LaVyrle Spencer - Morning Glory

She held his head as if he were no older than Lizzy, closed her eyes and grieved with him, for him, and became once again the mother/wife he would always need her to be.

In time his breathing grew steadier, his embrace eased. "Red was a good friend."

"Tell me about him."

"You want to read the letter?"

"No. I read enough letters when you were gone. You tell me."

He did. Calmly this time, what it had really been like on the Canal. About the misery, the fear, the deaths and the carnage. About the "Last Supper" on board The Argonaut,steak and eggs in unlimited supply to fill a man’s gut before he hit the beach expecting to have it shot out; about boarding a rubber raft in a pounding surf that roared so loud in the limber holes of the sub that no man could be heard above it; about that bobbing ride over deadly coral that threatened to slash the rubber boats and drown every man even before they reached the Japanese-infested shore; about arriving wet and staying so for the next three months; about watching your fleet chased off by the enemy, leaving you cut off from supplies indefinitely; about charging into a grass hut with your finger cocked and watching human beings fly backwards and drop with the surprise still on their faces; about learning what three species of ants are edible while you lay on your belly for two days with a sniper waiting in a tree, and the ants beneath your nose become your dinner; about the Battle of Bloody Ridge; about watching men lay in torment for days while flies laid eggs in their wounds; about eating coconuts until you wished the malaria would get you before the trots did; about the twitch of a human body even after it’s dead. And finally, about Red, the Red he’d loved. The live Red, not the dead one.

And when Will had purged himself, when he felt drained and exhausted, Elly took his hand and they walked home together through the late-afternoon sun, through the orchard, through the flower-trimmed pergola, to begin the thankless job of forgetting.

The war had been hard on Lula. It deprived her of everything she cared most about: nylon stockings, chocolate ice cream-and men. Especially men. The best ones, the healthy, young, virile ones were gone. Only shits like Harley were left, so what choice did she have but to keep on getting what she needed from the big ape? But she couldn’t even blackmail him anymore. In the first place there was no gas to drive to Atlanta and window-shop the way she used to-who could go anywhereon three measly gallons a week!-and even if she could, there was nothing in the stores worth blackmailing for. That damn Roosevelt had control of everything-no cars, no bobby pins, no hair dryers. And nothing, absolutely nothingchocolate! It was beyond Lula why every GI in Europe got so many Hershey bars they were giving them away when folks back home had to do without! She’d put up with a lot, but it took the cake when Roosevelt handed down the order dictating what flavors of ice cream could be made! How the hell did he expect a restaurant to stay in business without chocolate ice cream? And without coffee?

Lula rested a foot on the toilet lid and spread brown leg makeup from toes to thigh, riled afresh by having to do without nylons. How the hell many parachutes did they need anyway? Well, never let it be said that Lula didn’t look her best, no matter what inconveniences she had to put up with. When the makeup was applied, she carefully drew a black line up the back of her leg with a "seam pencil." Dressed in bra and panties, she scooted into her bedroom, leaped onto the high bed and turned her back to the dresser mirror to check the results.

Straight as a shot of Four Feathers blended, right from the bottle!

From her closet she chose the sexiest dress she owned, orange and white jersey with enormous shoulder pads, a diamond cutout above the breast, bared knees and nice, clingy hips. One more time she’d try it, just once, and if she didn’t get results this time, the high and mighty Will Parker could cut holes in his pockets and play with himself for all she cared. After all, a woman had pride.

She squirmed into the dress, tugging it over her head, then returned to the bathroom to comb out her pincurls and fashion her hair into its usual whisked-up foreknot of curls. At least she had wave-set; the curls were hard as metal springs and bounced against her forehead gratifyingly.

All zipped, made-up and perfumed, she patted her hair, posed before the mirror with hands akimbo and calves pressed close, like Betty Grable, practiced her kittenish moue, bared her teeth to check for lipstick smudges, and decided the man’d have to be out of his mind to choose Crazy Elly See over this!

She licked her teeth, breathed into her cupped palm, smelled her breath and dug in her purse for a packet of Sen-Sen. Damn Wrigley’s right along with Roosevelt, for supplying the entire U.S. military service with free gum for the duration of the war while people out here who were willing to pay for it had to suck this rotten Sen-Sen!

But her breath was sweet, her legs sexy and her cleavage showing as she set out to bag her prey. Hot diddly, that man set her to itchin’ worse than ever! An ex-Marine now with a Purple Heart-imagine that!-with a bit of a hitch still detectable in his walk. It only made him more appealing to Lula.

She’d seen him from the window of the restaurant the day in May when he returned from the war, and she’d nearly drowned in her own saliva watching him limp up those library steps to see that old biddy, Mizz Beasley. Before he’d reached the door Lula had pressed her pubis against the backside of the counter for a little relief, and it hadn’t changed since. By August she was still watching the square incessantly for mere glimpses of him, and when he wasn’t in town all she had to do was think of him to get the old juices flowing. Lord, the way he’d looked in that uniform, with those crutches, and that tan, and those sultry eyes beneath the visor of his Marine dress cap. He was the best piece of flesh this town had to offer, and Lula’d have him, by God, or wrinkle up trying!

The back door of the library was unlocked. She turned the knob soundlessly. Inside, a radio played softly and a dim fog of light showed at the far end of the narrow back hall. On tiptoe Lula crept its length, paused at the end to peer into the poorly lit main room of the library. He had only one light on, and the blackout curtains drawn. A stroke of luck-privacy!

He was working with his back to her, squatting down on one knee, peering up at the underside of a table with a screwdriver in his hand, whistling along with "I Had the Craziest Dream." Lula silently slipped off her shoes, left them beside the checkout desk and crossed the room on catfeet.

Stopping close behind him, she could smell his hair tonic. It set her nostrils quivering and her private muscles twitching. As usual, Lula followed the instincts of her body, not her brain. She didn’t stop to figure that you don’t blind-side a jumpy ex-Marine who’s fought on Guadalcanal, whose reaction time is quick, whose instincts are deadly and who’s been trained in the art of survival. He looked good, he smelled good, and he was going to feel good, she thought, as with a feminine, gliding motion she moved in and began slipping her hands around his trunk.

His elbow flew back and rammed her in the gut. He lurched to his feet, spun, knocked her off-kilter, landed a deadly blow on the side of her neck and slammed her to the floor, where she slid six feet before coming to a stop wrapped around the leg of a table.

"What the hell are you doing in here!" he exploded.

Lula couldn’t talk, not with the breath knocked from her.

"Get up and get out of here!"

I can’t, she tried to say, but her jaws flapped soundlessly. She curled up and hugged her stomach.

War had taught Will that life was too precious to squander in any way, even a few precious moments spent with people you didn’t like. He stomped over and jerked Lula roughly to her feet. "What you got to learn, Lula, is that I’m a happily married man and I don’t want what you’re sellin’.So get out and leave me alone!"

Doubled over, she stumbled several steps. "You… hit… me… you bastard!" she managed between gulps.

He had her by the hair so fast he nearly left her leg makeup on the floor.

"Don’t you ever call me that!" he warned from behind clenched teeth.

"Bastard, put me down!" she screamed as he held her aloft.

Instead he raised her higher. "Whore!"

"Bastard!"

"Whore!"

"Owww! Put me down!"

He opened his hand and she fell like a piece of wet laundry.

"Git out and never come sniffin’ around me again, you hear? I had enough of your kind when I was too damn dumb to know the difference! Now I got a good woman, a good one, you hear?" He picked her up by the front of the dress, slammed her to her feet and nudged her roughly from behind-nine times-all the way to the back door, snatching up her shoes on the way. He fired the shoes like two orange grenades into the alley, pushed her outside and offered in parting, "If you’re in heat, Lula, go yowl beneath somebody else’s window!"

The door slammed and the lock clicked.

Lula glared at it and hollered, "Goddamn you, you peckerhead! Just who do you think you’re knockin’ around!" She kicked the door viciously and sprained her big toe. Clutching it, she screamed louder, "Peckerhead! Asshole! Toad-suckin’ Marine! Your dick prob’ly wouldn’t fill my left ear anyway!"

With tears and black mascara streaking her face, Lula hobbled down the steps, retrieved her shoes and limped away.

She arrived back home enraged and marched straight to the telephone.

"Seven-J-ring-two!" she yelled, then waited impatiently with the black candlestick mouthpiece tapping against her chest, the earpiece pressed above her orange flamingo-feather earring.

After two rings she heard, "H’llo?"

"Harley, this is Lula."

"Lula," he whispered warily, "I told you never to call me at home."

"I don’t give a large rat’s ass what you told me, Harley, so shut up and listen! I got me a hard-on that’s bigger’n any you ever had and I need you to do somethin’ about it, so don’t say yes or no, just get in your goddamn truck and be at my house in fifteen minutes or I’ll be on my bike so fast I’ll leave a trail like a cyclone. And when I’m done payin’ your precious Mae a little social call she won’t be left wonderin’ what them yellow stains on your belly was from, com-prend-ay? Now move, Harley!"

She slammed the receiver into the prongs and nearly loosened the table legs whacking the telephone down.

Harley had little choice. The older he got the less he needed Lula. But she was dumb and ornery enough to louse things up real good between him and Mae, and he had no intention of losing Mae over a two-bit whore. No sirree. When he retired from that mill with his pockets full after this lucrative war made him rich, he intended to have Mae to bring him iced tea on the porch and his boys to go fishing with and the girls-well, hell, girls weren’t much use, but they were entertaining. The oldest one was sixteen already. Another couple years and she could be married, having his grandchildren. The thought held a curious appeal for Harley. Damn Lula, she could louse it up good if she started flappin’ her trap.

When he opened her door he was already yelling.

"Lula, you got no brains or what? Where the hell are you, Lula?"

Lula was sprawled on the bed, wearing her orange high heels and her orange flamingo-feather earrings and a few black and blue marks from Will Parker’s hands. An ingot of incense burned on the bedside table and her lacy underpants were draped over the lampshade to cut the light.

"Lula, what the hell you mean, callin’ me up and givin’ me orders like I was some-"

Harley rounded her doorway and stopped yelling as if a guillotine had dropped across his tongue. Lula was touching herself with one hand, reaching toward him with the other…

Two months later, on a bleak day in October, Harley got another call from Lula, this time at the mill.

"Harley, it’s me."

"Jesus, what’s the matter with you, callin’ me here! You want the whole damn world to know about us?"

"I gotta see you."

"I’m working a shift and a half today."

"I gotta see you, I said! I got somethin’ important to tell you."

"I can’t tonight, maybe Thurs-"

"Tonight, or I’ll blurt it out on this phone with Edna Mae Simms rubbering in down at central right now-you there, Edna Mae? You gettin’ all of this?"