Copyright © 2005 by John T. Cullen. All Rights Reserved.

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Intersect: Danger

a novel

by John T. Cullen

22.

April 1945

During the next 24 hours, Tim’s thoughts kept drifting back to his interesting neighbor.

Work was routine, and he kept busy. Stan Kehoe took him to lunch and they drank a beer with their sandwiches, sitting in a little deli on lower Sacramento Street not far from the Ferry Building. Stan kept talking, as he always did, and Tim’s mind kept wandering. After work, Tim begged off from an offer to go bar-hopping.

“What’s the matter with you?” Stan said. “You used to be a blast back in London. Are you getting old?”

“Must be,” Tim said with a grin, clapping him on the back. “You go ahead. Have fun.”

“Fella...” Stan said, shaking his head grimly.

“Next week,” Tim promised, clapping his friend once more on the back. “I’m just not ready for another bender any time soon.” He left Stan standing in the doorway of the office building, and headed for the cable car that would take him up to Nob Hill.

No sight of the blonde. Tim stood in the courtyard, looking up. Their window was shuttered, and the gray curtains were tightly drawn. The afternoon mist had rolled in, coating everything with a gray damp perspiration that made Tim shudder and put his hands in the pockets of his pea coat. So who was “they?” He assumed it was one of those common roommate situations that young military people got into when housing was tight and housing allowances were skimpy. The gray light reflecting from the closed window gave him a faintly disturbing, chilly sense, almost of abandonment. How silly. He shook his head. As he stood there, he heard the noises of the city around him—the rustle of people hurrying by on the sidewalk outside on their way home, the slam of car doors, the starting of engines, the twitter of birds who sounded uneasy at some coming weather. He heard, as always, the distant sound of swing music, and someone’s too-loud laughter.

Then, on the wind, he thought he recognized a tinkling laugh—hers. But from where?

Quickly, and feeling foolish about it a second later, he stepped aside into the shadows of the grape arbor. Staring at the gray, desiccating wood among the stripped vines, he frowned and focused on hearing every tiny sound that the city offered up from its mysterious corners. Instead of sound, he got a fresh, healthy blast of the smell of damp loam, strong like animal musk but sweeter, and mixed with that the Tantalus of herbs—anise, verbena, lavender—and blossoms—lemon, jasmine, apple. It reminded him of the backyard in Hamden, Connecticut when he was small, and it made him homesick. Nearby a lantern glowed in its windowed rectangles, a small electric light made to look like a flame inside, casting ember-like glow spots on mute windows around the bottom floor. Maybe he was getting tired of being thousands of miles from home. If he dropped through the ground and disappeared, would anyone here really miss him? Silly thought, but it made him think of home. It made him realize how empty in some ways his life was, despite the adventures he’d had.

He wandered inside, and took the lift upstairs. When he got to the hallway near his room, he thought he heard a faint giggle someplace. Curious, he tiptoed down the softly lit hallway toward the bathroom at the end, and the window looking west toward the harbor. For the first time, he noticed a door open just a crack, opposite the bathroom. It was a heavy wooden door, dark, with a little rectangular white enamel sign printed in plain blue letters: Private. No Entry.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he pushed the door open a bit. He leaned inside, ready to be chased out, but saw only more hallways, more carpeting and soft lights and wall pictures under glimmering glass. He saw a maid’s cart in the hall, with towels draped over it, and a vacuum cleaner beside it. He heard the giggle again, and understood: it came from an open room in which two Mexican-American maids were cleaning. As they worked, the young women joked about their boyfriends and one man’s offer to take his girl on a drive to visit a relative in Petaluma. Whatever it was all about, the two maids understood the context, and Tim didn’t care to probe. He was usually quick with languages, and remembered a lot from his brief high school encounter with Spanish years ago, but he did not want to intrude on their privacy. What got his interest was the fact that the door to that other apartment was slightly ajar. Did he dare walk over and knock? Did he dare...No, better not. Hearing the sound of a man’s approaching footsteps, he pulled his head out of that private hallway and went quickly to his own room, where he let himself in, took off his coat and threw it across a chair, and then sat on the bed feeling a mixture of embarrassment and curiosity.

In the morning, she was at her table, and he casually walked up with his tray. “Mind if I join you?”

She beamed. “I was hoping you would.”

“No sign of our friend,” Tim said, sliding his tray down and sitting opposite her as he had yesterday.

“Who, Nixon?” She laughed that quicksilver little laugh again, and he was sure now he’d heard a trace of it in the garden last night. “He’s gone back east wherever he’s stationed. I was talking with him yesterday, and he was bending my ear about how he’s from Yorba Linda and he’s going to run for Congress next year when he gets out.”

“Well, we don’t need him anymore, do we?”

She shook her head, blushing a tiny bit. They ate in silence for a few moments.

“Have you been here long?” Tim asked, sipping orange juice. “In San Francisco, I mean.”

“About two weeks.”

“I forgot to ask your name.”

“Corinthia Johnson.” She folded her arms behind her tray, leaving half her breakfast untouched. She didn’t look like a heavy eater. “You can call me Corie if you’d like.”

“Okay...” He wasn’t quite sure whether he liked the nickname or her real name better.

“We hung short handles on each other.” She added, “In England.”

“You were stationed there?”

“No, I was flying bombers to there.”

It began to dawn on him. “Oh, you’re—” He noticed the little garrison cap stuck jauntily in her epaulet under a silver first lieutenant’s bar. “—a WAF.” It was the acronym for the Women’s Auxiliary Ferrying Service.

“That’s right, Doughboy. So what’s your handle?”

“Make that sailor, kiddo. Call me Tim.”

“Okay, Tim.” She rolled his name around on her tongue and seemed to like it. “Tim, Tim, Tim...”

“Are you grounded here permanently, WAF?”

“The shorter the better, sailor.” She sucked on her orange juice through a straw.

“What do you fly?”

She said self-confidently: “Big ones. B-17s, B-24s, you name it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nah. In fact, if you’re interested, I’ll take you up. You scared to fly?”

He laughed. “I’m more scared of a ship. Had one sunk from under me.”

She whistled with new respect. “You’ve gone the mile, then.”

“Oh yeah. And back.”

She nodded. “Then I owe ya, for real. I’m going to be test-driving a giant in about two days. It’s a Pan Am B-314 Clipper. Want to come along?”

“You’re scaring me.”

“I am not. I see lust in your eyes.”

“You are obviously mistaking terror for something else.”

She grinned around her straw. “We’re talking around each other, bud. Hey, come on.”

“Oh okay, you’re twisting my arm.” He put his hand on her wrist, and she leaned closer with an expectant look. He had not realized how blue her eyes were. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I thought so.” She winked. “I wasn’t misreading anything.”

He folded his hands between his knees and looked plaintive. “I was thinking also...well, along simpler lines...that maybe you’d like to do something like, well, take a walk along the water some time, or take in a movie, or an art gallery...”

“Art gallery,” she said speculatively.

“I dabble.”

“You have a few surprises of your own, sailor boy.”

“You like art?”

“I love it. Spent many hours in the British Museum when it wasn’t being splintered by Gerry bombs.”

“Me too.”

They talked on, exchanging pleasantries, and again suddenly she looked at her watch. “You do this to me all the time, Tim.”

“I’m sorry. If I could, I’d say let’s run away together.”

“We can do that. Just not right now.” She rose, gathering her purse and tray. “Want to call me?”

“I can holler from my window to yours.”

“No you can’t. That’s one thing you can’t do—get involved on that side.”

“Okay.” He was an iota taken back. “I can’t have visitors either. I’m actually thinking of moving totally out of the Navy’s reach.”

“Good idea.”

They rose and walked together to the tray disposal window.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” she said, earnestly. They pushed their trays in, and walked out of the dining room. “I’m going to be ferrying planes again soon, and that means I’m always in the air, in Europe, or now maybe Hawaii, the Philippines, who knows what. So if you want to show me the sights, better hurry.” She touched his nose with the tip of her index finger and walked away down the main call. He watched her slender figure retreating on the wine-red Oriental carpet strip with its royal blue and other vivid colors, cast over a gleaming marble floor the color of tan taffy. She turned and said her number, and he waved.

Later that day, he called the number from his office. The sun shone, and a breeze through the half-open windows blew yellowed draw-shades around, floating beer-colored shapes of light over the paperwork on his desk. He tapped his fountain pen nervously on the wood desktop. A woman answered. Some air squadron with a long number and an odd acronym. He asked for Corinthia Johnson. Moments later, she answered brightly.

He said: “Hey, it’s Tim.”

“Hey.”

“I was wondering if you would care to join me for a very ordinary American hamburger, French fries, and a cola. Maybe a pickle.”

“Let me check with my stomach.” She rustled. “Yep. She says let’s do it. When, where, how, why, and what?”

“Let me handle the details. You just show up.”

“Sounds like a deal. You’re flying?”

“I’m flying the 59 cent special. You fly the planes. We’ll get along.”

“You sweep me off my feet, sailor.”

Then he remembered: “I don’t have wheels.”

“It’s okay. I’ll meet you...”

She named a corner about three blocks from where he worked, and, puzzled, he went there in the thick of the lunchtime throng. Stomach growling, he craned his neck to look over the heads of men and women milling around him. Traffic was heavy, the air smelled of cigarette smoke and perfume and sweat, the street lights did their dance of colors, and the noise was deafening. He heard the horn two or three times before turning to look at the large black 1944 Chevrolet with white-walled tires that had pulled up alongside him, drawing stares. Though there was no chrome, which was severely rationed for war purposes, the bumpers and grill and everything about the car glowed with newness. She beeped again, creeping forward as the light changed and someone else honked behind her. He got in as fast as he could, and she accelerated.

“Wow, some chariot.” He had to speak loudly to be heard over the noise of traffic and the roar of the engine. She had a boogie-woogie tune chugging from the ample radio speaker in the middle of the dash.

“I travel in style.” She had a long thin Pall Mall lit in the ashtray, and the bluish smoke curled up over the dark brown wood-inlaid dashboard. She wore a khaki jumpsuit and that rakish little garrison cap tilted forward down one side of her forehead. The short blonde hair stuck out where she didn’t have it pinned down, the way her mother probably had pinned it when she was small. Sensing that he felt overwhelmed, she slipped out of the braggadocio mode and said less loudly: “Honestly, Tim, it’s my boss’s. I get to borrow all kinds of things with wings and wheels. You have no idea. I could have flown here in an autogyro for all that anyone cares.”

He did feel a bit humble. “I’m just your average guy, sis.” He held on as she accelerated through an orange light while a policeman glared after her and blew his whistle but did not wave her down.

“Sis! I have five brothers who call me that. You want a date or a handshake?” She produced a wad of pink gum that had been hidden in one cheek, and blew a bubble.

He pointed at her, one-up. “I have four sisters, and I’ll take the date, Corie.”

She pursed her lips and for a second he thought she was going to yell at him. The pink bubble popped, and she sucked its remnants off her upper lip. She yanked the gear shift lever around by the steering wheel and the car sank into fourth gear, cruising smooth as a battleship inland along Market Street toward Buena Vista Park. “That’s sweet.”

“What?”

“I like the way you call me Corie.”

“That’s your name, right?”

“A lot of people seem to think I’m some kind of grease monkey. You remind me that I’m a woman.” She slipped sunglasses on and blew a bubble toward him. As it popped, he smelled berry breath. “It’s how you say it.”

“I like Corinthia too.”

“Too formal.” She popped a bubble, and sucked the pink gum off her upper lip. “The Brits all seem to have names like that.”

“I’ll bet they liked you over there.”

“I think I disgruntled most of them. Though they have their BATs.”

“Bats?”

“BATA. British Air Transport Auxiliaries. My flying cousins. We used to go drinking together in Sloan Square. Nice gals.” She blew another large pink bubble and they pulled into the parking lot of a little restaurant. She handled the big wheel and shift lever with surprising, wiry strength for a woman, he thought. She had neat small hands, with even, trim fingers. Her nails were gone in a light pink, and she wore very light lipstick and makeup. She locked the car, and they walked toward the restaurant. “It’s quieter here,” she said. “Less crowded.”

Somehow, naturally, his arm slipped around her waist, and her arm slipped around his, and they walked slowly over to the takeout window on the side of the building. Two bucks and two trays later, they sat on the grass under a large eucalyptus tree, eating in the shade.

“Do you figure you’ll be here long?” she asked.

They sat side by side, and he liked the way her thigh touched his a few times when she bent forward to get a napkin or a pickle or a sip of cola.

“Oh...it’s hard to say” he said, feeling it was all happening in its good time, and he looked around casually as if he weren’t eager to brush his lips against hers and see what she was like when she got aroused. But things were done according to unspoken laws, and you didn’t do much for the first few dates. Then again, there was always the war and the uncertainty, and nothing was what it was supposed to be. “It’s hard to say. I spent some time at the Admiralty in London, and now they’re moving us all west to keep adding pressure on the Japanese. So, if things go badly, they may move a lot of us to Hawaii for starters, but I figure if the war keeps going well then they won’t bother. Who knows, we might all be going home in a year or so.” He winked at her. “What do you do then?”

“The thought kind of scares me.” She dabbed her mouth with a paper napkin. “The girls kind of think they’ll scrap the WAFS and send us all back to be homemakers.”

“You’d make a cute nurse.”

“I don’t want to stick thermometers up people’s arseholes. I like flying four engine bombers.”

“I don’t like tinkering with clocks, but that’s what I’m likely to go do in Connecticut unless I can think of something better.”

“You could go to Paris and paint.”

“I spent some time there.” He smiled at the memory. “I actually met Hemingway there, do you know that?”

“No.”

“Yes! I forgot all about it until just now. Isn’t that funny? Being in a world war is like being in a novel—nothing seems real. I could imagine I met Hitler over a few beers and poured a pitcher of crap over his head. But I really did meet old Papa, with about twenty other guys in a place in the Montparnasse. He kept buying us all one-franc Stella Artois beers in a place called Café de Flore until I was ready to fall out of my seat.”

She looked wistfully into her own past. “I went there with a girlfriend from Kansas. We spent three cold, dreary wet days without a shower running from one museum to another, and I caught a cold, but we had great food and the people seemed really nice.”

“They were damned glad to have the Germans gone,” Tim said.

“Funny. We’re from these little towns across the USA. Like I’m from St. Louis and you’re from New Haven. With all the ugliness, we did get to see the world a bit. Maybe we can start a company or something, huh?”

“Sure. I could sell clocks and you could fly them to their new owners.”

“Think positive.”

“I am. I’m glad we’re friends.”

“Me too.” She winked. “Good business idea. Like making time fly.”

They couldn’t hold hands in public, being in uniform, but they did manage to squeeze each other’s hands furtively several times. When she was within a few blocks of the corner where she’d picked him up, and the light turned red, she stopped the car as throngs of pedestrians passed in front. She turned to him and said with a measure of urgency in her voice: “Tim...don’t take this the wrong way. I really hope you will take me out a bit. I don’t know how long I’ll be here, and you seem like such a swell guy.”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” he said. “Not that you’re a swell guy, but that you are...you make...make me feel kind of warm all over.”

She threw herself against him, hands on his chest, and planted a warm, wet kiss tongue to tongue, full of puppy eagerness, intense. He closed his eyes, wrapped his untrapped right arm around her so that he cupped her delicate shoulder blade in his palm and felt the long, smooth rille of her spine all pinched up receiving the intensity of his returning kiss.