Free The Wind Is Not a River by Brian Payton Page A

“I know I sure did.” This wisdom she took to heart.
    Ruth takes a contemplative drag on her cigarette and watches the airmen steal glances. She stares them down until they turn and take their leave. On their way out, they tip their hats as Ruth flashes a victory smile. “Me either. I got men .”
    For Ruth, capturing and holding the attention of men appears to be some kind of game. To Helen, this seems like playing with matches.
    “These days my meal ticket is the USO.” Ruth gingerly removes a lash from her eye with a precise pinkie finger. “We’re heading to Hawaii with a musical review for the troops. There’s eight of us. Of course we’ve been promised Olivia de Havilland to headline, but I’ll believe it when I see it. Either way, we get well taken care of. Everyone’s getting in. Just imagine the exposure.”
    “That sounds—”
    “Do you still dance? Wait a minute, you had a great voice . . . You should come along.”
    “To what?”
    “Well, we’re not rehearsing yet. Just dancing for dimes. Recruits get to put their hands on you and stagger around for a minute or two. But you don’t have to dance with anyone you don’t want to.” She registers Helen’s surprise. “It’s patriotic . . . C’mon, I’m sure I could get you on. Meet me at seven.”
    Ruth’s on a roll. She lights another cigarette and falls into a character from a romantic comedy she was in recently, transforming herself into a nosy telephone operator—to hilarious effect. Helen can’t remember the last time she laughed so hard. Ruth seems to sense this and does her utmost to keep the laughs coming.
     
    THE SWEDISH HALL is festooned with Stars and Stripes, crepe paper streamers, posters promoting the USO. The lights are dimmed, the faces further obscured by the fog of cigarette smoke. The wail of a trumpet echoes across the mostly vacant dance floor. In place of the band, a lone girl fingers through records up onstage behind speakers the size of steamer trunks. Huddled near the door, a convention of flyboys and run-of-the-mill GIs, scrubbed clean, caps in hands, gaze at the selection of hostesses arrayed along the opposite wall. They work up the courage to move.
    Helen studies Ruth as she plows around the floor with a sergeant. He is only just her height and has a fat neck that swallows his chin whenever he looks at his feet. There is no grace in the way he moves. But they smile and laugh, and Ruth tosses her hair like she hasn’t a care in the world.
    Unsure of how to dress for such an event, Helen opted for a modest navy blue dress, hair up. She stands a safe distance behind several other women, wishing she hadn’t come. Helen moved from life with her father and brothers directly into her life with John. She has always felt outside the secret intrigues of women, unprepared for the sudden shifts and subtext. It was as if she had been adopted away from her own kind and now finds them peculiar.
    About a dozen couples move around the floor with varying degrees of success. After putting it off as long as she dares, Helen finally joins in. She dances for over an hour with a series of partners and a few who come back for more. One unremarkable-looking private, about her own age, clearly knows what he is doing. They dance two songs in a row, jitterbug and Western swing. He leads with his eyes, his body, making it seem as if each step had been her idea from the start.
    A few men—those reeking of aftershave or being goaded by their friends—attempt liberties. A squeeze on the hip, the incidental brush of a breast. Chaperones pace the floor, upright Christian matrons. A tap on the shoulder and a wag of the finger puts an end to most shenanigans. A few men are escorted out the door. And then, long after Helen thought he was gone, the private reappears to take her hand.
    He leads her through steps she’s never seen before and yet she is able to follow his lead. Partway through, she stops thinking altogether. They move so well,