Morning Glory

The money was, for the most part, saved, for even though Will still dreamed of buying Elly luxuries, the production of most domestic commodities had been halted long ago by the War Production Board. Necessities- clothing, food, household goods-were strictly rationed, at Purdy’s store, their point values posted on the shelves beside the prices. The same at the gas station, though Will and Elly were classified as farmers, so given more gas rationing coupons than they needed.

The one place they could enjoy their money was at the theater in Calhoun. They went every Saturday night, though Will refused to go if a war movie was showing.

Then one day a letter arrived from Lexington, Kentucky. The return address said Cleo Atkins. Elly left it propped up in the middle of the kitchen table and when Will came in, pointed to it.

'Somethin’ for you,' she said simply, turning away.

'Oh…' He picked it up, read the return address and repeated, quieter, 'Oh.'

After a full minute of silence she turned to face him. 'Aren’t you going to open it?'

'Sure.' But he didn’t, only stood rubbing his thumb over the writing, staring at it.

'Why don’t you take it down to the orchard and open it, Will?'

He looked up with pain in his deep, dark eyes, swallowed and said in a thick voice, 'Yeah, I think I’ll do that.'

When he was gone, Elly sat down heavily on a kitchen chair and covered her face with her hand, grieving for him, for the death of his friend whom he couldn’t forget. She remembered long ago how he’d told her of the only other friend he’d ever had, the one who’d betrayed him and had testified against him. How alone he must feel now, as if every time he reached out toward another man, that friendship was snatched away. Before the war she would not have guessed the value of a friend. But now she had two-Miss Beasley and Lydia. So she knew Will’s pain at losing his buddy.

She gave him half an hour before going out to find him. He was sitting beneath an aged, gnarled apple tree heavy with unripe fruit, the letter on the ground at his hip. Knees up, arms crossed, head lowered, he was the picture of dejection. She approached silently on the soft grass and dropped to her knees, putting her palms on his forearms, her face against his shoulder. In ragged sobs, he wept. She moved her hands to his heaving back and held him lovingly while he purged himself. At last he railed, 'Jesus, Elly, I k-killed him. I d-dragged him back to that f-foxhole and left him th-there and the n-next thing I knew a b-bomb hit it d-dead center and I t-t-turned around and s-saw his r-red h-hair flyin’in ch-chunks and-'

'Shh…'

'And I was screamin, Red!… Re-e-e-d!' He lifted his face and screamed it to a silent sky, screamed it so long and loud the veins stood out like marble carvings along his temples, up his neck and above his clenched fists.

'You didn’t kill him, you were trying to save him.'

Rage replaced his grief. 'I killed my best friend and they gave me a fucking Purple Heart for it!'

She could have argued that the Purple Heart was justly earned, in a different battle, but she could see this was no time for reasoning. He needed to voice his rage, work it out like pus from a festering wound. So she rubbed his shoulders, swallowed her own tears and offered the silent abeyance she knew he needed.

'Now his fiancee writes-God, how he loved her-and says, It’s okay, Corporal Parker, you mustn’t blame yourself.' He dropped his head onto his arms again. 'Well, doesn’t she see I got to blame myself? He was always talkin’ about how the four of us were g-gonna meet after the w-war and we’d maybe buy a car and go on v-vacation someplace together, maybe up in the Smoky Mountains where it’s-it’s c-cool in the s-summer and him and me c- could go-go f-fish-' He turned and threw himself into Elly’s arms, propelled by the force of anguish. He clasped her, burrowing, accepting her consolation at last. She held him, rocked him, let his tears wet her dress. 'Aw, Elly-Elly- g-goddamn the war.'

She held his head as if he were no older than Lizzy, closed her eyes and grieved with him, for him, and became once again the mother/wife he would always need her to be.

In time his breathing grew steadier, his embrace eased. 'Red was a good friend.'

'Tell me about him.'

'You want to read the letter?'

'No. I read enough letters when you were gone. You tell me.'

He did. Calmly this time, what it had really been like on the Canal. About the misery, the fear, the deaths and the carnage. About the 'Last Supper' on board The Argonaut,steak and eggs in unlimited supply to fill a man’s gut before he hit the beach expecting to have it shot out; about boarding a rubber raft in a pounding surf that roared so loud in the limber holes of the sub that no man could be heard above it; about that bobbing ride over deadly coral that threatened to slash the rubber boats and drown every man even before they reached the Japanese-infested shore; about arriving wet and staying so for the next three months; about watching your fleet chased off by the enemy, leaving you cut off from supplies indefinitely; about charging into a grass hut with your finger cocked and watching human beings fly backwards and drop with the surprise still on their faces; about learning what three species of ants are edible while you lay on your belly for two days with a sniper waiting in a tree, and the ants beneath your nose become your dinner; about the Battle of Bloody Ridge; about watching men lay in torment for days while flies laid eggs in their wounds; about eating coconuts until you wished the malaria would get you before the trots did; about the twitch of a human body even after it’s dead. And finally, about Red, the Red he’d loved. The live Red, not the dead one.

And when Will had purged himself, when he felt drained and exhausted, Elly took his hand and they walked home together through the late-afternoon sun, through the orchard, through the flower-trimmed pergola, to begin the thankless job of forgetting.

Chapter 20

The war had been hard on Lula. It deprived her of everything she cared most about: nylon stockings, chocolate ice cream-and men. Especially men. The best ones, the healthy, young, virile ones were gone. Only shits like Harley were left, so what choice did she have but to keep on getting what she needed from the big ape? But she couldn’t even blackmail him anymore. In the first place there was no gas to drive to Atlanta and window-shop the way she used to-who could go anywhereon three measly gallons a week!-and even if she could, there was nothing in the stores worth blackmailing for. That damn Roosevelt had control of everything-no cars, no bobby pins, no hair dryers. And nothing, absolutely nothingchocolate! It was beyond Lula why every GI in Europe got so many Hershey bars they were giving them away when folks back home had to do without! She’d put up with a lot, but it took the cake when Roosevelt handed down the order dictating what flavors of ice cream could be made! How the hell did he expect a restaurant to stay in business without chocolate ice cream? And without coffee?

Lula rested a foot on the toilet lid and spread brown leg makeup from toes to thigh, riled afresh by having to do without nylons. How the hell many parachutes did they need anyway? Well, never let it be said that Lula didn’t look her best, no matter what inconveniences she had to put up with. When the makeup was applied, she carefully drew a black line up the back of her leg with a 'seam pencil.' Dressed in bra and panties, she scooted into her bedroom, leaped onto the high bed and turned her back to the dresser mirror to check the results.

Straight as a shot of Four Feathers blended, right from the bottle!

From her closet she chose the sexiest dress she owned, orange and white jersey with enormous shoulder pads, a diamond cutout above the breast, bared knees and nice, clingy hips. One more time she’d try it, just once, and if she didn’t get results this time, the high and mighty Will Parker could cut holes in his pockets and play with himself for all she cared. After all, a woman had pride.

She squirmed into the dress, tugging it over her head, then returned to the bathroom to comb out her pincurls and fashion her hair into its usual whisked-up foreknot of curls. At least she had wave-set; the curls were hard as metal springs and bounced against her forehead gratifyingly.

All zipped, made-up and perfumed, she patted her hair, posed before the mirror with hands akimbo and calves pressed close, like Betty Grable, practiced her kittenish moue, bared her teeth to check for lipstick smudges, and