Jim Shepard - Paper Doll

“Great story my old man wrote me,” Lewis said. He downed a third of Bean’s beer and passed it to him. “This guy who lives next to my old man, 4F bastard, right?”

“He’s home makin’ the rounds of the skirts while we sit here like chumps,” Piacenti said. He seemed to be considering whether or not to work up a good anger about it.

“What was wrong with him?” Bean asked. Nearly everything was wrong with Bean, and here he was in the Air Corps, on a B-17.

“How should I know?” Lewis said. “I think he told them he had a trick knee or something.”

“Yeah, and I know the trick,” Bryant complained.

Lewis sipped from his beer and folded his arms primly. “Whenever you guys’re ready, I’ll finish my story,” he said.

“We’re not ready,” Snowberry said. He gazed over at the bar. “Why don’t we tell those guys we’re going to be facing screaming death tomorrow, and that we should have the darts?”

“Go ahead, Lewis,” Bryant said.

Lewis topped off his beer with Snowberry’s while Snowberry stared in ostentatious boredom toward the bar.

“This guy’s wife tells him the sink’s acting up. She’s on him all day about it. He says he’ll look at it.”

“I’d look at it,” Piacenti said. “She’d be lookin’ at this.” He made a fist.

“After she goes out, he looks at it and figures he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He goes next door and gets this friend of my old man’s, a retired plumber, real old guy. The old guy is wearing overalls just like the husband. He climbs under the sink and goes at it. 4F goes down the cellar to get tools. The wife comes back. She sees the old guy under the sink and thinks it’s her husband. When she goes by she gives him one of these.” He made a goosing motion with his hand. “Poor old son of a bitch jumps like he’s shot, cracks his head on the sink, knocks himself out. He’s out cold. Bleeding from the noggin. She sees it’s not her husband, and the blood, and starts screaming. 4F runs upstairs, they drag the neighbor out, but they can’t wake him up. They call the ambulance. Ambulance guys put him on a stretcher. They live in a top-floor apartment. The ambulance guys hear the story and they’re laughing so hard they drop this poor old geezer down the stairs.”

Piacenti sputtered beer over the table.

“He breaks his hip. He wakes up in the hospital his head stitched up, seeing two of everything, and a broken hip. He told my old man the last thing he remembered was reaching for the wrench and a hand grabbed his crotch.”

They all felt the best part of the story was all the trouble caused someone who had avoided the Army. Through his laughter Bryant said, “Imagine what the old man told people who came to see him?”

Snowberry pulled his garrison cap over his head like a bandage. “Well, my neighbor’s wife stuck her hand up my ass, see, and …”

Bean was watching them and smiling, the way he watched the radio.

“Funny, huh, Bean?” Lewis asked. He mimicked Bean’s expression. “Bean’s only here because his sweetie stood him up.”

“Her dog died,” Bean said, in her defense.

“Her dog died?” Bryant asked.

“She stood me up for a dog’s funeral,” he said ruefully. They observed a short silence, out of respect.

“You’re better off without her,” Snowberry said. “She was built like a fuel bowser.”

“Have you seen her? I’ve seen her,” Piacenti said. The head of his beer gave his expressions a foamy emphasis. “Dark rooms are awful good for her.”

“You guys shouldn’t say that,” Bean murmured. “She’s nice.”

Piacenti went for another round and got into an argument with someone at the bar over the darts. Lewis and Snowberry went over to see what they could do.

Bean gave Bryant a wincing smile and they sat opposite each other with their hands folded.

“You think about women a lot?” Bean asked.

“Women?” Bryant said.

“You think about Robin? And Lois?” He added the last question with some embarrassment.

“All the time,” Bryant said.

“I do too, with Cynthia,” Bean said. Cynthia was his English girlfriend. He seemed to believe he’d uncovered something unexpected. “You think you’ll marry Robin? I’m only asking out of curiosity.”

“I don’t know,” Bryant said. He wished he’d gone over to the bar, where Lewis had collected four of the six darts and was negotiating with a stubborn-looking fat man with a flat tweed hat for the final two. The fat man was shaking his head emphatically.

“You think you’ll marry Lois?” Bean was nudging his empty pint in various directions with his index finger.

“I don’t know,” Bryant said.

Bean didn’t respond, and Bryant understood that what he had meant to be bravado had sounded to Bean simply evasive.

The negotiators returned with beer and without darts.

“You’re better off, Bean,” Lewis continued. “Kids, mortgage, it’s not for you. You’re Mister Wild Oats.”

“You know,” Bean said, “it’s funny how quick here you start doing things you wouldn’t do at home.”

“You mean like swearing, getting squiffed, grassing?” Lewis said. Grassing was their term for having sex with the local girls outside of the Nissen huts on the grassy areas bordering the revetments.

“I guess,” Bean said uncertainly.

“Part of fighting a war,” Lewis said. “Ask Bryant.”

“Oh, shut up,” Bryant said.

“Women sap the resolve of our fighting forces,” Lewis confided. “Right now she’s all Mary Pickford. Right, Bean? But once she gets you alone — table for two, summer night, you can’t trust her. They get to working on you and they leave you gasping for air. That’s been my experience.”

Snowberry laughed.

“Gasping for air?” Bean asked.

“What I’m saying is, you gotta take some and leave some,” Lewis said. “Like Bryant here.”

“How would you like a knuckle sandwich?” Bryant asked.

Lewis held up his beer to protect himself.

“Gasping for air?” Bean said.

“You know what I heard?” Piacenti said. “I heard our wing has the highest VD rate in the whole ETO.”

“I heard that, too,” Snowberry confirmed. “Is that something, or what? Talk about men.”

“Listen to Sergeant First Aid Station,” Lewis scoffed. They laughed. Prophylactic stations were being called First Aid Stations in deference to the local Brit sensibility.

“You guys can laugh,” Bean said with distaste. “Some of you put your — private parts where I wouldn’t put my boot.”

The table sat stunned, and then whooped with laughter.

“There may be hope for you yet, Bean,” Lewis said.

The darts came available and they stepped up to the bar, sloshing beer on the floor and each other. Lewis threw one dart nearly dead center and four into the wall. The Englishmen at the bar roared with laughter. “So you’re a gunner, mate?” one called.

“Jealous of the uniform,” Lewis said. “I get it all the time.” He took aim with his final dart. “Focke Wulf,” he said. “Coming up through our contrails.” It stuck on the outside perimeter of the board.

“Hope it’s a big wingspan,” Piacenti commented. They all took turns, keeping track of the points. On close calls they argued the scoring. Bean sat at the bar and smiled apologetically for the noise. Things degenerated until the throwers were lunging and stabbing the board, while the others tried to wrestle them away from it. They pulled the board down from the wall and the barkeep came out from behind the bar and sent them back to their tables like children. They ordered another round as a concession and the barkeep brought it, looking at each sternly as he set the pints before them.