And then there was Charlie. At first I never heard the door close, because he would call my name the moment he walked in. In later years, his arrivals and departures were marked by angry slams that resonated in the pit of my stomach.
Funny thing about doors, you don’t really notice them whenyou’re the one doing the opening and closing. It’s only when they herald someone else’s comings and goings that you give them any thought. You can cross over major thresholds in your life and not even realize it until years later.
“Don’t go getting all maudlin, Adelaide,” said my mother, her voice as clear as any closing door.
I looked at the ceiling, but I didn’t see her. I wasn’t sure if I’d heard the words with my ears or only in my mind.
“Time’s a-wasting. Hope is home, and you need to get on with it.” Her voice held that imperative tone that used to mean “step lively, child, or I’ll get the switch.” I wasn’t sure if I were being haunted or going crazy, but I knew better than to go against my mother when she got that tone. I reached for my walker and hobbled to the kitchen.
Sure enough, there was Hope, putting on the teakettle. A sturdy-looking woman sat at the kitchen table, wearing one of those loose-fitting medical outfits—struts? spuds?—I never could remember the name of those clothes. I couldn’t remember the name of the woman, either, although I knew I’d seen her before.
“Mrs. McCauley!” She jumped to her feet. “Are you ready to go to bed?”
Why on earth would she ask such a ridiculous question? “No, of course not. I want to talk to my granddaughter. In private, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh.” The woman looked nonplussed. “Well, then... What... Where should I...”
“You can watch television in the living room, if you like,” Hope suggested. “Gran and I can talk in here.”
Hope helped me into a chair as the woman left the room. I heard the television blare. Hope closed the door between the two rooms. “Would you like some tea?”
“Please.” I watched her move to the stove.
“Chamomile or Sleepytime?”
It must be evening. I looked out the window and was surprised to see it was dark. Belatedly, I understood why that woman wantedto put me to bed. Time was a muddle in my mind. I glanced at Hope’s feet and saw she was wearing sneakers instead of running around barefoot as she usually did in the house. “You’ve been out,” I said.
Hope nodded as she filled the kettle at the sink. “I planned to go for a run, but I ended up next door talking to the neighbors about the mural you volunteered me to paint.”
“Oh. Good.” I remembered nothing about a neighbor or a painting project, but I hated appearing stupid almost as much as I hated not being able to hold a thought in my head. “How did it go?”
“Fine. I think I’m actually going to enjoy it.”
I wasn’t sure what neighbor she was talking about. Actually, at the moment I couldn’t remember who any of my neighbors were. “Well, wonderful.”
She sat down across from me. “When we last talked, you were about to tell me about going up in an airplane with an air force pilot.”
“Oh yes.” I closed my eyes. The next thing I knew, images were flickering on the inside of my eyelids, slowly at first, then faster, as if they were happening all over again. I heard myself telling Hope about it, but the words seemed to be coming from somewhere else, like a news reporter explaining the newsreels they used to show at the movies.
1943
It was a Monday night. I remember because I’d taken photos for the society column about a group called the Monday Mavens, so I came home late.
Marge was already asleep in her twin bed in the room we shared, which was unusual. The hot water bottle on her pillow told me she’d probably had one of her migraine headaches, which meant she’d taken some of Aunt Lucille’s medicine that knocked her out. I quietly put up my hair—I always pinned it in a bun on top of my head at night,which would leave it curly for the next day—and crawled into my narrow bed, under a fraying blue quilt. I was adjusting the pillow under my head when I heard something softly hit the bedroom window.
At first I thought it was a bug, but it happened again—and yet again. Whatever it was made a definite pinging sound—harder than a bug, and strangely rhythmic. A bird, perhaps? My grandmother had once told me about a cardinal that kept flying into her window, thinking that its own reflection was another bird that he needed to fight off. It was dark, though, and most birds didn’t fly at night—except maybe owls, and an owl would have made a bigger ruckus.
I headed to the window, pulled aside the cherry-printed curtain, and peered outside.
There, standing in a pool of light from the lamppost on the corner, was Joe—wearing what looked like a flight suit. My heart drummed hard and fast. I’d thought of him often in the two days since the dance. He hadn’t called, and I’d begun to think that he’d just been blowing smoke about seeing me again.
I pulled up the window sash. “What on earth are you doing?” I softly called.
“I came to take you flying. Dress warm and come down.”
I hesitated. I wasn’t the kind of girl who sneaked out at night to meet men. I knew about those girls—fast girls, loose girls, girls who got in trouble and shamed their families. I could only imagine my mother and father’s reaction to such behavior.
But to go flying! It was the adventure of a lifetime—beyond the scope of my family’s imagination. It was exactly the sort of adventure I longed for. How could I say no?
