Free The Search for Joyful by Benedict Freedman Page A

army pay. Her main worry was that Mr. Right would come along before she was finished. Each Saturday morning she spent at the dentist, returning with all sorts of dental horror stories including the one her dentist told on himself. The reason he had chosen that particular profession was because as a kid his wisdom teeth came in at an angle and stuck right through his cheek.
    Ruth had joined us with a great deal of perturbation, afraid she would be asked to dance and afraid she wouldn’t. She’d be asked, was my guess, because if she neither laughed, smiled, or spoke she was quite attractive.
    Tonight, hopefully, she’d find something other than teeth to talk about.
    I put my arm through hers. “Let’s get some potato chips.”
    We started for the tables, but another sailor approached and, with a grin and a few mumbled words, invited Ruth to dance. One glance of panic in my direction and she was whirled away. I held to my course—at least I was going to have something to eat. This time it was a soldier, Canadian army, who came up to me. “There’s beer in that wash bucket,” he said.
    I hadn’t noticed the galvanized pail sitting under one of the tables. “No, thank you.” I wasn’t sure whether he was offering it to me or not.
    â€œWant to dance?”
    â€œAll right.”
    It was a pretext he didn’t bother to make too convincing. He held me too close and talked incessantly. I was glad the record was almost over.
    â€œMy name’s Ed.”
    â€œMine’s . . . uh . . . Trisha.” I don’t know why that name came to mind. I guess the Whites Only sign still rankled.
    â€œLook, Trisha, we’ve got to go someplace, get out of here.”
    No, I wasn’t the girl next door, I was the girl you took to the nearest drive-in.
    â€œI’m . . . meeting someone.” I gulped and looked around for Mandy. I could see she was having a good time, and I didn’t want to stand there explaining, so, mumbling that I was going to the restroom, I slipped out. The strains of the newest song on the Hit Parade followed me: “Saturday Night Is the Loneliest Night of the Week.”
    The next day I was in the middle of a nightmare. That same soldier showed up, the one I’d danced with. I couldn’t believe it. I heard him at the front desk asking for Trisha.
    There was nothing for it but to intercept him. I plastered a stern look on my face and approached.
    The look was wasted. “Trisha!” he bellowed. “I’m so damned glad to see you. What happened last night? Had a devil of a time finding you. I asked all over.”
    â€œDid it ever occur to you I didn’t want to be found?” I made it as frosty as I could, and anyone else would have backed off. But this guy was impervious to nuances, subtleties, and, I suspected, a hammer over the head. Sister Mary Margaret, trying to be helpful, asked if we cared to step into a private room.
    â€œNo,” I said as he said, “Yes.”
    At this moment Trisha herself appeared. “I heard someone was asking for me?” This was addressed to me, as she had already taken Ed’s measure. His name had come back to me, and I attempted an introduction, but Trisha was sure the soldier was my revenge, and poor Ed was totally confused by two Trishas. I threw up my hands and left.
    I heard later through the grapevine that they had straightened things out to their mutual satisfaction, and ended by going out together. Maybe I did have my revenge.
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I WAS MOVED to the trauma center. Duty there drained the life out of you. I saw terrible things, great ragged holes opening in layers, receding deep into flesh.
    Sister Egg saved me. Egg was a mother hen to us girls. She caught me in the hall. A severe look lay over her normally good-natured expression. In a clipped, businesslike manner she said, “Kathy, no questions. You are to come with me.”
    Good heavens, what now? I