was the day your parents would come-not some foster parents they'd found for you, but your real parents, a mom and dad, like everyone had, even Jesus. So although I find it patronizing, I long ago decided it was also true: an orphan never loses that look, those eyes.
I wasn't too surprised, then, when Lily got that part right: orphan. And I admire her for not taking the easy route and pretending she knew who my parents were, and describing these imaginary beings to me in exquisite, unknowable detail.
But maybe it would have been better for her to embroider some fiction. Because the more she talked, the more she knew, and the more scared I became. She knew about the orphanage, knew it was nothing like Dickens, knew that the Mary Star of the Sea Home for Infants and Children was south of Los Angeles, knew it was just a block from the beach, knew-and no one would ever have made this up-that the nuns treated us like the grandchildren they'd never have. She knew no family ever came for me (though if she knew why she didn't say), and she knew that all those years saturated with sun and God's love had left me with the pure, naive desire to be His priest.
And that's where I stopped her. Because I didn't want to know if she knew the rest, how I'd taken the train-paying the fare with money the teary-eyed nuns had given me-to San Diego. How I'd never made it to the high school seminary they were finally sending me to, because I stopped at the armed forces recruiting station first.
I didn't want to know if Lily knew I had been scared. Scared of what, I can't really say, not even now. (Maybe she could have.) All I knew was that I was a kid on a train, suddenly aware of where he was going, guessing at what he was leaving. There were soldiers on the train. And girls on the train. The world was on that train, and the world was going to war. I was going off to high school, a high school seminary, and I could see it, smell it: wax and wood and incense. The train smelled like perfume and aftershave and the ocean, which was just outside the window. By the time we got to San Diego, I was sweating and queasy because I'd realized what I would do. It wasn't that I
And now, alone in a dark room in the sway of a woman who practiced magic, I finally knew He would not.
“THAT'S ENOUGH,” I said. I pulled my hand away, although she hadn't really been studying it-she'd been holding it, but not reading it. For a while, she'd closed her eyes.
“A priest?” she said again, not mocking, not Gurley just curious.
“There are worse things,” I said.
She scrambled to her feet. “That's not what I meant.”
“I'm-sorry,” I said. “I guess it's not what I meant either.” Lurking in the back of my mind had been the faint expectation that she'd make this easy; she'd just rip my clothes off, then hers, and there we'd be. I gave her another second to. And two more. Then I said I had to go.
“You'll come back?” she said, and while I knew I shouldn't, I knew I would. I wanted to know how she'd done what she'd done. And I just wanted to see her again. But reflexes preceded thought, and I found myself mumbling about the base not being far away, and sure, I'd probably get a day or two of leave every now and then. I was halfway out the door when she caught hold of my jacket. “No,” she said, low and serious, “I mean, you'll come back, tonight.”
Again, I felt something flit in and out of my pocket. “And bring something to eat,” she said, even as the door was closing. As it clicked, I felt in my pocket. My wallet was still there. And along with it, a five-dollar bill, another message: “ 1.”
A few paces down the street, I heard, but refused to turn and see, someone climb the steps to the Starhope, open the door, and enter.
LILY SLEPT LIKE she'd been shot. Stomach-down on the floor, limbs and blankets scattered about, mouth agape, breaths coming in as noisily as they went out.
I'd gotten sandwiches, stale ones, really just slices of bread and some cheese, but I'd not had a lot of choice when I went out. Finding a diner that was still open took some time, but not enough; I spent an hour or so wandering what there was then of Anchorage, waiting for 1 A.M. to arrive, and worrying that when it did, she would have meant one in the afternoon. There were soldiers and sailors everywhere, never in groups of less than three, which meant that walking alone, I attracted some attention-at least from those who were still sober enough to focus and speak. But eventually I navigated away from the bars and found a tiny neighborhood that looked like it had been built within the last few hours. I walked each of the streets on its grid, and was going to start on a second lap, when a man who'd spotted me earlier shouted from a porch: “Get a move on, pal. This is all families. None of those type of houses here.” That's when I started to notice the signs tacked to some of the doors: “PRIVATE HOME.” Somebody later explained: women were rare enough in Anchorage in those days that when you saw one enter a house followed by a man, you might reasonably assume the premises were open for business.
I wondered where Lily lived. At the Starhope? When I got back to her office and found her asleep, I thought about leaving the food and going home-back to base-myself, but I couldn't leave. So I just shut the door behind me and slid down the wall until I was sitting opposite her. I opened one of the sandwiches and ate it, anticipating a good long period of studying her, memorizing her every feature. I wanted a picture, the way other guys had a picture-or half a dozen pictures-of sweethearts, of movie stars. But I wasn't going to get one, so I'd have to make one.
But the picture kept going out of focus. She was snoring. Snoring: I'm glad I remember that detail. Sometimes, I forget it-though I don't see how that's possible. She snored like she was gargling, or choking, or drowning, or was a dog engaged in any one of those activities. I'm glad I remember her snoring, because it's real enough to reassure me that this memory actually occurred.
Otherwise, the moment seems made up of too much magic: outside, that weak, watery blue Alaskan version of midnight twilight, Lily lying there, me sitting there, she sleeping, me watching. I didn't think, then, that we could ever be closer. I'm not sure anyone can. I'm not sure there is a place closer to someone than being at their side, awake, while they're asleep.
I found it increasingly difficult to breathe myself-as if what sounded like snoring were actually her wolfing down what air remained in the room. I was watching her, but not as a voyeur-I was watching
But after a few minutes of listening to her snore and wheeze, my restraint failed. Something deeper stirred within me, starting as a shiver and then finishing as flat-out, coughing laughter.
The snoring stopped. Lily sat up and looked around, wide-eyed, not smiling, not frowning. I fell silent. She saw the remaining sandwich and slid it toward her, peeking inside the wax paper.
“Sorry-” I said.
Lily said nothing, just took a bite and chewed, staring ahead. “Not the worst way to wake up,” she said. She took another bite and chewed for a while. “You're really-curious,” she said. “You know that? Curious. Comic, soldier, priest. I'm not sure who you are.”
“You did a pretty good job earlier figuring me out,” I said. She yawned. “What about what happens next?”
“I'm not so good at ‘next,’” Lily said. “Maybe if I was,” she continued, but stopped to take another bite, “I wouldn't be here, eating this sandwich, hanging out with some sailor thinks I'm Jap.” She stuffed the remaining sandwich in her mouth with the heel of her palm and smiled, cheeks bulging, as I stared at her.
“Do I look Japanese now?” she said, cheeks still huge, bits of sandwich spittling out. She took a big swallow, and then pulled on her ears, stuck out her tongue. “How about now? Martian?”
“You're not-?”
She swallowed the last of the sandwich and looked around. “You only bought one? I gave you five bucks.”
“Two, but I ate one. You're not Japanese?”
