In the Company of Women

by Kate Christie

  “My mother? She’s what, all of five and a half feet tall?”

  “It’s not her height, it’s her presence. You have both, which makes you even more intimidating.”

  CJ shook her head. “You’re full of crap.”

  “Not about this.”

  The screen door to the back porch was unlatched. CJ led the way inside, purposely choosing a wicker chair set away from the rattan couch. Sean skipped the couch as well and sat down on the porch swing. A host of memories came back to CJ—an autumn evening spent on that swing not long after they started dating and he came home with her to meet her parents; a winter afternoon when they’d escaped the holiday hassle to sneak a cigarette; that last night when he asked her to marry him and she told him she was joining the Army. But then it was her mother who sat beside her on the porch swing, looking crestfallen at the news that she’d sent him away.

  “What did you want to talk about?” she asked, her heart hardening against him as she recalled their most recent encounter.

  He stopped the swing. “I owe you an apology. I’ve known it for a long time, and when Sadie said you were back, I realized this was my chance.”

  “Okay,” she said slowly. An apology was not what she’d expected.

  “I should never have asked you to stay in Michigan. I should have been willing to compromise, instead of asking you to be the one to give up what you wanted.”

  “Is that why you joined the Navy? Because that’s not compromise. That’s abandoning your ideals.”

  “I’m not abandoning my ideals.” He rubbed his palms against his corduroys the way he always did right before he taught class. “Whether I believe in this war or not, it’s happening. You joined up to try to bring your brothers home sooner. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t try to do my part?”

  “A smart man. It was easy for me to volunteer because there’s no chance I could end up on the front lines. But you could be made to fire antiaircraft cannons or engage in small-arms combat or any other number of terrifying things that involve killing or being killed.”

  He stared at her. “I’ve read the same newspaper articles you have, seen the same photos in Life. I’ve listened to my parents talk about how one of the Davison boys lost both legs when he stepped on a mine and they feel lucky he came home at all. Or how Chuck Padley’s youngest burned alive in a plane crash when the cockpit latch got stuck. I know it’ll be a matter of luck if I come back from this in one piece, but it’s not like I have a choice, is it? I can’t hide out in school while everyone else goes off to fight.”

  “But you don’t believe in fighting!” She didn’t know why she was arguing with him. Was she afraid it would feel like her fault if something happened to him in the war?

  “Isn’t not believing in fighting a bit of a luxury, though?”

  He was throwing her words back at her—she’d used the same phrase the previous spring to call him out on his privileged status when he suggested they rent out an entire restaurant because he was tired of finding “their” booth occupied.

  “So you did join up because of me.”

  He shrugged. “I probably would have done it anyway.”

  Probably? “This has got to be one of the worst apologies I’ve ever received.”

  “What, am I supposed to lie? Last time I checked, you weren’t a fan of dishonesty. Or that’s what you always said.”

  The bitterness in his voice alerted her, and she eyed him warily.

  “Do you ever think about me?” he asked suddenly.

  “Of course.”

  “But not very often.”

  She hesitated. “No.”

  He rose from the swing. “Did you even love me at all?”

  “Yes. I mean, I thought I did.”

  He paced the length of the porch and stopped before her chair. “Which means what, exactly?”

  “Sean…” She stood up and started to extend a hand to him.

  “Don’t,” he spit out, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I wasted so much time on you. Why did you let me think we had a future? We talked about getting married, and you never once thought to mention that oh, by the way, you were queer?”

  She flinched and took a step away from him. But he followed, his face flushed.

  “I defended you. I said I would know if you were a dyke, wouldn’t I? But I guess there are some things the boyfriend finds out last. God, you must have been laughing at me the whole time!”

  He was looming over her now, and CJ felt his hurt and rage like a palpable entity between them. But despite the fact that the hair on the back of her neck had risen, even though her palms were damp inside her gloves, she couldn’t accept that he would hurt her. He was Sean, the first boy to make her feel beautiful, the first person she had spent the night with, the only man she had ever allowed to see her naked and vulnerable. He had never touched her in anger before; it was inconceivable that he would do so now.

  And then a voice behind CJ said, “That is more than enough from you, young man.”

  She glanced back to see her mother standing in the doorway. Relief flooded her—thank God—followed quickly by fear. How much had she heard? Her mother wouldn’t meet her gaze, and CJ knew immediately: Everything.

  “I’m sorry,” Sean said, his face white as he backed away a pace. “I wasn’t—I wouldn’t…”

  “I know,” her mother said, coming closer. “You’ve had a disappointment, but anger rarely solves anything.”

  CJ tried to swallow back her tears. She had made such a mess of things, and now Sean was going off to war and her mother had found out she was gay in the worst manner possible. There was silence on the porch, and she could hear wind whistling through the barren oak and maple trees at the edge of the backyard.

  He found her eyes. “I should go.”

  She wanted to say something to ease the distance between them, something to heal the pain that seemed so raw in him even after all these months. But all she could manage was, “Okay.”

  Mind still churning, she led him back around the house, her mother close behind. Sean went to his car without another word and started the engine, lifting his hand as it caught. CJ waved back, and then he turned the wheel and drove down the long driveway, his eyes on hers in the rearview mirror until his car disappeared behind a stand of evergreens.

  “Let’s go in, shall we?” her mother said, voice falsely bright.

  For the first time, CJ realized she was clad in a house coat and moccasins. “Of course. You must be freezing.”

  “Oh, I think I’ve been colder,” she replied in the same sing-song tone.

  Inside, CJ shed her outerwear, trying to think of something to say. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

  “It’s what mothers do. Someday you…” She trailed off, her eyes widening, and quickly started away.

  “Mom, wait.”

  For a moment, CJ thought she might not stop. At the kitchen doorway, she paused. “Yes?”

  “I know you heard.”

  Her mother smoothed the front of her housecoat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Caroline.” Her voice was low.

  “Look at me. Will you at least look at me?”

  Slowly her mother lifted her gaze, revealing eyes that reminded CJ of a frightened doe. She was scared. Scared of her own daughter.

  “We need to talk about this,” CJ said. “Don’t we?”

  “Not here.” She glanced toward the stairs, but for once, Rebecca wasn’t spying from the landing. “Come.”

  CJ followed her to the kitchen and leaned against the counter, watching as the woman she’d always loved most in the world—until recently—poured coffee from a kettle into a chipped mug. She didn’t offer CJ any as she turned to face her, one arm curved protectively against her abdomen.

  “So, do you have any questions for me?” CJ asked, unable to stand the silence.

  Her mother shook her head.

  “There�
��s nothing at all you want to ask me?”

  She blew on the surface of her coffee. “I suppose there is something. Was what Sean said true? Are you…”

  “Yes,” CJ said, trying to ignore her fluttering stomach.

  Her mother closed her eyes, and then she opened them again. “How can you be certain? It might be the Army and the people you’ve met there making you think this way.”

  “It’s who I’ve always been, Mom. I just didn’t realize it until now.”

  Her knuckles were white against the mug. “Well, I don’t accept it.”

  CJ stared at her. “Excuse me?”

  “I don’t accept it. This is not how your father and I raised you.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “I wouldn’t joke about this.”

  “Whatever happened to wanting me to be the person I am? What happened to honoring the individual?”

  “You can’t expect me to sit by and watch you ruin your life. I wouldn’t wish this fate on anyone, let alone my own daughter.”

  Her mother believed Brady would “ruin” her life? Lovely, smart, funny Brady who looked at her like she was the most amazing person in the world? CJ’s anger rose, swift and bitter. “Well, fortunately not everyone is as narrow-minded as you are.”

  “Caroline!” She set her mug down on the counter top, hard. “Don’t you speak to me like that, young lady.”

  “That’s the thing, isn’t it? I’m not that young anymore, and the last thing I want is to be a lady. I would have thought that would be abundantly clear.”

  She had never spoken to her mother in such a manner, and her heart raced like it did at the end of a round of calisthenics. All at once, she needed to escape. Pushing away from the counter, she headed for the hallway.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” her mother demanded.

  “Out.”

  In the front vestibule, she grabbed her jacket and handbag before slamming outside. What a hypocrite! The award-winning school teacher, a scion of her church and community—no wonder she’d pressed CJ to accept Sean’s proposal. She would rather her daughter be miserable than gay.

  Adrenaline carried her to the barn, where she barely nodded at her father before swiping the keys to his sedan. Disbelief carried her down the driveway in Sean’s wake, out onto the main road and into town. Anger took her to the train station where she sat, engine idling. She could catch the next train to Chicago and find her way back to Texas on her own. Her parents could send her suitcase on, if they could even be bothered. She could do it. She could leave the car keys at the information desk and send her parents a postcard from Chicago. What would her mother’s response be—I don’t accept it? She wouldn’t have a choice, just like she didn’t have a choice in who CJ chose to love. Not that loving Brady was a choice. Her feelings for Brady didn’t involve reason or logic. If they did, she wouldn’t be sitting here outside the train station in Kalamazoo considering running away from home.

  Home. She pictured the Christmas tree in the front sitting room, a scraggly specimen culled not from their property during a family walk the first week of December but from the Meijer’s store parking lot the day before she arrived. It had been hastily decorated with the usual ribbons and strings of popcorn, but her parents hadn’t brought out the box filled with ornaments handmade over the years by CJ and her siblings. When she’d asked her father why they had foregone the usual family holiday traditions, he admitted that he and her mother didn’t have the heart.

  Their hearts were in constant danger, CJ remembered now as she sat outside the train station, of being broken in a way they remembered too well. Her mother’s inadvertent discovery today must have been a reminder of that earlier loss, of the fear they lived with daily. CJ wasn’t the person her mother had believed her to be, nor would she have the future everyone expected. There would be no wedding to help plan, no son-in-law to welcome into the family, no grandchildren to brag about, only a terrible secret to guard. It wasn’t the same as losing a child to illness or war, of course, but it was a loss. She didn’t have to agree with her mother or forgive her, but she did have to go back. If she didn’t, the future happy Christmases she’d promised Brady wouldn’t stand a chance. There may not even be a home to return to if she ran away now.

  Still, she wasn’t ready to face her mother again yet, so she parked the car and headed into the familiar station, leaving her jacket and GI sweater in the car. No one who saw her would guess she was a soldier out of uniform. After all, it wasn’t like she was a man in civvies with an Army haircut to give her away. In the waiting room, she made a beeline for an empty public telephone booth near the newsstand. Pulling a change purse from her WAC-issued handbag, she added up the contents. Two dollars and thirty-four cents should buy her fifteen minutes or so. Assuming her call was answered.

  She dropped a nickel in the pay box, dialed “0” for the operator, and asked to make a long-distance call. The long-distance operator took her information cheerfully and put her on hold. CJ held the receiver tightly, waiting as the line clicked. How many relays would it take? She had no way of knowing, but she kept track on her watch. Two minutes and ten cents later, a slightly accented female voice finally said, “The Buchanan residence. May I help you?”

  “Hello.” She cleared her throat. Isabel—it had to be her, didn’t it?—sounded so far away. “Is Brady in?”

  “She is. Who should I say is calling?”

  “Caroline Jamieson.” She resisted the urge to add “ma’am.”

  “One moment please.”

  The seconds ticked past, and CJ imagined a meter ticking along with them: one cent, two cents, three cents, four… The phone beeped, and she dropped more change in. Come on, Brady, she thought, suddenly desperate to hear her voice.

  Then: “CJ? Is it really you?”

  At Brady’s familiar tones, her shoulders relaxed, the day’s tension slowly easing out of her. “Of course,” she said, forcing herself to sound cheerful.

  “Dang it, you beat me to it. I was going to surprise you tomorrow. I couldn’t wait until the weekend.”

  “You wouldn’t have found me. I’m not in El Paso.”

  “You’re not? Where are you?”

  CJ quickly related the story of how she had come to be in Michigan. “But I’m in a booth at the train station, and I don’t have much change, so…”

  “Let me call you back. What’s the number there?”

  “That’s okay, you don’t have to—”

  “I want to.” Her voice dropped. “Please? I miss you.”

  CJ gave her the number quickly as Ma Bell demanded more tribute. Then the line went dead. She remained on the hard wooden bench, waiting for the phone to ring and connect her to Brady again. Hearing her voice had been wonderful but terrible, for the crackle of the long-distance line reminded her of how far apart they were, how long it would be before they saw each other again. Still, Brady had seemed happy to hear from her. Apparently she hadn’t returned to L.A. and resumed the life of a society girl focused on wealth and prestige. Not yet, anyway.

  The telephone pealed and she snatched up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Hiya, kid.” Brady’s voice was soft.

  She sighed. “Hi.”

  “Have I mentioned how much I miss you?”

  CJ allowed herself a smile. “Not nearly as much as I miss you. Tell me, how are Nate’s parents?”

  “Shell-shocked.”

  “When’s the service?”

  “Sunday. The casket will be empty—he’s interred in Italy, and the family isn’t sure if he’ll be brought back after the war.”

  CJ had heard this type of news many times since Pearl Harbor, but it didn’t get any easier. Sometimes the war seemed so far removed that it was hard to accept that those who had fallen were never coming home. She wondered if Nate’s death felt unreal to the people who cared about him. Did they hold out hope that the Army had made a terrible mistake that would be revealed when he appeared upon their doorstep at t
he end of the war?

  “How are you coping?” she asked.

  “Fine. Amy, Nate’s sister who was at Smith with me, flew in from New York.” She hesitated. “She shared some interesting news that I’ll have to tell you about when I see you. Otherwise everything here is the same. I’m the one who’s different.”

  “I know. I stayed overnight with a school friend on the way home, and I felt so distant from that part of my life.”

  “Because of the Army or something else?” Brady asked innocently.

  “More like someone else.” She paused, trying to think how to word it. “Speaking of which, my mother knows about the Hilton.”

  “You told her about the Hilton?”

  “Not literally, but I wasn’t sure if there was anyone listening in at your end.”

  “Well, they’re not. How did all of this come about?”

  “Let’s see. Sean dropped by today to ask if I ever thought about him…”

  “He what?”

  The account of Sean’s visit took up another few precious minutes. Except that instead of the word “queer,” she told Brady that he had accused her of being happy, which her mother had promptly overheard.

  “Oh my God,” Brady said. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. My mother, on the other hand, I’m not so sure of. Although unlike Sean, she did stop short of using Charlie’s wonderful nickname for company D.”

  Brady paused. “I’m so sorry. That sounds awful.”

  CJ swallowed, her flippant tone fading. “It was. That’s why I called. I needed to hear your voice. I couldn’t wait until the weekend either.”

  “Poor baby.” Brady’s voice was soft again. “I hate that I’m the one driving you away from your family. I know how much they mean to you.”

  “It’s my mother’s intolerance driving me away, not you. I’d hoped for so much better from her. I didn’t expect it, but I did hope.”

  “Maybe she’ll come around. Give her some time.”

  “She’ll have plenty of that soon enough. But I’m sorry as well. I promised you holidays in Kalamazoo, and now it looks like we might end up spending our Christmases exploring the Seven Wonders of the New World.” She stopped, realizing how that sounded—as if she thought they would be together forever.