“But I thought with the wedding . . .”
“Tom supports my career,” I say defensively. “I’m auditioning for the USO Camp Shows next week. He said if I make it, he’ll help me get headshots . . .”
“Yes, yes,” he says as he eyes my bruises. He obviously doesn’t believe me, and I can’t blame him. He’s only seen the Mr. Hyde side of Tom.
“I know he seems bad, but . . .” I try to think of a way to convince Trombello my husband isn’t a controlling jerk, when a loud clank echoes through the hall, interrupting the big-band music. The lights in the gym flick on, and the dancing comes to a stop along with the music. Uniformed men enter the room.
“All right. Night’s over. Time to go,” a man shouts into the crowd. “Women on the back wall. Men in line. Let’s go.”
This was not how it was supposed to end. We reserved the building until ten thirty, and it’s only ten. The girls twitter and squeal as the uniformed men urge them to one side of the room. And the POWs stand in place, clearly not understanding the orders.
I rush up to the stage, pushing past panicked girls and confused prisoners, and take the mic to translate. I steady my voice, trying to make the announcement sound routine, although I’m sure the prisoners sense the tension in the air. Finally understanding the orders, the men groan with disappointment and follow the directions without hesitation.
As I stand onstage and scan the crowd, a familiar face approaches. Tom. It’s not surprising I didn’t recognize him at first. This man isn’t my handsome, Dr. Jekyll Tom but the dark and dangerous version, a version of my husband that scares me.
He shoves several of the prisoners aside, trying to get to the stage.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demands. I move closer to the edge of the elevated platform and cover the mic to keep our conversation private.
“It’s a paying gig,” I say, trying to make it sound reasonable.
“Get off that stage.”
“In a minute,” I say, holding up the microphone and repeating the directions again in English and then Italian. As I finish, I feel his hand around my ankle. He’s leaning across the stage, and before I realize what he’s about to do, he tugs at my leg. I wobble, losing my balance. I reach back to break my fall but tumble onto my bottom, dropping the microphone and jamming my wrist in the process. An ear-piercing squeal goes through the sound system. Two of the POW band members rush to my side, thinking I slipped.
“Stai bene?” Are you all right? one asks.
“Sei ferita?” Are you hurt? the other inquires as they crowd around me. I hold my wrist and nod my head.
“Sto bene,” I say, insisting I’m fine. Tom is storming up the stage stairs, and I don’t want them to get hurt, so I urge them away once they’ve helped me to my feet.
“We’re leaving,” Tom says, grabbing the same arm I hurt in my fall. I wince.
“I can’t leave. I have work to do.” The room is a disaster, and after the abrupt and premature ending to the dance, the trembling girls lined up along the back wall need to be reassured before they’re sent home. Then another realization rushes in. “Besides, aren’t you on duty?”
Tom growls, and his brow furrows as he pulls me off the stage and down the stairs. He drags me toward the side exit through the locker rooms.
“That’s none of your goddamn business. Just because they let you run things over there at the summer camp doesn’t mean you get to question my assignments.”
I open my mouth to voice my suspicions that this has nothing to do with “orders” and has more to do with bitter feelings that’ve been brewing for some time, but this isn’t the time or place for a domestic dispute.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly, hoping to calm him.
We push into the boys’ locker room, and a heavy scent of sweat and mold assaults my senses. Tom pulls at me, and a stab of pain in my left arm shoots all the way up to my shoulder.
“Baby, you’re hurting me,” I whimper.
“I’m hurting you?” he asks, stopping for a moment, his question imbued with sarcasm. I can see pain mixed with the anger in his eyes. “I told you what I thought about this mockery, and you came anyway. Don’t you think that hurt me?”
My fear is rising.
I’ve seen papà get angry, but never uncontrollably. And I know how to calm papà—an apology, a nice meal, a refill on his drink. But Tom—I know so little of my husband. I don’t know the rule book for his anger yet, how to manage it or avoid it. I wonder if all men are like this, bombs waiting to go off if handled improperly. I ignore my own pain and instead work to defuse the situation.
“I didn’t think about . . . It was an assignment . . . from work. Lieutenant Colonel Gammell . . .”
“I don’t care what Gammell told you—I’m your husband. You listen to me now,” he orders, and then holds up my already swelling left hand. “Where’s your ring? Clearly you don’t need the one I ordered after all. Do you want to look like you don’t have a husband? You know what they call women who get paid to entertain men, don’t you?”
“Tom, you know it’s not like that. Papà doesn’t know yet, so I took off my ring . . .”
“You have an excuse for everything, don’t you?” He sighs like I’m the biggest idiot he’s ever run across. His eyes are sunken as though he’s been drinking, and he looks like he’s about to cry. “I thought I was in love with you, Vivian, but you’re a little whore, aren’t you?”
The word “whore” hurts more than anything he has done to me physically.
“Excuse me, signorina. Are you all right?” A heavily accented voice bounces off the walls of the locker room, and I recognize it immediately. Trombello.
“What the hell? This guy?” Tom says under his breath, and then speaks directly to Trombello, who stands by the swinging locker-room door. “She’s fine. You’d better get outta here, or you’ll be in for a lot of trouble, Padre.”
“Miss Snow. They call your name. Come to see.” He’s working hard to find the right words in English. I know what he’s trying to say, but Tom is irritated and confused.
“Can’t you see my wife and I are having a conversation? Get the hell out, or I’ll make you get out.”
“I not leave fino a che Miss Snow leave too.” Trombello’s fists are clenched at his sides, and the veins in his neck bulge. He’s always seemed a peaceful man, but now I see Antonio Trombello isn’t inherently passive or wary of conflict. He’s a man with strong ideals who chooses to contain his antagonistic instincts. But the aggression remains beneath the restraint, and it seems Trombello knows exactly how to release it when he needs to.
Tom lets go of my arm and steps toward Trombello. Reaching into his pocket, he withdraws a small rectangular object that flips open into a blade.
“I told you to mind your own business and get out of here, you greasy fascist dago.” I flinch at the nasty slur as though he said it about me as well as Trombello.
“Signorina. You go now?” Trombello asks without acknowledging Tom or his weapon.