“You want to come too, papà?” Aria asks innocently, knowing he’ll say no. Papà hasn’t been to Holy Trinity since Tony’s funeral. I’ve always thought that seeing the tiny box with his infant son lying inside made it impossible for him to go back. But he still wants us to go, insists upon it.
“No, no.” He waves away the question like he always does. “But you can take the car this one time for church, Viviana, if you must drive,” he says, as though the joy of driving the car were the only reason I’d want to take it out of the garage.
“Thank you, papà.” I change the subject to food. “Chicken’s in the icebox for dinner and tuna fish for a sandwich at lunch. I left two beers in there too. But no more than that. Remember what the doctor said. You can’t take your pain pills with alcohol. So, either drink an hour before or an hour after, okay?”
“You say the same things every morning. I broke my foot, not my ears.” He’d sound frustrated to anyone listening if they understood Italian, but I can tell by the softness in my papà’s eyes that he appreciates my care.
“Love you, papà,” I say, grabbing my light coat from the closet. I get it buttoned up, pin on my felt cloche hat, wriggle on my kid gloves, and sling my purse full of contraband makeup over my shoulder. He grumbles out a goodbye as I rush out the front door.
I can see why Aria’s cheeks had such a lovely color to them. The air is brisk but warm when the sun drifts out from behind one of the generously sized, billowy clouds. The sky is a bright blue, the kind of blue that usually makes my stomach churn, but today I don’t let the color take my thoughts back to that painful day. It’s not that difficult because I have something far more interesting to think about. And that is—Tom Highward.
We danced the rest of the night, last Friday. He didn’t leave my side. I rarely dance with the same man for more than two songs in a row, but I enjoyed the light pressure of his hand against my lower back, and each time a song ended, he placed it there again, making clear to the other servicemen I was taken.
I reach the bus stop a full ten minutes early. The cinched belt on my jacket reminds me of Tom’s arms around my waist during the last slow number of the night. He hummed along, a deep melodic rumble enticing me to lean in with my whole frame, bits of our bodies grazing each other as we swayed.
After one particularly grandiose turn, he flicked his wrist, bringing me back into his gravitational pull so forcefully that we smacked into each other. He gripped my waist to keep me from falling, and I let him hold me so closely that we moved as one until I regained my senses and remembered the rules.
I’m so lost in my daydream when Mary honks her horn I nearly scream. The two women sitting on the bench and Mr. Thompson, standing on the opposite side of the bus stop reading a newspaper, all look up.
“Mary! Hush!” I reprimand with a gloved finger over my lips. “Sorry!” I address the others. Mary waves me over frantically, and I run around the front of the vehicle to hop into the front seat.
“Get in, already.” She’s tapping the steering wheel and looking around like we’ve just completed a heist and the police will soon come after us. Her flawlessly curled hair peeks out from under the folded silk scarf she always wears while driving. Her sunglasses give an added air of glamour and mystery, and the fresh coat of red lipstick makes her skin look like painted porcelain. Civilian employees at Camp Atterbury don’t have to wear uniforms, but the dress code requires us to wear modest attire. Mary pushes the rules with her bright lipstick and a flash of color in each outfit.
“I’m in; I’m in,” I say as I slide into the front seat and slam the door behind me. She stomps her foot on the gas, and the roar of the engine is drowned out by the rush of the wind through the windows, sending my hair into disarray.
“You’re worse than the bus.” I roll up the window on my side of the car before digging through my purse for mamma’s silver compact and the contraband beauty supplies.
“Oh, hush; you know you can’t possibly survive without me,” Mary responds hotly, and I can’t deny that she’s right. Mary was my one link to modern life when I was a girl, and she saw me through all the problems girls usually turn to their mothers for.
Sure, Mary is boy crazy, can stomach hard liquor better than most men, and has been known to slip a thing or two into her pockets at Danner’s General Store, but she’s my best friend. She’s also the reason I have my gig at the USO, my job at the camp, and the only reason I’ve held on to any dream of ever getting away from Edinburgh, as vague and seemingly impossible as that might be.
“I don’t know if either of us will be alive at the end of this trip,” I say after being thrown against the armrest as she takes a hard right turn onto Bryan Street.
“All right, all right, I’ll slow down. You’re beginning to sound like Carl. I swear he’s more scared of me behind the wheel than any blitz.”
As the car slows to a bearable, far more legal speed, I apply the last few touches of lipstick and then I notice she’s watching me more than she’s watching the road.
“What is it?” I ask, examining the color coverage in my mirror. I’m wearing pink rather than red because the lighter tint is far easier to remove at the end of the day.
“So . . . what did he say?”
“He?” I say, acting innocent, not sure if the “he” she’s referring to is the same “he” I can’t stop thinking about. She saw me dancing with Tom on Friday and asked me a few questions on the way home.
“About the roommate thing. What did your father say? If you can’t put in a deposit this week, Dorothy says we have to put an ad in the paper.”
“Oh, that.” I close the compact with a loud click.
“Right after the wedding on Friday, Tammy will be on a train with Doug. It’s a great deal, and if you move in, we can drive to work together every day. Plus, you’ll be close enough to help out your dad and Aria, but you can actually live your own life, Viv. Get those headshots. Go on real auditions. Go on real dates with real men.” She says the last bit with extra emphasis and wiggles her eyebrows. When she told me about the roommate opening last Friday, I, in a moment of dance-induced delirium, said maybe. But now I realize how foolish the idea was.
“I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Vivian!” Mary chastises me, and I can see her glare even through her tinted lenses.
“You know money is tight.”
“I know, but I thought the job would help.”
“It does,” I say, knowing my father would be mortified I’m disclosing our financial difficulties, but if I can trust anyone, I can trust Mary. “But papà can’t go back to work for another month at least, and with his medical bills and everything else . . . they need me at home.”
“They always need you at home, Vivian. If you’re not careful, you’re gonna end up an old maid taking care of your dad instead of doing all the things you deserve to do.”
“You don’t get it. This isn’t how it works in my family. I’m not supposed to move out until I get married, and even then, I’ll always be expected to take care of my parents. It’s just how it is,” I say, knowing she’s right. I hate to hear my greatest fears said out loud. It makes that version of the future seem too real.