A few, faint bars of Glenn Miller roused Porter awake. A record was playing down the hall of the hospital. He glared up at the water stained ceiling, his mouth parched and head pounding. His wavering eyesight focused and the spinning lessened. He gritted his teeth, wishing he could forget the dream he had awoken from.
Even unconscious from a car accident, the dreams still haunted him. Mazes of hedgerows, German mortars fired into the June sky, and Hayseed bleeding in a bed of petals. He had never left D-Day behind, his first real experience in combat.
Of course Alex had his own ghosts as well. But his best friend dealt with them in a different way. Alex reached for his Bible while Port reached for the bottle.
Port grimaced as he shifted in his hospital bed to survey the room. He snorted. Alex was asleep in the chair at his bedside, arms crossed over his chest and head tipping to the side. Port swore the man could sleep anywhere.
He gave a passing nurse the stink eye. He wasn’t sure which but one of those broads in white had taken his flask when they had brought him in. He saw it happen while drifting in and out of consciousness after they got him from the ambulance. She had scrunched up her pug nose as she lifted the flask from his jacket pocket and tucked it into his apron.
Port snapped his fingers, “Hey, McKay. McKay!”
He punched Alex’s knee. The man jolted awake, his eyes bloodshot from the long night.
“Good, you’re awake,” Port sighed, “I need you to find the skirt that stole my flask.”
Alex rubbed his face and leaned forward onto his knees, “You’ve got to be kidding me, Port.”
“I’m serious. Saw it happen myself. It was the last thing I remember-“
“No, Michael. I mean that can’t be the first thing you're worried about after almost getting yourself killed.”
Port pursed his lips, studying his friend, “You’re never had an opinion on this before.”
“You’ve never almost died of it before.” Alex peered up at him, his mouth pulled tight, “After all we’ve gone through and managed to survive. Why would you do something so stupid?”
Alex’s censure was always painful. Whenever he spoke to him like this, it felt like he was talking with his father and not his friend. He didn’t think Alex meant to sound judgmental but he came across like it.
“Well, I’m sure sorry I don’t have whatever it is you got.” Port sat up in the antiseptic sheets, waving his hand like he was batting away a fly. “I’m sorry I’m not more brave or hardworking, or maybe it’s strong willed-“
Alex shook his head, “No, I’m sorry. That’s not it at all.”
“What is it then? Tell me, Alex. What makes you so much better off than me?”
Leaning back in his seat, Alex drew an even breath. “We’ve had this conversation before and it never ends well.”
Port snorted, “Oh right. The whole religion thing.”
Alex scoffed, “Yeah, the religion thing.”
“Preacher Macon still got you believing those fairy stories, McKay?”
Port never bragged about his education in front of Alex but it gave him a more logical point of view. Atheism made more sense to him. Especially considering he had been watching teenagers kill each other for months. There was no spiritual explanation for that as far as Port was concerned.
“Michael, I don’t know why it’s so hard for you to accept what I believe-“
“Because you push it on me!”
“When?!” Alex’s voice rose, a rare occurrence, “When have I ever shoved God in your face?”
“Well, never out loud but it’s always there. Your imaginary friend and your holy book. It’s all I hear between the lines when you talk sometimes.”
Alex rose to his feet, “It sounds to me like the bigger fuss you put up about it, the less sure you seem of your own views.”
Port gaped up at him, “Look who isn’t accepting who now?”
Alex shoved his hands in his pockets, his eyes trailing down to the foot of the bed. “Okay look, I didn’t want to get your all riled up. The doctor said you have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle but you’re going to recover just fine. They are going to release you tomorrow. I just didn’t want you to wake up alone,” Alex slung his long arms into his jacket sleeves, “I’m glad you are okay.”
Port sniffed, his scowl melting. “Thanks for sticking around. You didn’t have to bother with me.”
“I’ve always bothered with you, Port.” Alex gave a tired grin, “Still don’t know why sometimes, you idiot.”
“I suppose I’ll allow you that one.”
“You still don’t want me to try and get you home to your ma?” Alex rubbed the back of his neck, “I’m sure Colonel Dixon would understand.”
Port crossed his arms over his chest, “I’ll write her. See how urgent it really is. He might just be having one of his spells.”
Alex nodded, “See you around then.”
“See you around.”
Alex paused like he was about to say something but snapped his jaw shut. Port watched him stride down the hospital ward. He disappeared around the corner just as the Glenn Miller record faded out.
Port slept restlessly after the doctor came and went. His head throbbed, sight spinning if he tried to focus too long to something. And he still had no idea where his flask had ended up. He couldn’t think of anything to help the pain other than whiskey. More than that, to numb his thoughts concerning his parents.
His mother had always been a nervous woman so there was a chance that she was overreacting about his father’s condition. Still, Port tossed and turned. He didn’t want the last conversation he had with his father before he left for training to be the final words they ever spoke to each other. Echoing in his dreams, he heard his own voice pitch with emotion that he was ashamed of his father.
The man was barely literate and worked his fingers to the bone every day of his life. He was nothing like any of the other fathers of the boys he went to school with, certainly nothing like his banker father-in-law. Port was terrified to admit that maybe he was no better than him, for all his brilliance.
His stomach growling awoke him. Squinting into the lamp light, he focused in on his bedside table. As the blurriness in his eyes faded, Port scoffed. His blood pressure shot up as he stared at the leather bound New Testament that hadn’t been there earlier. Now Alex had taken his fanaticism too far.
Port sat up straight, looking around the gleaming white ward to see if McKay was lurking somewhere. Instead, he caught sight of a statuesque figure in a WAC uniform, her hair neat in a bun on the top of her head. Lieutenant Dixon turned down the hallway without noticing that he had awoken.
Curiosity overrode his outrage. Port reached out with tentative fingers and dragged the book onto his lap. He opened the cover and sure enough Edith Dixon’s name was scrawled on the first page. He should have guessed she was the religious type.
He hadn’t been concerned when she told him that they should just be friends. At the time, he realized that she saved him a lot of grief. Edith wasn’t the kind of girl a man dated for a good time just to call in quits in a month or so. Edith Dixon was a keeper. Port knew he was in no shape for that kind of commitment. When the surprising turn of events occurred between Alex and Edith, he couldn’t lie that he was happy for them. They were a suited match.
More suited than he realized at the time. It seemed she was as much of a nuisance with all that God malarkey. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?
He stared at the book, willing himself to throw it to the side. Gingerly, he flipped through the pages. A few words here and there caught his eye. Peace, forgiveness, life. Grace. Pretty thoughts that were an easy sell to a weak mind. Port clapped it shut and set it on the table.
He crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. A pretty, brunette nurse brought him a tray of pork, peas and a biscuit for dinner. Port didn’t even try to flirt with her. She wasn’t the nurse who had taken his flask so he didn’t care. He chomped down his dinner and did his best to ignore the book, his mind winding around the stolen flask and his friends’ nosiness.
The battle to pretend the book didn’t exist continued after supper. He dozed with his back to it, his head throbbing now from a lack of liquor than just the concussion.
The doctor released him the next day. So consumed with all the injustice he had suffered and a poor night’s sleep, Port barely grunted a thanks. The man apologized but said he had no idea where the flask had disappeared.
Port slung his arms into his jacket, the morning light hurting his eyes. He made his way towards the door of the ward. The nurse who had brought him his supper called out.
“Sir! You forgot this!” She smiled as she reached him, holding out the New Testament.
Port scowled and was about to tell her to throw it out with the rest of the garbage. Instead he snatched it from her red nailed grasp, “Thanks, sweetheart.”
He had no idea why he did but stuffed the book in his jacket pocket, stomping out into the summer sun to go find himself some hooch.
#
Edith left the hospital brain buzzing with second thoughts. Her initial intention had been to visit Port with a couple Baby Ruth bars and well wishes. As she had left her room, she spied the New Testament where she had left it on the small writing desk after reading it that morning.
The notion ticked into her brain as she had walked down the steps of the former hotel. She trotted back towards her room then doubted herself and turned away. Her oxfords scuffed against the sidewalk as she halted with a sigh. Before she could change her mind, she raced back and grabbed the Bible.
Port needed something more than candy. It didn’t take a genius to recognize that fact. Edith had never worried about insulting anyone in her life. Why should she start then? She left the Bible by the hospital bed. Port stirred. Edith’s stomach tensed and she raced to the door. She wasn’t so strong in her faith yet to have a theological debate with someone.
As she stepped onto the street, the peace in her heart confirmed that Edith had done exactly what she was supposed to do. Now it was out of her hands. If he didn’t want it, he didn’t have to take it. She just wanted to give him the option.
During the chaos since Port’s accident, Edith had been able to keep from thinking about the possibility of losing Alex again. She exhaled through her nostrils as a wave of fear washed over her. She didn’t know what she would do if what had happened between them was only fleeting.
She brushed a strand of loose hair from her face and straightened her cap with a decisive movement. She wouldn’t dwell on the misty future. What would be, would be. She had work to do for now.
At that moment it included a meeting with Captain Burk Lane.
Edith slowed her steps as she approached his office. Peeking around the corner, she saw his figure at the corner. There was someone else with him. Edith narrowed her eyes, belting her arms over her chest as she stopped.
The girl appeared to be around Samantha’s age. Her slim figure was clothed in a pair of men’s trousers and a loose shirt. Her hair had been cropped short around her ears. If she was trying to pass as a boy, she failed. Her delicate features were much too feminine. Around her bony upper warm was a DP band. Even without the marker, Edith would have guessed the girl was a displaced person from one of the many concentration camps that had been liberated. Hunger etched the hollows of her face.
Lane was doing the talking. The girl looked uncomfortable but didn’t move. Edith remembered the rumors about girls pimping themselves out for food. She wondered if that included DPs as well as locals.
“Captain Lane?” Edith barked, her voice cracking with ice, “I believe we have a meeting.”
The girl jolted, her brown eyes hard on Edith then falling to the sidewalk. Lane seemed undisturbed as he glanced over his shoulder, “I’ll be there momentarily, Lieutenant-“
“Captain, I’m sorry to interrupt but I don’t have all day.”
The distraction was enough to allow the girl an escape. Nodding her head towards Lane, she skirted away.
Lane sighed, his disappointed gaze following the girl’s retreating figure. It reminded Edith of a predator watching its prey escape. He rubbed his forehead and glared over at her. Any pity she had previously felt for the man dissipated.
“Well, you have my attention, Lieutenant. Let’s have our meeting.” Lane’s frigid tone matched her own. If he thought she would cow, clearly he didn’t know who he was dealing with.
“I asked to meet with you about giving any extra k-rations to the DP camps to distribute. Some of them are still very hungry, women and children-“
“I’m well aware of their plight.”
Edith bristled but kept her composure, “Wouldn’t it be prudent to provide for them while they wait to be sent home?”
“From what I hear, they are well cared for over there. It has nothing to do with me.”
“Then can I appeal to your better nature? A little mercy?”
Lane clapped his hands in front of him with a patronizing simper, “Lieutenant Dixon, I am touched by your concern. It’s refreshing to see there is a feminine side to you. But shouldn’t that mercy be better left to those friends of yours?”
Edith gaped at him, “What do you mean by that?”
“I heard about Lieutenant Port’s accident. If you are going to insist on hanging around no-account drunks and their half-breed friends, I’m sure you have much more pressing matters to attend to.”
Edith’s blood ran hot. Her mouth dropped open but for once, she didn’t know how to respond. If she hadn’t been saved from her sins not a few months earlier, she probably would have socked the imbecile.
“I feel like that answers your question and concludes our meeting. Remember, I want you to hound those COs for the silk escape maps from D-Day. At $75 apiece, I doubt any of those troopers can afford the fine.” Tightening his tie, Lane strutted away.
Edith spit where he had been standing. Breathing hotly out her nostrils, she forced herself to forgive him. It was the hardest thing she had done in weeks.
ns 18.68.41.180da2
