“Are you sure you’re okay with all of this?” Luanne once asked, after Vivian resigned from her job. From years of friendship Luanne knew her well enough to question the stark transition. No one else would have batted an eye at a new bride’s dedication to the role of a model homemaker.
“Why? Are you doubting my Betty Crocker skills?” Vivian teased, and swiftly changed the topic.
While she already missed Luanne’s regular company, their mismatch of schedules did offer a benefit: fewer chances of the truth slipping out. Charging forward would be easier without the weight of added fear.
The first goal was to establish a routine.
Three days a week Vivian washed, starched, and ironed Gene’s uniforms. On alternating days, equipped with her ration book, she shopped at the market and tidied their home, a modest two-bedroom apartment a stone’s throw from the base. Every morning she sent Gene off with a lunch pail, packed with more nutrition than mess-hall meals, and every evening she greeted him with a supper prepared by six o’clock sharp. Makeup and hair in place, she sat at the table and attempted small talk as he quietly ate her casseroles and dinner molds, the vegetables freshly picked at a Victory garden. On occasion, her meals even achieved the promise of their recipes in Ladies’ Home Journal.
Afterward, as she washed and dried the dishes, he would read the paper on the davenport or listen to updates on the radio. The current broadcasts covered American bombing raids in Europe, the German march toward Stalingrad, the Japanese stronghold of Guadalcanal. Vivian could not imagine a single headline in the bunch of which Gene wasn’t already informed. More likely, they were but fillers for his evenings.
Sometimes he would tune in to a comedic program. A witty punch line from Jack Benny or a one-liner from Bob Hope would induce a smile on Gene’s face. But when Vivian entered the room, drying her hands on her apron, the smile would inevitably vanish. And soon they would retire to their respective sides of the bed. In every way, they were parallel rails of a single track, traveling together but never crossing. They had become two halves of a couple she most feared.
They had become her parents.
The other officers’ wives welcomed Vivian at their gatherings, though the inclusion had a compulsory air. Most conversations revolved around their children, to which Vivian could not yet relate, and personal jokes placed her further on the perimeter of their circle.
One day, as she sat smiling on cue and sipping flavorless Earl Grey, she recalled how hard her mother had tried to fit in with the British socialites. Vivian had been wrong to criticize. Maybe her mother had always been on the outside, even in DC, making the decision to remain in New Hampshire all the more alluring.
More than once, Vivian was tempted to address the topic with her mother, but other subjects always took precedence-such as her confession to marrying Gene. It took her several weeks following their nuptials to make that particular call.
“Vivian Maureen James,” her mother declared. “Tell me you’re not serious.”
As expected, the woman was less than delighted-more distraught over not being present, it seemed, than the lack of showy display. Faster than a lightning bolt, she jumped on a New York-bound train. Fortunately, already an admirer of Gene, she quickly forgave the offense, assured by the knowledge that, technically, he and Vivian had been acquainted as far back as their early teenage years. The translation was that their marriage would not suffer the consequences of spontaneity.
Days later, Vivian’s father, now back in the States, also paid them a visit. He was more accepting, less judging, than his norm. The war appeared to have loosened his views on situations not mortally critical. It didn’t hurt that Gene feigned ample pleasantness throughout their supper, just as he had done with Vivian’s mother, this time trading educated insight on war and politics. By the time Vivian served the coffee and peach cobbler, her father had ruled favorably.
Gene’s performance was so convincing, in fact, Vivian actually forgot it was a mere reflection of the man she used to know. A man she missed beyond words.
After waving good-bye to her father’s taxi, with the dishes put away and lights turned off, she and Gene slid beneath the covers. He murmured, “Good night,” a step that would precede his turn toward the window. But before he could complete the act, Vivian inched her way over.
Emboldened by the darkness and her after-supper schnapps, she laid a kiss on his neck, followed by another, and another. She created a path along his collarbone and over the surface of his chest. His skin prickled at the touch of her lips and strands of her hair, and as her fingers traveled downward his stomach muscles cinched. She sensed a firming beneath the covers, heard him gasp in response. His body otherwise refrained from all movement.