Frankie was so tired she could barely nod.
Barb and Patty put arms around each other’s shoulders, kept each other standing as they headed for the doors.
Jamie pulled off his surgical cap and called for a medic to take the patient to Post-Op. When the gurney was wheeled away, Jamie and Frankie were left alone in the OR, facing each other.
“Well?” he said, giving her a steady look. She knew somehow that it mattered to him, how she felt about tonight.
“I have a long way to go,” she said. Then she smiled at him. “But, yeah.”
“There are men going home to their families because of us. That’s about all we can hope for.” He moved closer. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“I don’t really drink.”
“Then you can buy me one.”
After they discarded their scrubs and caps and gloves, he took her hand and led her out of the OR.
She found herself leaning into him as they walked. She’d never had a serious boyfriend, never made love. Back in the world, it had seemed important to be a good girl, to make her parents proud, but honestly, the horror she saw here every day made the rules of polite society seem unimportant.
Not surprisingly, the O Club was packed with people, all of whom looked exhausted and beaten up after tonight’s push. But they were done now and needed to unwind. Ethel was seated at a table alone, smoking a cigarette; Barb was on the makeshift dance floor in some man’s arms, barely moving to the music. It looked more like they were holding each other upright than dancing. Some guy in the corner was strumming a ukulele.
Jamie led Frankie to Ethel’s table and pulled out a chair for her. Frankie practically fell into it. Then he headed to the bar for drinks. “Well?” Ethel asked, offering Frankie a cigarette.
Frankie took it, lit it off of Ethel’s. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Hell, Frank, that’s a great first day in the OR.” She sighed. “Triage was brutal. Charlie really tore the shit out of those boys. Every single expectant died.”
Ethel held Frankie’s hand for a moment, both giving and receiving comfort. Then she stood up. “I can’t stand it in here tonight. I’m going to the hooch for quiet, maybe write my dad a letter. You?”
Frankie glanced at Jamie, who was headed back from the bar. “Jamie’s—”
“Married.”
Frankie looked up at Ethel. “Married? What? He never said…”
Ethel touched her shoulder. “Be careful, Frank. Not everything the world teaches women is a lie. You don’t want to get a reputation over here. I know I’m a good Baptist girl and far from cool, but some things are simply true, no matter how much the world changes. Think carefully who you climb into a cot with.”
Frankie watched Ethel walk out of the O Club.
Moments later, Jamie sat down beside Frankie, scooted in close, offered her a Fresca. “I got you this, but I seriously recommend the whiskey.”
“Do you?” She sipped the lukewarm soda.
“There’s a hotel in Saigon,” he said. “The Caravelle. It has a great rooftop bar. You’d love it. Soft beds. Clean sheets.”
Frankie turned to him. “You should wear a ring, you know.”
His smile faded. “McGrath—”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“I figured you knew. Everyone knows.”
“What’s your wife’s name?”
He sighed. “Sarah.”
“Do you have children?”
“One,” he said after a pause. “Davy.”
Frankie closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. “Do you have a picture?”
He took out his wallet, pulled out a photograph of a tall, slender woman with bouffant hair, holding a towheaded boy with plump cheeks and marshmallow arms and legs.
He put the photograph away. There was a silence between them now, a quiet steeped in Frankie’s disappointment. “It … doesn’t have to have anything to do with … this. Us. Here.”
“You disappoint me,” she said.
“I…”
“Don’t tell me lies, Jamie. Respect me, please. I believe in old-fashioned things. Like love and honesty. And vows.” She downed her soda so fast it burned her throat. Then she stood up. “Good night.”
“Don’t run off, McGrath. I’ll be a gentleman. Scout’s honor.”
“I believe we’ve already determined that you were never a Scout.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But I could use a friend tonight.”