Chapter 15
adelaide
I hated the idea of someone bathing me. I needed help stepping over the side of the tub and getting seated in that shower chair from the medical equipment store, though, and I could no longer reach my back or my feet.
Thank heavens the aide lets me wash my personal parts myself so I can cling to a shred of dignity.
By the time she’d helped me dry off and dress, Hope was back. Through the window, I watched her lug a trash can full of flattened empty boxes and garbage bags to the curb. At my request, the aide settled me in my bedroom rocker, then left the room.
“Let’s go through my closet,” I said when Hope came back inside and stuck her head in my room.
“Oh boy!” She pulled out her little portable phone—they call them cell phones, though I don’t know why.
I think they should call them camera phones because they can take pictures.
“I’ve been looking forward to this. If it’s okay with you, I’ll take pictures of your clothes as we bring them out.
Then I can send an e-mail to a vintage store in Chicago or upload them on eBay. ”
I had no idea what she was talking about, but I loved the idea of taking photos of my clothes. I should have done that years ago myself.
“Whatever you want to do is fine, dear. I thought that going through my closet would help me remember the things I need to tell you, because I can recall what I was wearing when special things happened.” I gave her a sheepish grin.
“Although I’m afraid I can’t remember what we were talking about when we left off. ”
“You’d just told me about the night Joe took you up in the bomber.”
“Oh yes. Yes, indeed! Oh, that was quite an experience. Pull out that green plaid skirt at the back.”
She dug around in my closet. “This one?”
“Yes. That’s what I was wearing that night.”
She took a picture of it with her phone camera, then did something with her thumbs.
“There’s a blue-and-white polka-dot dress in there, with a fabric-covered belt. Do you see it?”
She rooted around and pulled it out. It had a V-neck, short sleeves, and navy buttons down the front. She hung it on the door and took a photo.
“Did you ever get your camera back?” Hope asked.
“What?”
She pulled the dress off the door and handed it to me. “You said you gave your camera to Kevin or Carl that night.”
“Oh!” A scrap of the past floated by like flotsam. “Yes. Yes, I did. He gave it back to me when he let me out of the car that morning.”
“Do you have any pictures of Joe?”
I nodded. “Not taken that night, but yes, I have a few.”
“I’d love to see them. Where are they?”
I drew a blank. I frowned and tried to think. Nope. Nothing came. “I can’t seem to recall at the moment. I’m sure it will come to me later.” At least, I hoped it would. I knew I’d put them somewhere Charlie couldn’t find them, but since my fall, I can’t recollect exactly where.
I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting the past swirl and thicken around me like smoke, until it was something I seemed to breathe. Once again, I heard myself talking.
1943
I had the hardest time keeping quiet about that plane ride the next day—especially around Marge. I didn’t think I could keep my mouth shut—and I was totally exhausted anyway, so I pretended to be sick on Tuesday and spent the day in bed.
By Wednesday, it all seemed like a dream. I was beginning to doubt my sanity. Had it really happened, or had I made it all up? Why hadn’t I heard from Joe?
I dressed in that polka-dot dress and went to work, and that made it seem more unreal—going on as before, as though nothing as life changing as flying through the sky had occurred.
I was assigned to the darkroom that morning, and it only added to my gloom.
I was gathering up the police beat photographer’s film from the night before when the senior editor, a roly-poly man named Thomas Coppler, called my name.
I turned and looked at him, startled, as he waddled toward me.
He was three layers of management above my supervisor; I didn’t think he even knew who I was.
He had wavy gray hair, a coarse salt-and-pepper mustache, and a big belly.
He liked to wear knitted sweater-vests, and the one he wore on that particular day was brown and covered with what looked like cake crumbs. “You’ve got a phone call,” he said.
I must have looked surprised. I’d never received a call at work.
“From your cousin.” His eyes were soft and sympathetic, in a way that conveyed bad news. “You can take it at my desk.”
I followed him across the newsroom, my heart racing, my mind scanning through my cousins.
I had five of them, but I wasn’t particularly close to any of them.
If something had happened to a member of my family, my parents would call—unless something happened to my parents.
In that case, though, my grandmother or Aunt Beula would have called.
Unless something had happened to them, as well, and then . . .
The phone was lying on his desk, off the hook. He handed it to me. My hand shook as I lifted it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Pretend I’m giving you bad news,” said a deep, smooth baritone. Joe. My heart stopped for a second, then beat double time.
“What?”
“Look shocked. Pretend I’m telling you that dear old Uncle Leo bit the dust. That’s what I just told your boss.”
“But . . .”
“Just listen to me. I know you don’t want to lie, so I did it for you. All you need to do is gather up your stuff and leave. He’ll let you off for the rest of the week.”
“But . . .”
“He’s standing there listening, isn’t he?
So don’t say a word. I already told him your uncle in Mississippi died and we need you here to help with arrangements.
I’ve got leave until Sunday. If you’re asked specifics, say you’re going to Coldwater, just outside of Jackson.
It won’t be a lie. I’ll take you to Mississippi. ”
“I—I don’t . . .”
“Just look shocked. From the way you sound, I imagine that’s how you look anyway, so you won’t even have to do any acting.
Just grab your purse and leave. If anyone asks for an explanation, just say you have a family situation—which, of course, you do.
Having a family is a situation in and of itself. Then take the trolley . . .”
“Streetcar,” I automatically corrected.
“. . . streetcar to Jackson Avenue. I’ll meet you there in half an hour.”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Let me talk to Thomas again.”
I was acutely aware that Mr. Coppler was watching me. I numbly I held out the phone. “He—he wants to talk to you.”
Mr. Coppler gave me a sympathetic smile and took the receiver. He listened for a moment. “Of course. I understand completely. I’ll take care of it.”
He cast me a kindly look—his eyes were big and brown and expressive like Charlie Chaplin’s—and set the phone in its cradle. “I’m so sorry.”
I nodded. I had the strongest urge to laugh, but fear kept me from it.
“Now, don’t you worry about a thing. Take the rest of the week off. And don’t concern yourself about money. I’ll see to it that you get hardship pay.”
“Oh! I couldn’t. I mean, that—that’s not necessary.”
He patted my shoulder, then pulled his hand back, as if he was unsure if he should touch me. He was endearingly awkward. “That’s all right. We take care of our own around here.”
Guilt stabbed me. “Really, you don’t need . . .”
“It’s our policy.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Now go. And don’t worry about a thing here.”
I nodded, gathered up my coat and purse, and left the building in a numb daze.
As I climbed on the streetcar, the numbness gave way to a bizarre combination of delight and outrage.
I’d never known a man like Joe—so take-charge, so willful, so forceful.
How masculine, how movie-star-ish, how thrilling!
Yet, on the other hand, how dare he? He was playing fast and loose with my career, making decisions that weren’t his to make.
It was as if he’d staked a claim on me. As if I belonged to him.
A shiver of excitement spun up my spine. The idea of belonging to Joe, of Joe belonging to me . . . well, it positively bewitched me. At the same time, it scared me to death.
Which took me back full circle to outrage. How dare he? Just who did he think he was?
Joe was leaning on the lamppost at the intersection of St. Charles Avenue and Jackson when the streetcar clanged to a stop.
I climbed down the wooden stairs behind a matron with a cane, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat, attraction buzzing through me like a hive of bees.
He stepped toward me as if he was going to hug me, but his smile punched my anger button.
I pushed him hard on the chest with both hands. “That was awfully presumptuous of you.”
He gave me a crooked grin. “I wanted to see you.”
“So you concocted a cockamamie story and lied to my boss?”
He lifted his shoulders. “You could have told him I wasn’t your cousin—that I was just a cheeky soldier trying to get you to play hooky with him.”
Oh Lordy—he was right. I stared at him, mentally smacking my palm to my forehead, feeling like the worst kind of fool. I had to turn away from him to collect myself.
The thought of not playing along hadn’t even occurred to me.
I’d been over my head before I even knew I was in hot water.
I whipped back around. “I can’t believe I let you put me in this situation!
I’ve not only misled my boss and skipped work, but there will be unending repercussions to this.
I’m going to have to tell all kinds of lies and answer all kinds of questions when I go back, and—”
“No, you won’t,” he cut in. “I told Thomas you’re a very private person and you won’t want to talk about it, and that no one should send sympathy cards or flowers.”
“Still, I’ll have to say something. People will ask about me about the funeral.”
“So we’ll attend one.” He pulled a newspaper clipping out of his pocket. It was the obituary of an elderly man in Mississippi who would be buried this afternoon.
“Who’s this?”
“Uncle Leo, of course.”
“Your uncle?”
“No, but you can bet he’s somebody’s.” He grinned. “We’ll go to his funeral—it’s on the way to my friend’s fishing camp—and then you’ll be absolutely honest in talking about it.”
I put my hands on my hips and glared at him. This was beyond presumptuous. It was flat-out insane. “Are you out of your mind?”
“No. I’m completely in it. I happen to be one of the few people in this world who is.”
“Now you’re not even making sense.”
“Most folks don’t have a clue what they really want. I do.”
And, apparently, he wanted me. The thought sent chill bumps coursing down my arm.
“I can’t just go away to a fishing camp in Mississippi with you.”
“Sure you can.”
I pulled myself to my tallest posture, but I still only came up to his shoulder. “Look, I don’t know what impression you have of me, but I’m not that kind of girl.”
“I didn’t think you were. But I also didn’t think you were the kind to let a bunch of archaic social conventions keep you from having an adventure, either.”
“An adventure is one thing; ruining my reputation is quite another.”
“It won’t be ruined if nobody knows about it.
” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Here’s the plan: You’ll pack a bag while your friend and your landlady are at work.
Leave a note just stating the facts: that you got a phone call at work telling you that Uncle Leo had passed away, and you’ve gone to Mississippi to his funeral. You’ll be back Saturday.”
“Saturday! That’s three nights from now.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not sharing a room with you.”
“I don’t expect you to. You’ll have your own bedroom. And I promise to treat you with the greatest dignity and respect.”
“Will there be a chaperone?”
He looked me straight in the eye. “No.”
“So it’ll be just you and me out in the woods?”
“That’s right. But I give you my word I will be a total gentleman. Your virtue will remain intact.”
I knew better. I knew it wasn’t prudent.
I knew my parents would have a stroke if they ever found out.
But I wanted to go so badly that I convinced myself it would be all right.
I told myself that he was an honorable man—after all, he was an Army Air Force officer, wasn’t he?
Surely I could trust the word of a man that the government entrusted with an enormous bomber, thousands of pounds of explosives, and the lives of other crewmen.
In retrospect, I was overlooking one important fact: the person I couldn’t trust was myself.
Looking back on it now, it’s hard to explain exactly what it was about Joe that affected me like catnip affects a cat.
It wasn’t just his appearance, although—Lordy, oh Lordy!
—he was one good-looking man. Joe just had something extra.
He was more alive than most people, as if God had packed an extra dose of vitality into him, or maybe a double soul.
He radiated something—heat or light or magnetism or some such.
He sparkled and shone and shot off electric sparks.
And when he turned his attention on me full throttle, it was like standing in front of a fire hose. It knocked me plumb flat.
Joe was impervious to the rules that everyone else lived by. And when I was with him, I felt impervious, too.
That was my big mistake. I forgot who I was—a small-town girl, bound by small-town rules.