Battle Cry - Leon Uris [45]
“It was a wonderful evening,” she said. “Shall I fix you a drink?”
“I gave it up for Lent,” he answered, recalling his one episode with liquor. He thumbed through the book. “Cyrano. I have a friend, Marion Hodgkiss. He reads all the time—talked me into this one. He says there is nothing in modern writing as beautiful as Cyrano.”
“I’m fond of it…I haven’t read it in years.”
“I had a teacher once. The guy used to read us Shakespeare. You never saw anything like it, the way he could make forty kids sit and listen to him, entranced. A good teacher is like a good doctor, I suppose—as close to real goodness as anything we have on earth. I don’t know what made me think of him.” His eyes caught a picture atop the bookcase, a Naval officer. Immaculate and impeccable in his uniform. Clean shaven, groomed—stuffy, stiff, studious, and dull. He looked at her. She was the wife of another man. It felt eerie. He was in this man’s living room…he had kissed his wife. Danny reached up and turned the picture to the wall.
“That wasn’t funny. You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I couldn’t stand to have him staring at me when I kissed you.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Danny,” she whispered, “what are you thinking about?”
“I don’t think you’d like to know.”
“Tell me.”
“I was thinking of how I pictured my wife. I always thought of being on a construction job; a tunnel or maybe a highway up in the mountains. Alaska maybe, maybe the Andes. I thought of coming out of a blinding snow and cold into a cozy warm cabin. Not a fancy place. But comfortable, like a woman can make it, with a big fire and her standing there in jeans and a heavy wool shirt. I’d take her in my arms and say, ‘Isn’t it great we aren’t like other people? Next year we’ll be on that job in China—after that Mexico or the new oil fields…the world is our oyster and we come and go as we damned please. No social conventions…. nothing to make us stale. Maybe build a little home back in Baltimore and take out time for some kids and when they’re old enough to crawl, out we go again. Let them learn to live in freedom!’ I’m sorry, Elaine, that campfire got me into a mood.”
“It…it sounds wonderful, she’s a lucky girl.”
“It’s a long war.”
“I feel as if I had a bale of hay down my back,” she said. “Do you mind if I change?”
“Go on ahead.”
They spoke through the door ajar as he glanced through some other books. Some straw was sticking into him under his shirt. He took off his blouse and shirt and skivvy and wiped the hay away from his body. Elaine Yarborough stood in the doorway. A dressing gown, sheer, white—it flowed like a billow to the floor. Her black hair hung to her tanned shoulders. He held his shirt in his fists still, and gazed at her. Across the room each heard the other’s deep breath. She was another man’s wife…it felt strange, strange. She walked towards him. He could see the nipples of her breasts through the film of silk net.
“I had some hay down my back…I…I…”
Her hand reached up and touched the bare skin of his shoulder and moved gently over his chest. His shirt fell from his hands and he embraced her.
“You’re strong, darling.”
“Don’t talk.”
They exchanged fiery kisses. She put her head on his chest. He lifted her into his arms and held her, and she became faint with passion. “Danny…Danny,” she sobbed.
He walked to the bedroom door and kicked it open. And slowly lowered her to the bed, then lay at her side and once more crushed her against his body. Violently, she tore the gown from her body and tugged at the buckle of his trousers. Their bodies seemed to melt together; she sunk her fingernails into his flesh.