Sweat traces a ticklish path down her back. She presses her slip to her skin there and examines the white stockings hanging over the bathroom door.
They’re nylon -- her last remaining pair since they diverted nylon to the war effort. She’s babied them through the years because of days like this one, when the city wavers with heat. If she were a True Patriot, she’d wear her cotton stockings. Margie, the supervising day nurse, wears wool ones. Pam shudders and apologizes to the boys overseas, the ones still in the Pacific. She just can’t stand the thought of putting on anything heavier, and Margie would scalp her if she came in bare-legged.
Besides, the club soda worked. The blood stain is gone.
She rolls the stockings on, then her white uniform and matching shoes. Conservative, blocky heels -- a rule of Margie’s that Pam can’t disobey and keep her job. Not with Manhattan swarming with sailors on leave. She pins her hair up off her neck, and grabs her purse and keys. Before she leaves to catch her train, she turns before the hall mirror.
Adjusts her seams until they’re straight.
Wonders if he noticed.
* * *
It was Jeannie’s idea that they go to the tavern.
“To cool off,” she said.
Pam gave her a skeptical look.
“You know...with a Coke.”
“We don’t have to go to Times Square for a Coke.”
Jeannie tugged on her arm. “C’mon. It’s been a long shift. Let’s have some fun.”
The place was exactly as hot as Pam imagined it would be. She nearly turned at the door, back into the night, but Jeannie took her wrist and pulled her inside. They wedged their way past the men gathered at the door and ordered two Cokes with ice. When the drinks arrived, Pam took a long sip. Lost herself in the fizz and the buzz of voices.
“Hello, ladies.”
Pam didn’t realize she’d closed her eyes. She opened them to a young man in his navy blues grinning at their drinks.
“Nice cherries.”
To which Jeannie giggled and popped her cherry garnish into her mouth, catching it with her teeth. She tugged the stem until it pulled away. The sailor smirked and took in the curves of Jeannie’s uniform. He nodded over his shoulder.
“Buddy’s havin’ a birthday. Care to give him your best wishes?”
Pam tried to back away, but Jeannie’s hand gripped hers hard.
“Sure!”
The sailor, whose name patch said OWENS, lifted several mugs of beer from the bar and led them to the back of the tavern, near the delivery door. There, a group of sailors had draped themselves around a booth. They got one look at Owens’ tagalongs and greeted him as though he’d been on tour for months, shouting some mystery cheer in unison, then pounding their empty mugs on the table. One sailor in the middle of the group didn't shout or pound. He looked like he'd rather be somewhere else.
Owens caught Pam looking. "The birthday boy." He cajoled the men into making room for the ladies. Blues sloshed from the booth until there was nothing between Pam and this young man with the birthday. Then, she and Jeannie were shoved along the seat, and the men piled back in, until there was really nothing between Pam and the young man.
"Sorry," they both said at once.
He looked embarrassed and tried to make room for her. He put his arm up on the seatback behind her. Then he seemed to realize he'd effectively put his arm around her and bent his elbow to rest his head on his hand. He looked far more uncomfortable than she felt. Pam smiled and introduced herself. His name was Jim.
Beside her, Jeannie was already flirting with the group, whose eyes dripped over her like candle wax. Jim sat quietly, tapping a finger on the tabletop. Pam racked her brain for something more to say, then remembered the date she'd written on forms all day. "Is it lucky to be born on the thirteenth?"
He shook his head. "It's not my birthday."
"Oh." Her mind flailed. Usually she was better at this. She made small talk with patients all the time. Just because she was wedged against this man, and he smelled better than most of her patients, didn't mean she shouldn't--
"You're a nurse?"
"Yes," she said, half-breath, half-laugh, relieved.
He made it easy. They talked about work and family, and war of course, though only in remote terms. Nothing that would pin him to his next assignment. The larger group intruded only once, with a raucous joke.
"What's long and hard and full of seamen?" asked Owens with a gleam.
Jeannie gasped, her hands covering her mouth in false modesty.
"A submarine," Jim muttered, just before Owens gave the same answer. An old joke.
"S-E-A-M..." Owens explained, and Jeannie giggled as though she'd never heard it.
Jim shifted. “I could use some air. Step outside?”
They squeezed out of the booth to hoots and whistles. Jeannie winked an unfocused eye. Pam ignored her and followed Jim through the delivery door.
The alley was dark but for a few lights over other doorways. The air clung to Pam’s neck. Broken bottles and vegetable scraps littered the ground.
“Only the nicest for you,” he joked.
She laughed out loud, her voice wobbling off the buildings. She watched as he pulled two crates from a stack and placed them against the wall. They settled onto their crates and eased back into conversation. After minutes -- or hours, she couldn’t be sure -- the bells of a nearby church rang midnight.
“Now it’s my birthday,” he said.
She considered this man with his easy smile. His limbs looked like those of a boy who’d been stretched. He leaned, elbows on knees, turning his cap in his hands. His hair remained in place, and she wondered if it ever fell loose over his ears.
And because he was young and a gentleman and may not have seen another birthday, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.
He looked up, surprised. His mouth opened, but he was interrupted by the delivery door, which swung open, hitting him on the shoulder. His friends stumbled into the alley, singing the birthday song. Jeannie swayed under Owens’ arm. Just as they reached “Happy birthday, ol’ Jii-iim...”, Jeannie tipped forward onto her hands and knees and vomited on the brick.
The song died as the men stepped back, groaning in disgust.
Pam froze.
Jeannie’s back rose and fell as she caught her breath. Then, she reached for the nearest human contact: Pam’s shin. Her touch jolted Pam into motion, and she pulled Jeannie’s hand away. A dark, wet palm print marred her white nylons.
Pam turned Jeannie’s hand over. “You’ve cut yourself,” she said, and Jeannie started to cry.
*
Jim flagged a taxi, and they poured Jeannie inside. He gave the driver a bill, waving away Pam’s protests.
“Owens’ll pay.”
Faced with an impatient cabby, a crying drunk girl, and an abrupt end to the evening, Pam felt words jumble in her throat. Nice to meet you fought for space with I wish we could talk more and have a good life. She swallowed come back alive and settled for goodnight.
In response, he touched his cap and said her name.
She replayed his voice over and over as she worked club soda through her stocking.
* * *
The train swelters this morning. Pam rocks with its motion, thinking of the night before. She wonders if Jim got his money back. She wonders how long he’ll have to spend it before he’s shipped out.
When she emerges from the subway, something is different. More people are on the street than usual, and they don’t move with their normal purpose. They mill. They call to one another. Clap each other on the backs and shake hands. The florist hugs the butcher.
Pam stops a boy bouncing past. “What’s happened?”
He grins. “Japs gave up. War’s over!” He whoops and runs off.
Pam stands at the entrance of the subway for a long moment, deciding. Margie is expecting her to clock in. To wash her hands. To start doing her rounds.
What Pam decides is: Margie can wait.
She begins to run.
*
Times Square teems with people. Thousands, laughing, shouting, holding flags. Children skip like crickets. Workers wave from office windows. Photographers snap pictures.
Uniforms surround her.
She hardly dares hope, and yet, there are so many -- olive, white, navy blue. She weaves among them, searching. Shoulders, eyebrows, ears. None are the right ones.
Until she turns, and he’s there. He grabs her by the waist and dips her backward. On instinct, she clutches her purse to her chest but forgets it the moment he kisses her. To her left, a world apart, flashbulbs pop. People cheer and music swirls.
But here, with him, she floats.
When he lifts her again, she stands dazed. Reaches for his hand to steady herself. Frowns at his bruised knuckles.
“Owens paid,” he says and smiles. His hair has slipped from his cap.
She likes it. “Happy birthday.”
*
Not long after, when the photo is plastered all over the newsstands -- a kiss amid chaos -- he remarks on her straight seams.
They laugh to themselves and keep their secret.
Story Notes:
For NanReg and everything she does to make MTT a great community. This story is based on Alfred Eisenstaedt's iconic photograph, "V-J Day in Times Square".
Author's Chapter Notes:
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
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nomadshan is the author of 44 other stories.
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This story is part of the series, let?s celebrate birthday month in style today.. The previous story in the series is Love is...Jell-O and Ice Cream. The next story in the series is Twenty Brochures, One Painting and A Home.
