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.”