The next day we sank the Nippon Maru, taking 3,019 lives. I felt a dark thrill of connection to Charlie, and the incredibly complicated math it probably took to track down an enemy ship, and aim a torpedo to rush through the water true as an arrow, not diverted by waves or currents or a ship’s evasive movements.
Today, it galls me that I remember precisely the number of lives lost in each sinking. I memorized them. I had no sense of thousands of actual Japanese boys drowning, their families’ hopes and hearts going to the bottom of the ocean with them.
Yes, I know that Japan started the war, in the attack on Pearl Harbor. I know that sinking their navy was essential. But today, at my age, it does not diminish my patriotism to say that I grieve for the cost of the conflict on all sides. There is glory in victory, but it can be solemn, too, aware that all sides experienced the pain.
In retrospect, I wish Charlie had been working on submarines. A torpedo is a simple object, really, a kind of bullet. The truth was far more complicated, and therefore the effects of my ignorance would prove to be far more harmful.
Then the phone would ring, Greta would laugh uproariously, and off I’d go into an adventure. I had simplified the war so that I could withstand it.
Eventually—it was bound to happen—Greta suggested a dance. At Douglas Park, which I knew from high school was named after the guy Abraham Lincoln defeated in the debates, who went on to be a United States senator anyhow. I recoiled from the idea though. Dances meant dancing. With dancers. Why take the risk?
But I loved that park. There was a lagoon in the middle where my father taught Frank how to fish. I have a picture on my dresser my mother took that day: Frank, with the proudest ten-year-old expression on his face, holding up his first catch: an ugly catfish as long as my arm. I’m at a point in life where I do not care much about material objects, but that image is one I cherish.
Maybe I was justifying. I could have gone to that park anytime. And the girls were perfectly capable of dancing without me. But they pleaded. One whose mom ran a salon offered to do my hair for free. Then Greta asked me to be her backup, in case a certain Brian she was supposed to meet at the dance didn’t show up for some reason. Which provided the excuse I needed to say yes.
I didn’t go overboard. Didn’t wear my best dress. Didn’t accept the offer for my hair. The one special thing was that I wore the necklace my father gave me for my sweet sixteen, a string of tiny pinkish pearls.
“Don’t you look nice,” my mother said, peering up from her latest novel. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you go to a dance looking more like your actual self.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Is that a compliment or a criticism?”
“I guess that depends on what you think about your actual appearance. Personally, I prefer authentic to false.”
“I’m still not sure what you mean.”
She let the book fall into her lap. “I already said you look nice. Just because you’re back-dooring Charlie, you don’t have to fight with me. It’s your life, Brenda.”
“I am not back-dooring anyone.” I almost shouted it.
“Then we agree.” She lifted the book again, giving it her full attention and then some. “Have fun, home by twelve.”
I left the house seething. What was back-dooring, anyhow? My first stop was Greta’s house. We were going to meet the other girls and then share a cab. The second we were outside, I asked her what it meant.
“I’m not sure,” she said. She wore a yellow dress that showed off her bosomy figure. “I think it means cheating on somebody. Where’d you hear it?”
“Some book my mom is reading.” I checked to make sure the clasp of my pearls was secure. “Do you think going to this dance means I’m back-dooring Charlie?”
Greta chuckled, throaty and free, enough to lift anyone’s spirits. “Didn’t he tell you that he’s dancing every weekend? Does that mean he is back-dooring you?”
“Of course not. I totally trust him. In fact, his telling me is part of why I do.”
“Then you only need to worry if you do something that you can’t tell him.”
“Greta.” I gave her a quick hug. “You’re the best best friend.”
The band was fantastic. Usually in those days, half the musicians in a group were gone in the service, and you could tell. But this sextet was first rate, with an enormously fat clarinet player in front who could really swing.
His intonation was impeccable, never sharp or flat unless he bent a note on purpose. Every song the band would set things up, playing chords and a beat like making a stage for him to stand on. His cheeks would bulge and he’d lean back, and then out would blast a rush of notes, high and stylish and full of energy, like a fast-talking guy trying to whirl a girl into romance.
He seemed to know every song, too, because someone would call out a tune, and half a minute later the clarinetist would be playing it, and playing with it, eyes so wide in delight you could see the whites, while the rest of the band struggled to catch up.
I hadn’t been there five minutes when a man—twenty-seven, I’d say, way out of my range—appeared and asked me to dance.
“Happy to,” I said, and out we went. He was good, too, knew how to lead so a girl could trust him. Plus his hands never wandered one inch. After three tunes I thanked him and took a step away. He made a little bow, then tottered off to find another lass.
Which was perfect. Fun and no harm done. This must be how Charlie did the square dances: light as a feather, keeping his distance. A boy my age came along, red-haired and smiling too much for my tastes, and asked if I wanted to cut a rug.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m taking a break.”
I saw him on the floor one song later. So no guilt. The clasp of my pearls kept sneaking around to the front, but I slipped it back and went on enjoying that knockout clarinet player.
Greta’s Brian showed up after all, and they danced to every song. They shook and spun on the fast tunes, snuggled close on the slow ones, and later in the night they had a long smooch on the floor for all of us to see. Everyone clapped for the band when the song ended—except me. I was clapping for my friend.
The band leader announced that people should pair up, last dance. I sidled over toward the punch bowl. Scanning the room I saw Greta, not with Brian but holding the arm of some other guy—I spotted how whoa Nellie handsome he was, despite an arm in a sling—and they were arguing about something. I hurried over.
“What’s the matter?” I said. Any guy who fooled with my friend was in for it.
“Here.” He waved a hand at me. “Let’s ask Brenda herself.”
“Fine.” Greta released his arm. “Go ahead.”
The band started up, a sweet slow song. Couples were nuzzling around us. I wanted to get this guy out of Greta’s hair—how did he know my name, anyhow?—so she could snuggle with her boy.
“What is it?” I shouted to be heard over the music.
Handsome shouted back. “I told her you were the prettiest girl at this dance, and I want to meet you, and dance with you, and marry you.”
“What?” I said.
“I told him he was crazy,” Greta yelled, “and you already have a fella.”