An Owl's Whisper (23 page)

Stan relaxed. “Well, sir, I’ll tell ya.” He moved his head close to Henri’s, as if he were passing along a hot tip on the ponies. “When I have my druthers, I go with the Baby Ruth Bar. I reckon it’s named after the ball player, Babe Ruth. S’pose you know who he was.” Henri looked puzzled and shook his head. “Ruth was a slugger on the Yankees. You must’ve heard of them. Anyway, Baby Ruths are peanuts and chocolate and caramel. Ya get ’em sometimes in your C-Rations. Man, they’re the best. I’ll get you one to try sometime.”

Henri looked like Stan had suggested using someone else’s toothbrush. Then he smiled politely. “I will wait eagerly for your Baby Ruth’s confection. Now, shall we rejoin the ladies?”

The next fifteen minutes were occupied with small talk, mostly in French. Eva whispered translated summaries for Stan.

Abruptly, Henri said, “Well, I must away.” After pleasant goodbyes, he said, “Eva dear, might you have a moment please to walk with me to the car?”

Eva didn’t bother to answer—she knew it was more command than request. She threw a shawl over her shoulders and preceded him through the door.
Madame
Ducoisie shuffled off to the kitchen to put away the treasures Henri bought. Stan moseyed to the window and casually watched Henri and Eva talking next to his automobile. He was surprised that the conversation looked less than cordial. With anger on his face and a wagging finger, Henri seemed to be scolding his niece. And Eva was firing right back. When Henri drew his right arm up, across his chest, as if he was about to strike her, Stan was shocked. He bolted for the porch, but by the time he stepped outside, Henri was climbing into his car, pulling the door closed behind him. A moment later it sped off.

Eva walked slowly back to the porch, looking like she was toting a bag of bricks. “Uncle’s visits drain me so. Could we cut off the afternoon, Stanley?”

Stan began to doubt what he thought he’d seen from the window. He looked closely at Eva’s face.
Don’t look like she been slapped. It was dark. Maybe he was just scratchin’ his shoulder.
“I hope you mean cut the afternoon short,” he said. “Sure, if you’re tired, I’ll head back to the post. I just hate things afflictin’ you so. Your uncle seemed downright sociable there in your parlor. I just don’t get it.” Stan shook his head. “Say, he never swats at you, does he?”

“Stanley, you have no idea about—” Eva stared at the floor.

Stan pressed, “’Bout what?” He waited, but Eva didn’t look up. “OK, OK. Guess I shouldn’t go buttin’ into family business. Long as he don’t do no swattin’.” She still wouldn’t look up. “Any chance you’d let me swing by later this week? Maybe Wednesday?”

Stan’s request brought Eva’s gaze up to meet his. Her eyes were wet but she was smiling. “I say Okey-dokey. You know I would like that.” Stan grinned and Eva took his hand. “I’m sorry to cut short—yes?—our afternoon, Stanley. I can’t wait for Wednesday.” She kissed his cheek.

Stan strutted to his borrowed jeep. He was whistling, thinking how he’d always preferred to be called
Stan
—until he heard Eva turn
Stanley
into poetry.

Crickette and Max

In the weeks tying mid-September to late November 1944, Stan worried every day he’d be reassigned to one of First Army’s infantry units slugging it out in the Hürtgen Woods. Worried he’d take the place of some GI shot-up in combat. Worried it was his turn to get shot-up. Then on November 27, the 121st Infantry punched through to the other side of the Hürtgen and Stan felt safer. Word was, “with this weather, things should quiet down, at least into the new year.”

Stan made plans for Christmas with Eva. When he told his boss, Sgt. Waxman, he was thinking of taking Eva to Paris for the holidays, the growled reply was, “Yeah. And the Red Sox
think
about winning the Series, too.” Still Stan was happy. Eva seemed content, too.

On Saturday December 2, Stan came to call at the Ducoisie place. Sitting together in the parlor, he and Eva heard the crackling whine of a motorcycle, coming up the long drive from the road. Eva went to the window and turned back to Stan, looking peeved.

“Your uncle, huh?” Stan asked. He still wondered about the tension between Eva and Henri, but hadn’t brought it up again.

“No,” Eva replied, “It is a girl I knew, a girl from Liege.”

Stan and Eva went out to the porch. The US Army cycle was parked and a GI was lifting a girl out of the sidecar. She was Crickette Gigault, the girl who had been brought by Henri to stay with Eva at the end of the summer.

When she saw Eva, Crickette, wearing the GI’s garrison cap, waved wildly. “Oh Eva, hello! My American honey and I are on weekend holiday and I’m so exciting for you to meet him.” Beaming, she pulled the limping soldier by the arm toward the porch.

As the pair climbed the stairs, Stan was worried.
Now, here comes the kissin’.
He was right. The women all kissed each other hello. Crickette introduced her GI as “my beau, Max Conroy” and “Maxie,” and
Madame
Ducoisie and Eva kissed him. Crickette kissed Stan. Max and Stan approached each other warily—and shook hands.

Stan stepped toward Max and pointed to the unit insignia on his sleeve. “Sarge, always good to meet another First Army joe.”

Max grinned. “Glad to meet you, too, pally-boy. And gladder still you didn’t try to lay a big wet one on me.”

With introductions done,
Madame
Ducoisie shooed everyone inside. As they went in, Crickette took Eva’s arm and whispered to her, loud enough to be sure the men heard, “
Ooh-la-la,
Eva! Aren’t these American boys
handsome
!”

Madame
Ducoisie and Eva went to the kitchen for refreshments. Max produced cigarettes for himself and Crickette. He offered one to Stan, who shook his head, saying, “Naw—working at a fuel depot, I quit.”

Max took an olive-drab Zippo from his jacket pocket and lit Crickette’s Camel and his own. Stan watched them smoke. Max pinched his cigarette between thumb and index finger tips with the lighted end sheltered in his cupped hand. He took powerful drags. After each, he tilted his head back in pleasure. Crickette held her Camel between extended fingers and inhaled lightly. She played with her smoke, for a moment displaying its ghostly paleness inside the red oval of her parted lips, then streaming it serpent-like from her mouth into her nose.

Madame
Ducoisie returned with a tray of clinking bottles of Belgian beer and glasses. Eva followed her with a plate of white crackers and goat cheese. Max offered cigarettes and
Madame
Ducoisie took one. She inhaled deeply, looking contented as a just burped baby.

Leaving the women and their French chatter in the parlor, the men strolled into the dining room. Max unbuttoned his uniform jacket and lifted his bottle. “So, here’s to beautiful Belgian broads and the Big Red One.”
Clink.
“Where ya from, soldier?”

“Hooker County, Nebraska, Sarge. Cattle country.”

“So we got us a real cowboy here, huh? Tex Ritter a pardner of yours?”

“Nah. We owned a farm but it went bust durin’ the hard times. I reckon the closest I get to ol’ Tex is the picture show, ’bout like you.”

“What outfit you with?” asked Max.

“285
^th
Supply Battalion. Posted at the sector depot down the road. How ’bout you?”

“28
^th
Infantry, but I got my leg fucked-up in the early days of the Hürtgen shit, so I’ve spent the last month getting it knit-up at the K-2 hospital south of Liege.” Conroy took a deep drag on his cigarette.

“Well, don’t let it knit-up too fast, or you’ll find yourself back in the soup.”

Max looked at Stan with his head cocked. He showed his teeth. “Corporal, a rear echelon mother fucker like you wouldn’t get it, but somebody’s got to be out there in the shooting war. If it ain’t me, it’s gonna be some other dumb GI.” Max shook his head and waved the hand holding his cigarette. “Aw, forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”

Stan’s jaw was tense as he leaned forward. He wasn’t inclined to drop it. “Hey, I been shot at, too.” Stan wasn’t sure about that but figured he might’ve been. “You wanna take on the Krauts without the grub and ammo you get from us REMFs?”

“I said forget it. Look, I didn’t mean no offense, pally-boy. I just get itchy playing cards in the bone yard.” Max blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling light.

Stan swatted the swirling smoke. “OK. Just save your growlin’ for Fritz.”

Eva noticed the sparks and stepped over to make sure a fire didn’t break out. She said, “You boys come over with us so I can keep an eye on you,” as she took Stan by the tie and led him to the floral sofa in the parlor.

Cigarette smoke swept the tension into the blue air of the small room.
Madame
Ducoisie tried English. The boys tried French. Everyone laughed.

After another beer, Crickette announced, “We brought some
plaisirs
on our moto.
Plaisirs
is correct?”

“Treats in English,” Eva clarified.

“Or grub in American,” laughed Max.

Crickette made a show of ignoring Max. “Yes, some
treats
. Eva, would you help me
chercher
?” She took Eva’s arm and pulled her through the door, talking all the way. As the door clicked closed, Stan thought he heard her say the word
Henri
.

Madame
Ducoisie returned to the kitchen. Max lit another cigarette. He set the pack of Camels on the arm of the sofa and placed his lighter on top. Cautious as a schoolboy showing dirty pictures to buddies in the alley, he looked around to be sure they were alone. “Christ, your squeeze Eva’s right out of the tomato patch. How’d you lasso a sidekick like that, pardner?”

Stan grinned. “I guess she’s partial to the Jimmy Stewart type.”

Max grunted. “Nah, these Belgian dames just can’t resist a guy in GI green.”

“Well, we did boot the goddamn Krauts out, I guess. Next to those Nazi bastards, I s’pose we stack up pretty good. That little Crickette of yours seems like a real kick.”

“Kick and a half, pally. Nothing like her back home. And she’s crazy about this ol’ kisser of mine.” He struck a pose—chin jutting, cigarette at a jaunty angle, like FDR.

Stan looked Max over. The man’s body was thick. Firm, not pudgy. Like a smoked ham. Taking in Max’s face, he felt like saying,
No shit you never had nothin’ like Crickette back stateside. With that kisser, she’s probably the first dame ever to give you two looks. Brother, I’d peg you for a pug that’s gone ten rounds with Joe Lewis. Pally-boy.
What he did say was, “Tell ya what—that Crickette’s cute as bug. Guess you’ve heard that one before.”

“Yeah. Used it myself a few times. But cute ain’t all, kid.” Max brought his head close and whispered, like it was details of the plan for the final assault on Berlin, “My kisser ain’t the only thing she’s crazy about. She’s got this little place over a bakery in Jupille—right on the corner of Fine and Dandy—and, I’ll tell ya, the people downstairs didn’t get much sleep Sunday night!” Max glowed bright as the coals behind the glass screen in the parlor’s stove.

“Sounds like there’s somethin’ to be said for bein’ away from the soup.”

Max frowned. “Yeah, I just feel lousy being in Crickette’s bed getting my brains screwed out when my guys are sleeping in the mud and ice of that goddamn forest.”

“Well, you don’t want ’em up there in the bed with you and her, right?”

“Hell no!” Max exhaled. “I just don’t want to feel so fucking guilty.”

“Aw, the war’s almost over. Over here, at least. You dogfaces better slow down or you’ll earn us all a new job, fightin’ Tojos in the Pacific.”

“Tojos be damned. Tell you what, Stan, when this is over I’m gonna take Crickette back to Chicago. I’ll show ’em! My old man builds oak furniture, and I can earn good dough working for him, enough to support the two of us and a couple of brats, too.”

“Well, I know I’d like to marry Eva. They’ve never seen nothin’ like her back in Hooker County neither, I’ll guarantee. Don’t know if she’ll have me, though.”

Saying Eva’s name reminded Stan that she and Crickette had been gone quite a while. “Wonder what’s keeping the girls.” He pulled back the curtain and saw them standing by the cycle, talking. “They’re out there all right, gesturing back and forth like a couple of Guineas.” Stan shook his head and released the curtain.

Max rubbed his hands together. “Wish they’d hustle-up with the eats. I’m starving, and I sure as shit can’t stomach this goat cheese crap.” He lit another cigarette.

After an awkward moment of silence, Stan said, “Ya hear bad stories about the Hürtgen fighting. What’s it really like in there?”

“Pally-boy, whatever you heard, it’s worse.” Max described fighting in the cold, dark place he called
Hell Froze Over
. How the first day there, he lost a buddy who’d been with him all the way from Omaha Beach. How a 155 mm shell, detonated at tree top level, drove a baseball-bat-sized “sliver” of pine into his leg. He’d just started talking about the hospital when the girls came back. Max bit his lip and shut up. He seemed relieved at the tale’s abrupt end. Same as Stan did.