Making It Work: A Novel

By Kathleen Glassburn

It is 1965 and nineteen-year-old Sheila Gallagher is grateful to have finally escaped her dysfunctional family and married her high school sweetheart. Unfortunately she has barely unpacked in their Minneapolis apartment when Jim reveals he has joined the navy. Now her plan to earn a music degree is foiled. Still, Sheila puts her dreams on the back burner, and follows Jim to California for his first assignment.

A few months after their arrival in Long Beach, Jim is deployed to Vietnam. As Sheila attempts to navigate in a strange city without her husband, she begins to question Americas military actions. And when Jim finally returns, he shocks her once again with his decision to re-enlist, prompting their divorce. As Sheilas desire for a new beginning leads her to San Francisco, she embarks on a journey of self-discovery where she participates in anti-war demonstrations and searches for true love, meaningful friendships, and the courage to pursue her dreams. But in a time of great political and cultural change, Sheila is about to discover that a worthwhile goal can be difficult to achieve.

In this historical tale, a young woman sets out on a ten-year quest to overcome obstacles and create the future of her dreams during a tumultuous time in America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Mar 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781480837720

Kathleen Glassburn

Kathleen Glassburn has an MFA in Creative Writing from Antioch University, Los Angeles. She is managing editor of The Writer’s Workshop Review, www.thewritersworkshopreview.net, and her short stories have been published in many literary journals. Kathleen enjoys horseback riding and playing the piano. She lives in Seattle with her husband, three dogs, a feral cat, and a fifty-year-old turtle. Visit her at www.kathleenglassburn.com.

Book preview

PART 1

FOLLOWING

CHAPTER 1

First Assignment

LATE IN THE AFTERNOON OF FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 26, 1965, FOUR WEEKS AFTER THE simplest of Catholic wedding ceremonies attended only by their immediate families, Jim Gallagher came home to Sheila Doty Gallagher, his bride. Minutes before, Sheila had returned from work at a bank close to their furnished one-bedroom apartment near Loring Park, a short distance from downtown Minneapolis. It rented for $125 per month.

White dust clung to Jim’s jacket and jeans from hanging plasterboard at a new development in Golden Valley, an affluent suburb. The previous weekend he had driven Sheila past the houses.

Someday we’ll live in a place every bit as nice as these, she’d said.

Yeah … right. Jim had shifted his black 1951 Mercury, affectionately called the Beater, to second and headed for the city.

On this afternoon, Sheila gave him a huge, welcoming hug, disregarding his dusty clothes even though she hadn’t changed from her dark-blue wool dress. He went to the bathroom for a quick shower while she rummaged through their tiny kitchen, puzzling over a nearly empty cupboard and refrigerator. What will he like—Kraft mac and cheese or hot dogs?

Minutes later, Jim appeared with a towel wrapped around his middle. He stood staring at her.

What’s going on? She stirred mac and cheese on the electric stove.

What do you mean?

Why are you standing there looking at me? Isn’t there a program on TV?

I need to tell you something.

Yeah … A quiet guy, Jim didn’t bring up things in this way. What’s wrong?

Nothing.

Well?

I enlisted today. He stretched to his full six feet four inches. In the navy.

Nineteen-year-old Sheila remained uncharacteristically silent.

Aren’t you going to say something?

She slammed the saucepan onto a metal trivet shaped like a heart, her freckled skin reddening. Why didn’t you talk to me first?

I did it kind of on the spur of the moment. He shrugged. Bert’s been pushing me, saying if I don’t join another branch soon, the army’s going to get their hooks in me. I’ll be crawling through Vietnam’s rice paddies.

Herbert Anderson was a foreman for Hansen Brothers Construction, where he’d been employed at least twenty years. Jim’s firm friendship with him, Sheila was certain, had to be because he never saw his own father. But still, she thought, to not even consult me!

So, what’s next? She clenched her shaking hands into fists.

I’ll be leaving in two weeks. The recruiter said that’s enough time to give notice at work and get my affairs in order.

We’re still on our honeymoon! Did you tell the recruiter that?

He doesn’t care. Jim hung his head as if something important had dropped on the floor. I should have talked to you first. I made the decision and wanted to do it right away.

When he decided to take action, it was always spontaneously. That’s what happened when they’d decided to get married. Sheila’s father had insisted she move back home rather than living in the dorms with her friends. Your mother and brother need you here, he’d said.

When Jim heard this, he said, You need to escape from under his thumb. Let’s get married.

What about my music degree? she’d asked.

You’ll get it eventually. It’ll take a little more time.

Being with him every night trumped attending the University of Minnesota.

Now, deep down, Sheila knew his enlistment in the navy was for the best. Twenty years old, healthy, and with nothing to defer him, the army would soon want Jim as much as she did.

He wrapped his arms around her slight frame, holding her close to his chest as if sheltering a bird with a broken wing. I don’t want to go, but what choice is there?

I don’t know. She grabbed for a tissue to wipe her wet cheeks.

It won’t be that bad. I have basics, and then you can be with me wherever I’m stationed. You’ll just have to get a job.

I wanted to start night school this summer. How long will you be gone?

Twelve weeks.

Three whole months.

Let’s go out to dinner—Luigi’s maybe?

I’m not hungry.

He held her away from him, his large hands heavy on her shoulders, making Sheila feel smaller than ever. His hazel eyes stared into her moist brown ones. The navy might be fun.

She’d be increasing the distance from her parents. That’d be good. What about Tommy? The only one Sheila would miss was her younger brother. His dark red hair, similar to her own in color, always made her smile because of the many cowlicks.

With a resigned sigh, she stepped away from Jim and put the uncovered pan of mac and cheese in the refrigerator. Okay, let’s go out to dinner.

I’m sorry, my little doll. Let’s go in there. His towel dropped to the linoleum floor as she let him lead her to the bedroom.

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After Jim left for basics at Naval Station Great Lakes on Monday, March 15, Sheila stayed in their apartment but told the manager she’d vacate in a few months. Each night she crossed off the day on her wall calendar with a big black X. She wrote long letters to Jim that mostly spoke of her love for him. She played her guitar and sang I Will Wait for You and other yearning songs. Work at the bank gave her a routine that made the days go by faster.

The old Mercury had been sold, something that Sheila commiserated with Jim about, saying, You feel as bad about that car as leaving me. Of course, he’d denied this.

Other than food and rent, she had little to spend her $325 monthly salary on. Weekends, she saw her girlfriends who attended the university, but only for window shopping and inexpensive lunches, never parties.

On a Saturday afternoon in April, Sheila sat in a booth at the Point, their old high school hangout, with her best friend, Patty Clarke, who was earning a degree in psychology.

Why not start some music classes? she said.

I’m following Jim wherever he goes. I have to save for that.

You could ask your dad for help.

I’ll figure this out on my own. Sheila squared her shoulders.

Patty’s full face scrunched into frustrated lines, but in a few seconds it smoothed. She took a french fry from their shared plate and trailed it through a dollop of ketchup. I understand. Still, this is so unfair. For everyone. We miss you.

Sheila’s other friends said things like, Going to a kegger is perfectly harmless. It won’t mean you’re being unfaithful to Jim. She did consider this. It was getting awfully boring and lonely staying in the apartment night after night. Inevitably she decided, I have to be strong. It felt better to be by herself, putting in her time like Jim was putting in his time at basics, even if it did seem like their separation would last forever.

Every Sunday after mass at the Basilica of Saint Mary, she took a bus to Crystal, a suburb about eight miles away, to see her parents and Tommy. As she walked down a narrow street without sidewalks, passing other early-1950s three-bedroom ramblers, her throat tightened.

What do you hear from that husband of yours? was one of Carl Doty’s stock questions once they were settled around the kitchen table.

Sheila answered her father with something like, He’s doing fine.

Carl would be drinking a Hamm’s. Want one since you’re an old married lady?

Sheila always refused, opting for a Coke.

Then, he would say something like, You’ll be moving home when things don’t work out.

Never!

Lily, her mother, who went alone to early mass at Saint Cecelia’s, the local church, usually came home, started drinking, and passed out in the bedroom. If still sober, she never said much, mostly nodding her head in agreement with whatever Carl had to say. When she did make a remark, like, I think so too, it came out sloppy and slurred.

Tommy would sit in his usual corner chair across from Sheila. He had his own passel of questions. What’s Jim up to? Does he like the navy? Does he say anything about me? He never asked how she fared.

Sheila put this down to him being sixteen and idolizing Jim. If it weren’t for Tommy, she thought, I’d never come out to this place.

Each visit lasted an hour at the most. Sheila left, feeling disgusted with her parents and more protective than ever of Tommy. And she’d recall her mother’s oft-repeated words, You’re the strong one. Take care of your little brother.

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On Saturday, June 12, another bus returned Jim to Minneapolis for leave. A yeoman third class, he’d been assigned to the USS Matthews, AKA 49, a cargo ship home ported in Long Beach, California. Sheila prepared for the upcoming move by storing most of their few things—dishes, linens, records, books, and her precious guitar—at Patty’s house.

Mrs. Clarke, always a favorite, said, You can leave the boxes as long as necessary, dear.

Sheila packed her three-piece, red American Tourister suitcases—a strange high school graduation present from her parents who had been so opposed to her ever going away—with as many clothes and personal belongings as she could squeeze into them.

At about eight in the morning on Wednesday, June 30, Sheila and Jim waited for a flight to Los Angeles.

Carl, who wouldn’t take no for an answer, had driven them to the airport. This did save money on a cab.

Before they boarded the Continental Airlines plane, Carl hugged Sheila tightly, arms wrapped around her like a straitjacket. She pushed him away.

Undaunted, he said, Here’s for when you have to come back, thrusting a one hundred–dollar bill in her coat pocket.

Sheila tried to hand it back.

No argument. I’m paying for your return ticket, he said.

Lily, a sickly sweet smell of gin filling the air every time she spoke, murmured, Don’t see why you have to leave.

It’s going to be damned lonely for you. That husband of yours will be gone most of the time. Carl said this as if Jim wasn’t standing right there. I remember what it was like in the navy. You’re not going to know anyone in Long Beach. He had served during World War II and despite his words, had often referred to this as the happiest time of my life.

I’ll make new friends and I’ll be with Jim as much as possible. Sheila couldn’t help but think, Will I find any friends?

Meanwhile, Jim stared at his shiny black regulation shoes.

Tommy, looking as if he might burst into tears, quickly hugged Sheila before turning to Jim. You’ve been like a brother to me. Take care of yourself. They shook hands. Tommy’s other hand clamped on Jim’s shoulder, fingers pressed so hard that the tips turned red.

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Neither Sheila nor Jim had ever flown.

After a particularly scary tremor of the airplane, Sheila said, I can’t help thinking about that accident. She slipped her damp hand into Jim’s. Days before an Air Force jet transporting Marines to Vietnam had gone down near Los Angeles, killing all eighty-four aboard.

What are the chances there’ll be another crash so soon? Jim said. It’s not going to help to talk about it.

She looked at the layer of clouds outside, feeling queasy, as if a case of the flu had set in. How can we be up this high, in this big metal trap?

Taking a newspaper stashed in the seat pocket, Sheila turned to what looked like an interesting article. It told about the first American to walk in space. Edward White was the astronaut. He had left Gemini 4 and spent twenty minutes at the end of a 23.7-foot lifeline. Sheila looked at Jim, whose eyes were closed. She kissed a fingertip and touched it to his smooth cheek. He was her lifeline. A tingle went through her body as she wondered, Where will we make love tonight? Then, she began her mental recitation: I can’t live without you. I’d do anything for you. I’d go anywhere in the world with you. If the airplane crashed, so be it. They’d die together.

Jim slept through most of the four-hour flight.

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Once they gathered Sheila’s luggage and Jim’s duffel bag from the claim area, the pair wandered around bustling Los Angeles Airport for at least thirty minutes.

Everyone seems to know exactly where they’re headed, she said. This airport was so much bigger than the confusing one in Minneapolis.

Don’t worry. I’ll sort through this. He held her largest suitcase in one hand and the duffel bag hung over his other shoulder.

For several minutes, they stood watching purposeful people rush by. Jim scanned the area as if he was preparing to tackle a receiver. There’s a sign. He gestured to one of many. It read: Transportation to Long Beach and Destinations South.

At a ticket window, Sheila sifted through her black patent leather purse for money, her feet making contact with the edges of the two smaller suitcases to make sure they weren’t stolen. She gave the cash to Jim, who paid, after which they juggled their belongings and headed outside to a dirty, tan bus. The driver took all their things except for Sheila’s purse and shoved them into a lower compartment between the tires.

At least they’ll be safe. The air smelled heavily of tropical flowers and the bus’s exhaust. Sheila felt glad to be on the ground, and for an excited moment, she thought, Soon we’ll be in Long Beach. But a minute later, What then?

They squeezed into a seat with Sheila by the window. When the bus started to move, their shoulders companionably jostled.

Can you believe all these palm trees? she said. They lined the road. This was something else neither of them had seen before.

Cool. Jim had lost his nonchalant attitude, a note of anticipation creeping into his voice.

Hot summer air blew in the open windows, along with clouds of dust. They were oblivious. Both of them gawked at the ocean and other exotic scenery.

Those oil derricks out in the water are sure ugly, Sheila said. They look like gigantic grasshoppers.

You never see them in pictures of beautiful California.

Less than an hour later, the driver hollered, Seavue Hotel—Long Beach.

It was located across the street from the Pike, an amusement park with a lit-up entrance. Prior to embarking on their journey, this park would have grabbed Sheila’s attention. Now, she fumbled with the smaller suitcase and her makeup case, silently fretting that Jim might drop her heavier one, which contained a framed photograph from their wedding.

He didn’t.

The hotel was a shabby, orange stucco building that served as a bus depot in addition to a lodging. Despite its name, other newer, taller buildings blocked any view of the water. The desk clerk, a middle-aged man with slumped shoulders and reeking of cigarettes, helped carry their bags up to the third floor, panting all the way. After opening the door to the room and placing their things on a faded rug, he waited for several moments before sighing and ambling off.

Once he’d left, Jim grabbed Sheila’s arm and walked her over to a streaked window. How about that amusement park? Look at the roller coaster! Corndogs and cotton candy for dinner? He stroked her elbow.

His fingers tickled her skin, and she moved away. Sheila watched sailors in uniforms identical to Jim’s, with girls hanging on their arms, strolling through the Pike’s gates.

We can ride the Ferris wheel, he went on. I’ll win you a Teddy bear.

Where are we going to put a Teddy bear? Isn’t there enough to lug around? Besides, it’d be too expensive. Can’t we just eat here and go to bed? Sheila collapsed on a worn brown armchair. I could sleep for days.

Jim gave her a questioning look, before saying, Whatever you want.

They ended up splitting a hamburger in the empty hotel coffee shop. Sheila gave Jim the pickle. As soon as they returned to the room, both of them flopped onto the sunken-mattressed bed.

He started kissing Sheila’s neck in the hollow of her collar-bone, the way she liked it.

Forgetting about her amorous feelings on the airplane, she said, I’m too tired, and rolled away. Soon, despite rumbling stomachs, they both fell sound asleep.

About 2:00 a.m., Sheila awoke to low-pitched male voices and higher girlish giggles. In a short while, other moaning sounds pierced the thin walls, along with an image of sweaty bodies slapping together. She’d never heard anyone else having sex. Nudging Jim, she whispered, Do they have to be so loud?

He drowsily chuckled and until morning, held her tightly in a tangle of threadbare sheets.

CHAPTER 2

Apartment Hunt

I REALLY LIKED IT. SHEILA SIGHED.

Jim grabbed her hand and walked away from the white Spanish-style building.

Do you want to commit to $125/month? A one-year lease?

Of course not, but it was so nice. A front window with built-in bookshelves on either side faced the beach. Dishes with pink roses painted on them filled the kitchen cupboard. A claw-footed tub and thick, pastel towels and rugs brightened the bathroom. And best of all, there was a queen-sized poster bed with sumptuous-looking, pale-green linens.

We’ll find something that’ll work. He stood taller. It was too frilly for me.

Sheila knew Jim said this to make her feel better.

It didn’t.

They trudged on, stopping to read more For Rent signs. At each apartment building their first questions to the manager were: How much? and Is there a lease? All of them were $125/month or more, with leases of no less than six months.

Good thing we’re not lugging our stuff, Jim said after several hours.

I hope it’ll be safe with that guy. Sheila pressed her lips together.

The desk clerk, who had looked sleepier and more put upon than ever in the morning, told them he’d keep their things in his storage closet. He stuffed the suitcases and duffel bag into the space that overflowed with a broom and dustpan, mop and bucket, vacuum cleaner, wastebasket, and cleaning supplies. There was no lock on the door.

Sheila’s immediate reaction, What if we lose all of it?

The man had disinterestedly gone back to his newspaper.

Now, stopping for a moment, Jim said, It’s awfully hot out here.

Waves of heat seemed to rise from the sidewalk.

He ran a hand across his forehead. Let’s go in that café for a Coke.

The Copper Kettle looked like it had been built about 1900. Several cops sat drinking coffee. A waitress showed Sheila and Jim to a back booth with upholstered seats in dingy pale blue. Yellowish-white stuffing poked out of a rip on her side.

Do you want something to eat? Jim asked.

I’m not hungry. Later. After we find a place. What if we don’t? He had to report for duty the following night at midnight, and she’d be left alone. Back at the Seavue Hotel.

Jim stared out the window adjacent to their booth. How about that building over there?

It was tucked away on a street they had overlooked.

We can try it. Sheila took a last sip of her Coke.

Van Dorn Apartments, a pink stucco building, circa World War II, on Medio Street, had a couple of straggly palm trees in front, symmetrically planted on either side of an arched entry that led to a raggedy-lawned patio. A white board with sloppy, black, handwritten letters advertised a furnished efficiency for rent. It looked like this might be something Sheila could afford.

A long pause followed Jim’s knock on the manager’s door.

Maybe they’re gone. His eyebrows lifted.

Finally, a worn-out-looking man in a sleeveless undershirt and rumpled khakis opened the door.

Here for the apartment?

Jim nodded and introduced himself and Sheila.

The man gestured for them to sit down at a maple dinette table.

John Grey. He tapped a hand on his concave chest.

His wife huddled on a rocking chair in the front room, glazed eyes staring at a television cartoon program. She rubbed her fingers over a multicolored knit afghan. Her matted brown hair looked like it hadn’t been washed or combed in days. Sheila concluded, She doesn’t realize a thing that’s going on.

Medio’s the shortest street in the city—only one block, Mr. Grey said.

Interesting, Jim said.

Sheila wrote their information on a white paper.

Mr. Grey was the first person to spend much time talking to them since they’d arrived in California. As if lonely for any kind of conversation, he listed details about the building. Sixteen apartments. Tenants mostly retired or navy. Best deal in Long Beach. Each unit on the two floors has its own entrance door.

Like a motel back in Minnesota.

I want a place on the second floor. Jim handed him the form. So Sheila will feel safe when she’s alone.

The apartment Mr. Grey showed them consisted of a kitchen, a bathroom, and a front room with a Murphy bed that he pulled down from the wall. It rented for $80/month. After they signed a month-to-month lease and paid for the first and last, he said, Need to get back to the wife. He left them with the keys.

Sheila sat next to Jim on the Murphy bed. A knot in her stomach eased. At least I know where we’ll sleep tonight. Soon, they’d walk over to the hotel and she’d find out if their belongings were all right.

Pushing the mess of dark red curls away from her face, she said, They’re so old.

Who?

The manager and his wife.

Lucky. They have an apartment with a bedroom. Jim’s eyes rested on the beige vinyl sofa and chair, discolored with grime. These look like they came from the waiting room of a car repair shop.

They’re okay.

Sorry I don’t have the money for a better place … that you have to pay for this one. As a newly enlisted man, Jim’s pay barely covered his own needs. He jiggled his foot, bouncing the mattress of the Murphy bed up and down.

It’s fine. Someplace to stay while I look for a job. The monthly allotment check of $100 that Sheila received as his wife would cover rent, but her remaining $300, which included the money her father had insisted upon, wasn’t going to last long.

Momentarily distracted from these concerns, she shuddered. That woman must be really sick.

Who?

Mrs. Manager.

Looked like she belonged in their bedroom.

I never saw anyone so skinny.

Let’s forget about them. Jim nuzzled up to her neck. We can try this out before we go. He patted the mattress.

For a moment Sheila cuddled back, then hopped off the bed. We better hurry and get our things.

Jim hauled his large frame that had served him well in high school as a linebacker on the football team, to a standing position. Wrapping his arms around Sheila, he said, Listen, doll, it’ll work out. This isn’t such a bad place. He said this as if reassuring himself as well as her. Bumping a knee against the mattress, he continued, We’ll make good use of it later.

I’ve never seen this kind of bed. Sheila wrinkled her lightly freckled nose.

Think of all the fun that’s been had on it.

Oh gross! I don’t want to think about anybody else. The rhythmic sounds of those sailors and their girls the night before flashed through her mind. I just hope it’s clean.

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When they entered the hotel lobby, the clerk shuffled over to the storage closet and hauled out their belongings, then returned to his racing form. He had no expectant look. Sheila and Jim were in such a hurry to get back to the apartment that they barely thanked him.

It was almost 5:00 p.m. when they dumped their bags on the floor next to a wobbly coffee table.

I have to figure out where to put everything, Sheila said. After we get something to eat. Aren’t you starved?

Jim came up behind her and cupped his hands over her small breasts. Not for food.

Oh you … Sheila’s hunger was soon forgotten as the heat between them increased. They initiated the Murphy bed with her completely forgetting about who had been there before and what they had done. She ran her fingers across the prickly buzz cut of Jim’s once-wavy brown hair and arched her body toward him.

Afterward she thought, This crazy bed is ours.

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Later that evening, Sheila giggled, bumping into Jim as they walked up the steep steps to their apartment, juggling burgers and fries and Cokes from Herfy’s, a take-out place two blocks away.

As he fumbled for the key, an elderly couple came out of the screen door to the left of their apartment, on the bedside wall. They both sported big, false-toothed grins.

Sheila, noting their enthusiasm, wondered, Have they been waiting all day to meet us?

The woman, who looked like a white-haired Shirley Temple, grasped the back of the man’s belt for balance.

You’re our new neighbors, he said. Clarence Potter. He held out a spotty, wavering hand, then took it away. Guess you’re too loaded down to shake. This is my bride, Abigail, but I call her Abby.

She gave a wide-eyed nod, her curls bobbing.

After Jim made introductions to this couple, the man said, We rented this place a good twenty years ago, due to its low rent. Retired here from Kansas.

A short stroll across Long Beach Boulevard to the ocean, the woman added. Then wistfully, We used to go every day.

It’s a big event to haul out our walkers once a week, he said.

Never on weekends. For safety, don’t you know. Mostly, we take our sun on the roof, she said.

Yep. It’s flat and tarred. You’re going to like it.

No way. Sheila would go to the beach whenever possible, certainly not sit up on a roof with these two, even if they did seem harmless. Is the manager’s wife sick? she couldn’t help but ask.

Plenty sick—with cancer. Mrs. Potter nervously blinked.

He used to work at Douglas Aircraft, and she managed this building, Mr. Potter said matter-of-factly. Cancer didn’t seem to bother him.

They’re just fifty at the most. She grimaced. He stays home taking care of her.

Same as I’ll always take care of you. Mr. Potter patted his wife’s arm.

I pray you never have to. Her voice came out muffled.

That night, with both beds down, Sheila heard through their shared wall (probably no more than a couple of inches thick) the elderly couples’ snores and snuffles and footsteps, followed by flushings of the toilet. Rumblings of indistinguishable conversation came next. Sheila smiled to herself, thinking of her father’s warning that she wouldn’t know anyone in California. She sniffed, I hope to make some real friends soon.

Let’s shift—put our heads down on the other end. She rolled around to the foot of the bed. Get as far away from the Ancients as possible.

Okay, but do we have to keep this radio blaring?

I don’t want them to hear us.

We’re getting enough noise from their side. Maybe our sounds will bring back some good memories.

Absolutely not! Sheila insisted on the camouflaging Rock & Roll music, as well as all the lights turned out, before she relaxed into the moment.

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At 11:00 the next night, after time spent exploring their new neighborhood, walking on the beach, and tumbling back onto the Murphy bed for a last desperate coupling, Sheila and Jim stood in the doorway to their apartment, tightly embracing, as the taxi driver waited in the alley.

He honked his horn.

Thank goodness the Ancients aren’t out here investigating, she said.

They must have fallen off for a bit of sleep. Jim carried his duffel bag.

A longer blast of the horn.

You can’t go! Sheila knew how ridiculous this sounded.

I have to … that guy’s going to leave if I don’t hurry. Jim’s usually strong face sagged. His hazel eyes glistened.

Sheila could barely see him through her own blur of tears. She leaned a cheek against his broad chest and listened to the steady beat of his