“Married,” she said again, with a shake of her head. “Who would’ve thought it?”
“There’s more,” said Cathy, handing the baby to Gerry. “Uncle Les wants to buy them a really special wedding present.”
Uncle Les’s booming laugh bounced off the walls of the kitchen. “We’ve had a long time to consider this moment,” he said to everyone’s amusement. “A very long time. We want to make this the gift of a lifetime.”
“And that’s where you come in, Nancy,” said Aunt Edna.
“Me?” She glanced at Gerry who looked as confused as she felt. “What can I do to help?”
“Cathy told us there’s a house for sale on your block,” said Uncle Les. “We want to buy it for the newlyweds.”
“Let me give you the realtor’s phone number,” she said, rummaging through her purse for a pencil. “The Raskins have already left for California. I’ll bet you can get the house for a song!” Mac and his new bride would be the talk of Levittown and, as their friend, so would Nancy.
Gerry scowled and Johnny muttered something about men liking to make their own decisions about where to live. Nancy’s father said nothing, just continued reading Little Orphan Annie in the funny papers while Uncle Les smiled broadly.
A foreign correspondent and his English wife. Maybe she was even royalty. The most exciting thing to happen on her block had been the day Mitzi Gobel gave birth to twin sons last year in the back seat of their car.
Life was about to get very interesting, and Nancy, for one, couldn’t wait.
Chapter Seven
Jane was awake and dressed before dawn on Monday, the last day of their journey.
“We can’t get off the ship until after breakfast,” said Mac, his face buried in his pillow. “C’mon back to bed, Janie.”
She laughed and pulled the linens off the bed. “Sluggard!” She tossed the sheets and blankets out of his reach. “I don’t want to miss one instant of our arrival.” She wanted to see the Statue of Liberty and the Manhattan skyline. She even wanted to memorize the face of the tugboat captain who would guide the Queen Mary into the pier.
“What about breakfast?” he asked, looking up at her with sleepy green eyes. “I’m starved.”
“How on earth can you be famished?” she countered, drinking in the glimpse of his long muscular body. “We’ve done nothing but eat for the past four and a half days.”
He leaned up on one elbow and grinned at her. “We’ve done a few things besides eat, Janie.”
She tried to maintain a stern expression but failed dismally. “Cheeky.” Flinging herself next to him on the bed, she placed quick kisses against his mouth. “Arriving in New York City might be a commonplace event for you, Mac, but it’s quite extraordinary for me. I shall die if I’m not above-deck to be the first to see it in the distance.”
He gripped her by the waist, then rolled her over onto her back, pinning her to the soft mattress. “And I suppose you’ll blame me if you miss the excitement.”
She ran her fingernails lightly across the muscles of his back, grinning at the response her action garnered. “I should never forgive you,” she pronounced. “Our children and our children’s children would glower at the sound of your name.”
His hand slid under her navy-blue skirt, trailing seductively along the length of her leg to the warm flesh exposed by the top of her stocking. “Still pretty early.” He glanced toward the porthole and the dark sky beyond. “I think we have time—”
“Mac, we shouldn’t.”
His fingers traced the leg opening of her panties. “Give me three good reasons why we shouldn’t.”
“It’s getting late.”
“We have at least an hour before we’re anywhere near land.”
“We should eat breakfast.”
“Not hungry.”
“Five minutes ago you were famished.”
“Five minutes ago I didn’t have you here with me in bed.”
He cupped her and she felt a line of fire sizzle from her inner thighs to her belly. “You’re making it difficult for me to think, Mac.”
He leaned forward and kissed the curve of her breast, revealed by the slashed neckline of her dress. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”
“This isn’t fair.”
“Who said life was fair?”
The buttons of her bodice fell open as if of their own accord. His tanned hand looked so dark against the snowy whiteness of her bra. “Do you promise we’ll be above-deck in time to see everything?” she asked as he deftly unsnapped her undergarment.
“Scout’s honor.”
Who cared about seeing the Statue of Liberty, anyway?
* * *
Mac was a man of his word.
They were positioned at the railing as the sun came up over the eastern horizon. Both Mac and Jane had the rumpled satisfied look of lovers, and not a few of the other passengers on deck smiled to themselves and remembered how it had felt to be young and in love.
Not that the newlyweds noticed anyone at all. The Weavers were thoroughly engrossed with one another, lost in a fog of delight and pleasure so intense they lost sight of the fact that they were on deck to watch for the first glimpse of land.
The Ambrose Channel Lighthouse, seemingly out in the middle of the ocean, blinked a welcome as the Queen Mary glided past, signaling the imminent end of the voyage.
“What must it be like, living out here all alone?” Jane mused. “So desolate and dangerous.”
“I wouldn’t mind.” Mac put his arm about her shoulders and held her close. “Not if you were with me.”
“You sound like a newlywed, Mr. Weaver,” she said, in the prim and proper tone she knew tickled his fancy. “Quite daft, if you ask me.”
The fact that she was equally besotted with her bridegroom, was secondary. She wondered if she would ever grow accustomed to this feeling of warmth and security that she felt every time Mac drew her into his arms. Did women take this kind of attention and flattery for granted? She couldn’t imagine ever taking her good fortune for granted; after all, she had waited so many years to find someone to care for her that she knew she would thank God every night for bringing Mac into her life.
But of course that was something she could never say to him. You didn’t pour your heart out like that to a man—or to anyone, for that matter. Deprived of a mother or close female companionship from an early age, Jane had turned inward, contenting herself with caring for her father and brother while she created a world of imagination in which to live.
With Mac, it was different. The world of imagination paled in comparison with the real world he’d opened up for her. No more living in the past and dreaming of the future; now she lived for the here and now. For today. For the moment.
Maybe one day she would be able to find the words to tell him exactly how he’d changed her life. But for now she was content to stand there on the deck, with her husband’s strong arm about her shoulder, and watch the early-morning sunlight gild the ocean.
“Getting close,” said Mac, pointing at a pair of gulls swooping and soaring off the starboard bow. Beyond was a pale stretch of land.
“Is that Manhattan Island?” Jane shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted into the distance. “Where’s the Empire State Building?”
“That’s not Manhattan. Those are the barrier islands off Long Island.”
“Islands blocking other islands?” she frowned. “I’m confused.”
“Trust me,” said Mac. “It’ll make sense once you see a map.”
Truth was, Jane wasn’t remotely interested in Long Island or the barrier islands shielding it from the elements. She was anxious for her first glimpse of the greatest city in the world.
A few minutes later she had her wish. A cheer went up from some other passengers farther along the railing, and she and Mac turned in their direction.
“I don’t see anything,” she said, straining to look through the light haze that had come up as they got closer
to landfall.
“There.” Mac turned her to the right and pointed out into the distance. “A little more that way. Do you see her?”
“No, nothing—Oh, wait! Mac, my God!” She clutched at his arm. “I see her!” The Statue of Liberty, a surprising shade of green, materialized in the mists. “We’re here,” she said, as the full impact settled in. “We’re really here.”
Manhattan Island curved delicately around the harbor, almost embracing it. Jane was enthralled with the towers and spires that rose up from the ground only to disappear into the fluffy white clouds overhead. They seemed as timeless as mountains, huge sentinels guarding the city below. How mere mortals had managed to construct such wonders was beyond comprehension.
While Jane gazed at the skyline, Mac was absorbed in watching the little tugboat as it guided the gigantic liner into its berth at Pier 90. Seeing the Statue of Liberty after so long an absence had stirred up all sorts of emotions inside his chest and he found himself struggling to keep his mind on more practical matters. The war was winding down in Korea, but he was afraid a far more insidious war was being fought right there on U.S. soil—a war without guns or bombs but one that left casualties just the same.
The Graysons had avoided him after their encounter that first evening. He’d made light of the experience with Jane. “Everyone’s afraid of the Red Bogeyman these days,” he’d said. “Next thing you know, they’ll be campaigning to have red crayons banned in kindergarten classrooms.” She had laughed at that, which was exactly the reaction he’d been aiming for. He’d eat glass rather than give her anything to worry about, but Grayson’s remarks had found their target.
He rummaged through his jacket pocket for his ubiquitous cigarettes. Damn it. Why hadn’t he thought to bring them up on deck? His adrenaline was racing through his body like it was the Belmont Stakes. “You may have trouble,” his bureau chief had said to him when Mac first hit London after his stint along the thirty-eighth parallel. “Don’t think your criticisms haven’t been noticed.”
Mac had only been saying what everyone was saying. The conflict was a losing proposition. MacArthur had been right: either fight to win or don’t fight at all. Eisenhower’s threat to drop the A-bomb on the North Koreans was a case of too little, too late. They could sign whatever treaty they wanted back at Panmunjom, but it didn’t change the fact that, like it or not, GI Joe wasn’t coming back with another notch on his belt this time.
Everything you said these days had a half-life, like uranium. Articles dating from June 1950 when the skirmish began in earnest came back to haunt him now, three years later. “Watch your butt,” had been his bureau chief’s advice. He thought of Harland and Marie Grayson and their pointed statements and veiled accusations. His bureau chief might be right. The Graysons were nothing in the greater scheme of things, but a man and wife from Iowa. But what they represented couldn’t be ignored. The climate at home was tense, as tense as it had been back at the thirty-eighth parallel, and if he did nothing else, he’d keep that fact in mind.
* * *
“Sit down, Edna. You’re wearing a hole in the carpet.”
Edna Weaver glared at her husband of almost forty years. “I’ll sit down if you’ll stop opening the front door every two seconds.”
Les grinned sheepishly. “I thought I heard something.”
“I’ll make you a deal, honey. You stay away from the door and I’ll sit on the divan.”
Though how she was going to sit still was simply beyond Edna. From the moment she’d received the cablegram announcing her son’s marriage, she’d been filled with more energy than she knew what to do with. She’d scrubbed the floors until they gleamed. She’d polished the furniture and vacuumed the carpets and had Les trim the grass in the backyard three times in as many days. Edna prided herself on her housekeeping, but now nothing she did seemed good enough.
Her boy was coming home! That in itself was cause for fireworks and celebration. Ten years ago the arrival of a telegram had shattered Edna’s life. Her baby, her youngest child, had been lost in the war and she’d wondered if they would ever know joy again.
Times changed, however, and the Weavers had changed with them. And this time the arrival of a cablegram had brought them the most wonderful news of all, and to make the occasion even more splendid, Mac was bringing home a bride. How Edna had prayed for this day. Not just for Mac to come back home where he belonged, but for him to be happy again.
Mac had always been different from his brother, Douglas, darker in temperament, although he hid it well behind his outgoing facade. Mac even fooled most of the people with his hail-fellow-well-met behavior, but he couldn’t fool his mother.
Edna had seen his loneliness and felt his bitter despair when Douglas died, but there hadn’t been one blessed thing she could do to ease his pain. Her own pain, and that of her husband, had been so intense, so blinding, that she couldn’t see past the tears. She’d been a young woman at the time, much younger than she was now at fifty-nine. Crazy ridiculous thoughts of a change-of-life baby had plagued her in the dark of the night as she’d lain awake wondering where her second child had finally been laid to rest.
So many times she’d wanted to turn to Les and pour out her heart to him, but her husband held his sorrow close to his soul. Mac was much the same way. Edna prayed he had found a woman who would see what lay behind his happy-go-lucky facade.
Les peered out the front window and waved. “Tom and Dot seem as excited as we are.”
Edna smiled at the thought of their dearest friends. If God had seen fit to bless them, the Weavers and the Wilsons would have been united as a family through the marriage of Cathy arid Douglas. Still, it was difficult to imagine any two families being closer in spirit than their two were. And although Edna would give ten years of her life if it would bring Douglas back, how could she ever wish away dear Johnny Danza? Edna loved Cathy as if she were her very own daughter, and it did her heart good to see the way Johnny took care of her. Besides, who could imagine life without their little Billy or the baby Cathy expected in November?
It had been lonely in their house on Hansen Street with Douglas long dead and Mac so far away. How many times had she wished he would suddenly turn into the type of man who longed for hearth and home. “He’s a rolling stone,” Les liked to say. “You can’t expect him to put down roots, Edna. It’s not the way he’s made.”
But Edna had held on to the stubborn female notion that no man could be truly happy without a wife. “I think you’ve met your match this time,” Dot Wilson had said with a laugh. “That boy of yours is a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor.”
Truth was, that boy of Edna’s was also a dyed-in-the-wool romantic, same as his mother, and Edna had always known that one day he’d turn a corner and there she would be: the perfect girl for him.
Jane. Jane Townsend Weaver.
“Our daughter.”
Les turned toward his wife. “What was that?”
“Our daughter,” said Edna, more loudly this time. “I like the way it sounds, don’t you?”
Les smiled and it seemed to Edna that the years dropped away and he was her bridegroom once again, young and strong and untouched by sorrow. “Yes,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I think it sounds just fine.”
* * *
Mac hadn’t been this nervous back when he was dodging bullets near Seoul. As the big yellow Checker cab drew closer to Forest Hills and Hansen Street, he found himself swallowing hard and wiping his damp palms on his pant legs. Everything was the same but different, if that made any sense. Same street signs. Queens Boulevard. Continental Avenue. The movie theater at the corner of 71st Avenue.
Sure the traffic was thicker and the cars faster and the people noisier. He’d expected that. The world moved at a quicker pace these days, almost as if the mainspring had been wound a little tighter. What he saw went beyond that. An attitude maybe, or a state of mind. Almost as if the climate of the country had taken a 180-degree turn while he’d been gone.
He’d noticed it the instant the ship docked at Pier 90. Instead of the two smiling bobbies who had waved goodbye to the Queen Mary dockside in Southampton, a phalanx of unsmiling men in blue uniforms greeted the good ship in New York.
And there it is, he thought as he watched three little girls playing jump rope at the corner of Burns Street. America’s innocence was gone. Before the war, America had been like a friendly puppy, eager to be loved. Even as late as the end of 1945, she’d still managed to retain that eagerness to please.
Apparently it had taken another, and dirtier, war to wipe away that glow of innocence forever. You could see it in the faces of the people at dockside. In the glowers of the policemen, the frenzied bluster of the cabdrivers jockeying for fares. New York City had never been a gentle or contemplative place to live, but there’d been a combination of old-world charm and new-world vitality that had found its equal nowhere else on earth.
The vitality was still there but that old-world charm had vanished and prosperity had taken its place. You’d never know that twenty years ago the nation had been brought to its knees by the Great Depression. Cars were everywhere. Restaurants thrived. In some ways the war was the best thing that had ever happened to the country. Mac Weaver was the last guy to bitch about prosperity. Money was important. You only had to be without it for any length of time to know exactly how important it really was.
The broad street he knew so well was choked with cars, all parked against the curbs on both sides of the roadway. Made him feel claustrophobic just looking at them. What was wrong with the subway? he wondered as the cabbie turned onto Hansen Street. Didn’t people walk anyplace these days?
And the trees. They couldn’t have gotten shorter in the past seven and a half years, could they? He’d remembered them as towering over the roofs of the houses, lacing their branches over the center of the street, providing shade for everyone during the dog days of summer. Today they looked as if they’d barely make the second-floor windows.
Stranger in Paradise (Home Front - Book #2) Page 11
