Another blast and the shelter went black. Edie heard a man next to her say, "Bloody bastards," but nobody screamed or prayed this time. At least out loud. Maybe because there were no children in the shelter tonight. Unfortunate. Edie counted twelve explosions that might have hit twelve houses where children cowered in cellars with parents who struggled to get their gas masks on properly. If they could find them in the dark.
"If this was New York instead of London, the Americans would be in this war alright," the same man said. Edie caught the same whiff of whiskey as he spoke.
"If they was bombing New York, we'd all be spreck-in the dough-chee," a woman said and laughter rippled through the tube. She sounded like Maude, pub keeper extraordinaire who never watered down the beer.
The night chill was wearing off, a stale, humid human stuffiness taking its place. "Stay put," a defense captain yelled down at them through his mask, "lots of smoke up here. Can't see a thing." The all-clear siren blew, but nobody moved. Edie felt a hand grope for hers.
"Congratulations, we made it through another night," the man said. She shook his hand.
"Nice to meet a fellow survivor," she said but when she pulled her hand away, he held it a little tighter. She was transported to her grandfather's bedside, holding his hand as death approached.
She let her pocketbook slide down her other arm and patted his hand with her free hand. Someone started singing God Save the King, and muffled voices chimed in. It wasn't the first time people had carried pub camaraderie into a shelter. They'd have a song fest now. Were other people holding hands? It was too dark to tell.
The man moved her hand slowly to his leg. It was tight and muscular. She could feel his pulse beating as he pulled it towards his inner thigh, then up to the bulge in his crotch. She waited for the sound of a zipper, but felt buttons. He was a sailor. She hadn't noticed any sailors in the pub, but by nine o'clock, she was on her second pint, and mad as hell Ian left with a blonde floozy. Hopefully they made it to a shelter.
The man worked three buttons open and she felt a fat taut piece of flesh caressing her hand. He covered her hand with his and clasped it around the stalwart sailor standing at attention. It was outrageous, but all wars are. Her father told her stories of the French women in the last one, doing what they had to do to cope with the death notices they received by the thousands. England was lucky. No trenches on her soil.
The man was breathing in hard halting bursts, unnoticed in the gusty refrains of a First World War favorite. Over There. He would tell his buddies about this some night, maybe be right in the middle of the story when a U-boat fired a torpedo and blew a hole in the lower deck.
She heard gasps turn into slow, heavy breaths and wiped her hand on his under-shirt. She'd tell her girlfriends about this someday, maybe she'd be right in the middle of the story when the postman brought her a death notice about Ian.
Each passing minute might be the last for them. Each breath a desperate plea that the target of the bomb, the bullet, the death bulletin would always be for someone else—a stranger one had never touched.
She held her mask in her hands, and her tears flowed. She felt her shoulders sob in small jerks. An arm came round her shoulder and a head pressed next to hers. She was wrong. Neither of them would ever speak of being afraid and making love in the dark.
Jenean McBrearty is a graduate of San Diego State University and taught Political Science and Sociology at Des Moines Area Community College. She received the EKU English Department's Award for Graduate Non-fiction (2011), and has been published in Main Street Rag Anthology—Altered States, Wherever It Pleases, Danse Macabre, bioStories, Cobalt Review, and Black Lantern, among others.
"If this was New York instead of London, the Americans would be in this war alright," the same man said. Edie caught the same whiff of whiskey as he spoke.
"If they was bombing New York, we'd all be spreck-in the dough-chee," a woman said and laughter rippled through the tube. She sounded like Maude, pub keeper extraordinaire who never watered down the beer.
The night chill was wearing off, a stale, humid human stuffiness taking its place. "Stay put," a defense captain yelled down at them through his mask, "lots of smoke up here. Can't see a thing." The all-clear siren blew, but nobody moved. Edie felt a hand grope for hers.
"Congratulations, we made it through another night," the man said. She shook his hand.
"Nice to meet a fellow survivor," she said but when she pulled her hand away, he held it a little tighter. She was transported to her grandfather's bedside, holding his hand as death approached.
She let her pocketbook slide down her other arm and patted his hand with her free hand. Someone started singing God Save the King, and muffled voices chimed in. It wasn't the first time people had carried pub camaraderie into a shelter. They'd have a song fest now. Were other people holding hands? It was too dark to tell.
The man moved her hand slowly to his leg. It was tight and muscular. She could feel his pulse beating as he pulled it towards his inner thigh, then up to the bulge in his crotch. She waited for the sound of a zipper, but felt buttons. He was a sailor. She hadn't noticed any sailors in the pub, but by nine o'clock, she was on her second pint, and mad as hell Ian left with a blonde floozy. Hopefully they made it to a shelter.
The man worked three buttons open and she felt a fat taut piece of flesh caressing her hand. He covered her hand with his and clasped it around the stalwart sailor standing at attention. It was outrageous, but all wars are. Her father told her stories of the French women in the last one, doing what they had to do to cope with the death notices they received by the thousands. England was lucky. No trenches on her soil.
The man was breathing in hard halting bursts, unnoticed in the gusty refrains of a First World War favorite. Over There. He would tell his buddies about this some night, maybe be right in the middle of the story when a U-boat fired a torpedo and blew a hole in the lower deck.
She heard gasps turn into slow, heavy breaths and wiped her hand on his under-shirt. She'd tell her girlfriends about this someday, maybe she'd be right in the middle of the story when the postman brought her a death notice about Ian.
Each passing minute might be the last for them. Each breath a desperate plea that the target of the bomb, the bullet, the death bulletin would always be for someone else—a stranger one had never touched.
She held her mask in her hands, and her tears flowed. She felt her shoulders sob in small jerks. An arm came round her shoulder and a head pressed next to hers. She was wrong. Neither of them would ever speak of being afraid and making love in the dark.
Jenean McBrearty is a graduate of San Diego State University and taught Political Science and Sociology at Des Moines Area Community College. She received the EKU English Department's Award for Graduate Non-fiction (2011), and has been published in Main Street Rag Anthology—Altered States, Wherever It Pleases, Danse Macabre, bioStories, Cobalt Review, and Black Lantern, among others.
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