Yours truly, Walker Montgomery
She read it again, lashes wet from tears. Did he not see the impossibility in their situation? As though this was something she could ever forget. Accomplice to a terrible lie, son to her father’s killer. And yet Fluff’s words, he seems like one of the rare ones, had taken up residence in a small corner of her mind. He did seem rare. And thoughtful and intelligent and honorable.
Could you fault a child for the actions of their parents? Daisy thought back to herself at fourteen. By then, her mother had descended into her tormented inner world, with only glimpses of her old self showing up. If someone had judged Daisy back then for sneaking scraps from the lunch room at school or taking an extra can here and there from the market, and then later for dropping out of school, what then? Would that be fair? She knew the answer. And yet this felt different.
Fluff had demanded to know what the letter said, and when Daisy told her, she said, “Betty has a big sash on one of those fancy dresses of hers. You could use that.”
“That assumes that I’m saying yes.”
“You have to say yes!”
“I’ll decide in the morning.”
Daisy spent the whole night flip-flopping around under her sheets. She would decide absolutely not, and then wake up later and change her mind to yes, I have to see him again. In the morning, over fried rice and a mug of steaming coffee, she remembered she had brought Moon’s lead rope in with her to town, just in case. The rope was curled up in a basket in the closet. She could tie that to the tree, hear what Walker had to say and then decide. Before she changed her mind again, she found the rope, coiled it around the leaning trunk and tied a red bandanna to the end of the rope to make sure he spotted it. A strange desperation to see him again came over her.
They were back on the early afternoon shift now, and the truck came by at 12:30 p.m. on the dot. The day dragged like a wheel stuck in three feet of mud. As always, Daisy performed her job as best she could. But her heart wasn’t in it. She stayed close to Fluff and far from Dunn. Nixon seemed preoccupied with his rash and had taken up wearing a cool wet cloth around his neck. There was a whole stack of them in the refrigerator, and Lei had the unfortunate task of keeping them stocked and washed.
“I don’t handle the used ones with my bare hands. You never know if what he has is catching,” she said.
Which was ironic, because toward the end of their shift, Nixon informed the girls that they’d be having a briefing on staying healthy.
“I hope he plans on sitting in,” Daisy told Fluff.
She was eager to get back to the house in case Walker came by, and hoped they wouldn’t run late.
The women all lined up at their desks like schoolgirls. Instead of Nixon, Dunn sauntered in.
“As you may or may not know, we have a big problem with VD in the military. Boys will be boys, but we all know that girls like to have a little fun now and then, too.” He paused for effect, his eyes roving the room. “On account of that, we thought it might be helpful to give you all a little education. We can’t have our WARDs spreading anything, it wouldn’t look good.”
Daisy whispered to Betty, “Look who’s talking.”
Dunn was on her. “Did you have something to say, Wilder?”
The room went quiet as a tomb.
“No, sir. I just asked to borrow a pencil,” she said.
A bespectacled man in a white coat came in and set a cracked leather briefcase on the table. Thankfully, Dunn left. The doctor distributed pamphlets titled Sex Hygiene and Venereal Disease to each woman, barely making eye contact as he did. He cleared his throat and said a few words about avoiding sexual contact altogether and where to seek help if you did contract something, and promptly left.
Betty opened hers first. “Manhood comes from healthy sex organs. Did y’all know that?”
The pamphlets, which said they were prepared by the surgeon general, had a giant VD stamped across the front.
“‘Even more relevant is that we guard against venereal disease by staying away from ‘easy’ women.’ Don’t gamble your health away, ladies,” Fluff said.
Val read another line. “‘Most prostitutes have venereal disease.’”
“Well, I guess that means we stop frequenting Hotel Street, then,” said Betty.
Daisy threw hers in the trash.
* * *
It was dark by the time they arrived home. Dinner was leftover meat loaf and rice. Daisy kept waiting for the sounds of an engine. At nine o’clock, when Walker still had not come by, she decided to take a stroll in the fresh evening air. Stars were out in force. Daisy walked over to the coconut tree and immediately noticed something wrong. The trunk was bare. No rope, no bandanna.
She ran back into the house. “Someone took the rope down!”
Betty popped her head out of the bathroom, hair in curlers. “Probably Walker.”
“Why would he do that? He said if he saw it out there he’d stop in. There would be no reason for him to take it down,” Daisy said, out of breath.
“Who knows, but I wouldn’t worry about it,” Betty said.
An uneasy feeling settled in her chest, but she tried to convince herself there was a reasonable explanation. He’ll come tomorrow, she told herself as she drifted off to sleep.
23
THE STING
The minute Daisy and the girls stepped into Little Robert the next day, it was obvious something was afoot. The table was covered in markers and all WARDs on deck still wore their headphones. Deep in conversation, nodding and focusing and recording notes, they all but ignored their replacements. Junie Gonzales was pale as a cloud, and Daisy knew her husband was a dive bomber on the Enterprise.
“The carriers must be going out again,” Betty said flatly.
Daisy rushed to put her helmet and gas mask away, feeling off balance and short of breath. “Please don’t let it be the Enterprise,” she whispered to no one in particular.
But it had to be the Big E. Saratoga was already off on another mission, and the Yorktown and the Lexington were at sea. Lord only know where the boys were headed this time, and for how long. She imagined Walker standing on deck watching the island grow smaller and smaller behind him—a green speck on the horizon, until it finally disappeared.
She slammed her locker door shut, harder than intended, and tried not to cry.
Earlier that morning, a guard had pounded on their door. When Daisy came to the screen, he held up the rope and bandanna, and said, “This yours?”
Daisy opened the door and swiped it from him. “Yes, it’s mine. Why do you have it?”
“Sorry ma’am, you aren’t allowed to have swings on the trees here. Someone broke an ankle last month. Just wanted to warn you,” he said, tugging up at his pants and giving her a half smile.
“When did you take it down?” she asked.
“’Round lunchtime yesterday.”
Daisy wanted to point out that the rope did not resemble a swing in any way, but he seemed too dense to know the difference. She wanted to wring his neck. But what mattered was that Walker now believed that Daisy had written him off, that she had no interest in giving him another chance. And now he was gone.
She spent the whole shift contemplating how to get a message to him. One that no one else would read. But that was impossible.
“What about asking Nixon to help us?” she speculated.
“Good luck,” Betty said.
“Radio? Telegraph? Carrier pigeon? Smoke signals?”
“You’re going to have to wait until they return.”
In her mind, she composed the words she would say. Dear Walker, I wish there were some kind of manual for how to handle this situation. All I know is that I want to see you again. Actually, that’s not true. I also know that I appreciate the way you have so much faith in me, your strong and steady manner, and how you
kissed me as if your life depended on it. Unfortunately, I think my life does depend on it. Please come back alive, and that’s an order. Yours truly, Daisy. P.S. I put a rope on the tree for you, but a dimwit guard took it down.
* * *
Daisy spent a whole week walking around, pretending to smile, but doing a terrible job. The feeling that she had somehow missed the most important moment of her life kept smacking her in the forehead.
What had Walker meant by having something that would change her mind? The whole thing stunk and she was mad at the war, mad at Walker, mad at her mother, mad at herself, but most of all, mad at Mr. Montgomery. The anger burned.
It was Fluff who finally pulled her out of it. “Do you know what you remind me of?”
“Who?”
“Eeyore from Winnie-the-Pooh. But you’re less amusing and less fun to be around. And I’ll tell you what—that gloomy, negative outlook is not going to help you at all.”
They were hanging laundry on a windy morning, and Daisy couldn’t keep her bra from flying away and her bangs out of her eyes. Part of her felt like lying down in the grass and screaming and kicking like a two-year-old. She felt so entirely out of control that it made her weak in the knees.
“What would you have me do instead? Any bright ideas?” Daisy asked.
“Actually, I do. First of all, you need to write Walker a letter and tell him everything you are feeling. All of it, hate, love, frustration, fear, desire. Don’t hold back. Then you put the letter under your pillow and you say a little prayer to God, asking him to deliver your message to Walker in his dreams, while he’s sleeping on that tiny bunk of his. Then you thank God and leave the rest up to him,” Fluff said, matter-of-factly.
Daisy sighed. “That just sounds like a lot of work.”
Fluff crossed her heart. “I swear you’ll feel better. Acceptance is one of those unassuming things that has real power. The sooner you accept things as they are, the sooner you can move on. It’s out of your hands.”
Daisy had watched Fluff go through the whole gamut of emotions with Dunn, and she seemed to be doing remarkably well. Maybe acceptance was her secret weapon.
“I’ll write the letter tonight,” she said.
* * *
In the morning, Fluff tore into the house announcing that one lace bra and two pairs of panties were missing from the line. “That’s it! I’m setting up a sting operation every single night until we nab this fella,” she said.
Tired of buying new underwear, Daisy said, “Count me in.”
“Would someone actually go to jail for stealing underwear?” Betty asked.
Fluff put her hand on her hip. “It would depend on the judge and possibly any prior offenses.”
“We need to be very smart about it,” Daisy said.
“Oh, we will.”
Instead of setting up a sleeping nest in the hedge across the yard, they placed a bell on the line. Whoever was on duty that night would be sleeping with their head next to the back door screen, camera on hand.
Betty thought it was a stupid idea. “The bell is going to scare them away long before we can get the camera ready.”
“It’s our only chance,” Fluff argued.
Daisy was counting on their sixth senses to wake them if anyone was creeping around nearby. Sleeping animals sensed danger, so why not humans? “But if you do catch him in the act, stay inside. You never know what he might do if confronted.”
“Whoever it is must be a real nut, so I agree,” Betty said.
Fluff demonstrated how to use her camera, a boxy contraption with dials and buttons no one would ever be able to see in the dark. “You only have one bulb, so aim well and press here,” she said.
Betty shook her head. “We’re more likely to strike gold under Little Robert than to snag a photo of our thief.”
“We have to try.”
Four days passed with no action. Betty had slept half a night on the floor and called it quits. Going forward it would be Fluff and Daisy on rotation—a camera on one side, a baseball bat on the other. On the fifth night, Daisy found herself wide awake with a racing heart. She lay motionless and listened for any unusual sounds: an occasional coconut frond rustling; the faraway rumble of an engine; the almost imperceptible sound of grass underfoot. Someone or something was out there.
Feeling around clumsily for the camera, she worried at any moment she’d knock it over and make a big commotion. But her hand met it quietly. She rolled over and lay in wait. Clouds blotted out the moon, but there was enough ambient light to see a shadow moving across the yard. Too big to be any kind of animal. She held the camera up to the screen, ready to shoot. Her hand shook slightly.
The shadow came right up to the clothesline and stopped, almost as though he knew Daisy was there. She held her breath. Come on. A quiet eternity, and then the bell rang—high and shrill. Unable to see anything, she pressed down on the camera’s shutter button. A bright flash seared into the night. The thief had turned halfway around before Daisy could get a good look at him, and he had his arms up over his face.
“Get out of our yard, you creep!” Daisy yelled, grabbing the bat and moving to slam the door, lest he get the notion to come inside.
Feet pounded down the hallway, and Betty crashed into Daisy. Fluff followed close behind.
“What happened? Are you okay?” Betty said, looking slightly dazed.
Fluff scratched her head. “Did you get a shot or a look?”
Next door, someone opened the door and shined a flashlight. “Is everything all right over there?”
Daisy looked around. The man was gone, but her heart was still on high. “We’re fine. Just a scare,” she called into the dark.
“Are you sure? You don’t sound fine.”
“False alarm. Go back to sleep and we’ll explain in the morning,” Daisy called back.
Betty turned on the light, and they sat at the kitchen table. A moth fluttered near the crack in the blackout cloth.
Fluff’s hair looked as though she’d stuck her finger in a socket, and her face sagged in disappointment. “Was it a false alarm? Who were you yelling at, then?”
Daisy handed her the camera. “He turned away in the light, but I saw enough to get a sense. I think I got a picture, too.”
* * *
In the morning, they reported the incident to Vivian, who took a long drag from her cigarette and insisted on calling the FBI. Once again, the FBI said they couldn’t help. She then called the military police and a young officer with peach fuzz showed up fifteen minutes later and took their statements.
“Was any, um, underwear missing after the encounter?” he asked.
“He was caught in the act, so no. All underwear is accounted for. This time.”
“Get that photograph developed and maybe you’ll have a case. Meantime, not much I can do,” he said with a yawn.
Continuing on from there, they drove into Chinatown, where Fluff knew a photographer by the name of Tam Wong. The previous year, he’d been a guest photography lecturer at the university and he and Fluff had struck up a friendship. In the back of his herbal shop, Tam had a darkroom. When they arrived, the shop looked closed. They knocked and knocked and were about to leave when a door in the back swung open.
Fluff hopped up and down, waving. “Tam, it’s me, Fluff!”
The man hurried to the front door and squinted though the dusty glass, recognition finally showing in his eyes. “Miss Fluff! Come in, come in,” he said, opening the door and ushering them into a shop that smelled of roots and dried leaves and hundred-year-old soil.
Fluff explained the situation, and his head bobbled as he listened. “You give me one hour. I get your picture. One hour you know bad man.”
While they waited, they walked up Nu‘uanu Avenue and turned down Hotel Street looking for a coffee shop. The street was dusty, with wooden sto
refronts lined up wall to wall. Before long, however, they encountered lines of servicemen in front of several buildings and cottages. They stood in clouds of cigarette smoke and loud conversation.
“Boogie houses,” said Fluff out of the side of her mouth. They’d heard all about the prostitutes, but Daisy wasn’t prepared for the sheer numbers of young men in the area. “They call ’em three-minute men. Three minutes, three dollars.”
“Isn’t prostitution illegal?” Daisy asked.
“From what I hear, they have an agreement with the police. As long as everyone follows the rules, the houses get to stay in business.”
They crossed the street to avoid the lines, and found a hole-in-the-wall bakery with coffee that tasted like ashes. Daisy choked it down, just because she was nervous, along with two doughnuts and a pineapple slice. With each passing minute, Fluff seemed to grow more anxious. She kept looking at her watch and fiddling with a few loose strands of hair.
Tam was waiting out front for them when they returned. “Face showing! Good shot, good shot,” he said with a toothy smile.
The photograph was sitting on the counter, giving off a vinegary scent. They crowded around it, heads together. Half the photo was black, but the other showed an arm partly blocking a face. There was no doubt about who it was.
Fluff put her hand over her open mouth and gasped. “Oh my word, it’s Dunn!”
After the botched date and his antics at work, they had discussed him as a possible suspect. But even for Dunn, it seemed outlandish.
Betty smiled. “Would you look at that. Caught red-handed.”
Radar Girls Page 22
