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It’s a Tuesday, or maybe a Friday. It could be a Sunday, though with the way Father Mulcahy is slurring lyrics as he slams on the piano, Margaret would think it not. Nights like these, where everyone is at least three drinks deep at Rosie’s and no less than two handsy servicemen have been thrown out by the proprietor herself, all start to blur together after a while.
Margaret had wandered in with Helen a half-step behind some time in the early evening. A few of the nurses waved them over as soon as they were spotted. Margaret had tried to not let a swell of pride show on her face—last year, she thinks, they might’ve pretended not to see her. She allows herself, tonight, to give the sort of easy affection between friends that’s been hard to come by in Korea, in the Army, in her adulthood. They talk about anything: the new brand of 3-0 silk that’s even worse than the last batch, the new girl who sings horribly the whole time she’s doing her hair, their families back home. When the bar fills up, she and Helen have to press in close.
“I’m almost done with chapter one, by the way,” Kellye tells Nurse O’Connor quietly during a lull. “I’ll give it to you when we get back.”
“Is there a new book going around?” Margaret asks, leaning in.
Helen laughs. Margaret feels the vibration move through her chest where her shoulder hovers just beside her sternum. “Don’t pounce on the girl.”
Kellye’s eyes have gone wide. O’Connor cuts in. “I’m not sure it’s your kind of story, Major.”
“It’s better than nothing. I’m so hard up for entertainment the back of the corn flakes box reads like Austen.” It’s not quite true, not with Helen here the last month, filling her evenings with Gin Rummy and conversation. She’d still appreciate something for the downtime in Post-Op now that the fighting’s been slow, or to distract her from the scent of smuggled ambrette perfume that lingers as she’s falling asleep and follows her into dreams.
The two women across from her share a familiar wary look. It becomes clear to Margaret, with shame settling in her chest, that she wasn’t supposed to know about the book. She wonders, sometimes, if the reluctance to share is because of the gold leaves on her shoulders or because she’s herself.
“We’re not going to make any sort of report, you know,” Helen says, her hand coming to rest on top of Margaret’s. It almost envelops hers completely. She meets Margaret’s eyes, raises her eyebrows. “Are we?”
Her cheeks flame, feeling chastised. The smile that plays at Helen’s lips reassures her. “No, I –” she turns back to her nurses, her friends. “Of course not.”
“We don’t even know where it came from, really,” Kelleye divulges. “I heard one of the visiting nurses left it behind.”
“Peggy told me someone got it shipped from the States,” O’Connor says, “but I don’t believe it.”
“Well, are you going to show us or not?” Margaret urges.
With a glance around the room, Kellye pulls a stack of pages from her back pocket and surreptitiously slides them across the table. The nurses have torn it apart to share it around quicker, it seems. The beat-up cover still hangs, however precariously, onto the first chapter.
Margaret shares Lacey’s disbelief in the book having been mailed to the 4077th. There’s not a chance in hell those mailroom creeps wouldn’t have either redacted half of it or stolen it for themselves. It had probably been brought back from a seedy bookshop down one of Tokyo’s tiny alleyways that stock enough blue material to repaint all the military khaki coming in. Though she’s never bold enough to go in herself—at least, not in her dress uniform—Margaret has to admit the illicit allure of the covered windows and the locked door with a buzzer hasn’t escaped her notice while on leave. Of course, she isn’t even sure a shop like that would even carry this specific sort of book.
Something like embarrassment, maybe, flares low in her gut as she looks at the painted cover. Against a mauve background, one woman sits at a desk with her legs crossed, loosely holding a book in her manicured hand. Her dark hair is perfectly coiffed. Satisfaction plays at her lips, smudged with red. Another woman, leaning slack against a bookshelf, hides her face from the viewer. Her head is ducked, blonde strands escaping her tight bun as she watches her own fingers fasten the buttons on her short sleeve cardigan. Underneath, she is completely bare. The curves of her breasts stand out against the flat plane of her stomach. Modesty is plausibly maintained by the fabric just barely covering her nipples.
Helen lets out a low whistle. “Between the Stacks,” she reads aloud, “a novel of seduction by Eve Saffer.”
“Not so loud!” Kellye warns.
“Not quite the reading material we had as lieutenants, huh, Houlihan?” Helen says. Her elbow bumps Margaret, jostling her from where she’s been stock-still.
Margaret has to clear her throat once, twice before she can answer. The alcohol must be getting to her. “Not exactly.”
“It’s really just for kicks,” O’Connor giggles softly.
Helen leafs through the first few pages with the blunt nail of her thumb. “Oh, I’m sure. If there’s no one behind you on that list, O’Connor…”
“I’ll drop it off once I’m done.”
“What about you, Major?” Kellye asks.
Her spine straightens. “I’ll leave it to you all. I’m a little too busy being Head Nurse for melodrama.”
“You’re telling me you’re not the least bit curious?” A teasing smirk plays at Helen’s lips. Margaret, without thinking, darts her tongue out to wet her own.
After a moment’s hesitation, she presses her mouth together firmly. “Just don’t give it to me while I’m on duty.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Helen drawls with a lazy salute.
Margaret gets the next round from Rosie after that, if only to give herself a chance to breathe.
ᚒ
It’s incredible how quickly news spreads. In the next few days, it seems like every woman in camp has added their name to the waiting list. Bedside lamps stay on deep into the night, shifts in the lab run long and distracted by conversation, whispers take over the benches where the women lounge in the sun. Margaret can’t count how many times she’s heard the phrase “have you gotten to the part where…” this week.
An unspoken gag order also seems to have taken place. Under no circumstances, they agree, should any man find out. Hawkeye tries to wheedle it out of her, whining about a date that got canceled for mysterious, unconvincing reasons. She’s pretty sure he just wants to feel included. It’s a pathetic attempt, really. She doesn’t budge.
Between the Stacks is not a good book, per se: its writing is clunky, its typos are numerous, its pacing is wildly inconsistent. Still, Margaret finds herself drawn in, eagerly awaiting the covert hand-off of the next chapter. The two leads are surprisingly compelling; there’s Emma, the alluring, wild co-ed (they’re always co-eds) determined to try everything once, and Carson, the graduate library clerk who is far too stern for interests beyond her studies and her fiancé who, by Margaret’s estimation, is a complete dolt. Emma has made it her mission to seduce the prudish librarian by any means necessary. In an endeavor to get closer with the other woman, she’s so far feigned a work-study authorization, expertise in the Dewey Decimal system, and the ability to type. By this point, she’s realized her flirtations are futile and has gone out with a T.A. girl to banish Carson from her mind. On her last day of the semester, Emma gave Carson a searing kiss goodbye, pressed against the bookshelves.
Margaret finds herself most intrigued by the verisimilitude that pervades the book; maybe not in the dialogue, with unrealistic, awkward speech, but in the spark between the two leads. There’s an eroticism in their lingering glances and their bodies that feels lived-in, comfortable. Whoever ‘Eve Saffer’ is might have a certain level of personal experience. Not, of course, that Margaret would have any basis on which to judge.
She’s so caught up in thought that she almost trips walking into her tent. A package has been dropped right at her doorstep, wrapped in inconspicuous brown paper. A note is tucked into the folds at the back. Every other chapter has covertly changed hands in person with little discussion. Familiar angular scrawl smudges where Margaret’s finger drags across it, the ink still wet. Helen must’ve just dropped it off on her way to the night shift. (Margaret has considered scheduling her friend on the exact same shifts she works, but has always changed her mind. A head nurse can’t be seen as playing favorites.)
“Margaret,” it reads, “Here’s chapter ten. I think you’ll find it especially interesting. I’ll see you at your breakfast/my dinner. Helen.”
Beneath the wrapping is the next chunk of pages, held together with a binder clip. The words seem to hum beneath her fingertips. She places it on her bed, stares for a moment. Her evening is entirely free. She could tear into it now, if she wanted to, but it’s early. The sun is only just beginning to set, tinges of pink seeping between the gaps in her curtains. There’s a part of her, too, that wants to prolong the heady pulse of anticipation that beats in steady time with her heart.
She forces herself to do her nightly routine, the methodical application of cold creams, lotions, and oils almost meditative in its repetitiveness. In the mirror she spends an extra minute analyzing her face, wondering absently how a writer, how this writer, would describe her. She knows, perhaps too well, what of her body appeals to men. Would a woman’s eye stay chastely on her dimpled chin or the column of her neck; or would it stray further, to the swell of her breasts that strain against the thin t-shirt, to her stomach, less toned than she’d like, to the strong muscles of her legs? Helen, she thinks unbidden, has very long legs.
The sun has sunk low by the time she’s ready to settle, lighting the candles on her bedside table. She pulls back when the flame from the match gets too close to her fingers. She hadn’t realized she’d let it burn to the nub. She switches off her lantern and a warm glow overtakes the room, pulling the shadows long like saltwater taffy. It’s only just enough light to read. Her blankets stay folded neatly under the bed; it’s far too hot tonight.
At the close of the chapter Margaret devoured last night, Emma, lonely after being rejected, barely left her apartment throughout winter break. She hadn’t yet realized that their kiss in the deserted bookshelves of the library left Carson in a “confused, anxious, aching state of want.” Margaret’s gaze catches the note on her nightstand as she readjusts her pillow. She ignores the creeping heat in her face and begins to read.
Just as she had put away the leftovers, a pounding shook her door. Through the peephole, all she saw was a neat blonde bun. A loud switch echoed as she undid the deadbolt.
Carson stormed in maniacally. She grabbed Emma by the arm and dragged her inside, slamming the door behind her. Emma wished her grip was hard enough to bruise.
“I may have a broken engagement because of you!”
“What happened?”
“Kenneth says I have been distracted and upset all semester. He thinks I don’t want to marry him. It’s all your fault!”
“My fault?”
“I am not like you. I never have been. But you started hanging around so much, even when I didn’t want you to. You forced your way into my mind until you were all I could think about. Then you had to go and – and – and kiss me!”
“You’re not angry,” Emma understood. “You’re afraid.”
“I am angry. I’m angry at you.” Carson was reassuring herself, trying to maintain an impossible facade. She was beautiful in this light with the late afternoon sun coming through the window. Her fair skin turned golden.
“No, you’re not.”
The women looked at each other. Both breathed harshly. Carson’s eyes roamed Emma’s face, though for what, she didn’t know.
“Damn you!” Carson cried.
She pressed their lips together, desperately.
Margaret lets a soft gasp escape past her lips. She realizes that one hand has slowly come to rest on the widening gap between the hem of her t-shirt and the waistband of her underwear. Her nail gets caught on the fabric as her forefinger absently traces circles. Deep divots mar her skin where the elastic presses. In her other hand, she perches the chapter against her sternum and continues reading.
Emma pushed back. It made Carson stumble backward into the kitchen counter. A startled noise escaped her lips. Emma took it as an invitation to lick past Carson’s plush, warm lips, waxy with her signature nude lipstick. Her gasp turned into a moan of pleasure.
“You’re very good at that,” Carson said.
“I have lots of practice.”
“Will you teach me?”
Desire roared within Emma. She crashed their lips together again and walked them to the couch, not wanting to separate for even a moment. Carson kissed clumsily, having only been with that Neanderthal of a high school sweetheart before, but she learned quickly. As Emma pressed her onto the couch, her hands tangled in Emma’s messy hair and pulled, igniting each nerve ending.
With a ferocity shared only by panthers, Emma kissed, nipped, and licked her way from Carson’s ear down underneath her perfect strong jaw and lower still, careful not to leave teeth marks above the collar. A button flew as she tore off her blouse. Emma pulled back to admire the woman’s lithe frame, her lily white skin, her heaving, round breasts with pink nipples hardened in arousal. Emma could not help herself: she took one breast into her mouth and gazed up as Carson’s eyes rolled back. Equal treatment was given to the other breast. The hold on the back of her head twisted and tightened. Emma practically purred.
Her mouth and hands both traced down from the chest to the torso, nibbling at her belly button until she squealed. Carson protested that she was ticklish. Smirking and satisfied, Emma took residence between Carson’s legs.
The pages drops forward onto Margaret’s chest. Her cheeks prick with heat, feels each shift in the rough cotton fabric of her bedsheets against her lower back, bare where her shirt has ratcheted up further. She heaves a shaky breath, and the book falls onto her chin. The paper sticks unpleasantly to the sweat beading on her chest; she knocks it to the floor. Her breasts have never been particularly sensitive, but a shiver wracks through her when she traces the underside with her long, manicured nails. Other women must be far more responsive; men, the few of them that cared to try, had been disappointed at Margaret’s lack of reaction to their squeezing and fumbling. She pictures Carson—more of an idea of a form than a fully realized person—gasping and arching her back as Emma kissed her breasts. Warm flesh between her lips, hands on the back of her head, swollen pink nipples glistening with saliva once she’s done.
Margaret’s mouth parts, a sudden, abrupt moan escaping. She twists her head, seeking cooling relief from the small electric fan in the corner. When her hand blindly reaches for the glass of water on her bedside table, it finds a folded piece of paper instead. A small noise—she won’t allow herself to call it a whimper—ekes its way out from her throat. Helen read this section too, her brain pieces together. Did it... move her in the same way? Did she find Carson and Emma just as arousing?
Margaret’s hand dips past her waistband and finds her underwear damp and sticky. She could go get the oblong piece of jade tucked in the bottom of her closet, given to her just before her disastrous honeymoon as a gag by some of the nurses, but she won’t, or can’t, break her rhythm. Two fingers circle fast around her clit.
“Shit,” she breathes. She stutters quick, repeated hahs.
Helen has to be quiet when she does this. She can’t wait until she’s alone; you’re never alone, not with all those people living in one room. She probably tries to escape to the showers, though Margaret can never get her fingers at the right angle. Helen’s got such nimble fingers, attached to such large hands. Maybe, when she can’t grab an open shower stall, she waits until the soft breathing of sleep fills the room and touches herself just as Margaret is doing now. Maybe she lays on her front, face buried in a pillow to muffle sounds, hips grinding down rather than bucking up. Maybe she covers her mouth with her palm—a task better suited for someone else, Margaret thinks. Margaret could keep her steady, helping hand there when Helen becomes too overwhelmed to do it herself.
Margaret’s unoccupied hand trails back up to her breast, nails scraping red lines up her body. Was this, in any way, what Helen had meant when she wrote Margaret would find this chapter interesting? Wetness pools, and Margaret gathers it on her middle finger and pushes inside, quickly followed by a second. She imagines Helen imagining her doing this in a dizzying, electric closed loop system. Her moans grow louder, frantic. A third finger enters her as the heel of her palm presses down on her clit, hard. Her muscles stiffen when she comes, a long, drawn-out, guttural thing sounding from deep in her chest.
The chapter stays on the floor until the next morning.
ᚒ
“Is this seat taken?” Helen drawls. Her accent always strengthens after a tiring shift or little sleep. Margaret remembers the way her lips and teeth formed around each syllable in Houlihan at the start of an 8am class in nursing school. Her mouth dries a little.
“All yours, Whit.” A sip of coffee delays the inevitable. “How was your night?”
“Business as usual,” she yawns. “One of the kids in Post-Op couldn’t sleep, said he was having nightmares. He didn’t want a sedative, so I played cards with him until he couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. How was yours?”
“Oh, boring. I just did a little reading.”
Helen’s fork halts halfway to her mouth, which slowly grows into a smile. Margaret loves these smiles: knowing, playful, just for her. “Did you now?” Margaret nods. “Anything good?”
She scrunches her nose, and watches Helen’s eyes track the movement. “Not really. There was really just one part that was interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“Let’s call it… edifying.”
“I seem to remember that you were always quite a hands-on learner,” Helen ventures, the first notes of nervousness creeping into her voice that would be undetectable to anyone besides Margaret.
“Further study,” Margaret says, “has always helped. I might even hit the books again tonight.”
Just as Helen is about to respond, the clatter of a tray startles them both. Charles sits beside Margaret and immediately begins complaining about his bunkmates, who follow him to the table thirty seconds later. She doesn’t mind the nuisance, though, not when Helen’s teasing eyes meet hers across their coffee mugs.