by Janet Dailey
Modesty and dignity had little chance in this room. Outwardly, Marty appeared very casual, disrobing and climbing onto the table without a trace of awkwardness. Cappy couldn’t tell what she was really feeling—remorse, fear, loneliness—and she did not want to know.
The black abortionist allowed Cappy to stand by the table and hold Marty’s hand, more for her own moral support, since Marty didn’t seem to need any. She kept her gaze fixed on Marty’s face. She didn’t want to know what those pink-palmed hands were doing between Marty’s legs.
The minutes trickled by like slow-running grains of sand. She shut out the sound of half-muffled voices speaking in the shorthand of a close-working team. She felt hot.
When the white-smocked woman moved away from the table, Cappy glanced after her. Her gaze fell on the bloody placenta-covered embryo in the basin the woman carried, unrecognizable as anything human. She was shaken by the sight of it, and tried not to let it show.
The whole experience took on the hazy quality of a dream, something that really wasn’t happening to her. When Marty came around, weakened more by the effects of the anesthesia than the operation, Cappy helped her out of the barren rooms and down the steep, narrow-walled staircase to the capital streets.
Back at the nurses’ quarters, Marty lay down to rest and sleep off the drugs lingering in her system. Rid of her unwanted burden, she was almost back to her old, brassy self. “You didn’t really approve of all this, did you, Cappy?” she asked as she settled back onto the cot. “I don’t have any regrets. Why should you?”
Cappy left her without answering and went to sit in the large living room she shared with the nurses. She shouldn’t have let it touch her, but it had gotten through the barriers. Somewhere there was someone to blame. Marty. The married officer who had impregnated her. The Army for its damned discriminatory system. Little unborn babies. At the disjointed connection, Cappy pressed her hands against her eyes.
Although oddly detached from her surroundings, Cappy vaguely knew others were around, moving, talking. Someone approached, invading that invisible sensory circle that enveloped her body. As she started to lower her hands, someone touched her shoulder. She looked around with a start, wanting to be alone and not welcoming company.
With a hitch of his trousers, Mitch folded his length onto the chair next to hers and leaned toward her. His look was warm, yet probing.
“Hi. Are you all right?”
Something close to anger or impatience flashed in the blue glitter of her eyes. She pushed to her feet before he could see more.
“I’m fine,” she insisted.
Mitch came slowly to his feet to stand next to her, studying her with closer interest and observing the unconscious toss of her head as she turned to look at him. Her temper was set against him, resisting him and wanting no part of him to intrude.
“What do you want? What are you doing here?” The words were a challenge.
But Mitch didn’t respond to it. He had learned that that wasn’t the way to handle her. “Have you forgotten? We were to have dinner together tonight.”
Cappy dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry. I did forget.” But there was more impatience than regret in her voice.
It stung him. “Thanks,” he said, mocking her absence of artifice, then switched. As hard to fathom as she could be at times, this was not like her. “What’s wrong, Cap?” Before she could deny anything, he went on. “Before I came out here, I called to make sure you were back from your flight. I was told you had switched with another pilot who was off duty. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. A friend of mine—Marty Rogers, a girl I roomed with in Sweetwater—she had a couple days’ leave and came by to visit.”
“In that case, I’ll take you both out to dinner tonight,” Mitch offered.
“I don’t think so.” She avoided his eyes. “Marty’s lying down. She wasn’t feeling well.”
Something told Mitch he was close to the source of concern that preoccupied Cappy. He watched her, wondering what it was she held from him.
Someone swung into his side vision, drawing his glance. One look at the long, slim woman striding toward them and it clicked with a memory in his head. The name Marty Rogers hadn’t meant anything to him until he saw the fair-haired woman with the lively face and those glittering gray-green eyes. No man could forget that earthy zest, that lusty sexuality that was refreshingly honest—and therefore somehow right.
“Hello. Major Ryan, this is a treat,” Marty declared in her throaty voice. “Remember me? Marty Rogers from Sweet-water.”
“Of course.” Mitch clasped her hand and let his glance slide once again to Cappy. “I had understood you weren’t feeling well.”
There was a quick meeting of glances between the two young women, then Marty was declaring, hardly missing a beat, “Whatever it was, I got rid of it. Now I need something to eat to get my strength back. Why don’t we all have dinner together—and celebrate the occasion?”
“That’s just what I suggested earlier.” He turned to Cappy, curious to see her reaction.
Her lips were red and full at the center, pressed firmly together in an expression of grim displeasure. Mitch was surprised to see a half-veiled dislike shimmering in the look she gave her friend. His own gaze narrowed, but when Cappy saw him watching her, she quickly wiped all expression from her face.
“If you feel up to it, we’ll go,” she said to Marty, but something ran under the surface of her words, something pointed and hard.
“I never let little things bother me very much,” Marty answered. “It’s better than going through life like you do, always on guard against the slightest hurt and never living at all.”
Mitch was amused by the little flashing of claws between them, the little bitchiness. He glanced over at Cappy, and saw her consider the observation Marty had made, wondering at its accuracy.
“It’ll take me a few minutes to get ready, then we can go,” Cappy said.
As she walked away from them, Cappy came close to hating Marty. It was one thing, she felt, to accept the abortion as the only recourse open to her, but it was entirely another to be jubilant about the outcome. Cappy was disgusted by Marty’s desire to celebrate. She couldn’t understand that kind of callous indifference.
But Cappy was too caught up in the pullings and tuggings of her own ambivalent attitude to see the brittleness underlying Marty’s ostensibly high spirits. The deed was done and though Marty was never one to look back with regret, she couldn’t wipe away her sense of loss. Yet it was not so much grief Marty felt as failure. Marty had looked at herself and seen that she could never live up to her image of an ideal woman, the faithful wife, the adoring mother, and the happy homemaker. She had been born without the nesting instinct.
But she recognized it in others, just as she recognized all the moves of the mating ritual, the life coupling between male and female. During dinner, Marty saw the signs of it between Mitch and Cappy, the courting passes he made, the attempts to attract her interest, and the blind eye Cappy turned to all of them, the elusive way she kept slipping from him.
Something went wrong with the evening; Marty could feel it even while she laughed too loudly, drank too much, and flirted too often with the handsome major. In a way, she did it to rile Cappy—out of jealousy maybe, because she had what Marty didn’t. But Cappy simply turned moody and quiet, withdrawing behind that self-sufficient pose of hers. And Mitch—Marty could almost feel sorry for him. He appeared to be losing ground with Cappy instead of making headway.
“Thanks for the evening, Major,” Marty said when he escorted the two of them back to the barracks. “My train ticket’s taking me out of here in the morning so I won’t see you again before I leave. I’ll say goodbye now and leave you alone with Cappy to … have your good nights.”
His brown eyes were faintly gleaming, thanking her for the moments he’d have with the silent brunette. The night air was briskly cool, but Marty didn’t think he’d notice. She’d known too man
y men not to recognize those urges, disciplined though they were for the time being. The major was a strong, handsome man, potently combining an easy charm with a shrewd intelligence. If she didn’t owe Cappy something, she might have thrown up some competition for him.
“I’m glad you felt well enough to join us,” Mitch said graciously, then sent a puzzled glance at Cappy when she visibly stiffened.
“Old ‘button-lip’ will never tell you, Major, but I think you should know the reason I was feeling ‘indisposed’ earlier. I had an abortion,” Marty announced carelessly. “A man and a woman shouldn’t have secrets between them. And there’s no need for you to wonder whether Cappy was lying to you earlier when she said I was sick and how I happened to have such a miraculous recovery.” There was a certain wryness, a self-mockery almost, in her voice. The confession was a way of repaying the debt she owed Cappy by eliminating any possible mistrust. “Goodbye, Major.” With her good deed done, Marty left them and entered the barracks building.
At Marty’s announcement, Mitch had gone rigid. When the door shut, his words exploded in a low rush.
“My God, you let her?” he said accusingly.
“I arranged it!” Cappy snapped, his fire striking her flint. Somehow she had known how he would react. “She came to me. What was I supposed to do?”
“You could have refused,” Mitch replied stiffly.
“And have her wind up in the hands of some butcher?” she challenged in a taut, hurt voice. “She was my friend. She didn’t want the baby. What was I supposed to suggest? Using knitting needles or inhaling paint fumes?” Impatient, she looked away from him. “What do men know about it? It isn’t your life and it isn’t your body. Most of the time, you don’t even want to claim it’s your responsibility. You take the Army’s attitude—if the girl gets pregnant, tough. You know what would have happened if they had found out she was going to have a baby. They would have grounded her, or washed her out altogether because she wasn’t married.”
“Does flying mean more than the life of an unborn baby?”
“To some it does,” Cappy flared.
His hands caught her shoulders and swung her around to face him squarely. “To you?” His dark gaze burrowed into her.
Her glance fell, ever so slightly. “No.” She couldn’t do what Marty had done; that wouldn’t have been her choice.
“I knew it.” The low, exultant words rushed out of him, vibrant with satisfaction.
The press of his hands brought her into his circling arms while his mouth came down to cover hers. The hot, fierce urgency of his kiss was consuming, firing her skin with its heat and pressuring a response that would match the fever of his needs.
When he drew back, his breath spilled in a moist, hot wave over her face and his restless, needing gaze went over every feature. “I love you, Cap.” His voice vibrated in his throat. “I’ve always loved you.” He stroked her hair with a trembling hand, smoothing the dark silk strands and touching its softness. “I want to marry you, Cap. I want you to be my wife.”
The words ran coldly through her system, and a rejection of all he offered erased the inroads he had made on her will. Her hands pushed at his chest.
“No.” It was a choked refusal, too much pain lodging in her throat.
Mitch didn’t believe her protestations after tasting her willingness and her answering passion. Instead, he read another reason into her denial and attempted to assuage it.
“I’m not saying we should get married right away,” he murmured, not letting her go, and continuing to let his hands roam while he held her. “I know how you feel about the war and the future uncertainty. We’ll wait until it’s over to have the wedding. In the meantime, though, I want you to be wearing my ring. I—”
“No!” Her hands hit at his chest, surprising him with her violence, and his arms loosened around her. Cappy pushed free, twisting angrily out of his hold. “I won’t marry you—not now and certainly not later! I wouldn’t marry you if you were the only man on earth!!”
Stunned, Mitch stared at her, his brows pulling together in a frown. “What are you talking about? You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” she insisted, breathing hard from the great pain in her chest. “I won’t ever marry you, Mitch.”
“Why?” Beneath the growl of his voice was an anguished demand.
“If I marry you, it means I marry the Army—and I’ll die before I do that.” The words were wrenched from her, as tortured in their anger as his. “I was an Army brat—never having a home or friends—and I swore I’d never be an Army wife. And I won’t! If you want me … if you love me … you’ll quit the Army.”
“There’s a war—” Mitch began angrily.
“After the war!” she hurled back at him.
Silence pressed on them, the late winter chill finally touching them. His lips came together in a long, firm line as Mitch grimly eyed her. Cappy had known the answer to her ultimatum the minute she made it. Looking at him now, she didn’t even need his words to confirm it.
“You can’t ask a man to give up his career and think you’ll be happy together.”
“You can’t ask a woman to live a life she despises,” she countered in a rasping tone.
“Dammit, Cappy,” Mitch swore, his head turning away to hide the stinging in his eyes. “I love you.”
“Not as much as you love the Army.”
“You’ve done all right by the Army,” he flared. “It’s been good to you.”
“The Army has never given me anything. I’ve earned everything I’ve got.” The cool temperature turned her moist breath into puffs of smoky vapor, trailing exclamation marks that punctuated her words.
“You’re wrong,” Mitch stated flatly. “This job—this plum of flying assignments—you never earned it.”
“But … you told me that my father had nothing to do with it,” Cappy reminded him with a narrowed, suspicious look.
“He didn’t. I did the string-pulling.” His strong, lean jaw didn’t let the words out. He pushed them through his teeth, his lip curling back as Mitch roughly spoke them. “I wanted you close at hand … where I could see you.”
“That was your mistake, Mitch,” she said. “But I’ll see if I can’t correct it for you.”
Chapter XXIV
THE SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA air shimmered with the silken distortions of a heat wave. Fresh from a flight in a fast and powerful P-47 pursuit, Mary Lynn was still trapped in the exhilarating spell of the hottest plane around. When she recognized Marty standing on the sun-warmed concrete of the flight apron, she thought it was a mirage.
A second later, she knew better, and broke into a running walk. “I don’t believe it! What are you doing here?” she cried in delight.
Between the hugs and laughter, the how-are-yous and I’m-fines, Marty gave her a rough synopsis of how she came to leave the four-engines, toning it down some and making it more of a lark and a misunderstanding so she wouldn’t be placed in such a bad light. “So I got my hands slapped and sent out here.”
“He was married?” That part troubled Mary Lynn, although she was loath to be critical of Marty.
“Hey, Scott and I were friends,” Marty insisted, deliberately implying her innocence. “They made a big deal out of it.” By mutual accord, they left the flight line to seek the shady interior of the operations building. “I saw Cappy while I was in D.C.,” Marty volunteered, but she left out any mention of the abortion.
“How was she?”
“Fine. She hasn’t changed much.” Marty shrugged. “She still walks around life rather than reaching out to embrace it. I guess that’s why she flies—to soar above all of life’s problems into an aesthetically pure sky.” Marty the astute.
“Don’t we all,” Mary Lynn murmured.
“Not me.” Marty dropped a coin into the Coke machine and listened to the tumbling jangle as it tripped the lever and fell into the money box. “You can bet I wouldn’t let that major of hers walk around hungry if he were mine
.”
Mary Lynn shied away from any speculation about Cappy’s personal relationships. There was too big a hole in her own life. It had been too long since she’d had a man’s company. Some nights, she felt the lonely ache for it, a need shared by thousands of other wives across the country whose husbands had gone to war—the simple yearning to feel a man’s touch and once more to have the warmth of his body in the bed. With a faint shake of her head, she tried to dismiss such thoughts.
“Is Eden around?” Marty passed her a Coke bottle and turned back to the machine to get another for herself.
“No. She left a couple days ago to deliver a P-38 to Newark. It’s anybody’s guess when she’ll be back. You don’t always get orders to ferry another plane back. Usually it’s some round-robin jaunt, dropping off planes in Farmington, Indiana, or Great Falls, or Dallas, and picking up new ones. If you’re really unlucky,” Mary Lynn added, “you catch a train back.”
“The glamorous life of a ferry pilot,” Marty remarked wryly, and she lifted the Coke bottle to her lips.
They drifted away from the machine, paying little attention to the other pilots and base personnel in the ready room. Some pored over tech manuals or cross-country maps, and others were simply winding down from the final leg of a return flight. The place was busy; it was a major clearing house for one of the largest domestic ferrying divisions and soon to be home for the largest contingent of women pilots in the country.
“I won’t be staying long this trip myself,” Marty said. A wry gleam was in her gray-green eyes as she met the questioning look Mary Lynn gave her. “It’s one of the Army’s usual boners. They’ve got me—a multiengine-rated pilot with heavy bomber experience—and they’re sending me to Palm Springs for pursuit training.”
“P-47 Thunderbolts and P-51 Mustangs are going out of here like crazy.” The demand for qualified pilots to fly the hot pursuits was a sufficient explanation for Mary Lynn. “Wait until you fly one of them. There’s only room for one pilot in the Thunderbolt—so your first flight is solo. But you’ll love it.” She beamed with the fierce joy that came from sitting at the controls. “In most of the planes we’ve flown, a hundred, a hundred ten miles an hour was a good speed. The P-47 stalls at a hundred and five.”
