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Ruth felt his eyes on her as she passed. That smirk made her feel like he knew what she looked like under her dress, or like he knew what she was thinking when she saw those words—the you big, bold, underlined. Emphasized. Me. Oh, it didn't matter that it was paper glued to brick. He could see her. He knew her.
She pushed through the glass doors, into the post office, hitching the parcel tighter against her chest and hoping she looked rushed enough to justify the pink of her cheeks. The tingle shooting down her spine, stabbing through, slithering into her belly and lower... that, at least, was hidden.
I want YOU to buy war bonds now. Ruth thought of the stamp book in her knapsack, over half-filled with twenty-five-cent stamps. By Christmas, she'd be able to turn it in for another bond.
When it was her turn at the counter, she handed over the package. Dad was fighting in the Pacific and he'd asked for socks and pencils and a few other things. Mom was so busy with work that Ruth had taken it upon herself to put the package together. It was one less thing for her mother to worry about.
She bought more stamps, too, with the part of her allowance she'd been saving. It meant not going to the movies for the next couple of weekends, but she'd seen everything showing, and anyway she had to rehearse for her part in Giselle. She moved off, away from the counter, to the high shelf people used to address letters or sort their mail, and fished the stamp book out of her bag. Just the last few pages were empty. Ruth pasted the two new stamps carefully into place and slipped the book back into her bag, behind her schoolbooks. Then she left, stepping back out into the late summer sunshine. It was still hot and still dry, and it didn't feel at all like fall was on its way.
Ruth rounded the corner of the post office and there was another line of war bonds posters plastered to the brick, six of Captain America making his desires very clear. I want you. One of the posters, the one at the end, was peeling away from the brick at two of the corners. Just enough to catch her eye as she passed. Ruth wondered what happened if it fell.
She wasn't in any hurry as she made her way to the dance studio. Which was a good thing, since she couldn't quite seem to focus. She just kept thinking about those posters, about Cap and what he wanted. What else he wanted. She changed in the dressing room, stripping out of the day dress she'd worn to school and slipping into the familiar, comfortable practice dress she'd sewn herself from a pattern borrowed from Emily. Ruth sat down on the bench in front of the cubbies to put on her shoes and paused, staring at her fingers against her foot.
She wondered how big Cap's hands were.
She wondered if he'd leave the gloves on.
Ruth shuddered.
Madame Poirot called the class in, and Ruth hurried to finish tying her shoes. She flexed her feet, then padded out of the dressing room behind Emily. She hadn't even noticed Emily come in, and hadn't heard her if she'd said hello. Her cheeks felt warm. Was she really so lost in thought she didn't even notice her best friend?
In the studio, Ruth took her place at the barre and began her warmup. She stretched, breathing deeply, trying to center herself, but she just couldn't keep her mind from wandering.
I want you.
She couldn't stop thinking about it all through her barre work, or as she sat at the edge of the studio with the rest of the Wills and watched Giselle and Albrecht and and Hilarion rehearse the first act, or as she glided through her own part as Myrtha in the second act. By the end of class, she thought she could hear the words in his voice.
It was late when rehearsal let out, late enough that the sky was dark and the heat of the day had dissipated. Ruth needed the big, comfy sweater her grandmother had knitted for her. She slung her knapsack over her shoulder and set off, forgetting until she was at the end of the block that she hadn't even said goodbye to Emily.
Home was on the other side of school, past the post office again. The streets were dark, burned-out lights and energy conservation efforts combined to leave pedestrians mostly with natural and indirect light by which to navigate. Ruth slowed as she approached the post office. She could only barely make out the posters until she was within touching distance, and then it seemed to her that they were stark, lit up, bright against the dark of the brick. I want you. She half-smiled, at him or at herself. Well, the feeling is mutual, Cap.
Ruth paused near the poster that was coming loose at the edges. She stole a look around, feeling vaguely guilty for the thought that was forming, the one that had tried to form since she'd first passed the poster, but she was all alone. It was past dinnertime for most folks, and none of her classmates had to come her way; at least, none who took the long way. She was sure there were workers inside the post office, but she couldn't even hear them. She felt like she was alone. There was no one to see.
Hesitant, she reached up to pinch the corner of the poster between two fingers and peel, just a little, just to see. Just to check. It came away from the brick easily. So easily. Ruth worried her lower lip and looked around again. I want you.
She peeled the poster carefully off the brick, as fast as she dared, glad that it made no more noise than a breeze rustling stiff paper. She rolled it up quickly and unbuttoned the top two buttons of her sweater so she could slip the poster between her sweater and her dress. She looked around again as she redid her buttons. Guilt twisted in her stomach and made her head feel kind of swimmy, but she was sure she hadn't been seen. She started once more for home.
Maybe she rushed a little more than she normally would have. Maybe there was an extra bounce in her step. She didn't pass anyone at all the rest of the way home. It was so strange—like it was meant to be.
Ruth made it all the way into her building before she realized she was shaking. Her heart was pounding and her cheeks felt hot and she was breathing fast. It was hers. He was hers. Oh! She climbed the stairs to the second-floor apartment she shared with her mother as fast as her tired legs could take her, one arm folded over her middle to keep the poster from sliding out of her sweater, and she fumbled in her knapsack with one hand for her key. She tried the knob before she put the key in, and the door was unlocked. She was grateful. Her hand was trembling so badly she wasn't sure she could even have got the key in.
She smelled dinner as soon as she stepped into the apartment. For a panicked moment, she wondered just how late it was if Mom had beaten her home.
“Ruth?”
“It's me, hi, I'm just going to put my things away, I'll be right back.” The words tumbled out of her, all in a rush. She stopped and made herself take a deep breath. Her mom would definitely know something was up if she couldn't get herself under better control.
She pushed away from the door and hurried down the little hall, past the living room and the dining room, into her bedroom. She didn't fully close the door; that would sound suspicious, and she probably already had her mom wondering. But she pushed it as close to shut as she could, and she dumped her knapsack on her bed. Then, with a quick glance at the door to be sure her mom wasn't following her, she bent over, slipped the poster out of her sweater, and slid it under her bed.
It was, Ruth thought, the worst thing she'd ever done in her life. And she'd gotten away with it.
She took a few more deep breaths to calm her pounding heart, then went to the bathroom to splash cool water on her hot face. She hoped her mom didn't notice the wild look in her eye or the smile she couldn't seem to fight as anything unusual. Maybe she could play it off as just a really good rehearsal if Mom said anything...
Betty was in the kitchen, peeling the potatoes to be boiled and mashed. When she looked up to smile at her, Ruth noticed the tired lines around her eyes and her mouth. Betty worked at the Navy Yard as a welder, long hours doing hard work, but Ruth didn't think she'd ever heard her mom complain.
“How was class?”
“It was good.” Ruth pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, then reconsidered, and took it off. She left it on the back of one of the spindly chairs at the table in the middle of the room. “I'm Myrtha, did I tell you?”
“Oh, baby. I'm sorry.” Betty frowned.
Ruth waved it off. “Emily's so good, Mom. I'm not disappointed. I'm just envious she gets to dance the whole performance.” She laughed. She was envious, but it wasn't an ugly, consuming thing, and despite her sadness, she really was happy for Emily. Myrtha was such a good part, too. She gave her mom a hopeful look. “Do you think you'll be able to make the show?”
“I hope so,” Betty said, sounding even more tired than she looked.
Ruth fought a wince. She didn't mean to make her mom feel bad. “Don't worry about it if you can't,” she said in a breathless rush. “Emily's mom will be there. I can give her our Brownie. That'll be just as good.”
“Almost,” Betty agreed.
Ruth scooped the copper kettle off the stove and went to the sink to fill it. “Why don't you go sit down? I'll make you some tea and finish dinner.”
Betty stopped peeling the potato in her hand and watched Ruth fill the kettle. Then she sighed, softly, and dropped the peeler and the potato into the colander.
“That would be nice,” she said.
Ruth smiled at her mom over her shoulder as she shut off the water. “Go on.”
Betty left, and Ruth set about fixing the tea and finishing the potatoes and checking on the chicken. She loaded up a small tray with enough of the tea service for her mom and took it into the living room, where Betty had put her feet up on the little floral ottoman that went with her favorite chair. The wireless was on, but it was barely loud enough to hear. Betty had laid her head back and closed her eyes.
Ruth frowned. “Are you all right?” she asked quietly.
“Just tired.” Betty raised her head and put her hands out for the tea tray. She mustered up a smile that didn't reach her eyes. “I have another split shift tomorrow.”
“Is there anything I can do?” It was an old conversation. Ever since Betty had started work at the Navy Yard, Ruth had done what she could to make things at home easier for her mom.
Betty smiled again. “You already help so much. You're a good girl, Ruth.”
Immediately, Ruth thought of the poster. Rolled up and hidden like the loot it was. Her cheeks felt hot.
Betty raised an eyebrow at her. “Are you all right?”
Ruth wiped her hands down the front of her dress and rolled her eyes. “I'm just a little old for good girl, aren't I?”
Betty laughed. She sipped her tea and regarded Ruth over the rim of the porcelain cup. Her eyes glittered with mirth. “Maybe,” she conceded.
Ruth went back into the kitchen, absolutely not considering what it might sound like, what it might feel like, for him to tell her what a good girl she was.
There would be time enough for that later.
Over dinner, Betty talked some about work, and Ruth filled the silence with chatter about school and dance. When she mentioned costumes for the ballet, Betty's face fell. Her hand froze halfway between her plate and her mouth, the piece of chicken dripping gravy back onto her plate.
“Do you need...?”
War shortages made finding the material to make new ballet costumes nearly impossible.
Ruth shook her head. “It's a very thrifty show, Mom, promise. We're borrowing what we don't already have from another school, and we're even selling tickets so we can buy war bonds.”
Betty laughed. “Of course.” She went back to eating.
They finished, with Ruth describing the trade they'd set up with another school nearby and with the school, and talking about the music students who took turns playing for them. When they'd cleaned their plates, Ruth reached for her mother's and pulled it to her.
She started to get up. “Go sit back down,” she said. “I'll take care of the kitchen.”
Betty looked relieved. “Thank you.”
Ruth cleared the table while her mother went to change into her pajamas, and then she heard the wireless turn up when she started washing dishes. There really wasn't much to do and she made quick work of it, especially since her mind kept wandering back to the poster. Back to Cap.
“What's got you smiling like that?” Betty asked, soft and teasing.
Ruth started, surprised by her mother's voice, then laughed, feeling her cheeks go hot. She stared down at the plate in her hands and finished drying it. “Nothing.” Oh, that sounded like a lie even to her own ears.
“Is it a boy?”
He's no boy. Her cheeks got hotter and she shook her head. “No boys, Mom.”
Betty looked at her for the length of a few more heartbeats, the warm, knowing smile never falling from her face. “All right,” she said finally. She put her hand on the back of Ruth's head, careful of her curls, and kissed her temple lightly. “I'm going to bed. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Betty squeezed Ruth's shoulder and smiled, her eyes twinkling. “Sweet dreams.”
Sometimes, mothers were too smart for comfort, Ruth thought.
She finished in the kitchen, listening for her mom's bedroom door closing. She was alone, finally, and it was quiet, and knowing that soon she'd be in the privacy of her room made the heavy feeling inside her start to build. There was nothing left except to think about him. I want you.
She washed up, brushing her teeth and her hair and changing into her nightgown in record time. She made sure all the lights were off and the front door was locked, and on her way down the hall to her room, she glanced at her mom's door. She couldn't see any light under it, spilling into the hallway, and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
Ruth slipped into her room and closed the door quietly behind her. She pulled the draft stopper from in front of her closet to block the light from escaping under her door and turned on the lamp on her narrow desk. There was nowhere on her walls she could hang the stolen poster, she thought, surveying her room. She didn't want to put it in her closet—her mom would see it if she ever put her dresses away, and Ruth wouldn't see it as often as she wanted if she put it in there, anyway. She wanted to see it. She got down on her knees beside her bed and groped beneath it for the rolled-up paper, suddenly realizing how much warmer it was inside than it had been outside, and hoping the glue hadn't gotten sticky again.
The paper was thick and kind of rough between her fingers. She stood and unrolled the poster, slowly, holding her breath; but the glue was still dry, and it unrolled smoothly. She sighed. Oh, but it was something else, being so close to the picture—holding it!—being able to study every detail of his face, of the cowl, of the uniform... Ruth looked around again, feeling the familiar tingling in her neck at the base of her skull, in the tips of her fingers, in her lips, low in her belly. She had to put it up. Where?
There was a hook near the top of her door, and from it hung her handbags, her coat, and some of her scarves. Ruth switched the poster to one hand and reached up to take everything off the hook as quietly as possible. She left them on her little desk and looked between her poster and the door. There was just enough room, she thought. She found thumb tacks in her pen drawer and, trembling, she positioned the poster and pinned it to the back of her door. She held her breath, just waiting for her mother to wake, to know what she'd done as she'd pushed in the first pin, but there was no sound from the hallway.
A rush of blood to her head left her feeling dizzy and giddy.
Ruth finished pinning the poster to the door and stepped back. Her skin felt hot and prickly under her nightgown and her bedroom suddenly seemed much smaller. In the warm glow from her lamp, he seemed bigger. His expression seemed even more intimate. She shivered. Her eyes fell from his face to his hand, his finger pointed right at her. I want you. She'd seen enough movies and newsreels and photographs to make an academic study of those red gloves.
Her face went hot again. She turned to sweep her things off her desk and push them into the tiny closet. With one final look at the poster, she shut off the lamp and climbed into bed.
His eyes were on her through the darkness. She couldn't stop thinking about the gloves.
She wasn't ignorant. She had a pretty good idea what it meant when her insides turned to liquid heat at the thought of Cap saying I want you, and Mary had given her that book she'd gotten from her mother's hiding spot, the one with the swooning, half-dressed woman on the cover. There were things on those well-worn pages in stark black and white that matched the thoughts Ruth had been having since she'd seen the first poster. So lying there, in the dark, knowing he was right there watching over her, Ruth pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
They were alone in a shoebox of a dressing room, sometime after she'd danced—something new, something just to accompany his act on tour—and he'd strutted across the stage. The door was closed between them and everyone else. She was in her best dress, her hair all done up, her lips Victory Red. He was still in his uniform, the wool and cotton and leather, the star on his chest and the stripes around his middle. He even still wore the cowl, and the blue of it made his eyes even bluer in the dim light. She liked the cowl. She liked it almost as much as she liked the gloves, the heavy feel of them as he wrapped a hand around her shoulder, as he slid the other along her waist and around her back. The gloves were thick and smooth and warm from his hands. She smelled leather. As close as he was, the heat from his body was better than clothes or covers or hot water bottles tucked in around her feet on a winter's night. Ruth thought about the last movie, about Cap with the Thompson; she imagined the smells of gun oil and hot brass and sweat cling to the uniform. They were the smells of work, of winning a war. She ran her hands from his elbows to his shoulders, her fingers moving over the smooth, warm wool—white, then blue. He was big and he was strong, but he didn't make her feel small and weak. He made her feel important. Like she mattered.
“We all have to do our part,” she imagined herself saying, because he said something about the war stamps, or maybe the dance—those details were always a little fuzzy.
“We do,” he agreed, and his arm around her back tightened. His gloved hand slid from her shoulder down her arm until he could cup her bare elbow. “Thank you.”
She felt hot all the way through, in the fantasy and under the covers. She started to say something, but she was flustered—it was the best kind of flustered, one that made her feel wanted—and he was very close. He lifted her, bodily, mostly with just the arm around her, and he set her back on her dressing table.
He said, “I'd like to show my appreciation.” It sounded like a promise... and a request.
She demurred, because she was a good girl, and that was what good girls did, but he kissed her. She imagined his mouth was hot, his lips were soft, and he pressed in close to her, insistent, patient. Her knees parted for him, in the fantasy and in her bed, and it felt absolutely wonderfully wrong to do that, to spread her legs, to imagine spreading her legs for him.
The fantasy went soft at the edges; the books were always full of purple prose, of big feelings but few specifics. But her best dress had buttons, and she liked to imagine he'd open them, put his hand inside. Her breasts always felt heavy when she got like this and she wanted to be touched. The idea of it felt safe, familiar. His hands were strong and sure, and his kisses were hotter as he folded her in close, as she clung to his shoulders.
Then he slid his gloved hand under her dress, up the inside of her thigh. Her own fingers were too small, too soft, just a little too cool, but it was easy to replace them in her mind with his. It was easy to match her own touch to the dream of him. He'd bring her off. It would last with him; he'd take his time, touching her gently, finding where she liked best to have his fingers. She'd part her lips against his mouth and against his chin and she'd hold him tight, and he'd kiss her and murmur to her how beautiful she is, I have you, sweetheart, come on. Come on.
And when it was over, she'd lean against him, and he'd smooth her dress down and put his arms around her and hold her until she felt like herself again. Until her breathing and her heartbeat were back to normal, until the sweat at her temples and on the back of her neck at cooled, until her muscles felt loose and she felt comfortably warm again. He'd even kiss her again. Maybe a few more times, smiling against her lips.
Ruth pushed the skirt of her nightgown back down around her knees and rolled to her side, curling up. She was sleepy now, but in the silvery filter of moonlight around the edges of her curtains, she could just make out the lines of his face and the blue of his uniform. She smiled to herself as she closed her eyes and started to drift. He was the best kind of secret: one she didn't have to share and didn't want to share because it just made her feel good.
Weeks later, after the weather turned and Giselle had brought in enough to buy four war bonds, Ruth was in the front row of Radio City Music Hall. Captain America, in the flesh, was so close she could see the stubble darkening his jaw. He was holding a motorcycle—on which were perched three leggy chorus girls with vaseline smiles—over his head.
Ruth gripped the arms of her seat and pressed her thighs tight together under her dress.