Free Baker Towers by Jennifer Haigh Page B

Georgie, hefting his duffel to his shoulder. “Good to meet you, pal.”
    “Good night,” Dorothy added, but Rowsey seemed not to hear her. He shook Georgie’s hand.
    “Aren’t you coming?” Dorothy called from the stoop. Patsy had re-seated herself in the car.
    “In a minute.” She tucked her legs up under her. “Go ahead. I’m right behind you.”
    Dorothy led Georgie up the steps. Her heels clicked loudly on the cement.
    “What’s the story with those two? She seems mad at him about something.” Georgie glanced toward the car. Rowsey had cut the engine; he and Patsy seemed deep in conversation.
    “She’s always mad about something,” said Dorothy.
    “She’s a funny girl.”
    Dorothy unlocked the door. His curiosity irritated her, mainly because she knew Patsy would interrogate her later: What did your brother say about me? Patsy, who already had two fellows overseas, who at that very minute was sitting in Chick Rowsey’s front seat. It occurred to her that Patsy wouldn’t be satisfied until every boy in the world was thinking about her.
    She led Georgie to the attic room and switched on the light, a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. A cot had been made up with sheets and a blanket. “I hope it’s not too uncomfortable.”
    “Are you kidding?” Georgie set down his duffel. “You should see the places I’ve slept the last couple years. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” His eyes were bleary in the harsh light, shot through with red.
    “Sleep well,” she whispered, forgetting all about Patsy and Chick Rowsey. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
    Quietly she closed the door.
     
    S HE WAS NEARLY ASLEEP when Patsy came into the room, dropping her pocketbook loudly on the floor. Dorothy could smell her across the room, perfume and cigarettes, the fried-food odor they’d breathed all night. She switched on the lamp. “Is everything all right?”
    “Fine.” Patsy kicked off her shoes.
    “What were you talking about with Chick?”
    “Oh, nothing interesting.” She sat heavily on the bottom bunk. “He isn’t all that fascinating when he’s sober. Never mind with a few drinks in him.” She stretched out on the bed. “Your brother’s a dreamboat. A real gentleman. Where did he run off to?”
    “Upstairs, to bed. He was exhausted.”
    “He’s a nice fellow.”
    Dorothy waited for more— Did he ask about me? —but the question never came. When she reached down to turn off the light, she saw that Patsy was asleep.
     
    H E HAD BEEN dreaming of the ocean. The sickening lurch, the eternal smell, briny and dank, like rotting fish. As always in his dreams, on his way to somewhere. The destination secret at first, revealing itself later in a terrible moment of clarity and dread. The same dream, always with some small variation. This time Gene Stusick was there—his old buddy Eugenius—now, somehow, the ranking officer on board. They had been hit; men wounded on deck, pandemonium below. George was bleeding from the back, his shirt wet with blood.
    A sound woke him. He lay on the cot, still dressed; his throat raw, his shirt reeking of cigarettes. His undershirt was soaked with sweat. He glanced around the room and remembered where he was. Someone was knocking at the door.
    “Who’s there?” His head throbbed. Unclear how much he had drunk. A steady stream of beers, furtive swigs from the flask when Rowsey remembered to pass it.
    The door creaked open. The blonde stood in the hallway, still wearing her blue dress. She held something behind her back.
    “Whatcha got there?”
    Smiling broadly, she produced a bottle. “Kentucky bourbon. I keep it for when my daddy comes to visit.”
    “Where’s Dorothy?”
    “It’s past her bedtime. But I knew you’d be awake.” She closed the door and sat on the cot beside him. “I only had the one glass. You don’t mind sharing, do you?”
    He shook his head to clear it. The room was very hot. Outside, he heard rain, the civilized hum