Rumors of Peace (8 page)

P
EGGY SAID
she had never seen Helen Maria so chatty and decent. She didn't like people and people didn't like her; she scared them. She had no friends. It was amazing that she had come out of her room of her own free will and talked and been decent.

I wanted to know more about her war feelings. What did she mean by pregnant? Well, said Peggy, she didn't mean pregnant, that was for sure, she hated boys. Did she hate the war? Well, said Peggy, she said it damn well better not keep her from going to Oxford, and she hated the way her train was so crowded with soldiers and duffel bags that she had to sit in the ladies' lavatory.

But I was sure a genius would have more than that to say about the war, and I planned to find out.

“Do you suppose a genius knows everything?” I asked at the dinner table.

“I doubt if there's anybody who knows
every
thing,” Dad said with a smile, and Mama agreed: it wasn't possible.

“Well—but maybe that's not true,” I said.

“Why?” asked Peter. “You thinking of becoming a genius?”

“No. I just wondered. Peggy's sister's a genius.”

“That oddball you've talked about?”

“Don't call people oddballs, Peter,” Mama said.

“Well, she sounds like one.”

“She's a genius,” I said, returning to my food. And geniuses knew everything.

O
CT.
20:

Showdown in

Solomons Near!

The blinding jungle sun, the thunk of bullets piercing bone, the smell of rotting corpses. Peggy pulled me on from the newsstand. She had been awarded her phonograph (secondhand, because there were no new ones to be bought), and we were on our way to the Melody House to buy her first records.

There were large colored pictures of Gene Autry, Carmen Miranda, and Deanna Durbin on the wall. Peggy said to the clerk, “I don't want that kind. Have you got anything classical?”

The clerk took us to a section marked “Serious.” “Strictly classical,” she said with a beaming look at Peggy. “And I'll tell you something, it's nice to find a youngster who likes good music, and not all this boogie-woogie they go in for now.”

Peggy went round-eyed and demure with pleasure, and we each gathered an armful of albums and went into the glass booth to play them. She chose
The Sorcerer's Apprentice, Scheherazade,
and
Malagueña
.

As soon as we were back in her room, which already bore signs of creeping disorder, she put
Malague
ñ
a
on the turntable and set the needle down.

The first majestic chords rolled out, and thrilled, we stepped back with our arms crossed. Peggy glanced at the door, which she had left open.

Presently Helen Maria appeared in her sea-green gown and leaned against the jamb.

“Is that what you bought?”

“
Malagueña
. Played by Jose Iturbi.”

“I could have predicted it,” she sighed.

The younger girl looked at her uncertainly.

“Good God, where is your taste?”

Peggy was silent a moment. “You can't come in here. You can't come in my room.”

“I am not in your room. I have no desire to be in your room.”

“You filthy barn owl! You rotten dodo!”

“Oh God, if you could ever say anything worth listening to.”

“You freak!”

The older girl's lips tightened just perceptibly; then her eyes flashed. “I suggest that when this record is finished, you sit on it!” The eyes flashed to me. “Last year she sat on Estelle's glasses. They were instantly pulverized. At Clara Bebb's she was famous for sitting on things with her highly capable, big lardy behind. It was her only distinction!” She turned and left.

Peggy tore off the record and shattered it against the wall. Rudy got up and waddled over to sniff the pieces. “Come on,” she said gloomily, sitting down on the dusky rose rug with her Marcia the Navy Nurse paper doll set. I poked through the paper wardrobe for Marcia's helmet and battle fatigues. But Peggy was brooding.

“She made me sick from the day I was born. At Clara Bebb's they made her the queen of the place. She never even had to go to class, the teachers went to
her
room. How would you like to be somebody like that's sister?”

“Well, you didn't have to pay any attention to her.”

“Oh,
God!
” she exclaimed, just like Helen Maria.

“Come on, I'm playing.”

“Well, at least I'm not a freak.” She gave a sharp little smile. “That's what we called her. She pretended she never heard, but finally she had a big screaming fit, and she screamed that I was persecuting her and she'd never come near me again. Well good! That's how I liked it!”

“It's funny, she was so nice the other day. Look how she said you were highly intelligent.”

“I know,” Peggy sniffed. “It's my turn.”

I handed Marcia over. “She's the last nurse on Corregidor. She's barely alive.”

Peggy pulled off Marcia's fatigues and slapped on an evening gown. “She escaped. She's at the Top of the Mark.”

“She's still got her bandages on.”

“No she doesn't. She looks terrific. They ask her to be a Hollywood star.”

“She's famous overnight.”

“She marries Victor Mature.” Suddenly she stood up. “I can play anything I want.” Banging
Scheherazade
on the turntable, she sat down again.

“She's back in the cave,” I said. “The Japs keep throwing grenades in, but she keeps throwing them out—”

“The clerk said they were classical. She ought to know, she works there. I don't give a damn anyway.” But she glanced up as Helen Maria's figure passed swiftly down the hall.

“They explode in the Japs' faces,” I said, “but more Japs keep coming—”

Helen Maria swiftly retraced her steps back along the hall.

“An improvement of sorts!” she called out, flashing by.

“You want to hear?” Peggy yelled.

The doorway remained empty for a moment; then Helen Maria reappeared, tentative, arms crossed.

The music wove softly through the room, which was coppery with the setting sun. Peggy sat very still, her stout pigtails lined with fire. Helen Maria was also still, listening, eyes lowered. I felt something unusual was happening, something was beginning. Helen Maria stepped into the room. “I must leave momentarily,” she whispered, arranging herself in a white wicker chair.

When the last beautiful note faded away, Peggy said quickly, as if afraid her visitor might vanish if silence fell, “I love music. I'm going to be a composer.”

Helen Maria made no objection. And she showed no signs of leaving. She even drew her feet up under her. “You'll ruin your needle,” she said. “You'd better turn it off.”

Peggy did so.

“I've got needles,” Helen Maria said, “in case you ever need more.”

She was so pleasant, so quiet, sitting there in the coppery light. It was my moment.

“Helen Maria, would you tell me what you think of the war?”

She answered without hesitation. “War is the natural result of Du Pont's and Krupp's devotion to luxury.”

I didn't understand that. I would have to put that aside.

“How long do you think it will last?”

“It's already lasted too long.”

“Do you think we'll win?”

“Who knows at this point?”

“Do you think the Japs will bomb Shell?”

“Since it would reduce Mendoza to a little black smudge, I certainly cherish the hope.”

“You'd be a little black smudge too,” I said resentfully.

“Only if you take me literally.” She turned to Peggy. “Is your friend always preoccupied with things military?”

Peggy nodded. “She's always killing off Marcia with hand grenades.”

“She doesn't get killed,” I protested. “She hasn't gotten killed yet!”

“And who is this unfortunate Marcia?”

“A paper doll,” I said.

“Oh God,” sighed the genius, and seemed prepared to leave. But she paused on the edge of her chair. “You might try to do something interesting. You might try to read a play.”

“A play?” Peggy asked quickly. “What play?”

“It would have to be simple, of course. You could give
Lady Windermere
a go.” And she went to get the book.

“She's never come in here before,” Peggy whispered. “Never!”

The play was not a success insofar as Peggy and I stumbled over large words and forgot the multiple roles assigned us, but Helen Maria was swept away. She took Lady Windermere's part, singing out her lines in a high dramatic voice, shaking with laughter, and sometimes even grabbing the sleeve of Peggy's middy blouse to keep from collapsing.

I was sorry to leave in the middle of all this, but it was getting late. As I walked home, I reflected that though the music had been pretty and the play fun, I wanted my questions answered.

M
Y QUESTIONS WERE FORCED TO WAIT
. Helen Maria resumed her solitude, no doubt embarrassed after so much shaking and collapsing.

It was appropriate that my questions must wait. War itself was a matter of waiting. The barrage balloons hanging; the military guards at Shell, marching back and forth; the rusty cot in the cellar, also waiting. It was the waiting that made you nervous, the not knowing, the not being able to get your hands on anything. At the front I would know what to do; I understood that perfectly, in my bones. Give me a solid Jap lunging, and there would be no hesitation. Cut his throat.

N
OV.
21:

Russ. Counterattack

At Stalingrad!

It was going all right over there, but the war in Europe had never been more than a back room of the real war, and that was going badly. Once things had looked up, with the Battle of Midway. But that was a long time back now, and there had been no more victorious headlines.

When my birthday came, I didn't want a party. I didn't see how there was anyone to invite, outside Peggy, since I had been separated from my regular old classmates. But Mama said I must certainly invite
some of my new classmates, they must be just as nice as my old ones. And so I asked those who were always enthusiastic about everything and would be sure to accept, such as Eudene and Dumb Donny Woodall and a few others, and of course, Peggy. It was a good party.

Before going to bed that night, I looked at myself in the mirror. I was twelve. But I still looked the same. I was still short, still thin. My calluses weren't as thick, but I could still feel their hardness. My face was the same. I was still here.

When Karla came home on visits, it was almost like old times. In bed, I plied her with questions about San Francisco. Did she swim in the ocean? Did she ride the cable cars? Did her art professors wear berets?

And what about me, she wanted to know, how was junior high?

Not so hot. Too big and mixed up. The teachers weren't so hot either. Did she know Mr. Lewis, the ninth-grade algebra teacher? We called him the Gestapo agent. He patrolled the grounds at noon. Peter said he used to kick the wastepaper basket across the room.

Yes, Karla had had him too, and he kicked the wastepaper basket once, but he was all right.

What about the gym instructor? Mother Basketball, we called her. Had she told Karla's class about a stupid basketball and little thread?

Oh Lord yes, was she still talking about that? She had some weird ideas, but she was a nice old thing.

But hadn't Karla been mad?

No, why should she be mad? She had come home and asked Mama about the subject, and that's what I should do. Unless I'd like to talk about it now, with her, Karla.

No, it wasn't important, and besides, I was sleepy.

The real reason was that I no longer asked Mama or any of the family about the things that worried me. These things were black question lumps, some bigger than others, some enormous. Would we be bombed? Would they feel sick if they saw me breathing over the burned Jap head? Why it had happened, that day in the backyard, that I should know what it was inside the flesh of strangers, like the Polish family,
and that it should bring such a piercing sadness even in the cheery crowd at the Saturday matinee.

Sometimes I was on the verge of asking them, but a feeling would come over me, which was a good feeling and which kept me from asking. Because if I didn't draw them into my black question lumps, if they remained apart from that dark confusion, remained just as they were, it seemed that somehow, when the barracks were torn up and the barrage balloons taken down, they would be the same as they had been the day before Pearl Harbor, and we could all go back to that day and start again fresh from there.

To ask my questions of Helen Maria was a different matter. She was not family, friend, or anything. She was a genius. Geniuses belonged nowhere, they weren't even exactly human, and not just because they acted strangely, which Helen Maria certainly did. Genius was more than that. The word was pale, lofty, like the sky in early morning when you had a feeling of the world's lid being lifted away. I had seen that in Helen Maria's eyes, when she wasn't saying anything, when she was quiet.

But I would have to wait for her to emerge from her room.

She did, one day. If she was still embarrassed about the play, she didn't show it. She was very clipped and British as usual, but quite decent. She presented no quiet moment, though, for me to ask my questions.

Peggy went downtown early to shop for Christmas cards. They were hard to come by this year because of the paper shortage, but store clerks liked her round face and fat pigtails, and she returned with seven cards heavy with glitter. They were for her teachers.

“Why?” I said. “We don't like them.”

“It's the Christmas spirit, for heaven's sake. Love thy neighbor.”

I felt the Christmas spirit too, if not to the extent of including teachers. Last year we had been stunned by Pearl Harbor, but this year the holidays seemed more normal. Peter took me with him downtown to shop for Dad's and Mama's gifts. He wore a fedora, and though it made him
look too old, he looked good, and I was proud of him. Karla came home for a week. The three of us decorated the tree, again with only a few lights, to save on electricity, but they looked better this year. The blackout shades were drawn, but Dad's cigar smoke smelled strong and full, and by saving up rationing stamps, Mama served roast pork as always. When we sang around the piano, Dad's arm around me, and mine around his warm and solid waist, it came to me that maybe in this new year of 1943 he would stop working at the shipyard and be home again, maybe 1943 would be the year the war would end.

Over at Peggy's house, Helen Maria wanted to know how foreigners celebrated.

“Foreigners?”

“Yes. You Scandinavians.”

I told her.

I learned that other people opened their gifts not on Christmas Eve but Christmas morning. I learned that others ate not roast pork but turkey, and that they were not served rice pudding with a hidden almond that brought a prize. Maybe I had known these things, but I had not thought about them. I thought about them now. But just because we ate roast pork, how did it make us foreigners? Helen Maria must be using the term very loosely.

“Customs are fascinating,” she went on. “Unfortunately, we ourselves are rather hit-or-miss.”

That was true. The large handsome tree stood nicely decorated; but its raw wooden base was exposed, and none of the podiatric cartons had been cleared away for the festive season.

“What is picturesque about our Christmas is the relatives. You should meet them someday.”

“Aunt Dorothy, you mean.”

“No,” said Peggy from her pile of gifts. “She lives in Mexico City. She's a wino.”

“Must you keep using that term?” asked her sister, but Peggy was busy leafing through her girl detective books and rattling her games. Now she held up a powder blue coat with a dark velvet collar.

“I'm wearing this when we go back.”

“Good,” I said. She would welcome 1943 in this fine new coat.

But when we returned to school, there was nothing better about the Pacific war. Not only was nothing better, but Mrs. Miller's eighteen-year-old grandson had been killed in New Guinea, and she was not at her desk. It was Peggy who took up a collection among us to buy her a sympathy present.

“Under the circumstances,” said Helen Maria, as Peggy wrapped the gift in her room, “I consider a cocktail shaker highly inappropriate. Also, it's cheap-looking.”

“I don't think it's cheap-looking. Is it, Suse? Anyway, what else can you get for a dollar fifty except handkerchiefs or something? This is like something special.”

“I shall agree with that,” said Helen Maria.

On the morning of Mrs. Miller's return, Peggy brought the gift up to her desk. Mrs. Miller had been elderly when we last saw her; now she was shriveled, like a shoe left overnight in the rain. I had an abrupt sense of doing something wrong by looking at her; but, gravely, Peggy was setting down the box, and now she stood back with eyes respectfully lowered. Mrs. Miller silently read the attached card, then began unwrapping the box.

I realized, too late, that Helen Maria had been right. A cocktail shaker was inappropriate because it was for good times, and I cringed as I saw, very clearly, merged as one, the soldier's white dead face and this good-time thing sparkling from between his grandmother's hands. How could Peggy stand there so serene as she looked down on her horrible error?

But Mrs. Miller said, after a pause, “This was very thoughtful of you, class. I'm very touched . . . thank you.” And she smiled a faint but extraordinarily intimate smile. There was tenderness in it, which we had never suspected, and also a wry twist of amusement, and through these things, the deep, implacable sadness of the grown-up, which you were almost never allowed to see.

She patted Peggy's arm. Peggy tiptoed back to her desk.

After that we all had a special stake in Mrs. Miller's welfare, made less noise, were more cooperative. And she for her part seemed to have a soft spot for us, and maybe especially for Peggy, who had after all thought of the gift.

Mother Basketball, too, had grown fond of Peggy. Peggy loved cookies, and one day she dug into the family's sugar ration and made herself a batch of brownies that came out black and evil-tasting. Instead of throwing them away, she put them in a colorful little tin which she presented shyly to Mother Basketball. It was strange, but whatever unwanted thing Peggy gave, it was always accepted with gratitude. Soon after she was appointed Towel Supervisor. This office allowed its holder to leave the gym floor early and retire to the towel counter, where, if you were Peggy, you didn't stack the towels in readiness, but sat reading comic books inside your binder until the rest of the class came pounding in, sticky and out of breath, for their showers. The boldness of the overseer went with this office, and Peggy bloomed with authority, with a kind of casual omnipotence that took her through the intimate, steaming locker room like a floorwalker. This was a habit of hers that was to bring us both to grief.

Dad and Peter bailed out the cellar in hipboots. Inside my galoshes the cheap wartime soles of my saddle shoes were beginning to rot. Behind the garrison storm fence the soldiers wore black shiny capes and slogged around in a field of mud. For blocks you could hear the roar of the creek.

I took Peggy down there one day after school, to show her the torrent close up. She thought it very powerful and impressive, but as she turned with this compliment, she gave a wild stumble and plunged over the side. Horrified, I looked down, but she had not rolled into the water, only into a tree stump, and was crawling back up the bank on her belly. “Christ,” she groaned, standing up in the rain and peering down the front of her powder blue coat. Black muck was ground into the entire length of the fabric. “Why do we have to come to this stupid place anyway?” she demanded as I silently handed her her muddy books.

The whole world was made of mud. She lumped along the street on two clods. The gutters rushed with muddy water. Behind the storm
fence the soldiers in their shiny capes squelched in mud to their ankles. When they were sent to the front, they would die in the mud. There would be the thunk of a bullet, and they would fall in the mud, and it would fill their mouths.

Silently, I followed Peggy into her house. There we were met by the unforeseen. Dr. Hatton was rarely home in the afternoons, but today she was just hanging her windbreaker up in the hall as we came in.

“Good heavens,” she said, touching her spectacles. “Is that mud?”

Peggy looked around the hall.

“On your coat. Peggy, is that your new coat?”

Peggy looked down at it, surprised.

“Do you wear that lovely coat in the rain? Good heavens, Peggy, do you play in the mud with it?”

Peggy looked at her solemnly.

I wondered if Dr. Hatton would say good heavens again. She looked bewildered. She looked bewildered for several moments. Then she sighed and shook her head. “It seems to me you could stop and think sometimes.” And she began looking through the mail on the table.

“Your mother's a real sport,” I said as we tracked our mud through the Dungeon to Peggy's room. We were just taking off our coats when Helen Maria put her head through the door.

“I have an announcement,” she said crisply. “You're invited to my room.” Then she sped off.

Peggy looked at me. “Her room.”

It was the inner sanctum, the secret temple. After pulling off our galoshes, we hurried after her down the hall.