“Is that far?” I asked, laughin’ slightly. “I’m sorry, I don’t know much about this city yet.”
He smiled as he clutched my hand, turnin’ it over in his while his fingers traced my palm. “It’s just over the Golden Gate Bridge. It’s not too far.”
“And do you have a curfew or time you need to be home?” My voice cracked and my heart thumped.
“Nah, I’m free to come and go as I like.”
“That’s lucky. My parents would never allow me to come home whenever I wanted.”
“Yeah, well, they are really cool.”
Our eyes met and we both moved toward one another. I didn’t know who kissed whom first, him or me, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was his lips. Like lightnin’ they struck mine and with a rush of heat through my body, I climbed into his lap. He slipped his hands under my shirt, unclasping my bra and as it loosened his hands moved around to my breasts. Although cold, they soon warmed against my skin and I yanked my shirt over my head, allowin’ him the freedom to wander me with his hands and mouth. While I fumbled with the buttons on my pants, he undid his, slidin’ them down as I climbed back on and down onto him . . .
“SHE DID WHAT!?” I sat up in the bed, nearly spitting out my tea all over Luke’s comforter. “MOTHER! No wonder you got pregnant!” I shook my head as the years and years of hearing her say sex before marriage was a sin tickled though my mind. I started laughing. “I guess at least I now know you were a crazy, young girl who did a guy on the first date.”
I flipped though a few pages worth of description of their TWO romps in the front seat—written as though she had some erotic, lip-biting, need to divulge every hot detail so she could go back to read it over and over again.
Maggie
September 28, 1966
Dear Journal.
So much as happened and I don’t even know where to begin. I’m happy. I’m scared. I’m angry. I am hundreds—no thousands—of emotions and because of it, journal, I’m utterly lost. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think. Help me, journal. Help me.
I suppose I should start at the beginnin’, even if I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if I want to remember today . . .
“Hello?” I answered the phone, knowin’ in my gut it was Mama and Daddy even before Mama said ‘hi’ back.
“How are you doing at school, dear?” she asked.
“Fine. I think.”
“And how are your classes?”
Although the questions were normal, her tone wasn’t. Instead of its usual casualness as though askin’ like any parent would a child, there was a hint of somethin’ behind them. Somethin’ that twisted in my stomach as a warnin’ I wasn’t gonna like this conversation.
“Great.”
“Are ya sure?”
“Mama, why are ya askin’? Ya know, I really don’t feel good right now and I was just about to take a nap.” Not exactly a lie since I’d woken up with an upset tummy and felt as though I could puke at any moment.
“Well, dear, it’s just I’m curious as to how ya can say they are great given you’ve been missin’ nearly all of them.”
My heartbeat kicked up. “What are ya talkin’ about?”
“Oh, ya know darn well what I’m talkin’ about, young lady. Ya have been skippin’ classes just so ya can run all over the city with that boy.”
“What boy?”
“The poor boy that works down at the fishin’ docks. Ya ought to be ashamed of yourself. He’s not worth your time and ya know it.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“He’s not of our class, dear. He’s . . . not one ya should want to bring home. Ya know, I just spoke to Thomas’s parents the other day and they were talkin’ about how great he’s doin’ up at Harvard. Harvard. Not workin’ some dead-end job at a fish cannery.”
“Mama, datin’ and marryin’ Thomas was your idea, not mine.”
“But I don’t understand why. He’s a fine boy, from a fine family, and he’s got money.”
“Qualities which are only important to you!” My shouts were met with only silence on the other end. Not that such surprised me. I knew she would never understand, knowin’ she married Daddy because of the size of his wallet and not the size of his heart. “Anyway, who told ya what I was doin’ out here?”
“Sherry told her mama because she’s worried about you, and I swear, if that woman breaths a word of this gossip to anyone or you give her somethin’ to gossip about, I will drive to San Francisco and bring ya home quicker than you can blink, young lady.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“I better not hear of ya drinkin’ or smokin’ with that boy.”
If she only knew.
“Mama, I got to go. I have class, ya know.”
“Don’t ya even think about hangin’ up this phone. I’m not even done with ya, young lady.”
“I have class.” Before she could utter another word, I slammed the receiver down into the cradle. My force was so hard, the bell inside that created the ring, dinged.
I paced in my room, hashin’ the conversation over and over in my mind. How dare she tell me what I can and can’t do, and how dare she tell me who I can and can’t see. Just the mere thought of Thomas set my nerves on edge. Sure, he was from a good family. Sure, we grew up together. Sure, he had money. He was also an arrogant jerk who bullied everyone around him who he deemed not worthy, although she never saw that side of him. He got real good at hidin’ it, makin’ everyone in Charleston think he was a saint. But I knew better.
I sat down on my bed. Exhausted, and perhaps on the verge of getting a cold, I wanted to curl up under my covers. Instead I called Charlie, askin’ him to come over, which he did, arrivin’ with a knock on my door and a pizza in one hand and a six-pack of beer in the other.
“I figured you might want to drown your sorrows,” he said.
I smiled, but as I grabbed the pizza, the box opened and the scents of cheese, sausage, and pepperoni was just enough for my stomach to turn.
I dropped the pie on my bed and ran to the bathroom, makin’ it to the toilet just in time for what was left of my breakfast—which wasn’t much—to come back up.
Charlie rushed in after me, grabbin’ my hair. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you eat something bad today?”
I hit the flusher, ignorin’ the scent of the water swirlin’ around the bowl before it went down the drain. “I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”
“Are you getting sick?”
I fell over on my butt, wipin’ my forehead. “I don’t know. But I have thrown up a few other times. I’m starting to wonder if it’s a cold or somethin’ else. I think I need to make an appointment with a doctor.”
“What for?”
“A pregnancy test.”
I closed the journal, looking at the cover as I knew the next entry my mother would write would be about finding out about me. Knocked up at eighteen and unmarried, I could imagine from the sound of how she described the conversation with my grandma went, that they were pleased as pie hearing the news.
Was that the reason for their bad relationship? Mom had always talked about them fighting over her life, but to this day, I couldn’t put my finger on the reason. She never mentioned exactly what it was.
Did she not tell me because she knew the reason was me?
THIRTY
I tossed the 1965 journal back into the box, grabbing the last one marked 1966. I didn’t want to dwell in 1965 any longer than I already had. I knew what happened, or at least knew enough, and it was enough to make me not want to know any more.
Before I opened the other journal, however, I climbed out of bed and made my way into the kitchen to heat up some water for another cup of tea.
So many thoughts were running through my head, and I didn’t know which one I could give any attention to. While I saw my mom in the written pages of the journa
ls, I couldn’t help but also see a stranger. Someone I didn’t know, and certainly, someone I didn’t grow up with. She was young and impulsive. She made foolish choices and didn’t think about the repercussions of those choices. She said what was on her mind, even if the other person didn’t want to—or care to—hear what she had to say. She stuck up for herself. Although I suppose she always did that. Whether I wanted to admit it, though, I could see myself in some of those pages.
“Did you see it too? Me in you—or at least me in the you that you hid from me?” I asked, glancing up at the ceiling.
The kettle began to whistle, and I pulled it off the stove, pouring the hot water into my mug, and letting the tea bags with the scent of vanilla and chai soak inside. I tiptoed back to the bed and slipped back under the covers, opening the second journal.
Maggie
September 17, 1966
Dear Journal,
Nothin’ in high school ever prepares you for sendin’ your beloved off to war. Although, I suppose that’s a silly thought for me to have. What class would ever teach such a thing? Home Ec? Like somewhere in between the lessons of cookin’ scrambled eggs and pot roast for your future husband, sewin’ pillows and doll clothes for your future children, or learnin’ how to tend to your household chores of washin’ dishes, hangin’ laundry out to dry, or usin’ a vacuum they’d say. “And for today’s lesson girls, we’re gonna teach ya about how to feel and what to think when your husband leaves to go fight in another country with the risk he might not come home.”
At what point would a girl be able to take that seriously?
The truth of the matter is, though, unless ya’ve been through the experience yourself, ya never know how ya’d feel. Ya’d never know about the thoughts that ultimately haunt ya at night while ya are alone in the bed ya are use to sharin’. Goin’ into a marriage with a soldier, it wasn’t a thought that crossed my mind. Surely, it should have been. I mean, only a fool would ignore it, right? I suppose I’m the fool, then.
Because I did just that.
I didn’t think about it. Not even one time.
At least not until I had to . . .
Keys clanked as they hit the table in the foyer, the sound rattled into the kitchen and caused me to flinch. Time always seemed to evade me on a day-to-day basis, but surely, it wasn’t time for him to come home. Not yet? Right?
“Maggie?” Charlie called out. “Mags, dear, are you home?”
“I’m in the kitchen.” Flustered shock cracked through my voice. Dinner wasn’t near ready. It wasn’t even in the oven. Hell, it wasn’t even thoroughly mixed in the dang bowl.
“In the kitchen? Is that safe?” he asked.
“Ha. Ha. You’re so funny. My husband, the funny man.” I rubbed my forehead with my arm, wipin’ the sweat from my brow as my eyes squinted at Doris’s handwritin’ etched on the recipe card. The lightened blue-hued ink had faded in a few places on the wrinkled piece of paper, makin’ some of the cursive letters hard to read.
“Is it mince one clove of garlic or two?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“Mincing garlic? Now I know that’s not safe.” Charlie hesitated in the doorway and leaned against the frame. His sage green army uniform stretched across his chest as his sleeves caught on the white wood. He plucked the hat from his head and his brown hair glinted in the light from the window. Buzzed into a short cut, at times it not only made his head appear bald, but it lengthened his tall, lean frame. He folded his arms across his chest as the left side of his face curved into a smile—the same sappy smirk he flashed me the night we met.
“Oh hush.” My hands itched, covered in raw meat from mixin’ in the eggs and breadcrumbs, and I growled as I bent down to further scrutinize the number set in the deep crease of a fold.
“Got to say, Mrs. Wilson, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so pretty all done up in your apron with the lace and flowers embroidered on the side. Is that new?”
“Doris gave it to me. Ya know, since I don’t have one.” I tilted my chin up toward the clock on the wall. “Why are ya home so early?”
Ignorin’ my question, he asked his own. “What are you making?”
“Doris gave me the meatloaf recipe ya loved so much when we went to their house for dinner, so I thought I’d try makin’ it tonight.” I raised my hand to silence the words I knew were sittin’ on the tip of his tongue. A chunk of meat fell off my finger back into the bowl. “Now, I know what ya are gonna say, nothin’ I’ve tried to cook yet has turned out, but she showed me a few of the tricks, and I really think this one is gonna work.”
He held up his hands as if to surrender. “If you say so.”
I glanced over my shoulder to give him a curt scoldin’, but the worry plaguin’ his blue eyes caused me to pause wrist deep in ground beef and egg yolks that I’d started to form into the shape of a fat loaf of bread.
His stare dropped to the ground. “Mags, hon, we need to talk.”
My gut twisted at his tone and in whippin’ around to face him, I knocked the bowl off the counter. The ball of uncooked meatloaf slipped through my fingers and hit the tiled floor of the kitchen along with the bowl that nearly cracked upon impact.
“Oh! Darn it!” Continued curse words slipped out under my breath as I scooped up mush and tossed it back into the bowl.
Charlie stepped forward, fetchin’ the towel from the counter. He turned on the faucet, soakin’ it with water and soapy suds before he bent down to scrub the floor clean.
“Well, I guess once again I’ve ruined dinner.” I washed the remains off my hands, wipin’ them dry before I leaned against the counter and cradled my forehead in my palm. An annoyed chuckle vibrated through my chest. “Can’t cook nothin’ outside of eggs and bacon, and even then I found a shell in them yesterday mornin’.” I gave him a sideways glance. “I didn’t want to tell ya.”
“I already knew. I had one in my eggs too. I just didn’t want to say anything either.”
“That’s just like me, isn’t it?”
“But then you wouldn’t be the woman I fell in love with.” He grasped my chin, drawin’ my gaze to his. No matter how many times this past year we’ve touched one another or we’ve looked into each other’s eyes, and no matter how many days and nights he came home to me, wrappin’ his arms tight around my body, I’d never get used to knowin’ he belonged to me. Our love affair nothin’ more than a whirlwind I never expected.
And one I couldn’t imagine my life without.
From the moment he’d spoke to me for the first time, I’d fallen in love with him. How he’d fallen in love with me, I’d never know. But, Daddy often said not to look a gift horse in the mouth, or some silly thing like that, and no matter what those words meant, I wasn’t about to go against them.
“I guess so.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I still feel bad I’m so useless.”
“You are hardly useless, Mags. You’re a new mom.”
“New mom. New army wife . . .”
“Just stop.” He pressed his finger into my lips then gently kissed my cheek. “You’re perfect. And you shouldn’t think of yourself as anything less.”
“What is it we needed to talk about?”
“Oh, well . . . where is Rachel?”
“She’s sleepin’ upstairs in her crib. Took me hours to get her down, she’s been giving me nothin’ but trouble today. It’s like she’s hell bent on punishin’ me or somethin’.”
“Punishing you for what?”
I cocked my head to one side and arched an eyebrow as if to silently point out the reason: us gettin’ pregnant out of wedlock.
“That’s your parents getting in that head of yours. Just stop. You aren’t being punished for anything and you’re just tired and talking out of frustration. I’m sorry I haven’t been much help lately.” He clutched my shoulders in his hands, drawin’ me into him and touchin’ his forehead to mine. “You’ve been doing so much and I’ve been so busy.”
“I know you’re wo
rkin’ hard for us.”
“Yeah, I’m about to be working harder.” He released my shoulders and entangled my fingers in his. “We should sit down.”
My heart thumped with the despair in his eyes, the shade darkened into deep midnight remindin’ me of the sea durin’ a storm. Just as with the poundin’ waves, the thunder and lightnin’ boomed and sparked behind the clouds of his mood. He had a southern storm brewin’ in him. One I didn’t like the look of.
“You’re scarin’ me, Charlie. What is goin’ on?”
He gave me a subtle shake of his head as he led me into the dinin’ room. His shoulders hunched as though weighted down with his thoughts. “Sit first, talk second.”
“All right, all right. I’m goin’. I’m goin’.” Short of breath, my rump slid into one of the chairs of our dinin’ set. Dark oak, its oval shape fit perfectly in the nook off the kitchen. The last room I adorned with any kind of home furnishin’s, it’d proved the hardest. Even with all the pictures I’d taken hangin’ on the walls. “So, what’s goin’ on?”
Charlie leaned forward, reachin’ for my hands. He inhaled, swellin’ his chest before exhalin’. “We received our orders today while in training.”
“Orders?” My heart kicked up another notch as my blood chilled. Although, my tone hinted I was askin’ a question, I really wasn’t. I knew what receivin’ orders meant. I wasn’t dumb.
“We ship out on the 24th to Vietnam.”
“The 24th of September or October?”
“Of September.”
“But that’s like next week.”
“Unfortunately, they need us over there, and they can’t wait, which means we are all on a time clock.”
“They can’t wait?” A lump caught in my throat.
Throughout the base, rumors had already spread like wildfire and it was no secret exactly how bad the fightin’ had gotten overseas for our men. Women walked around the commissary in a daze, not knowin’ how their husbands were doin’—shipped off to a war in another country on the other side of the world. I always looked at them with a certain level of pity. Surely, I knew someday, and sooner rather than later, I’d be one of them, but I supposed with the hope of hopes in the back of my mind, I could brush those feeling aside.
Another Yesterday Page 31
