by Brian Payton
Edith explains the opportunities awaiting women in the WAAC. Helen could become a driver, cook, clerk, messenger, or work in a canteen. Edith herself will be going to England as soon as her papers arrive. Whatever Helen chooses to do, she will be making a real contribution and she will be paid. It all begins with three months basic training in Portland, Oregon.
Three months? Each day since her decision to leave, Helen feels her trajectory falling, the heavy pull of gravity. There must be some way around. “Can I choose where I go?”
“Well, sure. Like I said, you could go overseas. Right now, lots of girls are leaving for England.”
“What about Alaska, for instance?”
Edith is momentarily taken aback. “Never heard of girls going to Alaska.” She pushes away from her desk. “Let me see what I can find out.”
Women crisscross the office in smart uniforms and short hairstyles. It is a hive of feminine determination. Helen can’t help but wonder if some of them will wind up getting shot, or blown to smithereens.
Edith returns, shaking her head.
“You wouldn’t want to go up there, anyhow. Apparently there’s been some kind of attack. They’ve already sent home most of the women and families. They’re not set up for women.”
Helen picks up her purse and offers her hand. She promises to think it over.
“Take your time—but not too long. You don’t want to miss all the fun.”
* * *
HELEN WALKS WITH HER FATHER to St. Brigid’s, where he is determined to spend the day puzzling over single-handed ways of securing a loose railing. Seeing him so eager to work makes her uneasy, weak with affection, convinced he’s hiding something more. She watches him disappear through the door of the rectory, then she continues down the block, and onto the bus downtown.
At the library, she examines the papers for any mention of Alaska. The void she finds is quickly filled with fears of a Japanese advance, a widening and bloody campaign. She chides herself for such undisciplined thoughts, then sharpens her concentration. In the classifieds, she is rewarded with three solid leads for jobs offering passage north: a salmon cannery, an engineering firm, the office of a coal mine.
Months of research have made this much clear: Alaska is not a place offering a wide range of work. Aside from fighting the elements, virtually all labor seems to involve the extraction of resources from the earth, forest, and sea. She makes a list of her meager qualifications: 1. filing, 2. bookkeeping, 3. shopkeeping, 4. housekeeping, 5. cooking. She notes that her work life thus far has involved much in the way of “keeping.” Should she mention her fluency in French, which she learned in honor of her mother? In Alaska, this would be of no use whatsoever. Unfortunately, she’s a poor typist. Shorthand might as well be hieroglyphics or runes.
By the time Helen’s mother was twenty-five, she had mastered two foreign languages, studied music abroad, and balanced the books of the family dairy. She had given birth to three children, survived a war, and emigrated to the New World. In moments like these, Helen feels eclipsed by her legacy. But if John’s absence—if this war—has shown her a single thing, it’s that we must reimagine who we are and what we are capable of doing.
Helen pushes the papers aside. What does she want? She makes another list. 1. John home safe and the chance to start a family. 2. Her father alive and well cared for. 3. The end of this nightmare war. She dedicates herself to items one and two while accepting that item three rests in the hands of the Almighty.
In the foyer telephone booth, Helen spreads her notes out over her lap, stacks quarters five dollars deep. Once she arrives in Alaska, she will improvise, somehow find her way out to the islands. All of which means she must unleash a pack of lies.
Three times she is told that no one is hiring women, even in support positions. One man even laughed. The mine foreman says her best bet, her one sure shot, is to find an outfit offering mail order brides.
HELEN STARES UP from her childhood bed, streetlight through windowpanes casting oblong bars across the ceiling. Joe’s snore rumbles down the hall. She rolls over on her side, pulls the extra pillow below, squeezes it between her thighs. John never snores, unless he’s been into the whiskey.
Two more days of dead ends and indecision leave her clutching an old brochure for the Alaska Steamship Company, based here in Seattle. If the government hasn’t already requisitioned their ships, she could simply book passage north to Juneau. But why pretend she’s going to a job? All it takes is money. Juneau is a long way from the Aleutians, but it is a start. For a moment she allows herself believe her father’s claims, that he can manage as he always has, that he has no need of around-the-clock care. She has no real plan—only the will to get closer to John. His continuing silence can only mean that he is no longer undercover but missing. No one else will be looking for him.
She must tell her father of her plans. She must drain her bank account. He will certainly shoot holes in her theories and schemes but would never suggest she remain to care for him. He will have a long list of fears for her safety. Would he attempt to forbid her from going? She must acknowledge, counter, and allay his fears without backing down.
HELEN SPENDS FRIDAY AFTERNOON in the cool spring sun, shopping for long underwear, lined gloves, the heaviest wool coat she can find. She assembles the gear she imagines she’ll need, and yet with each item crossed off her list she feels less and less prepared to go. She has done precious little travel, virtually none of it alone. And now she presumes herself ready to sail headlong into the void that claimed her husband?
In St. James Cathedral, Helen genuflects in the direction of the sacrament, then lights two candles, one for John and one for her father. She asks for forgiveness for what she feels driven to do, for leaving her father behind. She prays for guidance and protection, and asks in advance for absolution for the lies and deception she will surely require. She stares at the twin points of light, surrounded by dozens of other wishes flickering through ruby glass.
Twenty minutes later, Helen shoulders through the heavy glass doors of the library. She marches past the librarians, whom she imagines must now consider her some kind of lonely, eccentric spinster. She pulls today’s Post-Intelligencer and Seattle Times off the rack, drops her bags under the table.
She races through each paper twice: first scanning headlines and bylines, then dipping into any possibly related story. Even though it is an active theater of war, neither paper offers news of the territory. On page four of the Times, she sees a large photo of a troopship currently docked in port, with an inset photo of Olivia de Havilland. At the bottom of the column is a smaller photo of four women who, the caption reveals, will also be onboard to entertain the troops. Helen’s focus drifts to the right-hand corner of the photo, to another face instantly familiar. If her eyes are to be believed, Ruth Simmons is back in town.
* * *
THEY HUG ON THE SIDEWALK outside Woolworth’s department store. Ruth’s perfume is overly sweet and abundant. Inside, they order ice cream floats at the counter. As Ruth enthuses about the wonders of New York, Helen guesses the cost of her ensemble: green satin dress, fur stole, pillbox hat, silk stockings, gorgeous new pumps. Seventy-five dollars, at least. Helen discreetly straightens her own sweater and smoothes the wrinkles from her skirt.
Helen and Ruth were close childhood friends until Ruth drifted into another crowd. While Helen won a few roles in high school productions, Ruth showed no interest in theater or pageants. And yet, after graduation, Ruth up and moved to Manhattan and had an acting career in no time.
In place of envy, which burned itself out long ago, Helen now finds herself filled with a kind of awe. She never expected to see Ruth again, except perhaps in a magazine, or a small role in the movies. Whenever Helen turns on the radio, a part of her is listening for Ruth’s voice in radio plays. Ruth did manage to make her way onto the New York stage, but now finds herself working for Uncle Sam. Aboard troopships, across the Pacific, right up to the front. Helen feels h
ope rise unexpectedly.
Ruth’s individual physical features range from beautiful (hazel eyes and high cheekbones) to ordinary (crowded lower teeth), yet she has always been more than the sum of her parts. Her expression conveys mischievousness, amusement, delight. While she will never be a leading lady, her attractiveness is undeniable. Ruth slurps up the last of her float. She produces a slim silver case, and offers a cigarette. Helen politely declines.
Two young airmen stumble inside. It has begun to rain and their shoulders are splattered dark. They come to an abrupt halt on seeing them but are unable to meet Ruth’s gaze. They scan Helen as an afterthought, then slink down one of the aisles like schoolboys caught in a prank.
“Tell me you haven’t fallen in with gangsters,” Helen says, “or left New York to escape your boyfriend’s wife.”
“Would it were true. Nothing quite so exciting. But I was getting regular work, until Herr Hitler rained on my parade.”
Helen is pleased to see that, despite Ruth’s budding success, she still refuses to take herself too seriously.
“How long are you in town?” she asks.
“Not so fast. What about you? Got yourself a man?”
Only now does Helen remember removing her wedding band before scrubbing the pots last night. She had placed it carefully in the tiny bowl on the windowsill. While she feels the urge to relay her astonishing good fortune in meeting John Easley, she is unprepared to recount the necessary and agonizing stories that follow.
“Not at the moment,” Helen replies. Instead she offers up her work at Maxine’s, the success of her brothers out east, her father’s stroke.
When the time is right, she will tell her that, after a string of schoolgirl crushes and two short affairs, she finally met and fell in love with John Easley. At first, there was the physical attraction that made her head spin. She found him kind, attentive, and instinctively honest no matter what the cost. In time she came to realize that he carries within a kind of peace that comes from knowing his own soul. He made her believe such a peace was possible for herself. Once, long before she’d met John, she had asked her father what to look for in a mate. “Find someone better than you,” he said. “I know I sure did.” This wisdom she took to heart.
Ruth takes a contemplative drag on her cigarette and watches the airmen steal glances. She stares them down until they turn and take their leave. On their way out, they tip their hats as Ruth flashes a victory smile. “Me either. I got men.”
For Ruth, capturing and holding the attention of men appears to be some kind of game. To Helen, this seems like playing with matches.
“These days my meal ticket is the USO.” Ruth gingerly removes a lash from her eye with a precise pinkie finger. “We’re heading to Hawaii with a musical review for the troops. There’s eight of us. Of course we’ve been promised Olivia de Havilland to headline, but I’ll believe it when I see it. Either way, we get well taken care of. Everyone’s getting in. Just imagine the exposure.”
“That sounds—”
“Do you still dance? Wait a minute, you had a great voice . . . You should come along.”
“To what?”
“Well, we’re not rehearsing yet. Just dancing for dimes. Recruits get to put their hands on you and stagger around for a minute or two. But you don’t have to dance with anyone you don’t want to.” She registers Helen’s surprise. “It’s patriotic . . . C’mon, I’m sure I could get you on. Meet me at seven.”
Ruth’s on a roll. She lights another cigarette and falls into a character from a romantic comedy she was in recently, transforming herself into a nosy telephone operator—to hilarious effect. Helen can’t remember the last time she laughed so hard. Ruth seems to sense this and does her utmost to keep the laughs coming.
THE SWEDISH HALL is festooned with Stars and Stripes, crepe paper streamers, posters promoting the USO. The lights are dimmed, the faces further obscured by the fog of cigarette smoke. The wail of a trumpet echoes across the mostly vacant dance floor. In place of the band, a lone girl fingers through records up onstage behind speakers the size of steamer trunks. Huddled near the door, a convention of flyboys and run-of-the-mill GIs, scrubbed clean, caps in hands, gaze at the selection of hostesses arrayed along the opposite wall. They work up the courage to move.
Helen studies Ruth as she plows around the floor with a sergeant. He is only just her height and has a fat neck that swallows his chin whenever he looks at his feet. There is no grace in the way he moves. But they smile and laugh, and Ruth tosses her hair like she hasn’t a care in the world.
Unsure of how to dress for such an event, Helen opted for a modest navy blue dress, hair up. She stands a safe distance behind several other women, wishing she hadn’t come. Helen moved from life with her father and brothers directly into her life with John. She has always felt outside the secret intrigues of women, unprepared for the sudden shifts and subtext. It was as if she had been adopted away from her own kind and now finds them peculiar.
About a dozen couples move around the floor with varying degrees of success. After putting it off as long as she dares, Helen finally joins in. She dances for over an hour with a series of partners and a few who come back for more. One unremarkable-looking private, about her own age, clearly knows what he is doing. They dance two songs in a row, jitterbug and Western swing. He leads with his eyes, his body, making it seem as if each step had been her idea from the start.
A few men—those reeking of aftershave or being goaded by their friends—attempt liberties. A squeeze on the hip, the incidental brush of a breast. Chaperones pace the floor, upright Christian matrons. A tap on the shoulder and a wag of the finger puts an end to most shenanigans. A few men are escorted out the door. And then, long after Helen thought he was gone, the private reappears to take her hand.
He leads her through steps she’s never seen before and yet she is able to follow his lead. Partway through, she stops thinking altogether. They move so well, others simply stop and stare. When it all comes to an end, he dips her low and stares into her eyes. A slow waltz begins, and they relinquish the floor.
“Hey. That was something!” He wipes his brow with a handkerchief. “I know we’re not supposed to ask, but—”
“My husband is in the thick of it. He’s a war correspondent.”
The private nods to the floor. He takes a half step back, sinks his hands into his pockets. “Sorry. Where’d you say he was?”
“Alaska Territory. They’re holding off an invasion.”
His eyes narrow quizzically. “News to me.” He grins. “We should probably let the yellow bastards have the place—then sit back and watch ’em freeze.”
He has no idea. None. And he is not alone. The military is papering over the war closest to home. And now here she is, dancing with strangers. She feels as if she’s losing her mind. Helen crosses her arms and plants her feet. Glares until the man backs away.
SHE SLIPS INTO THE BATH with relief, eager to rid herself of any trace of the men’s anxious sweat and pomade. The heat of the water penetrates her skin, urging the muscles to release. She reaches down to massage her foot. Downstairs, the murmur of the radio is punctuated now and again with her father’s laugh, which she adores. Particularly the laugh he is doing just now, the kind he attempts to hold inside, mouth closed. The kind he would prefer to share if only someone else were around.
In the end, the night redeemed itself with the confirmation of this remarkable fact: all kinds of women are being escorted to the edge of battle. Women like Ruth. There is no need for a lonely boat ride to Juneau to fumble from one lie to the next in the dark. She will let the military take her to John. How can her father possibly argue with such a patriotic endeavor? Helen feels the beginnings of a smile.
FIVE
THE PAST TWO DAYS WERE SO UNRELATED THEY seemed born of different seasons. One of bright skies, driving wind, and aerial bombardment, one of low cloud and stillness. The birds were unaccountably blasé during the attack, going about their
usual routines, but now seem caught by the doldrums, unmotivated, loitering in the grass. Even the sea is calm. Easley had never encountered a place of such profound changeability.
Hunting had gone poorly. It was as if word of their murderous ways had spread throughout the avian population. Part of the reason, Easley’s sure, was their crude hunting techniques. While the combination of a diversion and a well-aimed rock occasionally worked on the incredibly simple ptarmigan, it was far more difficult to bring down the wily and numerous birds of the shore and sea.
Together they tried pitching stones baseball-style at gulls and puffins. The boy had superior accuracy, owing to his American childhood. Easley grew up playing hockey, a sport with no obvious correlation to hunting, unless the quarry were dark mice scurrying across a frozen pond. At best, they’d each get a shot or two before the birds packed up and flew farther down the beach. Mussels and seaweed are back on the menu. They dispense with the charade of preparing and sharing meals. They simply consume whatever they find, wherever they find it.
Two weeks on the run and Easley’s soiled trousers sag from his hips, stiff with salt from sweat and the sea. His ass has gone missing. The speed at which he is wasting away comes as a surprise. Such weight loss is plain on the boy as well: the hollow face, the shrinking neck and thighs. He had much less to lose. And so it is with serious misgivings that they sling packs over their shoulders in the dim morning light.
“Ready?” The boy stands taller than usual. He wants Easley to believe he is up for adventure.
They pause, surveying the meager hole that has served as their home. Easley reaches into his pocket for keys, his instinct to somehow lock it all up before they leave. He covers this embarrassing slip by scratching his groin. They walk out into the fog.
