Louise's Dilemma (7 page)

‘Stop it,’ I said, pushing macaroni and cheese around my plate. I wished I had selected the tuna casserole. Joan seemed to be able to eat anything, no matter how unappetizing, but if I wasn’t careful I’d lose so much weight that I’d need new clothes, and I couldn’t afford them! I spread the despised oleo over a hot roll, generously, to add calories.

‘Dearie,’ Joan said, ‘that is how the FBI thinks, you know that. If this FBI agent partner of yours learns you’re more than boarding in the same house with this man you could be fired. Or at least lose your security clearance!’

If only Joan knew this particular FBI agent was the same man who’d warned me off spending time with a foreign national just a year ago!

I couldn’t turn down this assignment. Williams wouldn’t find out about Joe. I’d just keep my head down for the few days it would take to clear up the postcard issue.

Betty, a ninety-words-per-minute typist, eased into the chair that opened up next to us. I hadn’t seen her much since the OSS reorganization, she was stuck in a typing pool somewhere now, so I gave her a quick hug around the neck. She’d changed so much in the last few months! Once so khaki-wacky she’d gotten into serious trouble, she now seemed almost staid. She’d stopped rinsing her hair platinum and it had returned to its natural ash blonde shade. She’d moderated the color of her lipstick and nail polish too, from fire engine red to a softer pink. All because of a DC Metropolitan policeman in his forties named Ralph.

She fluttered her left hand toward us, and we admired her engagement ring, a modest silver circle set with a blue stone.

‘How nice!’ I said. ‘When is the wedding?’

‘In the spring,’ she said, ‘when the cherry blossoms are blooming. Won’t it be pretty? My parents are coming, and Ralph’s brother and his family.’

‘I am so excited for you,’ Joan said. She was envious, too. Despite her wealth and a posse of friends, Joan didn’t have a beau. She was thirty-two years old and face-to-face with spinsterhood. Over six feet tall with a booming jolly laugh, she just didn’t seem to attract men interested in romance. It was their loss in my opinion.

Betty poked her fork around the food on her plate. ‘I don’t think this was a good choice,’ she said about the macaroni and cheese. ‘I am sick of cheese. Who said it was a good substitute for beef? I would so love a steak again.’ She set her fork down. ‘At least I’ll look wonderful in my wedding dress. I’ve set two aside at Woody’s. When the weather clears, Joan, would you come help me decide? And help me pick out my trousseau? I can’t afford much, and it will have to last me the rest of the war. You have such lovely clothes.’

‘I’d be happy to,’ Joan said. She’d be a sport and go, even if her teeth were clenched with envy.

Betty started and grabbed my arm. ‘Oh my God!’ she said, softly.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘John Wayne!’

‘Where?’ Joan asked. ‘Are you sure?’

Betty nodded at a table behind us, and Joan and I swiveled in our chairs.

The actor sat with John Ford, the famous director who headed OSS’s Field Photographic Unit. Ford had directed Wayne in
Stagecoach
. Wayne was so handsome, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Female heads swiveled all around him, but he and Ford seemed oblivious, deep in conversation.

‘God, he is luscious!’ Joan said.

‘He’s tall enough even for you,’ Betty said. ‘He must be six foot four!’

‘Six-six, I’ll bet,’ Joan said.

‘Joan, you could get General Donovan to introduce you!’

‘He’s married,’ Joan said.

‘Not any more,’ Betty said. ‘He’s separated from his wife. I read it in
Photoplay
. He does have four children, but you could hire a nanny when they visit.’

‘You’re being ridiculous!’

‘Is he joining Ford’s unit? He must be,’ I said. ‘Why else would he be here?’

‘Imagine having John Wayne wandering the halls,’ Betty said. ‘I wouldn’t have any trouble getting to work in the morning, no matter how cold it was.’

‘He’d be in the field most of the time,’ I said.

‘Hush,’ Joan said, rolling her eyes. ‘I happen to know he won’t be joining us.’

‘Tell all,’ I said. ‘Why not?’

Joan leaned in and whispered to us. We could just barely hear her over the noise of the crowded cafeteria.

‘There aren’t any officer slots left in Ford’s unit. And the government doesn’t want Wayne enlisting as a private. They don’t think that pictures of him peeling potatoes, or God forbid bleeding on a stretcher somewhere, would be good for the country’s morale.’

‘So what is he going to do?’ I asked.

‘Stay on the USO circuit,’ Joan answered.

‘The press will be all over him,’ I said.

Joan shrugged.

Two strapping Army officers appeared behind us, glaring. They needed our seats, and we’d been ogling the Duke long enough.

‘Time to go,’ Joan said. But I caught her taking one last long look at the man who was tall enough for her.

‘So,’ Joe said, ‘what do you think?’

‘I love it,’ I said. And I did. The houseboats I remembered from the Cape Fear River were more like floating wooden shanties. This one was a modern motorboat. Powered by an Evinrude engine, the driver could stand on the deck and steer it with a wheel mounted on the cabin. If he had any gas, of course! The name
Miriam
was painted in silver on the hull.

The
Miriam
had a metal hull painted bright white trimmed in aqua, round portholes and a front porch that would seat four, with a rooftop sun deck reachable by a ladder, though it was hard to believe that it would ever be warm enough to sunbathe again.

The chill wind off the Potomac rattled the rigging of the sailboat moored nearby. Ice coated the piers and handrails of the dock and froze boats in their moorings. The bright sun seemed to give off no heat at all, just reflecting off the water and ice so brilliantly that I had to shade my eyes.

‘It’s got a good heater,’ Joe said, anxious to please me. ‘Let’s go inside.’

The houseboat’s metal sheathing blocked the wind, so inside the temperature was bearable.

‘See,’ Joe said, gesturing toward a miniature pot-bellied stove with one burner. ‘You stoke the stove with coal and wood – Lev said it takes just a few minutes to get toasty – and you can make coffee or scramble eggs on the burner.’

I imagined the inside of the houseboat when it was cozy and warm. There was a dinette, a settee that opened into a double bed, a lavatory, an icebox, a couple of storage cabinets, and even a shower. The fabric on the curtains and upholstery was a gay red and white check splashed with blue anchors. The wood cabinets and drawers gleamed.

‘So what do you think?’ Joe asked again.

‘I love it!’ I said.

‘So you’ll come?’ he asked, his voice breaking just a bit.

‘Of course,’ I said, and my voice showed my emotions too, squeaking a little.

‘Maybe next weekend,’ Joe said, taking both my hands. ‘At the latest, the weekend after that.’

My stomach clenched, whether from nerves or anticipation I couldn’t really tell. We locked eyes, our cold breath fogging around us, while Joe’s grip on my hands tightened.

‘I can’t believe it,’ I said.

‘Truthfully,’ Joe said, ‘I’ll believe it when we are actually here together. Otherwise I don’t think I could get through the next week in one piece.’

Just Joe and me alone together. For two entire days. No Phoebe. No Ada. No Henry. No Dellaphine or Madeleine. I was fond of them all – well, all except Henry – but I didn’t want them to know about our love affair, and neither did Joe. Love affair! Was I really going to go ahead with this?

Joe pulled me into his arms. I felt his soft beard on my cheek, then his mouth on mine, and then his tongue, and suddenly I was warmer than I had been in a very long time.

Joe was the first to pull away. ‘We can’t,’ he said. ‘Lev could be back at any moment.’

‘I know,’ I said.

‘He said there’s a good café across the street,’ Joe said. ‘That’s where he eats most of his meals. Let’s go get some coffee.’

The wharf where the
Miriam
was docked jutted out from Maine Street, which ran along the shore of the Washington Channel of the Potomac River. It was roughly halfway between the Washington Yacht Club and the steamship berths of the Potomac River Line. Maine Street dead-ended a couple of miles west, at the Army War College near the mouth of the Anacostia River, which in turn sheltered the Navy Shipyard.

So
Miriam
was quite secure. And so were her many neighbors. Every berth on every dock on the Potomac was taken. The housing situation in Washington was so critical that people lived on houseboats, converted tugs, sailboats, basically anything with a cabin that floated, and even some quite grand yachts.

In the summer, laundry floated from rigging and people relaxed on deck chairs drinking beer with records playing in the background. Dock-mates cooked hamburgers on barbeques on the dock on the weekends. Bathing beauties decorated the sun decks.

But in this weather the boat decks and the docks were deserted. Icicles hung from sailboats’ rigging, and the motorboats were imprisoned in the ice. I saw few people. They must either be inside their cabins or out looking for someplace warm, like a library or movie theatre, to spend part of the day.

Dinghies, used to get from a deep anchorage to the shore, floated behind the big sailboats too clumsy to dock. Frank Knox, the Secretary of the Navy, lived on the Presidential yacht, the
Sequoia
, which was berthed at the Yacht Club. The Potomac itself was thick with navy warships and transport vessels. Patrol boats cruised the river, concentrating at the mouth of the river during the day when the submarine-net gates were open.

Clutching our hats to our heads and bent into the wind, Joe and I hurried down the dock towards shore, but were stopped by a coast guardsman with a war dog on a leash. The guardsman was wrapped up in a heavy pea coat, scarf, and foul-weather trousers and boots. The dog wore a warm wool coat too, navy blue with the USG insignia. Laced-up canvas booties protected his feet. Other than that he didn’t look much like a war dog. He was a poodle!

‘Ma’am,’ the seaman said, touching his cap. ‘I’m Petty Officer Silva, Coast Guard port security.’

‘Is something wrong?’ Joe asked.

Instantly, the petty officer was on the alert, casually slipping his submarine gun from his shoulder to his free arm. ‘You’re not an American, sir? Russian?’

Joe spoke excellent English, but he trilled his ‘r’s softly, and occasionally substituted a ‘t’ for a ‘th.’

‘No, Czech,’ Joe said, reaching into his coat pocket for his papers before being asked. ‘I have a British passport and an American visa.’

Petty Officer Silva leafed through Joe’s passport. ‘How do you come to have a British passport, sir?’

‘I lived in London for years, teaching Slavic Languages at London University. When the war began I was recruited to teach here for the duration,’ he said.

‘Very good,’ Silva said, handing Joe’s papers back to him. ‘And you, ma’am?’ he said, nodding in my direction.

‘I’m a file clerk. I work for the government.’

‘Enjoying a nice walk on this freezing cold morning?’

‘We were looking at a friend’s houseboat,’ Joe said.

The petty officer slung his submachine gun back over his shoulder. He gave a sign and his dog stood, wagging his tail. It must have been the canine sign for ‘at ease’.

The dog was jet black, his thick wiry hair cut evenly over his muscled body.

‘Can I pet him?’ I asked.

‘Sure, now you can.’

I scratched the dog behind the ears, and he licked my hand. ‘I’ve never seen a poodle war dog before,’ I said.

‘Poodles are smart,’ the petty officer said, ‘and strong. They’re real dogs. It’s too bad civilian owners give them those sissy haircuts.’

Joe opened the café door for me, and we found a seat at a table. The elderly Negro waiter came and took our order for coffee. ‘We got plenty left since it’s Saturday,’ he said. ‘Sugar, too.’ When he returned with our cups the coffee was dark and hot. Feeling started to return to my hands.

‘I hate it when you’re questioned because of your accent,’ I said.

Joe shrugged. ‘Can’t be helped. People are frightened and suspicious. It could be worse. Imagine if I was Italian, or French, or even German.’

I lowered my voice. ‘What if someone decides to check out your job?’

Joe shrugged that off too. ‘The JDC has the connections to protect me. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’ Joe drained his coffee. ‘I have to go to the office today,’ he said, reaching for my hand. ‘Let me take you home first.’

‘Not necessary,’ I said. ‘I have to work today too.’

As instructed by Agent Williams, I stood outside the Washington Public Library, one of Andrew Carnegie’s stunning contributions to his country, huddled up against the leeward side of the great stone staircase, as if waiting for a friend to pick me up.

At the exact prearranged time an old square-bodied Ford Woody station wagon with regular DC license plates pulled up to the library. Williams was driving, his fedora, with its silly yellow feather stuck in the ribbon, pulled low over his face. I hurried down the steps. Williams leaned across the front seat and opened the door. I slid inside.

Williams shifted gears. ‘I figure,’ he said, ‘that we should get to the Martins after Leroy goes to work. That way we, or rather you, can question Anne again. You don’t need a cover. I’m just your driver, by the way.’

‘We should avoid St Leonard,’ I said. ‘I might be recognized, and then everyone in the town would know the Martins were getting a second visit from the government.’

‘Agreed,’ Williams said. ‘We’ll stop for gas and to use the rest room in Prince Frederick. Is there a way to get to the Martins’ house without going through St Leonard?’

‘Not really,’ I said. ‘Not without a boat! But I don’t think we’ll attract any attention. The road through St Leonard leads to the Solomons Island training base, so plenty of unfamiliar cars pass through the town.’

‘You know,’ Williams said as he shifted gears and moved out into traffic, ‘I believe we’ve met. You look familiar. Your name is too, and Pearlie is uncommon.’