A/N: This summer heat made it difficult for me to write about being cold. Next month: the Breaking Point. Thanks to everyone who reviewed and added as a favorite or alert. It means a lot.
www . youtube . com/watch?v=ZcSxVNAAsTA
Inspired by Mary Chapin Carpenter and frozen margaritas with tequila shooters.
X. Rhythm of the Blues
i can't seem to fix what's broken
like this record, baby, in my head
Lorena hadn't seen much of Ron since their return from Paris and she often found Loneliness on her doorstep, trying to make friends again. The silent killer's vists had grown seldom since she had put on her uniform, but once she had opened herself to another man, one who wasn't particularly available, all of her old demons had returned. Anger, Failure, Guilt… one brought wine, the others brought cheese, and together, the whole gang threw a pity party. But just as she settled in with her tears and bottled up emotions, a knock came at her door, a fierce rapture that hurt her ears.
Ron twisted his garrison cap anxiously in his hands as he waited for Lorena to open the door. Not nervously, but anxiously. There was a distinct difference in his mind; the main one being, he was not the nervous type. Some other guys maybe- that Sobel fellow that had led Easy Company for a time, the kid he picked a fight with on his first day of high school, the preacher that had married him and Bea- but Ronald Speirs was not some other guys and no dame (not even Lorena Giovanna Carlyle) was going to make him that way. When he saw her, though, standing in the entryway with a shirt that was unbuttoned enough to expose the tops of her full, flushed breasts, Ron lost all nerve. He forgot what he was supposed to tell her, what he had been sent to say. All he knew was her Italian bosom and black eyes and red lips, which he recalled tasted vehemently of raspberries and champagne. Then she spoke in her high-brow Boston accent and he went weak in the knees. Has that happened before? Is that just fatigue? Are you really being that fucking pathetic? When did you get all fruity?
"Yes?" Lorena asked.
It wasn't as though she hadn't noticed his nervousness - no, his anxiety - when she opened the door to him. Anyone could have seen it. The fact that he even bothered to shield it from her was an insult. He should have known better than that.
"We're moving out," Ron said, recovering from the shock of his own weakness.
"But it was supposed to be months before -"
"I know, but elements of the first and sixth SS Panzer got through the Ardennes and their sending the 101st in to hold the line," he said.
"Who was holding it before?"
"The twenty-eighth infantry and elements of the fourth. Apparently, they've taken a pretty bad hit."
Lorena nodded. She wasn't looking forward to what the paratroopers were about to get into. She wanted to head over to where Nixon was staying and get personal with his bottle of VAT 69, maybe make a few more mistakes in the process. It didn't help that she was premenstrual.
"Well, then, I suppose I should start packing up. I'll see you out there, Lieutenant," she said bitterly.
As Lorena began to close the door, Ron stuck his foot out, preventing her from closing it on his face. The anxiousness he felt disappear and was replaced with both anger and disbelief. "Lieutenant?" he asked. "Is that what I am to you now? Just another fucking lieutenant like Dike or Peacock or Compton?"
Lorena's eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare speak to me that way. Your wife might put up with that, but I certainly won't."
"My wife? Funny that you're thinking about my wife now. Something tells me you weren't thinking about her when you kissed me," Ron snapped, inching into the room.
"Of course, because you were so innocent that night. But for the love of God, Ron, it was just a kiss." she said. Liar, liar.
"What are you telling me, Lorena? You mean it didn't mean a fucking thing to you?"
Ron was fully in the room then and completely in Lorena's face. It was a physical and verbal assault, and she could feel a tightening in her throat. Lorena began to push back. Whatever direction Ron was going in, she went the opposite until they were too close.
"It did, but I don't see why it has to mean everything right now," she said in a rather mordant tone.
"Because I was unfaithful, Lorena. I was unfaithful to my wife," he yelled, towering over Lorena and blocking out the light.
"And what if I had run into your arms the minute you showed up at the door, Ron? Would it have mattered whether or not you were unfaithful then? You're only angry now because I walked away and, honestly, I regretted it up until this moment."
Without another sound, Ron turned around and walked out the door, shutting it noiselessly behind him. Lorena crumpled to her knees, feeling as though all the air had been extracted from the room. Loneliness came up beside her and smiled.
"Good work, kid. You just made my job so much easier."
"What are you thinking about, Lorena?" Nixon asked from behind her.
He slid into her foxhole and pressed the flask of VAT 69 into her cold hand. It was the only thing they kept Lorena warm in Bastogne. That, and memories of the South in the summertime. Just thinking about the heat rising from the asphalt and the watery effect it created sent imaginary waves of soft warmth across her frozen skin.
"Honeymooning in Palm Beach," she said. "Warm sand, warm ocean water, and a cool cocktail. Something with rum and a little umbrella."
"Sounds peachy. You know, I've never been," he said, yawning. With his raw nose and ghastly white skin, he looked about as close to death as they all were. How morbid.
"When this is done, and it will be done, you and I will buy one of those lovely Fords and take a road trip down the coast. We'll eat the best seafood and drink all the rum that we can get our rich little hands on."
"And bake in the sun?"
Lorena nodded. "Like bread in an oven."
She could see the skepticism in Nixon's eyes and read his expression of disbelief like a book. She knew, more than anyone, that her sudden bout of optimism was out of character, but if got her through the long days and the longer nights, she was willing to lie to herself. Of course, Lorena witnessed the ending of many things first hand, particularly lives. Everything had an expiration date and it was only a matter of time before the war ceased to exist. It wasn't really optimism. It was logic. Logic, memories, and booze… those were the things that kept her warm.
Deep down, she would have traded all three for Ron.
Lieutenant Norman Dike hated Lorena Carlyle just as much as she hated him, so when Christmas Day came, they exchanged nothing but harsh words.
"Miss Carlyle," he said, traipsing through the Ardennes like he owned it.
Lorena, who was having a perfectly good cup of cheer and a nice talk with Nixon and Harry Welsh, rolled her eyes at the sound of Dike's voice. She would have been lying if she said her Christmas wish were anything other than seeing him blown to pieces by German artillery. "Yes, Lieutenant Dike?"
"May I have a word with you? In private?"
"No, you may not. I am conducting an interview right now, but as soon as I am finished with my work, you and I can have a chat."
"Well, your work is specifically what I want to speak to you about, Miss Carlyle, so -"
Lorena raised her hand to stop him. Dike's mouth stayed open. Lorena assumed that it was the first time he had ever been silenced by a woman before. Inside, she was laughing. "You do understand that you requested my presence, Lieutenant? You did not demand it, though it wouldn't have mattered anyway, as you are not my superior. Nonetheless, I have declined your request, so the polite thing to do at this point in the conversation is to leave and return at a later time in which I am not preoccupied. Do I make myself crystal clear?"
Dike did not answer. He turned and stalked away, angrier than hornet. Satisfaction, pure and sweet, rippled through Lorena's body. She looked at Harry and Nixon, watching their shocked expressions give way to amusement. She took a sip of the spiked coffee from the metal cup and smiled pleasantly.
"You were saying, Lewis?"
Later on, while the Germans were serenading the Americans with "Silent Night," Norman Dike had a word with Lorena. Several, in fact. He rambled on for most of the time and she nodded politely, hoping that he was too oblivious to notice that she wasn't paying attention. Mostly, she was listening to the Benny Goodman tune that was playing on repeat in her head.
"I want to ask you to stop saying such salacious things about me, Miss Carlyle. I don't know if you are aware, but your column has been syndicated and now goes to every newspaper on the East Coast. My family reads the paper daily and are appalled by what they're seeing. They're threatening to sue."
The tune stopped.
"Honestly?" Lorena scoffed. "Haven't they heard about what happens when you try to sue a Carlyle? I don't mean to sound morose, but people have been known to disappear, become - how do I put this? - indisposed. It isn't actually a threat, Lieutenant; simply a fact. Yes, I do realize that I am syndicated. I'm thrilled about it actually. As for the grief that your family is suffering from, I know all too well about what it's like to pick up a newspaper and see horrible things about the people you love. That has been a part of my life since I could read. Unfortunately for you, though, the purpose of my column is to give the readers a glimpse into what is actually happening here in Europe, and what is happening here, Lieutenant, is that you are unfit to do your job. In my opinion, you couldn't lead ants to a picnic and you sure as hell cannot lead these men into battle. I fear for their lives if it ever comes down to that. But after all of my very open thinking, you're still here, so either the words of one little woman doesn't matter much or someone with the Brass thinks very highly of you. As far as I can tell, it doesn't matter, Lieutenant. I will never respect you the way you think you should be and you'll be CO of Easy until someone else comes along, so we are at a stalemate. I've accepted this and until you do, I'm afraid it's your problem, so deal with it or leave me alone."
Lorena walked away, annoyed and, some how, contented. She stopped mid-stride and turned on her heel, smiling. "Oh, by the way, Lieutenant Dike, the last man that called me 'Miss Carlyle' like that ended up dead. I suggest you call me Lorena."
That time, it was a threat.
"Lew?" she called out quietly.
"We're over here," she heard him say. "We're in the dell."
Lorena's eyebrows knitted together in confusion. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and ducked under a hanging branch. Dick Winters, Harry Welsh, Lieutenant Peacock and Lewis Nixon were huddled together around a small fire. She inhaled the aroma and found herself getting closer to the warmth, against what could be considered her better judgment.
"I thought smelt wood burning. I just assumed Harry was thinking too hard again," Lorena said, kneeling down beside Peacock.
"Oh, har har, real funny Carlyle," Harry said, shivering.
"I thought so," Dick said. He gave her a wink and a smile, one of those you're-alright-in-my-book kind. "What did Dike have to say?"
"Nothing important. Apparently his family isn't thrilled about me calling him Il Duce and joking about his phone habits. He says they want to sue me, as if I actually give a damn," she said with a wave of her hand.
"Sue a Carlyle? Are they nuts?" Nixon asked. "How many people have died because of that?"
"Not sure. I've lost count. Mama had a lot of friends in high places. After she died, they stayed loyal out of respect to her."
"They?" Peacock asked. "You mean- ?"
"Mafioso," Lorena and Nixon said in unison, both nodding. "That's how things are done in Boston. Explains a lot, doesn't it?" Lorena said with a smirk.
Then a whining noise came from above them and the five looked up. Lorena dove down and away from the flashes from the mortar rounds that came tumbling down. Somewhere behind her, Harry began screaming. He had been hit. Dick reached him first as Lorena called out for a medic. Eugene wasn't far; she had passed on her way. The rounds were falling everywhere and they sounded like drums, pounding. Nixon was on the radio, alerting headquarters.
"Roe!" Dick shouted, but still the medic was absent from the scene.
Lorena stood quickly and ran. Spina, the other medic, and Babe Heffron from South Philadelphia were already pulling at Eugene by the time she got to his foxhole. She pushed both of them aside and leaned down into the ditch-like trench. "Eugene, cherie," she said, the French word rolling off of her tongue. "Get up. We need you. Get up now."
"I can't. I don't want to see anymore men dying. I'm tired. I'm done."
"He's calling for you, Eugene. You have to get up. You can either do it on your own or I can drag you. It will look rather embarrassing that way, but I'm willing, so get moving."
Eugene stood, shaking, and ran with her, back to where the men were scrambling to keep Harry calm. For a moment, he stood there, watching. Lorena waited for him to make a move.
"You can handle one more. I'll be right beside you," she said calmly.
She heard the slight intake of breath before he went over to Harry and began working his magic. Lorena held Harry's shoulders as the morphine kicked in, relaxing him. He shuddered beneath her hands and released a ragged sigh. The jeep pulled up and the driver, dressed in multiple layers of warm winter clothing, rushed over. Lorena glared at him.
"Eugene," Dick said over the noise, "go get yourself a hot meal. Lorena, you too."
She nodded. She didn't want to, though. She didn't feel like she could leave, like she should leave. Lorena felt dirty as she hopped into the back of the jeep, overwhelmed with guilt and anxiety. Acid rose in her throat and she swallowed it down. Her eyes watered as they got closer to Bastogne and the drumming grew louder instead of fainter as it usually did. The smoke and fire in the night air painted everything a remarkable golden color. Lorena would have admired it if she wasn't so horrified. She also probably would have been warmed by the heat of the flames, but the collapsed buildings and body parts that the jeep passed on its way to the aid station chilled her more than she expected.
When they finally stopped moving, Lorena looked up. A tear rolled down her cheek and before she could wipe it away, they were off again, into the war-weary night…
Lorena had gotten plenty of letters while covering the front that would be known as the Battle of the Bulge, many of which asked about being off of the front line.
I am rarely off of the front, as the boys and the Germans give me plenty to do here, but on occasion, I accompany Eugene Roe to the aid station in the city of Bastogne. Eugene, Easy Company's medic, hails from Louisiana and, being half-Cajun, speaks the most beautiful French that I have ever heard. Even in Paris, nothing compares to the twang that resides in his accent. Too often, I find myself lost in it and I begin to miss the South, in all of her glory. (You see, even a Yankee can appreciate southern culture.)
Usually, we scrounge for medical supplies like dogs, hoping to receive morphine or bandages; anything we can beg for, we take. That is the way that society works in wartime: you take what you can get and you don't gripe about it. The farther one gets from the front line, though, the more the rules are enforced. Out there, the only rule is watch the line, do as your told, and trust the man in the foxhole next to you. Out there, everything is black and white, kill or be killed; but as the booming of the mortars shelling the trees grows muffled, life becomes murky and the trust disappears. The crumbling city of Bastogne is a testament to that. Jeeps zoom past groups of women, huddled together as they try to stay warm; bodies and their belongings pile up along the broken walls. The Bastogne I see, the one many in the States might see in pictures in magazines and newspapers, is a shadow.
Eugene agrees with me, in perfect French, then often leaves to converse with the Belgium nurse, who tries tirelessly to save another American life. Her hands are caked in blood and her brow shows a hint of perspiration, even in the winter air, but she continues. I have caught myself staring time and time again, amazed at her resilience. We have spoken only once, the nurse and I; something I regret. Just yesterday, we discovered that the building was destroyed by the Germans and no survivors were recovered.
So, yes, readers, I do get away from the front line, but I prefer not to leave.
On another foggy, dreary morning in the Ardennes, a jeep rumbled through to deliver a thin envelope to Lorena. When she rose from her foxhole, the one she was sharing with Bull, she was expecting yet another letter, postmarked Atlanta, GA. What was actually given to her shocked her.
"They're sending me to Paris," she told Nixon and Dick, who were both poured over maps. The two stopped midway into their pointing and stared up at her.
"What? Who? Why?" Nixon blurted out.
"I think you forgot a few, Nix. If you want to work those in -"
"You and I definitely need to spend less time together. I'm wearing off on you. I mean it. You're going to go back to Pennsylvania and be -"
Lorena stepped up to the table. "Boys, I'm sorry to interrupt your adorable banter, but -"
"Right," Dick said, laying a weight down on one of the maps. "So, who is 'they' and why are they sending you to Paris?"
"Particularly when there's a war going on?"
"Someone in Washington. I'm still not sure who. The name sounds familiar, but that's not important. The 'why' is much easier to answer. Apparently, certain higher powers have decided that I need a break, that my writing is getting a little too dark. The letter specifically said that if I do not comply, I will be forced to. Sounds a bit fascist to me, but who am I to judge?"
"What higher powers, exactly?" Nixon asked.
Lorena sneered. "Not so much powers, exactly. More like one power."
"Your father talked the U.S. Government into forcing you to take a break in Paris? I have got to meet this man," Nixon said with a half-drunken smile. Lorena just shook her head.
"I don't know what to do," she said.
"Doesn't look like you have much of a choice, Lorena. All you can do is enjoy your break. I'm sorry to say, but I wish Dike were going with you," Dick said.
He looked like hell. They all did, really, so it wasn't that she didn't want the break. She knew that she didn't need it, though. Ninety-nine percent of the battalion maybe, but not Lorena. So even when a letter came from Paris, she wasn't anymore convinced or thrilled. The stationary was from the Ritz, she would know it anywhere, and the handwriting definitely belonged to her father.
Lorena, I know this is far-fetched, but I beg of you, be reasonable. You are my youngest child and my only daughter. I have not heard from your brother in ages and my anxiety grows each day. I cannot bring him home and away from harm, but I can keep you safe for the moment. I did not do my job in the past and I suppose that I am hoping to make up for it. I imagine you are rolling your eyes while reading this and I know it sounds ridiculous, but as your father, I have earned the right to be such. Do not fight the officers who come to retrieve you. I will see you in Paris on Tuesday. Love, Father.
Lorena crumpled the paper and threw on the frozen ground. It was Monday. They would be coming for her soon, like wardens for a prisoner on death row. She had escaped a cage twice: the hypothetical one that she called marriage and the literal one that was the women's prison. There wasn't going to be a break for the third. As she brooded and pouted, Lorena walked and listened to the crunch of the snow under her feet. Too consumed with her own thoughts, she ignored others around her and collided, once again, with a solid, warm chest. Déjà vu…
"Lorena," Ron said apathetically. "What are you doing this far from the line?"
"Clearing my head," she told him, forcing herself to look him in the eye. "I'm leaving for a while."
"Stateside?"
"Paris. My father is there now."
Ron nodded. It was typical, really. There were no words and nothing that either of them could say to make the situation less awkward. She tugged at the loosening fingers of her gloves and he stood ramrod straight in front of her. Ron thought that maybe standing there with the same militaristic façade that he used in front of the men, in front of his wife. With Lorena, under different circumstances, he could be more relaxed, but tension had grown like a poisonous weed between them. Her rejection, no matter the cause, had stung and no man came back from that quickly, especially not men like Ron Speirs. Besides, he had been weak around her, careless, out of control… and it felt so fucking good. He ran his tongue over his wind-chapped lips, trying to remember the taste of her lips. Raspberries and champagne.
"Have a cup of champagne for me," he said.
Lorena nodded and stepped around him, careful not to touch him again.
Three pairs of footsteps made their way through the thick underbrush to Lorena's foxhole. It was close to the line and the men that had been sent to collect her were nervous. Lorena didn't notice any facial features, just their massive bodies and how rigid their muscles were beneath their heavy coats.
"How can I help you, gentlemen?"
"Are you Lorena Carlyle?" the tallest one asked.
"Only if you have an extra coat like that somewhere," she said. Lorena didn't like being fetched like a stick by a couple of bulldogs. The fact that her father conducted the situation showed no consideration and it pained her.
The shorter one spoke up first. "There's one in the jeep, Miss Carlyle."
"Fantastic," she said. Lorena reached for her canvas bag until one of the men stopped her and slung it over his own shoulder. She glanced at him with a sneer and clambered out of the foxhole, ignoring Tall Man's outstretched hand. As the four of them walked, she received singular nods and a few dirty looks. Nixon smiled and Dick waved. "Good luck," she mouthed over her shoulder as the shortest, heaviest man hustled her into the backseat.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Ron standing near one of the shelled half-trees. Lorena turned her head just slightly to look upon him, maybe for the last time, but he was gone before she got the chance. The vehicle lurched forward beneath her out of the woods towards Paris, where she was sure to lose whatever was left of her mind.
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