by Vickie Hall
It occurred to her that Baby Girl had a lot to do with that. She supposed it was because she had something to come home to, something to occupy her thoughts and time. Baby Girl filled a need she hadn’t known was there, but was evident to her now. Maybe it had something to do with the lost baby, the one she’d aborted. How old would she be now? It was a girl, she remembered—at least, that’s what the med student who’d performed the abortion told her. But no, she thought, she’d asked about the baby, hadn’t she…asked about the gender. She didn’t know what difference it would have made. The baby would be almost three years old now, Bonnie realized. She wondered…no. She stopped herself. She couldn’t speculate now. It was far too late for that.
There was a knock at the door. Bonnie’s eyes flew open—she wasn’t expecting anyone. Was this it? Had they finally tracked her down? Her heart raced as she put Baby Girl in the bedroom, turned off the radio, and crossed the living room. The knock became a pounding, insistent and forceful. “I’m coming.”
There was no time to think of a way out, to avoid whatever awaited her on the other side. Her breath came in short bursts of fear, and the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Bonnie swallowed and inched the door open. She felt the air leave her lungs as she looked at Paul Warsoff. “Paul,” she said with relief.
Paul pushed on the door. “Let me in, Bonnie. I just want to talk.”
“No,” she said, blocking his way. “Don’t do this, Paul. Just go away.”
Paul shoved hard and Bonnie was forced back, almost losing her balance as he thrust his way in. A fury raged in her blood as she glowered at him. “Get out of here!”
Paul held up his hands. “Please, Bonnie. I just want to talk.”
What could he possibly want to talk about? Hadn’t she made it perfectly clear where she stood? “There’s nothing to talk about, Paul—”
“Why did you leave?” he asked, looking wounded. “I found out this morning that you quit.”
Bonnie let out a breath. “Yes, I quit. And you know why.”
“You didn’t have to do that, Bonnie,” he said. “I know you quit because of me, and I feel horrible about it—”
“I don’t care how you feel about it. Just leave.”
Paul grabbed her by the wrist, his eyes hot on hers. “There’s no reason we can’t be civil about this.”
Bonnie tried to pry open his grip, but it was steely and hard. “Let go of me!” She used her free hand to strike him across the face.
His mouth curled as he grabbed her other wrist. He pulled her to his chest, his breath smelling of alcohol. “You know what you are, Bonnie? You’re a tease.”
“And you’re drunk,” she spat.
“I don’t like rejection, Bonnie.”
He smothered her mouth with his. Bonnie felt sick to her stomach, revolted by his taste. She struggled against his hold, but he held her fast. She realized she could not fight him like this and relaxed. As her body yielded, so did Paul’s. His kiss softened, and then he opened his eyes. “I knew that’s what you really wanted.”
Bonnie smiled, backing him toward the open doorway. She brought her mouth toward his, then she clamped her teeth on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Paul yelped and jerked back as Bonnie rammed her knee into his groin. He groaned, lost his breath, and thudded to his knees. His eyes squeezed shut against the pain, and his hands clamped over his crotch. Bonnie shoved him so hard he toppled backward into the hallway. She almost laughed at the sight of him lying on his side, whimpering like a child.
Bonnie stood in the doorway, her fists balled at her sides. “Don’t come back again, Paul, or I promise you’ll regret it.” She slammed the door, locked it, then leaned against it as she tried to catch her breath. The adrenalin pumping through her veins made her light-headed. She went to the kitchen, her knees feeling like rubber. Taking down the bottle of Scotch, she poured some into a glass and threw it back.
The Scotch burned her throat. She felt the warmth of it rise from her belly, up her chest to her neck, her jaw, and into her head. Bonnie closed her eyes as her nerves began to steady. She leaned against the kitchen sink and rubbed her throbbing temples, convinced there wasn’t one redeeming man on the entire planet. They were all like Paul Warsoff, or Dave Miller, or Evan, or her father, and all the others…all of them…selfish bastards.
///////
After ten days at sea, Glen Taggart was more than ready to set foot on American soil. As the Liberty ship came into the harbor at Newport News, Virginia, Glen made his way across the deck for his first glimpse of the United States in more than three years. His pulse raced as he read an enormous sign spanning the dock: “WELCOME HOME, BOYS! WELL DONE!” The impact of the greeting overwhelmed him with relief and gratitude. Tears welled in his eyes, the reality of arriving home finally hitting him with full force. He couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe he’d actually made it.
Men crowded the deck of the ship, some tearful like Glen, others whooping and shouting with exuberant joy. Glen saw hundreds of civilians lined up below, waving tiny flags and shouting their welcome. Men, women, and children, gathered together in a festive reception for the men who’d risked their lives for them.
Glen felt his throat tighten, his chest constrict with emotion. He imagined his mother there, waving a handkerchief at him, tears streaming down her face. Maybe she was there, he thought, maybe it wasn’t his imagination. He’d felt her near more than once during the battles, the gunfire, the cold desperate nights. Maybe she was welcoming him home too.
He was ordered to line up as the gangway swung into place. Glen felt a nervous roll tremble through him as men’s names were called off a list. When a name was called, that GI disembarked from the ship. Glen watched as some of the men fell to their knees and kissed the ground. He knew what they felt, besieged with emotion too raw to express any other way. They were home, finally home, and touching U.S. soil with their own two feet.
Glen waited as the lines around him dwindled. Finally, he heard his name and dashed for the gangplank. He couldn’t help it as he hurried into the crowd of people and fell to his own knees, leaned forward, and planted his lips to the ground. He wasn’t ashamed of the tears that moistened his cheeks when he stood up. A man thrust his hand into Glen’s and shook it vigorously. “Welcome home, son.”
Glen saw something in the man’s eyes that astonished him. He saw gratitude for what he’d done, and an understanding that it had come with great cost. The man’s eyes misted with sincerity, and it touched Glen to the depths of his soul. He didn’t think he’d ever forget that look, or the moment, or the sense that his sacrifice had been worth it…that all their sacrifices had been worth it.
The GIs were ushered toward waiting trucks. Glen climbed into the back of an already crowded military truck and wedged himself between two men. “Where we goin’?” one of the men asked.
“I heard Camp Patrick Henry,” someone said.
“I don’t care where it is, just so’s I can get out of this uniform,” another shouted with a loud laugh.
“Man, if I never see olive drab again, it’ll be okay with me!” the first man said with a slap to his thigh.
Glen observed in his quiet way, taking in the moment as a silent witness. The truck started to move, jerking and shuddering as the driver shifted gears. His head was spinning. Everything seemed to be happening with tremendous speed. Before he knew it, the truck pulled through the gates of the camp and came to a stop. As they jumped to the ground, they were pointed to the rec hall in area five and given a map of the camp.
Glen and the others surged into the rec hall, a buzz of male drones. They were instructed to take a seat and wait for their name to be called. Glen found an empty folding chair and sat down. There was a sense of surrealism about the whole thing, as if he was watching from some distant place, watching everything unfold before him. Men’s names were called, they walked to the front, saluted the officer who handed them their discharge papers, did an about-face, and were f
ree men.
He hated that his gut was churning, a mixture of anticipation and dread roiling together in a heated blend. As much as he wanted to be a free man, Glen wasn’t sure he’d know how to act as a civilian. He wasn’t sure how he’d handle waking up when he wanted, going where he wanted, doing what he wanted. Every aspect of his life for the past three years had been regimented to one degree or another—dictated, as it were, by some captain or lieutenant, some general up the line. Now he’d be his own man again, but he wasn’t sure who that man was.
Corporal Glen Taggart…the name sounded foreign to him, but he got up when he heard it and went to the front. He saluted and received his discharge papers, did an about-face, and started back through the rec hall. He walked by a captain on his way and automatically saluted.
The captain smiled. “You’re not a soldier anymore.”
Glen managed a sheepish grin. “Oh, yeah.” He shook his head as if to make it register. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the Special Service Guide map of the camp he’d been given. Now all he had to do was see the paymaster to get his mustering-out pay, grab a bus to the train station, and be on his way.
With three hundred dollars in his pocket, Glen boarded one of the buses transporting GIs to the bus depot, the train station, or into town. He took a seat and started smiling. It was almost like he’d done something wrong and had avoided being caught. He was no longer Corporal Taggart, but Mr. Taggart, and no one stopped to question him as he left the camp. There on the bus, with other discharged GIs, Glen felt almost giddy as the men celebrated their good fortune. Instinctively, he turned to share his thoughts with Charlie. The giddy sensation soured to bitter disappointment, and the smile faded from his lips.
Chapter 14
August melted into September with hot days but cooler nights. Bonnie felt comfortable in her routine now. She liked working at Kirkendall’s, and found the chatty Irene fun and pleasant. Irene never seemed to pry, and Bonnie didn’t offer much personal information. She was content to let Irene carry the conversation when they were in between calls, listening to her prattle on about her family and neighbors.
Her life had become ordinary, just as she’d always wanted. She fit in now with the hum of life in Omaha. She became more able to push her former life into the recesses of her memory as if it had all been a bad dream, fuzzy and fading with time.
On a Friday afternoon in mid-September, Bonnie finished up a call and reached for a glass of water she kept on hand. It was warm and stale, but helped moisten her parched throat. Irene swiveled in her chair. “Did you sign up for the company picnic?”
Bonnie looked over at Irene, then put the glass down. “I don’t think I’ll go—” Irene flicked her wrist. “Oh, no you don’t,” she said with a teasing smile. “You’re coming and that’s that. Beside, how would it look if one of the newest employees didn’t show up? You know, some people go to have fun, which is me,” she said, pointing to herself, “and some people go to make an appearance. But I promise if you come, you’ll have a good time.”
Bonnie chewed on her bottom lip. A company picnic seemed harmless enough, she guessed. She wouldn’t have to stay long, just long enough to say hello to the right people. “Well, I suppose I should—”
“You should,” Irene insisted. “Sign up for something easy, like cookies or chips. I’m bringing my world-famous potato salad. Everybody loves it—it’s one of the first things to go. I’ve made it every year since I started working here.”
“I don’t really cook much,” Bonnie admitted.
“Kirkendall’s buys all the hot dogs, and you should see Mr. Hammond in his cook’s apron.” Irene chuckled. “He puts on his little chef’s hat, and wields a pair of tongs as if he was some sort of king. He loves it, and so do we.”
“It’s tomorrow, right?”
Irene nodded. “It’s held at Riverview Park. The address is on the sign-up sheet. There’s a big pavilion there—kind of looks like some Greek temple thing, I’ve always thought. Anyway, there’s a lagoon with rowboats and a zoo there in the park. We’ll have games for the kids and some fun activities for the adults as well. You’ve just got to come, Bonnie.”
Bonnie felt as though she couldn’t say no. “All right, I’ll come.”
Irene smiled. “I can’t wait for you to meet my family,” she said, her eyes filled with pride. “I’ve told them all about you.”
What had Irene told them? Bonnie had barely revealed anything about herself to Irene. “Really? What did you tell them?”
“Oh, I told them what a sweet girl you are, how smart and pretty. I told them you’re a good listener and a good worker,” Irene gushed. “You’ll be just like part of the family.” Her board lit and she spun to her station.
Bonnie took another sip of her warm water. She was taken aback at Irene’s description of her. She had never considered herself sweet or smart, or even pretty. At least, she never felt pretty, although on some level she knew she could attract men with her looks. The qualities that Irene attributed to her were assumptions, as far as Bonnie was concerned. Irene had no evidence to back them up. Because of her silence, she supposed, Irene had projected those attributes onto her, but it was a façade at best. Irene didn’t know her at all, didn’t know what she was capable of doing.
For five weeks, she’d heard all about Irene’s family, about her husband, Don, who worked at the Omaha Stock Yards, her oldest son Randy, a graduate from the University of Nebraska, a nd the first in the Orton family to attend college. Randy was a teacher and had married his high-school sweetheart, Doris. They had three children, two boys and a girl—David, Daniel, and Darcie. Then there was Irene’s next oldest, Ralph, a sales manager for Swift and Company. He married a girl named Candy, and they had two daughters. No, Bonnie remembered, it was three daughters— Beverly, Maryann, and Peggy. Then her youngest child, Ann, had just married George Norton. She remembered laughing when Irene had told her Ann had gone from being an Orton to a Norton and teased her daughter by calling her Ann Orton-Norton.
Bonnie knew all about them, about Irene and Don’s little house on Laurel Avenue that was in need of a new furnace, about the year all three of her children came down with chicken pox, about the nosey neighbor, Mrs. Sheffer, who lived across the street. She knew that Irene spoiled her grandchildren and that her husband loved Western movies. Bonnie had learned that Irene permed her hair and loved to bake. She knew more about Irene Orton and her family than she knew of her own parents. And in a strange, distant way, it was as if she somehow belonged to Irene’s family too. Maybe it was just her desire to fit into something normal, something she’d never known growing up. Maybe it was the way Irene spoke to her that made her feel included, as if she was a part of the family. Maybe Irene made everyone feel that way. Whatever the reason, the Ortons didn’t feel like strangers to her; she just hadn’t met them yet.
At the end of the day, Bonnie marched over to the sign-up sheet posted on the company bulletin board. As she wrote down her name and food assignment and took down the address of the park, she found herself smiling. She was actually looking forward to the picnic, and was glad Irene had insisted on her attendance. And then Bonnie realized something she hadn’t expected. Irene reminded her of her mother. Not in looks or personality, but through her essence, the kind, gentle essence they both shared. Tears suddenly welled in her eyes. Bonnie hurried from the building and began her walk home.
When she crossed Jones Street, she absently glanced up at her living room window. There was Baby Girl, sitting on the window sill, peering through the glass at the activity below. Bonnie had never seen her do that before and wondered how she’d managed the jump. It was probably her recent growth spurt, Bonnie realized, and smiled as she neared the building.
She climbed the four flights of stairs and noticed a note tucked against the doorjamb. She pulled it free and unfolded the paper. Miss Cooper, you’re in violation of your lease. Come to my office at your earliest convenience. It was signed by the building mana
ger. Bonnie felt her stomach lurch. She unlocked the door and hurried inside to retrieve her copy of the lease agreement. She couldn’t imagine what she had done.
Baby Girl meowed as if to complain about her mistress’s blatant lack of attention. They had a pattern established—Bonnie opened the door and called the cat, then Baby Girl would jump onto the comfy chair and wait to be petted.
Bonnie found the lease in her dresser drawer, took it into the living room, and sat down. She began to skim the document until her gaze settled on the “no pets allowed” policy. Bonnie closed her eyes and shook her head. She hadn’t realized that when she’d signed the lease. Of course, she hadn’t had Baby Girl then, either. She wondered if a neighbor had heard the cat and reported it to the manager, but most likely, he’d seen Baby Girl in the window and there’d be no way to deny it.
“Oh, why didn’t I think of this before? What are we going to do, Baby Girl?”
The cat jumped into Bonnie’s lap, already purring, made an attempt to nibble on the corner of the lease, then squinted her eyes with contentment. Bonnie stroked her and fretted as she thought about meeting with the manager. “I’d better go see what I can do about you, Baby Girl.”
Bonnie put the cat on the floor and went to the kitchen to feed her. She placed some kibble in the dish and headed off to the manager’s office. All the way there, Bonnie kept thinking of ways she could convince him to let her keep the apartment. But then, she thought, maybe it had nothing to do with Baby Girl. Maybe there was something else. She hoped that was the case as she knocked on the manager’s door.
Bonnie’s heart was pounding as the door opened. She gave him a disarming smile. “You wanted to see me?” She sounded as though she had no idea why she’d been summoned.
“Yeah,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb. “You got a cat. No cats allowed.”
“Yes. I didn’t realize there was a no pet policy—”
“Don’t matter. You signed the lease. Get rid of the cat or move,” he said gruffly.