by Vickie Hall
“Get everyone’s attention,” Jack said to the piano player.
The man nodded, ran an ascending arpeggio, then struck a two-handed chord sharply several times. The party began to quiet and turned its attention to Jack as he stood beside the piano. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began with great aplomb, “some of you have already met this lovely woman, and for those of you who have yet to do so, may I present Bonnie Cooper. Bonnie sang professionally in New York and has graciously agreed to sing for us.”
Bonnie felt an odd mix of emotions entangle her insides; part embarrassment, part exhilaration, part satisfaction as every eye turned to her and a clatter of applause sounded in her ears. Her selfconsciousness evaporated as the crowd continued to applaud. She saw Paul moving through the gathering, coming closer to her. She no longer wanted to be rescued, the attention bringing her a welcome sense of acceptance.
“What would you like to sing, Miss Cooper?” the pianist asked.
Bonnie’s mind began to race. These people expected a singer, a good singer, one who’d sung in a band. She could carry a tune, despite her father’s comments that she sounded like a cat being run through a wringer. Her confidence began to waver. Then she pictured Alice Faye singing “You’ll Never Know” in the movie Hello, Frisco, Hello. Sing like Alice Faye, she told herself, just like in the movie. “Can you play ‘You’ll Never Know’?”
The pianist nodded. “Sure, what key?”
Again Bonnie’s heart plummeted. “Uh, whatever key you were just playing,” she said somewhat under her breath.
The man shrugged and began playing an introduction. Bonnie stared out at the audience of interested strangers. She felt a surge of adrenalin pump through her, heightening her senses, sharpening her awareness. The notes found their way from her throat, her voice a little soft at first, as if testing her ability.
You’ll never know just how much I miss you…
You’ll never know just how much I care…
As she observed the pleasant expressions on the faces in front of her, Bonnie’s confidence grew, and she sang with greater self-assurance. Her voice was pleasant, muted with a slight tenderness that surprised even her. She caught sight of Paul, who stood transfixed as she sang, his eyes filled with a sentiment she couldn’t quite make out.
You went away and my heart went with you…
I speak your name in my every prayer…
If there is some other way to prove that I love you,
I swear I don’t know how–
You’ll never know if you don’t know now.
Before the last note sounded from the piano, applause erupted and Bonnie felt her cheeks blush hot with triumph. She saw Paul pushing his way toward her, his smile beaming with pride. He caught her in his arms and kissed her. “That was beautiful,” he said against her ear. “I had no idea you were that good.”
Bonnie peered at the people gathering around her, congratulating her, complimenting her. She’d never received such adulation in her life. It felt foreign to her, but somehow welcome and satisfying; as though this was something she had been doing her entire life.
“Sing another,” someone urged.
Bonnie held up her hands and shook her head. She turned to face Paul. “This is your friend’s party,” she said. “I don’t—”
“Do you know ‘I’ll Get By’?” he asked, his eyes locked on hers. Bonnie nodded. “Sing it for me, just as if we were in this room alone.”
Bonnie felt a little uncomfortable with the request. She knew the song, knew the lyrics, but she felt none of the sentiment the song would convey—none for Paul, at any rate. He kissed her on the cheek as if to seal his request. “All right,” she conceded. She spoke to the pianist once more and he began the introduction.
I’ll get by, as long as I have you…
As Bonnie sang, she tried not to look at Paul, wouldn’t pretend they were the only two in the room. Paul was a nice man, but she was only looking for some company, some excitement, nothing permanent, nothing serious. She knew she was using him for her own purposes, but it didn’t matter so long as he didn’t figure it out before she was ready to move on.
Ah, but tears may come to me
That’s true but what care I,
Say I’ll get by, as long as I have you…
Bonnie stood beside the piano, applause ringing in her ears. Her heart raced, pumping a sense of euphoric acceptance through her body. She suddenly felt like someone of importance, someone of worth. This was unknown territory for her, something she never dreamed possible. Unless, she thought, these people were just being kind to her for Paul’s sake. That was a very real possibility. Paul was suddenly there, his arms wrapped around her. Bonnie felt his heart beating against hers, heard his praises in her ear. She pulled back from him, afraid of the feelings this moment might elicit. “I’m glad you liked it,” she managed to say.
Paul took her by the hand and led her away from the piano, to some protests, Bonnie noted. “Now, now,” he said to the dissenters, “she’s a guest too. Let her enjoy the party.”
A pack of men gathered around Bonnie like hounds scenting a fox, drooling for a chance to gain her attention. When she sat on one of the plush sofas upholstered in the same cheery chintz as the curtains, the hounds descended. Paul took a seat on the arm of the sofa, leaning toward Bonnie as if to demonstrate his possession of her.
“I could listen to you all night,” one of the men said to her.
“If you ever get tired of Paul,” another said, “look me up.”
Paul came to his feet and reached for Bonnie’s hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go out on the patio for some air.”
Bonnie smiled at the men and gave them a little shrug as she followed Paul to the open French doors. Outside, the air was humid, and the sound of cicadas thrummed against the night sky. Paul stopped on the edge of the flagstone patio and faced Bonnie. She pursed her lips, the light from the party casting a golden glow on her face through the windows. “I detect a little jealousy,” she said with a sly smile.
Paul shoved his hands into his pockets and lowered his face for a moment. “Maybe…a little…”
Bonnie laughed. She might have assuaged his conscience, but she didn’t. She liked the added attention she’d received, liked that other people found her attractive, interesting. “Better watch yourself, Paul,” she said. “You’ve got competition.”
Paul suddenly looked crushed. “Don’t even joke about something like that, Bonnie,” he said. “I’ve never felt…I mean, this is different for me…”
The look on his face sent her a twinge of regret. “Oh, never mind,” she said, extending her hand. “Dance with me?”
The hard edges of Paul’s face softened and he took her hand. He pulled her to him, held her tight against his chest as they danced to the piano music gently flowing to the patio. The scent of roses from the nearby gardens mingled with Bonnie’s Arpege perfume, creating an intoxicating aroma that surrounded them. They danced and Paul sighed against her hair, but she felt nothing as they swayed to the music.
Chapter 9
May 1945 Near Verona, Italy
Corporal Glen Taggart stood on the cobblestone street of a small Italian village, searching for his friend Charlie Larkin. The news of Germany’s surrender had swept the tiny town as throngs of people crowded into the narrow streets, wailing and cheering their deliverance. Women of every shape and size seized the American soldiers, hugging and kissing them, moving from one soldier to another as quickly as they could. Glen’s gaze peered over the crowd, looking for Charlie.
An elderly woman grabbed Glen about the neck and kissed him. Her face was so deeply wrinkled that it looked as if she’d been run over by a half-track. She smiled a toothless smile at him and clasped her hands together as if in prayer. “Grazie, grazie,” she said to him, on the verge of tears.
Glen was almost embarrassed. She acted as though he alone had liberated her country from the Nazis and Fascists. He bowed his head a bit in a nod
of humility, then tried to maneuver his way through the crowd. His eyes scanned the exuberant swarm again in search of Charlie. He knew their work wasn’t yet done. They had loose ends to tie up, prisoners to dispatch, duties to perform. It wasn’t as if they could put down their weapons and catch the next boat home.
A man in a butcher’s apron snagged hold of Glen’s hand and shook it vigorously. Glen smiled and clapped the man on the shoulder. In his limited grasp of Italian, Glen understood the gist of what the man said to him…thank God…American…free—the rest escaped him. He smiled at the man, and offered him a relaxed salute and moved on.
A truck honked repeatedly and parted the crowd in the street as it made a slow progression forward. As the sea of people ebbed aside to let the truck pass, Glen caught a glimpse of Charlie across the street. He waved his arm and called to him as he jogged his way toward his friend.
Charlie looked up as he heard his name, his blue eyes piercing the shade from beneath his helmet. “Hey!” He waved back at Glen, his smile as wide as the Montana sky. “We made it, Glen. We made it!”
Glen laughed and pounded his hand against Charlie’s back. “Damn right, Charlie. Damn right.”
“A few more days and we’ll be headed home,” he said, shaking his head as if he could scarcely believe it. “A few weeks and I’ll be home with Amy.”
In a few weeks, Glen thought, he’d be in Omaha, but he’d be at his dad’s house. There wouldn’t be an Amy there for him. He pushed that thought away as a man came up to them with a camera. “Sorridere,” the man said, motioning them to smile. Glen and Charlie draped an arm across the other’s shoulders and smiled for the camera. The man snapped the picture. “Grazie!”
They’d been captured on film, a brief second fixed in time forever. They’d be placed in the man’s picture album, and someday he’d probably point to the photo and tell someone the story of the two brave men whose names he didn’t know.
“Can you believe this?” Charlie laughed, taking in the celebration. “It’s crazy.”
Glen nodded and saw one of his squad motion for him. “Be right back,” he said. “Stay put so I don’t have to hunt for you again.”
“Sure thing,” he said.
///////
Glen bled into the clot of people and Charlie watched the happy villagers with a wide grin on his face.
“Hey, Americana!” shouted a woman overhead. “Venire qui.” Charlie didn’t look up. The woman leaned over the balcony and cupped her hands beside her mouth. “Hey, Americana! Venire su, eh?”
Charlie craned his neck back and looked up. There on a tiny balcony, five women crowded together, waving and beckoning him to come upstairs. They were pressed together like a skewed stack of cordwood, too many to fit side by side. He waved back.
“Venire, venire,” she shouted again. “Come!”
Charlie blushed. He understood they wanted to show their gratitude, but even if he had the time, he hadn’t the inclination. Charlie was faithful to Amy, always had been. “No, grazie,” he managed to yell back with a shrug.
“No, no,” one of the women complained. She raised her skirt to expose a shapely limb. “You like, eh?”
Charlie waved his hands as if to decline the offer, looking up at her with a smile. A strange groaning sound seemed to filter through the noise of the celebration. He strained against the hurrahs and tried to make it out. To the side of the balcony he saw bolts quivering against the old brick, the balcony creaking now against the weight of the women. He backed up to warn them, waving his arms and shouting for them to get back inside the building. They laughed at him, waved back and then the balcony shuddered. A sudden look of panic flashed across their faces as it gave way. It first slammed down against the building, the women screaming as they spilled out like milk from a pitcher. Then the ancient iron platform ripped from the wall on the left side, hanging precariously by the right.
Charlie bolted forward, his heart thudding against his ribcage. He reached the mass of knotted arms and legs, ignoring the blood as he picked up a woman and carried her into the shop below, then dashed out to help another.
The townspeople seemed too stunned to act, circling the women like helpless victims themselves. A woman screamed and covered her face from the horrible sight. Finally a man from the shop came forward and picked up one of the woman as Charlie took hold of another. Moans from the women had replaced the joyous celebration as the people nearby observed in stunned silence. Finally, another man stooped to gather a woman into his arms.
The balcony creaked and jerked as the crumbling brick sifted away from the iron. Charlie bent down to lift the last woman. She wasn’t moving. Her head lolled back over his arm, her eyes open. Villagers gasped and pointed, yelling at him in Italian that Charlie didn’t understand. ///////
Glen was on his way back when he saw the balcony collapse against the building from across the street. He ran, shoving people aside, yelling for them to let him through. He couldn’t comprehend why they seemed so immovable, as if they were welded together by fear and shock. The crowd began to thin as he reached the edge of the accident. He saw Charlie taking the last woman into his arms, called to him, warning him of the danger, but it was too late.
Charlie craned his neck toward the sound of his name. He looked up as the balcony quivered.
Glen watched helplessly as the heavy metal balcony careened toward his friend. It crashed down on him like an angry fist and landed with a clatter, dull metal against sidewalk, trapping Charlie and the dead woman underneath. Glen shouted at the stunned observers. “Soccorso! Soccorso!” he yelled as he motioned for help to lift the balcony. He bent low and gripped the iron, heaving with his back and thighs, straining to budge it upward. Some men came forward, lifting it high enough for someone to pull Charlie and the woman from below. When the two were clear, Glen let go. “Medic!” he shouted into the crowd. “Medic! Get some help over here!”
He went to his knees and rolled Charlie onto his back. He didn’t see any blood. Charlie’s eyes were open. He appeared only stunned and breathless. “Hey, buddy,” Glen said. “Help is on the way.”
Charlie looked up, his hand reaching for Glen’s. “Take the letter,” he wheezed. “Give…it to…Amy…”
Glen’s eyes fastened on his friend. “You’re going to mail it yourself,” he said with a fleeting smile. Charlie’s face had gone ashen, his skin glistening with perspiration. Glen felt his grip tighten a little.
“No,” he said. “Take it…pocket…”
The back of Glen’s throat began to burn. He gritted his teeth to force back his fear. Charlie blinked slowly and smiled. He coughed and spurted a fountain of blood from his mouth. A shiver of panic chattered through Glen’s gut. He tried not to let it show on his face, tried not to let his friend see how desperate he felt. Glen took Charlie into his arms, pulling him up on his lap. “Get the damn medic!” he shouted again.
“The letter…”
He opened Charlie’s pocket, withdrew the letter, and stuffed it inside his shirt. “I’ve got it,” he said, choking on his words, “but only until you get it mailed.”
Charlie coughed, more blood oozed down his chin and onto his chest. “I thought I’d made it…”
Glen tightened his hold on Charlie. “You’re going to make it. Hang on, Charlie. Just hang on.”
Charlie’s eyes began to fade, the blue turning to steely gray. He tried to speak, choked on the blood, then gasped. Glen pulled him more upright in his arms, hoping it would help him to breathe. “Stay with me, Charlie. Come on…”
“It’s okay…I’m okay…” He steadied his gaze on Glen, the blood coming from his nose now. “Take the letter to Amy…tell her I love her…”
Glen grimaced and tears flowed like molten lava down his cheeks. He tried to wipe away the blood from Charlie’s face with his hand. So much blood… “No, Charlie, not yet. Stay with me…”
He coughed, his body quivering beneath Glen’s embrace. He caught his breath, looked into Glen’
s eyes, and held them fast, as if by sheer will. “Promise me…the letter…” he sputtered.
“I promise, I promise. I’ll take it to her myself.”
Charlie managed a weak smile, the blood gurgling now from his mouth and nose. His chest stopped moving, his eyelids closed, and his body went slack in Glen’s arms. He held him, buried his face against the crook of Charlie’s neck. His anguished tears mingled with the blood as a gaping hole opened in his heart. “Damn you, Charlie,” he sobbed. “It should have been me.”
The medic arrived and dropped his field kit on the sidewalk. “Let me—”
Glen slid his eyes up to the medic. He went hot inside as fury began to rage within him. “Where were you?” he shouted. “Where the hell were you?”
The medic’s mouth dropped open, his palms extended. “I . . . I”
Glen lowered Charlie’s body to the sidewalk and got to his feet, his hands and chest covered in blood. He shoved the medic into the crowd. “You’re too late! You’re too damn late!”
The medic tried to come forward again. “Corporal Taggart, I got here as—”
Glen tore the helmet from his head, spun, and heaved it against the building. He pushed his way through the dwindling crowd, blinded to their sympathetic faces. He stormed up the street, his anger and his rage subsiding into grief. He could do nothing for Charlie now. And then a sickening realization crept into his brain. He’d told Charlie to stay where he was, there under the balcony, to wait for him. But how could he have known? He couldn’t have, but it didn’t matter.
Glen stopped, his shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes against the vision of Charlie’s blood-covered face. He’d failed him. He’d failed in his self-appointed mission to get Charlie home alive, home to Amy. He didn’t even know why he’d given himself such a stupid obligation in the first place. Maybe it had been Charlie’s youth, his affable character, his optimism. But deep inside, Glen knew it was because of the way he talked about home, about the love he had for Amy, something Glen had never had. Maybe in some way he thought if he could just get this kid back home, it would be one good thing to come of this war. It was as if by sending Charlie home, life could go on, and everything would be normal again.
