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There were many constants in Beatrice’s life. For one thing, Georgia, charitably, was always and would always be a swamp. And for half the year, it was swampy and hot. And right before the peaches needed to be picked, it was hot enough that Aunt Imogen didn’t even make noises when Beatrice and Hero took scissors to old pants to make shorts. Apparently even good Southern ladies could wear shorts if the thermometer threatened to boil over. Good Southern ladies tended to put on a dress or something longer if men were coming around the house, though, and there was a car full of men coming up the long dirt driveway, soldiers at that. But Aunt Imogen hadn’t noticed the car yet, so Beatrice could keep enjoying her half of the popsicle she had split with Hero while leaning over the railing of the front porch, dripping red juice into the bushes below instead of onto the freshly cleaned boards. Aunt Imogen had been expecting company, just apparently not this second. Beatrice wasn’t about to alert her. She had earned this popsicle, and by God was she going to enjoy it to its fullest. The car stopped. Most of its dark red paint was covered in dirt and dust. The back passenger door opened and slammed shut. There went the fullest of her enjoyment. One of the men whooped, opening the other door. The trunk popped. She couldn’t— wouldn’t be bothered.
“Beatrice!” Pedro called out. Beatrice saluted lazily. Juice was running down her wrist. The popsicle was melting too quickly to eat. It was too hot. Everything was damp. Pedro, like the rest of them, was wearing some semblance of his Class As. He was wearing them the closest to what the U.S. government deemed appropriate. His sleeved were rolled, stupid hat tucked under his arm. They must have come straight from the airport or the base or wherever they had started their journey from. No time to change out of the soldier suits. His jacket was over his arm. Entirely collected, even in the heat. He went for the trunk. Beatrice wouldn’t be useful. She flashed a bloodred wicked smile at Pedro. He waved, keys hooked around his middle finger.
“Beatrice?” The first man called out from behind the car. The trunk swung down. John caught it. She looked back down to the railing. She wasn’t bothered. “Beatrice is here to welcome us?”
“Only by coincidence,” Beatrice called back, trying to get a better angle on her popsicle. Pedro laughed, making sure the screen door didn’t slam shut as he walked through it. That was one of Imogen’s pet peeves, when people let the door bang closed. Ben swung a duffel over his shoulder, walking out from behind the car and up towards the porch.
“Here all the same,” he said, stepping up onto the porch and grabbing the column, swinging into her space. Beatrice leaned away, still looking out at John and Claude grabbing their bags from the trunk.
“Still ordering your shirts a size too small?” Popsicle dripped down her arm, bleeding off the porch. She was still playing at nonchalance. She could be doing a worse job. She wasn’t about to lick the juice off her wrist, which would cancel out absolutely anything she was doing.
“Still pretending you don’t notice?” She turned her head towards him. He held a hand up, innocent, consoling. “Hey, it’s nothing radical, plenty of women like my shirts a size small—”
“Well, I’m not one of them,” Beatrice said.
“You’re not one of them,” Ben agreed. She nodded to confirm, then turned to lean back against the railing, arms crossed. He opened the front door one-handed, back to it. “Yet I’ve left a trail of broken hearts and empty beds across two continents.” He said this as if it was a burden to be carried like the bag on his back or the dog tags around his neck. She nodded again, eyes wide with mock sympathy.
“Thank God you’re here— those women might finally get some peace.” He threw a disparaging smile back at her. She continued. “I know I thank God every day you’re out of my sight.” She shook her head, speaking definitively. “I would rather listen to a baby screaming than a man saying he loves me.” He barked out a laugh, pushing his way through the door.
“I’m sure you haven’t had a problem with that.” She stood up to follow, he rounded on her, still smiling. “I’m sure men appreciate being out of your claws.” Beatrice leaned in, too, from the other side of the threshold.
“Scratches would only improve your face, Lieutenant,” she replied, spitting out the title. He stood up military-straight, pushing away from her and heading into the front hall. Leo was doing work at the dining room table, a habit that drove Imogen up the wall.
“I hear some women like scars,” Ben said, conversationally. “Every day I’m overseas I hope to pick a nice one up.” He had at least one new one she could see, still red and shining. It crossed the flesh of his middle and ring fingers at a sharp angle, a tidy slice that bit into the edge of his palm under his pinky. It looked shallow enough, not that she knew much about wounds. Cuts.
“I’m sure you’d make a good charity case,” Beatrice called. There was hardly venom in her voice. “There’s just so much to fix!” The screen door banged shut behind her. Leo sighed. Claude, who had taken advantage of their little argument to duck into the house, looked amused. Pedro looked mostly tired of having his conversations interrupted.
“God, do you ever quit?” Ben yelled back, nearly smacking Claude with his bag when he turned around again. He headed for the stairs. Beatrice ran over, pointing up at him from the foot of the stairs.
“I’ll be here all month!” she yelled.
“Maybe I’ll get lucky and die!” he yelled back. From the dining room, Pedro winced. Imogen was coming in from the back. Beatrice was still covered in red popsicle, even though she had abandoned it to avoid missing a single beat. Her shorts were still too short.
“That’s just as lucky for me!” she screamed. Ben slammed his door, clearly the first guest room he could reach, even if it was the smallest. It had been a nursery, once. Fitting. Beatrice huffed and stormed off towards the kitchen. Imogen sighed. Pedro picked Leo’s papers back up.
“This might be a long week,” he said apologetically. Claude peeled himself off the doorframe. Picked up his bag, swung it onto his shoulder in a practiced way. He leaned a little, to balance, and started to head up the stairs, not mindful of the creaks. Hero was upstairs, putting sheets on the beds.
“Nine days,” Leo said. “Eight, really. Today’s almost over.”
“It’s barely four, sir.” Leo sighed and closed his folio.
“Nine days.”
“Four in the afternoon, that is.” Leo, with some of the effort that comes with age, pushed back his chair. He was older than one would expect a father with a teenage daughter to be. His hair, once something close to sunburnt blond, was mostly silver. Pedro didn’t remember his CO looking so old when they had last seen each other.
“I heard you the first time, Pedro.” He pushed his chair back in. “Claude hasn’t taken the north bedroom yet. You still have a shot.” He patted his pocket for his reading glasses. “Godspeed, soldier.” Pedro fought the urge to salute, pushed back his own chair, and grabbed his own bag. The north room was the coolest in the summer. Pedro was accustomed to the heat, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t seek out the one with the least of it, especially if Claude was on a hunt for Hero.
Pedro went up the stairs, avoiding the creakiest spots. Hero’s door, at the top of the stairs, was cracked open, as was her window. There was the faintest breeze, pushing around her white curtains inside and the leaves of the big, shady tree outside. Her bed was made. There was a letter open on her windowsill. Beatrice’s room was next to Hero’s, door wide open. Her window was cracked, too, but that was where the similarities ended. Her coverlet slid onto the ground as if it was melting off the bed. She had hung a crystal in the window which sent a sharp ray of brightly colored light to the door across the hall. She had books stacked everywhere, records tilting against the foot of her bed. Looking into her room felt like an invasion. Ben’s door was closed, probably to avoid that bright beam of light. Or Beatrice. Ben hated coming home almost as much as he hated the war. Claude tended to dismiss it as jet lag. Pedro knew the feeling, almost, of constant displacement. But the orchard was fine. The orchard had Leo, who was more of a constant in Pedro’s life than anyone. Claude would have to share the nursery, if Bea and Hero weren’t sharing. Ben wouldn’t like sharing, but it wasn’t like any of them were about to have anyone over. This one was right next to the bathroom. Convenient. Claude liked convenient. He liked rushing. Pedro pushed open the last door. The north bedroom. Cool, even with the window closed. It faced away from the orchard, towards the road. The last leg of the house. From down the hall, past Hero’s room and in the awkward linen-closet-corner of the house by the master, he heard a giggle.
Pedro set down his bag and closed the door. He felt just slightly out of place. Downstairs, he could hear Imogen scolding someone. Whether it was Leo or Beatrice was anyone’s guess. When Imogen had company, she got anxious, and an anxious Imogen was a nitpicky one. The kitchen door banged shut. Beatrice, then. Maybe he did feel at home. Pedro opened the window and tried to settle into the sound of distant cars and insects screaming and, faintly, Beatrice storming away through the too-long grass. He’d offer to cut it tomorrow. He had time tomorrow. For once, he wasn’t in charge. It wasn’t that he felt like this was his home, really, but he did feel like it could be a home, with Leo supervising and everyone scattering around and Beatrice’s books threatening to spill over. It was easy, knowing a place, and it was easier, knowing people. He probably had ten minutes to himself before John came in to claim the other twin bed. Pedro, being in an entirely reasonable state of mind, laid down on his bed, ramrod-straight, and tried to relax. He managed about thirty seconds of this before there was a knock on his door. He nearly got up, then realized it was down the hall. He laid back down and squeezed his eyes shut.
Claude and Ben had gotten stuck in the nursery, which was the smallest room, and came with a constant stream of jokes about being children. The space was a little cramped for two mostly-grown men, and it felt smaller when Claude sprawled out across the daybed.
“Did you see Beatrice?” Ben was trying to get the zipper on his bag unstuck. He had snagged something in it a continent or so away.
“She was our welcome party, Claude.” Claude sighed. Dreamily. Oh, great. Ben was stuck in a room for a week with his best friend, who was mooning over a girl.
“No, but did you see her? Like, did you actually look at her? I don’t think you actually looked at her, or you’d be a lot more annoyed I’m in here.” Ben yanked at the zipper again.
“I wouldn’t be any more annoyed—” Claude made a smug little face.
“You’d definitely be angry jacking off right now.” Ben nearly threw his bag. He was a little rattled. Sue him. He had just been yelled at after no less than a day of being crammed into about a square meter with three other guys.
“I would not.” He wasn't about to agree with Claude. Beatrice was mean. She didn't like him. That was kind of their whole thing.
“You would be, you guys have that thing—” Ben spun around, still hunched over his bag.
“There’s no thing, there’s nothing to— to—” Claude was about to split his face open if he kept smiling like that.
“God, you’re acting like the Prince. You’re so mad you can’t even say jack off.” Ben shook his head.
“I wouldn’t be. I don’t like Beatrice.” You didn't need to like someone to do that. It wasn't like she was ugly.
“Obviously. If you did, you’d be engaged.” Ben rolled his eyes hard enough they hurt. Fatigue. That was why he was so on edge. God, he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in any way approaching decently.
“Nobody’s getting engaged.” Claude shrugged.
“It’s the only way—” Ben turned, grabbing the upper hand of this too-close teasing conversation.
“It’s possible to have sex with someone if you aren’t married, Claude, you know that, right?” At least it made him feel better to say it.
“Of course I know that!” Claude flopped back on the bed. He grinned. He had been grinning, of course, while he was making fun of Ben, but now it was positively giddy. He looked younger than Ben had ever known him. “Did you see Hero?”
“Sure.” He was sure he had. Fucking Beatrice and her fucking shorts and that fucking popsicle dripping down her wrist, leaning over the railing and with that look in her eyes for a moment like she wanted to play, like she wanted this to be a game. Hero hadn’t been on the porch. She could have been in the dining room.
“She’s just beautiful.” Fucking fantastic. “Don’t you think so?”
“I mean, not enough to break out the three syllable words. What are you gonna do, get engaged?” Claude pushed himself up. Good.
“You don’t think she’s pretty?” He didn’t take that bait, then.
“I think she’s pretty. I didn’t say she wasn’t pretty. A lot of girls are pretty.” Ben pulled something out of his duffel and blindly shoved it into one of the drawers of the wardrobe. Claude shook his head. One fist was clenched into the quilt on the bed, crumpling it.
“She’s prettier. I think she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“The most?” Hero was pretty. Nobody was saying Hero wasn’t pretty. She was just a very straightforward kind of pretty, with her big bright eyes and her gentle makeup and her perfect little mouth and nose and her long, straight, blonde hair. Beatrice was distinctive. She was electric. Of the two, she grabbed a man. Silence. No remarks. “You sound like you’re in love with her.” Still no response. Ben turned, pants still in hand. “Claude, you’re not actually—” Claude looked like he had been hit over the head. He was pale. His eyes were the size of dinner plates. He lifted his head, turning those searchlight eyes on Ben.
“I am,” Claude said. “Oh my god, I think I’m in love with Hero.” A long pause stretched out between them. Someone creaked down the hall, past their closed door. Ben vividly remembered Bea a year or so ago, being derisive. All of you soldier boys are the same.
“You can’t get married in a week,” Ben said. “Hell, you can’t do anything in a week.”
“I’m in love with Hero, Ben,” Claude said. “I am in love.” Get your number and your marriage certificate in the same week. More silence. Ben wasn’t sure what else to say. Someone creaked back down the hall. There was a gentle knock on the door. Ben, closer, wrenched it open. The Prince was standing there, holding a carefully folded pile of towels. Claude turned towards him with an awestruck expression.
“Claude wants to get married,” Ben blurted. Pedro blinked.
“To me?”
“No, to me,” Ben snapped. “To Hero .” His CO almost looked relieved.
“Has he told her?”
“I only just realized,” Claude said, still grinning. Ben was sure he had a look of abject horror on his face. Maybe raw panic. Whatever it was was making Pedro look confused.
“Well, we’ve got ten days.” All of you soldier boys are the same. You’ll be back, or you’ll be gone, and just leave a widow who’s never been a wife. He shrugged. “Hero’s a nice girl.”
“He’ll be back in Vietnam in two weeks!” Pedro shrugged again.
“I’ll give him time for the honeymoon. I am his CO.” Ben turned back to Claude.
“You’re just going to leave her?”
“I thought you didn’t care for marriage, Ben?” Pedro asked. Ben whirled around again. Threw up his hands. The ankle of his pants nearly clocked Pedro in the face. He tilted his head marginally to accommodate. The Prince wasn’t the flinching type.
“It just seems like a stupid thing to do!”
“Love makes you do stupid things,” Claude said in a tone that made Ben feel a stroke of gratitude that he never had a little brother or sister. “One day you’ll understand.”
“I will never be so stupid—” Pedro raised his eyebrows. It was hard to take him seriously while he was still holding towels.
“I remember last year you almost—”
“I didn’t almost anything!” Ben yelled. He felt a little hysterical. “I wasn’t in love, you weren’t in love with Hero a few hours ago, you just wanted—”
“I loved her last year, I just didn’t know—”
“Jesus fucking Christ, Claude!” Claude turned back to Pedro.
“Can you ask Leo if I could talk to him? I think he’d take it better from you.” Pedro nodded as if this was something real, to be considered seriously.
“This is ridiculous!” Ben cried. “This is such a bad idea. What if she’s just the first pretty girl who’s given a single shit about you in the past year—” Claude scowled from the daybed.
“I’m in love with her, Ben!”
“I can’t do this,” Ben said, dropping his pants on the ground and pushing past Pedro, who almost dropped the towels. “I’m your best friend, man, but I can’t do this in the same hour we got here.” He nearly bowled over Hero on the way down the stairs. She was beaming. Blushing. Ben tried not to slam the door behind himself. He yanked his Class A shirt the rest of the way out of his Class A pants and threw it over the porch railing, leaving him in his Class A undershirt and his Class A pants with the less-than-perfect Class A crease. Belt was next. It squirmed like a snake as he threw it into the bushes. Then, he dropped down on the back of the dusty, awful rent-a-car and let himself bake. From the open window at the front of the house, Claude was joyfully chattering away. Ben closed his eyes. This week— nine days, it was only really eight— was going to be god-awful.