“I’m good.” She watched CJ. “What about you?”
“Marvelous.” She rolled over and rested her chin on Brady’s shoulder. “We kissed.”
Brady smiled. “I’d say so.”
“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?”
“Um, since the day you ran into me at the PX?”
“Um, you ran into me.”
“And I’ve been thankful ever since that I did.”
“Aww.” She reached up and kissed Brady again, slowly this time, savoring the fact that she could.
After a while they straightened their uniforms and walked the long way around the officers’ quarters. Then they returned to their spot on the steps, so stealthily that the basketball players didn’t notice them at first. Brady sat on the top step, and CJ sat one step below her, leaning against her knees.
Life didn’t get better than this, she thought, happiness uncoiling inside her until she felt she must be glowing from head to toe. She and Brady were finally together. Sure, there was KP hell to get through, but soon enough it would be the weekend. And then they would have forty-eight hours together away from the post, beyond the reach of military authorities.
“Would you like to share a room Saturday night?” Brady asked.
This telepathy thing was kind of great, after all.
“I would love to,” she said, glancing back at Brady.
They smiled into each other’s eyes, and this time CJ didn’t feel the need to look away. No more avoiding each other, no more pretending they didn’t feel what they were feeling.
“Jamieson!”
CJ rolled her eyes at Brady and looked out at the court. “What?”
“Get your butt out here and even up the teams,” Toby said.
“She can’t,” Brady shot back. “She’s busy.”
Toby’s eyebrows lifted while Reggie smiled broadly.
“In that case, never mind,” Toby said, turning back to the game.
Play restarted, and CJ snuggled back against Brady’s legs as Orion chased the Pleiades and the sliver moon rose higher overhead.
* * *
Her euphoric state carried her to Thanksgiving Day. For KP duty, she was paired with Mary, the radio technician who had never mentioned a boyfriend. Mary had a ready smile and capable hands and made an excellent KP partner, CJ discovered during the breakfast rush. She was willing to split the less pleasant jobs and approached whatever they did, from washing pots and pans to cleaning the mess hall tables and floors, with an easygoing shrug of the shoulders.
After breakfast, the dictatorial cooks ordered them to peel a veritable mountain of potatoes in preparation for Thanksgiving supper.
Mary handed CJ a knife and asked, “Fancy a bit of peeling music?”
The post radio station was playing Christmas tunes, as was every other station, even the Mexican ones. CJ had heard Bing Crosby’s new release, “White Christmas,” and its B side “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” twice already, and it was only mid-morning.
At ten, she took a break to listen to Brady deliver the news, still amazed that someone like Brady would want to be with her. They had been inseparable since their kiss Monday night, or as inseparable as it was possible to be as active-duty Wacs. Tuesday night they’d had to attend an orientation film with the rest of their company, yet another installment in the series Why We Fight. They had arrived late and sat at the back of the room snickering at the film’s morally superior tone and thinly veiled propaganda until at last a nearby sergeant had dismissed them. She’d winked at CJ as they slipped out the back, and CJ realized there might be some unexpected perks to belonging to the gay secret society after all.
At the end of the news broadcast, Brady said, “This next song goes out to a certain someone suffering through holiday KP duty. You know who you are.”
The opening notes of “Begin the Beguine” floated into the kitchen, and CJ smiled to herself as she picked up yet another potato from the barely diminished pile.
“You’re pals with Brady Buchanan, aren’t you?” Mary commented.
CJ started guiltily, trying to compose her features into a less dreamy expression, and nodded.
“I heard she Dear Johned her fiancé.”
She’d known news got around fast, but this seemed excessive even by Army standards. “That’s right,” she said cautiously.
Mary smiled sideways at her. “Must not have been true love.”
“Couldn’t have been,” CJ agreed.
She hummed along with the song as she peeled onward. Another dozen hours or so of KP to get through, but there would probably be a sizable break after the noon mess when she and Mary would be able to go back to the barracks and rest. And later, Brady had offered to come by and massage French hand crème into her GI-soap-reddened skin, and, well, that was something to be thankful for, wasn’t it?
For a moment she gave into temptation and imagined Thanksgiving on the farm. Her parents were at home this year, playing host to the DeWitts from down the road, whose sons were all off serving in some fashion or another. Her mother had written CJ’s first week at Bliss to tell her that Jacob, the youngest of the four boys, had been killed during advanced training in Virginia when the Army truck he was traveling in had rolled into a ditch. CJ could picture Anna and Peter DeWitt, her dark braids graying now, his hair mostly gone. She could see Jacob too, a few years younger than she was, a pale kid with unruly hair and glasses trailing after his older brothers. He had been a late baby, unexpected, and had always struggled to keep up with the other three, who had doted on him.
His parents had been both proud and relieved when he was selected for military intelligence. “Shows how smart he is. And I don’t mind saying it’ll keep him away from the front lines,” CJ had overheard Anna DeWitt tell her mother a few weeks before she left the farm. “Between you and me, I don’t think our Jacob is cut out for fighting.”
Now he was dead and buried with full military honors, her mother had written, and his parents were left grieving a senseless loss. As if some wartime losses made more sense than others. She knew what her mother meant, though. At least if you died fighting for your country, your death might be construed to mean something. An automobile accident while on maneuvers was simply bad luck.
In a way, CJ was relieved she wouldn’t be at home to share Thanksgiving with her parents and the grieving DeWitts. But even as the thought entered her mind, she chastised herself. Where was her generosity? Her sense of charity? True, she was head over heels for the first time in her life and wanted to hold onto her joy as long as she could. But there was also the fairly large issue of what her parents would think if she told them the truth. She couldn’t imagine lying to them, but she couldn’t picture telling them about Brady, either. What did other gay people do? Did they tell their families, or did they distance themselves so that they wouldn’t have to risk rejection?
“What’s your favorite Thanksgiving pie?” Mary asked as they started on another pile of potatoes.
“Pumpkin,” CJ replied straightaway, pushing away any lingering thoughts of home. She was in Texas with no extended furlough in sight, and her news about Brady was not something that could be shared with her family in a letter. Subject closed. “What’s yours?”
“Apple. With vanilla ice cream, of course.”
And they were off and running on a common GI theme—favorite foods from pre-war civilian life before sugar, butter and cooking oil were rationed, before SOS and griping became customary mealtime staples. Then again, they knew they had it better than the boys overseas, who were forced to survive on C-rations and whatever local delicacies their quartermasters could drum up. CJ told Mary about some of the concoctions her brothers had written about in their letters: Australian sheep tongues in Guadalcanal, along with bug-infested rice seized from the Japanese and whale fat rolled in seaweed, and in North Africa lamb cutlets, sheep intestines and shish kebabs.
She really was blessed, she knew. There would be plenty of turkey, mash
ed potatoes and cranberries to go around at supper mess, even if she would be working through most of the meal. In another few hours she would see Brady again, if only through the kitchen window. The next day would be her last in the Transient Hangar, and then there was the weekend away to look forward to. On Monday, she and the others would start their new assignment with Tow Target and the WASPs. Somehow she had a feeling that more and better hops awaited in her future.
It was hard to believe now that she had ever regarded her transfer to Bliss as a calamity. Monterey County might have ocean breezes and smooth sand, but it didn’t have Brady or their friends. For all she knew, the post commander at Ford Ord was stricter or the WAC command might take themselves overly seriously or any number of other unwelcome realities. Aeschylus had written, “In war, truth is the first casualty.” But for her, it was the opposite. Somehow she had landed in the place where the right combination of people had allowed her to figure out who she truly was. For that, if nothing else, she would always be grateful to the Army.
Then she remembered the feel of Brady’s hand in hers in the darkened post theater the previous night, the way their shoulders brushed as they’d walked back to the WAC compound with their friends, how Brady had smiled at her when no one else was looking. She couldn’t wait for the weekend when they would be alone, gloriously, amazingly alone, for an entire night.
She would enjoy this brief spate of happiness while she could, because one thing about the Army was certain—it didn’t like its soldiers to get too comfortable.
Chapter Twelve
Every weekend, soldiers from Fort Bliss caught the streetcar into El Paso, where they enjoyed USO shows and dances, free entrance to museums and galleries and discounts at restaurants and bars. Ten minutes away across the US-Mexico border, Juarez offered horse racing, a large city market and a wide range of less reputable entertainment options such as gambling establishments, all-night bars and, though the WAC command purposefully didn’t mention it, brothels.
GIs received more forthright advice about the dangers of the Mexican city, Jack and his friends reported over beers at the service club the night before the D-lites’ weekend away. To combat the spread of venereal disease, Fort Bliss soldiers were encouraged to pick up condoms at prophylactic stations, open around the clock, before going off-post. MPs also patrolled brothels and other off-limits establishments (“olés,” as Bliss personnel called them) on both sides of the border, arresting any soldier caught on the premises. In spite of these prevention efforts, an entire building at Beaumont General Hospital had been set aside to treat soldiers with serious cases of VD—gonorrhea, syphilis and the like.
Mac held up his glass of beer and parroted the military doctor from a health education training film male GIs were forced to endure: “‘Drunkenness is responsible for much venereal disease.’”
In the same Cary Grant tone, Sam added, “‘Most men know less about their own bodies than they do about their automobiles.’”
Kate chimed in, “Funny—most men know less about the female body than their automobiles too,” and there was general hooting around the table.
That night Jack accompanied them as far as the women’s compound, where he and Sarah said a long, semi-private farewell. Kate’s influence in obtaining overnight passes didn’t extend to the rest of the Army, so Sarah would have to leave Jack behind this weekend. His eighteen weeks of AA training had already morphed into twenty-two weeks, which meant he could be transferred to another post or to overseas duty at any time, like everyone else at Bliss. Because of this, Sarah had considered staying on base with him. But in the end, she said, she couldn’t pass up the chance to get away for a night.
After breakfast mess Saturday morning, the D-lites—of whom Kate and Brady were honorary members, everyone agreed—caught a streetcar from the post to downtown El Paso, where they transferred to the line that would take them to the race track in Juárez. The ride cost a dime, and soon they were on Stanton Street headed for one of the international bridges that connected El Paso to Mexico. CJ shared a seat with Brady and was aware of Brady’s leg pressing against hers as they rode over the Rio Grande.
“Have you ever been to Mexico?” Brady asked, leaning into her, supposedly to get a better look out the window as they crossed the international border.
“No,” she said, more interested in contemplating Brady’s eyes and lips than what lay beyond her window.
Brady smiled and elbowed her. “The view’s out there.”
“I prefer the one inside,” CJ said, and then blushed. Anyone could have heard her. She ought to be more careful.
“I can’t argue with that,” Brady said softly, gazing back at her with eyes that clearly communicated her desire to kiss CJ silly, as she had done every chance they’d gotten that week. Unfortunately, that wasn’t all that often—living on base hemmed in by barbed wire and observed closely by MPs and their own officers didn’t allow many opportunities to break the Uniform Code of Military Justice.
Reggie, seated directly in front of them, glanced back and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. CJ turned to the window. This was her first foray into Mexico. Perhaps she should pay attention.
Not long after they crossed the Rio Grande and merged onto Avenue Lerdo, the Mexican counterpart to Stanton Street, CJ began to see a difference between the sister cities. The blocks in El Paso were orderly and neat, laid out according to plan. But south of the border, the buildings didn’t match their neighbors as well, almost as if they were haphazard afterthoughts. The street’s edge was sprinkled liberally with booths, handcarts and individual vendors selling their wares to passersby. She had never seen anything quite like it—rickety tables stacked with scores of Mexican blankets; narrow shelves overflowing with religious figurines carved from wood and stone; and woven mats displaying silver necklaces and turquoise earrings. On some street corners, wizened old women hunched on the ground, hawking a variety of wares from their blankets.
“This isn’t the real Mexico,” Brady told her, frowning out the window.
“What do you mean?”
“Border towns aren’t good representations of Mexican life or culture. Sometime I’ll take you to Mérida, this amazing colonial city near Cancún. The cathedrals are hundreds of years old, and there are Mayan ruins nearby along with the sweetest little fishing village you could imagine.”
CJ wasn’t sure she could imagine a Mexican fishing village at all, sweet or otherwise. She stared at Brady, aware as she rarely was of the gap between their backgrounds and experiences.
“Don’t look at me like that. Everyone in Southern California vacations in Mexico.”
“Everyone?”
“Well, maybe not everyone. But plenty of people. It’s like Canada for you. You’ve been to Niagara Falls, haven’t you?”
She had. Montreal and Toronto, too. Her parents had been big on family trips, even during the hard years of the Depression when not everyone had the opportunity or ability to travel. Seeing different countries and cities was crucial, her parents had maintained, to the development of a world view that allowed for difference. Although how different CJ would turn out to be, she doubted anyone could have predicted.
The streetcar route took them away from the commercial streets commonly traveled by visitors and into the heart of the small city, site of an important siege that had spilled temporarily into El Paso during the Mexican Revolution thirty years earlier. El Paso buildings reflected the city’s American Southwest identity, with tiled roofs and Spanish colonial architecture interspersed among brick edifices with squared-off roofs and stone gargoyles. Similarly, Juarez buildings reflected the border city’s multitude of identities and influences. While the architecture was more eclectic than El Paso’s, with elaborately decorated pink adobe structures facing functional factory buildings, single-story slum dwellings and palatial haciendas, it was also, conversely, more uniform.
Signs in Spanish advertised Mexican businesses, from magazine stands to radio repair shops. W
omen wore colorful shawls and skirts, while children ran barefoot along the dusty roads, calling out to one another in Spanish. In the alleys, stray dogs dug through trash as groups of young boys chased after homemade soccer balls. She recalled her own childhood, playing baseball and basketball with her brothers and other farm kids. It was the same idea except that here, the options were limited by lack of space, equipment, organization. And she’d thought America had it bad in the years leading up to the war. Looked like every day was the Depression here.
The streetcar deposited them at the race track, where they bought discounted tickets and found seats together in the upper tier of the grandstand. Toby and Reggie went to place bets while the others stayed in their seats, watching the horses line up for the next race.
CJ, it turned out, was the lone member of the outing party who had never been to a horse race.
“But I’ve participated in a few,” she insisted. “That counts.”
“Are we talking an actual track with spectators or cross-country farm field racing?” Brady teased.
“Well, we called it a track, anyway,” CJ said, pretending to be miffed.
“Did you at least win?” Sarah asked.
“No. My mare Molly and I were no match for the competition.”
Her brother Alec had always had a way with horses. In more than one letter, he’d mentioned he couldn’t wait to get back home to see Jay, his gray gelding. Horses didn’t understand about military service, he’d written. There was no way to explain to Jay that his absence wasn’t voluntary, that he hadn’t left home because he wanted to. CJ knew what he meant, only unlike her brother, she had no intention of returning to farm life. In her case, she had chosen to abandon Molly. Although leaving her in the care of her parents was hardly abandonment. Rebecca and Pete doted on her too, so it wasn’t like she wasn’t well cared for.
Molly never seemed to hold her absences against her. Whenever CJ strolled into the barn, her childhood horse merely whinnied welcomingly and bumped her soft muzzle against her pockets, looking for the carrot or apple bits CJ wouldn’t dream of setting foot in the barn without. Lately, each time she left the farm, CJ had wondered if she would see Molly again. When the mare’s life ended—and it was a good life as horse lives went, CJ knew—would she regret not having spent more time with her? Would a deeper understanding of slave narrative conventions and fugitive slave experiences make up for the knowledge she had chosen to leave behind a beloved friend? For that matter, that she had left behind her entire family?
In the Company of Women Page 15