After the Fall

by Lisa Bingham

  “Even better. A stripper.”

  Alice’s carefully plucked brows nearly disappeared into her hairline. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Rosemary shook her head. “I have it from a pretty good source. She’s coming all the way from Washington, D.C. to entertain our boys.”

  “Good lord, that means the men who invariably gather as an impromptu welcoming committee will be especially out of control.”

  “Now you see why I skipped the adventure. I’ve arranged to introduce myself to the new women at orientation tomorrow morning, then I’ll invite them for drinks at the officers’ club before the party later in the evening.”

  “So who’s meeting the new staff at the docks?”

  Rosemary grinned. “Lieutenant Wakely.”

  Rosemary saw the moment that Alice absorbed the fact that straight-laced, old-fashioned Lt. Wakely had been thrown into the middle of what would probably become a testosterone-laden melee. Laughing, Alice gathered her things. “I hope you gave her hazard pay.”

  “No, but I should.”

  As she straightened, Alice eyed Rosemary in concern. “Don’t stay too much longer. You’ve got the evening shift again tonight, and you haven’t even been home yet from last night. You’ve been pulling sixteen-hour days for weeks now. If you keep this up, you’ll be in a hospital bed yourself.”

  Rosemary grimaced, but didn’t respond. Her head throbbed and her shoulders were taut with weariness. But there was still so much to do.

  “I’ll leave in the next few minutes.”

  “You’d better,” Alice said as she turned into the hall. The sound of her footfalls had nearly disappeared when she called out, “Oh, and if I don’t see you tomorrow…happy birthday!”

  The slam of the outside door added a note of punctuation to the resulting silence. Rosemary sat motionless. She didn’t even want to think about it—certainly didn’t want anyone else to know or make a fuss. But it didn’t surprise her that Alice knew. The two of them had become good friends since Alice’s arrival more than a year ago. But Rosemary had taken great pains to keep the knowledge away from everyone else.

  She shoved her reports into a folder and the folder into the filing cabinet. After carefully locking everything away, she decided Alice was right. She’d been at the hospital since early the previous evening. She needed a cool bath and several hours of sleep before checking on the arrangements for the welcoming party being thrown in honor of the new nurses tomorrow night. It was a tradition here in the Philippines—a grand welcoming dockside with a brass band and speeches, a quick tour of the area, martinis at their new quarters and plenty of time to absorb their surroundings, then orientation and a party and dance at the officers’ club the following night. After that, the new girls would be given a week off to acclimate themselves to the heat before beginning their duties at the hospital.

  Not a bad assignment. In fact, it was considered one of the plum spots here in the Pacific. Duties were usually routine—appendectomies, a few tonsillectomies, broken bones, and sunburn.

  So why did Rosemary suddenly feel restless? She’d loved her time in Luzon—proving herself so capable that she’d been given command of the nurses at Fort Stotsenberg.

  Grabbing her purse, she locked her office door and made her way into the hot tropical sunshine. There was a cool breeze today and it rustled the palm leaves overhead so they left dancing fingers of shadow on the walkway under her feet.

  Was it time for a transfer? Rosemary wondered as she traversed the few blocks to the private bungalow assigned to the head of the nursing staff. She’d been in the Pacific for more than a dozen years and in the Philippines for ten. Maybe she needed a change of scenery. Someplace with snow. It was one of the few things she missed about the farm in Nebraska—snow in December.

  But as her brisk pace blew away the cobwebs, she realized it wasn’t her locale that filled her with discontent. Perhaps things had grown too easy and she needed a challenge. Or maybe, just maybe, she needed a vacation. It had been a long time since she’d been home. Mom and Pop would appreciate a visit.

  She turned onto the walkway that led to her front stoop, then halted, arrested by the small white box left on her doorstep. She glanced over her shoulder as if the person who’d left it there loitered in the bushes. But there was no one there. She picked it up, recognizing the label from an expensive dress shop in Hawaii.

  Hawaii?

  Tugging at the ribbon, she lifted the lid, trying to remain blasé about the whole affair, but her heart secretly knocked at her ribs as if she were a child opening the first gift on Christmas Day.

  Alice must have sent it. Who else even knew that it was her birthday?

  She gasped when the contents were finally exposed. A perfectly formed corsage of milliner’s violets lay nestled in a bed of green tissue, their faces so life-like that she reached out to touch them to ensure that they’d been made of silk and velvet.

  Violets.

  Her favorite flower.

  A card had been tucked into the delicate blooms and, as she tugged it free, a tiny sachet dropped from the envelope. Almost immediately, she caught the ethereal, wafting scent of Violettes D’Avril, her favorite perfume.

  Lifting the card, she noted that the hard-edged, angular penmanship was obviously male and the sentiment was brief.

  Sweets for the sweet.

  Turning, she searched the surrounding area more diligently for the unknown sender. Plenty of personnel made their way over the carefully groomed grounds. Jeeps and transports carried on with the business of the base. Some of the mounted cavalry officers were heading their horses to the green expanse of lawn for polo practice. But no one gave her any real attention.

  Nevertheless, someone knew her birthday. Her birthday, her favorite flower, her favorite perfume…and her favorite play. Even Alice couldn’t have done that.

  • • •

  Sgt. Wilcox drove through a pair of tall pillars announcing their arrival to Fort Stotsenberg. As they followed a lane that wound around a verdant expanse of lawn, Glory Bee leaned forward to catch a closer look.

  Although the area was bristling with men and women in various uniforms, there was a Country Club air to the compound. The lawns were brilliantly green and lush flowerbeds overflowed with frangipani, birds of paradise, and bougainvillea. Even the palm trees with their whispering fronds were bedecked in orchids.

  The layout of the base took her by surprise. In her mind, she’d pictured Fort Stotsenberg as a classical fortress surrounded on all sides with huge brick walls and razor wire. But from what she’d seen so far, Stotsenberg looked more like a holiday resort than a military installation. Walkways were shaded by trees and bordered with clumps of flowering bushes. In the distance, she could see the brilliant green of the parade ground and what looked like a golf course.

  Sgt. Wilcox turned down a tree-lined lane bordered on either side with whitewashed cottages built high on stilts. Each one was identical, with lattice around the high foundations and broad wooden steps leading up to the front door. But Sgt. Wilcox could tell them apart because he brought the car to a halt in front of the last of the bungalows. A discreet sign read “Visitors Quarters.”

  “This way, Miss O’Halloran.”

  “Call me Glory Bee. Everyone else does.”

  Glory Bee allowed Sgt. Wilcox to usher her up the cement sidewalk to the freshly painted steps. Balancing her bags under his arms, he turned the knob and threw open the door.

  Stepping inside, Glory Bee found the air blessedly cool and dim; the curtains had been kept closed against the morning sun. Rattan furniture had been scattered around the room along with a huge free-standing radio and what looked like a wet bar. If it weren’t for the predominant use of stars and stripes in the decor, she might have thought she was at a fancy seaside hotel.

  Sgt. Wilcox set Glory Bee’s suitcases on the floor near a door that she presumed led to the bedroom. “Would you like me to take these…?” He flushed and gestured to the room
in front of him. “I mean…if you want, I could…”

  Glory Bee took pity on him. “No. Thanks. I’ll only need a couple of things tonight. Once the performance is over tomorrow, someone will be picking me up.”

  “Oh?” His brows rose. “You have another show scheduled?”

  She nearly laughed at his eagerness. “No. A vacation.”

  “Ah.” He appeared confused that she’d come all the way to the Philippines for a holiday. “Well, then…” He stood awkwardly.

  “You’ll be fetching me later for rehearsal?” she prompted.

  “Yes! Yes, I’ll be back at three.” Sgt. Wilcox began backing toward the exit. “Um. Well.” He waved toward a kitchenette that was separated from the sitting area by a low counter. “There’s an electric ice box with drinks and juice as well as a basket with a bottle of champagne and snacks compliments of the Base Commander. If you need anything else, let me know.”

  He had opened the door and was stepping onto the stoop when Glory Bee spoke. “Actually, Sergeant, there is something.”

  He eagerly turned. “Yes, ma’am?”

  Ma’am. That wasn’t an address she was used to hearing.

  “I need to send some…personal telegrams. Is there a place off base where I could go?”

  If he thought it odd that she wished to circumvent the facilities available at Fort Stotsenberg, he didn’t let on.

  “I’d be happy to take you into town after the rehearsal if you’d like. There’s a post office in one of the stores not too far away. They do telegrams as well.”

  Glory Bee flashed him a wide smile. “Swell! I’d appreciate that. Thanks.”

  “Not at all, ma’am. Not at all.” He lifted his arm as if he were about to salute, caught himself, then hurried from the bungalow, shutting the door behind him.

  As soon as he’d disappeared, she felt the tension drain from her body. Exhaling, she kicked off her shoes and padded barefoot to the bedroom.

  Someone had decorated with visiting brass in mind because a carved wooden eagle with American flags grasped in its talons adorned the wall over a large iron bed. A red chenille spread and fringe-edged silk souvenir pillows in garish yellows, pinks, and blues completed the effect.

  Grimacing at the tackiness of it all, she padded to the bathroom beyond. Much, much better. An immense claw foot tub took up one whole wall. The commode and sink were utilitarian white porcelain. But the towel bars were adorned with thick fluffy linens, which had obviously not been furnished by the government.

  Retrieving her makeup and overnight cases from the other room, Glory Bee settled the stopper in the drain and began to fill the tub. She would take a long bath, cool herself off, and wash the stickiness of her journey away. Then she’d have time for a nap before Sgt. Wilcox returned.

  With a snap, she released the locks to her makeup case and withdrew a bottle of rose-scented bath oil. Unscrewing the lid, she dribbled a capful into the pool forming in the tub. As the heady scent filled the room, she kicked the door shut with her foot, exposing a long mirror.

  The sight of her reflection caused the forced energy to drain from her body like air leaking from a pricked balloon. Unbuttoning her suit, she watched as the features of her face melted from her pasted-on smile to an expression so serious, so…melancholy that she felt as if she gazed into the eyes of a stranger.

  The lavender jacket fell to the floor, then her skirt. Lifting the slip over her head, she stared at the unfamiliar figure dressed in silk tap pants, a heavily boned girdle, and a silk brassiere that strained to contain her breasts. Her chin quivered and tears formed behind the dam of her lashes as she unhooked the fasteners of the girdle one by one.

  The relief was instantaneous. As the hated foundation garment fell to the floor in a heap, her belly expanded, becoming rounded and oh, so alien to her. Palming the unfamiliar swell she prayed that no one on the voyage had guessed her secret. She’d tried to keep to herself as much as possible—and the fact that she’d been sick throughout most of the journey had helped. She was able to blame her nausea on being a poor sailor. But with a ship full of nurses being transferred to the Philippines, she’d been so afraid one of them would guess the real reason behind her illness.

  Swiping at the tears that suddenly broke free from her lashes and spilled down her cheeks, she turned her back on the sight of her body and stripped the rest of her underthings away. Then, settling into the tub, she sank below the level of the water and closed her eyes.

  There was no use crying. It had happened. She was pregnant. And no amount of blubbering would change that fact. She’d already sobbed most of her way across the Pacific Ocean and it hadn’t solved a thing. She was here now, away from prying eyes until the baby was born. After that, Michael would take care of things. As soon as the infant was old enough to travel, she would return to Hawaii where he’d made arrangements for the baby to be given away.

  The thought brought no regret, merely a surge of relief. She couldn’t be a mother. She didn’t know the first thing about raising a kid. As it was, she wasn’t sure how she was going to cope until she was able to take the baby to Hawaii.

  Maybe she could hire someone. A nanny or nursemaid, or whatever the hell they called a person who took care of babies. She had to stick things out for a few more months. Then she could return to her life, her career.

  And Michael.

  With a pang, Glory Bee wondered what he was doing now. Was he hard at work on Capitol Hill? Or home having cocktails with his wife? Glory Bee wasn’t sure of the time change. It was yesterday in Washington, wasn’t it? The other passengers had made a big fuss on the ship when they’d crossed the International Date Line, so it had been drummed into Glory Bee’s head that the Philippines was a day ahead of the states.

  So she wasn’t just thousands of miles away from Michael.

  She was thousands of miles and a day.

  Using her toes, she shut off the taps and sank deeper into the water, until only her face bobbed free. Biting her lip, she tried to focus on the silken caress of the bath, the sweet, musky scent of roses, the upcoming rehearsal, and the beauty of the Philippines. Anything that would push away her tears.

  She couldn’t cry anymore. She wouldn’t. After all, she had everything in the world for which to be grateful. She was in paradise, just like Michael had promised. Months of sun and sand would do her good. And she’d have time to explore before she got too big. As the ship had made its way into the harbor, she’d seen a lovely little island in the distance. The purser had told her it was Corregidor. It had looked so peaceful. So green. She’d even heard some of the nurses saying that they planned to arrange for a transfer there after a few months. Maybe Glory Bee could go there for an outing. If not, there would be the hills surrounding the plantation to explore. Manila itself.

  She’d have more than enough to keep her busy.

  More than enough to push away the hollow loneliness that threatened to consume her whole.

  • • •

  Darkness had long ago fallen on the Philippines when John Macklin shouldered open the door to the small foreman’s cottage and stepped inside, his boots scraping against the lintel. Behind him, the screen snapped shut with a bang, allowing a cool breeze to waft through the metal mesh. The silken air twined sinuously around his aching body, cooling the sweat earned from laboring in the fields and causing an infinitesimal lessening to the tension gripping his chest.

  He was tired. Dead tired.

  It only remained to be seen if he was tired enough.

  Restlessly rolling his shoulders, he dragged the hat from his head, hung it on the hook next to the door and stood for a moment, absorbing the stillness. The utter silence. Even after all these years, he couldn’t quite adapt to the solitude of his living quarters. He was a man accustomed to action, bustle, and noise. But here…

  Here there was only a stark, hollow emptiness that reminded him that he still hadn’t reconciled himself to this new life.

  An even stronger gust wo
ve its way through the screen, plastering the fabric of his shirt against the moisture pooled between his shoulder blades. The gentle nudge of air was enough to put him into motion again, his footfalls heavy. Noisy.

  The stale heat of the house pressed in upon him, thick and humid. Although the sky outside was clear, there’d be a storm tonight, he’d wager. One of those brief, roaring downpours that would hit like a raging waterfall, then be over again in a matter of seconds. Rather than clearing the stickiness away, it would make things worse.

  Frowning, John moved to the window next to his battered chair and lifted the sash, bracing it with a broken broom handle so it wouldn’t slam down on his fingers. Then he stood absolutely still, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.

  The cooler air rushed in, redolent with the rich scents of bougainvillea, plumeria—and, oddly enough, the musky perfume of English tea roses from the garden surrounding the Wilmington’s plantation house. His ears picked up the familiar sound of soughing palm fronds, the yap of a dog, the distant murmur of voices from the workmen’s cottages down the hill.

  As always, John waited…waited…until he heard the faint noises of the children—high-pitched laughter, a plaintive call. Then, he pushed himself upright and strode into the kitchen.

  Normally, John would have been careful to close the main door, since his front stoop could be seen from the rear bedrooms of the Big House. But tonight there was no need for such precautions. The staff would have gone home, and the Wilmington family had decided to skip the yearly visit to their plantation holdings. Due to the unrest in French Indo-China and the dangers of traveling across the Atlantic, Milton Wilmington would be conducting his business by post from England—a fact that didn’t bother John one way or the other. Whether or not the owner was present, the work of harvesting sugar cane was the same, and John would see to it that the farm was run as efficiently and as profitably as possible.

  Unbuckling the sheath around his hips, he set his machete on the broad, scarred table, then switched on the radio—more to drown out the silence of the cottage than for any other reason. Silence brought introspection. Introspection brought a sense of inadequacy and loss—something he’d learned to avoid at all costs.