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Cameron
Ironically, now that Shirlene dressed me down, I’m more comfortable upstairs with gruff Stan.
“Since you insist on being useful, would you shave my face?” Stan adjusts his position in the bed. “I don’t want Shirleen doing it. I prefer to shave myself, but it’s getting difficult.”
I go into the bathroom to collect what I need, feeling as if I’m making headway with Stan. I’ve never shaved someone else’s face, but I am fairly confident I can do it without drawing blood.
When I return, Stan asks, “Have you ever grown a beard?”
“No.” I apply shaving cream over the stubble on Stan’s face. “My brother has enough facial hair for the both of us.”
“I’ve always thought about trying one, but Shirlene likes my face smooth.”
I wait for him to pause before I run the razor down his cheek. “The minute my hair hits my shirt collar, off it comes.”
Stan keeps talking, making it difficult to shave without nicking him. “After the war, I kept my hair short. By the late 1960s, all the kids had long hair and beards, but my accounting clients wouldn’t have trusted me if I weren’t clean-shaven.”
“Could you not talk for a moment, Stan?”
“Oh. Of course.”
I lift his nose slightly to shave above his upper lip. “Thank you for your service.” I tackle his chin. It’s the most difficult area on my own face, so I take special care. After I shave his neck, I say, “Shirlene told me you were a pilot.”
“I didn’t get into it until near the end of the war, but I did fly twenty-six missions over Germany in a P-47.”
“Thunderbolt?” I hand him a warm washcloth and a towel.
Stan scowls. “Why do you care about my service? Are you interested in aircraft?” He wipes and dries his face.
“Especially fighter planes. I teach US history.” I take the washcloth, towel, razor, and shaving cream back into the bathroom.
As I rinse off the razor, I notice one of Shirlene’s hair clips on the sink. Although I’m unhappy with her holding a grudge, the clip reminds me of her beautiful hair. These thoughts about her make me uncomfortable. I have to stop. She’s married, and I’m slowly becoming friends with her husband.
When I come back into the bedroom, Stan is rubbing his face. “Feels better.”
I sit in the chair. “How old were you when you enlisted?”
“Twenty. I flew my second mission on my twenty-first birthday. I didn’t think I’d ever see twenty-two.”
“Why did you want to be a pilot?”
Stan’s eyes widen. “That’s an excellent question. When I was five years old, my family took a vacation to Stone Harbor. We were on the beach, and a guy landed a single-engine biplane right on the sand.” He laughs. “Can you imagine such a thing today?”
“It would never happen.”
“Not on your life. My older sisters were more interested in the pilot than the plane. They were fifteen and twelve. But I wanted to fly. To my surprise, my mother told Dad to let me go. I was grateful to her. It was a two-seater open cockpit. So I sat on my dad’s lap in the front seat with the pilot behind.”
“Only five years old.” I whistle.
“I was too young to be afraid. The feeling of climbing up into the air was exhilarating. The wind blowing across my face. The sense of speed. And everything looked so beautiful from up there. So when the war came, I knew I had to be a pilot.” Stan beams. “I graduated in April of 1944. Second lieutenant Silver Wings.”
“Were you dating Shirlene by then?”
“I didn’t feel completely brotherly toward Shirlene.” Stan raises his eyebrows. “But I kept my admiration a secret for a long while because of Joe being my best buddy. And she was more than two years younger. But by the time I was training in the P-47 at the Millville Army Air Field base, Shirlene and I were getting serious. When I decided to propose, Joe was stationed in England. I wrote to him first, and he gave me his blessing. I’m grateful he did because he died during the Normandy Invasion that June.”
“Shirlene told me. I’m sorry.”
“It hit me bad, but I was really worried about Shirlene. She was so close to Joe.”
“So then you and Shirlene got married?” I ask.
“No. We planned to wait until the end of the war. I couldn’t leave her a widow at nineteen. After Joe died, I thought it would be easier for Shirlene to lose a fiancé than a husband. But knowing she was waiting for me, I was determined to stay alive for her.”
I can understand Stan feeling this way. Having Shirlene would make a man do anything to return to her. Stan stifles a yawn.
“I’m sorry. You’re getting tired.”
“It’s the most conversation I’ve had in weeks,” he says.
“I’ll let you rest. I hope you’ll tell me more.”
I need to respect that Stan is dying, and talking to me isn’t necessarily a priority, but he sure did open up. Maybe he’s realized that with so little time left, he doesn’t want to waste it being angry with me. But while I’ve made progress with Stan, I need to focus on finding a way back into Shirlene’s good graces.