EVEN WITHOUT THE holidays, there was continually a cause for celebration—the Allies beat the Axis, or we beat the Army by getting artichoke hearts stocked at the commissary, by extending the length our golf course, or by decreasing the size of the firing range. We went to parties every weekend throughout the year, sometimes not knowing exactly what was being celebrated.
AT THE BRITISH parties we sipped mulled wine and listened to recitations of limericks. If we were given to self-pity, we resolved it through dancing, and through liquor. We undid our top buttons and smiled brightly at the few GIs who were invited or who were not invited but came anyway, at our husbands, at one another, and we danced.
THE FLUTTER OF the night felt a bit like college, when young men in starched white shirts or wrinkled cotton stood on front porches and asked us our names, or where we were from. And we replied with Iowa or Sally, common words, and felt the quiet embarrassment and excitement of what those questions might lead to.
WE DANCED AND sang along to Hit That Jive, Jack. We swayed to I Left My Heart at the Stage Door Canteen. We did not like This Is the Army, Mr. Jones and slowed our movements, stepped aside, asked our partners if they would be so kind as to refresh our drink.
WE LEARNED HOW to drink cocktails before dinner. We learned how to notice the flirtations between people; we talked about who was now sleeping with whom and, if the bedrooms were currently occupied by revelers, about Musical Beds. We were beginning to prefer the company of other women and because we spent so much time with them, we noticed more acutely when we were interrupted, when the men turned toward one another and how some women let their voices trail off. At dinner parties when our men were on one side and we were on the other we gathered around fireplaces and talked about gas shortages, water shortages, and people. Kitty Oppenheimer always seems to have plenty of gas in her tank, Mildred said, and Katherine added, Enough to get her to Santa Fe and back twice a week. What is she doing down there? And Ingrid told us, I saw Frank pay a morning visit to Margaret’s house yesterday. Saw him while I was having my coffee. He sure stayed awhile.
WHEN AT A party late, when they insisted on dancing and stepped on our feet, when they slumped in a chair, we grasped our husbands by the hand. They asked, Where we were going now? and we said, It’s a surprise, and we took their hazy eyes to bed. Sometimes we wandered into someone else’s house thinking it was our own. And we saw someone reading a book on a sofa that looked like ours but wasn’t, and we apologized, saying, So sorry! and closed the door.
WE FELT THE freedom of living in isolation—no university president attended our parties, no department chair wife was around to observe the liberties we took with our dance moves or cocktails, and so on the weekends, fenced in as we were, we celebrated and square-danced, we let go. We often woke the next morning with no water and spent the day reeking of rum, and our lungs burned from smoking so many cigarettes. We wanted what we could many times not have: coffee, a shower.
LATER, ONCE THE secret was out, the rumors that we played Musical Beds got around and when we arrived back home our aunts asked us, gravely, Did you ever go to those parties? And we responded, Aunt Hilda! Don’t be silly.