all, you become a stupid, unhappy person—and where’s the good in that? Now enough about Billy—how was your year? Where were you when Pearl Harbor happened?”
“At the movies. Watching Dumbo. Where were you?”
“Up at the Polo Grounds, watching football. Last Giants game of the season. Then suddenly, late in the second quarter, they start making these strange announcements, asking all active military personnel to report immediately to the main office. I knew right then something bad was afoot. Then Sonny Franck got injured. That distracted me. Not that Sonny Franck has anything to do with it. Hell of a player, though. What a tragic day. Were you at the movies with that fellow you got engaged to? What was his name?”
“Jim Larsen. How did you know I’d gotten engaged?”
“Your mother told me about it last night while you were packing. Sounds like you escaped by the skin of your teeth. Sounds like even your mother was relieved, though she’s tough to read. She was of the opinion that you didn’t much like him.”
This surprised me. My mother and I had never once had an intimate conversation about Jim—or about anything, really. How had she known?
“He was a nice man,” I said lamely.
“Good for him. Give him a trophy for it, but don’t marry a man just because he’s nice. And try not to make a habit of getting engaged in the first place, Vivvie. It can lead to marriage if you’re not careful. Why’d you say yes to him, anyhow?”
“I didn’t know what else to do with myself. Like I say, he was nice.”
“So many girls get married for that same reason. Find something else to do with yourself, I say. Gosh, ladies, take up a hobby!”
“Why did you get married?” I asked.
“Because I liked him, Vivvie. I liked Billy very much. That’s the only reason to ever marry somebody—if you love them or like them. I still like him, you know. I had dinner with him only last week.”
“You did?”
“Of course I did. Look, I can understand that you’re upset with Billy right now—a lot of people are—but what did I tell you earlier, about my rule in life?”
When I didn’t answer, because I couldn’t remember, she reminded me: “Once I like a person, I can only like them always.”
“Oh, that’s right.” But I still wasn’t convinced.
She smiled at me again. “What’s the matter, Vivvie? You think that rule should only apply to you?”
It was evening by the time we arrived in New York City.
It was July 15, 1942.
The town was perched proud and solid on its nest of granite, tucked between its two dark rivers. Its stacks of skyscrapers glittered like columns of fireflies in the velvety summer air. We crossed over the silent, commanding bridge—broad and long as a condor’s wing—and entered the city. This dense place. This meaningful place. The greatest metropolis the world has ever known—or at least that’s what I’ve always thought.
I was overcome with reverence.
I would plant my little life there and never abandon it again.
TWENTY-FOUR
The next morning, I woke up in Billy’s old room all over again. It was just me in the bed this time. No Celia, no hangover, no disasters.
I had to admit: it felt good to have the bed to myself.
For a while I listened to the sounds of the Lily Playhouse coming to life. Sounds I never thought I would hear again. Someone must have been running a bath, because the pipes were banging in protest. Two telephones were already ringing—one upstairs, and one in the offices below. I felt so happy, it made me light-headed.
I put on my robe and wandered forth to make myself some coffee. I found Mr. Herbert sitting at the kitchen table just like always—wearing his undershirt, staring at his notebook, drinking his Sanka, and composing his jokes for an upcoming show.
“Good morning, Mr. Herbert!” I said.
He looked up at me and—to my amazement—he actually smiled.
“I see you’ve been reinstated, Miss Morris,” he said. “Good.”
By noon that day, I was at the Brooklyn Navy Yard with Peg and Olive, getting oriented to the job at hand.
We’d taken the subway from midtown to the York Street station, then transferred to a streetcar. Over the next three years, I would make this commute nearly every day and in every kind of weather. I would share that commute with tens of thousands of other workers, all changing shifts like clockwork. The commute would become tedious, and sometimes spirit-breakingly exhausting. But on that day, it was all