cars, he found the soft soughing of the breeze through the grass was soothing. And somewhere, from the trees up ahead, he could hear birds. Not tropical birds, but the sweet sound of a whippoorwill.

  So this was home.

  His throat grew tight with unshed tears as the house came into view. It was a large clapboard structure with a wide porch that circled the entire structure. Someone—Rosemary, he’d wager—had hung pots of flowers from the posts and scattered chairs to catch the breeze. Repairs were being made. A ladder leaned up against one wall, and he could see where the weathered white paint had been scraped away and the wooden siding was being painted a pale yellow. A garden had been staked out at the side and a wooden windmill carved to look like a man with a hatchet intermittently filled the air with its chatter.

  At the edge of a weathered picket fence still in need of painting, Gilhouley paused, taking it all in, feeling a little out of place yet curiously at peace, as if he’d known about this place for years. He pushed the gate open and the spring whined as he stepped through.

  Summoned by the sound, a dog rose from his spot by the front door. He eyed Gilhouley warily, barking a warning. But there was no threat to the sound, simply a notice to those inside that a visitor had arrived.

  Gilhouley dropped his bag to the ground and crouched down, holding out his hand. As the dog trotted eagerly toward him, Gilhou
ley could see that the animal wasn’t too big or too small. He was enough mutt and enough collie to be fluffy and soft, with a wide sweeping tail that began to beat excitedly as Gilhouley reached out to scratch his ears. A tag hung from his collar and Gilhouley captured it long enough to read his name: Napoli.

  Gilhouley chuckled, but the sound died in his throat as a figure stepped through the door, calling out, “Napoli, get down. I swear, you haven’t got the manners God gave a…”

  Rosemary.

  The words died in her throat as Gilhouley slowly straightened. Then her eyes filled with tears and she launched herself down the steps into his arms.

  “Riley!”

  He caught her against him, burying his face in her hair, holding her so fiercely that he feared he might hurt her. But her own grip was so tight that he knew he needn’t have worried.

  “I’m home, Rosemary. I’m home.”

  And for the first time since setting foot on American soil, he knew it was true.

  • • •

  June 10, 1945

  Echo Beach, Virginia, U.S.A.

  “Here you are, sir.”

  The staff car slid to a stop in front of a tiny beach house, and the sergeant who’d been John’s driver looked one last time at the scrap of paper John had given him, then at the numbers painted on the side of the house.

  “Thanks, Sergeant.”

  John opened his door and slid out. For a moment, he gazed at the squat, weathered building, wondering why he felt curiously detached from the home in front of him. He had thought that once he’d arrived he…well, that he would feel like he was a part of this place. But he felt nothing but curiosity.

  Taking his bag from the back, he offered a final wave as the soldier put the car into gear and rolled away. Then he began to slowly approach the front door.