by Bob Purssell
Amber O’Leary? I don’t think Barbara ever knew the full story of her adopted mother. When I got to know Amber, I came to realize she and I were not that different. Back in the sixties, Amber was a hippie. Oh yeah, you didn’t know that, did you? For a while, she lived on a commune; she was part of the counterculture. When Amber told me she smoked a lot of weed, I was kind of shocked, but in those days I guess everybody did that.
At first, the commune thing was cool. You know, love, sex, and rock ’n roll. But there was that underside. You see, they didn’t have any money, and that was a big problem, because the people in the commune didn’t want to do anything other than hang out doing love, sex, and rock ’n roll. So, because she was the prettiest, Amber had to do all the fucking for the commune.
Here’s what I mean. Say the commune had to buy something. Since they didn’t have money, they had to come up with something. And that something was Amber fucking the guy they had to pay.
Oh yeah. Big time consequences. Somehow, she ended up getting this horrendous UTI[30] that spread. By the time she got to the hospital, Amber was really sick. For a long time they couldn’t get the infection under control—in those days, they didn’t have the kind of antibiotics we have now—so the infection destroyed her uterus. No kids; no way.
No doubt about it. That’s why Amber was always so down on casual sex and promiscuity. After what she went through, can you blame her? See, people thought she was kind of wacky on the subject, but if you knew the history, it was a pretty normal reaction.
Did she go back to the commune? No way. Anyway, her commune buddies didn’t want to know Amber anymore, what with her not wanting to do for them.
What did she do? She didn’t fold; that’s for sure. Amber was one tough cookie. She went back to her home in Massachusetts, but her family disowned her. She ended up living in Cambridge, where she got a job behind the counter in a sandwich joint. It had an odd name: the Red Death.
No, I haven’t a clue.
Well, anyway, that’s how she met Frank O’Leary. He was a grad student at MIT and he used to eat at this Red Death place on Sundays.
You know how that goes. Guy meets gal and the lights start flashing. Well, somehow they ended up living together. His parents were pissed when they found out. All his friends thought Frank was shacking up, because Amber was a real piece of, well, you know. But he wasn’t. Frank was nuts about Amber from day one.
Once, I asked Amber where her religion came from. She told me listen to the words in “Amazing Grace.” I did and I never asked again.
The music? Amber—before the commune thing—had a scholarship to study piano. She also had some college credits from before dropping out. They weren’t married yet, so Amber was able to get student aid money. She went back to school and ended up getting a degree in music.
Could she ever play the piano. Music always filled the house. Most of the time she did classical pieces, you know, Brahms, Liszt, Strauss, the second one. People like that. You know, Frank even called the stream that ran through their property the Blue Danube. But she wasn’t just classical. She’d play Gershwin a lot and she’d play tunes from My Fair Lady, because that was Frank’s all-time favorite.
Barbara was the child they never could have. They both loved that girl. I don’t think she ever knew how much she meant to them. Not that Barbara took advantage or wasn’t grateful. But no kid with real, I mean biological parents, ever got more love from her parents.
Why did she tell me all this and not her daughter? The simple answer is that I asked. Barbara’s a facts kind of person. To her it’s all about reality. Me, I’m all about people. Barbara asks: What are you doing? What are you thinking? I’m the type who asks: How are you feeling? Amber and I were always exchanging emotions, so we weren’t afraid of them. With Barbara, it was different. She was afraid of feeling bad because she would feel compelled to do something about that feeling. That works if you actually can do something about the bad thing. But what if you can’t do anything about it? I can accept that; Barbara can’t. She has big problems with the idea that she can’t fix something.
* * *
The month before I graduated and received my commission as an ensign, a FedEx 777 on a flight from Rome to Tel Aviv crashed into the eastern Mediterranean. By examining the wreckage, in a matter of days, the NTSB[31] determined an explosion had brought down the plane. The next day, a previously unknown terrorist cell led by Ahmed Ben El Sharif, claimed responsibility. In spite of an intensive investigation, involving numerous police and intelligence agencies, the perpetrators remained at large.
The name Ahmed Ben El Sharif caused me great concern. Were he and I related? If so, would that fact cause me embarrassment and impact my soon-to-be-started career?
Anxiously, I began a personal Internet search. Within a few hours, I found the following article that confirmed my suspicions:
Ahmed Ben El Sharif was born into a life of privilege on 17 May 1982 in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia to Sa’eed Ben El Sharif and his American wife, Leslie. Educated in American private schools, Ahmed received his BS in physics from Princeton (2004) and next year began his studies for a doctorate in physics at Iowa State University. During the 2006 Israel-Hezbollah War[32], the Israelis killed Ahmed’s older brother Khalid, whom Ahmed idolized. In 2008, a radicalized Ahmed left the United States and joined an Al-Qaida-affiliated terrorist cell in Yemen. In 2012, unconfirmed reports indicate he started his own terrorist cell with his younger cousin Saddam.
I instantly resented, hated even, Ahmed for what he had done and for what his relationship to me might do to my life. From that moment forward, my animosity toward my half-brother was total.
USS RONALD REAGAN
By graduation, my father and I had both recovered sufficiently from our grieving that we could enjoy the event. In particular, my receiving a commission as an ensign in the United States Navy made my father very proud.
A newly minted ensign, I began my career. To say I was pleased with the navy was a gross understatement. It was my calling and I wanted to be the most professional, the most proficient officer the service had ever seen.
Oliver Hazard Perry and Bull Halsey move over; I’m coming through.
After Basic, I went into an eighteen-month intensive training program in my specialty, cryptography. Working hard and studying long hours, I wanted to master every phase of my chosen career specialty and become the navy’s expert in all phases of cryptography. In my classes, I ranked at the top or at worst in the top three. My instructors, in my fitness reports, gave me excellent marks. The week I completed my training, I received a promotion to lieutenant junior grade, United States Navy Reserve. Proud as any peacock, I could not wait to put my newly learned skills to use.
* * *
On the pier, looking almost straight up, I stood in awe of her. More than a million times my size, the ship towered over me. Far from being an inanimate object, she pulsed with life. Lilliputians tended her every need as she floated motionless in the sun-filled morning, resting as if to gain strength for the exertions to come.
Then a dark thought clouded my mind. Would I measure up?
Half-scared, I mumbled under my breath, “Don’t you worry about me, USS Ronald Reagan; I won’t let you down. Promise.”
A voice behind me said, “She doesn’t scare me.”
I wheeled around and met Lieutenant Junior Grade Kelly Murchison. Like me, she too was going to sea for the first time. Unlike me, she was an aviator, a “fighter jockette” to use her words, a hottie in the fullest sense of the word, always ready for action, whether it occurred at thirty-five thousand feet or just below the covers.
As we walked toward the receiving station at the base of the three story gangplank, I could see every guy on the dock giving us the once over. Well, not us, her. Possessing beautiful facial features, buxom in the extreme, with a butt that somehow seemed to wiggle when she was standing st
ill, Kelly was the stuff of male fantasies.
My first experience with her effect on men occurred when we reported.
Saluting, I said, “Lieutenants Murchison and O’Leary reporting, sir. Permission to come aboard.”
The duty officer, his eyes affixed on Kelly’s ample bosom, responded, “Welcome abroad. I mean, aboard.” Embarrassed, unable to look us in the eye, he passed us through, and we began to climb the stairs toward the ship.
“Does that,” I asked, “happen to you all the time?”
“Not always, but often enough. You get used to it … well, sort of. It can be embarrassing when you meet a jerko like that clown.”
“A lot of women would like to have your problem.”
“Not your problem, our problem.”
Now, I do not consider myself ugly, or anything like that, but I am not in Kelly’s class by a long shot. So, her compliment was most gracious.
“I think,” she added, “it would be advantageous if we gals stuck together for mutual support and protection.”
“Agreed,” I replied. “One of us will stand watch at all times.”
“You never know. It might come down to that.”
* * *
In a way Kelly’s prediction was accurate.
Normally, the pilots, who all wanted to be recognized as “fighter jocks” even if they flew a cargo plane, berthed in one section of the ship. Not unexpectedly, Kelly berthed with her “people.”
My situation was different. Because of some last-minute contractor work in the communication center berthing area, the quarters normally assigned to junior officers like me were unavailable. Consequently, another junior officer and I temporarily berthed in an oddly shaped and hard-to-reach stateroom adjacent to the area used by the pilots. Although generally considered undesirable, I liked the fact my new home was off the beaten path.
Therefore, it came as no surprise that Kelly and I bumped into one another almost immediately. After some chitchat, Kelly said, “Barbara, I have a rather odd question to ask?”
“Fire away, Gridley.[33]”
“Am I in heat?”
“Normally that condition is not associated with our species, but to answer your question, no.”
“Well, that’s reassuring because with all the panting going on outside my door, I thought somebody had left the cage door at the pound open.”
“Perhaps your CO could help?”
Giving me a knowing look, Kelly asked, “You wouldn’t be referring to Big Dog per chance?”
“I see your dilemma. If you’re looking for a place to hide, you can have our space after we get reassigned.”
“Any port in a storm.”
* * *
Two days later, my temporary roommate shipped out to her permanent berthing area. I called Kelly, who appeared immediately. One look and she said, “You’re an angel. I would be eternally grateful if you helped me with my stuff.”
“Can you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Choose your own quarters?”
“Probably not,” answered Kelly. “But I’m sure if I went through channels it would take two months of filling out forms. I’m just helping things along on their inevitable course.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“Of what?”
“Of getting into trouble?”
“If I do, I’ll talk to some guy. He’ll fix it up.”
“He will?”
“Trust me. I’m confident I’ll find a way.”
With that, puppy-like, I followed the vivacious Kelly down the passageway toward her current stateroom. Over her shoulder, she explained. “If approached by my squadron mates, ‘no,’ ‘sit,’ and ‘off’ work best.”
To my surprise, I never heard of any official attempt to get Kelly moved back to her squadron’s berthing area. To my even greater surprise, my hole-in-the-wall, temporary stateroom became a permanent assignment. I was Kelly Murchison’s roomie.
From then on, even though I did not fly a plane, I became Kelly’s wing-person, which meant I was part confidant, part rescuer, part little sister, part big sister, sometimes mother superior, and all-round pal. Curious as kittens, we explored every port we visited, often getting ourselves into jams and probably going through six of our nine lives.
To be fair to the men on the ship, Kelly often sent mixed messages. While sometimes wanting to be treated like a lady, she looked upon each newly met guy as a potential target of opportunity. This was where I played my role as Kelly’s chaperone, insisting, for example, that our stateroom was not a clubhouse for off-duty pilots.
My actions, of course, did little to raise my standing in the aviation community.
* * *
In the super-tolerant college environment, school authorities seemed to care little about a student’s sexual conduct unless it embarrassed the institution or led to violence. However, sexually aberrant conduct undoubtedly would result in condemnation by the much more conservative navy brass. Realizing my habit of engaging in sexual escapades put my career at risk, intent on precluding a career-destroying incident, I tried to avoid an outburst and find a solution to my cravings. Reluctant to admit to anyone my sexual abnormality, I tackled the problem on my own.
I began by reading a self-help book on self-awareness. Unsatisfied with the book’s simplistic answers, I next joined a religious study group. While helping with my understanding of the New Testament, my newfound religiosity drove Kelly, a C and E Christian[34] if there ever was one, to ask, “Why in the world are you doing all this?”
My response, “I need to,” only hinted at what was troubling me.
Taking my hands in hers, Kelly told me, “If you want to talk, I’m here for you.”
Desperately wanting to unburden myself, I thought of telling all, but I replied, “Thanks, Kel, I appreciate your concern.”
My efforts were not entirely in vain. The combination of religious study, long hours and naval discipline almost kept my peculiar propensity at bay. I was completely successful, except for one incident in South Africa.
Kelly had pulled shore duty, while I, through the ship, had received an invitation to an affair hosted by the South African Navy. At a cookout held on a beach, I met a Royal Navy lieutenant commander. He had a wonderful sense of humor, so I had no trouble talking to him.
“Let’s take a walk,” he said.
I, shoes in hand, strolled along the beach laughing at his jokes. Suddenly, I realized I more than liked this man. I WANTED him, not just a little, but a whole lot.
We watched the sun set. Sitting on a rock a goodly distance from the others, I relaxed. The waves broke against the shore; the stars came out and shown in the night sky; he put his arm around my shoulder.
After he gave me a gentle kiss on my left cheek, my passion surged and I kissed him hard on the lips. When I backed off, I could see that I had caught him entirely by surprise. He smiled, and I pounced, forcing my tongue into his mouth. Greedily, I explored, wrestling with his tongue. Meanwhile, he was unbuttoning my blouse. I helped out by undoing my bra. Now, with practiced hands, he fondled my breasts and squeezed my nipples. It was heavenly.
His hand lifted. I pleaded, “Don’t stop.”
He slid me onto his lap, and we resumed kissing evermore passionately. All the while, he caressed my breasts, my inner thighs, my buns. The tension within my body soared; I felt I was ready to explode.
And I did.
Trembling from the orgasm, I slumped into his arms.
He joked, “Welcome to the Dark continent.”
“God, that was some advertisement!”
I was about to do him, when he said, “Hostile forces in sight.”
Instantly, I buttoned up and made myself look presentable. Upon returning to the party, I looked around carefully. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice a
nything untoward. When the van that was to take the Reagan contingent back to the ship arrived, with a twinkle in my eye, I shook hands with my newfound friend and wished him a good night.
He promised to call.
* * *
Appalled that I had so willingly lost control, I lay motionless on my bunk.
Entering our stateroom and seeing me in a state, Kelly asked, “What’s with you?”
“I did bad, Kel.”
“How? What happened?”
I recounted my experience and Kelly’s smile grew wider and wider. When I finished, her comment was, “Good girl. I knew you had it in you.”
“This is not funny. I lost all self-control. He-he could have done anything he wanted to.”
“Sounds like you were in good hands.”
Ignoring her double entendre, I asked, “What if he calls? He knows my name; he knows I’m from the Reagan.”
“How about round two, or better yet, best two out of three falls wins.”
“You’re useless.”
“You could,” she suggested, “talk to the chaplains?”
“Are you crazy?”
“I thought they were supposed to give you guidance.”
“They’ll think I’m a-a slut.”
“Sinner, not slut, is the term they use. Anyway, aren’t they supposed to welcome sinners?” When I did not respond, Kelly asked, “Was he married?”
That came as a shock. “Married? Why do you think he was married?”
“You didn’t say one way or the other. I was just asking.”
Frantic, I thought back. “He didn’t have a ring.”
“Well, that’s a start. Did he have an indentation on his ring finger?”
I put my hand to my mouth. I had not even bothered to look.
“I take that to mean you did not check.”
In a tiny voice, I answered, “No.” Then panicking, I asked, “What if he tells his wife?”
“While that’s a possibility, generally speaking, that wouldn’t be my first worry.”
