by Mike Jenne
“So tell me, Drew, how do you do it? It kills me to even think about climbing back into the Box, but you’ve been doing this forever, and it just doesn’t seem to faze you.”
Carson smiled. “Scott, when it starts wearing on me, I just do what I learned back in Beast Barracks at the Academy when they would stick us against a wall and make us brace for hours on end. In my mind, I put myself on a submarine. I walk through it from one end to the other, from one watertight compartment to the next, and I shut every hatch and dog them down tight, until I’m sealed up on the bridge. Then, when I’m isolated from everything, I just look at the world through the periscope. I can still function and react to the world outside the submarine, but I shut out all the pain and exhaustion and frustration. Does that make sense to you?”
“I suppose,” replied Ourecky, snugging his wool scarf. “I just suspected that you might be popping speed or pain pills, especially since the docs keep offering them to us.”
“Nope. It’s all a matter of conditioning, Scott, just like going to the gym. You condition your mind and body to endure whatever comes. Drugs can be a temporary fix, but once you become even slightly dependent on them, you lose the edge and you can never get it back.”
“I suppose that you’re right.” Seeing Bea wave through a window of the diner, Ourecky smiled and waved back. “So what are your plans for next week? Big date? Several big dates?”
Adjusting the Corvette’s balky heater, Carson laughed. “No plans. I might fly up to Vermont to do some skiing. You? Do you and Bea have plans?”
“Not yet. If she’s not flying next week, I’m thinking about asking her to come home with me to Nebraska, so she can meet my folks.”
“Really? Sounds like you two are getting pretty serious. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
“I think so,” replied Ourecky. “Hey, why don’t you come in and grab a bite with us?”
Carson looked at Bea through the window and answered, “No, Scott. I don’t think that’s such a hot idea. You haven’t seen her all week. I don’t want to be a fifth wheel.”
“You wouldn’t be,” Ourecky said. “Come on, Drew. I insist.”
“Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” said Bea, watching as Ourecky and Carson walked into the diner and approached the table. She slid out of the booth to hug them both. “Ouch! Have you lost your razor?” she exclaimed, stroking Ourecky’s chin. “Have you not shaved all week?”
“Just a couple of days,” said Ourecky. “We had an all-nighter.”
“If you say so. But that’s coming off when you get home, mister, or you’ll be sleeping on the couch.” Bea noticed that Carson seemed uncomfortable in her presence; it was like he couldn’t bring himself to look at her.
“If you don’t mind, I’m going to step away for a minute,” said Ourecky. “Honey, can you order me a burger and fries? And a chocolate malted? Drew, can you keep Bea company?”
Carson nodded. Ourecky walked away, steering toward the restroom past the counter.
“You look beautiful, Bea,” commented Carson, slipping into the booth opposite her.
“Thank you. You’re very sweet, but I sure don’t feel beautiful. This dry air is just doing me in. My hair feels like it’s nothing but a big collection of split ends.” She took a sip of hot tea. “So did you and Scott have a good week? Did you boys do any flying?”
“No flying. We were cooped up indoors all week. Procedures evaluations. Very boring.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that,” replied Bea. “Listen, can I tell you something, Drew?”
Appraising the menu, he nodded and said, “Sure, Bea. What’s on your mind?”
“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I watch you and Scott becoming friends, and it confounds me. I just don’t understand it. To be honest, it scares me.”
Apparently surprised at her concern, he laughed quietly. “I suppose I don’t understand it, either. I didn’t think much of Scott when he first came here, but I’ve really grown to respect him.”
Bea watched their waitress at the counter; she had been staring at Carson for the past two minutes. She was a slim brunette in her late twenties. She straightened her apron, undid the top two buttons of her blouse, and then approached their table, order pad in hand.
“Are you ready to order?” asked the waitress, still intently focused on Carson. “Wasn’t there another man that came in with you? Should I wait for him to come back?”
“I’ll order for him,” answered Bea. “Hamburger, French fries, and a chocolate malted for my friend. Grilled cheese sandwich, chips, and another cup of tea for me, please.”
“How does your boyfriend like his hamburger? They usually cook them medium. It comes with lettuce, tomato, pickles, mayonnaise and onions.”
Wrinkling her nose, Bea grimaced. “No onions, please.”
“But Scott likes onions on his burgers,” interjected Carson.
“Maybe I don’t like onions on Scott, dear,” replied Bea.
“No onions it is. And what would you like, sir?” asked the waitress, grinning broadly and batting her eyelashes.
“That pie looks good,” observed Carson, pointing at a display on the counter. “Is it fresh?”
“It is. Just like homemade.”
“Okay. Just coffee and a slice of apple pie. And let me have the check. My turn to splurge.”
“Certainly. Oh, is that your Corvette out there?” asked the waitress, gazing through the partially frosted window. “That’s really groovy.”
“That’s mine,” replied Carson. “You like Corvettes?”
“Sure. Who wouldn’t dig a hot car like that?” She scrawled her name and phone number on a blank ticket, handed it to Carson and winked. “Maybe we can go out for a spin sometime.”
The waitress sashayed back to the counter. The cook glanced at the ticket and then returned to an argument with a trio of hippies, dressed in filthy clothes and scruffy field jackets, who apparently had an issue with their bill.
“She’s cute,” noted Bea, thinking how much the waitress resembled her friend Jill. “I’m sure she’ll be very entertaining for a week or so, if that long. At least until you’re bored with her.”
“Bea, she gave me her number. It wasn’t like I asked for it.”
“Oh, yes, you did. You just don’t realize it,” Bea said, looking in her purse for a fingernail file. She had a chipped nail that was driving her crazy. She glanced at Carson’s nails, and noticed how well groomed they were. For whatever reason, Scott had recently taken to fastidiously trimming his fingernails, and it appeared that Carson shared the same habit.
“So, Drew, how long do you intend to keep living your life like you do? How many pretty girls, shiny cars, and fancy watches do you need to accumulate before you’re finally satisfied?”
“It’s not like that, Bea,” said Carson quietly, looking down at the table and self-consciously pushing his jacket sleeve over a newly acquired Breitling chronograph. “I’d like to have something more meaningful with someone, but I just haven’t met the right girl yet.”
The waitress brought his coffee and pie. “Don’t lose my number, honey,” she said, smiling at him as she filled Bea’s cup with hot water.
“I won’t,” he replied, smiling back. Watching the waitress walk away, he cut into the pie with his fork. The apple filling was partially frozen. “So whatever happened to your friend, Jill? The one you asked me about when we first met. She was really pretty nice. I was thinking . . .”
“Jill? Jill Osborn? Sorry, Drew, she’s off the market.”
“Married? Engaged?” He took a bite of pie and sipped his coffee.
“No. She’s just out of town right now. She’s visiting her sister in Columbus.”
“Visiting her sister? I just thought . . .”
“She might be back someday, but I kind of doubt it, Drew. And I don’t want to break your heart, but I don’t think she would be too interested in seeing you.” Bea dipped her tea bag into her cup a
nd watched as the steaming water slowly turned brownish orange.
Apparently, Carson’s conversations with Jill hadn’t been too deep; otherwise he would know that Jill was an only child. And he was obviously too dense to comprehend what “visiting her sister” implied. Jill was pregnant, and she would die of embarrassment if Bea told Carson, since it was extremely likely that the baby was his. Extremely likely, perhaps, but not a certainty. Besides, Jill had already decided to keep the baby and had no need for Carson or any other man to interfere with her parenting, so it really made little difference who the father was.
“Oh. Bea, I have to apologize to you,” Carson confided, scratching his unshaven chin and smoothing his moustache. “I think we got off to a rough start, and I want to make amends.”
“So why this change of heart, Drew?”
“To be honest, when we first met that night at the Falcon Club, you struck me as someone who was entirely out of Scott’s league,” he stammered. “So, I . . . I . . .”
“So you thought I was more in your league,” she said curtly, interrupting him. “Because you’re the handsome virile fighter pilot, right? Well, Drew, it may shock you to learn that not all women fawn and swoon over handsome fighter pilots.”
“I’ve learned that,” noted Carson. “Anyway, I see you and Scott drawing closer all the time, and I would prefer that things not be so awkward between us. Like I said, I was a jerk that night, and I want to apologize.”
“Okay. How thoughtful of you. So now you’re forgiven. Anything else?”
“Yes. Bea, I have a favor to ask of you,” he said. “A request.”
“Go on.”
“I don’t know if this is just a passing fling for you, like some kind of temporary phase you’re going through, but as much as Scott doesn’t talk about it, I do know that it’s very serious for him. He’s clearly smitten with you.”
Spooning the teabag out of her cup, she nodded. “It’s serious for me, too, Drew. Obviously much more than you believe.”
“I don’t doubt it. But hear me out. Bea, Scott’s my friend. Please don’t hurt him.”
“Okay, fair enough,” she answered, reaching out to touch his forearm. “But I also have a favor to ask, Drew Carson. A request.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“Drew, Scott’s my friend. Please don’t hurt him.”
Both turned to see Ourecky walking past the counter, a silly half-grin on his face. He stopped to look at the jukebox, dropped in a quarter, and selected some songs. As if on cue, the brunette waitress brought their food.
“Wow,” commented Ourecky, sliding in beside Bea. “That’s a mighty good looking burger! I am absolutely famished. Bea, I suppose you were right about this place.” He flipped open the bun, squirted on catsup, and noted, “Hey, no onions!”
Bea and Carson looked at each other and shared a smile.
“Time for me to shove off,” said Carson, zipping up his leather flight jacket and picking up the check. “Scott, I suppose I won’t see you until next year.”
“Aren’t you hungry?” asked Ourecky. “You haven’t even finished your pie.”
“I lost my appetite. I’m going back to the Q and stack some Z’s before I head to Vermont.”
Ourecky stood up and shook Carson’s hand. “Be careful skiing. Keep an eye out for those ski bunnies.”
“Oh, that I’ll do,” replied Carson, grinning. “No question there. You be careful yourself.”
Bea studied them; it seemed like they were anxious to embrace each other, but could not bring themselves to do something so unmanly. As they stood close together, she also noticed that they shared similar reddish marks on their wrists and necks, as if something had been chafing their skin in exactly the same locations. Contemplating what that might be, she stood up, hugged Carson, and planted a peck on his cheek. Wiping away lipstick with her thumb, she leaned toward him and whispered, “Remember, Major Carson. We have a deal.”
“Indeed we do, Bea. Merry Christmas to you.”
“And Merry Christmas to you as well, Carson.”
Carson went to the counter, paid the check, and made small talk with the waitress as she counted out change. As he went outside and started his Corvette, Bea watched the waitress pointing out the window and commenting to her friends. She was probably in for quite a ride, thought Bea, but likely a short one, with a painful ending.
“So, Bea, I have an idea,” said Ourecky tentatively, dipping a French fry into catsup. “How would you like to go home to Nebraska with me for Christmas? You could meet my parents.”
Bea was surprised, but pleasantly so; at the frenzied pace Scott had been working, she was shocked that he was getting any time off, except perhaps Christmas Day itself. For a brief moment she thought of reasons why she should say no, but then she realized that there were more reasons why she should say yes.
But there was a more practical matter to contend with: she was already scheduled to fly next week. On the other hand, she had sacrificed her holidays for the past three years so that Angie—a married co-worker—could be at home with her family. Considering the circumstances, surely Angie or another stewardess would be willing to take her place next week.
“Scott, I would love to, but I’ve got to go to the airport and make some calls tomorrow. And then I’ll let you know. But yes, Scott, I would love to meet your parents.”
Ourecky Homestead, Wilber, Nebraska
5:55 p.m., December 24, 1968
Bea marveled at the massive feast. They had been eating for at least thirty minutes, but had barely made a dent in all the food. Among the dumplings, sauerkraut, cheese, potato salad, mushrooms and other fixings was the centerpiece of the traditional Czech Christmas Eve meal: a platter bearing a large carp. His parents had bought the fish in town this morning; it was swimming in a wooden barrel when they selected it.
This was a Christmas unlike any that Bea had ever experienced. In her entire life, she had never once been in a single house with so many people; the big farmhouse was absolutely jammed to capacity with Ourecky’s parents, grandparents, siblings, various in-laws, nieces, nephews, and a raft of grandchildren. It was nothing like the tiny but happy Christmas celebrations with her parents before her father was killed in Korea, and certainly did not resemble—thankfully—the sullen Christmases after her mum had married her stepfather.
“Some more carp, dear?” asked Ourecky’s mother, a heavyset woman in her early fifties.
“Please, but just a smidgen, Mrs. Ourecky.”
“Please call me Mama. I insist. There’s no need to be formal; you’re in our house, so you’re in our family. And Bea, you’re just so beautiful. Scott’s letter just didn’t do you justice.”
“Thank you, Mama,” replied Bea. She noticed that a corner of the living room, next to the broad hearth, was isolated by a clothesline and several hanging sheets. “What’s that?” she asked in a low voice, leaning towards Ourecky. “Why is that part screened off?”
“It’s a Christmas tradition from the Old Country,” he replied. “This morning, before anyone woke up, my father put up the tree. No one but him is allowed to see it until after dinner tonight. He’ll pull down the curtain, and then the kids will get their presents. Later, my mother will make pallets of straw and blankets under the tree, and the children will sleep there tonight, so they’ll feel like they’re sleeping in the stables, just like the night when Baby Jezisek arrived.”
“Baby Jezisek?” asked Bea.
“Baby Jesus.” He leaned toward her and quietly asked, “Can you finish that carp?”
“I’m not sure,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to be impolite when your mother offered it.”
“Well, if you can’t eat it, sneak it to me. It’s bad luck to leave anything on your plate on Christmas Eve.”
“I would have never pictured myself eating fish for dinner on Christmas Eve,” she declared to Mama Ourecky, willing herself to finish the last morsel. “But this is scrumptious. Thank you so much for making
me a part of your family.”
As Bea chewed on the fried carp, she remembered that although she had grown up eating a fattened goose on Christmas Eve, her holiday repasts in recent years had mostly been in-flight meals or lonely dinners at near-empty diners. She glanced around the table and realized that all the plates were absolutely devoid of scraps or crumbs. She also noticed that everyone was quiet, gazing at each other with anxious eyes. Even the children, seated at three small tables in the dining room, looked apprehensive.
“Listen to me,” cautioned Ourecky quietly. “When my father stands up, make sure you jump up at the same time, and we’ll all go into the living room together as one, as quickly as we can.”
“Why?” asked Bea, turning her head to diligently watch Papa Ourecky.
“I’ll tell you later.”
Papa Ourecky pushed his chair away from the table and slowly stood up. Just as Ourecky said, the entire family—adults and children alike—followed his lead; in unison, as if connected by invisible threads, they rose from the tables and surged en masse toward the living room.
Papa Ourecky was almost a carbon copy of Scott Ourecky, except he was about an inch shorter and roughly thirty pounds heavier, with gray hair instead of black. As the family assembled in the living room, he held a finger to his lips and shushed the children.
Standing before the white sheets that divided the room, he declared, “Stastne a Vesele Vanoce!” Then he embraced Mama Ourecky and then hugged Bea. “Vesele Vanoce!”
“What does that mean?” she asked, turning to Ourecky. “What is he saying?”
“It means ‘Joyous Christmas!’” he replied, embracing and kissing her. “Vesele Vanoce!”
“Vesele Vanoce!” she replied, fumbling the pronunciation and kissing him back. Around them, his family applauded and chanted, “Stastne a Vesele Vanoce!”
“Vesele Vanoce!” roared Papa Ourecky again, yanking down the sheets that concealed the Christmas tree. Squealing with glee, the children scampered to find their gifts. Bea marveled at the simple beauty of the festive tree; it was decorated with handmade ornaments—some many decades old—including delicately painted eggshells and walnut shells, pinwheels, and snowflakes fastidiously cut out of paper. A hand-carved Nativity scene was set at the tree’s base. Mama Ourecky rushed forward and thrust a carefully wrapped gift into Bea’s hands.
