by Vickie Hall
“Bonnie…secondhand…Farnum…Saturday at four. Got it.”
“You’ll be sure he gets the message, won’t you?”
“Sure. I’ll give it to him as soon as he comes in.”
“Thank you.”
///////
Bonnie waited outside the secondhand store, pacing slightly and checking her watch. The sky had turned pewter and weighted clouds began to gather overhead. She wondered if Dave had found her request more of a summons than an invitation. She hadn’t been specific about why he should meet her. It hadn’t been her intention to see him again, but she was in need of transportation and knew no one else with a car.
She looked at her watch again. It was nearly four o’clock. She crossed her arms and tapped her long nails impatiently against her sleeves. A few telltale raindrops splashed on the sidewalk and Bonnie backed up under the overhang of the door.
The ’38 Tudor cut a swath into a parking space, and Dave emerged wearing the familiar bomber jacket. He smiled tentatively at Bonnie and joined her beneath the overhang. “What’s this all about? Why are we at a secondhand store?”
Bonnie leaned toward him and clasped his arm with both hands. “I’m so glad to see you, Dave. I was hoping you’d come.”
He looked at her dubiously and chuckled. “Well, Ihad to, didn’t I? It’s not every day I receive such a cryptic message. I came out of curiosity, if for no other reason.”
Bonnie pressed her shoulder against his. “For no other reason?” she teased.
Dave smiled and admitted, “Well, Idid want to see you again.”
“I told you I’d call, didn’t I?”
She snaked her arm through his and gave him a demure smile. “I thought we might have dinner tonight. But first I need some help.”
“What kind of help?”
“I bought a few used items and I need some help getting them into my new apartment. I hoped you wouldn’t mind lending me a hand.”
“My help and my car?” he jabbed.
Bonnie leaned back and pouted. “Now don’t be like that, Dave. Ineeded help and you were the first person I thought of.” She retrieved her arm and turned. “Look, if you don’t want to help, then just say so—”
Dave reached out and caught her by the elbow, urging her back to him. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help.”
Bonnie smiled and held out her hand to him. “There are just a few things. I’ve already paid for them, so all we have to do is load them into the car.”
Dave shook his head and took her hand. “All right. I can’t resist a damsel in distress.”
Bonnie flicked her lashes and sent him a flirtatious smile. “So I see.”
The cavernous trunk was loaded with an undersized drop leaf table, two ladder-back chairs, a small coffee table, and a floor lamp. Dave secured the load with a piece of rope supplied by the man in the store while Bonnie dumped a box of dishes and cookware in the back seat.
A rumble of thunder shook the ground and reverberated between the tall downtown buildings like the sound of stampeding buffalo. The clouds finally released their pent-up burden and great sheets of rain pelted the city with a vengeance. The gutters filled with rain water as lightning fired to the ground, arcing with hot electric current. The smell of damp cement and old buildings mingled with the rain to scent the air with an acidic tang.
Dave and Bonnie took refuge in the car and started for the Drake Court Apartments. It took only a few minutes to get there and Dave sprang from the car, half hopping on his bad leg.
“You get the small things off the seat,” he instructed. “I’ll carry all I can before I need your help with the table.”
Bonnie filled her arms with a heavy box as Dave trailed behind her, the two chairs placed back to back and gripped together in one strong hand, the floor lamp in the other. Before they could even reach the apartment building, they were drenched in the cold spring rain. The four flights of stairs offered a challenge to Dave, but he persevered without complaint.
They returned for another load and then again for the last, the drop leaf table. Bonnie insisted she was up to carrying her half. It took stopping at each landing for a few moments before ascending the next flight, but they were successful in reaching the fourth-floor apartment.
They were soaked and cold. Bonnie brought in towels and handed one to Dave. “We’d better get out of these wet things. I’ll bring you a robe,” she said, turning toward the bedroom, “if you don’t mind pink chenille.”
Dave laughed and shrugged off his jacket, the leather soggy and ripe with a pungent scent. “Anything would be better than this.”
Bonnie returned with the robe. “Drape your clothes over the chairs and turn up the radiator. I’ll be right back.”
Bonnie closed the bedroom door and changed into some dry clothes. She toweled off her hair and then knocked on the door. “You done?” she called through the thick wood.
“Yeah.”
Bonnie inched open the door and peeked around it before swinging it wide. Dave stood near the radiator, obviously uncomfortable in the woman’s robe. His broad shoulders stretched the fabric exposing his hairy chest in a wide V. There was sufficient material to cover his tapered hips, but he looked miserable nonetheless. Bonnie covered her mouth with her hand and choked back a laugh.
“You can laugh if you want,” he said, peering down at the ill-fitting pink chenille, tugging at it self-consciously. “Iknow I look ridiculous.”
Bonnie stepped toward him, chuckling. “No, really…you look great in pink.”
Dave shot her a sarcastic smile. “Gee, thanks.”
“Listen. We’re in no shape to go out to dinner, but I can cook us up some scrambled eggs and coffee. What do you say?”
“Sure.”
Bonnie started for the tiny kitchen. “At least that way, you’ll havea little something to eat before you report to Checker.”
Dave took a seat in the chair Bonnie had purchased from Brandeis. “I’m off duty tonight,” he called to her. “I get every fourth Saturday off. You caught me on my lucky day.”
The hair on Bonnie’s neck prickled and a shiver of dread iced down her spine. She hadn’t expected to hear that. She wasn’t prepared to offer Dave anything more than a “thank you” for bringing her furniture.
“Do you want some help?” Dave asked, interrupting Bonnie’s thoughts.
“Sure,” she said, collecting herself. “Why don’t you rummage through those boxes and find some plates and silverware? I’ve been eating out of the frying pan the last couple of days.”
Dave got up from the comfortable chair and circled the boxes on the floor. He bent over the first and began pawing through its contents. The robe separated near the bottom exposing his injured leg. Bonnie could plainly see the crimson scars that peppered the limb. The calf muscle was half its normal size, shriveled and puny against the shin bone. The flesh extending over the disfigured muscle was blemished with white and pink splotches of scar tissue. The sight of the leg repulsed her, and she found herself struggling to suppress the urge to wretch.
“Here we go,” Dave announced, holding two plates in his hand.
Bonnie swung toward the sink and turned on the tap. “Just put them in here and I’ll wash them.”
Dave brought them to the sink and stood behind Bonnie. He brushed her shoulder with his as he placed the dishes in the water. He paused and nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck. “You smell good,” he murmured, “with the rain in your hair.”
Bonnie was still sickened from the sight of his leg and eased herself away from him, avoiding his gaze as she turned toward the refrigerator. He pursued, taking hold of her shoulders and pulling her against him. She turned her face, pushed at him.
Dave recoiled as if he’d been singed by her movement. “What’s the matter?”
She reached into the refrigerator for the eggs. “Nothing’s the matter,” she said with a nervous laugh.
The look on Dave’s face registered his frustration. “I’m g
ood enough for a steak dinner and a delivery service, but—”
She held up a hand, shook her head. “Dave, don’t—”
“No, I get it,” he spat. “You put out the signals, but—” He spun toward the radiator and jerked his wet slacks from the back of the chair.
He turned away from her and thrust his legs into his pants, then shed the robe onto the floor. He grabbed his shirt and coat, collected his shoes and socks, and headed for the door.
Bonnie stood fixed in her spot. She felt her heart pounding against her ribs, a clammy sweat breaking out on her forehead. She had no desire to encourage him to stay, wanted nothing more from him. When the door closed behind him, she felt a sense of relief.
Chapter 6
Artillery fire rained down on the Po Plain of the Italian landscape, adrenalin pumping through Glen’s veins with ferocious fire. Explosions deafened him as he dove behind an overturned jeep, the driver dead and pinned beneath its bulk. His lungs burned from the jagged sprint for cover. He craned his head to see that Charlie was close behind, and motioned for him to stay low as the young man dropped down beside him.
After U.S. heavy bomber strikes, the German forces started retreating north from Bologna toward the Po River, but had not given up the fight. They continued to shell the area with longrange artillery, buying time until the bulk of their forces could regroup. With the advance of U.S. artillery counter fire, it would be the job of the infantry to move in and secure the city.
Glen peered around the edge of the jeep, looking for the next available cover. When he noticed a blur of movement to his left, his vision focused. There were four Germans running through the trees, apparently cut off from their company. He looked back for the rest of his squad and saw the other five men under his leadership crouched behind an outcropping of rock. Glen pointed to the trees, then held up four fingers to his men. He motioned for them to join him at the jeep, where he split them into two groups.
With a new surge of adrenalin, Glen left the cover of the jeep and ran toward the trees, his men behind him. He swerved to the left and could see that one of the Germans had tripped on a tree root. The man was scrambling to right himself when Glen raised his rifle and fired. The enemy soldier collapsed face-first in the dirt.
Glen hadn’t counted on a lull in the barrage of artillery, leaving his rifle shot ringing sharply through the trees .Hearing the shot, the other three Germans swiveled, firing as they took cover.
“You two to the left,” Glen ordered his men. “I’ll draw fire while you circle around.”
The two men nodded and did as they were told while Glen motioned for the other group to swing right. Glen popped out from the cover of a tree, firing. He was met instantly with returned shots. He darted back behind the tree, then waited a breath before he exposed himself again to fire.
Shots continued as his squad began to surround the three remaining Germans. Glen stepped out and aimed, sighting one of the men as he ran between the trees. He squeezed the trigger and a bullet lodged in the German’s shoulder, knocking him off balance though he managed to stay on his feet and continued to run. The other two Germans had started running again, only pausing every few yards to fire back at the Americans.
Glen charged ahead, firing, his heart hammering in his chest. His boots pounded the earth in pursuit of the enemy, his lungs heaving to bring in oxygen. The trees gave way to an open fie ld where the Germans were running frantically toward a bombed-out farmhouse.
Another shot sizzled to Glen’s left, and the soldier previously wounded in the shoulder tumbled to the ground. In a final effort to face their enemy, the two remaining Germans turned and aimed at the oncoming squad. They were no match for the Americans as they closed ranks and fired. One of the Germans, hit in the chest, sank to his knees, but not before his finger pulled the trigger and a bullet sang over Glen’s head.
The last German began lowering his weapon as if to surrender, halting the squad just long enough for him to jerk the rifle up and squeeze off a shot. The bullet ripped through Glen’s left pant leg, grazing the tender flesh of his thigh. Before he could react, his squad fired, bullets striking the German’s body in rapid succession. For a fleeting second, the soldier smiled before he collapsed.
Glen lowered his rifle and limped toward the first of the downed men. He kept his finger against the trigger as he nudged the body cautiously with the toe of his boot. The soldier was dead. Glen looked up and saw Charlie moving toward the man he’d shot in the shoulder. The German was lying face down, and when Charlie reached to turn the man over, Glen caught a glint of steel sparkl e in the sunlight. “Charlie, watch out!” Glen shouted, aiming his rifle at the German.
Instead of moving, Charlie froze over the man, either stunned at the sight of the knife or unaware of it. The German rolled, the blade slashing toward Charlie. Glen couldn’t get a clear shot. He fired at the ground beside them, and Charlie lurched back. Glen fired again, the bullet driving into the German’s neck, and the knife fell from his hand.
Charlie spun toward Glen, his face a pasty white. Glen lowered his rifle. “You okay?”
Nodding, Charlie glanced back at the dead soldier, then at the knife. “I didn’t see it,” he muttered. “I thought he was dead—”
Glen dragged an arm across his sweaty brow, relieved that Charlie was unhurt. The adrenalin pumping through his body began to wane, and he was suddenly aware of his shaking knees. He had to get Charlie home to Amy. He had to.
Charlie’s shoulders sagged, and his rifle hung limply in his hand. He was visibly unnerved and his face drained of color once more. Falling to his knees, Charlie collapsed in a heap, wailing into his palms.
Glen dropped down beside him and opened his canteen. It wasn’t cowardice that had driven Charlie to breakdown—he’d faced worse situations by far. Glen knew it was the culmination of sheer exhaustion and the relentless tension of war that had everything crashing down on him. His frayed nerves had finally snapped. “Hey,” Glen said, offering the water. “It’s okay, Sam—uh, Charlie.”
Charlie shook his head, as if trying to force his self-control back into place. “I—I’m sorry…”
Glen’s heart went out to him. He could see how hard Charlie was fighting to rein in his emotions, and he didn’t blame him at all for faltering. There were times when he’d felt the same way—terrified and weak. Some days it felt impossible to go on, to take one more day of fighting a fight that never seemed to end. Glen knew what it was like to feel his grip on sanity slipping through his fingers—the smell of blood, the sounds of death, the taste of gunpowder, the feel of drenching sweat, and his mind screaming for it all to end.
Glen helped Charlie to his feet. Charlie raised his face, streaked with a mix of dirt and tears. “It’ll be okay,” Glen said, wincing slightly, the stinging flesh-wound reminding him of his injury. “Let’s keep going.”
Charlie nodded and took his rifle in a fierce grip. The squad gathered, empathy painted on their weary faces. Glen motioned them forward, his arm slung around Charlie’s waist to support him. “You can make it,” he said to his friend. “We’ll rest soon and eat. You’ll feel a lot better.”
Glen only hoped Charlie believed him.
///////
Monday morning, Bonnie left the Drake and started her walk to work. She tried to occupy her mind, keep herself from thinking of Dave. She couldn’t explain why she’d even accepted his dinner invitation, or asked for his help with the furniture in the first place. She knew it had been a mistake. It was dangerous to get involved, even casually. And she knew it wasn’t his leg that had turned her away. It was him. She couldn’t afford to feel anything. Feelings meant losing control. Hadn’t she learned that lesson the hard way? And the lies…all the lies…
She crossed the street, watched some little girls walking toward their parochial school. They looked so proper in their burgundy jumpers and starched white blouses. They seemed so oblivious, their world tiny and safe. They don’t know yet, she thought. They don’t
know how it is. They don’t know what it’s like…
Bonnie sat in the classroom, feeling inadequate and lost. She tried to keep up with the other students, but too few years of formal schooling had left her unprepared. Her attention span waned, her eyes drifting to the window, the teacher’s voice fading to a faint drone in the back of her mind.
Her father had found work as a longshoreman in Long Beach loading and unloading freight on the docks. He was lucky, he’d told her and her mother, to have this work during such a tough economic time. They rented a tiny apartment, and for the first time in over twelve years, Bonnie slept in her own bed, in her own room, with a solid roof and four walls. The fields were behind her now. No more sleeping in the truck or in some shanty on a farmer’s property. No more back-breaking work, no more days spent in the punishing sun. Now she lived in the city, went to a real school, tasted a morsel of stability.
But there were problems with her new life, too. She was embarrassed by who she was, her migratory life, living like a gypsy, traveling up and down the coast, following the harvests. She had never made real friends—there wasn’t time. Other migrant families moved on, went to Idaho, to Colorado or Texas. The only consistency Bonnie had was the fluctuating ebb and flow of new hands, workers who would stay for a while and then disappear. With no brother s and sisters, she was alone and socially inept.
Above all, though, she was ashamed of being poor, so poor that she couldn’t relate to the other children at school who spoke of going to the movies, eating ice cream, attending birthday parties. These were things she hadn’t experienced, and whenshe’d expressed her amazement at such activities, the children laughed at her. It made her feel like an alien, as though she’d suddenly appeared from another planet, ignorant of the customs of her new world.
When it came time for recess, Bonnie took a seat on a swing and edged the tips of her scuffed shoes against the dirt to propel her gently back and forth. She watched as the other children ran and played, laughed with ease and unknowingly taunted her with their happiness.
