On Sunday, US 1 back to Los Gatos proved to be a narrow, winding trail that zigzagged through the hills along the coastline—slow going, but welcome relief from the seventy-mile-an-hour speed limit on California’s open highways. Each time we stopped along the way, I continued my letter to Annie.
It’s our kind of place: rocky shorelines; crabs scurrying from their sunbathing atop the rocks to dark hideaways beneath them; slippery rocks blanketed with tiny snails. In the quiet pools left isolated when the tide goes out, we discovered hundreds of beautiful plants, sea anemone, sand dollars, an occasional starfish.
It’s a wonderful world, but empty when I can’t share it with you. My desire for you creates a dull pain that never goes away. I thought before we left Los Gatos that if I were on the run seeing things, doing things, I could put you out of my mind and enjoy myself. I can’t. I hope you’re going through the same thing so you can understand what it’s like.
Damn, what a mean-spirited thought. I didn’t really hope she was as painfully lonely as I was. She couldn’t be. She had Lieutenant Stud. But maybe, I hoped, maybe she missed me too. I didn’t try to black that sentence out or, as I should have done, start the page over.
“We’re leaving in a day or so and plan to be home by Friday,” I wrote. But I meant, “I’ll be in Center by the end of the week. Write me there, not here. Or better yet, call me.” She was a whiz at reading between the lines.
Ann
Monday, July 20, 1964, Landshut. I still had no answer to Terry’s proposal, but I couldn’t postpone a reply any longer. Ever since high school, the right words had flowed when my fingers connected with a typewriter, so I borrowed a portable from one of the teachers and began:
Silverton, more than any other thing, brings me close to you because it typifies a way of life. The only thing I’ve figured out for sure this summer is that a woman marries far more than a husband. She weds a way of life she must also love.
I knew I would choose peace and the tranquility of the mountains as a way of life—if I could only cut the powerful sinews that bound me to the military. Could I turn my back on my parents, my brother, and my life so far? That, in a nutshell, was the challenge. But I couldn’t even say it out loud.
Breaking my pledge not to mention Jack, I told Terry how he and Jack were so much alike. Why not share the heartache I had subjected Jack to? I had to make Terry understand how difficult the decision was. I asked for more time, promised to call when I could, but concluded, “Something catches inside me with the thought of marriage right away.”
Before noon, I addressed my letter to Terry in California, marched to the post office, and paid thirty-eight cents for an airmail special-delivery response that was totally inadequate.
That night, decked out in his dress blues, Jack ushered me into the reception line at the officers’ club as if he were introducing his new bride. I’d trotted out my sexy cocktail dress with matching shoes and bag—still trailing delicious memories of Paris and Verona. I wanted to look good for Jack.
Everyone, from the colonel on down, closed ranks around him, each telling me Jack was a go-getter, a star, a soldier’s soldier—as if I needed to be convinced. You can always count on him to do what he says. He’s a problem solver. He’s a real team builder. His men would follow him anywhere. When we invited him for dinner, he helped clear the table—this from one of the wives, as if such a man were as rare as a pearl in a clam.
Late in the evening, a tipsy major sidled up and clapped me on the shoulder. “That Jack’s a warrior. He tells you what he thinks, no matter who you are. He’ll be a four-star someday.” Pressing in, the major burped whiskey breath in my face and stroked my arm. When his hand advanced to my shoulder, I edged back. He pulled me into his chest. “Let’s dance, sweetheart.”
Jack elbowed him aside. “Sorry, sir, she promised this one for me.”
He swung me onto the dance floor. “What he didn’t tell you is he and I had a run-in last winter after I busted a guy for stealing from the noncom club. Get this. The thief took off, but I tracked him through the snow. The major there, soused, as usual, called me on the carpet. ‘I’ll get your sorry ass, Sigg! You’re history.’ On and on. I went over his head to the colonel, who already had him in his crosshairs. ‘Major Hooch’ backed down.”
“Thanks for rescuing me. He’s an octopus, eight hands, foul breath.”
“He thinks he’s Don Juan. His wife puts up with a lot. Forget him . . . How about we get some fresh air? Go for a walk?”
The night was too breezy, and we wound up in his room in the BOQ. In one day, his cozy space had been stripped—naked walls, bare shelves, empty closet, no stereo, the bathroom echoing around his toothbrush and razor. It had become a way station for dozens of identical boxes, neatly labeled, stacked five high in tidy rows, along with two stout duffel bags.
“Whoa. No sign of you left!”
“All my worldly goods, except the Sting Ray, packed and ready to go.” In front of the dresser, he wrapped his arms around me, bear hugging me from behind.
“It’s so final,” I said. “Once the boxes and bags are gone, you could disappear without a trace—like we did from the party.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Who cares if we’re missing in action and eyebrows go up?”
I kicked off my shoes. We cuddled on the bed and never made it back to the reception. When he walked me home, he asked me to come to the ceremony the next day.
“Wouldn’t miss it, but I’m warning you, Juliet had it wrong. Parting is sorrowful sorrow. I hope I can maintain decorum.”
Jumbled emotions wrecked my sleep. A decision that had begun to congeal—to marry Terry—had dissolved under Jack’s low-key, full-court press. He wasn’t pushy at all, merely his wholesome, enthusiastic, loving, irresistible self.
Tuesday, July 21, 1964, Landshut. Early morning. Barely light. A rumbling rattled my room. Watery eyes. I knew that smell—diesel exhaust. I stumbled to the window. Across the parking lot, soldiers swarmed the BOQ like an invasion of ants, hauling boxes and duffel bags into belching trucks. The Sting Ray crawled up a ramp onto an auto transport. Soon, I would be left alone.
How to say goodbye? There wouldn’t be a time or place for a proper farewell. But I had an idea—I could send part of myself, a lock of hair. The thought yanked me from the window. I penned several versions of my parting note before I lit on this:
My dearest Jack,
Your departure leaves me less than whole, for you are taking part of my heart with you. I know you can’t hold it in your hand when you think of me, so I’m sending this lock of hair that you can see, touch, even sniff (if you’re so inclined—heh), to remind you of our extraordinary summer—and to hold us till Johnstown.
No matter what happens, part of me will always belong to you. With my deepest love for all you have shared with me, and for the better person I have become by knowing you.
Yours,
Ann
I snipped a curl, tied it with a few strands of hair, and, in case he really did sniff it, dabbed shampoo on the cut ends. I popped the note and curl into an envelope and sealed it.
Running late, I speed dressed into my best skirt, jacket, blouse, and hose, my dressy sandals, and the white gloves Mom had insisted I take. At the parade grounds, I linked up with two wives I had met, and we found a good roost as the military band struck up. The troops paraded in, the men singing, “Over hill, over dale, we have hit the dusty trail . . .” The chorus of male voices belting out “And The Army Goes Rolling Along” gave me goose bumps.
Everything I loved about army life flooded my mind, especially the camaraderie among the men, but also among their families. We army brats shared a special bond of independence that made us confident beyond our abilities and kept us grounded in the midst of the constant shuffle from post to post. Scenes from a dim past played in my head: young Annie romping like a wild child with her chums, exploring old battlements and climbing banyan trees in Hawaii; attending school on Governor’s
Island in the shadow of Manhattan; living inside a full-fledged, water-filled moat at Fort Monroe; and frolicking around Rome, Venice, and Verona with my pals.
I was proud to be part of that tradition and imagined myself embracing this familiar life. I’d be equally proud to introduce children into it.
The wives and I clapped as each company filed by. When F Company marched past, I got a lump in my throat. Jack and his troop outshone them all. Fact! Not a biased opinion. The lump almost burst when the men’s voices softened for this stanza, the way they always did in my childhood memories:
But if fate me should call, and in action I should fall,
Keep those caissons a-rolling along.
Then in peace, I’ll abide, when I take my final ride,
On a caisson that’s rolling along.
By the time my attention returned to the current moment, the colonel was droning on that these men had acquitted themselves heroically. Kept the world safe for democracy. Remained ever alert in their lonely vigil on the border. On and on.
Afterward, I bobbed through the forest of green uniforms, searching for my own iconic figure. I saw him working his way toward me. Finally, we were face-to-face. “Splendid,” I said. The ceremony? The parade? The music? Or this striking man before me? Well, all of it.
“You liked that stirring speech, eh?”
“Nah, too short.” That made him laugh. “Actually, the commander of F Troop caught my eye. Did you see how he and his troop conducted themselves?”
“Must have missed it. Tell me about it.”
I hooked my gloved hand through his elbow. “Sorry, you had to see it for yourself.”
“Maybe next time.”
“Maybe so.” My thoughts turned anxious. “How long do we have?”
“Half an hour, max. My troop and I are ready. The only loose end left is you.”
“Beware the loose end. She might lasso you and take you to her secret hideout.”
“And have the whole army after us? Sounds exciting.”
“Yeah, but they’d win, wouldn’t they?” I pulled out the envelope with my lock and the note. “Why don’t you take this to remember me by?”
“What’s this? Okay to open it now?”
“Up to you. Immediate gratification or deferred?”
A spiffy soldier appeared, clicked his heels, and saluted. “Lieutenant Sigg, sir!”
“What is it, sergeant?”
“Everything is buttoned down, sir! We’re moving out.”
For an instant, Jack’s eyes clouded. “Very good, sergeant. Be right there.”
Jack slid the envelope into the inside breast pocket of his uniform. “I’ll keep it close to my heart. Let it tantalize me until I get a private moment. See you in Johnstown?”
“Hope to survive that long,” I said.
14
High-Stakes Gambling
Terry
Thursday night, 23 July 1964, Reno, Nevada. Mom and I deposited Pam and Randy in our hotel room and ventured into Harrah’s Casino. My God. Banks of flashing lights, the seductive sound of bells and whistles, the scent of riches with every spin. We each bellied up to a slot machine with twenty dollars in coins and agreed that when the money ran out, we’d stop. If we didn’t strike it rich first.
Before me, reel one in the whirling dervish display spun to a stop: 7. Reel two: 7 again! My pulse skipped a beat. One more and we would be set for life. Reel three spun, slowed, and crawled to a stop. Cherries. Damn! I inserted another nickel. This time, a lemon, another lemon, and . . . a melon. Around me, these bandits whistled and sang and spewed coins like candy tossed in a parade. But mine gobbled coins as if it hadn’t eaten in a month.
What a cunning creature! When my stash got low, the vamp spit out a deluge of nickels. My riches grew to twenty-seven dollars. Then thirty-two. I started stuffing coins in as fast as I could. Beside me, Mom was feeding her machine just as feverishly. Minutes later, whir, thrump, bing-bing-bing! My pile dropped to sixteen dollars, and in a flash, my machine gulped every last nickel. It winked at Mom’s machine. Poof! Her pile vanished in a melee of sounds and flashes.
Leaning back, Mom threw her hands up in surrender, but she was grinning like a ninny. “Your dad used to say gambling was a waste of good money. Don’t tell the kids—or Reverend Wisehart—but that wasn’t money wasted at all. It was great fun while it lasted.”
We tromped up and down Virginia Street, lit up noonday bright with neon, and checked out other casinos—Horseshoe, Primadonna, Nugget, Cal Neva—and ended up back at Harrah’s for the late-night adult show. A small-town gal, Mom was not a partier. A big night for her had been the monthly pinochle klatch she and Dad organized—four couples, best of friends, potluck, two beers max, gossip, tall tales, and cutthroat pinochle until midnight. She hadn’t been out on the town, not even to dinner or a movie, since Dad was killed three years before.
Scrunching up to one of the tiny cabaret tables, we ordered Black Russians—“Wow, Terry, these are yummy!”—and settled in, front row. There I was, rubbing knees with my mother, as close as a hot date. The lights dimmed. Chatter died out. The orchestra roared to life. Out strutted the “girls” in high heels and skimpy, spangle-covered, skintight, low-slung half bikinis. And naked from head to hips! Not even sporting those tiny tasseled pasties I’d seen on Bourbon Street when a carload of us drove from CU to New Orleans one spring break. That steamy tease had nearly set me off, especially the girl who swung her tassels like tether balls in opposite directions simultaneously.
But this troupe bested New Orleans. The stage sparkled with topless beauties, bare breasts bouncing, nipples front and center. These girls danced. And pranced. And kicked their heels so high I got an embarrassingly close-up peek at that hidden wonderland. Their tight little bikinis veiled their privates, sure, but so snugly that no detail was left to the imagination. I was afraid to twitch for fear Mom would catch me letching and box my ears. It wasn’t just the sex on display that blew me away, but also the dancers’ enthusiasm, their energy, their athleticism. They were in better shape than I’d been when I wrestled in high school.
As we filed out into the street, I couldn’t say a word to Mom or even look at her.
“Well,” she said, once we had broken free of the crowd. “That was quite entertaining. Those girls are beautiful, aren’t they? So graceful. Too bad we have to leave tomorrow.”
Friday morning, not far out of Fallon, US 50 narrowed to a lonely track through an uninhabited land. Pam and Randy had zonked out before we made it through Fernley. Riding shotgun, Mom hung on for a half hour and then drifted off. Silence. A two-lane road. No traffic. No radio reception. No scenery. Thoughts of Annie laid siege to my mind.
Three weeks had dragged by since I had proposed. To be precise, twenty-four days. No answer. Not a letter. Not a card. Not a call. She had been back in Germany nearly a week—time enough to have read my every letter a hundred times.
The reason for her silence? Obviously, she had rejected me. She was serious about the lieutenant. I couldn’t blame her. She knew every detail of my lurid past with women.
But it was more than my sexual history that doomed me. Annie had grown up Christian, in a family of Republicans. I had, too, before I’d turned left down a path that was anathema to Annie’s mom and dad. No doubt she realized that life with a peacenik would be impossible for an army girl. I stewed over that truth for miles as the bleak desert rolled by.
How did I turn out so different from the rest of my family? No mystery there. It was the Colorado Daily, damn them! The Daily had brought Annie to me, but it had also radicalized me and sent her running. It had transformed me from the buzz-cut, churchgoing, Boy Scout, Boys State, DeMolay, straight-A teachers’ pet I’d been at Center High School into a shaggy-haired, left-wing, confront-anyone-in-authority muckraker.
The Colorado Daily plunged me into national and international issues. We covered the campus news, but we defined ourselves as crusaders on the front lines of a nationwide studen
t movement for social change. In the spring of my freshman year, I was promoted from volunteer reporter to wire editor, a paid position. My job? Select the best stories from our United Press International news service and produce a daily page to keep CU students abreast of world events.
We reported on the Cuban revolution as if it were on campus, our stories pro-Castro, pro–Che Guevara, indignant at the US economic blockade. We lionized Martin Luther King Jr.; celebrated the freedom riders, sit-ins, marches, and boycotts; decried police brutality and mob violence against civil rights demonstrators in Anniston, Montgomery, and Jackson. We at the Daily believed America was gasping its last breath.
Mom and my brothers and sister didn’t know about those stories or the angst they caused me. All Mom knew was that I’d been managing editor at the university and that “something had gone wrong.” Terry, what an honor. We’re so proud of you. That was Mom—she always managed to see a good side to everything. I glanced over at her. Even asleep she wore a faint smile.
That same semester at CU, the required Makers of Modern Journalism class introduced me to the pre–World War I writers who exposed the sordid underbelly of America. Lincoln Steffens’s Shame of the Cities unmasked the slimy world of political corruption. In McClure’s Magazine, Ray Stan-nard Baker dug into exploitation in the coal mine industry. And Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle grabbed me by the collar and forced me to wallow in the stench of meat-packing sweatshops of Chicago. The American history I had learned at Center High had been sanitized, polished, and distorted, its blatant evils expunged.
In the School of Journalism reading room, a dingy hideout in the basement of Hellems Hall, one entire wall was taken up with shelves of magazines and newspapers from around the country. I discovered a raft of publications I’d never heard of: the Nation, Saturday Review, the Atlantic, Harper’s, the New Yorker, the New Republic. The basement reading room, cold enough to require gloves, sweaters, and scarves in winter, was an Aladdin’s cave of intellectual treasures.
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