Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [107]
“Sorry. Taken.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Taken.”
Cynthia’s popularity slowed me down for a moment, but when she saw my disappointment she told me her afternoons were free. We arranged to go deep-sea fishing.
“And by the way, Captain Zamperini,” she added, “you don’t have to sneak in here anymore. Just tell the desk that you’re guests of my family and use our cabana.
CYNTHIA GOT SICK on the fishing boat and caught only a green face as the army launch rolled in the heavy sea. To make good, I asked if she’d see me the next afternoon and she said yes. Unfortunately, we ended up at the Ron Rico Rum place and I drank more than I should have. I apologized and we made another date to go to the movies.
Pretty soon I fell madly in love. I told her so on the beach as the sunset’s dying glow warmed the water with oranges and pinks, and a pale moon hung in the sky—just like in a movie. I put my arm around her and kissed her a few times, and then, even though emotion has always been tough for me and mushy moments were never my style, I said it.
“I love you, Cynthia.”
I’d never told any other girl I loved her, and the words that had been moments ago stuck in my mouth felt weird and wonderful once freed. I tried not to make it sound as if I were pleading with her to say it back, or as if I didn’t know what my declaration would mean to a person as naturally sincere as she. I’d known Cynthia only a week, but I knew she was the gal.
Believe it or not, I forget exactly what she said in return, but the meaning was the same—and clear. That night she called her two other boyfriends and canceled their dates, leaving her free to be with me in the evenings. For the next few days we walked on the beach, went to movies we never actually saw, and allowed ourselves to be overwhelmed by the realization that we were in love.
Harry returned to Los Angeles, leaving Cynthia and me a last night alone. As we sat on the beach under a summer moon, I said, as casually as possible, “You know, Cynthia, one of these days we’re going to get married.” She hesitated, and suddenly I felt lost, like another over-heated flyboy who had mistaken some friendly moments for forever. “Ah…maybe it wasn’t such a good idea,” I mumbled.
“Oh, no!” she said. “I think it’s a fine idea. But when?”
“When?” I felt a stab of fear, and for a moment I thought of backing away while I still had the chance, but when I looked at her I knew I’d never want to change my mind. “Soon,” I said. “As soon as we can.”
“Dad and Mother are going to take this awfully hard, Louie,” she said. “You know, the proper things, the family name…”
“I guess they’ll try to talk you out of it,” I said.
“Maybe,” she said evenly. “But they won’t. I have a mind of my own, Louie. Besides, you’re what I’ve always wanted. The other boys I know are like children.”
I knew she meant every word, and I prayed that she’d never discover that I had feet of clay.
THE NEXT DAY Cynthia brought her mother to meet me at the Embassy Hotel. We sat on the front porch, under the awning, while Mrs. Applewhite more or less conducted a cross-examination. Afterward Cynthia saw me off at the airport. I had six weeks of speaking engagements around the country, and then I’d be back in Los Angeles. We made plans for her to visit me after I got settled.
In the interim, in one of many letters, Cynthia told me her mother had tried to talk her out of marriage. “You’re marrying below yourself,” Mrs. Applewhite had said. As part of a family whose name had been honored for generations in Carolina history, her mom was quite society-conscious. I was Italian; she’d made it clear they don’t have Italians in American high society. Italians were pushcart peddlers or cheap-restaurant owners. Why, I could even be part of some Mafia family. Apparently many stormy fights followed, along with threats of Cynthia’s being sent away to school in the Northeast, like some of her friends. Her parents were understandably protective, since hordes of soldiers roamed Miami’s beaches and streets and didn’t exactly have marriage