by Pamela Morsi
Mama was nodding. “She’d get that little government check and she’d stretch it out until she’d feed half the town with it. Then she’d barter with folks for whitewash or roofing or canna bulbs. I’ve never seen a person who could do so much with so little.”
I looked around the room feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
“You know we’ve had our marriage annulled,” I told her quietly.
“Oh Lord, yes,” Mama answered. “Geri came down to the store and told me the day she got the papers. She wanted to make sure that I didn’t give a moment’s grief about it. She said she’d been wondering how the two of you were going to find a way out of your hasty mess without a bevy of harsh words and a big scandal.”
When I heard this, I’m sure my mouth must have dropped open. Geri had been in love with me for nearly a decade. And she’d written me all those letters, every last one of them signed Your wife who’s waiting for you at home. Somehow discovering that she might be as eager to dissolve our bonds as I was tilted my world even further.
Stark puttered around the kitchen brewing up coffee as Mama caught me up on the local news. Piggy Masterson had opened an automobile dealership in what had been Cut Melrose’s bootlegging warehouse. The community was thrilled about the new use of the property. And Stub Williams, Piggy’s friend forever, was now working with him to make a go of the place. The McKiever brothers had married sisters they’d met in Scotland. Tim had been killed in France, but Tom had brought both the sisters home with him. Nobody in town could understand a word they said, but they were pretty as peaches. Mr. Stark’s daughter, Saffy, had finished college and was teaching at the grade school. Coach Burne claimed a good crop of youngsters this year, and speculation was that the basketball team might do really well.
I listened, nodding, feeling like a visitor, a casual observer in some foreign universe. But I tried for Mama’s sake to show an interest.
“Is Les back? Geri wrote me that Berthrene had a boy.”
Mama blanched, her eyes wide. Immediately she turned a pleading gaze to Stark.
The man looked me in the eye and didn’t mince words. “She lost Les in March near the Rhine. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. I know he was a good friend.”
I don’t believe the words truly surprised me. I was beyond being caught short by loss. I accepted it with the same stone-faced expression that had become my trademark, and I allowed myself only the briefest moment of dismay and grief.
Catawah without Les? I’d been wrong. Nothing about my hometown was the same and it never would be again.
I spent the next few days settling in. At least as much as a man could settle in when he didn’t have a plan for the future or any idea of how to build a life for himself. I made a couple of trips downtown, but I really tried to avoid people. Not an easy thing to accomplish in a place where everybody has known you since childhood and feels as though they had a hand in your upbringing.
Mostly, of course, I was alone and I was grateful for that. I wandered through the house looking for nothing. Accomplishing nothing. The autumn chilled into winter, and the first dusting of clean white snow settled over Catawah. I spent hours at a time just sitting and shivering on the back step as I gazed at the remains of the summer garden. It was all frozen, just gray stalks standing withered and broken. The remnants of a half dozen rows of roasting ears. The tiny hills of turned earth that had been Irish potatoes and yams. The trellises lined up like planes in formation, the scraggly vines upon their wings had not so long ago been bright with red tomatoes. I liked the leftover garden. After a day or two I even dragged a chair out into the middle of it so I could be surrounded by it, maybe even be a part of it. I felt comfortable there. I could see what it had been. But I was completely satisfied with what it was now.
I was sitting out there on the day that Mr. Stark came to see me, without accompanying Mama. He walked around the house, calling my name. I pretended not to hear him and kept completely still, hoping he’d not see me and go on his way. But he spotted me and waved me over.
“What are you doing out there?” he asked.
I didn’t answer, but reluctantly I rose to my feet and made my way toward him. Deliberately, I painted a smile on my face and held out a hand in greeting. I needed to be polite. He was Mama’s husband. I didn’t resent him or dislike him for that. I was grateful. I didn’t want to be his friend or for him to be mine, but he seemed to be doing Mama a lot of good.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to you, Bud,” he said without ceremony. “Can we go inside or would you rather sit out on the porch?”
I indicated the porch. I hadn’t gotten around to sweeping out the inside of the house, or washing any dishes or my clothes. In fact, since I’d pretty much given up sleeping, I hadn’t bothered to even put sheets on the bed.
I knew enough to keep these facts to myself.
We walked around to the porch. I sat down in the swing. Mr. Stark preferred to stand. He seemed determined to say something, but loathe to spit it out.
“I haven’t wanted to intrude upon your homecoming,” he began. “I’m sure you know that all of us, the entire community, we’re grateful for your sacrifice, for putting yourself in harm’s way for your country.”
I didn’t respond. There was no response to make.
“With your time overseas, it’s understandable that you’ve earned a bit of time off. And I’m sure you have a nice little pot of money saved from your combat pay.”
I emitted a sound that was vaguely positive.
“But I don’t think that you realize,” he continued, “how quickly the jobs are being snapped up by the returning soldiers. The refinery and the production work crews went begging for help just a year ago. Today they’re turning away experienced men. Easily a quarter of jobs that called for strong backs when you graduated high school are now being done by machines. And for every machine out there, there’s three guys vying for a chance at the controls. The war years have been solid for Main Street, but we’re not so far removed from the breadlines that we don’t remember what that’s like. There’s a job shortage in this country and you need to be aware of that.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
My glibness didn’t sit well with Stark. His brow furrowed and his mouth thinned into a line of disapproval. But he kept himself from stating what he must have thought.
“I’m here,” he began again, more quietly, “to make you a very attractive offer.” He began to pace back and forth in front of me, never looking me in the face. He might as well have been talking to himself. “Since your mother and I wed, you are now a part of my family. I believe strongly in family and in the inherent importance of family connections. Mrs. Stark and I are totally in agreement on that.”
It took me a moment to recognize that when he said Mrs. Stark he meant Mama. And that what he really meant was that Mama had sent him down here to give me this lecture.
“My intent has always been to give my boy, Jonas, a partnership in the store when he graduates from high school next spring. I can’t disappoint him on that. But we’ve been busier than usual the last few months, so I’m willing to offer you a job.”
Stark stopped and turned to eye me as if assessing my potential.
“I’m not too much concerned about your lack of experience in the grocery business,” he said. “I’m not unaware of your willingness to work. You did take care of your mother even back when you were just a boy. So I’m certain you have a natural inclination to better yourself. With a secure job and this old place, you’ll definitely have a leg up in that direction.”
He just stood there, looking at me expectantly. It was all I could do not to laugh in his face.
“I’m not interested in working for you,” I told him finally.
I witnessed an instant of relief that swept across his face, followed almost immediately by indignation.
“This is quite a plum I’m offering you, Bud,” he said. “I hope you realize that whilst you’re so quick to
turn it down.”
“No doubt it’s a good job,” I assured him. “But I’ve got…I’ve got some other plans brewing that I’m not ready to talk about yet.”
The lie so pleased the grocer that I almost wished I’d said so earlier. Fortunately, he didn’t press me for details.
“Your mother will be delighted to hear that,” he said. “She’s been worried that you don’t get out much—she never sees you chumming around with your old friends and you haven’t been to church since you got back.”
“You tell her not to worry,” I said.
Stark nodded. “I’ll do that,” he said. “I’ll surely do that. Now you stop by the house just anytime. I want you to know that you’re always welcome. Dinner is on the table every day at six-thirty sharp and I’m sure you miss your mama’s cooking.”
I couldn’t even remember my mother ever cooking. The idea that she might on a daily basis put a meal on the table was just more evidence that the world had shifted.
After Stark left, I went back to the chill of the garden and sat some more, huddled in my old cane seat chair. But I had a harder time staring into nothingness. The outside world was pushing in and I didn’t know if I had the strength to push back.
It was all too true that I would have to find some kind of work. I’d been surprised when I’d gone downtown to cash my mustering-out money and discovered that I actually had a tidy little stash in the bank. Apparently Geri had set aside a good portion of my pay that the government had sent her. It would get me by for a while, but it wouldn’t be enough to set me up for life. Like everybody else in the world, I’d be expected to make a living.
That wasn’t going to be easy.
For a few self-indulgent moments I toyed with the idea of ceasing to live. Of course, I couldn’t just shoot myself in the face—that would be too hard on Mama. I’d have to be killed in a way that would appear to be a tragic accident. I considered climbing the light pole and electrocuting myself. Or perhaps I could burn the house down with me inside.
I knew that I couldn’t really do any of these things. For three years, I had been in the middle of a shooting war actively trying to get myself killed. If I hadn’t been able to do it there, I sure wouldn’t be able to do it here.
When the sun went down, the night got colder and I went inside. All I could find to eat in the kitchen was a hunk of cheese and a handful of crackers. I walked aimlessly through the house. I was so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open, but I did. I sat in Mama’s rocker focusing on a piece of peeling plaster on the ceiling.
I felt myself starting to drift off and I startled myself awake.
I got up, found my jacket and stepped outside. The cold would keep me wide-awake and the garden was still there.
But it was different at night, darker. With only a sliver of moon to light it, the potato hills and remnants of rows looked like waves on the water. The night water was the worst, the very worst. Deliberately I turned and walked as fast as I could around the house and to the road. I would not run. I held myself in check. My heart was pounding and when I reached the road I began to walk up it toward the highway, purposely, as if I had someplace that I planned to go. One foot in front of the other, I just kept moving.
The dreams didn’t occur so frequently during daylight. My sleep in the sunshine might be fitful, but the dreams didn’t always come. At night they haunted me so badly I tried not to sleep. But if they began to haunt me while I was awake, how could I go on?
I don’t know when I began to hear the music. It was on the edge of my consciousness for a minute, and then I realized I was listening to it. Up ahead I saw the multicolored lights of the Jitterbug Lounge. Slowly, it pulled me out of the dark shadow that followed me. I was not hurrying away anymore; I was heading in that direction, my step lighter and my thoughts, as well. The music had saved me once. Maybe it could again.
I recognized the song, it was one of my Glenn Miller favorites. It had been on the jukebox before I’d left for the war. And Tokyo Rose had played it on her broadcasts in the South Pacific. As the jiving tune came to its pause, I spoke the now infamous phone number aloud.
“Pennsylvania 6-5000!”
My own voice was loud in the darkness.
The joint was really rocking. The little vacant lot beside the building was jammed with cars, and more were parked all along the ditches of both Bee Street and the highway. As I made my way to the door, it looked to me not much changed from the way it had always been. I ignored the knots of people standing around outside. Some were too young to enter, others were socializing in the shadows with bottles of bootleg liquor. The repeal of prohibition had meant very little for Oklahoma. Watered-down beer was still the only legal alcohol in the state.
I wasn’t interested in drinking, it was the music that drew me there. I kept my gaze straight ahead. I heard a vaguely familiar voice call my name but I kept walking.
Left over from its speakeasy days, the Jitterbug Lounge had both an outer and an inner doorway, with a tiny foyer in between. This night, both were propped open with wooden wedges allowing the light and sounds to spill out into the night.
The entryway was crowded. I had to squeeze by to get inside. The smell of cigarettes, stale beer and cheap perfume somehow mingled into a scent that was almost pleasant. The long mahogany bar along the north side of the building was crowded with customers. The group of musicians on the bandstand would never grace the stage at Macambo or the Blue Note, but they knew the songs and played them faithfully enough that everybody could dance.
And lots of people were dancing. I’d been in swing clubs from San Diego to Chicago, Manhattan to Manila and back again. Not a one of them had been any more crowded or loud or rowdy or giddy with desperation for a good time than this one here in this dinky, wide spot in the road.
This piece of strange truth made me smile. I’d become so unaccustomed to the expression that it felt unnatural to me and quickly disappeared. But I felt myself relaxing. The place was well-known to me and the music so familiar. I could almost put myself back into the boy that I had been. I could hear what he heard and see what he saw and feel how he felt. Almost.
I edged myself into a corner where I could view it all without really being a part of it. I let my attention wander from the musicians to the drinkers and finally to the dancers. The whole room was swinging and swaying and jiving it loose in every kind of way. I didn’t notice the fellows, though I’m sure there were some who could really cut a rug. It was the girls whom I watched.
That was a natural. I might not be a normal guy, but I still had normal urges. And I was not a monk. I’d found out that a woman could offer some relief from the tension, some respite from the dark shadows.
That night I was only looking. I was not seeking any comfort in Catawah. The hometown offered no anonymity. And I didn’t need any complications. But even a damaged man could hardly avert his gaze from a pretty girl. It wouldn’t even be polite.
So I allowed myself the luxury of observing the chubby blonde and the long-legged redhead. I assessed the assets of the big-busted gal who was so drunk she was reeling on the dance floor.
A couple emerged from the center, rocking and reeling. They were good at it, I suppose. But what caught my eye was the girl. She had her back to me, but it wasn’t her face that I was looking for. She was small, delicate, but her bottom was nicely rounded and looked especially fine in a red pencil skirt with only a tiny row of kick pleats near the hem. Her dark brown hair had been twisted and primped into a thousand loosened pin curls that bounced with every move she made. I was curious about the rest of her figure. And leaned slightly to one side to get a better view. From what I could tell, her breasts weren’t all that big, certainly not as impressive as the blousy gal, but I thought she filled her little sweater very nicely. Her legs were not so long, but they were well-shaped and the calves tapered attractively to her ankles and the straps on her perilously high heels.
I was really enjoying watching her and was disappointe
d when the music ended. She applauded the band as her partner leaned over to steal a kiss. Easily she dodged him and I found myself chuckling in admiration.
It was then she turned in my direction. From across a distance of a half dozen yards our eyes met instantly, and I’m sure my jaw must have dropped open.
My rational mind made no decision to go to her, but my arms and legs acted upon instinct. A second later she leaped into my arms, and I was pressing my face in her soft, sweet smelling hair.
“Crazy Girl, my crazy girl!” I said over and over again.
“I’d forgotten how much it is that I love you,” she whispered against my ear.
The musicians struck up another tune, the catchy “Is You Is or Is You Ain’t My Baby?”
Then I caught sight of the bandstand and saw they were taking a break. The music was not there in my memory, it was here in my hospital. I lay still, strapped down to my bed as I listened to the song. My wife was gone. Everything from way back then was gone. But I held the memory of Geri in my arms and it felt good.
Saturday, June 11, 2:12 p.m.
Jack Crabtree had time on his hands. That wasn’t something that normally happened in his life, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it. He wandered aimlessly and uncomfortably around his grandparents’ house.
They’d gone early to the hospital, following Aunt Viv’s instructions. Even in her state of decline, she behaved as the family matriarch, and everyone, including Jack, went along with that.
Her edicts included insisting that Bud never be left alone in the hospital.
“When your health is poor, being handed over to strangers can only make you feel worse.”
The hospital shouldn’t be overrun by relatives.
“We’ll have shifts of pairs, so Bud’s never left alone and nobody in the family is overwhelmed.”
And that everybody must be involved.
“The only way young people learn how to take care of their family is by trusting them enough to let them do it.”
