The Longest Road (54 page)

In her answer, compelled to it at last, Laurie said that Crystal had left town and Johnny's things were stored in the attic. Unable to bring herself to explain Redwine's treachery—after all, what could Johnny do about it except worry?—she wrote only that she hadn't seen W.S. since Johnny left. Crystal's desertion was more than enough for Johnny to handle now. The truth about Dub might make him as reckless as those kamikaze Japanese fighters on Guadalcanal who made suicidal attacks on the Americans, losing ten men for every one they killed.

Early in February, after seven months of hard-fought battle, the United States won its first big offensive victory as Japanese transports managed to evacuate their last starving troops from the island. The tide had finally turned in the Pacific.

The radio was turned up in the restaurant loud enough for everyone to hear the news. If Johnny's still all right and if that's where he is, Laurie thought, maybe he won't be in any more bad fighting. Maybe the Japanese will surrender. And Ev'rett, if he was at Guadalcanal—

She scarcely heard the phone ringing at the reception counter. Mrs. Marriott came to the door. “Laurie,” she called softly. “It's Ev'rett's mama.”

Laurie's heart sank. Her feet were so heavy she seemed to drag them. Mrs. Marriott pulled out a chair. “Sit down, honey. It's not good.”

Sobbing, Rosalie read the telegram she'd just received. Ev'rett had been killed in action. “He—he was only eighteen. He never even had a girlfriend, far as I know. He was my first baby—seems like just yesterday I looked at him for the first time. I held my wrist next to his skin and he was the same color, not red like all the other kids. I—I was so glad he had your Grandpa's eyes.”

“Oh, Rosalie—”

“And a letter here from his chaplain says they can't recover his body. What does that mean? Was he blown up? If he was, how do they know it was him? But I don't want it to be any other boy, either!” Her voice broke.

“Rosalie, darling—”

“Why does any boy have to be shot and die? Why did I make him in my belly and carry him and birth him, love and rock and feed him, take care of him when he was sick, make him go to school—why did I do all that if this is what happens?”

“I don't know.” Laurie moved back and forth with grief. “I don't know.” She tried desperately to think of something to help, but it was Rosalie who knew. “The only thing that helps right now is to see and kiss and hug my kids—know they're alive and well.”

“If I can get off work, I'll come for a few days,” Laurie said.

“Can you, honey? I'd sure like that.”

Ten days after Laurie got back to town, she got a letter from a San Francisco APO that was not in Johnny's writing. She read the name that wavered before her eyes: Lance Corporal Tom Shelton. Wasn't that Johnny's harmonica-playing cowboy friend from Texas?

She ripped it open, shook out the thin paper. An animal wail sounded. It tore from her throat again before she knew she was keening that primal, wounded cry. Marilys rushed out of the kitchen.

“What is it, honey?”

Laurie held out the letter.

I know Johnny thought the world of you, Miss Laurie. I wanted to let you know personal. Johnny didn't come back from our last fight. We hunted for him but with these jungles and swamps, we couldn't find him. He's listed as Missing in Action. To be honest with you, he's likely dead, but there's a chance he's wounded and may turn up alive. I sure hope so.

He was the best buddy a guy could have. Saved my bacon a couple of times, volunteered for the toughest jobs. He always had a joke or a song except for a while there after he heard about his wife. I'll make sure his harmonica and stuff gets sent to you. If I get home, I'd like to come and see you—just to talk about him, you know. I can't believe he's gone.

“They—they haven't found his body,” Laurie choked, clinging to Marilys, who walked her to the couch. “He may still be alive—”

“We'll pray that, sweetheart.” Both of them knew that a wounded man wouldn't have much chance of surviving the jungle if he wasn't rescued and treated, but any hope was better than none.

Marilys gathered Laurie close and they wept in each other's arms.

Like a sleepwalker, Laurie got numbly through the days, working as usual, and when she was home, rolling bandages what time she wasn't doing house chores. It was only in playing Johnny's songs that she found solace.

Life went on, of course, a surface stretched above the dark gulf of her sorrowing. The USSR won back Stalingrad and began to push back the Germans. Rommel's seemingly invincible Afrika Corps had been stopped in Tunisia with a terrible loss of American soldiers under General George Patton.

As Way scanned the paper and photos of light American tanks failing to dent the heavier German tanks, he squinted at Laurie and said, “Remember that television thing CBS got started just before the war? They had to drop it till the war's over, but I'll bet in the next one—well, sure, honey, God forbid there is a next war—there'll be television photographers right along with the troops. Don't know whether that'll be good or bad.”

“Newsreels are enough,” said Laurie. It didn't seem right, from the comfort and safety of home, to watch men die or be wounded. Television might have to wait but Americans had built 150,000 planes in 1942, and were turning out a new ship every four days, enough to keep ahead of heavy losses to submarines. The country expected to make 800,000 tons of synthetic rubber next year and a new type of easily produced penicillin proved a boon to wounded soldiers. There might even be enough for civilians.

The Marriotts sponsored a weekly ration–stamp swap at the hotel where people gathered at pulled-together tables to trade stamps for butter, shortening, coffee, cheese, meat, and flour. Anyone willing to part with one of their ration of three pairs of leather shoes per year could reap a bounty in other stamps or take cash. There was a black market but no one Laurie knew used it. Most people gladly accepted rationing, just as they followed the motto: “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.” It made them feel they were doing something to help even though it was so little compared to the hardships of the country's fighting men. With a gas ration of three gallons per week and a speed limit of thirty-five miles per hour, cars stayed in their garages most of the time.

Early in April, Jim hurried into the restaurant, skimming his crippled leg like he was skating, took Laurie's tray away from her, set it down, and gave her a hug and resounding kiss. “We made a well! A nice little forty-barrel-a-day one! Vance has it capped till the buyer hooks it up to the pipeline.” Jim laughed with a joy she hadn't heard from him since his leg was maimed. “Ole Vance is already spudding in another hole that ought to hit the same formation. Is he tickled!”

“That—that's wonderful!” Laurie hugged Jim back though her happiness died as she remembered Johnny couldn't exult or share in the good luck. Still, there was a chance he was alive, that he'd come home. And even if he didn't, it was a triumph over Dub to have Johnny's little poorboy outfit hit oil.

“Let's celebrate!” Jim twirled her in a wide circle that made the nearest diners look up and grin. “Wish I could take you to that new Broadway show
Oklahoma!
that's such a hit, but there's two good shows on here.”

“Oh, I can't—”

“Yes, you will!” Marilys, flanked by Mrs. Marriott, advanced upon her. “We can get along fine without you for one night. Go have some fun.”

“But—”

“Take your pick,” Jim commanded. “
Casablanca
with Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart or
Road to Morocco
with Bing Crosby and Porothy Lamour,”

Yielding, Laurie said, “Well—if we can go to
Woman of the Year
instead. I think Katharine Hepburn's just wonderful and I look up to Spencer Tracy because he's volunteered for the armed forces.” Quite a few Hollywood stars had done that—Jimmy Stewart, Robert Stack, Cesar Romero, and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. In spite of being forty-one, so had Clark Gable. His wife, Carole Lombard, had been killed in a January plane crash while on a war-bond drive. As far as Laurie was concerned, she didn't intend to ever go to the films of able-bodied actors like Crosby, Bogart, and Ronald Reagan who'd stayed home making money while others died.

It was fun to go out at night for something besides work, to be swept up in Hepburn and Tracy's sparring romance. It was the first time since that awful letter that Laurie had truly laughed and enjoyed herself, so much that she felt guilty as the lights came on and reality flooded back.

How could she laugh when Johnny was dead or gravely wounded? How could she forget that, even for a second? Gazing down at her, Jim took both her hands. “Laurie. Johnny's tough. He may crawl out of that jungle any day. And even if he can't, what would he tell you if he could? It sure wouldn't be to mourn and moan.”

“I'm not moaning!”

“Not out loud.” Jim caressed her cheek. “Johnny more than anybody knew that whatever happens folks need to laugh all they can, be happy as they can, and get on with whatever they have to do.” He set his finger on her nose. “Make up your mind to this, Laurie. Every week or two, we're going to a show or out to dinner.”

“Jim—”

He read the worry in her eyes and smoothed her brow with the ball of his thumb. “Listen good. I don't want to explain this every time I ask you out. I'll always have a special kind of love for you—and that's without considering what your father did for us. I wouldn't even try, though, to fill Johnny's place with you. If anybody can, he'll be a sight wiser and stronger and better than I am.”

She started to protest. He grinned and drew her to her feet. “Don't feel bad about me, honey. I've got a bunch of girlfriends and I sure intend to have more.” He moved Laurie toward the exit. “Meanwhile, lady, we're stepping out!”

Two days later, Laurie was tending the salvage-yard office when a car roared up. There was something vaguely familiar about the way the brakes shrieked. Going to the window, Laurie gasped.

W. S. Redwine. There was no way out except the door, which was now blocked by his broad figure. Battling to compose herself, she moved close to the phone. She hadn't seen him in months, not since he'd lied so smoothly, so shamelessly, to Johnny, told him not to worry, that everything would be taken care of.

“You contemptible—” she began and checked. “There's nothing bad enough to call you so I won't try!”

Those yellow eyes swelled and glowed. The square face was fleshier, the flat nose squeezed by ruddy cheeks. “Well, Larry-Laurie! If you're not plumb growed up and—”

“There's not a thing we can say to each other.”

He laughed. “I can say plenty to you.”

It was noonday but Laurie was getting scared. “Get out of here!”

“Not till we have a little talk.”

“About how you've tried to break Way? Or how you cut Johnny out of the partnership? Doesn't that bother you the least bit now that Johnny's missing?”

“I figger he pulled out on me. If he'd of come home, maybe—”

“Maybe you'd have come up with some slick excuse and tried to wheedle him back to you.”

Redwine shrugged. “Don't signify. More than anyone I ever knew, it's you who's stayed in my mind, Laurie. If you'd of listened to me, you'd be a big name now, big as the Andrews Sisters or that damned skinny little wop, Frank Sinatra.”

Laurie shrugged. “I like to play for my friends. Folks I can see. I don't want to live out of suitcases and on the road.”

“Wouldn't have to. You can make records. I've got a man at Decca all hot to listen to you.” He gazed at Laurie in a manner that made her feel handled and dirty. “He'll meet us this evening in Oklahoma City.”

“No, he won't. Do you think I'm crazy enough to have anything to do with you, W. S. Redwine?” She reached for the phone. He caught her wrist.

“Easy, doll baby! The police won't arrest a customer for coming into a business office. I'll put it to you straight. Come with me and you'll get famous and make a mint. What's more, I'll quit doggin' old Way.”

“You must be out of your mind.” She grabbed the hammer Way kept beneath the counter. It struck Redwine's wrist a glancing blow as he released her. He swore but she poised the hammer. “Get out! I wouldn't go a step with you to save my life!”

Redwine's square teeth showed in a snarl. “Once you traveled a long way with me, Larry-Laurie, and were mighty glad to do it.” He turned and threw back over his shoulder, “Those days'll come again.”

Shaking, sick at her stomach, Laurie went in the small bathroom and scrubbed with soap where he'd touched her. She couldn't tell anyone. Jim or Way would go after him and wind up in trouble. But what would happen, what was Redwine going to do? Way's salvage yard was staying afloat and there was one producing well on Johnny's land, but these gains, much as they'd cost, were tiny beside Redwine's resources, and they were so vulnerable that Laurie felt cold to the bone.

She couldn't sleep that night and was on edge all next day, but everything was normal. It was the following morning that Jim burst into the restaurant when Laurie was clearing away late breakfasters' dishes. “That crooked, conniving, low-life Redwine! He's leased the land next to Johnny's farm and he's drilling offset wells all along the boundary!” As Laurie stared in shock, Jim gulped and clamped his fists shut. “That skunk can suck up our oil before we even get that second hole down to pay sand.”

Perfectly legal. Perfectly disastrous. Unless there was a fault or barrier to keep some of the oil in that formation from being pumped out of Redwine's wells, the partners' discovery would flow right out from under them, and with it the family's home, Way's business, and everything they owned.