Baker Towers (7 page)

“You’re lucky.” He reached for a packet of saltines and tore it open with his teeth. “I’m looking, myself. Before the war I was a carpenter. Guess I need a new line of work.”

Dorothy watched him crumple the crackers in his suntanned hand. If another man had done it, she reflected, you’d call his manners atrocious; but a wounded soldier was different.

Rowsey looked up from his soup and saw her watching him. She looked away, embarrassed.

“What about you?” he asked. “You’re a file clerk, too?”

“Typist,” said Dorothy. “At the Treasury.”

“Good for you.” He took a cigarette from the pack on the table. “That’s a good skill for a girl to have.”

“Awfully noisy, though. You should hear the racket in Dorothy’s office. I’d lose my mind.” Patsy tilted the bowl and spooned up the soup. “I’m happy filing, thank you very much.” If she and Dorothy had been alone, she’d have launched into an angry monologue about why the filing clerks
made five dollars less per week than the typists did; but now she only smiled.

“Down the hatch,” she said, lifting the spoon to his lips. “Oops!” Giggling a little, she dabbed his chin with a napkin.

“So,” Rowsey said after he’d finished. “What are you doing this weekend?”

Dorothy felt her face flush. He seemed to be talking to her. She glanced quickly at Patsy, who smiled and shrugged.

“Me?” she said finally.

He waved a hand carelessly, as though it made no difference.

“Both of you,” he said. “I want to take you out on the town.”

T
HEY LAY
stretched out on the imported sand, the soldier in bathing trunks, the two girls in bright nylon suits, one green, the other red. Substantial suits, reinforced with darts and seams and sewn-in undergarments; yet Dorothy felt unprotected, uncomfortably exposed. The borrowed suit fit closely at her hips. It would have fit anyone. She’d never worn one before and was surprised by the fabric—curiously elastic, like a balloon.

The park, Glen Echo, sat on forty acres south of Washington. From May to September, the city trolley stopped there six times a day. The park had a swimming pool, two carousels and a Ferris wheel. There was a casino for gambling, a bandstand and a dance floor.

Dorothy leaned back on one elbow and shielded her eyes. Light danced on the surface of the Crystal Pond—the largest swimming pool on the East Coast, built to hold three thousand swimmers. Purple-lipped children crowded the shallows at the perimeter. Mothers in sunglasses
clustered along the edge. The water at the center was a deeper blue; a few swimmers crossed it with smooth strokes. Lawn chairs dotted the half-acre beach, sand brought in by the truckload from the eastern shore of Maryland. There were girls in Bermuda shorts, smoking cigarettes, flipping through magazines; girls under umbrellas, in straw hats, in bathing caps. Under a tree, a few grandfathers drank cans of beer from a cooler. Otherwise there were no men at all.

Beside her Patsy stretched in the heat. She examined her plump shoulder. “I’m red as a beet.” She reached for the bottle of oil.

“Let me,” said Rowsey.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She handed the bottle to Dorothy.

“Just trying to help.” His eyes went to Dorothy. “Look at this one. She’s not burned at all. Gypsy blood, am I right?”

“My mother’s Italian.”

“No kidding.” He grinned. “I spent four months in Sicily. Those girls were something. Wouldn’t give us the time of day, most of them, but they were something to look at.”

Dorothy spread the oil over Patsy’s shoulders. The skin was moist and freckled, hot to the touch.

“Hey, you know who you look like?” said Rowsey. “It just hit me. Hedy Lamarr.”

Dorothy’s cheeks warmed. “No, I don’t.”

“Sure you do. It’s been bugging me. The first time I saw you, at the lunch counter, I thought, ‘This girl looks like someone.’ The eyes, the mouth. Doesn’t she?” he demanded.

“Hedy Lamarr isn’t Italian.” Patsy raised her head, shrugging Dorothy’s hands away. There was an edge to her voice. “She’s Austrian.”

“What’s the difference?”

Patsy glared at him. “What’s the
difference
?”

Rowsey frowned, aware he’d made an error. Girls were forever getting mad at him. He accepted this fact cheerfully, as he accepted bad weather.

“I’m going for a swim,” he said, pulling off his shirt. “Anyone want to join me?”

“Too crowded,” said Patsy.

“No thanks,” said Dorothy. She stared up at him, her eyes drawn toward the thick scar at his shoulder.

“Suit yourselves.” He loped easily toward the pool.

The girls sat back on their blanket. Patsy reached for the oil and spread it thickly over her shins. Dorothy squinted into the sky—a faded blue, streaked with high clouds. A bell clanged in the distance, the streetcar stopping to let off passengers. A breeze blew the sweet, burned aroma of roasted peanuts.

She closed her eyes. The trip to the park had been Rowsey’s idea. The girls had met him that morning at Union Station and they had ridden the streetcar together. He had chosen a seat in the middle of the car. The girls had sat on either side.

Dorothy picked him out of the crowd, watching as he lowered himself to the edge of the pool.

“I’m surprised he can swim,” she said. “With his bad arm.” He’d taken a bullet in the shoulder at Salerno, which had severed a bundle of nerves. His hand hadn’t worked properly since.

“I hope he drowns,” Patsy snapped, then laughed. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. I didn’t mean it.”

“I thought you liked him.”

“I like him fine. But sometimes I’d like to jerk a knot in him.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Patsy studied her pink-tipped toes. “Doesn’t it
bother you, the way he plays cock of the walk? It’s unnatural for a man to have so many women falling all over him. It turns everything backward.”

She stretched out on her back. Her skin glistened with oil; her plump legs looked smooth and boneless, like a roast. At the edge of the pool, Rowsey stood talking to a woman in a striped bathing suit. A fussy toddler squirmed in her arms. Smiling, Rowsey took the baby from her. The child quieted, hanging easily over his good shoulder.

“Look at that,” said Dorothy.

Patsy opened one eye, then snorted. “I’m taking a nap. Wake me if something interesting happens.”

She rolled over onto her stomach and covered her head with a towel.

T
HEY WERE BOTH SLEEPING
when Rowsey returned to the blanket. He leaned over them and shook his wet head, like a dog drying itself. The girls shrieked, outraged.

He stretched out on the blanket between them, his skin radiating cold. Dorothy avoided looking at him. She sensed rather than saw his long blond legs, his belly matted with darker hair.

Patsy sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Who were you talking to?”

“Some girl. Her husband’s over in England.”

“Does he know she’s back here flirting with half-naked men in swimming pools?”

“Who’s flirting?” He studied her. “You’re jealous.”

“Oh, that’ll be the day.” Patsy gathered her things and rose. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Where are you going?” said Dorothy.

“I need some shade. Come find me when you’re ready to go.” She turned and headed toward the pavilion. The suit rode up on her pink thigh, revealing a slice of white skin.

“What’s eating her?” Rowsey asked.

“The heat, I guess.”

“It’s awfully hot,” he agreed. “You ought to dive in and cool off.”

Dorothy hesitated a moment. “I can’t swim.”

“You’re kidding.” He sat up, studying her. “How come?”

“I never learned. Back home there was no place to go. Not for girls, anyway. There was a swimming hole in the woods where the boys went.” Every sunny day her brother had hiked there with his friends—Gene Stusick, two or three of the Poblocki boys. Once, the summer she turned fourteen, she had followed behind, stepping carefully along the rugged trail. Screened by trees, she had stood a long time watching. A thick branch of cherry hung low over the water. The naked boys dropped from it like monkeys. Tenor shouts, Tarzan cries, a flash of skin.

“Come on,” said Rowsey. “I’ll teach you.”

“Really?”

“Sure.” He got to his feet. “It’s time you learned.”

She followed him across the expanse of sand, stepping between blankets and lawn chairs. A wind had started. The pool was emptying out. Mothers crouched on the cement walkway, wrapping children in beach towels.

The lifeguard gave Rowsey a wave. “There’s a storm coming. If you see any lightning, get out quick.”

Dorothy approached the edge and dipped her toe in the water. A chill traveled up her leg.

“You can’t do it like that. You’ve got to go all at once. Watch.” He
backed up a few paces and took a running leap into the water, landing with a loud splash. Dorothy stepped back, startled.

His slick head reappeared at the surface. “See?” He swam toward her. “Your turn.”

“Don’t splash,” she cried. And quickly, before she could change her mind, she scrambled down the ladder. The water was very cold, a shock to her heart.

“That’s not so bad, is it?”

“It feels good,” she admitted.

“Come on.” He led her by the hand toward the center of the pool, until the water reached her chest. Before she realized what was happening, he reached behind her and swung her into his arms.

“Don’t be scared,” he said. “Just lie back. All you have to do is float.”

She exhaled slowly, aware of his arms beneath her. She felt perfectly weightless.

“What about your shoulder?” she asked.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got you.”

She stared up at him: the rough stubble at his throat, the thick scar on his shoulder. Alien textures, hinting at the vast difference between him and her.

“Hang on,” he said. He spun her gently in a circle, his hands gripping her waist, the outside of one thigh. She laughed, delighted.

“Good,” he said. “Now kick.”

She did. A thrill rose in her stomach.

“I could have you swimming in no time,” he said. “You’re a natural.”

Water filled her ears; her heartbeat rose in volume. Dreamily she closed her eyes. The sensation was like nothing she could name; so why did it feel familiar? Heat above her, cold below; herself suspended perfectly
between them. His body seemed to be everywhere around her. No man had ever touched her before. Yet that, too, felt familiar.

“Did you hear that?” said Rowsey.

“What?”

“Thunder.”

The lifeguard’s whistle sounded.

“We should get out,” said Rowsey. “Hang on. I’ll float you in.”

A flash of lightning tore across the sky. He drew her in close to his chest.

“Here we are, madam,” he said, releasing her into the shallow water.

Dorothy got to her feet. The pool had emptied out. Patsy was standing at the edge. She wore a terry-cloth romper over her swimsuit. “Where have you been?” she asked sharply.

“Chick was giving me a swimming lesson.”

“The trains are packed,” said Patsy, ignoring her. “We’ll be stuck waiting in the rain.”

He climbed up the ladder, holding his left arm to his side. “Take it easy,” he said, touching Patsy’s shoulder.

“Keep away from me,” said Patsy. “You’re stinking wet.”

They walked to the train station in the rain. Patsy lagged behind; her shoes were giving her blisters. Once, twice, Rowsey stopped so she could catch up.

“For God’s sake, I’m right behind you.”

“Suit yourself.” He fell into step next to Dorothy. “How’d you like your swimming lesson?”

“It was wonderful,” she said, suddenly shy. “Thank you.”

They approached the platform. The crowd was oddly silent.

“What’s going on?” said Rowsey.

“Hush,” said an old woman. “We’re trying to hear.”

Dorothy peered through the crowd. At the center of the platform stood a teenage boy—a redheaded, pockmarked boy with a transistor radio.

“What is it?” said Dorothy. “Did something happen?”

Chick made his way through the crowd. People stepped aside, for reasons that were not clear. His height perhaps, his deep voice, the simple fact of his maleness. He stood a moment, listening intently. Then he called out.

“They did it! They landed in France.”

Afterward she would wonder how it had happened. Had she approached him, or had he come to her? Later this would seem tremendously important; but in that moment there was only his damp shirt, the chlorine smell of his skin, the warm pressure of his mouth on hers. She had seen hundreds of kisses in the movies, but they had not captured the complete feeling: heat, breathing, the movement of another heart. He lifted her high into the air and she was again floating.

Around them the world roared.

I
T WAS ALL A MISTAKE
.

The Allies had not landed in France. In London, an English girl named Joan Ellis, newly hired as a Teletype operator by the Associated Press, had tapped out the message as a practice exercise:
AMERICANS LAND IN FRANCE
. Within minutes it was relayed to New York. At the Polo Grounds, where the Giants were up in the third inning, the crowd observed a moment of silence. At the Pentagon, Jean Johns’s old switchboard was besieged with calls.

When the real invasion happened three days later, the celebration wasn’t nearly so grand. Dorothy did not join in the excited chatter at the
breakfast table, Mrs. Straub and the deaf schoolteacher and the blond stenographer huddled around the
Washington Post.
She sat eating the last of her grapefruit, thinking of Chick Rowsey and the day she had nearly learned to swim.

That day, on the streetcar platform at Glen Echo, the pockmarked boy with the radio had shouted in vain; all around him strangers wept and laughed and embraced. Finally he stood on a bench to make himself heard.

“It’s a mistake,” he cried. “They made a mistake.” His eyes tearing, he held the radio close to his ear.

“Quiet!” a young woman cried.