John D. MacDonald

Delivery Boy War

For a week, this time, she was alone in a burned world. The landscape was as unreal as this life she was leading. “Home” meant the sane green hills of central New York State. Here, on the California desert, there was a harshness alien to her.

The little house assigned to them was on the station street known as Brass Row: for majors through full colonels. The whistling roar of the jets was merged in her mind with the arid wind that scoured baked rocks. There was no getting away from the sound. Though the PX stocked everything she needed, she would drive into San Berdoo, telling herself that the long trip was necessary for some special item which she never seemed quite able to find. And, even there, she would hear that jet-sound. It was a sound you didn’t hear with the ears alone...

A full week, this time... At dusk she went out behind the house. This was the part of the day she liked. The air was spiced at dusk, not smelling of hot stones. It cooled off quickly, and she put on the yellow cashmere sweater she had taken out with her. Just as she lit a cigarette, she heard the phone. It stopped her heart, because this time it was a full week. She threw the cigarette aside and walked in, trying not to run, for to run was the sort of confession you had to avoid making.

“Mrs. Heifer? ETA is eleven tonight. Full roster.”

Her fingers curled more loosely on the phone. “Thanks a lot, Timmy,” she said, making her tone just right: Grateful, but not too grateful; relaxed, with just that faint edge of crispness to be expected from the tall blonde wife of Colonel Heifer...

Everything had been done, and at quarter of eleven she put the front lights on.

She went to the door when she heard the car. He got out, pulled the flight bag out. The men spoke to each other in the still night, then the car went on up the street and Ben came up the walk to the door. She opened it for him. The cap’s peak shadowed his eyes from the lights, yet she saw weariness in the set of his shoulders, the gauntness of his cheeks.

“Get the word?” he said, dropping the flight bag in the hall.

“Timmy called me about seven, darling.”

He kissed her — then, folding her in long arms, stood quite still, holding her for long seconds. “Mmm,” he said. Stubble scratched her cheek. He smelled of leather and engine oil and high cold places.

“Good trip, darling?”

“Standard issue. Nothing to report, sir.”

“Hungry?”

“I think so, if I can stay awake long enough.”

“Go take your shower.”

As she worked in the kitchen she heard the muted roar of the shower.

You have been married to this man for sixteen years. You know him. You know where he is flawed, the tongue that can be too sharp, the fits of moodiness, that streak of jealousy that annoys even as it flatters. Yet he is good, and decent, and incredibly precious to you. He knows you the same way, knows of your occasional bullheadedness, knows you can’t save money to save your soul, knows that in spite of your perfect faithfulness to him, you are, withal, a bit of a flirt. Together you are marriage, and good marriage. After sixteen years, physical love between you can still be a craziness. Benjy, now fifteen, is like him, with those very level gray eyes, and that look of measuring.

When he had finished all but the coffee, his head sagged, and he gave a start as he lifted it. He gave her a rueful grin.

“Off with you,” she said lightly. He came around the table and kissed her.

“ ’Night, baby,” he said; his slipper heels scuffed as he went off to bed.

She sat at the table for a long time, then cleaned up. She tiptoed into the bedroom, struggled out with the heavy flight bag. She unpacked it, putting the laundry in the hamper.

After she got into bed, she lay and listened to his deep slow breathing beside her. She felt as though she could stretch out her arms and enclose the whole small house, and him in it, and hold it tightly against her breast, quite safe from harm...

When she got up, he was still sleeping. It was noon before she heard him stirring around. He came out, wearing pale-gray slacks, a black-and-red checked cotton flannel shirt. He gave her a toothpaste-flavored kiss. His eyes were bright and it never ceased to amaze her the way he could bounce back from utter exhaustion. That lean tall body had incredible reserves of strength.

“Liz, I guess I was a zombie last night.”

“No, dear. You scintillated. You said ‘ugh’ and ‘huh’ and ‘umm’ — and then you collapsed.”

She served the brunch. He drank the tall glass of juice. “I guess I told you it was a standard trip. The MIG’s had a fat happy week, so they needed the merchandise. Remember Conlahan? Little round-headed guy — we knew him at Drew.”

“I think so.”

“Damn fool was flying combat at his age. Don’t know how he worked it. Came back last week with a piece of rocket in his leg, half the size of a teacup. Pressure suit kept him from bleeding to death. Landed and passed out.”

“Ben, is there going to be any change?”

He gave her a quick, wary look. “Not that I know of. This jumping-bean ferry arrangement is still the quickest way of getting them where they’re needed. But it’s going to get easier, Liz. The next ones through will have the bigger auxiliary tanks.”

“So that they can make longer jumps,” she said bitterly.

“Easy, gal. I’m just a commissioned delivery boy. I just take the lieutenants across like a flock of chickens, and bring them back in a transport. I’m no Conlahan.”

“You better not be.”

“What’ll we do today, honey?”

“What do you feel like doing, Ben?”

“No party — just us. And if we stay here, you know what will happen: I’d like to drive around some, end up at the Mission Inn, maybe, for drinks and dinner. Then catch an outdoor movie. Sound okay?”

“I’d love it!”

It was after the movie, when they were driving slowly back to the small house, that she ran out of other conversation and told him about the new problem child on the station.

“A pretty girl, really, Ben. One of those redheads who doesn’t have the usual redhead’s complexion. She’s turning into a bottle baby, but fast. Moira took her home from the club again yesterday and now she says it’s somebody else’s turn.”

“What’s her name?”

“Jackie Genelli.”

“I see,” he said.

“What do you see, dear?”

“Genelli is Rogan’s replacement. Last-minute change. He came with me this trip. Nice kid, but jittery; now I can see why.”

“It’s — too bad.”

“I guess maybe she heard what happened to Rogan.”

“And Carlson and Kowalt and Shimm,” Liz said in a low tone.

“Just married, maybe. I don’t think Genelli’s twenty-one yet. It makes it tough.”

“Because you happen to be newlyweds? It that supposed to make it tougher?”

He slowed the car. “Hey!” he said softly. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Oh, doesn’t it? Sorry, I guess I forgot that I’m Lady Icewater. I meet everything with a careful little smile, and I spent all week long doing my nails.”

Ben pulled over onto the shoulder, turned off the lights and motor, shoved the dash-lighter in and took out his cigarettes. She lit her own and handed him the lighter.

He said, “See what you can do about Mrs. Genelli, Liz.”

“Ben! I can’t set myself up as a—”

“You’ve done it before, Liz.”

“Darling, listen to me. I’m all right. I’m not going to start fraying at the edges. But my missionary work is over. I just haven’t got any — any strength to spare. I need it all for myself, every bit of it. We pretend it isn’t so, but both of us know that ferry casualties are running higher than combat. Jackie Genelli knows that too. She’s going to have to find her own resources. She can’t borrow mine; because if she does — I might not get them back.”

“You won’t try?”

“No, darling,” she said firmly.

After a little while, without another word, he started the car up again. She told herself it didn’t make any difference. She told herself that the faint restraint in his manner was all imagination.

Three days later the next batch of merchandise was ready. They lighted up and slammed off into a sky of incredible blue.

The first day was never as bad as the ones that followed, somehow. There was no sense to it, actually. It just never seemed as bad. Liz spent an aimless day, and part of another, and then she did as she had known in her heart that she was going to have to do: she called on Jackie Genelli.

It was mid-afternoon. Jackie took so long coming to the door of her small house that Liz had begun to hope that she wasn’t in. Then Jackie opened the door and stood there, very young, very pretty. She wore no makeup, her red hair was tangled, her denim playsuit spotted across the halter.

“I’m Mrs. Heifer. Liz Heifer.”

“I know,” the girl said. She stood, unmoving, in the doorway.

“Could I come in, Jackie?”

“If you want.” The tone of voice gave no quarter.

Liz followed her into the small cluttered living-room. Jackie pushed magazines off a chair. “You can sit there.” She crossed the room and sat on the couch, legs pulled up under her, her eyes watchful.

“I understand you’re from New Orleans, Jackie.”

“Don’t start so far away. It will take longer to get to the point.”

“Why are you being rude?”

“I’m not — I’m just being surly. I’m a surly type. Now just give me a delicate little hint about the proprieties, Mrs. Colonel Heifer, and I’ll promise to be a good girl.”

Liz made up her mind in a fractional part of a second, then tipped her head back and laughed, hoping she was doing a good job of it.

Jackie watched her, unsmiling, sullen. “What’s funny?”

“I’m a committee of one, Jackie. You guessed that right. But I don’t care what you do. I really don’t.”

“And, Mrs. Colonel Heifer, I don’t think I care what you say. I hate it here; I hate the whole bloody awful business. They’re making Gidge fly too much and too often. Oh, it’s all right for you and the rest of the biddies around here. You’re used to it; you don’t turn a hair. You’re not human. I don’t think you’ve got any imagination left.” Jackie slipped off the couch, went to the window and stood with her back to Liz, breathing hard. She had a very nice figure, Liz decided.

“Did you have a nice three days with Gidge?” she asked.

“Oh, just dandy!... I can’t take it. I told him I can’t.”

“Was he a flyer when you met him?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know it would be this way. God, to think of the picture I had of myself! Waving him off with a. tear in my eye! I never got any further than waving him off. I didn’t think of day after day and night after night when you don’t hear a thing except the sirens on those crash wagons. I... I just haven’t got the guts for it.”

“Is Gidge going to ask to be grounded?”

Jackie’s response was a derisive snort. “Him?”

“Turn around, dear. I want to talk to you.”

“Tell me to keep a stiff upper lip? Tell me to be brave? Pat me on the head a little?”

“No.”

“I love the guy. Maybe you’ve forgotten what that’s like.”

“I hardly think so. But Lieutenant Gidge Genelli is going to keep on flying in my husband’s group. That’s where I come in. That’s what is important to me, Jackie. Ben and I, we’re a pair of antiques; I sweated out the last war while Ben did over a hundred missions out of England.”

“And so this is nothing compared to that?”

“This is quite a thing, Jackie. Quite dangerous. Very unpleasant. But at least Ben is with me.”

“That’s worse. Every time Gidge comes back I can’t be right with him because of thinking of the next time.”

“Never mind that for a moment, Jackie. In 1943 Ben was a captain, flying a fighter plane. His wing man was Whitey Jensen. Whitey started getting the wrong sort of letters from his wife: whining letters — letters saying she couldn’t take it. Even one that said she might kill herself — that is, if he didn’t get out of the air. It may have seemed odd to Whitey that Laura couldn’t take it, while he was forcing himself to button up his ship for every mission. Whitey got very jittery. He lost the edge of his flying. And one morning, taking off, Whitey wallowed over and jabbed his wingtip into Ben’s tail-section. Ben kept his head and managed to get altitude. He had no rudder, but with the ailerons, tabs and elevators he could make a very gradual turn. By the time he brought his ship in, they had what was left of Whitey and his ship off the runway.”

“Why are you telling me a ghastly thing like that? Do you think that just because I—”

“I’m telling you, Jackie, because your husband flies with my husband. If Gidge worries so much about you that he uses bad judgment in the air, it may affect, to some slight degree, Ben’s safety. And I want Ben to have every possible margin of safety. I want so badly for him to have it, that when he comes home, I try to make it just as though he’d come home from an office. I didn’t do so well this last time. So I have to do better next time. He has too much on his mind to spare any room for my — my petulance.”

Jackie looked down at her linked fingers, white-knotted. “I wouldn’t want to make Gidge... fly badly.”

“Did he leave here at peace with himself and with you?”

“No, but I want him to stop.”

“And if he shouldn’t come back, Jackie? If he makes one of those five-hundred-mi lean-hour errors of judgment?”

“Don’t say a thing like that!”

“You don’t have to shout at me, Jackie. I don’t care if you spend all your time while Gidge is gone rolling up and down the street, or getting your stomach pumped. But I don’t want you putting a man in the air who could endanger Ben. Just as I won’t send Ben away in a frame of mind that might endanger your husband.”

Liz walked out unhurriedly. She shut the front door quietly behind her and walked down the station street by the neat small houses. It was as though she had visited her own past, had visited the Liz of 1942. She felt incurably tired, as though emotional exhaustion were a disease she could never escape.

On the fifth day, at ten in the morning, the black phone said, “Mrs. Heifer? ETA is thirteen-thirty hours. Full roster.”

“Thanks a lot, Timmy,” she said.

She stood by the phone a moment, then looked in the mimeographed station book and found Jackie Genelli’s number.

“Jackie? Liz Heifer. Just got the word: They’re all back at one-thirty this afternoon.”

There was a little time of silence on the line; then Jackie said, her voice light, quick, controlled, “Thanks a lot, Liz.”

There was no need to hear any more. Liz hung up, stood with her eyes shut, her fingertips on the edge of the phone table for long moments. Jackie would make it. Most of them could. A pathetic few couldn’t.

Suddenly there seemed to be a million last-minute things to do. She whistled, out of key, as she worked. For her man there would be a little time of ease, of rest, of love. It was all she could do — a small thing, but desperately difficult.

Content

John D. MacDonald
Delivery Boy War