by Bob Purssell
The wiseacre in me wondered if they were going to read me my rights, but I kept that thought to myself.
Again, I nodded and the lieutenant began by asking me about my childhood. As the interview progressed, I recognized a pattern. The lieutenant commander focused on the facts of my life: what I had attempted and what I had accomplished. The lieutenant concentrated on how I interacted with people. For example, when we discussed my high school ice hockey experience, the lieutenant commander initially got it wrong. “So you were both the captain and the de facto coach of the girl’s hockey team?”
“No, sir. I was the captain of the girls’ team and I helped coach the boys’ team.”
Much interested, the lieutenant went through my high school ice hockey experience in detail. That, of course, led to a discussion of my relationship with Coach Koniev. At one point, the lieutenant commander asked, “Did you and the coach ever discuss politics?”
“No,” I replied, “I’m not interested in politics. To me, it’s just a lot of talk.”
For the first time, the lieutenant cracked a grin as he observed, “Hard to argue with that assessment.” The lieutenant commander’s severe facial expression remained unchanged.
Both men were particularly interested in my work with Mrs. W. They both perked up when I told them, “Oh, yes, I handled sensitive material. I couldn’t talk about it with anyone, even my parents. If the competition ever found out, it could ruin a deal.”
The lieutenant asked, “Without violating confidentiality, describe the most sensitive document that you were entrusted with?”
Omitting the details of Mr. Conover’s treachery, I told them about my midtown journey across Manhattan to deliver the contract and that seemed to impress.
The lieutenant commander asked, “Why do you think they trusted you?”
“My boss, Mrs. W, told me everybody knew I would always tell the truth.”
“Quite the compliment,” was his observation.
As noon approached, I was tiring of the interview. I felt I had answered more than my fair share of questions. The lieutenant caught me glancing at the clock on the wall and said, “We’re almost done.”
When the interview ran over the three hours allotted, the lieutenant excused himself and left the room, while the lieutenant commander continued. Becoming ever more annoyed, with no end in sight, I considered whether to terminate the interview. One o’clock became my deadline.
Just before one, there was a knock on the conference room door. Without waiting for either of us to respond, a distinguished-looking man in uniform entered the room followed by the lieutenant.
The lieutenant commander immediately stood, and not knowing what was proper, I followed his example, noisily bumping the table. Blushing in embarrassment, I thought, you are such a klutz.
Not waiting for an introduction, the distinguished-looking man declared, “If you intend to keep our guest here all day, the least you can do is offer her lunch.”
As the lieutenant commander introduced me to Captain Jarvis, the lieutenant warned, “You’ll have to hurry, sir. The cafeteria closes in ten minutes.”
With a grin, the captain asked me, “Miss O’Leary, you eat in cafeterias all the time, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Then I hope it’s okay with you if we go out to a restaurant?”
When I smiled—in college one does not pass up the chance to avoid institutional food—Captain Jarvis commented, “Why did I think you wouldn’t object?”
To my surprise, both the lieutenant and the lieutenant commander begged off; they had another interview at two. Actually, I was happy to say good-bye; I needed a break from their all-business approach.
* * *
By the time we reached the restaurant, the lunchtime rush had passed its peak and we got a booth without a wait. After we ordered, Captain Jarvis began, “What do you think of the interview so far?”
Since by now my reaction to the interview was quite negative, I felt like saying, it sucks. However, I restrained myself to replying, “It was very … thorough.”
Sensing my irritation, Captain Jarvis said, “In case we’ve gotten off on the wrong track, I think a reset is in order.”
Not a cold-hearted bitch, I replied, “I’d appreciate that.”
Captain Jarvis said, “Tomorrow, I’ll read an evaluation of your interview. I’ll keep in mind your thoroughness comment.” I smiled, wondering if I had blown it. “When I finish, I’ll have a pretty good idea of your potential to be an information warfare officer. What the evaluation will not address is your motivation. That’s what I’d like to explore now.”
Recognizing that my dissatisfaction with the interview was not Captain Jarvis’ fault, I explained, “I was looking for a summer job; I was starting to think about what I would do after school. Then along comes your orientation course. It sounds interesting, so here I am.” After I let out a sigh, I continued, “But-but I’m not sure about the navy.”
“Because of this morning?”
“That’s only part of it.”
“What’s the other part?” asked the captain.
“I get the impression you want me to spend all my time hidden away in an office or a lab doing cryptography. I’m sure that’s intellectually stimulating, but I have that already. I can go to grad school; I can work on Wall Street.”
Captain Jarvis asked, “What are you looking for?”
“Your TV ads say, ‘Let the adventure begin.’ Well, where’s the adventure part? That’s what I want.”
“Let me try out an idea. We’re upgrading the information warfare capabilities of our major fleet units. The navy will have to staff these facilities; they’re called communication centers. Is something like that of interest?”
“I’d be serving on a ship?”
“Not all the time, but you would serve tours on a ship. You’d be a member of her crew.”
Intrigued, I asked, “I’d be a sailor?”
“An officer, actually.”
“That could be what I’m looking for.”
For the next half hour, while we ate, Captain Jarvis explained about life at sea. The more he talked, the more excited I got.
The restaurant had emptied out, when, over coffee, I asked, “The communication centers, can you describe them?”
After beginning with the words, “In general terms,” Captain Jarvis gave me an overview of the communication center concept. He put special emphasis on the provider-user relationship, saying, “It isn’t enough to give the user an intelligence estimate. If you do that, the user may overreact to one thing while downplaying something else that’s equally important. No, the provider has to be available to answer the user’s questions, to react to the user’s needs. Having the communication center onboard ship better addresses the user’s needs.”
When he had finished, excited about joining the navy’s sea-based information warfare force, I started asking questions. One of these was, “Doesn’t the communication center’s IW[28] capability duplicate what’s already available?”
That question brought a smile to Captain Jarvis’ face as he began his reply. “Every intelligence organization faces that question, because they all want to have the field to themselves. That way, by controlling the availability of information, they can shape the worldview others have. Introduce a rival and you have an alternative, often contradictory, worldview.”
I responded, “You make it sound like the communication center will be fighting with the other intelligence organizations?”
“Undoubtedly, when it comes to appropriations, everyone will be scrambling for bucks. But it goes beyond the money grubbing. Every organization has an innate tendency to expand while trying to keep its own turf free of rivals.”
Probably reacting to my confused expression, Captain Jarvis explained, “The alternative to
the messy squabbling is the unified intelligence organization. That way you get one point of view and you eliminate the disputes, the contradictions. Everything is orderly; everyone behaves themselves. How does that sound to you?”
I replied, “You make it sound like one has to choose between political bickering and a dictatorship.”
“Historically that’s been the case. So far no one has found the perfect solution.”
“My father would say you have to choose the least bad option.”
“He’s right. That’s usually what you have to live with.”
Well past 3:00 PM, we returned to the conference room and the captain summoned the Grumpy Old Woman whom I had met upon my arrival. As I said good-bye, I emphasized to Captain Jarvis that I was very interested in the program. He smiled broadly, and I was much encouraged.
As we walked, shoulder to shoulder, to the lobby, the Grumpy Old Woman was now quite friendly. Taking my hand when we reached our destination, she told me, “Dear, you must have made a good impression. The captain usually doesn’t lunch with interviewees.”
Walking across the Government Center plaza, I felt like jumping in the air and clicking my heels. When I got back to my dorm room, I called my parents who immediately asked, “Has something happened?” Since I was a child of the Plains, they were quite amazed at my newfound enthusiasm for things naval.
Four days later, I received a call from the lieutenant, who told me, “You’ll receive a registered letter with an offer, contingent on your passing a physical exam, to join this summer’s orientation program.” When I all but yelled out, “Yes,” he added, “We’re enthusiastic too. Let me be the first to welcome you aboard.”
* * *
In my senior year, hoping to win an important New York citywide tango contest, I partnered with Roberto Fangio, a man fifteen years my senior. He was the embodiment of the quintessential feminine fantasy. Tall, handsome in a most powerful way, graceful in his movements, courteous to a fault, he swept this girl off her feet both literally and figuratively.
In preparation for the contest, a Latin girl who acted as my coach and made her own gowns, created one for me. I offered to pay her, but she said, “All is taken care of.” Pointedly, she then added, “Of you, I expect much. Dance like el Diablo was at your heels. That will be your payment.”
Friday, the day of the contest, just before 11:00 AM, suitcase in hand, I waited expectantly outside 77 Massachusetts Avenue for my partner to pick me up. I was worried about two things. First, of course, was the contest itself. My opponents undoubtedly would be good, no, excellent. How would I do? Would I blow up?
I had already participated in quite a few tango contests. Over the years, I had competed in important hockey games and go-kart races. I did not believe that I would choke.
My other concern was far more troubling and had already caused sleepless nights. Although Roberto had always been correct and had never suggested a romantic interest in me, I had convinced myself we would become involved and that we would sleep together after the contest.
In my fantasy, I imagined my handsome partner ravaging me as I lay on silken sheets. Consumed by passion, I would surrender to his charms and let him have his way with me.
Alternatively, Roberto filled me with dread. What would it be like? Could I muster the courage to be truly with a man? Alternatively, would I, as was usually the case, shrink in terror or flee in panic?
Pendulum-like, back and forth, I went between passion and fear.
My watch said 10:58 AM.
Knowing he was punctuality personified, I looked for his car, an impressively large BMW. All I saw, with the exception of a stretch limo, were commercial vehicles and many ordinary cars. Somewhat surprisingly, the limo slowed and then stopped. A uniformed driver got out and asked, “Ms. Barbara O’Leary?”
“Yes.”
Opening the door to the passenger compartment, the driver instructed, “Would you please get in. Mr. Fangio and his guests are waiting. I’ll take care of your bag.”
Guests?
Curious, I stuck my head into the limo. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, to realize there were already three people sitting in the limo. I blurted out in amazement, “Mother, Father!”
After I climbed into the limo, the driver shut the door and we all began to speak at once. Finally, after all the greetings, my father explained, “Señor Fangio called several weeks ago to ask our permission to take you to New York for the contest.”
“I thought it best to inform your family,” interjected Roberto, “to prevent any misunderstanding.”
“Since you’re an adult, I told Roberto that the decision was yours. However, I was curious. ‘Could he explain,’ I asked, ‘about the contest?’ He had only started when I had him stop so your mother could listen.”
Taking my hand in hers, my mother explained. “After all these years of-of racing and playing hockey, I never … well, you know. But then, when I heard you were dancing competitively, I thought my heart would burst from joy.”
My father resumed, “I asked Roberto if it would be possible for us to come and watch.”
Roberto interjected, “To deny your parents such joy, unforgivable.”
“Barbara,” my mother asked, “this isn’t going to upset you?”
Partially for reasons I could never ever explain, I answered, “Of course not,” with tears of joy running down my face.
That night, I danced well below my abilities in the preliminary round. We qualified to move on, but just barely. Angry, I gave myself a good pep talk. Determined, driven, I danced the way I knew I could, and we won our semifinal bracket. The four couples competing against us in the finals were all excellent. I knew our only hope was for me to dance with abandon, as if el Diablo himself was at my heels. This I did, and the crowd reacted with cheers and prolonged clapping. However, the judges, everyone a fine dancer in his or her own right, saw my two mistakes, tiny as they were.
We finished third, the two couples who beat us each having made but one mistake. Disappointed, I had no quarrel with the decision. They had won, fair and square.
I apologized to Roberto. He, gallant to a fault, answered, “You were magnificent. To be able to say I was a partner of Barbara O’Leary will always be, for me, the highest of honors.”
* * *
Later that evening, after Roberto and I had changed back into our street clothes—he had reserved a room for me—we all met in my parents’ room. Roberto offered my mother his arm, and they left to go to the bar for a nightcap. To my surprise, my father said, “Before we join them, I need to talk with you.”
His tone alarmed me, his asking me to sit next to him on the sofa even more so.
“Barbara, I am the bearer of bad news. … Your mother has pancreatic cancer.”
Stunned, all I could say was, “Oh no. Is it-is it bad?”
“Very.”
“They can operate; she can have chemotherapy?”
“Yes, there will be an operation.”
Pleading, I asked, “There’s hope, isn’t there? She could be alright?”
“Barbara, we must prepare ourselves.”
“No,” I wailed, tears pouring from my eyes.
He waited for my flood to subside before saying, “Barbara, look at me.”
Sniffling, I did as my father instructed.
“Barbara, we have something very important to do. Tonight means so much to your mother. You have made her so happy.” Then looking away, perhaps more to himself than to me, he admonished, “We must not ruin it.”
With effort, I stopped crying and sniffling. After washing my face, I went with my father to join my mother and Roberto. I laughed and joked, determined not to ruin her evening, although my heart was aching.
* * *
After an early breakfast, I said good-bye to Roberto, who was leaving
at noon from JFK on a business trip. Immediately thereafter, my father announced he was going for a walk. This left my mother and me in my parents’ room. She asked, “Father told you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s talk.” I nodded and my mother recounted how she and her doctor had discovered her pancreatic cancer. Then, after a pause, my mother told me, “It’s stage two, so my prognosis is not so good.”
As upset as I was, nevertheless, ever-curious me had to know all. “But Father said that you’re going to have an operation.”
My mother explained in detail: the tests that she would undergo; the operation to remove the tumors on her pancreas; and the chemotherapy that would follow. As I listened, I wondered how anyone could survive the medicine, let alone the disease. When she finished, I declared, “I’ll come with you.”
“I’d prefer that you didn’t.”
Surprised, I exclaimed, “Why?”
“Because I want something that only you can give me.”
“Just tell me; what is it?”
“I want to see you graduate. That’s what’s keeping me going.”
“But what about you?”
“At home I have your father, and Elizabeth Sue will be living with us full time. If I need more help, we’ve made arrangements for private nursing.”
“But what about me?”
“Barbara, I’m sorry. I know I’ve given you the most difficult job of all. Your father, Elizabeth Sue, her mother, our friends, they’ll be able to see me; they’ll be able to feel they’re helping; they’ll go to sleep, knowing they’ve done the right thing.
“But you, you’ll be at school, doing what I’ve asked, what I need. And every day, you’ll wonder, as you are now wondering, am I doing the right thing? All I can tell you is this: if I didn’t believe that you were going to graduate, if I didn’t believe your father was going to see you receive your commission, I couldn’t … I couldn’t go on.”
