Winter in June (19 page)

Late Nate had one of the men escort me to the infirmary. Gilda was in a small, private room with a sheet pulled over her body. There was no attempt made at preservation. She would be flown home in a plain casket just like every other American life lost in the war.

Her hair was visible beneath the sheet, fanning out from her head in such a way that made it clear it was no longer attached to a living being. I stared for a long time, waiting for her body to ripple with a sign of life. The stillness was devastating. Never had I seen anything so completely without motion.

I pulled the sheet back to her waist. Her face was pale and looked bruised. The immaculate beauty we had all observed and envied was gone at death. Her roots were dark, her eyebrows craved plucking, and her face seemed hard and uneven. Perhaps it had never been her physical beauty that we found so alluring. It was Gilda herself that we marveled at.

I touched her arm and felt the unyielding flesh. The hand of her
platinum wristwatch struggled to move forward from the minute it was stalled at. I took her cold hand in mine and wound the watch. Time marched on.

 

Kay and Violet weren't at the mess when I returned. I found them in our tent, packing up Gilda's belongings.

“Hiya,” I said as I entered. “What's going on?”

“We figured we should get her things ready to send home,” said Kay.

Violet put a hat on her head and checked her reflection in the trunk's mirror. “It's such a shame to send everything back.”

I joined them before her trunks and helped fold the dresses that had once hung about the room on nails. Her clothes seemed different when not hanging from her body—thinner and frailer, like they were party balloons that had been deflated the day after a celebration. We each took turns holding up the fancy duds against our bodies, but rather than exciting us, it only seemed to reinforce how dreadfully out of place these garments seemed when they were on anyone other than their original owner.

“We decided not to pack the stuff she loaned to Jayne,” said Kay. “I'm sure she'd want her to keep them.”

“God, she never even wore half this stuff,” said Violet. We searched through these things as though by seeing clothes that were unfamiliar we could spend a little more time with a woman we'd only begun to know. As fascinating as the new things were, they weren't what held our interest. We wanted things we had seen her wear, that had become part of the memories we had left of her. “Do you think it might be all right if I kept a souvenir?” asked Violet. Her fingers danced across the black satin eyemask Gilda wore to bed each night.

I wasn't in the mood to argue about the impropriety of it. “I don't suppose it would hurt,” I said. “As long as it's something small.”

In the end, Violet chose a small beaded evening bag, and I kept the hairclip she'd worn the night we'd sung “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” aboard the ship. After some agonizing, Kay went the utilitarian route and decided on Gilda's rain gear.

“Don't you want something flashier?” asked Violet.

Kay stared down at the sad, hollow, vinyl cape. “That's not how I want to remember her.”

We resumed packing. Our once-careful attempts to fold grew increasingly sloppy as we all fought to get this dreaded task over and done with. “So how did your conversation with Rear Admiral Blake go?” Violet asked me.

“Oh, you know,” I said. “How 'bout yours?”

“He asked me a hundred times where I was when the shots were fired. I was afraid I was going to have to reenact the whole thing for him.”

“What about you, Kay?” I asked.

“Same story. He wanted to know why I was in the latrine and what I might've heard or seen while I was there.”

“And did either of you see or hear anything?” I asked.

“No,” they said in unison.

Why did Blake care? Did he think, as I thought, that someone at the camp could've been in cahoots with the sniper?

“Was it just me, or did he seem beat up?” I asked.

Violet frowned. “He definitely looked like he'd been crying.”

“I think everyone's going to be,” said Kay. “She touched a lot of people.”

She was right about that. The famous had a way of making a bigger impact when they left this world—larger-than-life personalities left big holes. But Late Nate's grief still seemed odd to me. Perhaps it was just that I was amazed to learn that he felt anything at all.

The tent flaps rustled and Spanky appeared. “Is it true?” he asked.

“Is what true?” asked Violet.

“About Gilda. There's a rumor going around that she's dead.”

The three of us looked at one another, none of us wishing to volunteer to be the bearer of bad news.

He cracked his knuckles. “Come on—we deserve to know.”

Since no one else was willing to do it, I nodded my confirmation.

“Goddamn it,” said Spanky. Violet went to him and took him in her arms.

“We just found out ourselves,” I said.

For a moment he was limp in Violet's embrace. Just when I thought he might've lost consciousness, he repeated the profanity and put his hand on his head, as though he was hoping to find hair to ruffle. “There's going to be hell to pay for this.”

Before he could say anything else, blond chignon walked into our room. She gave him a look that simultaneously asked him what he was doing there and ordered him to leave. Spanky cowered beneath her gaze. Without uttering another word or even tossing us a silent good-bye, he turned tail and left the tent.

“I'm Captain Amelia Lambert. Some of you I've met before.” Her cold blue eyes scanned me, effortlessly asserting her superiority. “And some of you I've heard about.” Her gaze landed on Kay, passing silent judgment for all of the sins that had been reported, if not confirmed, about her. “For those of you I'm not acquainted with.” Violet looked behind her, trying to figure out who, other than herself, hadn't yet had the pleasure of meeting this woman. “I am the new commanding officer for the Wacs stationed here at Tulagi. And from this moment forward, I am also your commanding officer. During your remaining time on the islands, you will report to me.”

“Does this mean we're Wacs now?” asked Violet.

Amelia Lambert didn't like interruptions. In fact, I was pretty sure Amelia Lambert didn't like anything at all. “Of course not. Wearing our uniform is a privilege. You have merely been placed under my control during your tenure here to ensure your safety.”

“So we're prisoners of war,” I said.

She didn't even turn in my direction. “From this moment forward, you must obey any command I give to you. Failure to do so will result in disciplinary action similar to what the enlisted women face. In order to keep a closer eye on you and to place you in a more secure environment, you will be leaving this tent and moving into the WAC barracks.” She looked at a clipboard that was so much a part of her I hadn't even noticed it. “Miss Winter will be in bunk twenty-five.
Miss Lancaster, bunk twenty-six. And Miss Thorpe will be in bunk twenty-seven. Please gather your things and in ten minutes we will bring you to your new accommodations.”

“Wait a second,” said Violet. “Do you mean we don't even have our own tent any longer?”

“Of course not,” said Captain Lambert. “It's impossible to supervise you when you're placed separate from the rest of the women. You will be integrated into their living quarters from here on out.”

“What about Gilda's trunks?” asked Kay.

“Leave them here. I'll arrange to have them shipped home. Ten minutes, ladies.” She turned to leave and stopped right before she reached the flap. “By the way, I'm sorry for your loss.”

 

The barracks where the Wacs were staying was just a stone's throw away from our tent, though from the way our privacy was immediately stripped from us, it might as well have been on the moon. The other women were gone, performing whatever work it was they did, so we had the large crowded space to ourselves. There was no unpacking to do. Trunks were set at the ends of the narrow cots and were to remain closed at all times except when we were dressing or undressing. As for the cots themselves, every one in the joint had been prepared to Captain Lambert's specifications, meaning that the blanket was pulled and tucked so tightly you would've thought the mattress was wearing a girdle. No personal items were on display. This, we were told, encouraged thievery and other individual impulses that had no place at an army camp.

Just as in our tent, there was a concrete floor here. Apparently, that was a privilege reserved for women.

We put our things away and sat on our beds waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn't take long to fall.

Amelia Lambert walked a line in the center of the Quonset hut. “You are expected to follow our rules while you're here. That includes no male visitors in our tent.” She looked at me as she said it. Apparently she'd surmised that, in Gilda's absence, I was the one egging on immoral behavior. “Since you are sharing our quarters, it
is only fair that you share our duties.” Captain Lambert passed each of us a typed sheet listing the various kinds of tasks the Wacs did every day. “I have penciled in your names beside the jobs I think you would be best suited for. On the days when you're traveling for performances, I recommend that you do your job prior to departing. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must see to other things.”

She left us alone to stew over the tasks we'd been given. Violet would be sweeping out the barracks once a week. Kay had to assist with hauling water. I wasn't so lucky. I'd been assigned to clean the latrine.

“This is ridiculous,” I said. “We're not soldiers. We certainly didn't do anything to deserve being sent to the henhouse.”

“I don't think we have any choice,” said Kay. She looked even more depressed than she had that morning, if such a thing was possible. Not only had she lost Gilda and Irene, but now she was being forced to bunk with the enemy.

“On the bright side,” said Violet, “we're barely here as it is.” Her words echoed Gilda's that first day at camp, when our dreary new surroundings had rendered us mute. I found it strangely comforting.

“And what's this business about needing to look out for us when they've already caught the shooter?” I asked.

“Because they think their guy wasn't working alone,” said Violet. “Surely you caught that from all the questions Blake asked?” She fished a jar out of her trunk and took a quick swig.

“Spanky seemed pretty upset,” said Kay. “You don't think he and the other fellows will do something to the sniper, do you?”

“Who cares if they do?” said Violet. “He killed Gilda. He deserves the same or worse.”

“It's against the Geneva Convention,” said Kay.

“And you think those yellow fellows are upholding the letter of the law?” asked Violet.

“That's not the point,” said Kay. “If we don't obey the rules of war, no one will.”

It was such an absurd idea, this notion that there were rules, like
this entire war was an enormous game of Monopoly. Did every man and woman who joined the military know the rules? Or did they learn it bit by bit the way Gilda figured out Hollywood?

Kay and Violet continued sniping at each other, but I couldn't bear to listen to either of them anymore. My head was pounding as I struggled to make sense of what had happened. Why did the gunman fire twice? If he'd fired once, he might've been able to get away. He lost time by sticking around to pop off a second shot. Surely he couldn't tell that he'd only grazed Jayne. After all, she'd fallen to the stage. She had to have looked like she'd been hit.

“What if it was an accident?” I asked.

Kay and Violet shut their yaps and turned my way.

“What if what was an accident?” asked Violet.

“Gilda and Jayne both being shot.”

“So what—the sniper fell on his rifle and accidentally shot them?” said Violet.

I struggled not to snap at her. “What I meant was: What if one of them wasn't the intended victim but got caught in the crossfire? The sniper was shooting from pretty far away. It would've been easy for him to mess up.”

“If that's the case, which was which?” asked Kay.

I punched the air with my index finger. “Jayne was fired at first. She was probably the mistake. The sniper realized he hit the wrong person and fired the second shot.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” said Violet. “How could the sniper know which one of them would cause a bigger reaction?”

I didn't have an answer. If the whole point of shooting at the performers was to create a distraction, two shots certainly felt like overkill. To say nothing of the dog.

 

Mail call broke up our afternoon. I didn't have anything, but Jayne did: one big fat letter from Tony B. I took it to the infirmary, where she was attempting to read an issue of
Doc Savage
through red tear-ravished eyes.

“I take it you heard the news,” I said.

“They told me late last night. I keep thinking they made a mistake.”

“Me too, but they didn't.” I cleared my throat. “I saw the body.”

“They let you?”

“Yeah, Rear Admiral Blake did. Isn't that a kick? Who would've thought Late Nate had a heart.” I followed the shape of Tony's envelope with my finger. “You could probably see her too, if you want to.”

“I don't know if I could bear to see her like that.” From the cover of the pulp, a green voodoo idol snarled at me.

I sat on the edge of her bed and focused on smoothing the sheet covering her legs. Jayne was alive. Even when her legs were still, they moved. “I had to. I couldn't stand the thought of losing two people without having any evidence of it.”

Jayne closed the magazine. “Oh, Rosie. I didn't even think about how awful that must be for you.”