When We Were Enemies: A Novel(70)
“Please don’t say no again. I can’t take it. Pearl meant nothing to me if that’s your worry. I was trying to get your attention because I think about you all the time. I can’t stop. I’ve never had a woman plague me like you do. All I’m asking is for one shot. One.”
One shot. I consider the risk—he could be a scoundrel, but that’s a risk all girls face when dating. Or he could be head over heels for me in a way no man has ever been, the way papà used to be in love with mamma and would do foolish things to keep her happy and take care of her.
It’s one date—what could it hurt, really?
“You’ll have to meet my father,” I say. Papà won’t like it, but if I manage things carefully, he won’t say no.
“I’d be honored.”
“And no sneaking in or out. Just till ten. Like you promised.”
“Scout’s honor,” he says with all the excitement of a Cub Scout. The bus rumbles up, the heavy exhaust announcing its arrival as audaciously as its squealing brakes.
“All right, then. Saturday evening at . . .”
“Eighteen hundred hours. Your address?”
I rip off a piece of the tissue paper from the shoebox, write my address down, and tuck it into his pocket. Without even a goodbye, I make it onto the bus as the doors are about to close and slip into the first empty spot. As the bus slowly accelerates, I let down the window and lean out and shout, “Thanks for the shoes.”
He says something in reply, but I can’t make it out.
I can’t stop smiling as I sink into my seat. The two nosy girls who’d been eavesdropping at the bus stop take the empty bench across the aisle. Thankfully, I don’t recognize them from the USO, so perhaps they’re new to town like so many other girls these days.
“Hi, I’m Lilly,” the blonde says, pointing to herself and then to her auburn-haired friend, “and this is Sue. We couldn’t help but hear you talking to T. B. Highward. He’s so dreamy. Are you his girl?”
“T. B. Highward?” I ask. “That’s Tom Highward. And no—I’m not his—anything.”
“He bought you shoes,” Sue says, her voice squeaky like Minnie Mouse. No way she’s older than seventeen.
“Yes. But he also ruined my shoes. So it was a fair trade.”
“T. B. Highward is Tom Branson Highward. His dad owns half of Philly Steel. And T. B., sorry, Tom, is supposed to take over. When he gets back from the war and such,” Lilly says as though she’s reading from a history book.
Tom? The son of a wealthy steel magnate? No. Not possible.
“Dear,” I say as condescendingly as possible, “rich men don’t get drafted into the army. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed.”
“They do enlist, though. To make their rich daddies angry,” Sue chirps.
“I’ve never heard of joining the army as a great act of rebellion. Besides, how would you know this? You’re close friends with the Highwards?”
“Nuh-uh,” Lilly says, riffling through her purse and pulling out a hand-addressed envelope. “My mom cuts out Lolly and Hedda’s columns every week and sends them to me. Never misses. He’s T. B. Highward. I swear—he has to be.”
She holds out the letter, but I wave it away. Tom isn’t polished enough to be some rich man’s son. That kind of money could’ve gotten him a cushy position in an office somewhere or even moved him through the ranks faster than he deserved.
Lilly shrugs and puts the envelope back in her bag. “I have a picture at home from the Daily News. His family threw this fancy party before he left, and there were photographers there, and a big article was written on it. It’s a little hard to tell it’s him in the picture, but I’d bet my grannie’s dentures on it.”
I cringe at the immature phrase and shake my head.
“No need for betting any such thing.”
“So you believe us?” Sue asks, wide eyed and eager. This must seem like a real-life Cinderella moment from her sheltered, childlike perspective. The bus stops for the third time. It’s my stop. I collect my things, including the fancy new shoes, and smile at the girls.
“In general, I believe nothing I hear and only half of what I see,” I say, quoting some saying I’ve heard somewhere—maybe church or maybe a film I can’t place. I feel quite dramatic as I turn on my muddy heels and leap down the stairs, leaving them with that enigmatic response.
They’ll likely linger on it, and it’ll become part of their T. B. Highward mythology. Tom, a rich fool who joined the army to prove something to his father? It sounds like the storyline for some comedy or an epic romance where the “playboy millionaire” learns life lessons while serving in the army. I guess it’s possible. Nowadays everything seems possible—the good and the bad.
But there’s one thing I know for sure: handsome rich men fall for small-town nobodies in movies, but in real life, they marry women with money and a pedigree that their families would approve of. T. B. Highward, whoever he may be, likely has a girl lined up at home for his heroic return from battle. And that girl could never be me.
My spirits darken as I wonder whether Tom could possibly be the same Highward written about in the newspapers. I turn down my street, wishing I had a way to hide the carton from Mrs. Brown, the busybody who lives on the corner. Unable to camouflage the bulky box, I walk as quickly as my tired feet allow.