Brave Hearts (10 page)

“You are finding it very different here, aren't you?” Amea asked perceptively.

Catharine looked at her with interest. Amea didn't say much, but Catharine decided that she saw a very great deal.

“It's very beautiful,” Catharine said carefully.

Amea laughed. “It's all right. The walls don't have ears. You've been here three weeks. What do you think of Manila?”

Catharine slowly smiled. “It's the oddest place I've ever been,” she responded, enjoying the frankness and feeling of friendship. She liked Amea, liked being able to say what she thought without fear of being misunderstood. “The air-conditioned stores and the billboards are so American, but underneath it all there's that languor of the tropics. I'd read about it, but I didn't understand. The Americans who're still here live like kings. Even privates have maids. And I have a houseboy, a cook, and two servants for a two-bedroom apartment, and we aren't spending a particle of what we spent in London.”

Amea's face sobered. “Was it very dreadful in London?”

Catharine thought of the battered gray streets and the smell of old dirt and clay thrown up by the bombs and of Jack. “Not all of it,” she said quietly.

“I suppose the destruction is awful.”

Catharine nodded. They talked of landmarks no longer there and of the dreadful night when it looked as though St. Paul's would go. But Catharine couldn't help thinking of Jack, of the way he smiled, the way his full mouth could curve up so slowly into a wide and marvelous grin that laughed at the world. She thought of his hands, strong hands with blunt fingers stained by carbon. She thought of his eyes, those piercingly blue eyes that looked at her so directly and honestly. Would she ever see that smile again or feel the touch of his hands or rejoice in the warmth and longing in his eyes?

She came back to the hot white room, the undistinguished rattan furniture, and the whirr of the overhead fan as Amea made motions to go.

“It's been such a pleasant afternoon,” Amea said cheerfully.

Catharine smiled as she walked to the door with Amea. “I'm so glad you could come to see me.”

Amea slipped on her gloves. “You know, we'd love to have you join our Red Cross group. We're rolling bandages now. We have some first-aid classes going, too.”

“I'll think about it,” Catharine said pleasantly.

Amea paused in the doorway. “It does help to keep busy,” she said in her gentle voice. “I know Spencer's been working day and night, just like Woody. The Red Cross helps fill the days.”

After she was gone, Catharine wandered slowly to the broad west window. So Amea Willoughby thought Catharine was lonely. Was it that apparent? The wives of the State Department officials were a tight-knit group in Manila. They'd been friendly and welcoming to Catharine. She'd gone to teas and played bridge, but she hadn't plunged into their day-to-day social life.

Catharine appreciated Amea's intent, but Amea was wrong about one thing. Going to the Red Cross meetings wouldn't fill the void in Catharine's life. For a moment, Catharine wondered how shocked Amea would be if she knew the real reason for Catharine's aloofness.

This was the first time in all the years of her marriage that she hadn't plunged wholeheartedly into an active social life in the American community wherever they were posted, but this time she couldn't bring herself to participate. Spencer was so totally absorbed in his work he hadn't even noticed. Catharine couldn't bear the light, social afternoon gatherings, the inconsequential chatter. That was why she spent long, dull afternoons in the muggy apartment, sometimes remembering London and sometimes forcing herself to forget. But she would go to the Red Cross meetings. Those bandages might be needed.

The front door opened. Manuel came in, carrying a basket of groceries, smiling and bobbing and nodding and holding out in one hand a stack of mail.

Catharine felt an instant of breathless expectation. She'd written Jack and sent him her address. She'd waited ever since hoping to hear from him. She hadn't been able to resist the deep, visceral need to contact him. She'd made it clear in her letter that she knew she had no claim on his time or thoughts, but she'd always love him.

She reached out eagerly for the stack of mail and skimmed through the envelopes, then saw, sickeningly, her own handwriting and the address, “Mr. John Maguire, 50 Greenwood Courts, London.” A careless hand had scrawled “Addressee Unknown.”

The petty officer looked up. “You again?”

Jack nodded.

The sailor hesitated, then motioned Jack to come nearer. “Look, this is on the qt, but if you'll show up early tomorrow I can get you aboard the Repulse”

“Where's she going?”

“They say the Philippines.”

Peggy frowned in concentration. It was so hard to type the long, detailed list of gold holdings without making any mistakes. The lists were marked over with insertions and corrections. She sighed wearily. There was list after list after list.

“Peggy.”

Peggy stiffened. She knew it was Catharine before she looked up. Peggy's hands paused on the keyboard; then she forced herself to smile.

“Hello, Mrs. Cavanaugh. Mr. Cavanaugh's in conference with Mr. Sayre and Mr. Willoughby.”

Peggy's face felt stiff and unnatural when she tried to smile. Catharine Cavanaugh was as immaculately groomed and lovely as always, but today she looked strained, worse than she had during the Blitz. Peggy sensed the incongruity of it, but the thought was swept away by a rising tide of unhappiness. How could Catharine be unhappy? She was Mrs. Spencer Cavanaugh. She was so lucky, Peggy thought bitterly.

“That's all right,” Catharine said softly. “I'm here to see Mrs. Sayre, but would you give Spencer a message?”

“Of course, Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

“Remind him that tonight is the ball at the Japanese embassy. Since he usually spends the night here at the Residence, he may have forgotten.”

Peggy looked sharply at Catharine and wondered if anyone nearby had overheard that comment, but the low hum of the air conditioner and the clatter of typewriter keys made it unlikely. What if Catharine talked to Mrs. Sayre about Spencer staying nights at the Residence? Of course, Mrs. Sayre probably wouldn't give it any thought. A number of the State Department officers stayed in the extra rooms on occasion and certainly often did so these days.

Peggy said woodenly, “I don't believe he's forgotten, Mrs. Cavanaugh, but I'll give him the message.”

Catharine smiled. “He'll be irritated. He won't want to go. No one does, the way things are now, but he must.”

When Catharine had gone, Peggy still sat, her hands limp on the typewriter. Tonight Spencer wouldn't be coming to her apartment. He would be dancing with Catharine, with Mrs. Spencer Cavanaugh.

Peggy bit her lip, then angrily began to type the lists of gold.

The long pastel dresses swirled gracefully as the women danced. Catharine thought of butterflies wheeling and turning in the sunset. White uniforms stood out in sharp contrast to the yellows and blues of the gowns. The reception was just another diplomatic party except that it forced her to remember a particular party, a reception at the German embassy in Paris in the spring of 1939. That cold and hostile evening in Paris the representatives of certain countries stood carefully on opposite sides of the ornate room. Tonight, the English diplomats stood with their American counterparts. Spencer was deep in conversation with the British military attaché. Catharine looked across the ballroom floor at the Japanese officials ranged along the opposite wall. Consul and Mrs. Yoshida stood in the center of the room in a formal reception line to greet arriving officials. Japanese serving women in bright kimonos offered tea and cakes.

The British military attaché stood just to Catharine's right.

“Mark my words, Cavanaugh, it will be over in a matter of weeks if the Japs do anything foolish. Why, those little brown Johnnies are a joke as fighters. We'll mop them up with no problem—and, of course, Singapore is impregnable.”

“They have their hands full in China,” Spencer offered. Then he frowned and said worriedly, “But things look bad. If the Japanese commission in Washington doesn't accept our terms, then I'm afraid . . .”

The orchestra began to play a stately waltz. Catharine looked away from Spencer and saw a tall, slim Japanese in the uniform of a colonel walking purposefully toward their corner. Spencer and the British major stopped talking.

The Japanese colonel ignored them, walked up to Catharine, and gave a slight bow.

“Do you remember me, Catharine?”

Her eyes widened in surprise; then she smiled and held out her hand. “Tom, of course I remember you.” Still smiling, she turned to Spencer. “Spencer, this is Tom Okada. He was at school with my brother, Ted, at Stanford. He often came home with Ted.” She turned back to the Japanese officer. “Tom, this is my husband, Spencer Cavanaugh.”

Colonel Okada bowed. Spencer stiffly nodded his head.

They didn't shake hands.

“I knew your wife when she was a little girl, and she was as lovely then as she is now.”

Spencer nodded but didn't respond.

The colonel turned back to Catharine. “May I have this dance, Catharine?”

She hesitated for just an instant. The Japanese and American diplomats treated each other with punctilious courtesy but no friendliness these days. This had been the norm ever since Roosevelt applied the embargo and the Japanese continued to insist upon their right to expand and the future of the Greater Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere.

Would it really be appropriate for her to dance with a Japanese military officer?

But this was Ted's friend and hers.

Lifting her chin a little, she said quickly, “I'd love to, Tom.”

He took her hand, and they walked out onto the dance floor. She could feel Spencer's disapproval. As she and Tom circled the dance floor, she saw the tight, closed faces of the other Americans. Tom, of course, saw them, too. He laughed a little.

“Consul Yoshida looks as though he's eaten something disagreeable. Isn't it absurd, Catharine?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.” She looked up at her old friend. “Tom, do you think there's going to be a war?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? But there's nothing you or I can do about it.” Briskly, he changed the subject. “Have you seen Ted recently?”

“Yes, when we came through New York. Ted's still with Mercantile General. He and Betty live in Scarsdale and have four children.”

“Four!” Tom exclaimed. “It seems funny to think of Ted as a family man. When we were in school, he was a ladies' man.” Then he looked at her quickly.

Catharine laughed. “You don't have to protect my brother's reputation with me. Ted always loved and left the ladies until he met Betty, but now he's thoroughly domesticated. How about you, Tom? Are you still a gallant bachelor?”

He shook his head. “No. My wife and I have two sons. I suppose the years catch up with all of us.” He looked at her quizzically. “And you, Catharine, do you have any children?”

Despite the years since they'd last met, he knew her well, and he saw the pain in her face.

“I'm sorry, Catharine. I've said the wrong thing, haven't I?”

She shook her head quickly. “You couldn't have known.” She steeled her voice. “We lost our little boy just past his first birthday.” She forced a smile and asked brightly, “Is your wife here in Manila with you, Tom? I'd love to meet her.”

“No. She's at home in Osaka. I'm not permanently stationed here. I'm on a special mission.”

She started to say the same was true of Spencer, but caught herself. There was between them, abruptly, a constraint. He, too, didn't seem to know what to say.

The waltz ended, and they walked back across the floor to where Spencer and the British major waited, their faces impassive.

Tom bent down and said softly, “I'm glad, Catharine, that you haven't turned against your old friend.”

She smiled and felt at ease again. “I'll never do that, Tom.”

“Would you like to see the consulate garden? It is one of the loveliest in Manila.”

Catharine could see Spencer, waiting stiffly. “I wish I could, but I'd better rejoin my husband now.”

“Of course.” Just before they reached Spencer, he said, “Perhaps I'll see you again before I leave Manila.”

She gave him a quick, warm smile. “I hope so.”

When they reached Spencer, Tom bowed formally, then turned away.

Spencer waited a moment, then said through clenched teeth, “That was an incredible performance, Catharine.”

“Was it?” she asked indifferently.

“For God's sake, Catharine. Polite but formal, that's how the high commissioner told us to deal with the Japanese. Don't you understand, there's a damn good chance there's going to be war?”

She looked at him coolly and was somewhat surprised that his reprimand didn't touch her at all. She wasn't even sorry he was upset. She already hurt too much to let this petty argument cause her any pain.

“Spencer, I am a perfectly loyal American, but until the day we are at war, I have no intention of turning against a very old and very dear friend.”

Spencer's anger was still evident the next morning at breakfast. He didn't speak as Manuel served their fruit and toast.

Catharine ignored Spencer equally and read the Manila Tribune. Headlines told of worsening relations between Washington and Tokyo. Catharine skimmed the stories, then turned to an inside page. She didn't look up as Spencer pushed back his chair.

“Catharine.”

She looked up. “Yes?”

“You are not to have anything to do with this Okada.”

“I'll see.”

He hesitated and almost spoke again, but she turned back to the paper. She heard him walk across the room. He paused at the door.

“I'll be staying at the Residence tonight.” The door slammed behind him.

Catharine remembered his angry face several times during the day as she went through the motions of being Mrs. Spencer Cavanaugh. She attended a luncheon at the British Club and spent the afternoon at the U.S. Residence attending a first-aid class, in part to please Amea. She watched the earnest women in their summery frocks practicing how to splint broken bones and apply tourniquets. The American women ranged in age from their early twenties to their late sixties. Catharine thought they had absolutely no inkling of what war was like. She thought of houses after a bombing raid open to the street like stage-set scenes; the terrible quiet of a heap of rubble; the slow, tenacious efforts to find survivors; the bloodied, dusty bodies carried off in mortuary vans; the death notices in the London Times, and the rank, raw, hideous smell of destruction. These pleasant-faced, confident women talked earnestly about what to do in case of attack. Her heart ached for them.

Amea Willoughby turned to Catharine. “You've just come from London. What is it like to be in an air raid?”

Catharine looked thoughtfully at Amea.

Amea misunderstood Catharine's silence. “Forgive me,” she said quickly. “I shouldn't have asked. Someone told me you'd actually been bombed and lost all your things.”

“I don't mind answering,” Catharine said slowly, “but it's hard to explain. I think it's the helplessness that's the worst.” She paused and frowned. “It's the waiting, sitting there, night after night, waiting. You never know where the bombs will fall or what they will do. It's so completely fortuitous.” She smiled wryly. “I suppose it's arrogance to believe we can control our destiny. That's the first thing you lose in a bombing raid, the sense of control and rationality. Nothing matters but chance. It's as if you're playing a gigantic, cosmic game of chance, and your life is the chip if you lose.”