Read Online Everything and More by Jacqueline Briskin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jacqueline Briskin
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Avalon Ballroom on the Ocean Park Pier. Linc did not answer. Instead, he tilted his head to catch the last of the cool, pulsating notes of Jimmy Dorsey’s alto saxophone. They moved through the swirl of uniforms and bright dresses, the shrieks from the plummeting roller coaster, and the sweet smell of caramel corn. In the parking lot there were only the waves breaking far below the tarred boards with the incessant hollow roar that one hears listening to a shell.
“Linc, you must have some idea how the repairs are going. Isn’t there any scuttlebutt?”
Again he said nothing, but when they reached the Packard he took her hand, gripping it. “Lay off, Marylin, please lay off.” His long fingers crushed hers.
She got into the car, hating herself for rousing his demon—or whatever you wanted to call the war-hideousness that devoured his living entrails.
Yet she had to know, didn’t she, how long those repairs would keep him safe and with her?
Chaotically consumed by love, Marylin had turned into time’s miser, endlessly counting and recounting each hour and minute she would spend with Linc. She could bear that he had never told her that he loved her, bear that he had never taken her the couple of miles to North Hillcrest Road to introduce her to that renegade Catholic/Communist father and exotic Jewish mother, from whom (Marylin was positive) he and BJ had inherited their black hair, dark eyes and strong noses, even bear that he never spoke of any degree of permanence or even temporary fidelity. What woke her shaking in the nights, what debased the glory of her time with him, was her total ignorance of how long they had before the
Enterprise
was returned to seaworthiness.
As they drove, her balloon of silence threatened to burst with a gush of inquiries.
Linc drew up at an enormous clump of syringa that hid a shabby bungalow court.
On the narrow cement walkway Marylin flushed with the sense of wrongdoing that this place always engendered, yet the scent of the small, wiry lemon tree that grew by the door of number 2B stirred the most profound spiritual emotions that she had ever experienced. The question of whether to enter never stirred her mind.
The small room’s Spanish-plastered walls were covered with framed pictures of groups: Hawthorne Grammar school and Beverly High graduations, posings of clubs and athletic teams. The apartment’s leaseholder, Linc’s lifelong friend, was stationed in Lompoc and Linc had a key. He and Marylin had been coming here since that Friday night in early January, their second evening date.
He put his arms around her. Photographed Beverly Hills children watched from the ombré shadows while Linc and Marylin clung together as if reunited after a long, arduous separation.
* * *
Afterward, she drowsed.
She was walking in some enchanted green place, a forest of great ferns growing to incalculable heights over her head, music drifting allaround her, hauntingly familiar music that she could not quite place, a blending of classical and popular that might have been Freddy Martin. Though she could not see Linc, she knew he was someplace near, and so she was secure, happy. “Linc,” she called out, “Where are you?” “Here,” he answered, close by. She pressed through a feathery thicket toward his voice, finding herself in an empty dell where small yellow primroses grew in profusion. “Where?” she cried. “This way.” His voice, again near, drifted from the opposite direction. The music changed to a plaintive, mournful minor key, and a sense of doom settled over her. “Linc!” she cried. “Please tell me where you are!” There was no answer, only the sound of sobbing.
She awoke.
Linc sprawled facedown next to her, the thin blankets thrown off him, his long, well-knit body shuddering, the muscles of his shoulders and torso showing with each heaving gasp. By the dim light from the living room she saw that tears streamed from his closed eyes.
“Linc,” she
“Linc, you must have some idea how the repairs are going. Isn’t there any scuttlebutt?”
Again he said nothing, but when they reached the Packard he took her hand, gripping it. “Lay off, Marylin, please lay off.” His long fingers crushed hers.
She got into the car, hating herself for rousing his demon—or whatever you wanted to call the war-hideousness that devoured his living entrails.
Yet she had to know, didn’t she, how long those repairs would keep him safe and with her?
Chaotically consumed by love, Marylin had turned into time’s miser, endlessly counting and recounting each hour and minute she would spend with Linc. She could bear that he had never told her that he loved her, bear that he had never taken her the couple of miles to North Hillcrest Road to introduce her to that renegade Catholic/Communist father and exotic Jewish mother, from whom (Marylin was positive) he and BJ had inherited their black hair, dark eyes and strong noses, even bear that he never spoke of any degree of permanence or even temporary fidelity. What woke her shaking in the nights, what debased the glory of her time with him, was her total ignorance of how long they had before the
Enterprise
was returned to seaworthiness.
As they drove, her balloon of silence threatened to burst with a gush of inquiries.
Linc drew up at an enormous clump of syringa that hid a shabby bungalow court.
On the narrow cement walkway Marylin flushed with the sense of wrongdoing that this place always engendered, yet the scent of the small, wiry lemon tree that grew by the door of number 2B stirred the most profound spiritual emotions that she had ever experienced. The question of whether to enter never stirred her mind.
The small room’s Spanish-plastered walls were covered with framed pictures of groups: Hawthorne Grammar school and Beverly High graduations, posings of clubs and athletic teams. The apartment’s leaseholder, Linc’s lifelong friend, was stationed in Lompoc and Linc had a key. He and Marylin had been coming here since that Friday night in early January, their second evening date.
He put his arms around her. Photographed Beverly Hills children watched from the ombré shadows while Linc and Marylin clung together as if reunited after a long, arduous separation.
* * *
Afterward, she drowsed.
She was walking in some enchanted green place, a forest of great ferns growing to incalculable heights over her head, music drifting allaround her, hauntingly familiar music that she could not quite place, a blending of classical and popular that might have been Freddy Martin. Though she could not see Linc, she knew he was someplace near, and so she was secure, happy. “Linc,” she called out, “Where are you?” “Here,” he answered, close by. She pressed through a feathery thicket toward his voice, finding herself in an empty dell where small yellow primroses grew in profusion. “Where?” she cried. “This way.” His voice, again near, drifted from the opposite direction. The music changed to a plaintive, mournful minor key, and a sense of doom settled over her. “Linc!” she cried. “Please tell me where you are!” There was no answer, only the sound of sobbing.
She awoke.
Linc sprawled facedown next to her, the thin blankets thrown off him, his long, well-knit body shuddering, the muscles of his shoulders and torso showing with each heaving gasp. By the dim light from the living room she saw that tears streamed from his closed eyes.
“Linc,” she
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