In late winter, the snow begins to melt. You watch from the bar window as Brittany, David and Michael get The Alcott back in the water. You watch as she undoes her coat, even in the cold, and she kneels over the hull, scrubbing the grime of winter from the deck. You watch as she ties lines, hauls water, and hoists the sales. You watch, and you feel this heavy sort of sadness that comes from her. It's been nearly a year, you know, since her brother left for Europe, the strong young man in brass buttons and a charming smile. It's been nearly a year since she last said farewell to him. Nearly a year since he promised her a speedy return, only to lose his life on a bloody beach four months later.
Your heart aches for her. You don't know what it feels like to be the surviving child, to live out the legacy meant for another, to work each day on a boat that shouldn't have been yours. You don't know, but you try to understand. You try to soothe her at night without words, you kiss the crown of her head, you dig your thumbs into the tightened muscles of her shoulders, and you love her, you love with with all you have.
At night, you listen to the radio. You weep as you hear of the German army is in retreat, you weep as your mind races, unable to imagine the atrocities that have happened halfway across the world. Things are changing in Europe, big things. A year ago, you'd believed the war might never end, but now, you feel it closer than ever. Now, you wonder what will happen, when everything turns right side up again.
"I want to go to Arlington." Brittany whispers to you, late one night, her nose pressed to yours. "We didn't go down for'is funeral. Pop didn't want to go, and doesn't wan'to go now, but I think I need'ta see where he is."
"Can you?"
"I asked around, I can take the train to New York, and then another down to Virginia. I can call down and get a hotel for the night, then come on back up the next morning. I know 't's a lot, but…I think I ought to."
"Then you should." You find her hand beneath the sheets, and you squeeze it, you squeeze it hard.
"I know ya have work, and things, but do ya think maybe…if I went down on a Sunday, and got back b'fore the bar was to open Monday…do ya think ya might think about comin' with me?"
"Brittany." You breathe, once again feeling the gravity of your relationship with this woman, once again feeling just how deep your feelings run.
"If ya don't want to, I won't be sore, or nothin'…"
"I do." You murmur, pressing your thumb against her palm. "Whenever you want to go, I'll be there with you."
"Thank ya." Tears form in the corners of her eyes, and you lean in, gently kissing them away. "Thank ya so much."
Brittany makes the arrangements. She refuses your money, when you offer it up to her for train tickets and for the hotel. But she asks for your help, when she comes over, carrying a black dress. Patiently, she stands while you take in the sides and take out the sleeves and hem. You're careful not to prick her, you're careful to be gentle when she fidgets. And then you step back, taking in her solemn demeanor.
You're set to leave at four-fifteen in the morning. David agreed to take you across the bay before Captain Pierce does the first ferry run, and you wake up at three-thirty, taking pains with pinning your hair back. It's biting cold, when you step out into the morning air, valise in hand, but when you see Brittany in her black dress, heavy coat unbuttoned, your homemade hat covering her head, hands twisted in front of her, you feel a certain warmth rise up in you. You want to go to her, you want to take her into your embrace, to kiss away her sad eyes, but you can't. Instead, you give her a small nod, and you step quickly toward the edge of the dock, accepting David's hand when he helps you down onto the dinghy.
A taxi takes you from the dock to the train station, and when you arrive, you remember that Brittany has never ridden the train before, you remember that she's never set foot in the city that brought you up. She presses her face to the window, eyes wide, as the winter-washed terrain whizzes past, and she breathes in the scent of diesel. You sit quietly beside her, watching, and every so often, she turns to give you a small, tired smile.
When you arrive in the city, you wish you could take Brittany somewhere. To Strand, perhaps, where she could meander with you between the shelves, turning the pages of Betty Smith, hiding Lillian Smith behind a National Geographic, because you fear someone seeing you read it. To Russ and Daughters, maybe, where you'd introduce her to knish, something your mother just can't get her brain around. To the Navy Yard, possibly, where she'd take interest in watching the great steel ships being built. But more than anything, you wish to take her home. You wish to walk through the door with her, and tell your Mama you've fallen in love. You wish for her to bring out her wedding dress after everyone else has gone to bed, and to speak to you in the darkness, a hurried Spanish whisper, about when you think your day will come to wear it.
It's fanciful thinking, you know that much. You've married Brittany in your heart all those months back, but there won't be a white dress, or a cake, or Father Tómas, blessing your union. Those things, they're not what you wish for, truly, but to have your mother know the truth about who Brittany is, you'd love that more, perhaps, than anything.
You brush those thoughts aside as you board the train. You've only taken a journey this great once. You were twelve, and your Tia Alba was gravely ill in Chicago. Your mother, with little Nina just weeks old, couldn't make the trip, so she'd sent you. Your shoes were shined, and your hair was braided, and you'd sat, still as a statue, watching the great sea of green grass roll by you, sleeping straight up, as the train rolled overnight. You were a child still, but you were the oldest, and when you arrived at Alba's, she was already with God. You stayed a single night, with six-week old Concetta in bed with you, and when you awoke the next morning, Tio Sebastián had handed you two bundles, one of clothing and diapers, and the other, the baby.
"I brought Concetta on the train from Chicago when she was a baby." You find yourself telling Brittany. "I think she was as afraid as I was, she barely whimpered for the entire day long trip."
"Concetta, your little sister? Why was she in Chicago?" Brittany turns from the window to look at you, fidgeting with her nylons.
"She was my cousin, before Mama and Papa took her in. When my aunt passed away, she was raised like Nina's twin. She's only two weeks older."
"Hm. That was awful nice of your Mama and Papa."
"Just the way things are done, I suppose." You shrug. "You'd like her a lot, Mama says she's just like my tia."
"Maybe I'll get to meet her someday…"
"Maybe so." You sigh wistfully, watching your city disappear out the window. "Are you alright?"
"I'm sad, ya know? I wish Pop'd wanted to come see it. I know he ain't there, but…now that they're liberatin' the camps and it's almost over…"
"He'd know he'd died for something worthwhile."
"So pretty out there." Brittany changes the subject quickly, and you give her hand a quick, undetectable squeeze.
"It is. Nice way to see the country, I think."
You fall asleep on the train. You'd hardly slept last night, and the scenery whizzing by lulls you. When train screeches to a halt in Arlington, you wake with a start. You look over at Brittany, your starry-eyed fishergirl, and she's biting her lip, nails digging into her thigh. She'll rip her nylons, you think, but you don't say a word. She has a right to be nervous, she has every right to be nervous, and you meet her eyes before you stand.
Another taxi cab takes you to the cemetery. Brittany asks the driver to wait, and he nods, tipping his cap to her. In her hand, she clutches a piece of paper, and you follow a few steps behind as she walks through row after row of flag lined final resting places. She stops abruptly, and you bump into her back. She's frozen, and you look down at the marker, William Colin Pierce, PFC, US Army, August 1 1923, June 6 1944.
"Hey Willy." She whispers, touching her hand to the top of the stone. "Uh, I'm sorry Pop couldn't come. He's missin' ya somethin' awful. I brought someone to meet ya though. Ya were the first one t'know I was a little funny, and, well…this is Santana. She's real pretty, and you'd like her a lot."
You step a little closer to the grave, and you slip your hand into Brittany's. You're alone in this place, and even if you weren't, a gesture of comfort to the bereaved wouldn't raise much of an eyebrow. She squeezes, and when you look at her face, she has tears running down.
"I don't even know how t'say a prayer for'im. Would ya do it, maybe?"
"Is it something you'd like?"
"I think so. Ya always sound real pretty when ya pray, and he might like it."
"Okay." You nod slowly, making the Sign of the Cross. "God, our Father, Your power brings us to birth, Your providence guides our lives, and by Your command, we return to dust."
You recite the words, slowly, carefully, picturing the boy in the photographs, the young man in the uniform, the face, so much like your Brittany's. When you're finished, you murmur an Amen, and you hear it echo in Brittany's voice. She lingers a little, when you're through, picking out invisible weeds that grow in the dead grass, rubbing the cold letters that mark his name. This is the closest you've ever seen Brittany to crumbling, and you long to gather her up in your arms.
It starts to rain, just drops at first, cold, and icy. Brittany hastily says her goodbyes to her brother, and as she steps back from the grave, the skies open up and rain falls in heavy sheets. You begin to run, pulling your hat to cover your face, and she's right at your side, despite the fact that her stride is much longer than yours. When you reach the idling taxi, she slides opens your door first, and you slide in, making room for her to fit.
When Brittany checks into the hotel, Santana stays back a bit from the desk. She may live in a place where she's free as a colored woman to go where she chooses, but she knows Virginia isn't Fire Island, and she'd rather keep her face hidden beneath her hat, and stand holding the bags, while Brittany speaks to the attendant. The questions Santana fears don't come, and still dripping and cold, she follows Brittany up the stairs, breathing a sigh of relief, when she closes the door to room 3B.
"Real swanky place." Brittany surveys the room, looking at the two single beds, and the desk between them. "I'm sorry ya got all wet though."
"Please don't be, I'm grateful you got to go before the rain."
"Me too. I know we oughta get some dinner, but I'm exhausted. Do ya mind if we lay down a bit?"
"I don't mind that at all. I packed a lunch for the train that we never ate, if you'd like that for dinner instead."
"That sounds real nice." She nods, fumbling as she tries to remove her wet nylons. "Damn things."
"Would you like some help?" You ask, watching her sink down on one of the beds in frustration. You know it's not the nylons that have her so upset, but after such a draining day, it's only natural that she'd find something tangible to take her emotions out on.
"He'd have thought it was a hoot, me gettin' dressed up like this. He'd've asked me why I looked like I feel outta Norma Jean's closet. But I wanted to look proper when I saw it, not traipsin' around there in rolled up slacks and such."
"You look beautiful." You approach her slowly, and you push the wet hair from her face, longing to kiss her lips. "But you always do."
"I miss him so much. I meant it when I said he'd've like you."
"I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to know him." You undo the buttons on her dress as you speak, and you press a soft kiss to her collarbone. "You ought to dry your hair, you'll catch a cold if you sleep like that."
"Okay." She nods, but doesn't move, instead watching you slide off her dress, leaving her nylons and underthings.
"Do you want me to do it for you?"
"Would ya?" Deep blue eyes meet yours, and you give her a soft smile, taking up one of the towels left on the bed.
"Close your eyes."
Taking your time, you massage her scalp, and you run the towel down through her long blonde locks. You love taking care of her like this, and you love that she lets you. When her hair is dry enough, you comb your fingers through, and start a braid. She watches you as you do, fingers quick, and when you tie off the end, she takes your hands in hers.
"Ya still got your wet clothes on."
"I know, I'll get them off soon enough."
"You're beautiful." She whispers, and your heartbeat quickens in your chest. "Everything about ya."
"Brittany." You flush, and she kisses the side of your face.
She peels her nylons off, and quickly changes into her flannel nightgown. You watch her intently as she settles on the bed, eyes burning into you, and you undress quickly, drying your hair, drying your skin, and pulling socks onto your cold feet, before you slide into your satin button up.
You bring the sandwiches over to her, and you sit cross legged on the bed, eating in near silence. Brittany's eyes continue to droop, and you run your thumb over the sagging skin beneath them. She never sleeps enough, you're certain of that, but last night, you think, perhaps, that she slept more than ever.
"It's hardly six-o'clock." She yawns.
"That's alright. We have to leave early tomorrow morning anyhow. I could sleep for the night, if you're ready."
"I think I am." She nods, and you wrap the remainders of your sandwiches up, urging her to lie down.
Once the room is straightened up, your clothes from today draped over the heater, and your things for the morning spread across the empty bed, you crawl under the covers with her. For a long while, she doesn't say a word, she just studies your face. It makes you squirm sometimes, the way she looks at you like you're all that exists in the world, but tonight, you don't. Tonight, you let yourself be that. Tonight, you find her hand beneath the dingy hotel quilt, and you wait for her tears to come.
"He'd have been comin' home soon, I think." She tells you. "Makes me sadder. When the war wasn't close t'over, I didn't feel it so much. He coulda just been over there, fightin' with no time to write letters. But it's gonna end soon, and he won't be barrelin' through the door with his grin and some stories like Art."
"I know, and I'm sorry for that."
"I'm really glad ya came with me."
"I wouldn't have liked it much, thinking of you all by yourself on the train, in this bed. I wanted to be with you."
"I told my Pop I'm gonna be buildin' a house soon."
"Brittany…"
"Case Larry wants to send ya on home when the boys come back, I need t'be sure ya won't have to. If ya still want that."
"It won't change." You twist the bracelet on your wrist, and you shuffle closer, impossibly closer to her. "I don't know what I'll be good for there, if I don't have the bar to tend, but I don't want to go."
"Ya know you're good for lotsa things, I still think ya should be a schoolteacher. They always want someone who ain't married, and they don't have t'know we're as good as. Ya have so many books and things by your bed. The kids'd like learnin' from you."
"Maybe." You tell her, though you're not certain that you could just go and be a schoolteacher. "And what about your father?"
"He thinks it's just fine if I want t'build my own place. He won't think nothin' of ya movin' in neither. When spring comes, I'll start bringin' lumber over."
"How on Earth will you find the time to do all of this?"
"Michael and Davey, and even Art'll help. I know just where I wanna build it, and I'll take ya over there when we get home, see if ya like it too. If ya do, I'll go on and get the deed for the land."
"You." You close your eyes, nose to nose, you think of fairy tales, of the sleeping princess. Of Louisa May Alcott, and wild Jo March. Of Jane Austen, and stubborn Elizabeth Bennett. You think of how their stories wouldn't have changed much, had a beautiful woman come to them, rather than a prince, or a professor, or a wealthy gentleman. Brittany, whisking you off to a home she built on the seashore is more beautiful, certainly, but not much different at all. "I'll love it, wherever it is, whatever it is."
"I want ya to have a say though, alright?"
"Alright, Brittany, that sounds perfect."
"I'm so tuckered out. I want to stay up all night and talk to ya about it, but I won't make it much longer."
"Go to sleep, we've got all the tomorrows in the world."
