The Medium (21 page)

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Authors: Noëlle Sickels

BOOK: The Medium
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Dear Helen:
I can't stop saying how proud I am to be a WAAC. Not because there's anything so special about me, but because of the great gals around me. It looks like a bunch of us are finally going to get to really test our wings. Here's how it happened, and the story will tell you more about this outfit than any more crowing I could do.
Rumor was that Lieutenant General Eisenhower had asked for some WAACs for North Africa. Director Hobby called us all together and told us she wouldn't order anyone into a combat area. Since we're not part of the Regular Army, we have no military status. That means no protection if we're captured, no hospital benefits or disability allowance if we're hurt, and no death benefits. That's why
she wouldn't order us. But, Helen, out of the 300 WAACs here, 298 stood up and volunteered. I'm sure I don't have to tell you I was one of them. Director Hobby got so emotional, she had to duck into a broom closet so she wouldn't cry in front of us. They never tell you a WAAC isn't supposed to cry. Not even any of the male instructors we had at basic said it, but you just know, or you know at least you should hide it. Anyway, half of us are going to Eisenhower. The other half will have to keep waiting for authorization from the European theater.
You've probably heard the bad things people say about WAACs. Some soldiers won't even let their sisters or wives be friends with a WAAC. Recruitment's down, which is a shame because we're just beginning to show how we can make a difference in this war. I know you wouldn't ever believe bad things about me because you're my friend. But don't believe them about any of us, okay? People just don't like someone trying to do new things, I guess. They don't like it that maybe they'll have to try new things, too. Director Hobby's still fighting to get us into the Army. Maybe if that happens, it'll help. Meanwhile, there's a job for us—239 kinds of jobs, if you believe the recruiting posters—and we're going to do them all.
Fond regards, Rosie
Doing a job was one of the things people had against the WAACs. In towns near burgeoning Army bases, civilians feared they'd lose their new jobs to WAACs. Plus, the families of some soldiers, and some soldiers themselves, were none too anxious to have a WAAC free them up for combat duty.
But the worst of the “bad things” were accusations that WAACs were prostitutes and that half of them had already been sent home pregnant. A Washington columnist had written that there was a secret Army policy to supply all WAACs with
prophylactics. The Army and the President and even Mrs. Roosevelt hotly denied this, and the columnist had to run a retraction, but suspicions about the morals of WAACs persisted among many people.
Helen suspected that Rosie's assessment was correct. People simply didn't like new ideas. Especially the soldiers far from home, living with danger and dirt and discomfort, like you read about in the columns by Ernie Pyle and John Steinbeck. Helen imagined those soldiers must want fiercely to believe that home was just as they'd left it, that people and routines were poised to readmit them with open arms, that places were being saved for them, at dinner tables and firesides, in offices and factories, in hearts.
Home was a front, too. The battle here, Helen thought, is to hold things steady, to stand by. It was a lot of what the WAACs were doing, actually, all over the country. It was what they'd do behind the lines overseas. It's what I've got to do, she thought.
FEBRUARY 1943
“They're not very pretty,” Billy said, staring at Helen's feet in a pair of brown oxfords.
“I know,” she said mournfully. “But I need practical shoes that'll last.”
“Take a turn outside,” the salesgirl suggested. “You'll find they're very comfortable.”
When Helen came back from walking up and down the sidewalk to be sure the oxfords didn't pinch, Billy was holding a black sling-backed pump trimmed with a flat grosgrain ribbon bow.
“How about this?” he said.
Helen turned the shoe over in her hands, then put it down.
“Very nice,” she said, “but I can't use my shoe ration on high heels.”
“You're allowed three pairs of shoes a year.”
“I wouldn't get enough use out of them,” she said, shaking her head.
“What if something special comes up? Then you might wish you had some fancy new shoes.”
“Like what?”
“Like … like a party. Or a wedding.”
“Who's getting married?”
“Nobody. It was just a for-instance.”
Billy said nothing else as she paid for the shoes and gave the salesgirl her ration stamp. He remained quiet as they walked
down to Millie's Corner Café, except for a few murmured assents to Helen's comments on the window displays they were passing. Seated in the café, he seemed nervous. He kept glancing around the room, turning back to Helen when she spoke, but not appreciably furthering the conversation.
“Looking for someone?” she finally asked.
“Huh?”
“Are you looking for someone?”
“Oh. No. I'm only … well, I'm having a hard time looking at you is all.” He smiled at her. “Wow, that sure came out wrong, didn't it?”
Helen laughed. “Maybe I need those pretty shoes more than I thought.”
“C'mon, Helen, you know I think you're a dish.”
The waitress arrived with their hot chocolates and a grilled cheese sandwich they were going to share.
“I don't mind being reminded,” Helen said when the waitress had left.
Helen blew on her hot chocolate and took a sip. Billy bit into one triangle of the sandwich and chewed slowly. He swallowed with apparent effort.
“I've enlisted,” he blurted out. “Army Air Force. I leave for basic day after tomorrow.”
“What?” Helen cried. “But you've got a deferment.”
“I don't want it,” Billy said fiercely. “I never wanted it. I kidded myself it was okay—the battlefield of the assembly line, like the radio's always saying—but it's not, Helen, it's really not. Lloyd's in it and most of the guys from my class, even some of our old teachers. And I'm still here at home like some kind of cripple. Or a coward.” He put both his hands flat on the table. “Besides, the draft's started taking ordnance workers. I'd rather enlist and get some choice.”
Helen put down the sandwich triangle she'd picked up just
before Billy began speaking. She felt sick to her stomach.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I
am
telling you.”
“But why not sooner? The day after tomorrow. Oh, Billy.” She felt tears coming, but she didn't want them, and she was sure he didn't want them even more. She pushed them back.
“It's better this way. Quick. Besides, it'll be months before I'm really gone. Over there, I mean.”
Helen nodded, afraid she'd crumble if she tried to say anything. Sitting across from her, Billy looked so solid and familiar, she couldn't imagine that in one more day he'd be out of sight and out of reach of her hands for years. Though the war was beginning to shift, ever so laboriously, in favor of the Allies, anyone could see that a long road lay ahead, a long, rutted, agonizingly unpredictable road. Despite the songs and the movies, despite the cheery slogans and the boosterish posters, people had stopped expecting their men to come back soon. Everyone was digging in. Endurance was being tested at home as well as on the fields of combat.
Helen stood up and took her coat off the back of her chair. She wanted to flee the complacent noise and bustle of the busy café. How could everyone remain so ordinary on this extraordinary day? How could they continue to eat and babble and titter inanely as if nothing had happened? If she stayed one more minute in this indifferent place, she might begin tipping over tables.
“Let's get out of here,” she said.
Billy put a dollar bill on the table. They left the café and turned immediately off Main Street onto Elm Avenue. Instinctively, they were heading for Brinker's Green. There'd be skaters on the pond, but Oratam Beach was likely to be deserted in the biting February air. Empty, open, harsh, it was the only suitable territory right now.
Beyond a fringe of gunmetal ice near shore, the river was blue-black, its surface glinting with tiny riffles when gusts of wind passed over it. Helen and Billy aimed for the farthest bench, where woods bordered the beach. But before they reached the sheltered spot, Billy grabbed Helen and they embraced, kissing each other ardently again and again. Some of the kisses actually hurt, but Helen didn't care. The roughness underlined their passion, in this frenzied moment and in all the sweet moments of their past. It was a protest against the void ahead.
They unbuttoned their coats, and Billy slipped his arms around Helen's waist as she nuzzled against his warm, hard chest. Helen felt as if they were the only living beings in the world.
“I'm sorry I didn't tell you before,” Billy said. “I really thought it'd make it easier.”
“It doesn't matter now.”
“Well, it kind of does. To me.”
Helen lifted her head and looked at him.
“Why?”
“It doesn't leave much time.” He pulled away from her a little. “Gosh, Helen, I'm a deluxe dunderhead. I didn't think I'd feel so … I figured I'd wait, you know, until …”
“What are you talking about?”
“Helen, will you marry me? Right now?”
Helen was flabbergasted. She knew that lots of couples were making hasty marriages, and of course she'd thought before of marrying Billy. At times she'd even assumed it was predestined, though they'd never discussed it. She knew, too, that she was willing to wait for him, even with no guarantees of what would happen once he returned. Despite all that, she had, incredibly, never considered marriage as a full-blooded reality. She wouldn't hesitate to pledge to marry him, but to actually do it
right away? Could she make that leap of faith?
“Billy, I—”
“Some folks would say it's not fair of me to pin you down when I don't know if I'm coming back or what banged-up shape I might end up in—”
She put her fingers to his lips. She didn't need reminding of the risks he was engaging, and she couldn't bear to hear them put forth so bluntly. She wished she knew some charm to protect him, or some trick for stopping the forward movement of time or for forcing it to make a grand jeté over the years of war into what had to be the sunny, sane days after. Lacking such powers, she was left only with the opportunity to link her fate to his. Maybe that would be charm enough.
“Yes, Billy. Yes, I'll marry you.”
He clasped her to him as if he'd never let go.
 
The next day was Wednesday. They'd planned to take the bus to Elkton, Maryland, very early that morning. There was no waiting period after getting a marriage license there. They'd told their parents they were going to spend the day in New York and wouldn't be home until late in the evening. Everyone understood them wanting to have as much time together as possible. Thursday morning had been set aside for Billy's family. Thursday at noon he was leaving for boot camp.
Helen insisted they had to tell their news as soon as they returned from Elkton. Billy had agreed, but fearing one or the other of the two families would insist the couple stay the night with them, he'd already reserved a room at the Paper Mill Inn in Bogota. He was damned, he said, if he was going to spend his first night of married life within earshot of either his mother or Helen's father.
Helen got up at dawn. Snow was falling heavily, in big, wet flakes. By the looks of it, it had been snowing for hours. It
would take extra time to walk to the bus station.
She slipped quietly out the kitchen door. She hadn't eaten breakfast. She didn't want to make noises that might rouse someone. Besides, she didn't feel like she deserved breakfast. She felt rather like a thief. But what was she stealing? Herself? What an absurd notion. Her family's trust? That was closer to it. But she wasn't stealing their trust so much as trading on it. They'd be hurt by her elopement, shocked maybe, and apprehensive for her, but they wouldn't disown her or even, probably, admonish her.
“It's the war,” she'd say if she had to. Or they'd say it to one another. And go on. Just like everyone else. Still, she was sorry to be deceiving them, even for a short while. She wished she and Billy weren't starting out on such a footing. Her mother, especially, would be stung by her secrecy. But the duties of a daughter were not her only ones now. Now she was going to be a wife.
Billy was waiting for her in front of his house. From the snow accumulated on his shoulders and cap, he must have been waiting for a while.
“Good morning, Mrs. Mackey,” he said playfully.
“Mrs. Mackey. That's your mother.”
“Not for long.”
“It still sounds strange.”
He took her mittened hand in his and they started trudging through the soft snow, which was drifted nearly to their knees in places. Helen was glad she'd tucked her wool slacks into her galoshes. She was carrying a tote bag containing a beige rayon dress and the blue slip, an old pair of beige heels, and a bottle of leg make-up. She hadn't had silk stockings since the summer before Pearl Harbor, and her last pair of nylons had torn months ago.
“Before I went to sleep last night,” Billy said, “I practiced
saying
I'd like you to meet my wife, Helen.
Got so it sounded pretty good, I thought. But you're right about Mrs. Mackey. That's gonna take some getting used to.”
By the time they reached the bus station, they'd each slipped and fallen once, yielding more laughter than pain, and they'd begun to feel they were off on a real adventure.
The station waiting room was crowded—several young women, an old man or two, and a good number of soldiers, some slumped in chairs asleep, a trio of them in a corner playing cards. Helen and Billy stomped the snow off their feet and went to the ticket window to purchase their fares.
“Better wait, son, to get your tickets,” the clerk told Billy. “No buses running, and can't say for sure when they'll be cleared to go. May not run at all today. Especially going south. Weather's worse to the south.”
“How about buses into New York?” Billy asked the man. To Helen, he said, “We could take a train to Maryland.”
The man shook his head. “Might get over to the City later, but not now. Anyways, I hear the trains are stalled, too.”
Sobered, Helen and Billy found seats facing the plateglass window. The sky was lighter than when they'd set out, but the snow showed no signs of letting up.
“What should we do?” Billy said.
“We'll have to wait.”
They piled their hats, mittens, gloves, and scarves on an empty chair. They opened their coats, but left them on. Like most public places, the station was unheated because of the fuel shortage. To save on heating, schools were open only two hours a day, and restaurants were closed at night.
An hour later, the snowstorm had thickened. The few cars struggling down the street had their headlights on. Because the upper half of the headlamps had been painted black as a precaution against air raids, they shone only on those snow flurries
close to the ground, but these were sharply illuminated, spinning thickly in mad whorls.
Billy ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Let's not spend the day here, okay? Us not getting to Elkton doesn't mean I won't still be leaving tomorrow.”
It was a relief to get outside. The crowded waiting room had seemed to grow noisier and smaller as their chances of leaving town grew dimmer.
“Now what?” Billy said.
“I haven't had breakfast.”
“Okay, there's a start. Let's head over to Millie's.”
They had walked one block, faces lowered against the wind, when Billy stopped. “Gee, I should cancel our room at the inn. I think I can get my money back if I let them know before noon.” He did an about-face. “There's a phone at the bus station.”

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