Baker Towers (17 page)

“She was headed for trouble before you showed up,” said Blick. “She slowed down the whole line. I was thinking about letting her go.” He eyed the pile of finished collars in her bin. “Where’d we find you? Just out of school?”

“I was in the service.”

“A WAC?” His eyebrows shot up. “I thought they got rid of those after the war.”

“They did. But there are regular women’s units now in the air force.” Joyce sat back in her chair, feeling small. Her eyes were level with his belt.

“No kidding.” He leaned one large hand on the edge of her table. Its legs squeaked in protest. “I was in the army, myself. Bastogne. That’s where I got this.” He patted a beefy thigh. “Two bullets. One of them’s still in there. Leave it, I said. They just about killed me taking the first one out. It was worse than getting shot.”

Joyce smiled stiffly. Every man she met seemed to have a similar story. Those who hadn’t been wounded described their buddies’ wounds. A few had offered to show their scars.

“I have to get to lunch,” she said, rising.

“Okay, then.” Blick stepped away from her machine. “Dismissed.” He chuckled, giving her a clownish salute.

“Yes, sir,” said Joyce, her voice cold. “Thank you, sir.”

I
T WAS A JOKE
to him. To all of them: the recruiter who’d signed her up, the enlisted men who’d approached her at dances and mixers—back at Lackland, when she was green and foolish and still believed such events were worth attending. She’d been impressed with their uniforms and careful manners, believed them different from the crude miners who swore and chewed tobacco, the men who now laughed at her uniform in the street. She’d learned differently her third week of basic training, when a young private from South Dakota had walked her back to her barrack after a dance. Reeking of alcohol, he had bent to kiss her; when she pulled away he grabbed at her clothes and called her a name she’d never heard before. There was the officer who, examining a report she’d typed, laid his hand on her shoulder and slid a fat finger under her
bra strap. When she flinched, he’d asked her if it was her time of the month.

There was Sergeant Theodore Fry, who’d overseen the recruitment office in Durham, North Carolina, where she’d been stationed her last ten months. He was married with four children; a stiff, reserved man who reminded her of her father. For six years he had run the office alone, until the air force decided a woman would have better success attracting recruits. He had complimented her efficiency, her quick grasp of office procedures. Yet in the end he failed her, too, a night when they both stayed late at the office. It was early December; by late afternoon the office was nearly dark. Together they sifted through boxes of recruits’ school records and half-completed forms, looking for a particular document Fry had neglected to file. Joyce was so horrified by the chaos, the laziness and indifference they represented, that she barely noticed him standing behind her, until the moment he grasped her hip and pressed himself firmly against her buttocks.

“For heaven’s sake!” she cried. “What are you doing?”

He apologized immediately, his face red. He talked about his wife, how he had not touched her in years; how he hadn’t thought about a woman in ages and might never have again, if the air force hadn’t sent him Joyce.

The air force sent me to sign up recruits,
she thought.
They did not send me to be your mistress.

“I appreciate that, sir,” she said stiffly. “But I’m not interested.”

He stared at her a moment, his fat face disbelieving. “Not interested,” he repeated. “Well, if you don’t mind my asking, Joyce, what did you sign up for, then?”

And in that terrible moment it had all made sense. Until then she’d tolerated the groping hands, the rude comments. The soldiers she’d once
idolized had disappointed her sorely, but she’d been able to forgive them. They were, after all, just men. Some of them she’d even pitied: the eighteen-year-old private, away from home for the first time; the officer who hadn’t seen his wife in months.
Brush it off,
she told herself each time. She’d been slow to understand that the real humiliation didn’t come from these men, but from the air force itself, which had gone through the charade of creating women’s units for the simple purpose of keeping its real soldiers satisfied. She thought of the recruitment posters that decorated her office in Durham.
SERVE WITH HONOR
, they promised. The truth, she’d learned, was somewhat different.
Serve in silence,
she thought.
Service the men who serve your country.

Quietly she served out her term in Durham. In July she notified the air force of her intent to separate. Two months later she was back in Bakerton.

J
oyce arrived at the high school just after the final bell. The corridors were clogged with students: girls in socks and saddle shoes, awkward boys in plaid shirts. She ducked her head as she passed a group of laughing girls; she burned for an instant, an old feeling of loneliness and shame. They did not notice her; it took her a moment to realize why. In her hat and gloves she was invisible, as irrelevant as any other adult. The thought amused her, then filled her with relief.

She continued down the familiar hall, the linoleum with its alternating squares of green and gray. At the end of the hall was the principal’s office. She tapped lightly at the door.

A secretary, obviously pregnant, showed her to an inner office. Above the desk was a framed photo of President Eisenhower. Joyce studied his delicate features, his lovely eyes. To her he looked more like a handsome actor than a general.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said a voice behind her.

She turned. She’d expected a stooped, wizened man named Milton Campbell, who’d been the principal as long as there’d been a high school. This man was tall, with sloping shoulders. His sleeves and trousers were an inch too short. His fair hair had thinned at the temples, but his face was surprisingly young.

“Mrs. Novak. I’m Ed Hauser, the vice principal.” His hand was large and moist.

“Miss,” she corrected. The letter had been addressed to Rose, but she was too nervous to come. “My mother couldn’t make it. I’m Sandy’s sister.”

“Sorry about the letter,” said Hauser. “It says here that you don’t have a telephone.”

“How strange,” said Joyce. “I can’t imagine why.”

“I wrote to your mother once before, but she didn’t respond.”

“She’s been ill,” said Joyce.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

His voice was gentle, which confused her. She had expected a different kind of meeting. She was not prepared for kindness.

“Thank you,” she said briskly, keeping the tremor out of her voice. “Of course she’s concerned. We both are. Your letter took us by surprise. What exactly is the trouble with Sandy?”

“Did he tell you a truant officer picked him up last Monday?”

It took her a moment to respond. She was aware of his eyes on her. “No, sir,” she said automatically.

“Apparently he and another boy jumped on board the train as it was leaving the station. A man spotted them and called the police.”

“He could have been killed,” she said, feeling sick to her stomach. The coal trains were slow, but still.

“He’s a bright boy,” said Hauser. “All his teachers say so. But he doesn’t apply himself, and lately he’s absent as often as he’s present. If he continues like this, he’s liable to be left back again. Or worse.”

She frowned. There were worse things than failing a grade—being thrown from a coal train, for example—but just then she couldn’t think of many.

“According to his records he turns sixteen next month,” said Hauser. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped out of school.”

Joyce thought of the evenings she’d spent at the kitchen table, poring over homework. Occasionally her father had looked up from his newspaper and given her a wink. He never would have let Sandy drop out of high school.

“This is terrible, Mr. Hauser. My father”—she took a deep breath—“was the disciplinarian in the family. He made sure we took our studies seriously. Sandy was just a little boy when he died.” She cleared her throat, sat back in her chair. If she kept talking, she knew that she would cry.

“What about your mother?”

“Sandy doesn’t listen to her.” Joyce thought of the green Plymouth idling in the street on a school night, the girl waiting in the front seat. “He does whatever he pleases.”

Hauser said nothing. He seemed to be watching her.

“I’m concerned about his future,” she said. “He’ll never find a good job if he doesn’t graduate. I’d never forgive myself if that happened.”

“Maybe you should tell him that.”

“I will.” Joyce’s mind raced. Sandy was rarely home in the afternoon; in the evening he appeared briefly at dinner. He got irritated when she asked about his day at school.
Nothing happened,
he’d say.
Nothing ever happens.

“Mr. Campbell has spoken with him already,” said Hauser. “I can have a talk with him, too, if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate that. I’ve been away for several years. I had no idea things had gotten so bad.”

Hauser smiled. “Were you away at college?”

“No.” She hesitated. “I was in the air force.”

“Where were you stationed?”

It was a reasonable question, one she herself might ask a fellow soldier. She waited for the joke.

“Durham, North Carolina,” she said warily. “Before that, Bellevue, Washington.” She waited for more—where and under whom he’d served, the bullet he’d taken, the medal he’d won.

“The Pacific Northwest. I hear it’s a beautiful part of the country. I’d like to see it one day.” He closed the folder on his desk. “Miss Novak, it was a pleasure to meet you. Have a talk with Sandy, and I’ll do the same. He needs to know we’re watching him. Sometimes that’s enough to straighten them out.” He stood. “Could I have your telephone number?”

Joyce felt her face warm.

“We should have it for the school records,” he explained.

“Of course,” she said, embarrassed. She recited the digits slowly, hoping she’d remembered them right.

V
IOLA RECOGNIZED
her from the other end of the hall. A tiny thing, plainly dressed, with excellent posture. Her movements were quick and precise.

“Joyce,” she called, surprising herself. In thirty years she hadn’t raised her voice inside the school. “Joyce Novak!”

Joyce turned. “Miss Peale?”

They met halfway down the corridor. “What a surprise to see you,” said Viola. “Are you home on holiday?”

“I separated in September. I live here now.”

Viola smiled uncertainly, unsure whether this was good news or bad. “What brings you to school?”

“I had a meeting with Mr. Hauser.” Joyce colored, as though she herself were in trouble. “About my brother, Sandy.”

“Oh dear.” Viola paused delicately. “Nothing serious, I hope.” She had taught Sandy a few years before. A poor student, she recalled, but pleasant and polite.

“Oh, no,” said Joyce. “I’m sure everything will be fine.” She glanced at her watch. “Miss Peale, I hate to run, but I’m due back at the factory. I’m on my lunch hour.”

“Of course, dear.” She took the hand Joyce offered and impulsively kissed her cheek.

“It was lovely to see you,” she said. “Good luck to you, Joyce.”

B
ACK IN HER CLASSROOM
Viola ate lunch alone. She remembered the girl as she’d once been, her blond head bent over a textbook. Joyce was interested in everything: world events, biology and chemistry, the strange diet consumed in the Philippines. It was this quality, Viola later realized, that had distinguished her from all the others. From Viola herself.

I want to see the whole world,
she’d said, trying to explain why she’d joined the air force. Had she seen anything at all? Viola wondered. Or had she perhaps seen too much?

She had tried back then, timidly and ineffectually.
You’re an excellent student, Joyce. Have you considered some kind of school instead?

Joyce had looked at her as if she were senile, a foolish old woman.
My mother is a widow,
she said simply. Those few words had ended the discussion. Mortified, Viola had wished her luck; they had never again spoken of her future. All these years later, the memory still shamed her; the arrogance of her suggestion, as though a college education were something a coal miner’s child might realistically afford. For years she had blamed herself for doing nothing. For failing the most promising student she had ever known.

In the distance the factory whistle sounded. Viola paid no attention. She heard it every day but had never wondered what it meant.

Across town, Joyce Novak hurried to her sewing machine and went back to work.

H
AUSER SPOTTED HIM
from across the street. He stood in the school parking lot next to a green Plymouth. With him were two girls, a brunette and a blonde. They were all smoking cigarettes.

“Novak!” he called.

The girls dropped their cigarettes and furtively stamped them out. Sandy Novak met Hauser’s gaze.

All right, pretty boy,
Hauser thought.
Drop the damned cigarette.

Sandy took a leisurely drag, a long exhale. Then slowly, deliberately, he ground out the butt with his heel.

“No smoking on school property,” said Hauser, approaching them.

“I put it out,” said Sandy.

“Girls, would you excuse us?”

They glanced uncertainly at Sandy.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ll walk home.”

The girls got into the car. Sandy stared expectantly at Hauser.

“Your sister was here this afternoon.”

Sandy didn’t speak, just raised his eyebrows.

“We’ve been sending letters to your mother, but I understand she is ill.”

Still the boy said nothing.

“Your sister gave us your phone number. You said you didn’t have a telephone.”