The Bungalow (14 page)

I heaped a pile of mashed potatoes on my plate and, with the cook’s permission, I got an extra plate for Kitty, followed by sliced carrots and boiled ham that looked curled and dry under the warming lights. Still, at least it wasn’t canned. I was glad of that.

Stella and Mary waved at me from the nurses’ table, and I nodded and walked toward them. “I’m just grabbing a tray for Kitty and myself, to take back to the room. Kitty got a letter from home today. A bad one.”

Mary frowned. “I’m sorry to hear it,” she said. “Can you sit for a minute, though? You can’t juggle both of those trays on the path back. You’ll trip. Why don’t you eat first?”

I thought it over, then agreed, sitting down next to Mary.

“They say there was a fight in the barracks today,” Stella said in a hushed voice. “This island’s really wearing on the men.”

“It’s wearing on all of us,” I replied, attempting to cut the tough slice of ham with a dull knife.

Stella nodded. “I saw Lance at the market yesterday. He had his arm around that girl, that native.”

I was grateful Kitty wasn’t present. She’d experienced enough heartbreak for one day. “You mean
Atea
,” I said. “She has a name.” It irritated me that Stella held the island’s indigenous population in such low regard.

“I guess that was her name,” she said with a shrug. “Lance sure has a thing for her.”

Mary looked doubtful. “Oh, Stell,” she said. “Just because he gets his cigarettes from her doesn’t mean he’s carrying on with her.”

Stella shrugged. “I’m just telling you what I saw.”

“All right, girls,” I said, retrieving Kitty’s tray, “I’m off to deliver a meal.”

“Good night,” Mary said.

Stella nodded and sank her teeth into a biscuit.

I waved flies from the tray as I followed the trail, pausing for a moment in front of the men’s barracks, hoping, in vain, to find Westry gazing down from a window. Was his bunk on the second floor or the fourth? I scanned the second floor and my eyes stopped at an open window toward the middle of the building. There was rustling and movement inside.
A fight
. “Yes, sir!” a voice rang out. “Please, sir!” It was
Westry
’s voice.

My God! He’s hurt. He’s being beaten.
I set the tray down on a bench and walked to the entrance to the barracks. I had to help him. But how? Women weren’t allowed inside. I stood on the steps in desperation, listening to the sound of flesh pounding flesh and furniture breaking.
Stop. It has to stop.

A moment later, it did. A door slammed, then heavy footsteps pounded in the hallway and down the stairs to the entrance of the barracks. My stomach turned when Colonel Donahue appeared in the doorway, clutching a bloodied hand. I shrank back against the hibiscus and watched as he walked directly to the infirmary.

My heart raced. “Westry!” I called out, in a panic. “Westry!” I said louder, pitching my voice into the open window.

There was only silence, and I feared the worst.

I ran to the mess hall, where many of the men were still eating, and found Elliot at a table near the entrance. His eyes met mine, and I motioned for him to come over.

“What is it, Anne?” he said, releasing a cloth napkin from his collar.

“It’s Westry,” I whispered. “He was beaten. By Colonel Donahue. He’s in his room. He may be unconscious.” My words shot out of my mouth like rapid fire.

Elliot’s eyes widened. “I’ll go,” he said, pushing through the double doors and sprinting out to the trail.

I waited outside the barracks for a long while, alternately pacing and peering up at the second floor, trying to catch a glimpse through the window. Then I heard the door open and Elliot stepped outside.

“He’s been beaten pretty bad,” he said. “A laceration across his forehead’s going to need stitches.”

“Why won’t he come down, then?” I said.

“He won’t,” Elliot continued.

“I don’t understand. Why did Colonel Donahue do that to him?”

“He won’t talk about it,” he said, looking down the trail where the colonel had exited. “But something bad must have happened. Something’s not right.”

I rubbed my hand along my forehead. “Can you stay with him, then? Make sure he’s OK, try to get him to go to the infirmary to get stitched up?”

Elliot nodded. “I’ll do my best,” he said, turning back to the door.

“Thanks,” I replied. “And Elliot?”

“Yes?”

“Tell him I miss him.”

Elliot grinned. “He’ll like that.”

Kitty’s dinner tray was cold by the time I returned to the room, but it didn’t matter. She still refused food.

“Can I do anything for you, dear?” I said, stroking her soft curls.

“No,” she said meekly. “I just need to be alone.”

“Yes,” I replied, a little hurt. “I understand.”

The sun had set, but the moon overhead provided an alluring amount of light. I eyed my knapsack.
The bungalow.
It’s where I needed to be; my heart felt it.

“Kitty,” I said softly, tucking a book into my bag. “I’m stepping out for a while.”

She didn’t answer, but I didn’t fault her.

“I’ll be back soon,” I said, closing the door behind me.

The wind blew stronger than it usually did, tousling my hair as I trudged along the sand toward the bungalow. When I arrived, I unlocked the door and lay down on the bed. The new quilt I’d brought last week, found on the top shelf of our bedroom closet, felt warm and comforting on my weary body. I didn’t bother checking the mailbox. Westry hadn’t been back long enough to visit, and now he was holed up in the barracks nursing his wounds. I shuddered at the thought of Colonel Donahue’s brutality.
Why did he hurt him so?
Whatever the reason, I was sure Westry hadn’t deserved it.

I propped up the pillow behind my head and pulled out the letter from Mother that I’d tucked inside my pocket earlier.

I felt the sting of salty tears in my eyes.
She’s leaving Papa. Poor Papa. How could she?
“May your marriage to Gerard be more love-filled than mine has been.”
What kind of rubbish is that?

I heard a sound outside on the beach, followed by the slow creak of the bungalow door opening. My heart calmed when I saw Westry’s face.

“I hoped you’d be here,” he said, grinning.

“Look at you!” I exclaimed, ignoring my inhibitions and running to his side, where I instinctively reached my hand out to caress his cheek. “Why did Colonel Donahue hurt you?”

“Listen,” he said firmly, “I need to make myself clear. You did not see Colonel Donahue today.”

“But I did—”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”

“But Westry, why?”

He looked conflicted and pained. “Please, don’t ever mention it again.”

I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“It has to be this way,” he said. “You’ll understand someday.” His face caught the light and I could see the severity of his wounds.

“You must let me take you to the infirmary.”

Westry flashed a devious smile. “Now, why would I do that, when I have my very own nurse right here?”

I grinned, reaching for my knapsack. “Well, I should have a first-aid kit in here somewhere.” I riffled through the bag until I found the little white case stocked with nursing essentials, then removed the suture set. I opened a white packet, pulling out an alcohol-soaked square of gauze. “This might sting a little.”

I took his hand, feeling the familiar flutter inside when our skin touched, and led him to the bed.
What does it matter if we both sit here?
“Now,” I said when we were seated, “hold still.”

Elliot had been right. The laceration on his forehead was deep, and I doubted my ability to stitch it up. “It looks bad,” I said, dabbing the wound with the gauze. Westry flinched but didn’t say anything.

“You know,” I said nervously, “we have a topical numbing cream at the infirmary. Let’s go there. It will be less painful for you.”

I began to stand up, but Westry reached for my hand and pulled me back. “I don’t want to go,” he said. “I want to stay. Right here.”

His eyes were intense, tender. I nodded and picked up the suture set. “All right, but this may hurt a bit.”

Westry stared at the wall ahead as I made one stitch and then two. A third was all I needed to close the gap. I tied it firmly then snipped the edge. “There,” I said. “Now, that wasn’t too bad, was it?”

Westry shook his head. “You’re a natural, Cleo Hodge,” he said teasingly, gazing into my eyes with a look of concern. I smiled, then quickly turned away.

“You’ve been crying,” he said. “Why?”

I thought of the letter from Mother. “Just some disturbing mail from home.”

“What did it say?”

I hesitated. “It was from my mother. She’s”—I choked back the tears that were coming again—“she’s leaving my father.”

He reached out and pulled me toward him; his arms wrapped around my back, and the side of my head nestled into his chest. I felt protected, encircled. “I’m so sorry,” he said. His words reverberated in the little bungalow, floating on the air for some time, for neither of us spoke again for a great while.

I looked up to face Westry. He was here. Present. Now. And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

His hands moved up my arms, along my shoulders toward my neck and to my cheeks, where they pulled my face toward his. I felt something new stir inside me. Westry pressed his lips against mine so delicately, so perfectly. He pulled me closer, weakening any lingering resistance.

He held me in his arms, cradling me. November 27. It was an insignificant date, just a blip on the calendar. But it was also a life-changing occasion. It was the day I started loving Westry.

T
he sun beat down without reprieve, which seemed unfair, given that it was Christmas Eve. At home, Mother would be trimming an enormous fir tree in the entryway. I could almost smell the evergreen, even if it was a figment, both because there were only palms in sight and because Mother had moved out of the house. Her most recent letter indicated that she’d taken an apartment in New York.

I thought of how jolly Papa was this time of the year, offering big mugs of mulled cider to carolers, stuffing Maxine’s pastries and cookies into his mouth at every turn.
Maxine.
I’d wondered more than a few times why she hadn’t written. The mail had slowed altogether, though, and the women waited expectantly every afternoon, hoping to catch sight of a jeep barreling across the lawn with a special delivery.

I hadn’t heard from Gerard, which concerned me most of all. His silence had been welcome in some ways, leaving a place for my feelings for Westry to grow undisturbed. And yet, I worried about him every day, imagining him on a cold foreign battlefield, fighting for America. Fighting for me.

Kitty had grown to accept the death of Mr. Gelfman, though she didn’t talk about it. Instead, she seemed to invest every fiber of her being in Lance. She frequently slipped off to meet him and stayed out much too late. But who was I to judge?

And suddenly it was Christmas Eve. I had time to head to the beach before the candlelight service at the chapel later that night, so I snuck away before Nurse Hildebrand could recruit me to help unpack the new shipment of supplies.

I was disappointed to find the bungalow empty. Westry had been on three missions in the past month, and I’d seen very little of him. I checked the mailbox under the floorboard, and giggled when I found an envelope waiting for me.

My eyes welled up with tears as I read the last line over again. “Maybe someday we’ll have a real Christmas together.”
Will we?
The idea was frightening and exciting at the same time. My fingers worked fast to untie the red ribbon from the little box waiting below the floorboard, wrapped beautifully with tinfoil he must have stolen from the mess hall. I lifted the lid and found a gold, oval locket on a delicate chain. The inside was empty, but on the back, the inscription read:
Grayson and Cleo
.