The Bungalow (9 page)

“She didn’t,” Kitty said. “Lance did.”

I pulled the curtains closed to hide Kitty’s naked body from prying male eyes. “Is anyone else coming?” I thought of Westry.

“I think that’s it,” Kitty said, looking into the closet. “Wait, is there someone you were thinking of?” There was a hint of teasing in her voice.

I shook my head. “I was only thinking of Mary.”

Kitty didn’t look up from the closet.

“I didn’t see her last night, did you?”

“No,” she said, pulling out a powder blue dress with short sleeves. “What do you think of this one?”

“It’s fine,” I said, less concerned about Kitty’s wardrobe than the safety of our new friend. “Don’t you think we ought to check with Nurse Hildebrand to see if Mary’s all right?”

Kitty shrugged, holding up a pair of tan heels for inspection. “Yes or no?”

“No,” I said. “Wear the blue ones. Your feet will thank me later.”

She clasped her bra and stepped into a white silk slip, before putting on the dress.

“Tell me about Lance,” I said a little cautiously, zipping her up. “Do you like him?”

“Yes,” Kitty said, though I thought I detected a note of hesitation in her voice. “He’s great.”

“Did you ever dance with the colonel last night?” I asked, selecting a glaringly simple tan dress from the closet.

Kitty nodded. “I did,” she said, smiling. “And it was divine. Lance wasn’t too happy, but he could hardly challenge his superior.”

I took a look at myself in the oval mirror on the wall. My cheeks were flushed from the morning heat and my hair looked limp. In a battle with the humidity, the humidity had won. I shrugged and pulled it back into a clip. I’d be wearing a sun hat anyway.

“Ready?” Kitty said, grabbing her handbag.

I stared back at her. Her cheeks were rosy, not ruddy like mine. Her hair, curlier and wilder than ever, looked alluring the way she wore it, pinned to the side.

The tropics became her.

“Ready,” I said, following her out the door.

Lance drove much too fast. Kitty was unaffected, however, looking gay in the front seat while Stella, Elliot, and I were squeezed into the back like pickles in one of Maxine’s canning jars. My legs began to sweat on the hot canvas seat, and I clutched my hat as Lance gunned the engine. The pothole-littered gravel road that encircled the island wasn’t for the faint of heart. The dust was thick; I wished I’d brought a scarf.

“First to town center,” Lance said, sounding like an overzealous tour guide. “And next, to the beach.”

Kitty let out a little cheer, and Stella eyed Elliot, whose gaze remained fixed on the road ahead. “Do you get into town much?” she asked him sweetly.

He didn’t respond.

“I SAID,” Stella repeated, louder this time, competing with the engine noise, “DO YOU GET INTO TOWN MUCH?”

Elliot looked at us, at first startled, then confused, as if he wasn’t sure which of us had spoken and why in such a shout.

“No, not often,” he said briefly, before turning his gaze back to the road.

Stella huffed and folded her arms across her chest. The air smelled of dirt right after a rain, mingled with a sweet, floral scent I didn’t recognize.

“You see that?” Lance said, pointing to a gated property to our left. He slowed the jeep, and I was glad to let go of my hat for a moment. My arm was beginning to cramp. “It’s a vanilla plantation. Almost all the vanilla in the world comes from this island.”

I wasn’t sure if this bit of trivia was true, or if Lance had just thrown it in to impress Kitty, but the idea of seeing a real, working vanilla plantation was incredibly exciting. I thought of Maxine. Was she happy living in the Windermere home day after day, waiting on my parents with little more than a “Thanks, Maxine” or “That will be all, Maxine”?

“An American owns the place,” Lance continued. “He married an island girl.”

Stella’s eyes widened. “I thought they were all cannibals.”

Elliot took his eyes off the road and gave me a knowing look before settling back into his quiet mind.

Lance continued on. Makeshift homes, constructed of scrap lumber, dotted the roadside, tucked in under the lush palms. Occasionally we’d spot a rooster or chicken pecking about, or a child running nude in front of one of the dwellings, but never an adult, and I was curious to see one of these natives that Nurse Hildebrand spoke of.

The jeep wound around the north side of the island and past a small turquoise cove with a ship anchored a way out. It might have been pulled from a page of
Robinson Crusoe
. Moments later, Lance pulled over to the side of the road. “Here we are,” he said.

I stepped out onto the dusty ground and turned my gaze to the busy scene ahead, where one might never guess there was a war going on mere miles from the shore. There were rows of tables cluttered with exotic fruits and vegetables, handmade necklaces, packs of cigarettes, and bottles of Coca-Cola. The scantily dressed shopkeepers, with their olive skin and enigmatic eyes, sat behind their tables looking vaguely bored, or sleepy, or both, as soldiers buzzed about spending their hard-earned cash on whatever trinket caught their eye.

“Look,” said Stella, gasping. She pointed to a native woman walking toward us. Bare-breasted, she wore her hair twisted into a single braid that rested between her breasts. A swath of green fabric hung around her waist, tied loosely, dangerously so. I noticed the flower in her left ear as she walked right up to us as if she knew us. I tried to look away, but her breasts, with nipples so dark, lured my eyes with magnetic power. Her presence had the same effect on Stella, Kitty, Elliot, and especially Lance.

“Mr. Lance,” the woman said, setting down the bag she had been carrying. Her thickly accented voice was sweet and soft. She was maybe eighteen, possibly younger. Her breasts dangled and swayed as she bent down to the bag and produced a pack of Lucky Strikes. “Your cigarettes,” she said, offering him the pack.

“Thank you,” Lance said. Kitty eyed him as he tucked the pack into his shirt pocket. “
Atea
here is the only shopkeeper who can track down my Lucky Strikes. She saves a pack for me every Thursday.”

Atea looked proud standing there, bare chested, not the least bit modest. Her eyes sparkled. She gazed at no one but Lance.

“Are you coming today?” she said, unaware of the awkward stiffness in the air.

“Not today, Atea,” he said, dismissing her with a self-conscious nod. “You be a good girl and rustle me up some more, if you can. I’ll be back in a few days.” He tucked a coin in her hand and then reached for Kitty’s arm. “Now, let’s go see the rest of the market.”

“That was strange,” Stella said, leaning in to me a few moments later.

It
was
strange, but I wasn’t going to discuss it with her, not when Kitty might overhear. “What’s so strange about Lance buying cigarettes from a female?” I said instead.

Stella smirked and continued on, stopping at a table of brightly colored beads.

“You OK?” I said to Kitty, once Lance was a safe distance away.

“Of course,” she said. “Why?”

Good. She wasn’t upset by the interaction. Then I’ll just leave it alone.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Just wanted to make sure the heat wasn’t getting to you.”

She took a deep breath of the humid island air and smiled. “I’m having the time of my life,” she said gleefully.

Stella laid a blanket out on the beach, careful to secure a spot next to Elliot. “I’m starved, are you?” she said, attempting to catch his attention, but he merely shrugged and muttered, “I ate a big breakfast,” before leaning back against a large piece of driftwood wedged into the sand, snuffing out all further conversation by pulling his hat over his eyes.

We’d driven back around to the other side of the island, close to base. Though we selected a spot beneath the shade of a palm for our picnic, the white sand still radiated heat. I shifted my legs uncomfortably as Kitty set out a loaf of bread, a cheerful bunch of miniature bananas, four bottles of Coca-Cola, and a wedge of cheese—our improvised lunch cobbled together at the market.

We ate in silence at first, watching the waves crash onto the shore. Then Kitty pointed to the sea and said what we all felt: “It’s hard to believe there’s a war happening out there. This corner of the world is too beautiful for destruction.”

I nodded, helping myself to another banana. They tasted different than the bananas at home, a little tarter, with a hint of lemon. “But there is,” I said practically.

“And a serious one, at that,” Lance added. “Just yesterday, the Japs shot down three of our planes.”

Stella looked worried. “Do you think we’ll see fighting right here on the island?”

“I think we might,” Lance said gravely. “Colonel Donahue doesn’t see it that way, though. He’s a fool. I tell you, we’ll be all asleep in our bunks when the Japs fly over, bombarding us when we least expect it.”

Kitty looked up with concerned eyes, then shook her head. “Colonel Donahue will protect this island.”

Lance shrugged. “If you say so.” He smirked, before muttering, “I could run this operation better blindfolded.”

The statement was too boastful for a man of twenty-five, but Kitty must have been unaffected by his arrogance, because she laid her head lightly in his lap. I could tell by his smile that he liked it.

Elliot began to snore. Stella brooded.

“I think I’ll take a walk,” I said, standing. Kitty’s eyes were closed in pretend slumber as I adjusted the brim of my hat and kicked off my shoes. “I’ll be back,” I said, though I don’t think anyone looked up.

I walked down the beach, stopping occasionally to examine a rock or a shell, or to marvel at the growth patterns of the palms, reaching out to the sea in horizontal fashion. Years of wind and tropical storms had sculpted their trunks, but I liked to think they grew that way because the sea was calling. It made me remember what Westry had said about the island changing people.
Will I be able to resist its force?

I strengthened my footing in the sand and charged onward. After the morning at the market, it felt good to be alone with my thoughts and the quiet lull of the waves on the shore. The deserted beach seemed to stretch toward infinity. I walked closer to the water, relishing the feeling of the cool, sea-kissed sand on my feet. Each step left an inch-thick indentation.

A seabird squawked from its perch on a rock a few feet away, which is where I first noticed another set of footprints, fainter, older, but still relatively fresh.
Whose?

It would be silly to follow them
, I told myself.
What if they’re a native’s? A cannibal’s?
I shook my head.
I’m alone. I should turn back.
And yet, they lured me farther down the beach, beyond the bend.
Just a few steps farther.

The footprints stopped at a crumpled beige blanket, anchored to the sand by nothing but a book. I recognized the fabric instantly because I had the same standard military-issue on my bed in the barracks.
But who was here?

I turned quickly when I heard a rustling sound in the thick brush behind the palms at the edge of the beach.

“Hello there,” said a man appearing out of nowhere a few hundred yards away. He carried a large palm frond that shrouded his face, but when he moved it aside, I could see that it was Westry.

“Hello,” I said, a bit surprised, but grateful to have avoided an encounter of a grimmer nature.

“Are you following me?” he said teasingly.

I felt foolish, then irritated. “Of course not!” I said, my voice thick with pride.
I can’t have him thinking I’m chasing after him.
“I was merely taking a walk—which reminds me, I need to be going. My friends are expecting me.”

Westry smiled. “Oh, don’t go,” he said, pushing the base of the palm branch into the sand and then sitting under it. “Look, the perfect shade. Won’t you sit down? Just for a minute?”