Free Everything and More by Jacqueline Briskin Page A
Authors: Jacqueline Briskin
it.
“I’d abandoned hope,” Linc said.
“We just came in the door.”
“This is classified, so I count on you not to tell any Japanese or Nazi spies.”
A knot twisted around her heart. “The repairs?”
“Completed.”
Her knees went weak and she sat on Roy’s cot. “You mean . . .”
“Yep.”
“Oh, Linc. . . . Not even this next weekend?”
“Nope.” There was a rustling as if buzzards had come to perch on the long-distance wires. His voice sounded faraway and thin. “You have my APO address.”
“I’ll write all the time. Is it tonight?”
“I think so.”
“Oh. . . .”
Another flap of ghostly wings.
“Marylin.”
“What?”
“I may send some of my stuff from time to time.”
He’s leaving, she thought, leaving. . . . An immense, crowding misery was upon her and she could scarcely move her lips to form words. “Your writing?”
“It’s just for you.”
“I’ll keep it.”
“Wearing old ALF?”
She touched the ring, which hung around her neck on a silverplated chain that had come in one of her Christmas cartons. “Always.”
“Good.”
She could hear a distorted banging at the other end of their bad connection. Then: “Oh, shut up. Give a guy a chance!” Linc’s anger was muffled as if he were holding his hand over the mouthpiece. Then his voice came through the crackling. “The barbarians are at the gates. Listen, don’t take ALF off, okay?”
“Never, never.”
“That’s my good-luck charm you’re wearing.”
She was shaking and tears blinded her, but she used all the points ofcontrol she had learned in her acting lessons to say clearly, “Linc, I love you.”
“Marylin—”
The phone went dead.
“Linc?” she cried. “Linc?”
The connection was dead, but she did not hang up. Instead, she hunched over on Roy’s cot, her tears falling onto the instrument.
Roy, who had been at the refrigerator studiously drinking from a milk bottle, came over to clumsily pat her shoulder. “Is Linc shipping out?”
Marylin ran into the bathroom, the only place she could weep in privacy.
8
Every day from 11:20 to 12:10, the Beverly High student body descended on the cafeteria. The kitchen staff of six women and a man turned out a creditable full-course lunch in spite of rationing. There were also lines that dispensed triple-decker tuna or cheese sandwiches and thick malts, as well as exterior windows where a sweet tooth could be satisfied with ice cream and packaged cakes—Twinkies were the most popular. No soft drinks or candies were sold on any grounds belonging to the Beverly Hills school system.
In the environs of the cafeteria one could see the school’s social strata, which bore no relationship to the hierarchies of the outside world. The scholarly, the acned, and the humble beings who lacked any idea of status ate at the long tables inside. Those more in tune with the scheme of things sat on the patio.
Marylin was at a round table away from the visible storm of movement, the blue table umbrella keeping the bright April glare from theclipped-together sheaf of legal paper on which her attention was focused.
Opposite her, Roy and Althea Cunningham were sharing Althea’s package of Hostess cupcakes.
Sunlight heightened the incongruity of heavy makeup on their childishly soft faces. Round little Roy’s freckles were not quite obliterated by Max Factor’s Pan Cake, and her mouth was excessively maroon. Althea—tall and very thin—had smudged her topaz eyes with mascara and drastically enlarged her fine lips with great swoops of plummy lipstick.
Even in its ridiculous upsweep, Althea’s hair was really something. Straight, silky, and ash blond, with lambent streaks that varied from palest gold to gleaming silver.
The two freshmen had struck up an acquaintance at Orientation, in their first hour at Beverly, and since then had become inseparable. Almost every afternoon Althea walked with Roy and Marylin along Charleville to
“I’d abandoned hope,” Linc said.
“We just came in the door.”
“This is classified, so I count on you not to tell any Japanese or Nazi spies.”
A knot twisted around her heart. “The repairs?”
“Completed.”
Her knees went weak and she sat on Roy’s cot. “You mean . . .”
“Yep.”
“Oh, Linc. . . . Not even this next weekend?”
“Nope.” There was a rustling as if buzzards had come to perch on the long-distance wires. His voice sounded faraway and thin. “You have my APO address.”
“I’ll write all the time. Is it tonight?”
“I think so.”
“Oh. . . .”
Another flap of ghostly wings.
“Marylin.”
“What?”
“I may send some of my stuff from time to time.”
He’s leaving, she thought, leaving. . . . An immense, crowding misery was upon her and she could scarcely move her lips to form words. “Your writing?”
“It’s just for you.”
“I’ll keep it.”
“Wearing old ALF?”
She touched the ring, which hung around her neck on a silverplated chain that had come in one of her Christmas cartons. “Always.”
“Good.”
She could hear a distorted banging at the other end of their bad connection. Then: “Oh, shut up. Give a guy a chance!” Linc’s anger was muffled as if he were holding his hand over the mouthpiece. Then his voice came through the crackling. “The barbarians are at the gates. Listen, don’t take ALF off, okay?”
“Never, never.”
“That’s my good-luck charm you’re wearing.”
She was shaking and tears blinded her, but she used all the points ofcontrol she had learned in her acting lessons to say clearly, “Linc, I love you.”
“Marylin—”
The phone went dead.
“Linc?” she cried. “Linc?”
The connection was dead, but she did not hang up. Instead, she hunched over on Roy’s cot, her tears falling onto the instrument.
Roy, who had been at the refrigerator studiously drinking from a milk bottle, came over to clumsily pat her shoulder. “Is Linc shipping out?”
Marylin ran into the bathroom, the only place she could weep in privacy.
8
Every day from 11:20 to 12:10, the Beverly High student body descended on the cafeteria. The kitchen staff of six women and a man turned out a creditable full-course lunch in spite of rationing. There were also lines that dispensed triple-decker tuna or cheese sandwiches and thick malts, as well as exterior windows where a sweet tooth could be satisfied with ice cream and packaged cakes—Twinkies were the most popular. No soft drinks or candies were sold on any grounds belonging to the Beverly Hills school system.
In the environs of the cafeteria one could see the school’s social strata, which bore no relationship to the hierarchies of the outside world. The scholarly, the acned, and the humble beings who lacked any idea of status ate at the long tables inside. Those more in tune with the scheme of things sat on the patio.
Marylin was at a round table away from the visible storm of movement, the blue table umbrella keeping the bright April glare from theclipped-together sheaf of legal paper on which her attention was focused.
Opposite her, Roy and Althea Cunningham were sharing Althea’s package of Hostess cupcakes.
Sunlight heightened the incongruity of heavy makeup on their childishly soft faces. Round little Roy’s freckles were not quite obliterated by Max Factor’s Pan Cake, and her mouth was excessively maroon. Althea—tall and very thin—had smudged her topaz eyes with mascara and drastically enlarged her fine lips with great swoops of plummy lipstick.
Even in its ridiculous upsweep, Althea’s hair was really something. Straight, silky, and ash blond, with lambent streaks that varied from palest gold to gleaming silver.
The two freshmen had struck up an acquaintance at Orientation, in their first hour at Beverly, and since then had become inseparable. Almost every afternoon Althea walked with Roy and Marylin along Charleville to