“Papa is alive,” Anna said, breaking a long silence.
Her aunt glanced at her. “You thought otherwise?”
“I’ve had a letter. He’s been sailing with the merchant marine.” When Brianne failed to evince amazement at this unlikely turn, Anna whirled on her. “You knew about this?”
“I’d an inkling.” Then, preempting Anna’s explosion, she said, “How else do you think I’ve had the money to help you and your mother? Working at that greasy spoon?”
“But . . . the Lobster King.”
“There is no Lobster King. Oh, come now, don’t look so flabbergasted—that story was phony as a three-dollar bill. An old bag like me with a fancy man? I’m flattered you believed it.”
Anna was beset with rage. She stopped walking and shrieked at her aunt, causing passersby to turn and peer at them. “You never told him about Lydia! He thinks she’s still alive!”
“I’ve never had an address,” her aunt said mildly. “Not even a postal box. He sent a money order twice each year, told me to spend a bit on myself, and give the rest to Agnes.”
“I wish he was dead,” Anna shouted. “I liked it better.”
“If wishing could make men die, there’d be nary a live one left.”
As suddenly as it had gathered, Anna’s anger shrank into disgust. “Do you hate him, too?” she asked when they were walking again.
Brianne heaved a sigh. “He’s my only brother,” she said. “Who knows, the war may knock some sense into him. Wars have been known to do that.”
“You said the war was a joke. Boys poking each other with sticks.”
“The men who make the wars, yes. But the ones who fight, those beautiful kids . . . they’re innocents.”
“Papa isn’t a soldier, Auntie—he’s with the merchant marine!”
“And they’re not soldiers, too?” Brianne countered hotly. “They take every risk without a hope of glory: no medals, no five-gun salutes. In the end they’re just merchant seamen, hardly more than bums, from the world’s point of view. They’re the real heroes, I say.”
There was no mistaking the tremor in her aunt’s voice. Heroism, apparently, was the one thing Brianne didn’t find ridiculous.
“Papa is a hero? Is that what you’re saying?”
Brianne said nothing. Anna thought of her father’s letter: the torpedo, the raft, the hospital. She would tell her aunt, but not now. Her mind was finally beginning to work, as if rage had scorched a path through her thoughts.
They had reached a part of the waterfront blocked by military fencing, and turned back. Neither said a word the whole way. When they’d climbed the stairs to Brianne’s room and hung up their jackets, Anna asked, “How much is left of the money Papa sent?”
“Two hundred dollars, more or less. Why?”
“I’ve a plan.”
Her aunt poured a glass of Four Roses and offered it to Anna, who declined—even now, she couldn’t bring herself to drink in front of her aunt. They returned to the chaise, and Brianne lit a cigarette and twirled the whiskey in her glass.
“I’m going to take a train to California,” Anna said. “On the way, I’ll put on a wedding ring and a black dress. I’ll arrive a war widow and move near the Mare Island Shipyard and work there as a diver. I think I can get a transfer from the Brooklyn Yard.”
Brianne snorted. “You realize a Pullman sleeper to California costs a hundred and fifty dollars.”
“I’ve five hundred forty-two in the bank and three hundred twenty-eight in war bonds. And I’ll ride coach.”
“Not in your condition!”
“Auntie, I’ve been welding under thirty feet of water!”
“You’ll be poor,” Brianne said. “Destitute.”
“I can sell my war bonds.”
“You’ll wind up on the streets.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Who can you depend on? Who do you know in California?”
Anna laughed harshly. “Well, if I’m desperate, I suppose I could write to Papa,” she said. “I understand he’s a hero nowadays.”
After “Shore Dinners” at Lundy’s famous restaurant, followed by slices of huckleberry pie, Anna changed into an old satin negligee of her aunt’s, stained under the arms. Brianne arrayed herself in a matronly housecoat of brushed rayon, buttoned to the neck. They lay together in her four-poster, buffeted by gusts of Saturday-night revelry from the Swain. Anna remained wide awake, staring at the ceiling fixture with its base of sculpted plaster roses. She was electrified by her plan—by the relief of finally having made one. She assumed her aunt had fallen asleep and so was caught unawares by her voice in the dark.
“About the father . . .”
“No, Auntie.”
“One question.”
“No.”
“You needn’t answer. I’ll know just by asking.”
“You won’t know anything.”
“Was he a soldier?”
Anna said nothing.
“Those uniforms,” her aunt said, with a chuckle. “Who can resist?”
CHAPTER THIRTY
* * *
“A letter won’t do a goddamn thing, I’m afraid,” Lieutenant Axel said. “Should, but it won’t.”
“It’s supposed to act as a transfer,” Anna explained. “From the Brooklyn Naval Yard to Mare Island.”
“A transfer is bullshit, if you’ll pardon my French. It’ll take forever to come through, like everything in this stumblebum place. What I’ll do—” He peered up at her across his desk. “I’ll telephone long-distance and speak with the man in charge.”
“Why, thank you.”
“I’m likely to know him already, if he’s done any real diving.” He wore his bad-news face, but without the elfin pleasure that normally twinkled at its edges. “Sit down, Kerrigan.”
Anna sat, nervous. Now that her every move was aimed at propelling herself to California with reputation intact, the fear of discovery hounded her.
“There’s an unfortunate fact you’ve been protected from, working for me. But I can’t protect you out in California.” He took a long breath and leaned toward her confidingly. “Many of the old boys are—are backward in their thinking. They won’t want a girl in their diving program. Might snigger at the very idea.”
He regarded her gravely, and Anna grew confused. Could the lieutenant be kidding? Engaging in uncharacteristic self-mockery? Or was it possible he’d forgotten their beginning?
“Of course, you aren’t like most girls,” he said. “We both know that.”
“It’s hard to know what most girls are like,” Anna murmured.
“Point is, I’ll need to have the conversation man-to-man: Hire this girl. She’ll work like two fellows. If I send you out there with just a letter, he’ll assume I’ve low motives for writing it. That’s an ugly truth that I’m sorry to be the bearer of, Kerrigan, but it’s how their minds work.”