Stage Door Canteen (18 page)

She had finally got her breath back. “Listen, whoever you are, you can’t call me up on the telephone to curse at me!” She was pretty sure, now, who it was. She lifted her foot and pushed the kitchen door shut so that her mother wouldn’t hear and come downstairs to see what was the matter. “Who is this, anyway? Is it who I think it is? Why are you calling me? How—how—did you get my telephone number?”

“He gave it to me,” the other voice bellowed. “Weathersley gave your telephone number to me. It cracked him up, you know that? That’s the kind of person he is. The bastard thought it was damned funny that you gave it to him and not to me, when he already knew I’d asked you for it. You know he’s married, don’t you? That Weathersley’s married? He fools around on his wife. That’s the kind of jerk you’re dealing with!”

Dina was jolted. She couldn’t think; her mind dealt with the terrible words for the first few seconds by refusing to consider them. She put her elbows on the kitchen table and stared down at the oilcloth decorated with large green and blue flowers. In the center of the kitchen table were the sugar bowl, salt and pepper shakers, and paper napkin holder that her mother had put there, ready for breakfast. A printed card listing last Sunday’s masses at the Church of the Blessed Incarnation was stuck upright between the sugar bowl and the napkin holder. She looked at it without really seeing it.

He couldn’t be married, she told herself. She had a sudden pain her chest from the awfulness of it. Tom Weathersley had seemed so sincere. So genuine, so wonderfully nice. She couldn’t have been that wrong.

“You’re lying,” she managed. “You’re just trying to start trouble, Gene, I know how you are. Why are you calling me up at this time of night and—and—probably waking up my family and telling me things like this?” He was too much, even if he was a war hero. “You’re making this all up! And I don’t have to listen to it!”

“‘Wait!” The word nearly exploded from the telephone. “Don’t go away, Dina, don’t hang up on me! Can you hear me? Listen, if I’m making all this up, how come I’ve got your telephone number? How come I’m calling you right now?

She was hardly listening. She hadn’t known Sgt. Tom Weathersley from the Air Force war bond tour was married. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that Gene Struhbeck, who always had a chip on his shoulder anyway, was telling the truth. It was a trick, it had to be. She told herself she knew Tom Weathersley wouldn’t do a thing like this, for God’s sake. What had she done to him?

She suddenly felt tired. She couldn’t think, all she wanted to do was go upstairs and go to bed. Dina put her elbows on the kitchen table, holding the receiver to her ear. Gene Struhbeck was yelling on the other end, with western music from somewhere still blaring. She wondered where he was calling from. Long distance calls cost a fortune.

“His wife’s name is Louise, she lives in California,” she heard him say. “I saw a picture of her. She’s real pretty. That doesn’t keep him from chasing other women, though.”

“You’re drunk,” she said. “You wouldn’t call me to tell me all this unless you were drunk! I can tell by the sound of your voice.”

“Wait, don’t hang up,” he yelled. “Dina?”

“I don’t know why you want to talk to me because I certainly don’t want to talk to you. I’m wasting my time even saying this much!”

“Wait—wait—Dina? Don’t hang up, can’t you see Weathersley only did this to get back at me, the mean son—the stupid—nevermind! Please, just—”

“Get back at you? What would he want to get back at you for?”

“Because he knows I’m crazy about you. It ticks him off, it really does. He’d like to have you for himself, but he can’t because he’s married. Dina, don’t you know I’m in love with you? Everybody sees it except you. Everybody knows I’ve been in love with you since that first night I danced with you at the canteen. I know you’ve got to feel something for me, you let me kiss you, remember? A kiss goes both ways, doesn’t it?”

“Hah, you stole that kiss! You’re not supposed to do things like that in the canteen, right there on the dance floor. It caught me by surprise.”

“The hell it did! That was a real kiss, I didn’t hear you saying that you hated it or anything. Oh lord, I wish I had my arms around you right now, Dina.” His words were slurred. “The air force sent me home on leave but I can’t wait to get out of here. I never did like this place anyway. I was born and raised in Texas but it’s one big damned hellhole except for Dallas and maybe Houston. Give me New York City any day, I’m glad I got a chance to stay there. I could spend the rest of my life in New York and never get tired of it.”

“Is that where you are now? Texas?”

“Yeah, Paintbrush Wells. It’s outside of Midland. It’s a sorry damned place. Did I ever tell you that you’re the most beautiful girl I ever saw? I don’t even have a picture of you that I can look at, but I guess I don’t need one, I see you every time I shut my eyes. I haven’t forgotten a thing. You know, I was mad as hell when Weathersley showed me your telephone number, but now I’m happy, because I can call you. This is the phone at your house, isn’t it?”

“I don’t really think that’s a good idea.” She wasn’t crazy about getting telephone calls from Eugene Struhbeck. He was cute, and he could be very nice when he wanted to, but he certainly put too much meaning into a quick kiss he’d stolen one night in the canteen when the band was playing the last dance, Good Night Sweetheart, and the lights were turned down low. Although from what the others said he was always doing things like that. Pushing the boundaries.

Besides, it was probably against canteen rules. It was not exactly dating, she didn’t know what it was. When one of the servicemen thought he was in love with you and wanted to call you at home.

At that moment the long distance operator came on the line to say his three minutes were up, and if he wished to continue he should deposit an additional one dollar and sixty-five cents.

“I’d better go,” Dina said. “I know this is costing you a lot of money.”

“No, wait!” His voice rose over a rapid series of bongs! and clangs! indicating coins were being fed into the machine on his end. “I’ve got plenty of quarters and dimes, plenty of change, believe me, just hold on a minute. God, give me a damned minute.” More bongs and clangs. It was almost funny. “Dina, don’t hang up yet, will you? I didn’t just call you—well, you know, to tell you that Weathersley gave me your telephone number. I’m sorry about the language, I was just royally pissed off. That’s my damned bad temper. You know I wouldn’t ever say anything to upset you, you know that, don’t you? You’re the most beautiful, interesting girl I’ve ever met. In fact, I guess you don’t know it, but you’re the most important thing that’s ever happened to me in my whole damned life.”

“I really don’t want you to say that,” Dina told him. “I don’t want to be that important to anybody. Not now, anyway. Look, it’s getting late, I have to go to bed.” She added, “I’m glad you went home on leave, you must be having a good time. I know you’re happy to be home with your folks.”

“Are you kidding? I hate Texas. I guess you could say my family hates me, too. I told you, New York is the place I want to be, and you know why. Look, Dina,” he said thickly, “don’t hang up just yet, I want to tell you something. Can you spare me just a few more minutes? Are you listening? S’important.”

She hesitated before she said, “Okay, but I really don’t have much time. I’m not kidding about having to go to bed, I have dance class first thing in the morning. What time is it where you are, in Texas?”

“Time’s not important in this godforsaken place.” He sighed. “You’ve never seen Paintbrush Wells, have you?”

“Really, I’ve got to go. Are you in a bar or someplace?” The loud music had started up again. “Because if you are, I hope you have somebody to take you home, Gene. I don’t think you ought to drive.”

“Dina, dammit, you’re not listening! My leave’s up in a couple of days and I report back to New York. Or maybe Norfolk, they haven’t told me yet.” The music was deafening; he raised his voice over it. “We’re going to ship out to Europe. The crew will be busted up and assigned to the Eighth Air Force. Eventually we’ll be bombing Germany, that’s what’s coming up next. To tell you the God’s honest truth, I don’t think I can stand another piece of this war, I thought the Cincy Gal’s crew had done enough by now. We lived through the Pacific and came out okay. That is, those of us that are left. But they’re going to make us start all over again in the European theater. Oh lord, Dina, I may never see you again.” His voice cracked. “I love you so much, and dammit, right now I don’t even know if I can get enough leave to go to New York and dance with you and hold you in my arms one more time. Just one last time.”

“Oh, no!” She was trying to tell herself that Sgt. Eugene Struhbeck was drunk in a bar somewhere in Texas, and that he really was nothing more than one of the GIs from the canteen, someone she didn’t know well at all. But no matter what she told herself it didn’t change what he’d said. That he and the other crew members were being sent back to fight again. “That’s awful, they can’t do that, can they? Not when you’ve got a medal, and sold war bonds and traveled all over the country and all that?”

“They sure can, sweetheart, they sure can. Oh God, Dina, I love you so, you’re what I hang onto.” He sounded despairing. “I wish you cared for me just a little.”

“Oh, don’t say that. I care for you. Gene, you make it sound like you haven’t got anybody in the world that—that—thinks about you!”

“Well, dammit, I haven’t. Not anybody that counts. I need you, Dina, I haven’t got much time left, maybe a few days before they ship me out. Will you let me call you? Will you at least let me do that? Can I use this number to call you?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” If her family answered the telephone she would just have to explain. That he was going overseas.

“I might come through New York,” he reminded her. “I might get to see you at the canteen before I get reassigned. Is that all right?”

She hesitated before she said, “Yes, that will be okay. You know you can always come to the canteen.” He had her telephone number and he was going to call. If he came to New York and had a few days’ leave before he shipped overseas, he was undoubtedly going to come by the canteen.

“What time can I call you tomorrow night?” he was saying. “Is this time, around eleven thirty, all right?”

It wasn’t all right. She remembered that kiss. It all seemed a little dangerous, somehow. She wasn’t sure about anything; ever since the war started it seemed as though things never went right.

“Yes,” she said.

He breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll say good night,” he said, huskily. “I hate to, sweetheart, but I know you’ve got to go to bed.”

“Yes,” Dina told him. “Well, goodnight.”

When Gene hung up, his brother Reece, who had been standing close by the pay telephone in order to listen in, took him by the arm and steered him into the crowd. “C’mon, Runt, you talked to your girlfriend, you ought to feel better now. And it’s time to get you outta here before you fall on your damned drunk face.”

Gene shook him off. “Hell, Reece, don’t start that—you’re just as drunk as I am.” He could see his other two brothers and their wives waiting by the crowded entranceway. “Look—Howard and Donna Marie are drunker’n both of us. I just hope to hell somebody can drive.”

That’s what Dina’d said. That she hoped there was somebody to drive the car. Earlene, Howard’s wife, could drive, he told himself, she was not a big drinker. In fact, Earlene was not a big party girl; she hardly ever drank more than one or two rum and Coca Colas. You could count on Earlene to want go home at midnight every time. The reason Earlene, who was a schoolteacher, was with them at all was that she’d really wanted to go to the radio station in Odessa with them to watch Gene do his interview.

Since he’d been home on leave it seemed like his brothers and their wives and all of the area around Midland regarded him as their property. He’d been on the radio twice so far, and had another interview to do in the morning. The attention from the radio stations had come about because of the newspaper story on the speech he’d made at the war bond rally in Paintbrush Wells. Both the Odessa American and the Midland Reporter-Telegram, had reported what he’d said with headlines like LOCAL WAR HERO RECOUNTS TRUTH ABOUT BATTLE OF MIDWAY, and WE TOOK BEATING FROM JAP ZEROS SAYS STRUHBECK.

Actually, when he spoke, which he had only done at the urging of Paintbrush Wells veterans’ groups like the VFW and the DAV, he had admitted to being scared to death during the attack on the Cincy Gal. After all, who wouldn’t be? And impressed with the Japanese fighter aircraft, called the Zero, he’d explained, because of the wing markings. What most people, and the newspaper reporters especially, didn’t take into account was this was the way those who had been in combat spoke of it. That hell, yes, they’d had the stuffing scared out of them in a fight. And the Japs had some damned good planes.

However, it was probably inevitable that what he said caused a lot of comment in that part of Texas. Radio stations called, wanting him to do guest interviews. There had even been a request from a station in Lubbock asking if Sgt. Struhbeck would consent to an appearance on NBC network news.

“Runt got to talk to his girl,” Reece announced loudly as they joined the others, “and he feels better, don’t you, Runt?”

“Well, thank God,” Howard’s wife Rebah said. “He’s been acting like a banty rooster with the pip ever since he got home. I never saw anybody so fired up when he finally got that girl’s telephone number. I hope Eugene got it all off his chest with her, whatever it was.”