In the Shadow of Alabama

by Judy Reene Singer

  I stand there for a moment, trying to think whether tapioca pudding is okay for him. What do they put in that stuff? Whom could I ask?

  “Is he trying to get you to bring him some tapioca?” The nurse comes in right behind me, rolling a blood pressure cart. “He knows he can’t have it. Last week he tried to bribe me.” She sets the cart near him and wraps the cuff around his thin arm.

  Willie snorts. “I gave you a dollar forty-five. What kind of bribe is a dollar forty-five?”

  She rolls her eyes and starts to pump the cuff.

  “If I was going to bribe you, I would have given you a million dollars,” Willie continues. “Now, that’s a good bribe.” The nurse shushes him. We hear the hiss of the cuff as she releases the gauge. “Nice,” she says. “One-ten over sixty-two.” She writes something in his chart and puts a thermometer under his tongue. “Did they check your sugar today?” she asks, then riffles through his chart.

  “And I don’t recall you returning my money, neither,” Willie says thickly, the thermometer bobbing with his words. “One forty-five.”

  “I’ll bring your money back later,” the nurse replies. “But not even a million dollars is going to get you tapioca pudding.” She adds his temperature to his chart and reads through the morning entries. “Fasting sugar was one forty-two. That’s a bit high.”

  “I will not go to my grave without ever eating tapioca pudding again,” Willie says adamantly. “Write that in your notes.”

  “You know you can’t have it. Your blood sugar will climb to the moon.” The nurse heads for the door, where she pauses. “You want to give me more grief by putting yourself into a coma?”

  “Damn!” Willie slams his fist on the table, and his cup clinks against the saucer. “I’m eighty-nine. A man of eighty-nine has a right to tapioca pudding, if he wants it,” he declares, but the nurse is finished arguing. “I’m a veteran. I fought for the right to have tapioca pudding.”

  “Can’t they make it without sugar?” I ask her.

  She raises her eyebrows and gives me a weary shrug. “Don’t look at me, honey,” she says. “I ain’t running home to cook it.”

  * * *

  I rented a car. I can’t ask Rowena to drive me around anymore; I can’t intrude on her life, even though she promises that I am no trouble at all. I have even rented a room at the nearest Best Western, which has orange hot water flowing from the showerhead, stale bagels for their continental breakfast, and an air conditioner that stays on one temperature no matter how you set it. But I can sit in the bathroom late at night and read the newspaper, or lie across my bed and eat a bag of chips with the television loudly tuned to Cops, without worrying about keeping Rowena awake. I can release her from the burden of having to again explore and absorb these memories that are being given to me, word by slow, careful word. I can spare her that.

  * * *

  I am eating sour cream potato chips, which don’t taste like either chips or sour cream, and watching a musical video on the hotel television station about the hotel swimming pool, because I couldn’t find Cops on any of their three channels. The pool, according to the dancing mermaids, is closed for drainage repair, and will reopen in three weeks. Sadly, I won’t be here for that grand moment; I don’t know how much longer I want to remain.

  It’s been nearly five days. I am assuming that David is still in Puerto Vallerta. He never called to let me know that he got there safely, I don’t know where he’s staying, and his cell phone always goes to voice mail. I keep thinking of Malachi’s words about tying a rope around a horse’s neck so that it will stay, but I can’t do that. David has to stay because he wants to be with me.

  I hear Malachi’s voice in my head, arguing. He is asking me how David could know I want him to stay with me if I never told him. I argue back—what if I ask him and he says no? What if I allow my heart to commit and David’s love is temporary? What if my father had been right all along, that in the end, no one would ever really want to be with me?

  Even proposals can be taken back.

  I finish the whole bag of chips while staring at my cell phone. I can’t call him again.

  * * *

  I drive to the hospital, trying hard not to get lost. I am thinking about Willie. Nothing he has told me so far has changed the way I think about my father. Perhaps I understand a little more about not being allowed to have pets, but that really doesn’t matter, since I’ve more than made up for it. Over the years, I’ve adopted, and seen through their dotage, perhaps a dozen cats and dogs, four guinea pigs, a three-legged lamb, an ex–Easter duckling that someone had discarded with their trash, and several deaf chickens. The chickens were Cochins—they had long, graceful white feathering on their legs, and when I rode my horse around the farm, I had to carry a pocketful of tiny pebbles to toss at them to get their attention, since they couldn’t hear me coming. But they kept the duck company. I still have the duck. He’s an Indian Runner, that stands upright like a brown and white bowling pin, and runs after us, squawking for treats, while ferociously attacking our shoelaces. It satisfies me greatly to stand by the back door and watch the duck chase the dogs, which are two rescued pit bulls, the dogs chase the cats, and the cats chase after Malachi for sardines. And Malachi, restoring order, shooing them all back to where they belong. All is well, I think, when I see this chain of command, this natural order of my farm and family.

  Why am I staying here and listening to Willie? It won’t make much of a difference, and wasn’t that why I came? To make heads and tails of the relationship with my father? I can see him in his uniform, thick black hair and pencil mustache. I can still hear his voice. But I am seeing him through a filter of time and the knowledge of the man he became.

  * * *

  My therapist once told me that everything in your personality is pretty much fixed in place by the time you are six. “The cake is baked,” she told me. “The ingredients are set. There’s very little changing who you basically are.”

  It was many years ago, and I trusted her. I had started with her because I felt I couldn’t love. Just didn’t know how.

  “What does it feel like?” I had asked her when we started. “Is there a sensation that I can look for? Like hot? Or hungry? Or—needing to burp?”

  She stared at me for the longest time, then looked out the window as though plumbing the depths of her own heart. “I suppose it sometimes can be hard to identify, but soon you recognize it,” she finally said. “It is knowable.”

  I was twenty-eight at the time, and had never cared much to have a man in my life, and it was starting to bother me, mainly because I didn’t care that I didn’t care. I had a boyfriend in high school, another one in college, but I was pretty much indifferent to them. I thought maybe I was into girls, but I was indifferent to them, too. Then I realized, it was love I was indifferent to.

  “I don’t know it,” I said to her.

  “Why do you think that is?” she asked. And I knew the answer, though I didn’t tell her. I had never felt love. My mother was always working long hours in the little gift shop she owned; when she was at home, she was preoccupied and distant, busy coping with my difficult father. And my father was preoccupied with being difficult. I cared about Sandra, although she didn’t make it easy, and I suppose that was love of a sort.

  “I don’t know what to look for,” I replied.

  “It’s something visceral, that springs from inside,” my therapist tried to explain. “There’s a portion of loving that makes you want to take care of someone and be with them. Worry about their welfare. Think about them when you’re away. Miss them. They become part of you.”

  “Oh yes,” I said to her, the light suddenly going on. “That’s just how I feel about my dog. I—I—I love my dog!”

  * * *

  Willie talks to me all during the afternoon, and then we watch Cops together.

  “Whooee, would you look at that?” he exclaims as the criminal is pursued across a highway median after getting his tires blown
out by strips of nails.

  “I like it when they chase them up on the sidewalk,” I add.

  “That’s good, too,” he agrees.

  I leave him at the end of the day, after I have lifted the silver lid from his dinner tray, and opened his juice container, and poured him his tea. After I have folded back his newspaper for him, and made sure his curtains are closed. After he has gotten into bed and drifted off to sleep. I whisper good night and leave the hospital, and a thought occurs to me. I get into my rented car and drive to the nearest supermarket and buy him a six-pack of sugar-free tapioca pudding.

  Maybe that is love, of a sort.

  And maybe that’s all I can hope for.

  Chapter 18

  What surprised Willie most about Alabama winters was how cold they were. The shut-your-lungs-down cold that he expected in New York caught him off guard here.

  “I thought the South was supposed to be hot,” he said accusingly to August as they marched to Hangar Five in formation, shoulder to shoulder, braced against the ripping wind that stalked across the open base like a fierce animal. It didn’t help that there was a shortage of winter gear. Sort of a shortage. The white soldiers had been issued cold-weather jackets a month before; the colored units were informed that they had to wait on supplies. They had to wait on wool blankets, too, for their bunks, as the wind peeled under the canvas tents that were being used for their barracks and blasted them in their beds.

  “The South is hot,” August said through chattering teeth. “In the summer.”

  * * *

  Ice had frozen across the base in thin gray sheets that cracked like hard candy under their boots. New ice froze on top of it. But there was never ice around Hangar Five, because each day sent another small tide of rainbow-colored chemical-water through the doors, water that oozed in glistening purple and iridescent red puddles no matter how cold the weather got.

  Inside, the air was warm and banked around them in lazy clouds of sweet gray steam. The men worked up sweats as they “turned and burned” the planes, hard, fast work that rushed the plane inside the hangar, stripped it, gutted it, sprayed it clean, dried it, assembled it. All they could think of was the next plane. Next plane. Next plane.

  * * *

  Though the rules stated that he didn’t have to, Fleischer worked alongside the men, lending a hand where it was needed. Otherwise he could be found fiddling around on something or other. He constructed odd little crafts for his girl back home, made of strands of thin metal conduit and string and bits and pieces of aircraft material, soldered and twisted into necklaces or funny-shaped animals or puzzles. He possessed a wiry energy, a drive that kept him constantly busy, an enthusiasm that puzzled Willie, who wanted nothing more than to finish his tour of duty and get back home. Fleischer always had ideas to improve the cleaning protocol, the hangar, even the tools they were using. He wasn’t going to win the war by himself, but he acted like he could if he wanted to.

  This time he was working on a large wooden plaque that took him days to finish. Then he hung it inside the wash rack over the front doors. HOUSEKEEPING UNIT, it proclaimed, with a mop and broom crossed like swords underneath and a small model of a wash bucket under their center. Willie hated it. Housekeeping Unit! As if Fleischer didn’t mind at all that they were cleaning planes. Didn’t mind at all that the other squadrons were called “The Tigers” or “The Eagles” or “The Flying Warriors” and that his men were cleaning planes like scrubwomen. Didn’t seem to mind at all.

  * * *

  The green canteen truck slowly rolled from hangar to hangar, dispensing coffee and doughnuts every day. The brass had just initiated it for the winter, for morale, a coffee break every day from ten hundred to ten thirty hours, announced by the “Big Voice,” as the base PA was called, as the newest morale booster. The door to the wash rack was opened and waiting, while the men kept a hungry, watchful eye for the truck. A good strong cup of coffee and a doughnut or two would be just the thing to clean the taste of kerosene and carbon tet from their mouths. Fleischer stood at the door, watching as the truck stopped across the road at Hangar Six, where worn-out plane parts were replaced, then at Hangar Seven, where the planes were inspected. Men clustered by their hangar doors, sipping fragrant, steaming hot coffee, grateful for their coffee break. He watched as the truck rolled right past Hangar Five and disappeared across the base.

  Fleischer straightened his shoulders. “They run out of coffee?” he yelled to the sergeant standing in front of Hangar Seven. The man shrugged.

  “Not that I know of,” he yelled back.

  It took Fleischer all of a minute to understand. He turned to Willie.

  “You’re in charge,” he said. “I’m gonna get us a coffee break.”

  * * *

  Hogarth was in the next morning, beaming. “So, I’m hearing y’all went to the brass to get yourselves a cup of coffee. All the way to Seekircher for a goddamn cup of coffee, if that don’t beat all.”

  Fleischer said nothing.

  “Well, I’m in charge of setting up the canteen truck,” Hogarth continued. “Seekircher told me to pencil you in, and I’m penciling you in for Good Friday next year.”

  To Willie’s surprise, Fleischer said nothing.

  The next morning, promptly at ten hundred hours, Fleischer wheeled in the small table from the radio room office. On it was a large Air Force–issue coffee urn, along with a pile of Air Force–issue paper cups, metal spoons, sugar, milk, and a platter of fresh Air Force–issue doughnuts.

  “Anyone want a cup of coffee?” Fleischer asked, pouring himself a cup. The men gladly joined him.

  At fourteen hundred hours, Hogarth visited them again.

  “You are in illegal possession of a coffee urn,” he announced loudly. “My orders are to seize this urn and return it to the mess, from which it was removed without authorization.”

  Fleischer belched in his face. “There are a few doughnut crumbs you can seize, too,” he said, pointing to the hangar floor. “Just make sure you do a good job cleaning up. I suggest you use your tongue.”

  Hogarth poured the milk into the floor drains, snatched up the doughnuts, utensils, and cups, and carried them out to his jeep. He triumphantly lifted the coffee urn. “I am returning this, forthwith, as ordered, to the mess. Any further infractions will be cause for punishment, even a possible court-martial.”

  “Good thing there’s a war on,” Fleischer replied. “Otherwise there’s no telling what kind of chickenshit you people might worry about.”

  * * *

  The next morning at ten hundred hours, the canteen truck rolled past Hangar Five. Willie saw it pass out of the corner of his eye, just shrugged to himself, and went back to work. He would wait for lunch. At least they got lunch.

  “Coffee and doughnuts,” Fleischer announced, wheeling out the small table from the radio room office. There sat a brand-new, shiny silver urn steaming with hot coffee, alongside the usual paper cups, utensils, sugar, and milk. And doughnuts. A big plate of doughnuts.

  The men just stood at their stations and gaped.

  Fleischer poured himself a cup of coffee and took a doughnut. “Anyone?” he asked, looking around. The men took off their headgear and looked at each other. Was it a joke? A trap?

  Willie decided to hell with it; he wanted a doughnut. He stepped forward. “Is that Air Force–approved, Sarge?” he asked, grinning. He always used “Sarge” when he addressed Fleischer in front of the men.

  “It’s wash rack–approved,” Fleischer replied, taking a big bite of his doughnut.

  Willie hesitated. He was reluctant to get in the middle of a pissing war between two white men.

  “I bought everything at the PX last night,” Fleischer explained. “With my own money. They can’t tell me how to spend my own money.”

  The men looked to Willie; he had become their spokesman, of sorts. He smiled. “Let’s get ourselves a cup of coffee, men,” he said, and headed for the table. The men gladly followed. August
poured himself a half cup, filled the rest with milk, and stirred in five sugars. Willie took a doughnut, and was about to take a bite when Hogarth sauntered into the hangar.

  He stood by the doors and looked around, his mouth finally settling into a line of fury. Willie quietly put his doughnut down.

  Hogarth glared at Fleischer. “Y’all think you’re a wiseass, don’t you, Fly-shit!”

  “You have no jurisdiction here.” Fleischer stepped up to face Hogarth.

  “I have jurisdiction to check this base for safety violations,” Hogarth replied, “and I’m checking this urn.” He poured the coffee out, unscrewed the bottom, and checked the wiring.

  “If it doesn’t pass inspection,” Fleischer said coolly, “I suppose I could complain to the supply sergeant that the Air Force is selling defective items in the commissary.”

  Hogarth studied him for a moment, then glanced at the urn. “You got this in the commissary?”

  “Our very own commissary, on our very own base,” Fleischer replied.

  The urn passed. The paper cups passed, the milk passed, the doughnuts passed. Hogarth stood there for a moment, pondering his next move.

  Fleischer moved closer to him. “Get the hell out of here,” he said, his voice low and deadly.

  “I don’t take orders from you,” Hogarth started, but Fleischer suddenly snatched a doughnut from the table, grabbed Hogarth’s hand, and squashed it into his palm, squeezing the man’s fingers around it in a hard grip.

  “Pulleeze don’t leave without a doughnut,” Fleischer said. The men crowded forward, forming a semicircle around Hogarth and Fleischer, standing shoulder to shoulder. Hogarth’s eyes took them in, and his face turned to chalk. Fleischer grabbed his arm, bending it behind Hogarth’s back, and marched him to the hangar doors.