The Enemy at Home

She wasn’t the kind of girl who would go home with some guy she’d just met. But Jo Ellen Bryant had been willing to make an exception for the ensign. He was so handsome in his khaki uniform. He looked like Errol Flynn—right down to his rakish smile and the thin mustache. Were officers even allowed to have mustaches in the navy? Jo Ellen wasn’t sure. She just knew that she’d been on the receiving end of that charismatic smile a few times earlier in the evening—even though it had come to her from across the crowded bar. She wasn’t about to leave until she got a chance to talk to the man.

Jo Ellen was twenty-two, short and curvy with a cute, dimpled smile and wavy brown hair. She’d come to the J&M Café with her twenty-year-old sister, Loretta. The Bryant girls had grown up on their family’s chicken farm in Prairie Grove, Arkansas, where driving twenty minutes to Fayetteville to mingle with college boys at the University of Arkansas had been about as good as it could get. Jo Ellen had considered the local boys backward hicks and had yearned to get out of Prairie Grove.

After a painful breakup with one of those college boys, Jo Ellen had realized that, while she was too good for the guys in Prairie Grove, she obviously wasn’t good enough for those stuck-up college boys in Fayetteville.

When the war had broken out, Jo Ellen had looked into getting a job in a war plant, but Arkansas paid lower industrial wages than most other states, so Jo Ellen had convinced her kid sister that they should move to Seattle and work for Boeing. She’d gotten the idea from Bruce, the rat who had unceremoniously dumped her. He’d talked about joining the air corps after graduation and flying the B-17s Boeing manufactured.

The sisters were machinists in the wing section assembly at Boeing. At quitting time, they’d take the bus back to their one-bedroom apartment in Belltown, a working-class neighborhood just north of downtown. For their nights on the town, they’d change out of their work clothes and get dolled up. Painting their legs became part of this ritual now that silk and nylon were used to make parachutes instead of stockings. Jo and Lo (as they were often called back in Prairie Grove) would take turns meticulously drawing the fake seam lines down the backs of each other’s legs with eyeliner pencil to simulate nylons. Their wardrobe was limited, but the sisters were both the same size, so they weren’t forced to wear the same dresses over and over.

Unless one of them had an actual date, Jo and Lo always went out together. Unaccompanied women in bars could be hauled into the police station and held overnight—just because they might be hookers or Allotment Annies. As far as Jo Ellen was concerned, those Allotment Annies were too low for the snakes. They would scam soldiers into an engagement or marriage in order to get the serviceman’s allotment money—sometimes scamming several soldiers at a time. The cops were also trying to curb the spread of syphilis and gonorrhea, and it was clear from the posters aimed at GIs that women were blamed for spreading it. Jo Ellen had seen a few of the posters—by the men’s room doors in the backs of bars. They pictured normal-looking women—girls out for a good time—with warnings plastered below their likenesses: She May Look Clean, BUT . . . or Don’t Take Chances with Pickups! VD is not Victory! Jo Ellen thought it was so unfair. As if horny drunk servicemen had nothing to do with the VD epidemic. But the local cops weren’t dragging horny drunk servicemen out of bars and detaining them. That humiliation was reserved for unaccompanied women. Sometimes the women were even held and tested for venereal diseases. Fortunately, such a thing hadn’t happened to either of the Bryant sisters yet.

Jo and Lo had arrived at the J&M Café together. The place was packed for a Sunday night, but the sisters managed to find a table for two in the corner of the bar. A lot of the customers were sailors, which meant the girls would be dodging passes all night—Loretta, especially. If Jo Ellen weren’t there running interference for her kid sister, Loretta would have gone home with the first schmuck in white pants to buy her a drink. Loretta was prettier than she was and absolutely radiated Southern farm girl naïveté, which was like catnip for the servicemen.

Jo Ellen’s standards were a lot higher than her sister’s. She had a thing for guys in uniform, but if the guy wasn’t a gentleman, he could go run up a tree as far as Jo Ellen was concerned.

The handsome ensign over by the window, deep in conversation with an older couple, struck her as the gentlemanly type. It was silly, but Jo Ellen imagined him kissing her hand at the end of their first date—and then sending her flowers when he asked her out again. She could tell his friends were classy, because the woman wore an expensive-looking hat with a net covering half her face, and they were drinking something in old-fashioned glasses. Every once in a while, Ensign Errol would sneak a glance past the couple and give her that captivating smile. And he was smiling at her—not at Loretta—which was a welcome change.

Maybe that was why Loretta wanted to go home.

“But we can’t leave now,” Jo Ellen argued. “I’m just starting to get somewhere with The Ensign!”

“Well, maybe he’s waiting for me to leave before he makes his move,” Loretta pointed out. She set a dollar down on the table. “Why don’t you stay? Don’t worry ’bout me. I’ll be fine walking home alone.” She stood up, and nearly every sailor in the vicinity turned his head.

Jo Ellen sometimes felt invisible next to her voluptuous, strawberry-blond sister. Maybe she’d have a better shot with the ensign if her sweet sister wasn’t in the picture. “You sure you’ll be okay?” Jo Ellen asked half-heartedly.

“Fine as frog’s hair—as Grandpa used to say,” Loretta replied with a smile and a little wave. She turned and sauntered toward the door.

Jo Ellen noticed her sizing up the ensign. Her sister glanced back at her. Wide-eyed, Loretta gave a little nod of approval and fanned herself as if she were overheated.

Jo Ellen giggled. Then she caught the ensign looking at her again. Jo Ellen smiled at him.

She heard someone clear his throat. “I bet my buddy earlier that you and the gal who just left are sisters . . .”

Jo Ellen turned to see a sailor standing at her side. He was no Errol Flynn. He looked about twenty-five and was lanky with a big nose and a weak chin.

“Well?” he asked. “Am I right? Was she your sister?”

Frowning, Jo Ellen shook her head. “No, she’s my mother.”

He laughed and then pulled out the chair Loretta had just vacated. “Well, since Mama’s gone, maybe you’ll let me sit with you and buy you a drink.”

She shook her head again.

“You don’t want to be sitting all by yourself . . .”

Jo Ellen stole a glance at the ensign, hoping he might notice that this guy was bothering her. Maybe he’d come to her rescue. He seemed like the chivalrous type.

But he wasn’t looking her way.

And in that moment while Jo Ellen was distracted, the sailor sat down in Loretta’s seat. “C’mon, wet your whistle with me,” he said. He waved at the waitress.

Jo Ellen rolled her eyes. She was about to tell him to get lost. But then she figured maybe there was still a chance Ensign Errol would rescue her—if she gave just the right distressed look. Or maybe this sailor and the ensign were from the same ship. Maybe they knew each other.

A skinny, bored-looking waitress approached their table. “What’ll you folks have?”

The sailor nudged Jo Ellen’s arm. “I’m having a beer. How about you?”

Jo Ellen sighed. “Okay, I’ll have a ginger ale, but just one. Then you’ll have to go.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. He gave the waitress their drink orders and then proceeded to talk Jo Ellen’s ear off. She was only half listening. The bar was noisy, and she couldn’t always hear him very well anyway. Their drinks arrived, and he raised his beer glass in a toast. “What’s your name anyway?”

Jo Ellen told him.

He bumped his knee against hers. “And where did y’all get that cute Southern accent, Jo Ellen?” he asked coyly.

“From the South,” she answered, moving her legs so that she was almost turned away from him. “Listen, there’s an ensign over by the window, the one talking to that well-dressed couple. I think I may have met him before. Do y’all know him by any chance? He wasn’t on your ship, was he?”

Sitting up straight, the sailor squinted toward the window. “Where?”

“Well, don’t be so obvious!” she whispered, looking down at her drink.

“Who are you talking about—the guy who’s leaving?”

Jo Ellen glanced over in time to see Ensign Errol stepping out the door with his friends.

Her heart sank.

“I don’t think he’s from my ship,” the sailor said. “I didn’t recognize him. But say, you’re pretty good. You could tell he was an ensign from his uniform . . .”

The sailor kept talking while on the jukebox Dinah Shore sang “Blues in the Night.” Jo Ellen couldn’t help thinking, How appropriate, how damn appropriate. She felt so defeated, rejected before she’d even gotten a chance to say hello to her dreamy ensign. It was typical of her rotten luck. Or maybe she was just stupid.

Things hadn’t changed much since she’d left the farm in Prairie Grove. She was still aiming too high, going for guys who were above her class. She pinned her hopes on ensigns when she should have settled for sailors—like this guy sitting with her. She told herself that he really wasn’t bad-looking. At some point in the mostly one-sided conversation, he’d told her his name, but she had no idea what it was. He’d also mentioned where he was from—Wisconsin or Nebraska or one of those places. As nice and attentive as the guy was, Jo Ellen still wasn’t interested in him. All she could think about was the handsome ensign who had slipped away.

The sailor chugged down his beer before Jo Ellen was halfway done with her ginger ale. He waved at the waitress again.

Jo Ellen didn’t want to stick around and watch him get drunk. “Well, it’s been nice, but I have work in the morning,” she sighed. Then she got to her feet. “Thank you for the drink, sailor. You take care of yourself.”

“You can’t leave now,” he argued. “We’re just getting to know each other.”

But Jo Ellen put on her coat. “Bye, now.”

“Wait a minute . . .” He slapped a dollar and some change on the table.

Jo Ellen headed to the door and stepped outside. It was chilly out, and she stopped to pull up her coat collar.

The door opened behind her. “Wait a minute,” the sailor said again. “How are you getting home?”

“My own two feet,” she answered. “I live only a few blocks away.”

“Well, let me walk you,” the sailor insisted, throwing on his pea jacket. “It isn’t safe for a pretty gal to be walking by herself along the waterfront at this hour. There’s no telling what kind of trouble’s waiting for you between here and your front door.”

Jo Ellen gave him a skeptical sidelong gaze. The Elliott Bay waterfront was actually two blocks downhill to the west, and it was indeed sketchy, especially now, during the blackout. Though there were plenty of people out at this hour, a lot of them were drunken servicemen up to no good. She’d walked home alone late at night before—from this bar and others. And it could be a little scary. Plus, she was feeling especially lonely and vulnerable all of a sudden.

“C’mon, what do you say?” The sailor nudged her. “Let me be your naval escort home.”

Jo Ellen worked up a smile. “All right, but you can’t come in. My sister’s probably already asleep.”

“I thought she was your mother.”

Despite her blue mood, Jo Ellen laughed. As they started walking down the street, he put his arm around her waist.

She pulled away and kept moving forward. “I said y’all could walk me home. I didn’t say you could maul me . . .”

“Sorry,” he muttered. The sailor shoved his hands in the pockets of his pea jacket and continued to walk alongside her.

They headed down the busy sidewalk together. To her left, Jo Ellen could see the silhouettes of the buildings along the waterfront and, between them, slivers of moonlight dancing on the indigo water of Elliott Bay. But just half a block down the hill, the area seemed completely deserted. It wasn’t, though. She knew people were walking and going about their business down there—just as they were up here along First Avenue—but she couldn’t see them because of the blackout.

She probably didn’t need this sailor walking her home. Jo Ellen noticed a cop on horseback up ahead. She and the sailor passed other sailors, soldiers and civilians on the sidewalks—a few of them drunk to the point of staggering. On the street, people riding bikes outnumbered the cars, due to gas rationing. The few automobiles cruising down First Avenue had blue cellophane over the headlights—in compliance with blackout regulations. Some bar owners weren’t as conscientious, and they left their colored neon signs on. Competing swing and jazz music echoed out the various open doors. The music plus the chatter, laughter and shouting from people on the street created a cacophony of noise. Jo Ellen figured she’d have been miserable walking home alone amid this hubbub, amid all these people who were drunk, happy or paired up with someone else. She felt grateful to have this dogface sailor distracting her—even if she was only half listening to him.

As Jo Ellen and her “naval escort” got closer to her home, the crowd of pedestrians thinned out and the noise died down. The sailor didn’t try to put his arm around her again. But Jo Ellen felt him brush against her several times—his hand, arm and shoulder grazing hers. She figured, once they reached her front door, he’d try to smooth talk his way inside.

Jo Ellen and Loretta lived in a U-shaped Spanish-style two-story apartment building with a courtyard. Each unit had its own front and back entrance. The place was rundown, but cheap.

As Jo Ellen and the sailor turned into the courtyard, she noticed the window shades and blackout curtains for her unit were drawn. The sailor brought his hand up between her shoulder blades. “Wow, you live here? This is really nice . . .”

She got her key out of her purse. “Well, like I said earlier, I’m sorry I can’t invite you inside. I’m sure my sister’s asleep upstairs.”

“Her bedroom’s upstairs?”

“It’s my bedroom, too. We share.” Jo Ellen keyed the front door, but it was unlocked.

“Listen, if your sister’s bedroom is all the way upstairs, and I promise to be as quiet as a little church mouse, do you think I could come in for a cup of coffee?” He still had his hand on her back.

Jo Ellen turned toward him, brushing his arm away. His hand fell to his side. “I told you already, sailor. My place is off-limits. . .”

He gave her a hurt puppy-dog look. “C’mon, please?” he whispered. “For the last seven months, I’ve only seen the insides of boats, barracks and bars. I haven’t been in a real home since I left Indiana. I’d give anything to sit down in somebody’s kitchen and drink a cup of coffee. I know it sounds like a bunch of corn, but I’m homesick and lonely. I think you are, too. Don’t you miss your home in the South?”

Jo Ellen shook her head. “Not at all.”

“Please? Just one cup of coffee for a lonely sailor . . .”

She was about to open the door, but hesitated. She wished she knew his name at least.

“I ship out tomorrow.” He took hold of her hand and checked her wristwatch. “Or today, rather. I’m sorry I can’t tell you where I’m headed—”

“Probably San Francisco or someplace like that.”

He didn’t let go of her hand. “Please, Jo Ellen, just one cup of coffee, and then I’ll go . . .”

She pulled away and sighed. “All right, one cup. But we don’t have any sugar.”

Jo Ellen opened the door. From the foyer, she saw that Loretta had left the living room light on—along with the light in the upstairs hallway. “Lo, are you still up?” she called softly from the bottom of the stairs.

“Well, don’t wake her,” the sailor whispered. “Three’s a crowd . . .”

A loud clatter came from the kitchen. Alarmed, Jo Ellen froze for a moment. Then she hurried past the stairs and down the hall, toward the back of the apartment. The sailor followed her.

“Lo? Is that you?” she called, a hand on her heart. “You okay? What happened?”

Jo Ellen stepped into the kitchen in time to see the screen door slam. A kitchen chair and a bottle of milk had been knocked over. The unbroken bottle was still rolling back and forth in a milk puddle on the gray and red checked linoleum floor—in front of the open refrigerator. On the kitchen table was a piece of cake on a napkin. Loretta had baked the cake last night, some kind of no sugar, no butter, no eggs “Victory Cake.”

All Jo Ellen could imagine was that Loretta must have brought someone home. And in the middle of helping himself to a snack, the guy must have taken off like a bat out of hell when he’d heard her come in. Maybe Loretta had told him how much of an ogre her older sister could be when it came to her bringing strangers home.

The sailor chuckled, “Looks like we didn’t wake up Little Sister after all.”

“We talked about this just the other night,” Jo Ellen murmured. “And we agreed. That’s why you’re not staying . . .” She headed down the hall to the foot of the stairs. She couldn’t believe her naïve sister had left some stranger unattended in the house—even if only for a minute or two. “Lo!” she called—louder this time. “Loretta, are you upstairs?”

The sailor trailed after her. Jo Ellen didn’t want him following her up to the bedroom. She briefly turned to him. “Stay down here, will you?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She scurried up the stairs.

In the second-floor hallway, Jo Ellen found Loretta’s work pants hanging from the doorknob to the half-open bedroom door. She stopped for a second. It was strange, because Loretta had hung her work slacks in the closet before they’d changed into their dresses earlier tonight.

Jo Ellen opened the door wider and saw her sister sprawled on the bedroom floor. Loretta wore only her panties and blouse. Her blue eyes were open in a dead stare, and her face was discolored. A small lamp from the nightstand between the twin beds was broken and lying beside her. Someone had used the lamp cord to strangle her little sister.

That same someone had then gone down to the kitchen and made himself a snack.