The Chelsea Girls(10)

Hazel turned around and followed Maxine’s finger. A pale face stared down at them from the third floor, hands tight around the bars of the window.

Paul. They waved with both arms, and he responded with a lift of his chin and a wave of his own before retreating from view. They couldn’t explain that they’d be back, or that they were trying to help, but at least he’d seen them. Paul’s defiance, his proud bearing, reminded Hazel so much of Ben. But she didn’t want to think about that.

That evening at dinner, the soldiers had a surprise waiting for the acting troupe. As the men clapped and whistled, the five actresses were escorted to a table in the middle of the mess tent that had been laid with a white tablecloth, a bouquet of flowers, and cloth napkins. Hazel turned beet red but the other girls whistled right back.

“What’s all this for?” asked Maxine.

“For reminding us of our girls back home,” said one of the men. “For giving us hope.”

Hazel looked about. So many of these men had never ventured out of their small towns before they were shipped off, and she could imagine the depths of their homesickness. How horrible it must’ve been when their idealized versions of the war, of heroic feats and brotherly love, were twisted by reality into fatigue, hunger, and grisly sights that would never fade from their memories.

After dinner, the women sat around the table, now joined by ten or so soldiers and a young kid with a sketch pad who offered to do caricatures of the men.

“Who is that?” Hazel asked Betty-Lou.

“Floyd. He was sent over, like we were, to entertain the troops.”

“With art?”

“You should see him, he can whip up a portrait in no time. I kept mine. I’m going to frame it when I’m home. He gave me a waist to die for.”

Hazel laughed. The boy had red pimples on his forehead, while his feet and hands were way too big for his thin frame. “He looks like he’s about twelve.”

“Kid’s got a gift.”

The boy ripped a page from his pad and handed it to Maxine. She held it up so the rest of them could see. In the drawing, her curves were slightly exaggerated, but not enough to be crass, and her red hair cascaded down her shoulders like a waterfall of lava. She came off as voluptuous and tough, her lips pursed together and her eyes peering off to the side, as if a lover had just walked into the room.

Hazel’s attention was soon taken up by the man to her right, who hailed from Kansas. He talked so fast sometimes she wasn’t sure what he was saying, but that didn’t seem to matter to him at all. Something about sending home letters to his girl and did she think she’d still be waiting for him.

“Of course. What’s your girl’s name?” Hazel asked.

“Eileen. I write to her every week, without fail. But I haven’t heard from her in three months. Do you think I’ve done something wrong? Or maybe she hasn’t gotten my letters and thinks I’m dead? I don’t know if I could stand that.”

Hazel thought of her brother, who hadn’t had a girl back home. Who hadn’t had time to send even one letter to his family before they got word of his death. Her mother had opened the door to the two men in uniform and brought them into the living room, where Hazel sat reading to her father in his wheelchair. She remembered thinking that she hoped the soldiers weren’t shocked by what they saw, the scripts and books lying about, the missing button on her father’s cardigan, the dust motes dancing in the sunlight. That’s what she remembered most about that moment. The dust motes, as she willed the men not to speak.

“Benny’s all right, yes?” Her mother’s chin wobbled.

They’d launched into a prepared speech. Said he’d been killed in a plane crash behind enemy lines. Said that he had not survived. Said that he was a hero.

“Where did it happen?” Ruth asked.

“We’re not at liberty to say, ma’am,” answered one of them.

“Was it quick?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

But Hazel could tell the answer was a lie. They didn’t know the circumstances, any more than she and her parents did. It was all a haze, like the stifling air inside the room.

The family came apart without Ben. He was the glue, the silly clown, the sweet prince that Ruth doted on. Hazel’s father didn’t show much emotion, and his disability made it difficult in any event. But Ruth emoted enough for the three of them put together, except for once at the wake, when Hazel looked up from pouring out cups of coffee to see her mother studying her intently, her eyes clear and dry. “I guess you’ll do, God help us,” Ruth had said, before retreating into the living room to weep in the arms of strangers.

As if he’d picked up on her thoughts, the boy from Kansas began to tear up. Hazel shifted her chair closer, asking him questions to distract him from the girl Eileen. About his favorite K rations, and what made him laugh. What were his favorite films? Who did he look up to and admire?

As they talked, she realized that this was how she could create the soldier hero for the broadcast. By interviewing the men and summing up their stories of bravery and humility. She couldn’t wait to get back to the tent, pull out her notebook, and jot down some notes from the conversation.

“Hey, look, Hazel!” Verna pointed from across the table. “Floyd’s done you, too.”

Hazel hadn’t even noticed the kid had pulled up a chair nearby. He carefully ripped the paper from the pad and handed it over.