An adult stories – War without End by OldHistoryGuy,OldHistoryGuy Author’s Note: this is my first story. If you feel the need to comment, please be honest but kind.
“Hey Mister, you wanna lick?”
I looked down at a freckle-faced, snot-nosed little cowboy holding up one of those all-day suckers. His other hand was attached to the reins of the stick-horse he’d been riding up and down the aisle for the last fifteen minutes, annoying the hell out of most of the old coots on this Streamliner. I grinned at him. I figured you couldn’t expect a four or five-year-old boy to sit still for hours on a bus.
“No thanks, Little Pardner. Maybe later.”
He rode off into the sunset and I turned back to the window and the scenic West.
I must have nodded off, because next time I noticed, the bus was no longer headed into the sun. I glanced out the window and saw a small sign – “Welcome to Lordsburg Pop. 3101.” Lordsburg – the name sounded familiar; oh, yeah, that was the town those people were headed for in that cowboy picture Stagecoach. Too bad there were no Claire Trevor’s on this bus.
We took two rights and stopped in front of a two-story cinder block building with a couple of Signal Oil pumps out front. The hand-painted sign on the front read “Baker’s Signal Service.” A small Greyhound hung from a rod sticking out over a green and white awning above the door.
The driver barked for everybody to get off and stretch their legs; we were making a 20-minute stop. I was in the bench seat at the very back of the bus, so I could prop up my leg. By the time I got to the door, everybody was milling around the front of the station. Roy Rogers Jr. was still hopping around on Trigger and licking that sucker, while his frazzled Mom tried to wrangle him to the bathroom around the side of the building. I held onto the chrome bar and dropped myself off onto the gravel, pulling out my handkerchief and wiping off my brow and the back of my neck. I lit up a Lucky and stood watching the crowd.
The screen door of the station creaked and opened; that’s when I saw her for the first time. Mind you, she was no beauty – no Rita Hayworth or Betty Grable – but she wasn’t homely or plain, either. She had dark brown hair streaked with gray, braided into a single pigtail that hung over her left shoulder. Her dress was a simple blue shirtwaist with matching buttons all the way down and a cotton belt tied at the front. She was tall and slim and rawboned; she wouldn’t have looked out of place chasing chickens around a barnyard. Her nose was straight and thin; her eyes were light blue-gray and empty. I had seen that far-away look on the faces of a hundred Marines and in the mirror. This lady was broken like me.
Without a smile or a frown or any hint of emotion, she quietly announced that she had sandwiches, coffee, and soda pop for sale inside. I had been sitting on buses for the better part of two days, covering almost 600 miles from San Diego, so I wasn’t eager to get right back in that seat. Plus, I had bought a ticket for all the way to the end of Highway 80 at Tybee Island, Georgia, and I had six months to use it. So, not wanting to dine on service station fare and not really having to leave right then, I decided to reconnoiter Lordsburg. I did a complete circle to get my bearings and spotted a Hank’s Diner halfway up the block and across the street. I grabbed my duffel and headed for the diner.
Stiff and sore, I hobbled into Hank’s and settled on one of a half-dozen chrome and leather barstools at the counter. There were two customers at the far end of the counter and four or five others at a few booths around the outside walls. From behind the counter, the big hairy guy with the paper hat said “Welcome to Hank’s; what’ll you have?”
Glancing at the handwritten menu above me, I ordered a cup of coffee, a hamburger, and some French fried potatoes.
“Coming right up.” Setting the cup in front of me, he poured the coffee, then turned and tossed a patty on the griddle and dropped a basket of fries into a deep fryer. “You just get off the bus over there?” he said, pointing over my shoulder with his spatula.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Where ya been and where ya going?” he asked.
“Just got back from a little tour of the South Pacific and now I’m off to see the country.”
“Is that so? What tour group were you with?”
“23rd Regiment, 4th Marines.”
Nodding at my leg, “where’d you pick up the souvenir?”, he asked. “Iwo Jima”, I said.
He grabbed a hamburger roll, split it on a plate, set the patty on it, piled it up with some lettuce, tomato, and grilled onions, added a heap of fries on top of that, and slid the plate in front of me. I squirted some mustard on the hamburger, some ketchup on the fries, and dug in, while he talked.
“I’m an old gyrene myself. Belleau Wood. First War. Once a Marine, always a Marine, right?”
I nodded and kept chewing until I finished off the platter. I was hungrier than I thought.
Hank refilled my coffee while glancing out the window at the Greyhound pulling back out on Highway 80. “You missed your bus, son.”
“As they say down in Australia, ‘no worries, mate.’ I was thinking of sticking around here a few days. Speaking of buses, who’s the lady running the Greyhound stop over there?”
“You mean Maggie? Maggie Baker?”
“You tell me. I didn’t talk to her, but something seemed a little off about her.”
“Oh, Maggie’s a fine lady, as good as they come – but she might as well have planted herself when she buried her husband Will, although to tell you the truth, they didn’t really find enough of Will to bury. He got killed in that Port Chicago ammo explosion. You know the one that killed all those colored sailors in ’44.”
“What was he doing up there?”, I asked.
“Felt guilty ’bout not serving. Too young for the First War, 4F for the Second because of his heart. But Will could fix anything – got a job as a mechanic at the Port Chicago Naval Station. Maggie begged him not to go, but he just had to do his part. Left her to run the filling station; went off and got himself blown up. To top it all off, they had no kids, so she didn’t even have any part of him to carry on. Just a headstone over an empty grave. It broke her heart, sucked the life right out of her – like sticking an ice pick in a tire. Now she’s just marking time — like a lot of you boys.”
I finished my coffee and tried to pay Hank. “Your money’s no good here.”
“Thanks,” I said, and eased off the stool. Glancing back at Hank, I asked him where I might find a bed for the night. “Try the Stratford up the street…it’s on this side, last block before the square.” Taking a glance back over at the station, I walked on up the street.
I found the Stratford Hotel and settled into a two buck a night room on the 2nd floor. Generally, the more highfalutin the name, the seedier the joint, so I expected a fleabag. But the Stratford was okay – a basic, no-frills place apparently catering to traveling salesmen and folks coming in from out of town for business at the courthouse. The bed was a lot more comfortable than a bus seat.
Next morning, I ambled back down the street to Hank’s. The breakfast crowd was a bit bigger than the day before, but I found a seat at one of the booths. This time, an older blonde waitress took my order and then brought the flapjacks and sausage. I took my time eating. This time, I paid.
I lit one up and wandered down the sidewalk and across the street to Baker’s filling station. Noticing the “Help Wanted” sign on the front window, I made a spur-of-the-moment decision; I put out my butt in the ashcan by the door, opened the screen door and approached the counter straight ahead. She was there, standing behind the counter, popping a receipt down on one of those pointy spindles. (I winced like I always do when I see that happen.) She raised those dull eyes to me and asked, “May I help you, Sir?”
“Yes, ma’am. I saw your sign and wanted to ask about the job.”
“Oh, all right then, my helper over there, “she pointed to a young dark-skinned boy, sitting on top of a drink box, “is going off to work for his father and uncles, so I need someone to pump gas, handle the cash box, and maybe do some small mechanic jobs, like changing spark plugs and oil. Do you have any experience in that kind of work, Mr.?”
“Murphy, Jim Murphy, ma’am. Not in a place like this, but I grew up on my granddaddy’s farm and learned how to fix his trucks and tractors, so I don’t think I’d have any trouble here.”
“No, with that kind of background, I doubt you would. Unfortunately, the job only pays $15 a week, but it includes a room upstairs in the back, if you need a place to stay.”
“That sounds swell, ma’am. If you’ll take a chance on me, I’ll do a good job for you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murphy. Consider yourself hired. Now, when can you start?”
“Please call me Jim, ma’am, and I can start in the morning.”
“Good, we try to open at 7. See you then. Oh, by the way, I’m Margaret Baker, but you can call me Maggie. The youngster there is David Hidalgo. When you get here tomorrow, he’ll show you the ropes. Not that there’s a whole lot to learn.”
I nodded to the boy, tipped my hat to Maggie, and strolled on back towards the Stratford.
I wasn’t exactly sure why I took the job. I wasn’t hurting for money – I’d had most of my Marine Corps $96 a month sent back home to my sisters. I was doing the same now with my disability check. I’d held back a dollar here and there to pay for beer and cigarettes, but there weren’t many places to spend it in the jungle or the Naval Hospital. And I wasn’t planning on settling down in Lordsburg. Maybe, I just wasn’t ready to go home. I missed my sisters, but how much help would I be on the farm? Heck, I wasn’t even sure I could pump gas.
Whatever my motivation, next morning I was standing in front of Baker’s at 0645. The kid, David, was already there. He returned my nod. I lit up a cigarette, offered him one, although I reckoned he might be a bit young yet. He grinned and politely declined. A few minutes later, Maggie pulled up in an old International D pickup truck. “Good morning, Jim – David,” she said softly, as she opened the screen and unlocked the front door. She then told David to take me into the garage and show me around. I followed him to the left through a door opening into the service area. It had one bay with a car rack over a poured concrete pit. A good-sized air compressor and tank stood in the left back corner and a rolling tool chest sat on the right. To the left of the compressor, against the side wall, there was a tire breakdown machine. All around the room, about eight feet off the floor, there was a ledger shelf with an assortment of tires, inner tubes in boxes, belts, and other parts. All in all, a typical filling station garage.
David showed me how to roll up the garage door and we were open for business. He rolled a wire rack of Signal Motor Oil cans out by the gas pumps. I filled up the windshield washer bucket, dropped the squeegee in it, and set it in between the pumps. I followed David around like a puppy, while he went through several other small tasks required for opening – turning on the compressor, starting up the electric fan in the gable, and making sure the bathroom was clean. The driveway bell went off several times and I shadowed David while he pumped the gas, cleaned the windshields, or checked the oil. Maggie had a lot of regular credit customers, so David also showed me how to record the chits in the account book. Since David was leaving, Maggie hadn’t taken on any repair jobs lately, so I filled in the rest of my time sweeping, cleaning, and checking out the tools.
It was a busy first day, but I managed to take the weight off my leg now and then, so that I didn’t completely give out. Close to 1700, Maggie asked me to follow her upstairs, so she could show me the room where I would be bunking. It was a rectangle about 10 by 12, with a wrought iron single bed against the front wall. On the back wall was a cabinet with a laundry sink and about 18 inches of counter space. An electric hotplate sat on the counter. A small three drawer chest sat to the right of the sink cabinet.
“I know it’s not much to look at, but it’s warm and dry,” she said. “You’ll have to use the station bathroom. And you can wash up in the sink or use the showers at the YMCA.”
“It’ll do fine.”
I tossed my duffel on the bed, sat down on the edge and watched her walk down the stairs.
So began my career as a filling station attendant. David left the next week…he went to work for his dad and uncles at Hidalgo Brothers Garage. They had shut down in ’42 when the brothers enlisted. Fortunately, they came home safe and sound, and were reopening the family business. I wished him well. He was a good kid and a hard worker.
Gradually, I learned my way around the station and got familiar with the regular customers. I saw Maggie every day. She spent much of her time getting ready for the Greyhound stop — making sandwiches and restocking the drink box. We didn’t talk much – except when she would come tell me a customer had called to schedule an oil change or something. Mostly, we walked around like a couple of sad sacks, each in our own slough of despond. After a couple of weeks, I figure I’d built up a little trust because she gave me a key to the door. Now, I could go out after the station closed, so I occasionally spent evenings walking around the downtown. And thinking about Maggie. Not that way. I didn’t think I was romantically attracted to her. After all, she was probably old enough to be my mother. And no girl was going to be interested in a man like me, anyway. No, I was thinking about how I could help her out of her funk. I remembered something our priest back home had said in his homily one time: “if you want to forget about your troubles, think about someone else’s.” And, Lord, I was tired of wallowing in mine. I had been stuck in self-pity since I woke up on the hospital ship on February 20, 1945.
The day before, we had hit the beach just after 0900. Our job was to take the east end of Airfield #1. It was easy going until we were about 300 yards in; then, all hell broke loose. Machine gun fire was coming from two pillboxes at both ends of the airfield. That was bad enough, but the worst thing was the artillery and mortar fire. The Japs had pre-sighted their guns and they were pounding us. I was carrying the.30 cal Browning and the water tank; Lance Cpl Zielinski was lugging the tripod mount and an ammo can. My other two grunts were hauling more ammo. We dove into a good shell crater, set up the gun, and started pouring fire on the pillbox at the east end. It took more than an hour for the rifle platoons to get in position, while we kept up the supporting fire. Just after I sent the two grunts back to the beach for more ammo, I heard the satchel charges go off in the pillbox. I found my oven mitt, pulled the gun from the mount and started across the airfield, with Z on my tail. Moving in that volcanic ash was tough; I felt like I was running in place. And the heavy smoke in the air made breathing and seeing difficult.
What I remember most from that day was the noise. The machine gun and small arms fire was continuous. So was the mortar and artillery fire – especially those big Jap 150mm mortars. Throw in the constant volleys from the offshore tin cans and you had a hellish cacophony that made it almost impossible to hear the man running next to you. Whoever said God was in control, has never been on a battlefield. I was going as fast as I could, my heart pounding in my ears, when the noise just stopped. I had been looking straight ahead towards the north side of the field; now, I was looking up at the sky. I felt like I was floating underwater – my vision was cloudy, and the noise was distant. Then everything went dark.
I awoke to a light tapping on my right shoulder and a soft voice saying “Wake up. Wake up, Sergeant.” I blinked my eyes and focused on the unfamiliar face leaning over me. She shifted to the foot of the bed, looked under the sheet for a minute, then came back and listened to my chest with her stethoscope.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“You’re on board the USS Samaritan. You’ve been out since you were wounded yesterday. We just arrived today. We got you from a field hospital this afternoon. In fact, you were the first casualty we received from the beach. I’m Ensign Alice Kennedy. I’m going to be taking care of you until we get back to Pearl or wherever we’re going. You’re still under the effects of the anesthesia from surgery and we’re giving you morphine, but you let me know if the pain breaks through. Okay?”
“Surgery? How bad was I hit?”
“One of the doctors will be by shortly to talk to you about your injuries. Let’s just say that you were seriously wounded, but you’re gonna make it home.”
She smiled, patted my shoulder, and walked away, while I, in my groggy state, fell back to sleep.
Sometime later, I was shaken awake again – this time by a much less hospitable face.
“Welcome back, Marine. I’m Doc Sharp, one of the surgeons on board. I’m not going to sugarcoat it, Sergeant — the bastards hit you hard. First off, the good news is you’ve still got your dick and your balls. The bad is, you took severe shrapnel damage to both legs; we had to take your right one from just above the knee. We managed to save your left, even though you lost a big chunk of muscle out of your calf, and at the same time, you caught a bullet through your left thigh. Fortunately, it went through clean without hitting bone or a major artery. The left leg’s gonna be ugly, but you’ll walk on it. As for the right, when it heals up, you’ll be fitted with an artificial leg and trained how to use it. It’s not gonna be some pegleg — medicine’s made great strides in prosthetics since the First War. I’m not gonna lie and say you’ll be like new – that’ll never happen. But we’ll get you back on two feet again. Now, let’s look at those legs.”
From that first glimpse of my mangled lower body, I could think of nothing but what I had lost – my leg, my worth as a man, my future. Now, here in Lordsburg, over a year later, I was tired of that hopelessness and despair. I thought about what Father O’Brien had said and decided to focus on Maggie’s depression. I set out to try and bring her out of it.
Whenever I wasn’t busy in the garage, I would go into the office area and chat with her. You know, talk about the weather or one of the customers who had just left. At first, it was like pulling teeth – she just wouldn’t say much, but after a few days, I started talking about my family history, and she started to come around a little.
“So, you’re from Georgia? I could hear the southern accent, but I thought maybe Texas or Oklahoma. I wouldn’t think there’d be many Irish Catholics in Georgia.”
“Oh, yeah, quite a few in the Savannah area. Irish started coming there over a hundred years ago to build the Central of Georgia railway. The Irish worked long and hard for cheap and weren’t as valuable as slaves. When the railroad was done, the ones that hadn’t been worked to death stayed around and took up farming. My great-grandfather was one of them.”
“Is your family still farming there?”
“Yes’m, we’re hanging on. My Da’s gone, but his father’s still kicking at 73. Still could outwork me, before I joined the Corps. My Ma’s in fine fettle — working the farm and watching over her chicks — my little sisters. There’s three of them, all born within five years.”
“Jim, why are you here? Why aren’t you back home with them?”
“I’ve asked myself that a thousand times and I still don’t know the answer. Seems it’s just been too much for me to think about. When my Dad died, I thought I’d be the one to support and protect them but look at me now. I’m a sorry specimen of a farmer and I don’t want to be some pathetic figure for my sisters to pity.”
“Jim, I don’t know your sisters, but from the way you talk about them, they sound like wonderful girls. They’d want to see you no matter what shape you’re in. In fact, they’d be overjoyed to see you because of that. They love you. They’d want to help more than anything. You shouldn’t deny them that opportunity.”
I knew she was right, but I still hadn’t worked it out in my mind.
Next day, I turned the subject back on her; I finally got the nerve to ask her about Will.
“Tell me about your husband. Hank over at the diner said he was a great mechanic.”
“Oh yes, Will was very mechanical…if he could have afforded the schooling, he would have been an engineer. He loved getting his hands dirty. Big hands, too. And tough. He kept a five-gallon bucket of kerosene in the shop; he’d dunk his hands in there to get the grease off, but he still had it under his fingernails all the time. I didn’t mind, though. I came to love the smell of grease and oil and brake dust. I loved him.”
“Why’d he go off to Port Chicago?”
“Think about how you feel right now…about your leg…you feel useless, right? Will felt that way too. He tried to enlist right after Pearl Harbor, but he failed the medical exam — he had a slight heart murmur. He waited three months and tried again. Three more times. Same result. He sat here and watched David’s uncles and the other local boys going off to boot camp. And he just dried up. It was killing him. Finally, he heard the Navy was hiring civilian contractors as welders up at Port Chicago in California. I couldn’t hold him back…he didn’t want to sell the station…so I had to stay here and run it. He went. And he never came back. Not even in a box.”
“That’s a tough break, Maggie, but he’d have been miserable if he’d stayed. My Ma tried to get me to stay home — I could have probably gotten a deferment. But it would have killed me to watch my friends and relatives go off without me. Heck, two of my cousins hid out from the draft board and ended up in the pen for two years — they didn’t hide too well, did they? Now, nobody in the family will talk to them; Mama says they can’t even show their faces in public. I had to sign up — for my own peace of mind. Will had to go — for his. It didn’t mean I loved my Ma and sisters any less because I went. And Will didn’t love you any less either.”
I left her with that and went back to patching an inner tube. Over the next few weeks, we had several more conversations like that. I told her more tales about my sisters and growing up on the farm. She responded with stories about how she met Will and came to live in Lordsburg. I could tell she was starting to loosen up and feel a little better. I was too. I think both of us needed a sympathetic ear.
March flew by. Spring weather brought more business — farmers started planting, townsfolk got out more, and rationing was over, so I was pumping more gas and doing more tune-ups. One morning, I walked into the office from the garage and found Maggie talking to a young lady. I could see two little dimpled arms wrapped around the lady’s knees.
“Dolores, this is my mechanic, Jim Murphy. This is Dolores Johnson — she’s with the American Legion Ladies’ Auxiliary. They’re having a May Day barbecue to benefit veterans’ families. I’ve been volunteered to bake some cakes and pies. And this little angel is Sadie — she’s three and a half years old and sugar sweet.”
I grinned at the brown-eyed beauty. She slid between her mother and the counter and buried her face in her mom’s skirt.
“Good to meet you, Jim,” her Mama said. “You be sure to come along to the barbecue. It’ll only cost you a dollar and you won’t go away hungry. Come on, Sadie, we’ve got a few more stops to make.”
“What a cute little girl,” I told Maggie, after they’d gone. I could see her wistful gaze following Sadie as the child walked out the door. I decided to cross that line.
“I know this is none of my business, but why didn’t you and Will have any children?”
I could see tears filling her eyes as she answered: “We both wanted babies — we discussed it before we married. Will wanted three — I said we’d start with one, then we’d see…but nothing happened. After a couple of years, I went to the specialist doctor over in Deming. He examined me and couldn’t find anything that would prevent me from having a baby. Doc said just keep trying and let nature take its course. I didn’t dare suggest that Will get checked out…it would’ve devastated him to find that out. Better to not know. I’d rather be childless than hurt him that bad. ”
“What about adopting? Did you think of that?”
“Sure, after a couple of years, I suggested it, but Will wouldn’t hear of raising a child that wasn’t his own…maybe, if he had lived, he might have gotten past that…but it’s too late now.”
With that, she grabbed a stack of outgoing mail, told me she was heading for the post office, and took off out the front door. I thought about the tears in her eyes and the sob in her throat, and wished I’d kept my mouth shut.
Business stayed steady at the station and, before I knew it, May Day was upon us. It fell on a Wednesday, and no busses stopped on Wednesdays, so Maggie closed for the day. I piddled around the station, cleaning and straightening until almost noon, then I walked the three blocks to the American Legion hall. Its double doors were propped open and folks were lining up to pay their dollar to Dolores, who was sitting at a folding table just inside the door. Maggie sat next to her, balancing Sadie on her lap. I grinned and spoke to her again – “Hey, Sadie, darlin’ – how are you today?” Again, she hid her face — this time in the bosom of Maggie’s dress. I laughed and walked on over towards the food tables. The Auxiliary ladies were arranging all the side dishes for a buffet line, while several of the men were bringing in platters of meat from out back. They had chicken quarters, pork ribs, and what looked like beef brisket. At the end of these tables were two more covered with cakes and pies. At the back of the hall, next to the back door, were several beer kegs and a couple of wash tubs filled with bottles of Coke on ice. The center of the hall was cleared for a dance floor; tables and chairs were arranged around the walls. By 1300, most that were coming had arrived, so the Legion commander blessed the food, and we all started lining up. I noticed most of the men held back to let the women and children go first. Mothers were filling plates for the kids; daughters were fixing plates for the elderly. Just like back home, it was a small town family taking care of its own.
I finally got a plate and went looking for Maggie. I found her again sitting with Dolores and Sadie at a back corner table. She was holding the little girl on her lap and letting her eat off the plate in front of them, giving Dolores a chance to eat undisturbed for once. As we ate, we chatted and watched Sadie eat her lunch. She reminded me of my little sisters at that age and, for a moment, I thought about what I was missing back home. From our conversation, I learned that Sadie’s dad Bobby was dead — killed at Monte Cassino in ’44. He never saw his little girl. His parents still lived in Lordsburg, so Dolores had stayed there to have help with Sadie. I also found out that Maggie’s mom and dad were alive and living in Kansas. Her dad had come out of retirement to help build B-25s for Boeing at their Wichita plant. Her married sister had two kids and lived in Wichita too. Her sister’s husband had gone to Europe with the Signal Corps to work on radars and came home unharmed.
We talked on for some while; several folks came by to talk to Maggie and Dolores. I took a trip to the sweets table and came back with a sampler of cakes and pies for the ladies and me. I even found a coffee urn and brought us back three cups. Sometime after dessert, a four-piece band set up and started playing music. They had a guitar player, a fiddler, piano player, and a stringbean playing an upright bass. They were doing mostly country and western swing stuff, like Spade Cooley and Bob Wills. Occasionally, they would throw in a slow country song; I remember hearing “The Kentucky Waltz”. Several young men came by and asked Dolores to dance. After all, she was a young, curvaceous war widow. At first, she refused, but after Maggie assured her that we would watch Sadie, Dolores agreed to dance a few numbers. Sadie had warmed up to me some and even sat in my lap for a while. In fact, I noticed she was nodding off and took her from Maggie and cradled her in my lap. Without a whimper, she drifted off to sleep.
“You look like you’ve done that before,” Maggie said.
“I consider myself an expert…like I told you before, Mama had my three little sisters within five years…she needed a lot of help. I was six years older than the oldest girl, so I did a lot of rocking. A baby girl is God’s gift to us all.”
Her eyes glistened when I said that. “Did you see Gone With the Wind? You remind me of what that Mrs. Merriweather said about Rhett Butler: ‘There must be a great deal of good in any man who can love a child so much.’ Something tells me you’re a good man, Jim Murphy.”
I felt myself blushing and I didn’t respond. Dolores came back red faced and out of breath. She thanked her partner and sat down. The band started up a slow waltz. I looked at Maggie and said, “What about you, Maggie, do you dance?” With that I stood up and passed the sleeping child back to her mother. Maggie looked at me doe-eyed and shook her head violently. “No, I-I haven’t danced since Will…”, she stammered out. I stood there with my hand out, “Come on, I haven’t tried out this new leg; I probably can’t do more than stumble around like a drunk, but let’s give it a whirl.” Dolores egged her on, “Go ahead Mag, do it for a wounded vet…it’ll be good for you too.” She shook her head again, but less violently this time. I dramatically held my hand out again.
Biting her lip and looking down, she took my hand and stepped out from behind the table. I led her out to the dance floor, took her right hand in my left, put my right on her left shoulder and started a semblance of a waltz. All I could do was a rough 1-2-3 pattern, standing pretty much in the same spot. Luckily, even though I stumbled a little, I managed to avoid stomping on Maggie’s toes. Of course, I told her she could stomp the hell out of my right foot, but she was a trooper; she kept me from falling a couple of times and tried hard not to look miserable.
But I could tell she wasn’t enjoying herself. She wouldn’t really look me in the eye and her whole affect was forlorn. It occurred to me that this was the first time I had touched her. I also realized that I had feelings for her, but I wasn’t sure what they were. When the song ended, I thanked her for the dance and led her back to the table. She grabbed her purse from the back of the chair, reached down with her finger and tucked Sadie’s hair behind her ear, and told us she had to go. I offered to walk her to her truck, but she politely refused and went out the door. I listened to one more song, said my farewells to Dolores and Sadie, then sauntered back to the station.
Next day things seemed awkward between Maggie and me. When she wasn’t avoiding me and deigned to speak to me, she was short several times. I let it go — writing it off to the stress from getting ready for the barbecue yesterday. But, when she acted the same way on Friday, I had had enough.
“What’s eating you? When you’ve talked to me at all, you’ve snapped my head off…”
Maggie answered with some heat: “There’s nothing eating me. What’s wrong with you? Don’t you have more important things to do than analyzing my moods?”
In our almost three months together, I’d noticed that when she was agitated, she’d twiddle the end of her braid. She was doing that now. And she still wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“Well, I’m sorry, but ever since the barbecue, you’ve been a bear to get along with…and I’m not used to that…something’s wrong…did I do or say something to upset you?”
“Let it go, Jim…I…”
“No, I’m not letting it go…I’m your friend, remember?… and friends help each other in times of trouble…what’s wrong?”
“I shouldn’t have danced with you at the barbecue,” she blurted out.
“Why in the world not?” I blurted back. She placed her face in her hands, then reached under the counter to grab a Kleenex, and dabbed at the tears in her eyes.
“Because I’m still mourning Will — I felt like I was being unfaithful to his memory. I’m still wearing my wedding ring. And another thing, I’m too old for you. What will people think?”
I paused for a few seconds before replying: “It was just a dance. I know you’re still grieving over Will — I’m not trying to replace him. I just hate to see you so sad. You’re still young; you have so much life ahead of you. As to what other people think, I don’t care – to hell with them. We’ve not done anything improper, and even if we had, it’s none of their business.”
“But Jim, I have to care — I have to do business in this small town — and, here, reputation means everything. And I — I can’t have feelings for you — I’m too old.”
“Ok then. I promise you I won’t do anything to sully your reputation. As for our age difference, so what? I’m a grown man. I’ve seen and done more things than most men do in a lifetime — some of them horrible things. Any doubts you have about me shouldn’t be about my maturity. And age? Most of the men I saw die were young like me. That told me it can all be over in a second. Waiting to get what your heart wants is a big risk. It makes no sense.” Taking a deep breath here, I continued: “So, I have to tell you, I have feelings for you…I don’t know if it’s love, infatuation, or what, but when I danced with you, I felt something I hadn’t felt before. I’ve never had a girlfriend, Maggie.” I felt myself blushing as I told her the next, “and except for one girl when we were on leave in Melbourne, I’ve never been with a woman. So, I don’t really know how to feel here, but I do know I want to be around you. I want to at least be your friend…I promise I won’t embarrass you.”
We passed the next week in relatively good humor – distant but polite. Summer was approaching and the garage was getting hot. But, with the doors open and the gable fan running, it was bearable. Nights were a little rough, until Maggie brought me a box fan that I set on the counter. It occurred to me that I’d spent my whole life in hot places — South Georgia, south Pacific, south New Mexico. Maybe I should swap my ticket for a northbound destination — get a little winter in my bones. I knew I wouldn’t do that; I was starting to miss my mother and sisters, and I was losing my trepidations about my future as a farmer. One-legged or not, I had become a help to Maggie. I could be a help back there. Whatever was left of me belonged at home.
But what about Maggie? As I watched her one day from the garage — she was sitting at the counter entering figures in the accounts book — I realized that she had become important, even precious to me. I studied her face — her high cheekbones, her strong jaw, her long neck, her lips pressed together as she concentrated. I hadn’t really noticed these things before. She was a handsome woman, made even handsomer by what was inside her. I remembered something I had read: “elegance is when the inside is as beautiful as the outside”. Maggie was an elegant woman. I missed home, but I would miss her too.
Pretty soon, June was almost gone, and Maggie was again volunteered to bake for the Lordsburg 4th of July Picnic at the municipal park. I signed up to help set up tables and chairs. It was going to be another barbecue — like the May Day one, just with a marching band and more speeches. As the day approached, downtown businesses began putting up American flags, bunting, and ribbons. I noticed a few stores displayed gold star flags in their windows. As I walked by, I remembered the times I had wished I was one of those gold stars, and I felt ashamed of myself for wishing that heartache on my family.
A couple of days before the 4th, I walked into the station after eating lunch at Hank’s and found David Hidalgo and an older version of him talking to Maggie. I nodded to David and walked on into the garage. I had a car up on the rack and I started in changing the oil. After I’d finished that job and backed the car off the rack, I saw that the visitors were gone, and I went in to talk to Maggie.
“I assume that was David’s dad with him. If it was, he’s a carbon copy.”
“Yes, that was Miguel Hidalgo. He wants to buy the station and came to see if I was interested in selling.”
“Are you? I didn’t realize that was in the works.”
“It’s not, or at least it hasn’t been. It’s as big a surprise to me as it is to you. His garage has been so busy since he reopened that he’s looking to expand. With no gas rationing and no new cars yet, he says people are driving more and fixing what they’ve got. Makes sense to me. But I don’t know if I want to sell. Will loved this station — he got to fix stuff, and he felt like he was doing a service for the community. I don’t know if I can give it up. Besides, I’ve got to do something for a living.”
“Is this what you want to do with YOUR life? What you want to do? Have you thought about that? I don’t mean to be cruel, but Will’s dreams died with him – unless they were your dreams too.”
She covered her face and began quietly sobbing. I’d said too much, again. Reflexively, I put my arms around her and tucked her head under my chin. I muttered a stream of apologies and shushing noises in her ear, while I rubbed her back. She kept on crying, the sobs now racking her body. I just kept on shushing and rubbing, figuring she would eventually cry herself out. And she did. But it took a while; my shirtfront was wet by the time she quit. She pulled back and looked up at me, still with wet eyes,
“I’m sorry for that…I don’t know what came over me…I -”
That’s okay, Maggie…everybody’s entitled to a good cry…you’ve got a lot on you right now, and I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
“No, you’re right…I’ve been sleepwalking too long… feeling sorry for myself and living on memories and borrowed dreams. Miguel’s offer and, and you are forcing me to wake up and I’m terrified.”
“You’re gonna be fine – things are going to work out. I know, that’s easy for me to say, but you’re not facing this life alone. You’ve got friends here. Heck, everybody loves you; they talk about you with nothing but affection and respect. I know about the things you do for this town — it’s a lot more than baking cakes. You baby-sit for every mother in Lordsburg. You visit the sick and take food to the shut-ins. You even sell on credit to the Mexicans, and they sing your praises in Spanish. It’s time you let others help you.”
The smell of her hair and skin lingered with me. I hadn’t hugged or been hugged since I left home in ’43. And the feel of her small body against my big frame left me yearning for more contact.
Independence Day came and went. I managed to help set up tables and chairs without falling down. And, no, I didn’t try to dance with Maggie again, even though they had a pretty good swing band. I did eat lunch with her, Sadie, Dolores, and the young vet she had danced with at the May Day barbecue. He seemed to be taken with Dolores and Sadie, and they with him. Naturally, I didn’t participate in the sack race or the three-legged race, but I did manage a few games of horseshoes. By late afternoon, my legs had taken all I could stand, so I slowly made my way back to the station. I plunked down on my bunk, turned that box fan on high, and read a bit in a paperback western I’d bought at the dime store.
I woke up to Maggie’s voice calling up the stairs. I had slept through the night and I was late opening the station. I brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and headed downstairs slowly — my leg was chafed from wearing the artificial one all night. Making my apologies, I went and opened the garage door, and did the other routine tasks to start the day. Maggie looked tired and frayed. She didn’t seem eager to make small talk so I left her alone. By noon, along with pumping gas for quite a few customers, I had finished an oil change, patched a couple of inner tubes, and replaced the spark plugs in a ’34 Chevy panel truck. I broke for lunch and stepped across the street to Hank’s. As I left, I hollered to Maggie that I would bring her a hamburger.
For some reason, Hank seemed tickled to see me. He called out to me as I walked in the door.
“Come on in, Jim. Have a seat – hamburger and fries with coffee, right?”
“Yep, and before I leave, I need s hamburger to go for Maggie.”
“OK, one now, and one with shoes on.” In a quieter voice, he said, “I see you’re hobbling a little more than usual…leg bothering you?”
“Yeah, I fell asleep early last night. Ended up sleeping with it on all night…stump’s a little irritated by the suction sock — I’ll put some ointment on it tonight — it’ll be all right.”
“Good. You and Maggie still getting on okay?”
“Yeah, I think so. You know, you were right — what you first told me about her. She is a fine lady. She’s good to work for and I hope she thinks of me as a friend — not just an employee.”
“When did you land here? Isn’t your ticket about to expire?”
“February 21st. So, I’ve got till August 21st to move on. Today’s July 5th? Gives me six weeks or so. But, if I can’t pull up stakes by then, I’ll eat the ticket. I’ve been saving most of my pay, so I can afford another one…Tell you the truth, I’ve come to like it around here. I’ve even gotten used to your ugly mug. But I’ve got to go home; I owe it to my mother and sisters.”
“Well, we’ll miss you around here, we’ll be short one gimp. But you’re right — you need to see your family. They didn’t blow off your leg, so don’t punish them for it.”
He made up a burger for Maggie. I left a dollar on the counter for a 55-cent tab. “The tip is for the free advice,” I threw back over my shoulder as I walked out.
The next few weeks were relatively calm. We worked together, almost wordlessly, but I could tell she was still undecided and unsure. As August rolled around, I finally forced the issue.
“Have you heard any more from the Hidalgos about the station?”
“Yes, Miguel called me at home last week. He actually made me an offer for the station, the truck, the whole package. A good offer according to Mr. Jacobs at the Building and Loan. But I still don’t know. I can’t decide — this station’s the last tie between me and Will and I don’t think I can let go, though I don’t know how much more I can take — I’ve had this weight on me since Will left in ’43 – and the last two years completely on my own. I didn’t know anything about business, or cars or busses or engines — I just wanted to be a wife and mother. I didn’t even have time to grieve my dead husband.”
By now, she was twiddling her braid with both hands and gearing up to cry again. For good or bad, I decided to intervene. I held her arms with both hands and looked directly in her weeping eyes.
“Maggie – Maggie, I hate you’ve had to bear so much. Let me help you — let me take you away from this. Sell Miguel the station. Go home with me, darling. My family will be crazy about you. You’ll love them. And I’ll love you forever. I know I’m younger than you and I’m less than you deserve, but I think God or fate or destiny put me off that bus. We were meant to find and heal each other. Can’t you feel that?”
“Oh Jim, I wish it were that easy. But I can’t leave Will. And besides, you don’t want me — I’m old — I’m getting gray hair. You’ll be tired of me in no time. And what about children? I’ve seen you with Sadie. You’ll want them Jim — you know that.”
“Maybe so, but that sand’s not sifted yet. You’re not too old — come to think of it, just how old are you?”
She half laughed, half cried, “you’re not supposed to ask a lady her age. But I’m 36, if you must know. How old are you?”
“I’m 24, I’ll be 25 on September 25th. And 36 is not too old; my Mom was 35 when my baby sister was born. Maybe you and I will hit the jackpot. And, we’ll name our first son Will.”
At that, she fell into my chest and began crying again. I wrapped my arms around her and smelled her hair. While sniffling, she said, “you’d do that for me?”
“Of course, I would. I told you I wasn’t trying to replace him. I think there’s room enough in your heart to love both of us, if you’ll give it a chance.”
She pulled back, slowly shaking her head. “I don’t know, Jim. I’ve got to think about it.”
She walked out to her truck and took off, leaving me again to wonder if I’d done more harm than good.
We didn’t talk about it again. Two more weeks went by while we danced around each other, until a letter from my mother forced my hand. My grandfather had suffered some kind of stroke and was laid up in bed. Mama didn’t directly ask me to come home, but she sounded desperate. It was time for me to go. On that Friday morning, I told Maggie:
“Maggie, I’ve got to go home. Grandpa’s had a stroke and my family needs me. I’d like to give you two weeks notice, but if it’s possible I’d like to leave sooner than that. It’ll take at least three days on the bus to get there.”
She looked like she’d lost her best friend. Her eyes grew large and cloudy. She placed one hand on her chest like she was having trouble catching her breath. She finally spoke.
“Of course, Jim. They need you. Don’t worry about this place. You can take the Tuesday bus or catch the train at Deming.”
“Come with me, Maggie. Call Miguel now. Accept his offer and come with me. We can go to the Court House Monday and get married. Or we can get married back home. My mother and sisters would like nothing better than to help you plan a wedding. I love you, Maggie. You’ll never be alone again.”
“Jim, I can’t do that. My whole life is here, and I — I won’t saddle you with an old woman. When you’re 40, I’ll be 54, when you’re 50, I’ll be 64, -”
“That’s real good. You do arithmetic real good. But it doesn’t mean a thing. I’ve killed a lot of men, Maggie, and come close to being killed myself. I’m not afraid of anything anymore, certainly not of what other people think or say.”
“Oh, Lord, I don’t know what to do. Please give me some time, some space to think about this.”
Again, she got in her truck and went home. I closed up the shop and walked to the Western Union office, where I sent a telegram to my mother telling her I would be starting home on Tuesday.
We opened half a day on Saturday, but Maggie didn’t show. She didn’t stop by on Sunday, either so I didn’t see her again until Monday morning. She didn’t say anything — just nodded – when I confirmed that I was leaving next day on the bus. When closing time came, I shut up the garage for the last time. I wandered across and had a last meal at Hank’s. I was going to miss my fellow Marine. I went back to the room that had been my home for the last six months. I packed my duffel, read some more in my western, took off my leg, and went to bed.
Next morning, I opened up for the last time. I realized that I wasn’t excited about going home. I was profoundly sad about leaving Lordsburg and Maggie. The bus wasn’t due until 1400, so I pumped gas and checked oil, but I didn’t start any garage jobs out of fear that I wouldn’t be able to finish them.
Maggie came in a little late. Her eyes were red and puffy, and she looked like she hadn’t slept much. She came up to me and handed me a small, wrapped gift with a bow on top. I gave her the usual “you shouldn’t have done that” speech, but I took the gift and started unwrapping it carefully — I figured she might want to save the paper. Inside the paper was a long flat jewelry box. I took off the lid and pulled out a cylindrical object that looked a bit like a fountain pen with a knob on the end of it.
“It’s a chrome plated tire pressure gauge. It was Will’s. He carried it in his pocket every day. He didn’t take it to Port Chicago with him. He was afraid he’d lose it. I thought it might come in handy on your farm.”
“Thanks, Maggie. I promise I’ll take good care of it. And I won’t lose it.”
“Well, see that you don’t,” she said and walked away to make sandwiches for the coming bus.
I busied myself with tidying up in the garage, until I heard the air horn of the Greyhound. I grabbed my duffel from behind the counter and walked over to Maggie.
“I guess this is goodbye, Maggie. I left my home address on the inside cover of the accounts book. I hope you’ll write me sometime. I meant everything I said to you. I love you and I want to marry you. I think we’d be good together. So, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”
With that, I pulled her towards me, bent down and kissed her gently on the lips — our first and, likely, last kiss.
I picked up my bag, and without looking back, I walked straight out the door and climbed onto the bus. Making my way to the back, I flopped on the last bench and propped up my foot. My head was spinning and my insides were as hollow as my right leg. When I had gotten off the bus here almost six months ago, I had felt nothing; been more dead than alive. Now, I felt nothing but hurt. I waited while the other passengers got back on the bus. I didn’t see any little cowboys on board this time. Pretty soon, I heard the hiss of the air brakes letting off and the sound of the driver shifting into first gear. We slowly pulled away back onto Spruce Street and took the first left toward Highway 80.
The diesel smoke puffed as the driver changed gears. As he was getting up to speed, I heard a faint cry from outside. I swiveled my head looking over my left shoulder and through the diesel soot and road dust, I saw a figure running after the bus, with a large purse on one arm and a piece of paper waving from the other hand. As quickly as I could, I brought my leg around to the floor, reached up and grabbed the emergency cord. I heard the air brakes kicking in and the bus lurched to a stop. The driver popped the arm to open the door and a crying Maggie stumbled in, shoved her ticket in the driver’s face, and edged her way down the aisle towards me.
“Is this seat taken?” she asked.