Slap Your Sides (10 page)

C
hristmas night Lizzie and Mom planned to play Monopoly. Dad said he wanted to see exactly how much he'd lost compared to last year. He'd wanted to feature gala markdown sales, but what Quaker belief he had left kept him from making something commercial out of a celebration of the Lord's birth. All the other merchants held holiday sales, and all seemed to have had a banner year. But Dad's problem luring customers into Shoemaker's had nothing to do with sales. He knew it, and we knew it too. Still, no one was saying out loud how badly Bud was hurting us.

Tommy was out with Rose Garten. He said whatever it was Hope wanted, he could hear about it the next day. We always felt like postponing news from Hope, fearing that our luck wouldn't last, that someday she
would
be calling to announce she'd landed Bud. That was how we thought of it, that she'd reel him in like a big fish, ignoring the fact Bud was mad about her.

Christmas night The Teen Canteen was not only open but showing
Yankee Doodle Dandy.
I remembered Daria telling me how she'd loved that movie. It began at six and it would be over in plenty of time for me to get back home and find out Hope's news.

Tommy hadn't worn his new Christmas tie. A tie would only be in the way of Fast Tom that evening. It was this sharp dark-blue-and-white-striped number I decided to wear myself, with Bud's old blue blazer and his gray flannel pants. The pants were so old they had cuffs, a taboo since the war. I shined my loafers and polished the gold tie clip that was also Tommy's. I borrowed some of his Vitalis for my hair.

The Teen Canteen had been the Catholic church's answer to gas rationing and the seasonal closing of Chester Park. It gave kids a place to go their parents would okay. Older kids and servicemen went to the Side Door Canteen at City Hall.

But everyone was invited to the Teen Canteen movies, and Sweet Creek was full of people at loose ends that Christmas night, including a Marine and half a dozen sailors.

I sat on one of the folding chairs in the last row. That way I could see Daria if she came in. There were so many there for the show, they had to throw in some extra chairs.

The only thing I knew about the picture was that it was the life of George M. Cohan. I knew he was a song-writer and a dancer. I didn't know what songs he'd written.

No one from Sweet Creek Friends seemed to be there. Marty Allen had said he might show up, and I'd said if he did and Daria didn't, I'd hang around with him.

After the film got going, I wasn't surprised that I was probably the only Quaker present. It was all about good old war!

Daria hadn't come, of course. I knew that was just wishful thinking. What I didn't know was how to get out of there without climbing over people's knees. Even if I did manage that, how would I find my overcoat on the rack in back, in the dark?

So I sat there right to the last scene, a major tear-jerker. It took place outside the White House. Marching soldiers all singing “Over There.” The people on the sidewalk were cheering and singing along with the soldiers: “…
the Yanks are coming, the drums rum-tumming everywhere
—” Suddenly across the White House lawn George M. Cohan came, played by Jimmy Cagney. All he could do was stand and look amazed, because he was so touched by them singing a song he'd written. A passing soldier stopped long enough to ask George what was the matter (“old-timer”)—didn't he remember the song?

George nodded and said it seemed he did remember it.

Then George joined in the singing with the soldiers. He marched in step with them as the words grew louder. “AND WE WON'T COME BACK ' TIL IT'S OVER OVER THERE!”

 

“What's the matter, Shoemaker?” a voice asked. “What's your hurry?”

I had just found my overcoat when Luke Casper spoke to me.

“Nothing's the matter,” I said.

“Great movie, hmmm?”

“Yeah.”

“People tell me I look like him.”

We were walking toward the exit. My heart was beating fast. It surprised me, still, when I reacted sentimentally to stuff about the war. It was hard not to react when there was music, marching, and American flags waving. I'd have a lump in my throat and an argument against it in my head.

Luke asked, “Do
you
think I look like James Cagney?”

“No,” I said. But he did. His face did, a lot, although he was taller and huskier. I wasn't in the mood to flatter him.

“So what'd you really think of the movie?” he said.

“I liked the music.”

“I didn't think you would,” he said. “I thought it would be too patriotic for you.”

“You know so much about me.”

“I know you lost your girl.”

I didn't answer that.

“She hasn't been by the stable in a long time,” he said.

“Her brother died. Didn't you hear?”

“Oh, I heard. I wondered if you heard. I wondered how
you
felt when
you
heard. I wondered how your brother felt when
he
heard.” Why hadn't I just
admitted
that he looked like James Cagney?

“Shut up, Luke.”

“
You
shut up.”

“Both of you shut up!” a sailor said. “You're in a church!”

“That's right!” from others.

I could see a priest hurrying toward us through the crowd. Another one was feeding slugs into the jukebox, while the Catholic Boys' Club stacked the chairs to clear the floor for dancing.

I pushed through the door, and Luke was right behind me.

“Hey, don't you want a ride home?”

“No, thanks.”

“Shall I give her your love when I see her, Jubal?”

I kept on going.

“Because I'm going to see her!” Luke shouted. “No kidding!”

He liked to see if he could get me mad enough to fight. He'd say, “Jubal, I know you want to sock me in the kisser. What'll it take to make you try?”

On the walk home my heart felt like it would punch its way out of my chest. All I needed, on top of World War I, was Luke Casper. Luke Casper talking about seeing Daria. My mind spun back to the last afternoon Daria and I were together, when she'd told him he was a sweetheart and told me he looked like Cagney. Maybe he wasn't baiting me. What made me think she wouldn't go out with someone who looked like Jimmy Cagney?

 

When I got home, Mom, Lizzie, and Dad were in the living room. There was just one lamp lit, plus the light from the large Stromberg-Carlson radio/record player
that had been sent from a local Sears, courtesy of Lizzie. The house was cold. Mahatma came slinking across the room with his head down, tail wagging between his legs, the way he looked sometimes when he'd done something wrong, or someone else had.

“We've been waiting for you. Is Tommy with you?” Mom asked.

“No. What's going on?” What I really meant was, What happened to bring Dad up from the cellar? What happened to make Dad put on a suit and tie at this hour of night?

“Hope called,” Mom said. “Bud is in the hospital. He was very badly beaten up by an Indian patient.”

“Sky Hawk,” I said.
You should see the size of him!

“He's in bad shape,” Dad said.

“How bad?”

“Bad!” Lizzie said. “We're all going down there. Tonight!”

“I want to drive,” said Dad, as though they'd been arguing the point. “We'll take
our
car.”

Lizzie said, “My car if we're using my gas rationing tickets.”

“Oh, Lizzie, you always have extra,” Mom said.

“Don't ask where she gets them,” said Dad.

“We save them, Efram, so I can spend time with my sister! Don't you dare insinuate we get them any other way!”

“We're taking the Buick,” Dad said, “and we better get going.”

Lizzie said, “We'll take the Lincoln. I'll drive.”

“I want to go too!” I said.

“No,” Mom said. “You and Tommy stay here.”

“Please, Mom.”

“You have to open the store,” Dad said, never one to forget that.

They took the Buick, too.

H
appy New Year, listeners!

“Moonlight Becomes You,” Ensign Polliver, or so one of our Wride girls thinks. Her name's Lorelei Lewis and she's over at Wride Foods, on the first floor, winning the war. But I don't have to tell you where she is, Roger Polliver, United States Navy, U.S. of A.!

This song is dedicated to you from Lorelei.

—Radio Dan broadcast, 1943

H
appy New Year!” Rose Garten said. “This is the first time I've ever had real champagne.”

“It's just my second time,” I said. Tommy'd told me I could have only half a glass. He had to make the bottle last the whole night.

We were sitting at the dining-room table waiting for Tommy to serve a dessert called bananas Foster. He had found the recipe in a rum advertisement in
Esquire
magazine. He had bought a pony of Bacardi rum when he'd bought the champagne.

We had already finished a meat loaf, baked potatoes, and my mother's canned green beans.

My folks were still in Virginia with Bud.

I'd talked on the phone with him. He said not to worry about him, he'd be okay. But pray for the Indian. He was getting the blame for something he didn't do.

Rose was trying to get her parents on the telephone to ask if she could spend the night. An unexpected winter storm was covering Bud's old Ford with snow.

Tommy kept saying things like “I hope they don't think I'm going to risk our lives driving you back to Blooming Glen in
this
weather!”

“They won't like it that there's no one here.”

“You're nineteen, Rose! You're no kid!”

“Tell
them
that.”

“And my brother's here, for Pete's sake!” Tommy said.

“I don't think Jubal's their idea of a chaperone.”

“Then don't tell them my parents aren't here.”

“I already told them they were down with Bud.”

“Well that was dumb!” Tommy said.

Tommy was at 85 on the graph. I knew he was counting on making 100 that night. He had already told me I was to announce that they had to disappear, right after they'd finished dessert, because
I
preferred to clear the table and do dishes by myself.

“You prefer to do dishes by yourself listening to our radio,” Tommy coached me. “Don't sound like a martyr, or she'll jump up and say we'll all pitch in.”

“Okay.”

“And make it clear that you're going to be in bed at the stroke of midnight, that you like being in bed and listening to the excitement from Times Square on our radio.”

“Why am I supposed to keep mentioning our radio?”

“So she doesn't think you expect to be listening to the Stromberg-Carlson with me and her.”

“Okay,” I said. “You're not going to take her up to the master bedroom, I hope?”

“Jubal, I'm a little more suave than
that
!”

“So where will you be?”

“In the living room! On the davenport!”

It was Tommy's idea that the two of us wear jackets and ties. He had bought Rose a gardenia corsage. He'd
found a pair of green candles and shaved their ends so they could fit Coke bottles. He'd stripped two pieces of tinfoil from the huge ball Dad kept down in the basement for the war effort and wrapped them around the bottles. He'd cut out place cards for us: an angel for Rose, a star for me, a quarter moon for himself.

The Stromberg-Carlson was playing softly in the living room. Rose wore a red-velvet dress with a scoop neck and a strand of pearls to match her earrings. She had brown hair like Daria's, only Daria's was lighter, longer, softer.

I wished Daria could have been there. I thought of her all through dinner. I was answering her letter in my mind. I told her that Bud hadn't gotten hurt because he was a do-gooder. He'd gotten hurt because some locals went after him.

Bud had taken Sky Hawk to a movie in town. Afterward they'd hitched a ride home with the wrong truckful of rowdies. These hoodlums had called Bud a conchie and poured beer over Sky Hawk's jacket. The Indian had panicked and run, which was when they took turns holding and punching Bud. They'd told the police that liquor had made the Indian violent. The police had found Sky Hawk and booked him.

 

The bananas Foster arrived with blue flames over it.

Tommy let Rose blow them out, and we all dug in.

“I suppose you still like to do the dishes all by yourself,” Tommy said to me.

“Yes. I like to do them and listen to the radio.”

“I never heard of a boy
liking
to do dishes,” said Rose.

“We've got a new Zenith radio,” Tommy said.

“I like to go to bed before the new year's rung in and listen to reports from all over the world,” I said.

“Don't you listen to Radio Dan from right on Pilgrim Lane? He reads the list of last year's war dead. This year his own son will be on it!”

“Jubal likes to listen to all the stuff going on in Times Square,” Tommy said.

“Speaking of being dead, my father's going to kill me if I'm not home when I said I'd be,” Rose said. “Or he's going to kill
you
, Tommy.”

“Try calling them again,” Tommy said. “I'll talk to him…. What kind of guy does he think I am?”

“A regular guy.” Rose laughed.

While I did the dishes, I heard Tommy calling her father “Mr. Garten, sir.” He told him that the three of us were going to make popcorn and listen to all the excitement from Times Square. He said we'd probably play a game of Monopoly, too. Rose, he said, can sleep in my parents' room, sir. We boys will sleep downstairs.

Then he crowed, “Yes, sir!…First thing in the morning, as soon as I shovel out!”

The snow was already up to the back porch.

I was finishing the dishes, toying with the idea of taking a chance and calling Daria, when the phone rang.

“Guess who wants to wish you Happy New Year!” said
Lizzie. She had gone back to New York from Virginia. Her Lincoln was in our garage, where she had decided it would stay all winter.

“Happy New Year, Aunt Liz.”

“Someone wants to wish you Happy New Year, Jubal. Presenting Yeoman Natalia Granger. Your cousin is a Wave!”

Tommy was standing in his stocking feet at the edge of the living room. “I'm not here!” he whispered.

“Natalia's a Wave,” I whispered back with my hand over the mouthpiece.

“I'm busy,” he hissed. “I'm not here.”

“Tommy's not here,” I said.

“Hi, Jubal,” Natalia said. “I didn't want my mother to tell you. I wanted to tell you myself. That was why I was dieting, too.”

“Hi, Natalia. Thanks for the books.”

“You're welcome. The Fitzgerald is the important one.” I figured that was code for the dirtiest.

“Okay,” I said. “How do you
like
the Waves?”

“She likes doing something for her country.” Lizzie was on the extension.

“I love the Waves,” Natalia said. “I'm in boot camp.”

“Where is boot camp?”

“At Hunter College, here in New York…. Where's your handsome brother?”

“Tommy's not here,” I said.

“The radio said it's snowing hard up there. Is the Lincoln in the garage?” Lizzie said.

After Natalia got off the extension, Mike got on. He said that Bud had had a narrow escape, and that Tommy and I should tell him not to pursue it.

“Not to pursue what?”

“Let the police charge the Indian,” Mike said. “Otherwise Bud's going to be in deep
merde
.”

“He'd never let them blame the Indian if the Indian didn't do it,” I said.

“The Indian's in for it anyway,” said Mike. “He tried to run away. Bud will just make things worse if he goes after the locals.”

“
They
went after
him
,” I said.

Lizzie said, “I don't agree with Mike, Jubal.”

“When did you ever agree with me?” Mike said.

When I hung up, I saw that I'd forgotten the dessert dishes.

I tried to walk quietly. I could hear the radio playing softly in the living room.

 

After I pushed Mahatma out into the storm to do his business and come right back in, I went upstairs.

I turned on the radio and opened
Tender Is the Night
, ready to read the good parts. Instead, Natalia had marked a speech made by the hero, a psychiatrist called Dick Diver. He was visiting an old World War I battlefield with friends. He was describing war as a “love battle”—
not love of country, but love of a way of life, intense enough to cause men to risk their lives for it.

In a handwriting that looked exactly like Lizzie's,
Natalia had written in a margin, “Jubal, don't you feel this yet? I do.”

I thought of asking her what kind of love battle destroyed major cities like Cologne, Stalingrad, and London. Did it make sense risking your life to kill innocent civilians?

But nothing I said would change Natalia's mind, particularly now that she was Yeoman Granger.

I had myself to change, too. I wasn't as strong as I'd need to be if the war was still going on in three years. I remembered Christmas night, the tears behind my eyes when the soldiers were singing “Over There,” at the same time I knew Hollywood was doing its best to make war look manly and moral and patriotic. I'd ask myself questions like When you witness, do you cheer your country's military victories in battles you refused to be a part of? You could lie to yourself that you were only cheering what could lead to the end of the war. But how could you root for our side? When it came to killing civilians, we were as guilty as they were.

I knew I wasn't the only one going to sleep nights asking myself things like that. There were rumors that even among Lancaster Mennonites, men took the 1AO classification without the church expelling them now. At SCFS we'd stopped a lot of our classroom discussion about witnessing. There were too many kids with relatives who were choosing to be 1A, not even 1AO. My friend Marty Allen now wanted to join up.

“Don't be mad, Jubal,” he'd said. “It's something I have to do!”

He had to wait until he was seventeen.

“I won't be mad,” I told him. “For certain Quakers I think it takes more guts to be 1A.”

“How about you, Jubal?” Marty said. “You must have thought about it.”

“I didn't,” I said. “I don't.”

“You want some advice?”

“That depends.”

He gave me some anyway. “Stop trying to be Bud.”

“Do you think that's all there is to it, Marty?”

“I know there's more. But I know you're not a fanatic. No one can be 4E in this kind of war who isn't a fanatic!”

I didn't tell Marty about my last phone conversation with Bud. He still had broken bones from being beat up, and he was looking into volunteering for some kind of starvation research. He was still gung ho.

At Friends even the teachers weren't talking a lot, anymore, about registering 4E. The focus had switched to what Friends would do
after
the war, how we would help the victims heal, help them find their way back to their cities, and help rebuild their homes. We'd done that after World War I, and we'd do it again.

 

I didn't wait to hear the New Year being rung in on the radio that night. I'd even forgotten to tune in to Radio Dan. Or maybe I forgot to remember on purpose. I didn't want to hear names of Sweet Creekers who
wouldn't be around anymore, boys a few grades ahead of me, who'd been in Scouts with Bud.

I also forgot to say my prayers, and I fell asleep with all my clothes on. But I dreamed I was naked and I was downtown on Pilgrim Lane, my hands covering me in front, people pointing at me and laughing.

When I woke up, the sun was streaming into the room, and I could hear Fast Tom trying to get the Ford started.