Tate's expression did not change. "So what?"
"Come on, Sergeant, say it. You're the one who shot up Ed Farago after I ... after I . . ."his voice faded out.
"Killed him," Tate finished it. "Yes, Terry, I did."
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"I'm being . . . schooled for something very special, aren't I?" "Yes,' you are."
"What?"
"In time, Terry." He then said something that would take Terry several years to fully grasp. "Guys like you and me, Terry, we belong in ... special units. We need the protection our government can give us."
"I don't understand."
"You will, in time. Okay, Kovak, wear your Class-A's Monday night, we're having inspection. See you then . . . and stay out of trouble; stop all this fighting over pussy. There's plenty to go around."
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FOUR
February, 1955
Once he was alone in his room, Terry looked in the envelope and shook his head in disbelief. Five, ten, and twenty dollar bills; three hundred dollars in all. He had never seen that much money in one place, especially in his hand.
"It's a birthday present for you," Tate had said, handing the envelope to him. "Don't open it 'til you're alone,"
There was a short note from Colonel Ferret:
You're part of my Teams, Terry. And, Tate tells me you know why you were picked. I take care of my men and expect them to do the same for me. I know you won't run out and start blowing this money all over Bishop;
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you've got a good head on your shoulders. That's just one of the reasons I chose you for my Teams. Happy birthday, soldier.
On his way home from school, Terry ducked into some woods and burned the note from Ferret. It seemed the right thing to do. He touched the money in his pocket. He would hide it in his room and spend it very carefully. A grin touched his young/old face as he thought of the weekend upcoming.
At the Kovak home, his mother met him at the back door, all smiles. "Seventeen years old this very day, Terry. I remember like it was yesterday, almost." She led him into the kitchen. "You was born right here in this house. And just look who come home for the event."
The family had not seen Virginia for more than a year and a half. In school in New York City, she worked there during the summers, on the weekends, and after school. Virginia rose from the table to greet her younger brother, to loss him on the cheek. Terry was startled at her appearance, hoping the expression on his face could be controlled.
Virginia was dressed in tight black slacks and black sweater. Her face was very pale. Her hair long and hanging down her back. Dirty hair, looking like it hadn't been washed or combed in a week.
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"Damn, Terry," she said, ignoring her mother's shocked glance at her profanity. "I wouldn't have known you on the street— you've changed so much. Hell, you're a grown man, Terry."
"Did college teach you to curse?" Mother Kovak asked. "You going to swear in the courtroom when you start up your own law practice?"
"Oh, Momma," Virginia looked exasperated. "Loosen up, will you? It's the twentieth century. Women now have as many rights as men, although most of them don't realize it."
"What's that got to do with swearing? Your Poppa don't curse in this house . . , much—and neither will you, Virginia. That's my final word on it."
"Okay, Momma," Virginia winked at Terry, "no more hell's and damn's."
Mother Kovak mumbled something under her breath and turned away to resume peeling potatoes. Terry poured a cup of coffee and sat down at the table with his sister.
"I understand you're a big, brave soldier, now, Terry. You going to fight all the nation's capitalistic wars? Be a part of the subservient forces of the bourgeoisie, laying down your life for the power-people?"
"Ginny, I don't even know what that means," Terry looked at her. "What language is that, Communist?"
She laughed and patted his hand. Terry
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noticed her fingers and nails were filthy. "It's English, Terry. Bourgeoisie actually coming from the French. But it's only natural, I suppose, for a military mind—young or old—to suspect a Communist plot in anything they don't understand."
"I don't suspect anything, Ginny." Or do I? Terry suddenly remembered the three hundred dollars in his pocket. "I just think it's all right to serve your country."
"Good for you, Terry," his mother spoke from the sink.
"Okay,.all right," Ginny said. "We won't discuss politics. Tell me, what's happening in the bustling city of Bishop?"
"Well," Terry sipped his coffee, "I saw Joe the other day. He asked about you; when you were coming home."
"Good Lord!" his sister laughed. Terry noticed her teeth were stained with nicotine and could use a good brushing—several times. Ginny chain-smoked, lighting one from the butt of another. "Dear Joe. I haven't seen him in years—or thought about him. Tell me, is he still pumping gas and reading comic books?"
She was beginning to irritate Terry with her flip attitude, the way she constantly put everyone and everything down, as if she were so much better, so much smarter. Virginia and Joe Davis had gone together all during high school, with everyone assuming they would get married. Joe had told Terry recently that in the years since Ginny had gone to New York
City, she had never once written him.
"I guess he pumps gas," Terry's reply was a bit testy. "He owns a little general store, sporting goods and all that, out on the lake road."
"And doing quite well," Mother Kovak said. "Going with a very nice lady. She seemed to put special emphasis on the word: lady.
Ginny cut her eyes to her mother. "Momma, don't you think I'm a lady?"
"You were when you left here three years ago. Before you turned yourself into a ... into a . . ." She looked at her son. "What is the word, Terry? It's been in the papers and on the radio before."
"Beatnik," Terry said. "Greenwich Village beatnik."
"Yes, that's it." Mother Kovak nodded her head. "No-Good-Nik."
The young woman stood up, pouring another cup of coffee. She was very thin, and her hands trembled slightly. She stood with her back to the kitchen counter, looking first at her mother, then at Terry.
"Beatnik is just a word people use for something they cannot understand/* she said. "Neither of you know anything about the true intellectual movement behind the word."
She was suddenly on the defensive and Terry could not understand why—if she believed so strongly in her way of life in the Village.
"Is it so wrong to read the great classics?" she asked. "Is it wrong to study the works of
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genius; past and present and future? To contemplate? To discuss?" She turned to Terry. "Don't you have something—anything at all that puzzles you? That you would care to discuss with someone of intelligence?"
"Yeah," Terry said dryly, "this: how can a black cow eat green grass, then give white milk that can be turned into yellow butter?"
At first his sister was angry, a flush on her pale face. Then, slowly, a grin spread across her face. "Mother?" she asked.
Mother Kovak shook her head, shrugged her shoulders, realizing the hopelessness of arguing with her daughter. She scraped the carrots in silence, for she was still pondering over her son's riddle.
Virginia looked at Terry. He shrugged. "It's your life, Ginny. You've got a right to live it the way you see fit, I guess. But," he met her eyes, "the rest of us have a right to live our lives, too, without being put down for it."
"You're pretty hip for a seventeen year old, brother, but I could punch holes in your logic."
"Putting the holes where you think they should go, Ginny?"
She sat down at the table. "Terry, go to college when you finish high school. You've got a good mind—a fine mind. Put it to some use."
"I'm going to. I'm going to be career military."
"Oh, my God! Talk about dumb-ass!"
Mother Kovak threw her paring knife in the
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sink with a clatter and left the kitchen, her back stiff with anger. Virginia followed her mother with her eyes, sad eyes, troubled eyes.
"I made a mistake coming back," she said. "I shouldn't have done it."
Terry thought he detected something awfully wrong with Ginny; something definitely out of kilter, but he said nothing about his suspicions. If she wanted him to know, she would tell him. "How long you going to stay, Ginny?"
"I was going to stay two or three weeks. Now, maybe three or four days. I don't really know." She touched the back of his hand. "Wolfe was right, Terry, you can't ever go back. Remember that before you leave. You can't go home again."
"I don't believe that. Robert and Danny came back after the war."
His sister's smile was gentle. "Bob and Danny never really left, Terry. Do you understand that?"
He shook his head. "No. I mean, I don't think I do, anyway."
"I have a feeling that someday you will—more than any of us."
The woman stopped him on the street and looked at him a moment before speaking. Terry could read the silent message in her eyes and the unspoken words made his knees feel just a little weak.
"How are you and Bess getting along?" she finally asked.
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"Just fine, Mrs. Skelton." He didn't know what else to say.
She smiled at him, with mouth and eyes, and Terry felt a tightening in his groin. The woman was coming on to him. Good Lord! he thought.
"Bess seemed to think the world of you," she said. "And we're thankful, and grateful-^Lee and I—for your breaking up Bess and J. A. I never really liked that boy. You and Bess have a date for tonight?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"Going to the movies?"
"Well, maybe . . ." He was hesitant answering the question. Actually, he and Bess were going to the lake to park and make out. Not something one wishes to discuss with the girl's mother.
"Well . . . Ill see you when you come to get Bess. Come a bit earlier tonight. I've baked you a cake. Yesterday was your birthday, wasn't it?"
"Yes, Ma'am."
"For heaven's sake," she laughed, patting her hair. "Stop calling me, ma'am. You're making me feel positively ancient."
"Yes . . ." He didn't know her first name.
"Carolyn. My name is Carolyn. Remember that, Terry."
"Yes, Ma'am ... I mean, Carolyn. Whatever you say."
She smiled and patted him on the cheek with a gloved hand, then brushed by him,
leaving just a hint of expensive perfume to drift into his head. He watched her walk away, and he knew she knew he was watching her. The woman's figure was sensational.
About thirty-five, Terry thought, and getting restless. He had heard—and seen—that Mr. Skelton was a boozer, and Carolyn probably wasn't getting enough at home.
He shook his head. Here I go, he thought.
Joe Davis' pickup truck was parked in the driveway, Ginny sitting in it, talking with Joe. Neither of them paid any attention to Terry as he took the porch steps two at a time.
"Joe sure didn't waste any time getting over here," he remarked to Shirley, sprawled on the floor, reading a Hollywood scandal magazine.
"He's been here about two hours," his sister said, without looking up. "Ginny's been crying, too."
"What about?"
"Beats me." She sipped her Coke, then said, "Sure is lonesome around here without Mavis and Vera." - ,
Terry grinned at her, and the grin changed his face from a man to a boy. "They're only about six blocks from here."
"I know, but the house is Idnda empty-like, now. You know what I mean?"
"Yeah. But it's a whole lot quieter." Shirley would soon be twelve, filling out in female places. She was going to be a great looking
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woman and the thirteen year old boys in the neighborhood were looking at her the way boys do. And that worried Terry: he knew what boys had on then* minds most of the time. "Where's Mom and Dad?"
"Over at the Benson's. They're going to have supper over there. Momma fixed some stuff for us before they left. She said Ginny probably doesn't know the difference between an egg and a potato."
Terry laughing, squatting down beside his sister. He grabbed her Coke and took a deep pull. "Momma doesn't understand Ginny, that's all."
"And you do?" Shirley frowned at the little bit of Goke he left in the bottle.
"I'm trying, little sister."
She turned the page of the movie magazine. "Rock Hudson is so good looking."
"What's Rock Hudson got to do with Ginny?"
Shirley giggled, rolling over on her back, holding the magazine to her. "Nothing, but he's still good looking."
"I give up," Terry said.
Conditions had greatly improved in the Kovak house since Mr. Kovak was made foreman at the mill, a year-round job. They now had a car, a 1950 Ford that Terry drove exclusively, since neither Mr. nor Mrs. Kovak could drive, and a TV set that was the pride of the household. They could get a station out of Atlanta, and sometimes get another out of
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Chattanooga. Mother Kovak liked the Perry Como show; Mr. Kovak liked to watch the boxing matches.
After a shower and a shave, Terry was buttoning his shirt as he came down the stairs to the living room. "What are you doing tonight?" he asked his sister.
"Stay home and watch TV." She'did not look up from her movie magazine.
"Have fun," Terry slipped into his jacket. He expected no reply and got none. Shirley was far away, in Hollywood, kissing Rock Hudson.
He waved to Joe and Ginny as he backed the Ford out of the drive, but they were too engrossed in each other to pay him any attention. Ginny looked like she was crying again. Joe put his arm around her shoulders.
"Better watch her, Joe," Terry muttered. "She didn't just pop back into your life for no reason." But maybe he loves her? Terry thought. Hasn't seen her in three years and he just says Hello, I love you and let's pick it up again, like it was before.
Terry grinned at the dusk that was settling over Bishop, Georgia. Love must be an interesting feeling, he mused.
"Like the cake, Terry?" Mrs. Skelton asked, standing close to him.
"Yes, Ma'am," Terry swallowed a mouthful of angel food cake. "I mean, yes, Carolyn."
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Mr. Skelton sat at the table with them, lapping up beer as fast as he could drink one bottle and open another. He bobbed his head up and down and grinned, already half-drunk. "Don't forget that now, Terry," he slurred his words. "I'm Lee, she's Carolyn. First names around here." He belched and his wife cringed. Bess was upstairs, still dressing and, as Carolyn had put it, 'putting on her face.* Terry wished she would hurry up and get him out of this mess. To make matters worse, he hated angel food cake.
Lee opened another bottle of beer and guzzled half of it. "Like you, Terry-boy," he said. "Didn't like that J. A. worth a damn. Had no manners—big stupid clod." He stood up, swaying slightly. " 'Cuse me, got to go be a little boy." Grinning, he left the room.
"Disgusting pigl" Carolyn said, as soon as her husband was out of the room. She poured Terry another glass of milk and he declined another piece of cake. "Do you drink, Terry? Hard liquor, I mean?"
"Yes, Carolyn," Terry heard himself saying, "I do." Her name was coming easier to him.
She nodded, her brows knitting, as if she were in deep process of decision-making. The young man and the older woman locked eyes, a silent message passing between them as she reached a conclusion.
"Lee will be gone to Atlanta all day Monday," she said, and said no more, leaving anything else up to Terry.
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"Okay," Terry said.
She gathered up the dishes and took them into the kitchen, pausing at the barroom-type swinging doors to glance at Terry. Her eyes were a dark green, smoldering with fire. Terry's icy pale blue eyes under very blond eyebrows moved slowly over her body, from ankles to face and back again. Bold, not at all nervous or shy. His gaze lin
gered at her full breasts, then moved upward to meet her hot eyes.
"You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" she asked, a slight flush to her face.
"Yes," he said, "I suppose I am." He said it quietly, suddenly experiencing a strange sense of loss, as if realizing his boyhood days were almost gone. They would never return, and he sensed he was growing up too fast, doing things that should be waiting for him in the years ahead.
"Are you making love to my daughter, too?" she asked. Terry picked up on the "too." very quickly.
"Yes, I am."
"Be careful, hot-shot. The one thing I don't need is a bastard grandchild."
"Okay."
Lee stumbled into the dining room and the spell was broken. The quick look she gavcTher husband was one of contempt mingled with hate. Terry knew this marriage was broken beyond any repair; solely a marriage of convenience. He felt no sense of guilt for what he
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would do—or allow her to do to him—on Monday.
He wondered why people, who must have been in love when they married, would allow a marriage to crumble into this state of semi-warfare and disgust.
"Are you going to college when you finish high school?" Bess asked. She took a deep pull from her Coke—doctored with booze—and then a drag from her Lucky Strike.
"No. I guess I'm going into the Regular Army. You?"
She giggled. "Daddy thinks we're going to get married and go to college together."
"You and me?"
"Yes."
"Who the hell told him that?"
"Nobody, he just thinks it, that's all."
Cold this night in North Georgia, the ground spotted with white patches of snow, the temperature hovering in the low thirties.
"Terry?"
"Uh-huh?"
"Do you like school?"
"No. I hate it! Why?"
They were driving aimlessly. They had circled the town a dozen times, had a burger and fries at a local drive-in, and debated whether or not to see a movie. But the gas tank was full, the tires new, and now they were out in the country, on a blacktop road,
driving deep into the hills of Flagler County.
"I hear kids talk around school," Bess said, lighting another Lucky and passing it to Terry. "Most of the boys don't like you for some reason, but they can't really say why. J. A. hates you. He swears he's going to get you if it takes him the rest of his life. I really think he means it."
The Last of the Dogteam Page 6
