by Stan Hayes
“From what you told me about how that story ended, I’d say you’re lucky. Did she have any children?”
“No.”
“Well, there you go. As determined as you are to leave some big footprints in the art world, you’ll never create anything as fine as Jack.”
“You’re right. And I know that you think I’m a selfish, ambitious bitch to have raised him the way I have.”
“No. You did what you had to do. That much I know. I wasn’t real happy about the place that left in your life for me, but I came to grips with that quite a while back.”
“I know. I wish you’d think about going back to New York with me. Maybe be my business manager…”
He cut her off. “New York’s the past for me, sweetie. I’ve told you that often enough. I’ll come see you now and then, of course.”
“You better.”
“Where do you think Jack’ll go when he finishes school?”
“I’d hope New York, too, or somewhere up east, but he hasn’t said much one way or the other. I sure don’t want him coming back here for any length of time. Not to be cheek-by-jowl with that misbegotten asshole of God across the river. Call it the instrument of Armageddon or the secular equivalent, you can bet the Red’sve already got it targeted, for sure. His grandfather’d give ’im the moon to sign on as his understudy, of course, and screw the end of the world.”
“No, he’d never be satisfied here, Armageddon or no Armageddon.”
She snuggled close to him, pulling the covers up around them. “Bisque’s not the place to come for satisfaction, let alone happiness. I guess that’s the lot of small towns, at least the ones I know about. Instead of happiness, the town skypilots’ll be happy to pursue ‘joy’ with you, as long as you let them define it. Even then, you’ll do a lot more pursuing than you’ll do catching.”
“And how’d your little skypilot handle the pursuit of joy?”
“About like you’d expect. Made ’im talk dirty while I jacked ’im off; haven’t seen much of ’im lately.”
“You are an evil bitch. Makin’ me buttfuck you on th’ first date.”
“That was no date,” she laughed. “Anyway, you better not stop buttfuckin’ me.”
“Well, you found out what a hard time I have seein’ past the end of my dick as soon as you introduced the concept to my unschooled libido.”
“Well,” she said, “if it’s any consolation, some people would call that a fairly long way. You’re a quick study, young man, and I’ll miss you when I’m gone.”
“When’s that gonna be, d’you think?”
“October first at the latest. Already signed a lease; 153 East 57th St., apartment 5B.”
Moses smiled as his eyebrows went up. “Nice neighborhood. That’s a little quicker than I’d thought.”
“To quote Snuffy Smith, “ ‘Time’s a-wastin.’ ”
“There’s some truth in that. Well, be thinkin’ about what you want for a goin’-away present.”
“I’ll tell you right now,” she said.
“What?”
“You in New York for New Year’s, and about a week thereafter.”
He reached out to cup the back of her head in his hand, turning her face so that they were eye to eye. “Done deal,” he said.
Chapter XXIV. Cuba Libre
My Sunday woman bring the Daily News
By Monday woman buy me stockin’ and shoes
Bed’ not let my good gal catch you heanh
Ain’ no tellin’ what po’ lil’ Lucy Mae do
She left one Christmas day
Comin’ back that afternoon
Next time I seen ’er boy
It wa’ da nineteen ’ a June
Bed’ not let my good gal catch you heanh
Ain’ no
Tellin’
What po’ lil’ Lucy Mae do-
- Freddie Lee Sims, Lucy Mae Blues
“Hiya, Kid,” said Moses, waving Jack through the front door. “C’mon in. Hope I didn’t wake you up too early.”
“Nah. Not if I get breakfast out of th’ deal, anyway.”
“Grits’ll be ready in a couple of minutes, and the bacon’s done. Want some eggs?”
“Maybe, but let’s have the grits first. Might just fill up on them,” Jack said, grinning.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I was just remembering the first time you saw grits, in the cafe. You weren’t too excited about eatin’ ’em that day, and now you’re fixin’ ’em yourself.”
“Hell, I had no idea what I was missin’. You know, it’s a pretty damn fine world when a nickel’s wortha food can make you feel so good. Let’s sit out back while they finish cookin’; grab some coffee on your way.”
They sat on the terrace, looking down the slope of dewy, fresh cut lawn to the pond. “I appreciate you comin’ out early on your first day home, Buddy, because I need to tell you about some stuff, and this way we won’t be interrupted. Nobody’s business but ours, and it’ll take a little time. I’ve been sittin’ on it for quite awhile, but now I need to tell you about it.”
Jack shifted in his chair to look squarely at Moses. “Sounds important.”
“Yes, it does,” Flx, perched on the driveway lamp post just behind them, agreed.
“It is. And not that easy to tell. You’ll want to ask me some questions, so let me just start and we’ll see how it goes. I’ll move along as fast as I can, but it won’t make much sense if you don’t have some background. Let’s start with New York. I told you about wantin’ to get out of there, and joinin’ the Navy as a way to get out.”
“Yeah.”
“And how I ended up in Cuba.”
“Yeah. What was that place? ‘Getmore?’ “
“ ‘Gitmo.’ Guantánamo Bay. Way the hell out on the east end of the island. The hottest, buggiest place I’d ever been. I’ve told you about that part, and I’ve told you about going back to New York after my hitch was up, but I left some things out.”
“Like what?”
“Like lettin’ what happened to me down there sour me on the whole idea of being an American.”
“What happened to you? What was it?”
“I fell in love. With somebody’s wife, unfortunately. And even more unfortunately, she was the wife of the guy that I worked for, a Chief Petty Officer by the name of Tanner. Lídia. A beautiful woman, Cuban, who’d made an awful mistake marryin’ this guy. But it wouldn’tve made any difference; I couldn’tve stayed away from her if she’d been married to the CO.”
“And she felt the same way?”
“Yes. We were as much in love as two people that young could be. She was twenty-three, twelve years younger than Tanner. I was twenty, and not as grown up as I thought I was. He was a big, red-headed, loudmouthed boozer, and she was miserable with him. But we woulda fallen in love whether she’d been with ’im or not.”
“What did she look like?”
“Oh, she was small, five-two, very slim, and dark. Deep blue eyes. Very Spanish; Basque, actually. High cheekbones. Her family’s been in Cuba for a long time. Sometimes I’d see a Basque woman in Spain, just a few years later, that would have me livin’ the thing all over again. But I’m gettin’ ahead of myself.
“Another thing I haven’t told you- my name then was Wessel. Peter Wessel. I’ve told you I went to college- New York University, where my father taught philosophy, to please him and my mom. They met while he was in Ireland, at University College in Dublin. She was Jewish-Irish, and even more determined than he was to get me educated. Trouble was, my heart wasn’t in it. Life’ll put you in a slot if you let it; remember that if you forget everything else that I tell you. The slot life, and my folks, had in mind for me was definitely not the one that I had in mind for myself. I’d started boxing in Golden Gloves matches when I was fourteen, and my heart was definitely in that. I’d won some fights- twelve- by the time I was eighteen, and I had it in my mind to turn pro when I was twenty-one. I never told my folks tha
t, but my grades were going to hell because I was spending too much time in the gym. Ridgewood Grove, way the hell over in Queens. I’d spar whenever I could, picking up pointers on style, plus a little spare change. I was a middleweight then- just under the 160-pound weight limit, and I was starting to make some friends and get some attention when all the class-skippin’ caught up with me.
“They’dve just notified most students by mail, but since my dad was on the faculty they let him know immediately that I’d been thrown out. Anyone in that position would’ve been embarrassed, but with Papa it was a complete tragedy. He was waitin’ for me when I got home that night, with no idea that I’d been given th’ gate. I’ll never forget the sadness in his face. He was sitting in the living room, a stack of papers beside him, when I walked through the front door. He just looked at me, saying nothing, with that incredible sadness in his face. ‘Hello, Papa,’ I said to him. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘As of today, Peter,’ he said after looking at me over the top of his glasses for what seemed like five minutes, ‘you are no longer a student at New York University.’
‘What?’ I said.
‘It can’t be that much of a surprise. You were warned repeatedly that you were in danger of being terminated. And now it’s happened. The question is, what will you do now?’
“As you might imagine, I had no answer to that question. After a couple weeks that were miserable for all of us, I decided to ride over to Staten Island and back on the ferry. It was Friday afternoon, the day after Thanksgiving. I saw a buncha sailors standin’ at the rail, kiddin’ around and lookin’ like they were havin’ a lot of fun. I got to talkin’ to ’em; their ship, a cruiser, had just come back from the Caribbean. The more I heard, the more I thought that the Navy might be a good idea for me. Three weeks later, I was in boot camp at Great Lakes, Michigan.
“After boot camp, I went to Aviation Machinist school. When I finished, I got orders to Gitmo, in June of 1929. As a Seaman, Second-class, Aviation Machinist’s Mate ‘striker’, I was assigned to the aviation maintenance department, down on th’ salt flats at Hicacal Beach. There wasn’t much down there; a pier, machine shop, barracks and married quarters, and a seaplane ramp. I went right to work on the line; it was hot work, but we had a lot of off-duty time, and booze was cheap. I got to know the guys in the shop, and made some friends. All ‘non-rated,’ like me; Seamen, Seaman Apprentices. The rated guys, petty officers, stayed pretty much to themselves. Gitmo was a big base, and we could play baseball and fish and get just as drunk for less money on base than you could outside the gate. The only difference was gettin’ laid. Sometimes we’d go on liberty off base, and ride the bus to a couple of the towns that were close by, checkin’ out the women and drinkin’ Cuba Libres- rum and Coke with lime. Cuba’s a beautiful place, but none of us spoke Spanish, and there wasn’t much goin’ on.
“I first met Lídia at an all-hands party the Saturday after Thanksgiving. She was with Chief Tanner, of course. There weren’t that many wives around; most of them stayed in the States. The only reason she was there was that Tanner had married her while being stationed at Gitmo. So she and a couple of the other wives were sitting at a table with the wife of Captain Harris, the station CO, looking very bored while their husbands either played baseball or stood around shootin’ the shit with each other and gettin’ drunk. She sat quietly, makin’ the best of it, her tan skin lookin’ so good against the white of her dress.
“I had seen her a few times before, and knew who she was. You don’t just see a woman like Lídia and go on your way without finding out who she is. But this was the first time I’d seen her close-up, and in a situation where I could make up some reason to speak to her. I knew I had to; I might not get another chance for months.
“What’d you do?”
“We were watchin’ the baseball game. I waited until Tanner’s team was in the field. He was pitchin’, so he couldn’t keep an eye on her the way he did when he was waitin’ to bat, or even while he was on base. Then I dragged my pal Douglas over to the wives’ table with me. ‘Please excuse us, ladies,’ I said.
“ ‘Yes, what is it?’ said Mrs. Harris. They all looked up at us in mild amazement, her most of all. A CO’s wife naturally wouldn’t expect to be approached by enlisted men, particularly seamen. Not unless they’d been mustered for some work detail.
“ ‘This won’t take a minute, ma’am,’ I said, ‘I’m Seaman Wessel, and this is Seaman Douglas. He and I are tryin’ to learn a little Spanish, so we can represent the Navy and our country the best way we can when we’re on liberty. He and I disagree on the way somethin’ should be said, and we were told that Mrs. Tanner is Cuban. We wanted to ask her who’s right.’ “
“ ‘Well, I imagine she could tell you,’ she said, glad to see that we were there on a diplomatic mission. ‘Would you mind settling these sailors’ question for them, Lídia?’ “
“ ‘Not at all,’ she said. She had this lovely, musical soprano voice; she looked up at us with her dark blue eyes, smilin’. ‘What do you want to say?’ I was sure that she saw right through my little smokescreen.
“ ‘Thank you ma’am,’ I said, ‘when you order in a cantina, should you say ‘Da me so-and-so, por favor’ or ‘De me?’
“She laughed, showin’ perfect, small white teeth. ‘De me’ is the right way to say it, but most people say ‘Da me.’ I don’t know why. You might also want to try ‘Traígame so-and-so.’ Just for a change. It means ‘Bring me.’
“ ‘I see,’ I said, ‘Traígame. Thank you ma’am. Grácias.’
“ ‘De nada, Seaman... will you say your name again for me?’
“ ‘Wessel, ma’am.’ I said. ‘It’s German.’
“ ‘Yes, well, thank you for helping them, Lídia,’ Mrs. Harris said. That was her way of sayin’ that this little conversation was over. ‘It’s good to see you men taking such initiative in meeting our Cuban hosts.’ “
“ ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said, tryin’ not to look at Lídia, but doin’ it anyway. ‘Thank you very much.’ And that was it. She was lookin’ at me, too, and the thing between us started right there.”
“When did you see her again?”
“Not for a couple of weeks. Even though she and Tanner lived aboard the station, it was a hell of a big place. You didn’t just bump into people outside your unit that much every day. If she hadn’t been as interested in me as I was in her- which, of course, I didn’t know at the time- we probably wouldn’t have ever gotten together. Anyway, I was walkin’ out of the Base Exchange one day and I heard her voice behind me. I turned around at the bottom of the steps; she was sayin’ goodbye to another woman, who was headin’ the other way. So I spoke to her, just as she turned to walk down.”
“ ‘Good mornin’, Mrs. Tanner.’ “
“ ‘Oh. Hello,’ she said. ‘How are you, Seaman?’ She was wearin’ one of those peasant blouses, and a full skirt; she looked even younger than when I’d seen her at the beach. Those incredibly dark blue eyes; the small mouth with perfect lips, her arms that lovely tan, a little very fine black hair on the forearms. She put her two shoppin’ bags down and put out her hand.
“ ‘Wessel,’ I said. I shook her hand, wantin’ to kiss it.”
“ ‘Yes. I remember. How’re you doing with your Spanish?’ ”
“ ‘OK, I guess; haven’t been outside the gate since I saw you last.’ ”
“ ‘Where do you usually go when you’re on liberty?’ ”
“ ‘Oh, different places. Mostly San Antonio.’”
“ ‘It’s nice there. My family lives in Baracoa, up on the north coast.’ ”
“ ‘I’ve never been there.’”
“ ‘It’s really lovely. I don’t go as often as I’d like to; my husband doesn’t like leaving the base that much. Sometimes I get so lonesome for my family, I just go by myself.’ ”
“ ‘Maybe I’ll see you there sometime.’ ”
“ ‘Maybe so,’ she said. She looked up at me for a fe
w seconds, sayin’ nothin’. ‘I’d better get going,’ she said. ‘Are you headed back to the hangar?’ ”
“ ‘Not for awhile. I had the duty last night.’ ”
“ ‘Oh. Well, can I drop you off someplace?’ ”
“Instead of sayin’ what I wanted to say, I said ‘No, thanks. I was just headin’ back to the barracks. Let me help you with your bags.’ ”
“I picked up her two bags; we walked across the street to where her car, an old Model T 2-door, was parked. She opened the driver’s-side door and pushed the back of the seat forward for me to drop the bags in. ‘Thanks,’ she said. We stood there by the car, the door open, not wantin’ it to be over. ‘Don’t forget about Baracoa. You’ll like it.’ ”
“ ‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘Will you be goin’ there anytime soon?’ ”
“She looked up at me, again in that very still, quiet way. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I will.’ ”
“No sense draggin’ it out. We became lovers, and the longer we were together the surer it was that sump’m bad had to happen. We thought we’d be safe in Índio, but we found out there’s no keepin’ a love affair secret.”
“So her husband- Tanner?- found out.”
“Yes, he did. We didn’t know that he had until I was arrested, over a year later. February the third, 1931. The barracks Master-at-Arms woke me up early one mornin’. There were two guys in Shore Patrol gear with him. They put me under arrest and in the brig. The charge was larceny. It didn’t take me long to figure out that Tanner was behind it. He got a guy from the shop, Rogers, a Third Class Petty Officer, to say that he thought I’d stolen his money, over three hundred dollars, from him. They’d found it that afternoon, taped under the bottom of my locker.”
“And they believed ’im.”
“You bet they did. And the charge was serious enough that I stayed in th’ brig until they set up my court-martial. About six weeks. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be locked up like that until it happens to ya. It was like I wasn’t human any more. And the brig was run by the Marines. Bastards. I still don’t want to be in the same room with one. Glad Ziggy’s outa there. Anyway, they told me that I was gettin’ a special court-martial, which is one step below a general court-martial and one above a summary. The regulations said that they had to give me a real lawyer as my defense counsel, and it was my good luck to get a guy that not only knew what he was doin’, but gave a shit. Lieutenant Charles Davis.
