“You get in that car or I’ll put you there,” he says, a fiery twinkle in his eye that makes me wonder if he’s serious.
“No.” I tug at my arm again. He uses his strength to yank me back and flip me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, my legs dangling in the air.
“Stop!” I squeal, outraged and confused.
“Get that door open.” It screeches open, and with very little effort, Tom tosses me into the back.
I land on top of two shrieking girls. I was right—it’s Adelia and Samantha from Columbus. In the front seat with Pearl’s brother sits my least favorite uniformed man—Talbot. He watches the entanglement with amusement.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Pearl yells as Tom wedges himself back into the packed car, helping sit me up, half on the seat and half on the leg of the girl next to me. My upper body presses against his side, my head touching the roof of the car.
“We’re taking her home.”
“We’re doing no such thing.”
“Your idiot brother about flattened her. It’s the least you can do,” he says bitterly, like he suddenly can’t stand Pearl or her brother or anyone in this car.
“Hey now.” Talbot tries to calm the escalating conflict.
“I can walk,” I say.
“Tell Ernie your address,” Tom insists.
Everyone in the car seems to understand Tom isn’t about to change his mind. I give Ernie directions to my street.
As we drive, a warm wind cuts through the stuffy, overheated interior, but it remains unbearably hot and sticky. The others make small talk and shift in their seats to try to access the brief nibbles of a breeze. But Tom doesn’t seem to be aware of much more than me.
Even with my aching elbow and bruised ego, I’m glad he kept me from running away. The only heat that matters is where his hand touches my bare knee and my body presses against his. This heat feels good, and it spreads as I watch him look over every inch of my face and linger on my lips, like he wishes he knew what they taste like. I’ve seen this look from men before. It usually frightens me, or disgusts me, but for some reason it feels different from Tom. His touch and his look make me want to get closer, and I don’t know why.
The mile to my street goes by quickly, and when we pull over, Tom helps me out of the car like a gentleman this time.
“This your house?” he asks, pointing at the Browns’ A-frame at the end of North Holland Street.
“Oh, this one? No. I live that way.” I point in the general direction of my house. He glances over my shoulder and then back at me.
“You don’t want me to know where you live?” His brow furrows. “Do I scare you?” He sounds hurt.
“No . . . not at all,” I say, though it’s partially a lie. Sometimes he scares me. But that’s not why I don’t tell him where I live. “My father’s old-fashioned. He thinks the only place a young woman belongs is at home or at church. He wouldn’t like to know I was at the USO.”
“He doesn’t approve of your band?” he asks, walking me to the end of the street. Pearl hangs halfway out the car window, watching closely.
“He doesn’t know about it. Any of it.”
“Not even Atterbury?”
“Nope. None of it. Thinks I work at Cummins engine company.”
“What? Is he antigovernment?” He recoils, offended and a bit suspicious.
“No, no. Not at all.” I rush to fix the misunderstanding. “He’s against the POWs being here—at Camp Atterbury. Wouldn’t want me working there.”
“I don’t blame him. How do you think it makes us enlisted men feel when you all fawn over those greaseballs?”
“Greaseballs?” I echo. Tom seems oblivious to the offensive nature of his comment.
“Yeah. The Italians. We’re fighting those bastards, and they’re being fattened up and playing summer camp on Uncle Sam’s dime. Then they flirt with our girls behind our backs, stealing them away while we’re out fighting their brothers and cousins. You can’t blame a guy for getting jealous.” He pauses his rant to take a swig out of the flask he keeps in his breast pocket. I take the opportunity to cut in.
“It’s not like that,” I try to explain defensively. “It’s the rules. There’s a book where it’s all written down . . .”
“But maybe you like that,” he interrupts, his breath scented with whiskey. “Is that why you danced with that kid tonight? To make me jealous?”
“No,” I respond immediately. “It’s my job. We’re all just doing our jobs.” I’m angry but getting more frightened by the minute of facing my father’s wrath. “I have to go. My father will be worried.”
“Running away again?” he shouts, reaching for my sore elbow. This time I evade his grasp before he can clamp down or toss me back in the car. Talbot and Ernie coax Tom into the car as I glance around, watching for lights inside the neighboring houses.
“Everything all right?” Talbot asks very officially, like he’s on duty.
I nod, relieved to see Tom settle in the back of the car. He presses his head against the metal frame of the half-opened window and watches me talk to Talbot but doesn’t look upset anymore. More like—sad.
“Will he get in trouble?” I ask, unsure if it’s okay for Tom to return drunk.
“Nah. Don’t worry,” he says, waving away my concerns. “I’ll get him back in. No one the wiser.”
“I can put a good word in—with Lieutenant Colonel. If he needs,” I offer. As strained as our evening has been, he wouldn’t be late if not for my shoe-fixing attempt in the middle of the road.
“Please don’t,” Talbot says. “We’re not out—officially—if you know what I mean.”
I blink a few times, gradually processing the hidden message inside that statement.
“You snuck out?”
He shushes me, putting a finger to his mouth.
“Yes. Tom’s restricted till next week. Everybody does it. There’s a reason they don’t fix that hole out in the west fence line.”
“West? Through Nineveh?” The little town west of Camp Atterbury is known to be friendly to AWOL soldiers sneaking out for a night of fun.
“That location is ‘need to know,’” he says, his slight slur making the declaration sound a touch ridiculous. “I know you don’t give a whit about me, but if you want to keep him safe, you’ll keep quiet about ever seeing us. You good at keeping a secret?”
He looms over me. My joints lock up in fear.
I nod.
“Yeah, bet you’ve got lots of secrets,” Talbot says with a sneer, caressing my cheek with one finger.
“Would you knock it off? We’ve gotta go,” Pearl shouts from the car, saving me.
“Keep your skirt on. I’m coming,” he yells. With one finger to his lips, he stumbles back to the car. They drive away, and in the cricket-filled nightscape that’s suddenly so peaceful and calm, I wonder how we didn’t wake the neighbors. I take off my other shoe and run the rest of the way home through the damp grass.
The house is dark, which means that through some combination of pain medication, alcohol, and God’s will, papà is asleep. Aria made it look like I was already home and tucked into bed. The poor girl—lying for her sister. I wonder if she ever talks about me in confession, about the lies I ask her to tell.