Next to Love (7 page)

The wives want to talk and show her pictures too. When they do, she takes out her photo of Claude. It is not a particularly good likeness, but it is the only one of him in uniform, and though neither of them has said as much, they both know it’s the one she has to carry. The garrison cap sits so low on his forehead it gives him a disreputable air, and the army haircut makes his ears stick out. But none of that matters, because he is smiling into the camera, not the wide mindless grin that makes so many of the men look goofy in those military pictures but a thin sardonic slice of smile that takes in the world’s, and his own, failings with a self-deprecating wryness.

Most of the wives are novices like her, but a few have been following their husbands for a while and are eager to pass on tips. Travelers Aid is supposed to be the official housing agency for army wives, and sometimes they even manage to find you a room. If you’re hoping to get a job, don’t admit you’re an army wife, because then the employer will know you’ll be moving on and won’t hire you. When you get to whatever town you’re headed for, near whatever camp—and whichever one is mentioned, it’s always the most godforsaken in the whole country—beware of taxi drivers.

“If they tell you they know where you can find a room and say, just hop in, run for the hills. White slavery, hon.”

“In North Carolina?” Babe asks.

“North Carolina, South, Florida, Missouri, California. It’s all-American.”

But Babe has been taking care of herself all her life. She has no intention of getting into a car with a strange man, even a taxi driver.

Every now and then, the crowding and the shortages and the fear of what is ahead take a toll. In Philadelphia, a soldier and a sailor get into an ugly exchange about which of them is going to carry a girl’s suitcase. After they get off the train, everyone blames the girl for leading them on.

At the same stop, a boy carrying a Bible boards the train and takes the empty seat next to her. He tells her about his big Christian family and the revival meeting he went to while he was home on leave and says he hopes she is going to be a good Christian wife. She thinks of the nights in Claude’s car but says she will try to be, and he rewards her with a smile as wide as a bath towel.

“That’s what we’re fighting for,” he says.

While she and one of the wives are waiting in line for the ladies’ room, a soldier, who looks as if he is sleeping on his feet, opens his eyes, produces a bottle from one pocket and three small glasses with the railroad crest that he has swiped from the pantry from the other, and insists they have a drink with him. The whiskey is warm from being carried against his body and raw, but Babe is not sorry. If Claude has a bottle going somewhere on a train, she does not want him to drink alone.

In Washington, she checks her bag, as one of the wives has warned her to, so she will not have to worry about it being stolen out from under her while she sleeps. Using a sweater as a pillow and her coat for a blanket, she spends a restless night curled up at the end of one of the wooden benches in the waiting room. At six, she goes into the ladies’ room to wash her face, brush her teeth, and repair as much of the damage as she can. The reflection that faces her in the mirror is not encouraging. Her hat is covered with lint. Her hair hangs limp. Her eyes are sunk in smudgy black sockets. The collar and cuffs of her white blouse are sooty, but she will not change now. She wants to save the clean one in her suitcase for Claude. She combs her hair, puts on lipstick, replaces her hat, and makes her way to the baggage check to reclaim her suitcase.

On the way to the platform, she runs into the boy with the Bible. He asks if she needs help. She says she is fine. He insists on taking her bag from her nonetheless. He is only a boy. Where has he picked up a man’s habit of not listening to what she says?

Though the sign at the entrance to the platform reads
SERVICEMEN WILL BOARD ALL TRAINS BEFORE CIVILIANS
, nobody is paying attention to it. She hesitates, but the boy keeps going, and he has her bag. She lengthens her stride to keep up with him.

He makes his way past the first car. From what she can see through the windows, it’s not crowded.

“What about that one?” she says.

If he hears her above the din on the platform, he does not stop.

She spots more empty seats in the next car, but he still keeps going. When they reach the last door to the second car, she tries to take her suitcase from him.

“There are seats in there.” She points to the windows.

“That’s the nigger car,” he says, and keeps moving down the platform with her suitcase.

“That’s what we’re fighting for too,” she says, but he is ahead of her again and does not hear.

He finally turns in to the fourth car and heaves her suitcase onto the overhead rack above the first empty seat. She does not want to thank him, but he has carried her suitcase, and he is going off to war, so she does, and dislikes herself for it.

After she settles into her seat with her coat and magazines and handbag and a copy of
The Grapes of Wrath
on her lap, she steals a glance at the passenger beside her. He wears a lieutenant’s bars on his collar, and though the train has not even pulled out of the station, his eyes are closed, his head is thrown back against the headrest, and his mouth is creased in a faint smile.

It happens the first time about ten minutes after the train leaves the station. She is reading, but out of the corner of her eye she notices the lieutenant’s head begin to nod forward and his body list toward her. He pulls himself up short without opening his eyes and goes on sleeping. The next time, the train is rounding a curve. This time he falls against her before he straightens. The third time, his head drops onto her shoulder. She wriggles gently. He does not move. She shakes her shoulders. He snaps upright, opens his eyes, and looks around.

“Jeez, I’m sorry.”

“No harm done.”

“No, I’m a real knucklehead. You should have slapped me.”

“For nodding off. That would be downright unpatriotic.”

He grins. His teeth, straight and white as a picket fence, scream of fresh vegetables, homogenized milk, and regular checkups. According to the newspapers, a shocking number of draftees turn up for their physicals suffering from rotting teeth, malnourished bodies, and stunted growth, the result of the Depression. But this boy, like Claude and the others who grew up above Sixth Street, has had a sunnier time of it.

He takes a roll of mints from his pocket, offers her one, pops two in his mouth, smooths his hair back from his forehead, and begins to talk. He says his name is Norm and asks hers, tells her he’s from Bristol and wants to know where she’s from, and when she tells him, he says they’re practically neighbors. “The Bay State and the Ocean State. Kind of like Sears and Roebuck.” He flashes the teeth again.

He extracts a photo from his wallet and hands it to her. Officers and enlisted men, they’re all alike. She wonders if Claude drew the photo of her from his wallet and showed it to some girl going to meet her husband.

She takes the picture from the boy called Norm. An older couple stands in the center, with Norm on one side, a boy with the same toothy grin on the other, and two girls, one about thirteen, the other a few years younger, sitting cross-legged on the grass. A respectable red-brick house looms behind them. It’s the usual family snapshot. She must have seen a dozen of them in the past two days, though usually the house is smaller and more rickety, if there is a house in the picture at all. But something about this photo strikes her as odd. It takes her a moment to figure out what. His left arm and part of his left shoulder are missing. So is the white border on that side of the photograph.

He must notice her staring at it. “I cut off the end,” he explains.

“To fit in your wallet?”

“To get rid of my girl. After she got rid of me.”

Perhaps he has not had such a sunny time of it after all.

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “
C’est la guerre
. It means, that’s war.”

Even in the new suit, she still looks like a girl who does not understand a French phrase.

“I know what it means,” she says, then regrets the words. He is only trying to set himself apart. Even officers are interchangeable once they put on a uniform.

“You going to see your husband or your boyfriend?” he asks.

“We’re going to be married as soon as I get there.”

“He’s a lucky guy.”

It’s the kind of thing soldiers on trains say, but she wishes he hadn’t. She does not like meaningless compliments. She is almost as suspicious of the ones that might be sincere. It’s the other side of the who-do-you-think-you-are coin. No one special.

He turns to the window then and is quiet, and after a while he asks if she’ll excuse him, and she stands and steps into the aisle to let him out. He unwinds himself from the seat. She had not realized how big he is.

“You might as well take the window seat,” he tells her. “You’ll be doing me a favor. More leg room on the aisle.” He heads down to the end of the car.

A while later, she sees him coming back up the aisle. He is holding a stack of sandwiches against his chest and balancing two cups of coffee in his other hand.

“By the time I got to the head of the line, I figured I might as well get some for you too.”

She thanks him.

He sits, puts the two coffees on the floor, and holds the four sandwiches out to her. “Take your choice. Ham, ham, ham, or ham.”

“I’ll take ham.”

“Good girl. One or two?”

“One.”

“Swell. That leaves more for me.” He flashes the grin again. She wonders why the girl ditched him.

She puts the sandwich down, opens her handbag, and takes out her change purse.

“Forget it,” he says.

“No, I insist.” She opens the purse. A single nickel lies inside. She unzips the inner pocket of her handbag, takes out a billfold, and extracts a dollar. She holds it out to him.

“Sorry. Coffee and sandwich cost two bits, and I don’t have change.”

“I can’t just take it.”

“Consider it a wedding present.”

“You don’t even know me.” Even as she says it, she knows she is making too much of a fuss.

He shakes his head and holds out his hand, palm up. “Okay, give me the nickel. You can owe me the rest.”

She hands him the nickel. He tosses it in the air as if he is doing heads-or-tails, slaps it down on the back of the other hand, and puts it in his pocket.

“Is your guy meeting you at the station?” he asks.

“I didn’t know when I’d be getting in, with all the delays. I said I’d wire him when I change trains.”

“Smart cookie.”

Sometime after they cross from Virginia into North Carolina, he falls asleep again. His head slips to her shoulder. She shifts position. He goes on sleeping. She lifts and drops her shoulder several times. His head remains heavily on it. She shakes him. He sits up and apologizes again. This time she does not say it’s nothing. Something about the accident, if it was an accident, bothers her. Or maybe she is just feeling uncomfortable about the coffee and sandwich.

Four hours later, two of which they spend on sidings, a conductor comes through, shouting, “Raleigh,” and the train begins to slow. Norm stands and takes his duffel and her suitcase down from the rack.

“I can carry it,” she says.

“Wouldn’t think of it.” He hefts the duffel onto his shoulder and balances it there with one hand, picks up her suitcase with the other, and steps back for her to go ahead of him down the aisle.

She stands. She does not want him to carry her bag. She should insist. She should yank it out of his hand. If he refuses to give it up, she should ask for help from one of the other men. She can just picture that. He bothering you, ma’am? Yes, he’s trying to carry my suitcase. She will not make a scene on a train full of men going off to war. She steps into the aisle. He takes his place behind her. Anyone looking at them would think they are a couple.

The car comes to a halt with a hissing of steam and a grinding of brakes, and he begins nudging her forward with the elbow of the arm that’s holding his duffel in place. She makes her way along the aisle and down the steps. He is right behind her. She knows without turning, because he keeps bumping into her.

The platform is packed with servicemen and girls and civilians getting off the train and others waiting to board. He is striding toward the waiting room. There is nothing she can do but try to keep up with him. As soon as she steps inside, she sees the chalk letters on the board.
DELAYED
.

“Damn,” he says. “We’ll never get there in time now.”

“In time for what?”

“Curfew. No point in wiring your guy. By the time the train gets in, he’ll be back at the base.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “Tough luck, kid.”

She shrugs it off. Why does he keep touching her?

If he notices her annoyance, he does not let on. “Look, you stay here with the stuff, and I’ll see if I can find out when we’re going to get out of here. Maybe it won’t be that late after all.”

It takes him a while to make his way through the crowd. When he comes back, he is frowning. “Earliest it will be is two hours. We’ll never get there before midnight. He has to be back on the base by then. But it’s okay. I had a brainstorm. It comes under the heading of everything turns out for the best.”

She hates the phrase. From what she has seen, very little in life turns out for the best. Millie’s parents’ deaths did not turn out for the best. Her father’s visits to O’Hanlon’s after he gets paid on Saturday rarely turn out for the best. This war will not turn out for the best, no matter what happens.

“My girl’s mother runs a boardinghouse.”

“I thought you said your girl left you.” She did not mean to blurt that out. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I told you, everything works out for the best. The old one ditched me, so I got myself a new one. Right there in Fayetteville. I’ll take you to her mother’s place. That way you can get some shut-eye and a hot bath and be fresh as a daisy for the big day.”