Clash by Night (28 page)

“Cellar,” Harris shouted, pointing.

They followed the crowd into the basement. Harris hustled Laura to a spot next to the cement foundation, and she had just huddled on the dirt floor when the first bombs began to fall.

Harris flung Laura full length and jumped on top of her, shielding her with his body. The building shook above them, sending tremors through the very earth, and the crash of near misses on the street around them spread terror among the group. Between bursts Laura could hear aborted sounds of sobbing and muffled conversation as people tried to reassure each other. The bulk of the man above her gave her a false feeling of security; she knew that Harris couldn’t prevent a bomb from dropping on the hotel, but his body against hers and the steady beating of his heart went a long way toward alleviating her fears.

Another barrage began close by and the very bricks in the foundation shook loose, tumbling over the cowering guests. A piece of mortar fell toward Laura and Harris covered her head with his arms, taking the blow on his shoulder. Laura heard him grunt, then a stream of muttered curses assured her that the injury wasn’t serious. She stuck her fingers in her ears and tried to distract herself by remembering every detail of their night together. The relentless pounding continued for twenty minutes without a break. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the bombing stopped.

“Are you all right?” Harris asked, sitting up and running his hands down her arms, examining her for bruises. Around them the group stirred, coming back to life. People were shaking brick dust from hair and clothes, murmuring in relief, glad to be alive. Laura could see the eerie light of flames through the grimy, mesh screened cellar window, and as if on cue fire and ambulance sirens began to clamor in the distance.
 

“Fine,” Laura said to him. “And you?”

He was rubbing his shoulder, flexing his arm and looking furious.

“Bastards,” he muttered. “I’ll get them.”

“Who?” Laura asked absently, retying the sash on his coat, which was threatening to come undone and expose her left breast.

He stared at her. “The 1936 Olympic Team. Who do you think?”
 

“Oh,” she said, fiddling with the knot. She looked up at him. “All by yourself?” she asked teasingly.

“If necessary,” he replied, half smiling, then pulled her hands away from the belt. “Let me do that.” He secured the closing and then stood back. “You look like Shirley Temple in
Little Miss Marker.
”

“This outfit wasn’t my idea, Captain. Is it safe to go upstairs now?”

He glanced around them. Most of the others were leaving, climbing out of the cellar slowly, and they followed. Laura was amazed that the lights were still working; the hotel staff was switching them on as the blackout was lifted. As they passed through the lobby she saw a fire truck spraying streams of water on a burning building across the way.

“That was close,” Harris said, nodding toward the street. “A couple of hundred yards in the other direction and that bomb would have hit us.”

Laura was silent as they returned to his room, afraid that he would want to send her away after this close call. The first thing he said as the door closed behind them told her she had read him correctly.

“I think you should go back to France,” he said. “It’s not safe for you to stay here.”

“It’s no safer in Fains,” Laura countered. “They’re not dropping bombs but they are standing people in front of firing squads.”

“Then go home to the States!” he answered angrily. “Doesn’t this episode tonight convince you that nobody is playing here?”

“I knew it wasn’t a game when Alain was killed,” Laura said quietly.

He sighed, his expression remorseful, and pulled her into his arms. “I know, baby, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m so afraid something is going to happen to you.”
 

She didn’t know how to respond and so said nothing. There were no guarantees, for any of them. She looked past his shoulder at the lightening sky. It would be dawn soon.
 

“I thought the rain would keep the planes away, too much cloud cover,” Harris said, as if to himself.

“It cleared up while we were asleep,” Laura said.

He held her off and looked at her, lifting a lock of red hair that fell over one eye. “You’re out of uniform, marine,” he said, tugging at her belt.

“I feel like an exhibitionist,” she replied.

He slipped his hands inside the coat and encircled her waist, bending to take one pink-brown nipple in his mouth.

Laura sighed and cupped the back of his head.

Harris straightened, scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.

* * *

It rained on and off for the rest of the week, sometimes drizzling, sometimes pouring. Whenever Laura thought of that time afterward, it seemed shrouded in a haze of happiness, as if her memory of it were as misty and dreamlike as the weather. They walked through the parks, made love, and talked endlessly, as if they had all the time in the world. Laura told him about her family in Massachusetts, and her time in Fains before the war; she heard all about his three sisters, his stolid but loving father and eccentric mother, his youth in Chicago, his respect for the Corps.

Neither talked about their imminent parting or their future beyond it.

On the evening before he was to leave they went to see
Gone with the Wind
at the Empire Cinema in Covent Garden. It had been released in the States the previous year, but this was the first London showing and the theater was mobbed. The sedate British audience applauded in delight when fellow countrymen Vivien Leigh and Leslie Howard appeared on screen, and one fellow down in the front guffawed loudly when he heard Leigh’s magnolia scented American accent. He was quickly shushed by his more polite seatmates, and the performance continued without further distractions.

Laura fell hard for the romantic story, and was talking about it when they emerged from the theater to rain slicked streets and a cloudy evening sky.

“That Clark Gable is terrific,” Laura said.

“I hear he has false teeth,” Harris replied.

Laura shot him a withering look. “Didn’t you think the movie was wonderful?” she asked.

“Wonderfully long. A three hour challenge to the kidneys.”

“That’s what the intermission was for,” she said.

“I spent the intermission trying to get you something to eat at the snack stand, remember?”

She threw her arms around his neck. “Can I help it if you keep me so busy in bed that I don’t even have time for a Hershey bar?”

“Assuming you could find a Hershey bar,” he replied, hugging her and spinning her in a circle. He set her down and they walked hand in hand to the bus stop, getting into line, which the British referred to as a “queue.” There was always a crowd waiting for the buses, which ran less frequently since the outbreak of war due to the fuel shortage. The other people crowding on the corner looked at Laura, and Harris in his uniform, and knew their story at a glance.

They rode back to the hotel on the second level of the double decker, with Harris standing behind Laura, who was seated. As they walked down the hall to their room the woman they’d seen in the lift, who was staying across the way from them, stared at Laura as she came out of her door. Then she looked down, striding off on the opposite direction.

Laura followed the woman with her eyes as Harris called for her to come in.

“What are you doing out there?” he asked, as she joined him.

“I don’t like the way that woman looks at me,” Laura said.

“What woman?” he asked, taking off his coat.

“That lady who has the room across the hall. The one we saw the day I arrived.”

“How is she looking at you?” Harris asked, humoring her.

“Like she knows we’re doing something scandalous in here,” Laura said uncomfortably.
 

“Then she’s right,” Harris replied, drawing her to him and kissing her neck.

“She’s nosy,” Laura said, irritated.

He laughed. “She’s probably just jealous.”

“You have a high opinion of yourself,” Laura said indignantly, pulling back to look at him.

“I have a high opinion of your choice,” he replied, moving his mouth to her lips and separating them with his tongue. His hand slipped under her skirt, gliding up her thigh. Laura ran her hands over his arms, feeling his muscles tense beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt. She laced her fingers behind his head as he kissed her, feeling the soft hair, still damp from the weather, curl around her hands. He forced her hips against him to feel his readiness and groaned when she reciprocated the pressure.

He had her undressed in seconds and ripped off his own clothes as she lay naked on the bed, watching him. He dropped next to her and pulled her to him, entering her in almost the same motion. Laura made a sound, something like a sob, and embraced him tightly, wondering if she would ever be with him this way again.

The next day he would be gone.

Neither one of them got much rest that night. Laura awoke from fitful dreams to find him sitting in one of the tapestry armchairs, smoking, staring out the window at the night sky. He always became tense when darkness fell, expecting another raid, but she knew that this time he had more on his mind than the Luftwaffe’s latest strategy. She longed to go to him but had promised herself not to indulge in an emotional scene, and she felt one coming on. His departure was going to be tough enough for both of them without the lingering memory of wrenching hysterics. So she turned over in the bed and feigned continued sleep, watching him covertly until he crushed his butt in the hotel ashtray and stretched out beside her. And at dawn when he turned to her, kissing her almost desperately, she gave herself to him completely, fiercely, as they made love for the last time.
 

In the morning they took turns in the hall bathroom (complete with a claw foot tub and two taps that Harris said should be labeled “Cold” and “Colder”), and then Laura watched him shave at the sink in their room as she packed her things. She would always remember the way the soap clung to the cleft in his chin, and the face he made as he lifted his head to draw the razor over his neck. She noticed that there was a yellowing bruise on his shoulder from the air raid. Finally he splashed in the basin, rinsing, and then turned to her, rubbing his cheeks with a towel.

“What time is the car coming for you?” she asked quietly, though she knew. He was going to an American air base about an hour outside London to catch his flight.

“Ten,” he said.

“Time for breakfast,” she said, and he nodded.

He dressed quickly, donning the skivvies and socks and blouse fresh from the hotel laundry, and then the uniform he wore so well which she had almost come to loathe. It was taking him away from her.

They left the room, each carrying a single bag. Laura stopped on the threshold, looking back at the chairs, the window, the bed.

“Forget something?” he asked.

Laura shook her head. “I just want to have a picture of it,” she said, and he waited until she walked past him into the hall and then closed the door.

The hotel dining room was almost empty. They hadn’t seen much of the waitresses on the morning shift and an unfamiliar one took their order. When the food came Laura forced herself to eat the toast and jam, and drink the tea, even though her stomach felt like the bottom had fallen out of it. Harris didn’t eat much either. He mostly smoked and looked at her. She guessed he wanted to have a picture too.

Finally they could delay no longer and Laura walked with him to the street.

It was a bright day, in contrast to the rest of the week, and she thought how ironic it was that the weather chose to clear when their time together was ending. They stood on the sidewalk with the mid-morning traffic surging past them a few feet away.

Harris took Laura’s face in his hands and traced her lips with his thumbs.

“I’m not going to cry,” Laura whispered.

“What will you do when you get back?” he asked, making small talk, finding it difficult as always to express emotion.

“School is starting again,” she said. “I’ll work. And remember.”

He pulled her against his shoulder convulsively. “I wish I could say you’d hear from me.”

“Shh. You told me the conditions and I accepted them. There is nothing left for us now but to go on apart.”

He held her at arm’s length. “Are you sure you won’t go back to the States? I could still arrange the whole thing. It would be so easy from here.”

She shook her head. “Promise me you’ll take care of those burns,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And the shoulder.”

“I will.” Suddenly he reached for the collar of his uniform and ripped off the tiny silver wings, pressing the shiny pin into her palm.

“It’s all I have,” he said huskily.

Laura clutched the ornament so tightly that when she opened her fingers its shape was etched into her flesh. A line from Isaiah that she’d learned as a child in Sunday school came into her mind. She displayed the imprint of the wings for him and said, “‘See, I will not forget you. I have carved you in the palm of my hand.’”