Texas Sunrise (37 page)

“Cissy always seems to have enough money for them, and don't they look great on her!” Tim started smacking one fist into the palm of the other. He didn't seem to notice that at the mention of the notorious Cissy he had gained everyone's attention. “You aren't going to believe what I did yesterday. You just won't believe it!”

The girls stopped in their tracks while the boys laughed. “If it's something dirty, Tim Kelly, we don't want to hear it,” one girl said excitedly.

“Yes we do.” Another giggled.

“No we don't!” Billie said firmly.

“Well, you're gonna hear it anyway. I signed up. I went and did it: I didn't even tell my parents yet,” Tim said proudly.

“Oh, no,” Billie whispered. Suddenly she wished they could all be little kids again, roller-skating down Elm Street, setting up lemonade stands. Tim was the first of their bunch to enlist . and it seemed an omen of things to come, judging by the awe on the other boys' faces.

“I leave a couple of weeks after graduation. I'll be eighteen by then,” Tim said quietly. “I want to get into it. We all do, don't we, fellas? It's just a matter of time now. We'll write you girls, and you've got to promise to write back. We've decided we want to pay back the Japs for what they did to Pearl Harbor.”

“What about college?” Billie asked inanely, still stunned by the news, yet feeling very grown-up now and already mourning carefree childhood.

“Is that all you have to say? Jesus H. Christ! I'm talking about war! About serving my country! I'm going off to fight for the American way of life and for girls like you, Billie! If those Japs can do what they did to Pearl, they could just march across this country and kill us in our beds. Everybody knows how sneaky they are!”

“I don't feel like going to the movies now,” Dotty said, sitting down on the low stone wall that surrounded the Cum-mingses' front yard. The thought of yellow-faced men with bloody fangs marching across the U. S. of A. made her gulp.

“Hey, Dotty, what's the matter?” Carl challenged. “You scared of those Japs? What would you do if they said they'd kill me if you didn't sleep with them? What would you do then, huh?” Carl's eyes glimmered, waiting for his steady girlfriend's answer. Dotty recognized the old no-win predicament. It was a question that usually arose at Brummers Ice Cream Parlor while they were sipping rainbow cokes. If she said she would never sleep with a Jap, Carl would say she didn't care enough about him to spare his life. If she said she'd do anything to save him, he'd sneer and question her morals. Either way, a girl couldn't win. The recognition of the dilemma on her face softened Carl. “Don't worry, Dotty, I wouldn't let a ‘monkey man' lay a finger on you. I'd kill myself first.” Tenderly, he placed a hand on Dotty's shoulder.

“Let's go downtown to the Navy Yard instead,” Tim suggested. “We can hang around outside and watch the ships in the harbor.” The girls' eyes lit up. It was certainly better than trying to figure out what had gotten into the boys. Once they were there, the boys would meander around acting like big shots and talking about the ships, and the girls could watch the uniforms.

The boys led the way while the girls hung back, huddling as they walked. “Does anyone have any rouge or lipstick?”

“I have some Tangee. It's not very good, pink coral, or something. It was all I could sneak off my sister's dresser.”

“It's good enough,” Dotty encouraged. “We'll just use lots of it. Just think, we might meet some of those handsome sailors and maybe Carl won't think I'm such a kid if he sees some real men interested in me.” She dabbed furiously at her cheeks and lips, watching her reflection in the window of a parked car.

One by one, the girls took turns, to the boys' whistling approval. Then they paired off and walked casually, the boys with their arms flung around their girls' shoulders. Billie felt strange walking beside Tim this way; part of her world was slipping away. The first step in becoming an adult and it had to be learning to say good-bye. Of their little group, the gang, four of her friends from as far back as she could remember were leaving to fight a war. Her mouth was dry and she licked her lips. The waxy lipstick felt thick and greasy. She'd never used so much rouge before. What would Mother say? The problem was where she was going to wash it off? If they'd gone to the movies as they'd intended, she could have washed it off in the ladies' room.

“Do you think the MPs will chase us away?” Billie questioned.

“Not when I tell them Tim already enlisted and the rest of us go down Monday morning,” Carl said with more bravado than he felt.

The sight of the Philadelphia Navy Yard frightened Billie. This wasn't a Movietone newsreel; this was the real thing. Battleships, destroyers, cruisers, all with their camouflaged green-and-brown superstructures reaching for the sky. Even from this distance and seen through the chainlink fence, they seemed enormous and ominous. The boys pointed out the classification of each ship, but it all remained a mystery to Billie, who couldn't tell a battleship from a cruiser. Only the aircraft carrier, with its long flat deck, was easily distinguishable from the rest. How could a plane take off from that dock? Worse yet, how did it land? She'd seen the newsreels and marveled at the skill of the pilots. Once she'd heard that from the air the carrier's deck looked like a tombstone. The thought gave her chills.

“How do you like them?” a masculine voice drawled at Billie's elbow. She turned and stared up into incredible, summer-blue eyes.

“They're frightening, but beautiful,” Billie said honestly. Handsome. Tall. Beautiful. Simply beautiful. The man, not the ship.

“I kind of like them myself. Especially the carrier. But my favorite is the
Enterprise.
I trained on her. Moss Coleman,” he introduced himself. “Lieutenant, junior grade. And you're...?”

“Billie. Billie Ames. Actually it's Willa, but no one calls me that, not even my mother.” Now why had she said that? How gauche and immature she must seem to him with her round circles of rouge. She could just kick herself for putting it on. He must be at least twenty-five. Too old for her. Too old for what? All he was doing was talking to her. His brilliant eyes seemed amused and she realized how unsophisticated she must seem to him. His dark hair was almost black against the stark white of his naval officer's uniform. He was as handsome as sin, as Grandmother used to say. His deep tan so early in the year made Billie wonder where he'd been before coming to Philadelphia.

The same amusement was in his voice when he spoke again. “Billie it is. Willa sounds like an old maiden aunt. Do you live here in Philly?”

Billie nodded. “All my life. We live on . . . we live not far from here,” she answered, suddenly shy.

Moss stood back for a better look at the girl. She was young, too young. Younger than the girls who hung out at the USO. Soft ash-blond hair framed her face and was held back from her temples by two barrettes. Bright, intelligent hazel eyes were fringed by smoky lashes and naturally arched brows. Her pretty face was smooth-skinned, color marking the high cheekbones. A delicately formed mouth, beneath the lipstick, was generous and yielding, vulnerable with youth. She was a sweet thing, keeping her eyes lowered, her voice soft and shy. His sense of chivalry rose to the surface. If some of his buddies spotted her, she wouldn't have a prayer. They were animals, pure and simple, and the fact that she'd be seen talking to Moss Coleman, Reaper of Virgins, would make her fair game. He'd be willing to bet her mother didn't know she was here or that she wore rouge and lipstick. He grinned. She was innocent. He could see it in her face. Nice bones, good figure. Old Seth would look at that first. Carry on the Coleman line, good breeding, all the shit that went with settling down and marrying the right girl. A closer look made him think she probably didn't know where babies came from, something he could change within two days, three at the most.

His friends constantly kidded Moss about his lady-killer charm and kept track of his score. The latest count since he'd hit Philly was eleven. But these were dangerous times and a man had to take what he could when he could. They offered, he accepted. It was that simple. This little girl standing beside him wouldn't offer. She was what the guys called a good girl. Though some claimed all good girls had wet bloomers.

“So, you live around here. Do you come here often to look around?”

“No. I've only been here once before, on a class trip. I came down with some of my friends. They're around here somewhere. One of the boys enlisted and the others are going down to enlist on Monday. We're supposed to be at the movies,” she blurted, looking around for her friends with a worried expression, as though needing to be saved from this stranger in his immaculate uniform.

For the first time in his life Moss found himself uncertain. She was looking at him in a way that made him feel he was being inspected and falling short. His appearance flashed before him. He was perfect: shoes shined, belt buckle polished, all the brass in shining order. Every hair in place, Ipana smile. Suntan just the right shade. Creases so sharp they could slice bread. It must be his imagination, this dissatisfaction he felt from her.

Moss knew he should leave. There was nothing for him here. “Would you like to see the carrier up a little closer?” he heard himself asking. “I can get you through the gate.”

Billie frowned. She remembered her mother's warning of strangers. “Yes, thank you, I would.”

Moss cupped her elbow and took her around to the guard at the gate, who offered him a smart salute. He showed his identification and waited while Billie signed in. He watched while she registered her address, 479 Elm Street, and smiled. I have one of your secrets, little girl, he thought with satisfaction.

The yard was peopled with sailors and busy work crews, their young faces either wreathed with smiles or studies of concentration. Moss was quick to see the admiring glances that came Billie's way and his hand tightened on her elbow possessively. Battleships and destroyers bound for Europe huddled around the dock. Their decks, dotted with white T-shirts and blue denims, were being scraped and primed, painted and polished, before they took their cargos of men and machines out to sea.

“This is about as far as I can take you. These are great ships, but I'll always think of the flight deck of the USS
Enterprise
as home. There's nothing like the feeling of landing gear touching that deck or of being hoisted backward by the landing hook.”

Billie's eyes grew round with admiration. “You're a flyer? You really fly one of those planes and land on that little deck?”

“It's really not that little, Billie.” He found he liked saying her name. “I've been flying since I was fourteen on our ranch in Texas and there's more space on a carrier deck than on the old dirt road back home.”

There was such naked admiration in Billie's eyes, Moss felt himself blush at his own braggadocio. “I've got to admit to overshooting the landing deck a couple of times, but I've never ditched. That means going over the side, plane and all. Some guys are really good. There's a fella in my barracks who has never made a mistake. Not one.”

“That's amazing,” Billie said in a hushed whisper. “How long have you been in Philly?”

“A month. I came in from San Diego. That's why the suntan.” There was something bitter about his expression. “That's where I should be now, getting ready to push off for the Pacific.”

“Why aren't you?”

“I've been assigned to.Admiral McCarter, as his aide. I suppose lots of guys would give their eyeteeth for this duty, but I'd rather be flying.” She watched as he lifted his head and tracked a pigeon headed for the superstructure, as though he wished he, too, could just spread wings and fly. Billie was quiet for a long moment, aware of his sadness. It made her almost hurt for him. She reached out to lay her hand on the sleeve of his white tunic.

Moss dropped his gaze to her, seeing her smile and the compassion in her hazel eyes. “My father's an influential man,” he told her, something he'd never confided to another soul. “I'm the only son and Pap doesn't cotton to the idea of me flying. He arranged this assignment with the Admiralty.” It was there again, the bitterness.

“Couldn't you ask to be reassigned?”

“Yeah, I could, but I couldn't do it to Pap,” Moss said quietly. “He hangs a lot on me, wanting me to carry on the family and the business. I could be madder'n hell, but I'm not. He loves me and he's afraid of losing me.”

“Texas, you said?” That explained the slight drawl.

“Texas. Austin.”

“Then you're a cowboy!”

Moss laughed, a nice easy sound, as though laughing were second nature to him. She liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and just the barest dimple showed in his firm, chiseled jaw. “Hardly. Texans don't ride horses to get anywhere. They fly. Seems like most of the people I know have their own planes. Or else they rent them. Just like folks here in Philly hire taxicabs.”

Billie couldn't imagine flying anywhere, much less owning her own plane. “All Texans own a plane?” she asked naively.

“Well, not all, but the ones I know do. Say, you've never been up, have you? You've never flown?”

Billie shook her head, following his gaze once again to the birds perched on the carrier. “Never. And I don't suppose I ever will. What's it like?”

Moss took her hand, taking her over to a stack of crates and sitting beside her. “Billie, honey, you're going to be sorry you asked that question.” For the next hour Lieutenant (j.g.) Moss Coleman described to Billie the exhilaration he felt when his wheels left the ground. He told her about flying a wrecked old crop duster around the ranch and the way his father had tanned his hide when he'd found out about it. Moss had Billie laughing, exclaiming, shuddering. He sparked her imagination and made her wish that just once she could fly.