Time Enough for Love (89 page)

“So we cried happy tears, and I cleared the matter with Brian and the Weatherals, and Nancy missed her next period—this was a month ago—and the wedding may be day after tomorrow or perhaps the day after that.”

(Omitted)

“Darling, I wish I could see you.”

“Oh, dear! I’d rather not turn on the Mazda lamp, Theodore. These blinds are not so tight but what light would shine out, as well as light under the door if by any chance Father came downstairs.”

“Maureen, I will never ask you to take any chance you don’t like. I see you quite well with my fingertips—and these are
not
broken down.”

“They flow off my ribs like melted marshmallows. Theodore, when you open that package, please be very careful that no one is around; there is more in it than a pair of garters.”

“I did open it.”

“Then you know what I look like.”

“Was that beautiful girl
you?
”

“Tease. Brian had me look straight at his camera.”

“But, darling, while you don’t look
down
that far, men don’t tend to look
up
very far. Especially me. Not when I’m looking at a photograph of a perfectly gorgeous nude model.”

“‘Nude model,’ my best Sunday hat!”

“Maureen, it is the loveliest picture I have ever owned and I will cherish it always.”

“That’s better and I don’t believe it and I love hearing it. Did you open the paper folded in with it?”

“The baby curl? Did you clip it off Mane?”

“Theodore, I do not mind being teased; it just makes you more like Brian. But if he teases too much, I bite him. Anywhere. Here, for example.”

“Hey, not so hard!”

“Then tell me where that curl came from.”

“It came from your pretty, my pretty one, and I’ll wear it over my heart forever. But one reason I wanted to look at you is that you clipped so generous a lock that I worried that Brian might notice something missing—and ask why.”

“I can tell him I gave it to the iceman.”

“He won’t believe that and will be sure that you have a new adventure to confess.”

“Then he won’t press me to tell him now; he’ll change the subject. Although I
wish
I could tell him now; I keep thinking about both of you, outdoors in daylight; that was the fantasy that kept me awake. Sweetheart, there is a candle on the dresser—electricity not being as dependable as the gas lights we used to have. It wouldn’t throw enough light to worry me. You may look at me by candlelight all you wish and as you wish.”

“Yes, darling! Matches where?”

“Let me go and I’ll get up and light it; I can find both in the dark. Will I be allowed to look at you, too?”

“Sure. For contrast. ‘Beauty and the Beast.’”

She giggled and kissed his ear. “Goat, maybe. Or a stallion. Theodore, I
needed
to be baby-stretched to accept
you.
”

“I thought you said I felt like Brian?”

“But
he
is a stallion, too. Let me go.”

“Pay toll.”

“Oh, goodness, darling, don’t do that now! Or I’ll be so shaky I won’t be able to strike a match.”

Standing and by the light on one candle, they studied each other. Lazarus felt his breath grow short at the dazzling glory of her. For most of two years he had been deprived of the sweet joy of seeing a woman, and had not realized how starved he had been for that great privilege. Darling, can you guess how
much
this means to me? Mama Maureen, has no one ever told you how much more sweetly beautiful a full-blown woman is than a maiden? Certainly your lovely breasts have held milk; that’s what they’re for. Why would I want them to look like marble?—I don’t!

She studied him just as closely, her face solemn, her nipples crinkled tightly. Theodore-Lazarus my strange love, will you guess that I suggested candlelight so that I could see
you?
A woman is not supposed to get hungry for such things—but I miss the sight, the naked sight, of my husband…and how in the Name of Satan and all His Fallen Thrones I can last even till November without even
seeing
a man I do not know. Alma Bixby told me that she had never seen her husband without clothes. How can a woman
live
like that? Five children by a man she’s never seen all over—Shocked her when I said that
of course
I had seen my husband naked!

Theodore-Lazarus, you don’t
look
like my Briney Boy; your coloration is more like mine. But, oh, how you feel like him, smell like him, talk like him, love like him! Your pretty thing is coming up high again. Briney beloved, I’m going to have him once more, as
hard
as possible!—and I’ll tell you about it tomorrow night if you’ll just ask me for a new bedtime story…or if I must, I’ll save it for you till you get back. You’re as strange a man as he is…and just the wise and tolerant husband your bawdy wife needs. Then, cross my heart, dearest, I’ll try my best to keep from it until you come back from Over There—but if I can’t, even with Father and eight children to guard me, I promise you solemnly that I will
never
bed with anyone but a warrior, a man to be proud of in every way. Such as this strange man.

Lazarus, my love, are you
really
my descendant? I
do
believe that you know when the war will be over and that my Briney will come safely back to me. Why, I am not sure—but since you told me, I have been free from worry for the first time in many a lonely moon. I hope the rest is true, too; I
want
to believe in Tamara, and that
she
is descended from me. But I
don’t
want you to go away in only eight years!

That innocent little picture—If I had not feared shocking you, I would have given you some
real
“French postcards” Briney has taken of me. Will you be upset if I take a closer look? I’ll chance it.

Mrs. Smith suddenly dropped to one knee, looked closely, then touched him. She looked up. “Now?”

“Yes!” He picked her up, placed her on the bed. Almost solemnly she helped him, then caught her breath as they joined. “
Hard
, Theodore! This time don’t be gentle!”

“Yes, my beautiful one!”

When their happy violence was over, she lay quiet in his arms, not talking, communing through touch and the light of one candle.

At last she said, “I must go, Theodore. No, don’t get up, just let me slide out.” She got up, picked up her wrap, blew out the candle, came back, leaned down and kissed him. “Thank you, Theodore—for
everything
. But—come back to me, come back to me!”

“I will, I will!”

Quickly and silently she was gone.

Somewhere in France

Dear All my Family,

I am writing this in my pocket diary where it will stay until this war is over—not that it matters; you’ll get it just as soon. But I can’t send a sealed letter now, much less one sealed into five envelopes. Something called “censorship”—which means that every letter is opened and read and anything that might interest the Boche is cut out. Such as dates and places and designations of military units and probably what I had for breakfast. (Beans and boiled pork and fried potatoes, with coffee that would dissolve a spoon.)

You see, I had this lovely ocean voyage as a guest of Uncle Sam and am now in the land of fine wines and beautiful women. (The wine has been vin extremely ordinaire, and they seem to be hiding the beautiful women. The best-looking one I’ve seen had a slight mustache and very hairy legs, which I could have ignored had I not made the mistake of standing downwind. Darlings, I am not sure the French take baths, at least in wartime. But I’m in no position to criticize, a bath is a luxury. Today, given a choice between a beautiful woman and a hot bath, I’d pick the bath—otherwise she wouldn’t touch me.)

Don’t worry that I am now in a “war zone.” That you’ve received this is proof that the war is over and I am okay. But it’s easier to write a letter than it is to put trivia into a diary every day. “War zone” is an exaggeration; this is “fixed warfare”—meaning both sides are in the same fix: pinned down—and I am too far behind the lines to get hurt.

I am in charge of a unit called a “squad”—eight men—me and five other riflemen, plus an automatic rifleman (the rifle, not the man; this war has no robot fighters) and an eighth man who carries ammunition for the automatic rifleman. It’s a corporal’s job, and that’s what I am; the promotion to sergeant I was expecting (in my last letter as dated from the United States) got lost in the shuffle when I was transferred to another outfit.

Being a corporal suits me. It is the first time I’ve had men permanently assigned to me, time enough to get acquainted with each one, learn his strong points and weak ones, and how to handle him. They are a fine bunch of men. Only one is a problem, and it’s not his fault; it results from the prejudices of the time. His name is F. X. Dinkowski, and he is simultaneously the only Catholic and the only Jew in my squad—and, twins, if you’ve never heard of either one, ask Athene. By ancestry he comes from one religion, then he was brought up in another—and he has had the tough luck to be placed with country boys who have still a third religion and are not very tolerant.

Plus the additional misfortunes of being a city boy and having a voice that grates (even on me) and is clumsy, and when they pick on him (they do if I’m not right there), it makes him more clumsy. Truthfully he’s not soldier material—but I wasn’t asked. So he’s the ammunition carrier, the best I can do to balance my squad.

They call him “Dinky,” which is only mildly disparaging, but he hates it. (I use his full last name—I do with all of them. For ritualistic reasons having to do with the mystique of military organizations at this here-&-now it is best to call a man by his family name.)

But let’s leave the finest squad in the AEF and bring you up to date on my first family and your ancestors. Just before Uncle Sam sent me on that pleasure cruise, I was given a vacation. I spent it with the Brian Smith family and lived in their house, as they have “adopted” me for the rest of this war, me being an “orphan.”

That leave was the happiest time I’ve had since I was dropped from the
Dora
. I took Woodie to an amusement park, primitive but more fun than some sophisticated pleasures of Secundus. I took him on rides and treated him to games and things that were fun for him, and fun for me because he enjoyed them so—wore him out and he slept all the way home. He behaved himself, and now we are chums. I’ve decided to let him grow up; there may be hope for him yet.

I had long talks with Gramp, got better acquainted with all the others—especially Mama and Pop. The latter was unexpected. I had met Pop for a few minutes at Camp Funston, then he was to come home on leave the day I had to go back, and I didn’t expect to see him. But he got away a few hours early, a bonus an officer can sometimes manage, and we overlapped—and he telephoned to the camp and got me a two-day extension. Why? Tamara and Ira, listen carefully—

To attend the wedding of—

Miss Nancy Irene Smith &

Mr. Jonathan Sperling Weatheral

Athene, explain to the twins the historic significance of this union. List the famous and important people in that line, dear, not the total genealogies. And Ira and Tamara in our own little family, of course, and Ishtar, and at least five of our children—and I may have missed someone, not having all the genealogical lines in my head.

I was “best man” to Jonathan, and Pop “gave the bride away,” and Brian was an “usher” and Marie was “ringbearer” and Carol was “maid of honor,” and George was charged with keeping Woodie from setting fire to the church while Mama took care of Dickie and Ethel—Athene can explain terms and ritual; I shan’t try. But it not only gave me two more days of leave, much of which I spent running errands for Mama (these medieval weddings are complex operations), but it also gave me time with Pop, and now I know him better than I ever did as a son under his roof—and like him very much and heartily approve of him.

Ira, he reminds me of you—brainy, no nonsense, relaxed, tolerant, and warmly friendly.

Bulletin: The bride was pregnant (a proper Howard wedding!—at a time when
all
brides are assumed to be virgins)—pregnant with (if memory serves) “Jonathan Brian Weatheral.” Is that right, Justin, and who is descended from him? Remind me, Athene. I’ve met a lot of people over the centuries; I may even have married some descendant of Jonathan Brian at some time. I rather hope so; Nancy and Jonathan are a fine young couple.

I turned “my” landaulet over to them for a six-day honeymoon, then Jonathan was to (did) join the Army—but too late to get into combat. Nancy’s warrior hero just the same; he tried.

Some fiddling sergeant who couldn’t find his arse with both hands wants me to round up my squad and do something about a dugout that someone was careless with. So—

All my love from Corporal Buddy Boy

Somewhere in France

Dear Mr. Johnson,

Please give this a second censoring; some of it will have to be explained to the rest of my adopted family.

I hope that Mrs. Smith received the thank-you note I mailed from Hoboken (and could read it—writing on my knee while bouncing on the C. & A. roadbed does not improve my handwriting). In any case I thank her again for the happiest holiday of my life. And thanks to
all
of you. Please tell Woodie that I will no longer spot him a horse. From here on we play even or he can find another sucker—four out of five is too many.

Now for the rest—Note signature and address. My rocker did not last to France, then three chevrons dwindled to two. Can you explain to Mrs. Smith and to Carol (those two in particular) that being busted does not disgrace a man forever?—and that I am still Carol’s own special soldier if she will let me be—and in fact I am far more of a real soldier; I am at last free of being tagged as “instructor” and am now leading a squad in a combat outfit. I wish I could tell her where…but if I stuck my head up over the parapet, I might see some heinies if one of them didn’t see me first. I’m not gold-bricking a hundred miles back.

I hope you aren’t ashamed of me. No, I’m sure you are not; you are too old a soldier to care about rank. I’m in it and that’s what counts with you. I know. May I say, sir, that you are and have always been as long as I’ve known you an inspiration to me?

I won’t detail the two negative promotions; in the Army excuses don’t count. But I want you to know that neither resulted from anything dishonorable. The first was in the transport and involved a duty-struck master-at-arms and a poker game in an area for which I was responsible. The second came while I was instructing—dummy trenches, dummy no-man’s land—and a captain told me to dress up that skirmish line and I said, “Hell, Captain, are you trying to save bullets for the Kaiser? Or haven’t you heard of machine guns?”

(I suppose I shouldn’t have said “Hell.” In fact I used another expression more common among soldiers.)

So later that day I was a corporal, and my transfer took place when I requested it, again that same day.

So here I am and feeling fine. It is indeed a fact that the closer a man gets to the front, the better his morale is. I’ve become chummy with cooties, and the mud in France is deeper and stickier than in southern Missouri, and I dream about hot baths and Mrs. Smith’s wonderful guest room for soldiers—but I’m in good health and good spirits, and I send my love to all of you.

Respectfully yours, Corporal Ted Bronson