The Caine Mutiny

by Herman Wouk

  “The doctors say different.”

  “You wait and see. The court will acquit your executive officer. They won’t even try you.”

  His mother’s blind optimism did not comfort Willie. On the contrary, it annoyed him exceedingly. “Well, Mother, not that I blame you, but you don’t know much about the Navy, that’s obvious.”

  “Maybe not, Have you decided anything about May, Willie?”

  Willie didn’t want to answer, but he was cross, and nervous; and telling the mutiny story had shaken his self-control. “Well, this will probably please you very much. I decided that it wouldn’t work. I’ve given it up.”

  The mother nodded slightly, and looked down at her lap, appearing to suppress a smile. “In that case, Willie, why are you going to see her? Wouldn’t it be kinder not to?”

  “I can’t just ignore her, Mother, like a whore I once spent a night with.”

  “You’ve picked up a little Navy language, Willie.”

  “You don’t know Navy language.”

  “It’s just that you’ll be letting yourself in for a pointless, agonizing scene-”

  “May’s entitled to her scene.”

  “When are you going to see her?”

  “Tonight, if I can. I thought I’d call her now-”

  Mrs. Keith said, with doleful amusement, “You see, I’m not so dumb. I’m having the family over tomorrow night. I imagined tonight would be taken.”

  “It’ll be the only night. You’ll be all clear on the next four.”

  “Darling, if you think I’m happy about this you’re mistaken. I share all your pain-”

  “Okay, Mother-”

  “Someday, Willie, I’ll tell you all about a man I didn’t marry, a very handsome and attractive and worthless man, who’s still alive.” And Mrs. Keith blushed a little, and looked out of the window.

  Willie stood. “I’ll make my call, I guess.”

  The mother came, put her arm around him, and leaned her head on his shoulder. Willie submitted. Outside a few thick flakes of snow drifted down through the black branches of the trees. “Darling, don’t worry about your court-martial. I’ll talk to Uncle Lloyd. He’ll know what to do. Believe me, nobody’s going to punish you for doing such a fine, daring thing.”

  Willie went to his mother’s bedroom, took the extension telephone from the bedside table, and plugged it into the jackbox in his own room. He called the candy store in the Bronx. While he was waiting for an answer, he shoved the door shut with his foot.. “May Wynn’s not home,” said a flat, vulgar voice, a woman with a foreign accent. “Try Circle 6-3475.”

  He called the other number. “Hotel Woodley, good morning,” said the operator.

  Willie knew the Woodley well: a shabby theatrical hotel on Forty-seventh Street. “May Wynn, please.”

  “Miss Wynn? One moment.” There followed several repeated buzzes, and at last, “Hello?” But it was not May’s voice. The voice was masculine.

  “I’m trying to get Miss May Wynn’s room,” Willie said, with a horrid qualm.

  “This is May’s room. Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Willie Keith.”

  “Willie! Well, for Christ’s sake! This is Marty Rubin, Willie, how the hell are you? Where are you?”

  “I’m home.”

  “Home? Where? San Francisco?”

  “I’m out on Long Island. Where’s May?”

  “She’s here. This is terrific. Listen, Willie, did she know you were coming? She never said a word- Just a second, I’ll get her up-”

  The pause was a long one. “Hello! Willie!”

  “Hello, May. Sorry I woke you up-”

  “Honey, don’t be silly. I-I can’t believe it! When did you get in?”

  Willie had always disliked the threadbare “honey” of show-business chatter, and it grated on him especially when May used it, “and more especially at this moment. Her voice was muffled and high, as it usually was when she had just awakened. “Flew in about an hour ago.”

  “Why didn’t you let me know, honey? Gosh-”

  “I thought I’d surprise you.”

  “I am surprised. I’m flabbergasted.” There was a silence which was very dreadful to Willie. “Well, honey, when am I going to see you?” she said.

  “Any time you want to.”

  “Oh, dear. Darling, you couldn’t have picked a worse day. I have the grippe or some damn thing, and-we might have lunch-no, wait, there’s something else- Marty, when are we cutting that damned audition record? When can I get away? ... Not till then? ... Oh, Willie, it’s such a mess! There’s this radio show I have to cut a record for-it has to be today-I’ve been doping myself to try to get in some kind of shape-Marty honey, can’t we call it off? ... Oh, Willie, you should have let me know-”

  “Forget the whole thing. Don’t get upset,” Willie said, glaring at himself in the mirror of the closet door. “See you tomorrow, maybe.”

  “No, no! Honey, I’ll be through around three-when, Marty?-three-thirty, Willie-meet me in the Brill Building, can you do that?”

  “What and where is the Brill Building?”

  “Oh, Willie. The Brill Building. Hell, I keep forgetting you’re not a song plugger. Well, you know, across the street from the Rivoli-the big gray building-listen, it’s the Sono-phono Studios, can you remember that? Sono-phono.”

  “Okay. Three-thirty. I’ll be there. Don’t you go to school anymore?”

  “Oh.” May’s voice became apologetic. “That. I’m afraid I’ve been playing hooky. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “See you later.”

  “Yes, honey.”

  Willie slammed the receiver so hard that the telephone went clattering off the table to the floor. He took off his civilian clothes, leaving them in a rumpled heap on a chair, and dressed in his uniform. He had two caps, a fairly new one, and the cap he always wore at sea, the gold trim of which was tarnished dull green. He selected the old cap and put a fresh white cover on it, which set off more strikingly the tarnish of the ornaments.

  The glory of Manhattan which Willie had seen from the airplane was nowhere visible at Broadway and Fiftieth Street when he came up out of the subway. It was the same old dirty crowded corner: here a cigar store, there an orange-drink stand, yonder a flickering movie marquee, everywhere people with ugly tired faces hurrying in a bitter wind that whirled flapping newspapers and little spirals of dry snow along the gutters. It was all as familiar to Willie as his hand.

  The reception room of the Sono-phono Studios, some seven feet square, consisted of plasterboard walls, a plasterboard door in back, a green metal desk, and a very ugly receptionist , with a plasterboard complexion, chewing a large wad of pink gum. “Yeah? What can I do for you?”

  “I’m meeting May Wynn here.”

  “She ain’t through. You can’t go in, they’re on mike.”

  Willie sat in the single yellow chair, opening his muffler and bridge coat. The receptionist glanced at his ribbons, ‘counted the stars, and threw him an unsettling flirtatious leer. From behind the plasterboard he heard a man’s voice, “Okay. Let’s make this the master now.” A small orchestra struck up, and then Willie heard her voice: “Don’t Throw Bo-kays at me-”

  At once the heat and shabbiness of the Caine wardroom, and the hopeless hatred of Queeg, rushed into his mind, most incongruously mingled with sweet stirrings of his early love for May. An immense black sadness overcame him as the song went on. When it ended Marty Rubin opened the door and said, “Hi, Willie! Great to see you! Come on in!”

  He was fatter than ever. His green suit was ill-chosen for his yellowish skin, and his tinted glasses were so thick that his eyes were distorted behind them to dots. He shook the lieutenant’s hand. “You look marvelous, kid!”

  May stood at the microphone, talking to two men in shirt sleeves. The musicians were packing their instruments. The studio was a bare room cluttered with cables and recording machines. Willie halted uncertainly inside the door. “He’s here
, May!” the agent called. She turned, ran to Willie, put an arm around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek.

  “We’ll get out of here in a few seconds, darling,” she whispered. Willie stood with his back to the doorway, getting hotter in his heavy coat, while the girl talked for ten minutes with the agent and the men in shirt sleeves.

  “I want a drink,” May said, when they were alone at a table in the deserted upstairs room of Lindy’s, “and then I want some breakfast.”

  “You’re keeping queer hours- What’s that?” he said as May popped a white pill into her mouth.

  “Aspirin. Feel my forehead.” Her skin was hot. Willie looked at her with concern. She was haggard, her hair was carelessly pinned up on her head, and there were blue shadows under her eyes. She grinned sadly and a little defiantly. “I’m a mess, I know. You picked a great time to fall out of the sky, dear.”

  “You ought to be in bed, May.”

  “Bed is for those who can afford it- Well, tell me all about the war.”

  Instead Willie questioned her about herself. She was singing at a Fifty-second Street club, her first job in several weeks. Her father had been ill for half a year, and the fruit store, managed by her mother alone, was earning nothing. May was supporting the family. She had taken a room in a downtown hotel because she feared the long subway rides at night would give her pneumonia. “I’m kind of run down, Willie. School and night-club singing don’t mix too well, after all. Sleep generally gets lost in the shuffle. I pass out on subways, in classes-it’s awful.”

  “Are you giving up school?”

  “No, no. I cut a lot of classes, that’s all. I don’t care. I don’t want to be a Phi Bete. I just want to pick up some information. Let’s talk French. I can talk French. Avez-vous le crayon de ma tante?”

  She laughed. Her eyes seemed wild to Willie, and her expression was opaque. May drank off her coffee. “I’ve found out two things about my singing, Willie. First of all I haven’t much talent-I really know that now-and secondly most of the other girl singers have even less. I can always scratch a living-until I become a hag, that is. Which, at the rate I’m going, will be next Tuesday. I’ll tell you what. Let’s go up to my room. I can lie down while we talk. I still have to sing tonight. Did I tell you that you are three times as good-looking as you used ,to be? You look more like a wolf than a bunny, now.”

  “You seemed to like the bunny-”

  “Well, a wolf-like bunny is more nearly right. I think I’m a little loopy, dear. A martini before the first meal of the day is not a good idea. I must remember that. Let’s go.”

  In the taxicab she suddenly kissed him on the mouth. He smelled the gin. “Do I utterly disgust you?” she said.

  “What kind of question-”

  “Sick, tacky-look at this dress, of all dresses I had to put on this thing-mixed up with crummy musicians in a crummy studio-we are star-crossed lovers, Willie. See, I told you I’d learn to read and write. Star-crossed lovers. Come, gentle night, give me my Willie. And when he shall die, take him and cut him out in lit-tle stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night. Did you think I was living with Marty Rubin, dear, by any chance?”

  Willie’s face flushed. “All this on one martini?”

  “And a temperature of, I would say; 101.8. We’ll take it when we get home, just to check. Really, though, I don’t call that very good luck. You telephone me after coming halfway round the world and a man answers. Star-crossed wires. If Shakespeare answers, hang up.”

  The taxi swerved sharply around a comer and she leaned against him. The smell of her hair was the same; sweet exciting. His arm tightened around her. Her body was thinner than he remembered. She said, “Darling, tell all the little lieutenants on the Caine never to surprise their girls. Tell them to give their girls plenty, plenty of warning, so that they can get the men out of their apartments, and rest up for a week, and go to a beauty parlor, and work over all their little stupid bags of tricks. I am terribly impressed by your battle stars, Willie. You were never hurt, were you, sweet?”

  “Not even close-”

  “Do you know something? I have a slave. Real slave. Name of Marty Rubin. He has never heard of the Emancipation - Proclamation. See the advantage of a college education) Promise me you won’t tell him that Lincoln freed the slaves. Uncle Tom Rubin. I think I’d be dead if not for him, or have a couple of parents in the poorhouse, anyway. Wow! Home so soon?”

  Her apartment was a wretched little room on a dark areaway. The bedcover, the rug, the chairs were worn to the gray threads, and paint hung in patches on the ceiling. She closed the door and kissed him passionately. “You’re as big as a bear in that coat. Not bad for three dollars, this room, is it? Special favor to Marty that they let me have it. Sorry, there’s no bathroom. Down the hall. Well, first of all, let’s see about the good old temperature. Maybe I don’t have to get into bed. Here, read my book of fame.”

  She watched him drolly, the thermometer pressed between her lips, while he turned over the leaves of the scrapbook. It was full of one-paragraph clippings. Featured on a page by itself, with an arc of gold stars pasted over it, was a long fulsome write-up, including a picture of May, from the New York Daily News. May Wynn Latest Threat to Dinah Shore, it was headed.

  “I’d hate to tell you what I had to do to get that,” May said through her teeth, biting the thermometer. She added, “Not what you’re thinking, however, from your expression.” Willie hastily changed his expression with an effort of his face muscles. “Well, now, let’s see.” May held up the thermometer toward the window. “Why, not bad at all. Mere 101.2. Let’s go horseback riding in Central Park.”

  “You get into bed. I’m going to call a doctor-”

  “Now, dear, don’t go rushing around making kettles of hot water and bathing your arms to the elbows. I’ve seen a doctor. I’m supposed to rest and take aspirin. The question is, what’s the schedule? When do you have to go home to your mother?”

  “The night is ours.” Willie sounded insulted.

  “Oh? That’s wonderful.” She came to him and put her arms around his neck. “Is it all right if I lie down, then? We can have a nice old chat-and I’ll be all bright and beautiful for the evening.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, then, you look out of the window for a minute. It’s a gorgeous view.” Willie obeyed. On the window sill across the air shaft, three feet away, were two bottles of milk, a tomato, and a package of butter, surrounded by little ridges of snow. The brick wall was black with grime. Behind him he heard quick feminine rustlings.

  “All right, dear. Come and sit by me.” May’s dress and stockings were draped on a chair, and she was propped up on the bed, under the covers, in a gray rough bathrobe. She smiled wanly. “Hedy Lamarr, all set up for the seduction scene.”

  “Darling,” Willie said, sitting and taking her cold hand, “I’m sorry I came at such a bad time-sorry I didn’t let you know-”

  “Willie, you’re not half as sorry as I am. Only it’s done, and there’s no help for it.” She clasped his hand between hers. “Dearest, I know you must have pictured me in a warm pink vacuum at home, writing you letters, and reading yours over a thousand times, and otherwise in a state of suspended animation. But that isn’t what happens. Fathers get pleurisy, and stockings get holes in them, and I have to scratch for cash, and fellows make passes at me-which I can’t even get too mad about because it proves I still have a stock in trade-but I’ve really been a pretty good girl.” She looked up at him with shy weary eyes. “I even pulled a B-minus average on the midyears. Got an A in Lit.”

  “Look, why don’t you sleep? You knocked yourself out at that audition-”

  “Which was a bust-I couldn’t even see straight, waiting for you to show up-”

  “Do you have to work tonight?”

  “Yes, dear. Every night except Monday, the contract says-if Mama and Papa and May are going to eat-a lot of girls are just dying
to substitute-”

  “Why didn’t you let me know you were in trouble? I have money-”

  A look of fear came over May’s face. She pressed his palm. “Willie, I’m no charity case-maybe I’m overplaying the scene, trying to cover up for looking so ratty. I’m in fine shape financially and every other way-I just have a lousy cold, see-haven’t you ever had a cold?” She began to cry, pressing his hand against her eyes. Warm drops trickled down his fingers. He held her close, and kissed her hair. “Maybe I’d better sleep. I am really shot,” she said, in a low dry voice, her eyes hidden against his hand, “if I stoop to turning on the tears.” She looked up at him and smiled. “What would you like to read? Troilus and Cressida? The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard in French? Trevelyan’s History of England? They’re in that pile on the table-”

  “I’ll take care of myself. You turn in.”

  “Why don’t you go out and catch a movie? Better than sitting around in this mousehole, listening to me snore-”

  “I’ll stay here.” He kissed her.

  She said, “This is wrong. You’ll catch God knows what plagues.”

  “Go to sleep.”

  “Some home-coming. A weepy, drunken, jabbering sweetheart passing out on you in a roach trap-” May slid down into the bed, and closed her eyes, murmuring, “I have amazing powers of recuperation. Wake me at seven-thirty. You may have to dump over the bed, but get me up. I’ll surprise you-just pretend we’re meeting for the first time at seven-thirty-” She was asleep in a minute, her hair tumbled loosely, dark red on the white pillow. Willie looked for a long time at the pallid face smudged with lipstick. Then he took up Troilus and Cressida, opened it at random, and began to read. But as soon as he struck a speech about love, halfway down the page, his mind wandered off.

  He was quite fixed now in his decision to break with May. Seeing her again had confirmed it. He was certain it was right. He estimated himself, as truthfully as he could and with no great pride in the result, as a rather mediocre middle-class intellectual. His ambition went no further than the life of a gentleman-professor at a gentlemanly university. He wanted a life upholstered with the good things that money bought, and that meant his mother’s or his wife’s money, not university money. He wanted a wife, in the dim future, of his own kind, smooth, sweet, pretty, and educated, with all the small graces of good background and a moneyed family. May Wynn was bright, yes, unbearably attractive, maybe, though not at this moment. She was also vulgar, brassy, and over-perfumed in the show-business way, and she had allowed him all sorts of liberties from the first, and had slept with him. She seemed a little soiled to him, a little cheap; and in every way jagged and wrong for his planned future. And she was a Catholic. May’s disclaimer of any devotion to her faith had not convinced Willie. He was inclined to believe the general notion that Catholics never wholly abandon their religion and are capable of sudden great plunges back into it. He was very unwilling to complicate his life and the lives of his children with such a disturbing possibility.