Bells Above Greens (2 page)

“I’m finishing my third year,” she said.  “I’ll be a senior in the fall.”

“You look younger.”

“Do I?”

I nodded and she leaned forward, taking mock offense to my assumptions, speaking with a smile buried under her expression.

“Do I also look like the type of student who would not stick to her choice of major?”

“No.  It’s just that most don’t.”

“And you went to Notre Dame?”

“Yes.  I’m not done yet.  I shipped out nine months ago. I’ll start again in the fall.”

“You look more like a student than a soldier.”

“Really?”

“I mean that in the best possible way.  I like soldiers.  But being a student is a good thing too.  Don’t you think?”

“What if I told you I did not stick to my first major?”

“You said most don’t.”  She paused a moment.  “What did you change to?”

“Geology.”

“Why?  Do you like rocks?”

“Because when I closed my eyes and pointed, geology was what my finger landed on in the book of majors.”

“You must have been looking at that page to make it open there.”

“How did you know?  I must look like the type who likes rocks.”

She bit her lip and I watched as the red halves parted thoughtfully.  “Mmm…maybe.  What made you change to geology?”

“Boredom.  I chose electrical engineering as a freshman.”

She sat up as if bitten.  “That’s an exciting degree.”

“I slept in and was late to the first class.  When I opened the door, the professor had the lights off in the auditorium, talking about the importance of electricity or something.  I couldn’t see where to sit so I backed out of the room and changed majors.”

“You must not have wanted to be an engineer.”

“Nursing?”  I pointed at her.

“No.”  She glanced out the window again.  “Journalism.”

“You don’t look like a journalism student.  Where are your glasses?”

She had a small dimple on one side.  It was the first time I had seen her smile unearthed completely.  She reached into her purse and pulled out dark, catlike librarian glasses.

“How about now?”

“Now you look like a teacher.  Kindergarten.”

“Not a professor?”

“I like kindergarten teachers.  There’s something very nice about a kindergarten teacher.”

“There’s something that I like about soldiers too.”

“Is it the uniform?  Women always like the uniform.”

“It’s the ideals and the importance of the job.  Not everybody is brave enough to be a soldier.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“The uniform is just the pretty wrapping.”

“It’s brown.”  I pulled at my collar.  “The Navy and the Marines have better ones.”

“But it’s well-tailored.  It’s amazing how wearing something that fits so neat and proper makes a man stand out.”

“Do I stand out?”

“Not among other soldiers.”

“Thank you again.”

“You know what I mean. 
We all look alike in our uniforms, ma’am
.”  She did her best impression of me.

“Terrible.  Do I sound like that?”

“I added the ‘ma’am’ part.  You speak like a farm boy.”

“Just Midwest.  Everyone’s a farmer out here.”

“Are you?”

“No.  Are you?  A farm girl?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“You just seem like an indoor girl.”

“I am now.  My hands have no more calluses and my skin is not tanned.”

“Your skin looks nice.  I must look like a leather bag to you.”

“Just tan.  It suits you.  Does it get hotter in Korea?”

“No more than it gets here. Humid though.  But we were out in the sun all day.  Look at my hands.  MacArthur’s calluses, Truman’s swelling.  Of course we weren’t exactly milking cows.”

A jeep passed by and she looked out the window, half-rising to get a better look.  An enlisted man honked twice and a soldier jumped into the backseat at a run, the military-issued cylinder bag over his shoulder.  The jeep bounced away with jerky, sudden changes in direction and a sputtering tailpipe. The lot was emptying of the men and girls.

“What is it about nursing wounded soldiers that girls like?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said politely.  “I’m a journalist.”

I nodded stupidly.  “Do you write for the
Fighting Irish Journal
?”

“I did. 
South Bend Tribune
now.”

“A professional.  You must be good at it.”

“Not so professional.  I tried to write for the
Chicago Tribune
.  They wanted someone with more experience.  I’ll try again next year.” 

“I’ll read your stories.  What is your name?”

“Elle,” she said.  “Elle Quinn.”

“Sam.”

We shook hands over the table.

She was quiet for a moment.  “Is it scary out there?”

“Sometimes.”  I remembered then that she had been waiting for someone else.  It took some resolve, but I eliminated myself and mentioned him.  “It’s not that bad.  When did he write?”

“It’s been three weeks.”

“What was his name?  Maybe I know him.”

“He said he was bringing a surprise.”

“What was his name?”

“Peter.”

I remember just a week ago, sitting across from him on a pair of cots.  I sat up as he came in, his boots giving him away as he approached.  He had a step that I had been able to pick out since boyhood.

“I have a surprise for you,” Peter told me.

“What is it?  Night patrol?”

“No.  When we get back.”  He wrinkled his eyes and pushed my head down.  “The surprise is when we get back.  I can’t wait to introduce you.” 

“A girl?”

“The
best
girl.”

“How’d you meet a girl out here?”

“I met her on campus at one of the games.  We were dating for a month before we shipped out.”

“You never told me you were seeing a girl.”

“I didn’t know if she would let it amount to anything.  You learn an awful lot about a girl through letters.  You’re going to love her.  I can’t wait.”

That was all he had said about her and I had been numb all week and forgotten.  I looked at my hands on the table, the small half-circle of condensation from the bottle between us.

“Do you know him?” she asked me.

“There are many soldiers named Peter.”

“Peter Conry.”

I was back on the ground then and the lump that I had fought hard to push down had come back.  I wanted to be away from it and away from her.  She played with the bottle, anxious for me to speak.  I could feel her eyes on me, and when I looked she had a probing expression in them, and for a moment I thought she could see right through me.  I did look like Peter, but I hoped my younger, rounder face would put her questioning eyes at ease and she would knock it up to chance.  Peter had a much harder, leaner face than me.  Peter was very handsome.

“Did he ever talk about family?” I asked.  I noticed that my voice had changed.

“Peter?  No.”

“Have all the girls been waiting all day?” 

“Some of us.  Some showed up just minutes before the bus came up.”

“But the faithful waited all day.”

“We are all faithful.”

“Are we?”  I was angry about the whole thing.  Angry with Peter and angry with this girl, although I knew she was as much of a victim as I was.  Peter was everything I ever wanted to be and could not be, and here this girl sat clueless, watching the window for those qualities to embrace her once again.

“Of course we are,” she said.  “What kind of a soldier would question that?”

“One who does not have a girl to greet him.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Which group were you in?” I asked.

She turned in her seat to face the window.  She was short when she said, “I waited all day.” 

“What’s it like to wait all year for a man?” I asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“To know you have a man over there who might not come home.  What’s it like to wait for that?”

“None of your business,” she said. 

Her words had lost the easiness that had carried them along, and although she remained polite, the kindness, the innocence, that made her so easy to talk to before was now behind guard.

“I’ll wait outside if you don’t mind.”  She gathered herself.

“I mean, don’t you care about getting on with your life instead?  Do you wear all this lipstick every day?”

“What?”

“Man goes away and out comes the war paint.”

“You are being rude.  You might have a girl waiting for you here if you weren’t so rude.”

“I might have dressed with a big red bow around my chest.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You might have done the same.  We’re each other’s surprise.  It was nice to meet you.”

She looked at me.  I stood and pulled my bag over my shoulder. 

“Peter’s not coming home.  He was killed a week ago.”

Chapter Two

They gave him a military funeral in the South Bend Cemetery.  The groundskeepers removed their hats and stood respectfully in silence as the ceremony began, their work set aside for a moment.  My aunt and uncle were there along with a crowd of Peter’s friends, larger than I had expected, and Father Donnelly spoke from the Bible.  A short ceremony.  I saw her standing under a tree, all alone in a navy-colored dress.  I accepted the folded flag with tears in my eyes as twenty-one shots fired over his stone.

I did my best to forget the war.  I enrolled in studies at Notre Dame for the fall and spent the summer on the rooftops of South Bend working for The Callahan Roofing Company.  In the heat of the day I could see the spires of the Basilica of the Sacred Heart, the football players in two-a-days near the silent bleachers at Notre Dame Stadium, and the greens of the God Quad.  The bells of the Basilica rang for miles. 

Emery Callahan had bad vision.  If you walked into a room, he wouldn’t know it was you until you started speaking.  He never wore his glasses except in class because he did not want to look studious.  He said Gregory Peck never wore glasses.  Women don’t like coke-bottles on your face, he’d say, and he would walk around all day squinting at things.  He might have been handsome if his face wasn’t scrunched all the time.  He sat with me on the rooftop and opened two beers.

“Dad says we have to finish this up by tonight,” Emery said.  He took a giant bite of his sandwich and pointed across the street, squinting hard.  “We’re working there tomorrow.”

“Double turkey and ham sandwich,” I said.  “It must be Thursday.”

“Lord, bless this food and this rooftop.  May it not collapse under Sam’s shoddy workmanship.”  He held his head to the heavens as he spoke, a crust of bread falling from his mouth as he crossed himself with a quick hand.

I shrugged.

“Dad says you can stay in our basement as long as you’re of a mind to swing a hammer.  We can get a mattress for you if you want.”

“I’m used to the cot.”

“He’d take it out of your pay anyway,” he said.  “Are you enrolled?”

“Sure.”

“Geology?”

“No.  Journalism.”

“Why the switch?”

“I figured out that I don’t like rocks.  I don’t know a thing about them and I don’t give a damn how they’re formed.”

“Oh Sam, oh Sam, he lost his rocks and gives no…darn.  What’s in journalism?”

“Anything.  Everything.  There are a million topics to write about.  All you need is an opinion.”

“What’s yours?”

“What’s my what?”

“Your opinion.”

I looked at him.  Emery was in theater so everything had a dramatic undertone to him.  Everything needed a Shakespearian reply.

“The world’s going to hell,” I said.

“Not us,” he laughed.  “The world crumbles around the Fighting Irish.  There’s a quick-pass on our chests and Saint Peter waves us through without a background check.”

“If that’s true then I can imbibe without guilt.”  I took a large gulp of beer.

“How are you doing without him?”

I held the bottle to my lips a moment longer.

“I mean Peter,” Emery said.  “I didn’t mean to bring him up but now I have and I feel the need to ask.”

“You didn’t bring him up until just now,” I said.

“The world around us
is
going to hell.  That’s not an opinion.  It’s people like Peter who can save it.  Sorry.” 

He ate the rest of his sandwich in one bite and chased it with half the beer.  When he came up for air he couldn’t stand the silence and had to fill it.  He was like that.

“This beer is stale.”

“It’s heaven sent today.”

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked.  “You’ve been mopey all summer.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You got a girl?”

“No, Jesus.”

“Lord, protect this blasphemer.  He knows not what he does.”  He dropped his chin and carried on.  “You fall in love?”

“No.”

“You did.  I can see it.  You can nail me spread-eagle to this rooftop for the birds if I’m wrong.”

“You talk too much.”  I slapped his knee with my glove.

“The Sam I used to know would be all in on an ideal like love.”

“I don’t have any interest in it.”

“You don’t have any interest?”  He looked at me with an overplayed eyebrow, as if I was standing across from him on stage and the audience in the back row needed to understand his confusion.  “You have no interest in beautiful women who will take care of you and only you till death do you part?”

“Maybe.  But who has time to look for it?”

“The war drained you.”

“I see guys like you saying they need a girl, saying they need a confiding soul, and when they get one all they do is complain about it and worry about the troubles that come with it.  It’s strange to me.”

“You are a romantic one.”

“Have you ever met a girl who made you feel like you shouldn’t be alone?”

“Ah, we’re young yet.”  He paused.  “You didn’t fall in love with me, did you?”

“I hope not.”

“Oh, good.  Saint Peter might have a few questions for you if you did.  There he is again.  Sorry.”

He finished the rest of his beer to shut himself up.  At night we went to Blarney Stone’s Tavern and drank more beer.  It was a narrow bar with single tables stretched along the wall, booths further in, and a pool table and dartboard in the back.  A dried out dead cat, blacker than coal and shriveled, hung from the ceiling.  Higgins insisted it gave the place an Irish charm.