Jim Shepard - Paper Doll

They sat in the barracks playing cards. They were going to sit and wait for three hours to go to bed, and the theatricality of the unusual preparations made the waiting much more difficult. Hirsch had come out, pale, from a navigators’ early evening briefing, and had not answered questions. He had gone straight to another building with an oilskin packet and could be seen through the window, bent over the pool of light on his desk, scratching long rows of figures with his pencil. Guys from Archangel and Cathy Says told the same story: navigators all over the base shaken and isolated.

Bean was signing his underwear. They found him cross-hatching lines on a small pile of laundry and he explained that that was what he was doing.

“What do you think, you’re going off to camp, Harold?” Piacenti asked.

“Maybe I am,” Bean said, and Bryant understood he meant prison camp.

For a moment he was back in nature camp in Connecticut, with Snowberry sick on Mello Rolls and Bean miserable without his parents. Bean was signing his underwear for prison camp, or as an identification aid (Lewis in talking about antiaircraft casualties had once in his presence made reference to “flak stew”), or because it was a reassuring ritual and maybe he thought the extra bit of caution would help ensure his safety, a gesture of faith in a world that rewarded Preparation and Conscientiousness.

“Maybe you should write your buddy’s girl, if you’re gonna write her, Bean,” Lewis said. “You know. Tonight.”

Bean held up a pair by the waistband — GEANT H. BEAN, U.S.A.R. — Bryant read. Bean’s undershorts were strangely oversized and he looked diapered in them. Snowberry called them his Sagbag Underwear. Lewis liked to suggest Bean was hoping he’d grow into them. “I already wrote her,” Bean said. “I had to tell her everything I knew.”

“Must’ve been humiliating,” Lewis muttered from his bunk.

Snowberry shook Bryant’s arm, and leaned close. “I can’t sit here,” he said quietly. “Let’s get out. Let’s go down to The Hoops. Some of the other guys’re down there. We’ll call the girls.”

“The girls?” Bryant asked. The idea sounded as bizarre as calling his parents. “They won’t be able to come down.”

“Willya try? ” Snowberry said. He was bobbing from foot to foot. “They can try, can’t they? We got at least two hours.”

Bryant debated for too long and Snowberry whirled and stalked out, and Bryant got up and followed. At the door he looked back. Piacenti picked up a card and eyed it, tantalizing Ball. Bean folded underwear. Lewis lay with his hands behind his head, eyes on the ceiling. God, he thought as he trotted to catch Snowberry, Ball. What do I know about Ball?

Base preparations over the entire area depressed them further and they were happy to get out onto the lane to the village, away from the activity. Hundreds of Wright-Cyclones were being run up and tuned by ground crews and the result was a wavering roar like an immense child’s first tentative attempts at a musical instrument. The sound was cooler and quieter in the lane, a distant racket from another world. As they walked they heard running feet and Colin and his silent friend Keir from the base party caught up to them, and wished them a good evening.

Snowberry quickened his step, and the boys accelerated in little bursts to keep up.

“It’s quite busy this evening, isn’t it, Sergeant?” Colin said.

“Yes it is,” Bryant answered. Ahead of him Snowberry was pulling away and he tried to modulate his speed to keep the group together.

“We understand you need to keep secret about it,” the boy said.

“I guess we do,” Bryant said. “How have you been?”

“Quite well, thank you. Do you remember Keir?”

“Never forget a face. Or a rider.”

The boys were quiet, Keir embarrassed or shy. “Are you off on a walk?” Colin finally asked.

Snowberry came to a stop and turned on them, so that Bryant almost fell over him. “Look, kid,” he said. “We’re on a secret mission. We got a big day tomorrow. We’re not running tours. We’re not giving interviews. Comprendo?”

“Gordon,” Bryant said.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Snowberry said. “I’ll meet you there.” He left.

Colin stood as if struck. Keir edged away, flushed, unable to look up.

“Colin, Sergeant Snowberry’s got a lot on his mind,” Bryant said. He crouched and rubbed his hand in the dirt. It was just his luck that this would have to happen now.

Colin said, “I understand.”

Bryant patted his pockets, but there was no chocolate or gum.

“We don’t want anything, Sergeant,” Colin said. “We don’t want anything.” Keir had already turned and was attempting to drift away.

“Well, what is it?” Bryant found himself asking with some exasperation. “What is it you want from us?”

Colin pulled further away. “We don’t want anything,” he repeated.

Bryant stood, angry with his dirty hands, angry that he was alone and Colin was alone on this lane. “I don’t know what you want from me, you know?” he said. “I’m not your father. I’m not a war hero. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

Colin backed toward Keir, who had already started for home in mortification.

“We don’t want anything, Sergeant,” he said. It sounded like a rebuke. “We wanted to wish you luck. We wanted to see you.”

Bryant turned from them and started walking. He turned back. Colin had taken Keir’s hand and was looking back at him. “Why are you out at this time of night?” Bryant shouted. “Isn’t your mother worried? Why isn’t anyone taking care of you?”

The boys remained where they were, holding hands, gazing at him, and were still there when he glanced back once more before the curve of the lane pulled them out of sight behind a hedgerow.

He sat fidgety and uncomfortable at a table near a window in The Hoops while Snowberry drummed tunelessly with his little finger and thumb on the table top. Snowberry had reached Jean, and whatever he had told her, she had agreed to come. Robin was coming as well. Bryant wondered irritably how melodramatic Snowberry had been. Snowberry wasn’t smiling or crooning. He was all business. He’d opened one of his condom packages and was snapping it back and forth between his fingers like a rubber band. He’d gotten them each a beer and they were either too nervous to drink or were waiting for the girls.

Snowberry stopped drumming. He rubbed his eyes with his balled fists and Bryant felt as if he was keeping a younger brother up. Snowberry widened his eyes comically to regain focus and said, “Are you thinking of proposing to Robin?”

Bryant stared at him, and shook his head. “This was your idea.”

Snowberry shrugged. “I just figured,” he said.

The girls arrived forty-five minutes later. The beers remained untouched. Bryant had spent his time musing on the convexity of the surface of the beer in the glass. Snowberry had gazed off toward the bar. Their spirits had deteriorated further.

“How long have you been waiting?” Robin said after they’d crossed to the table. “We were able to get a lift in an officer’s car. Very nice young man, who claimed to be a war correspondent.” She offered her hand and he squeezed it. Jean gave Snowberry a kiss on the cheek and he looked at her morosely.

“Are you keeping up with your drawing?” Robin asked him.

“No,” Snowberry said. To mitigate the rudeness he added, “Are you?”

Robin shook her head. It occurred to Bryant that the girls didn’t have beers, but he was unable for the moment to generate the sociability necessary to volunteer to get more. The two beers sat between them like curios they were jointly examining.