Mrs. Huntington studied her coffee cup for a minute.
Maddy waited, really curious now. Mrs. Huntington appeared to make up her mind about something.
“Maddy,” she said. “There is, of course, always another possibility why we’re not seeing much of you. And that is you’ve found a way to make up for the fact that your husband is gone for seven months. Taken up with another man, or men, for that matter. Now—” She put up her hand as if to stifle any comment from Maddy.
“Now, on one level, that’s none of my business, and none of our business, if you follow me. I know the times have changed a lot from when Warren and I were coming up in the Navy, and perhaps these sorts of arrangements are more—I almost hate to use the word, but more— common.”
Maddy almost laughed. This woman should hear herself.
Why doesn’t she just come right out and say it?
“And the more I think about it, a young woman with your face and figure, two salaries, and thus the money for expensive clothes and your own car, the more I think about it, the more I think this latter possibility is closer to the mark. Yes, I think it is.”
Mrs. Huntington looked around the apartment as if to corroborate her conclusion. Maddy wondered what the apartment would tell her. She sighed but held her tongue.
Mrs. Huntington was smiling again.
“You’ve got that ‘give her enough rope, she’ll soon hang herself’ look on your face, dear. Please, relax. I’m not here to brand a scarlet letter on your forehead.”
“Then why are you here, Mrs. Huntington?”
“I’m here, I guess, to give you some advice. Let me tell you a little story. I’ll give you my advice and then I promise I’ll leave and hope we can still be friends. The story goes like this: Warren was the executive officer in a destroyer back about eight years ago, which, of course, made me the XO’s wife. As I’m sure you’ve figured out, the captain’s wife and the XO’s wife have a fairly traditional division of labor when it comes to the wardroom wives. They share the mentoring duties, and they share being the hostess for when the wives get together, especially during deployment, and they share the duty for taking calls in the night when someone’s wife gets into a pickle. They sort of share the same coordinated partnership that the CO and the XO share on the ship, only, because we’re wives, there’s not the distinction of rank. Wives who wear their husband’s rank tend to be kind of ridiculous, anyway, so that’s not really important.”
Maddy sat back with her coffee and listened.
“One of the problems we wrestled with in that wardroom was the Supply officer’s wife. She was very pretty and very vivacious, and a dedicated party girl. The ship went off to WESTPAC and Shirley went off to town with her red dress on. She was not very discreet, and soon all the wardroom wives had their tongues aflutter. Then Shirley found out that we had all found out, and then we indulged in a mutual shunning exercise.
“Halfway through the cruise, the captain’s wife got a phone call in the middle of the night—with deployed ships, it’s always in the middle of the night—and was told that the ship had been in an ASW screen exercise and had managed to collide with another destroyer, and that there was very serious damage and nine people known dead or injured, but worse, twelve others were missing.
Now when you’ve been around the Navy for a while, you know that missing at sea is almost always the same as dead. Nature of the beast, I guess.
Well, she called me, and between us we called the rest of the wives.
Naturally, she being the CO’s wife, we gathered at her place. Except for Shirley, of course, because we weren’t speaking to Shirley, because she was being such a ‘shameless hussy.”
“The problem was, of course, that Shirley’s husband turned out to be one of the missing, the only officer, in fact, who was missing. We didn’t know that when we first made the calls. Around about morning, we were given the list of names by the base chaplain, and suddenly we knew somebody was going to have to start speaking to Shirley again. Well, the captain’s wife and I were elected, so to speak, and we went with the chaplain to Shirley’s house. We got there about eight in the morning, and, poor Shirley, she had a gentleman caller, as my mother used to say.
He actually came to the door. He was Navy, and when he saw two distraught wives and a chaplain, he knew instantly what we were there for. But Shirley did not; she had to be told.”
Mrs. Huntington paused, her face grim in the memory of that morning.
“And I will never forget the look on her face, beyond the shock, beyond the beginnings of grief, the look that echoed the unspoken question on her lips, which asked, And what was I doing when my husband went over the side in the night? I don’t think Shirley was ever the same again after that morning. Oh, of course we told her that her husband was missing, that nothing was confirmed yet, and that they were searching, but women who’ve lost a mate seem to become clairvoyant at times like that and they see right through those charades. She knew.
Maybe she knew because we knew and we transmitted that knowledge. I never knew before that day that one could see a soul break right in half but I did that morning.
“Anyway, that’s the story. Now for the advice: First, if you decide to see other men, be discreet. If nothing else, you can do mortal damage to your husband’s career if it gets out that you’re seeing other men when the ship is gone. I don’t know if you’re in the same boat with the Hudsons—Tizzy’s told me they’re going to get out, so maybe the career aspect doesn’t matter. But if that’s not decided yet, be very discreet.
Second, keep in touch with us, in touch with me, actually, so that the kitty cats don’t get started and make it hard for us grown-ups to keep in touch with everyone in the fold, lambs, sheep, and wolves. Third, remember that Hood is at war, whether the politicians call it a police action or a counterinsurgency, or whatever. Make sure you are strong enough to take a visit like Shirley’s one morning after a night like, well, like this past weekend, perhaps. And lastly, I presume that one of the reasons, if you had a reason, that you have been with another man is that your husband is gone. Consider this, Maddy: Where’s the other man now? Is he coming back? Will you see him tomorrow?
Or is it possible that he’s gone, too? I’m not condemning you, Maddy, and I don’t expect you to say anything at all. I just think it’s my …
well, my duty, as the woman in the wardroom with the most experience with the stress of deployment, to pay you this call. Now, you will keep in touch with us?”
Maddy took a deep breath. Had she not been breathing?
“Certainly,” she managed.
“Oh good. I was so afraid you’d get angry and shun us. Because that’s the other thing I learned—we were terribly wrong to shun her. I don’t know if it would have made a difference, but the news might have been a little less destructive if there had been someone besides a one-night stand with her, some friends, perhaps. The wardroom wives are special that way, you see. Most of us may or may not have ever been natural friends, but since there’s always the possibility that something’s going to happen, most of us feel that there’s a modicum of safety in numbers.
In truth, as Shirley found out, there’s no safety at all, but it makes us feel better just the same.
Shirley killed herself a few months later, which is why I still feel bad about all of that.”
She got up, gathering her purse and jacket. “And now I’ve said enough and I’m going to get out of your hair.
This has been what’s called friendly fire, Maddy, and I thank you for hearing me out. And I promise, this will remain between you and me. But please, think about it, think about why you’ve been doing what you’ve been doing. And call me if you’d like. You can talk to me, Maddy—I don’t tell Warren things he doesn’t need to know, so you won’t hurt your Brian. Okay? Bye, now.”
Maddy could not speak. Mrs. Huntington saw herself to the door. She waved once and was gone, the door pulled firmly behind her. After a minute, Maddy got up in
a daze and went over to put the chain in place.
She leaned her forehead on the door and thought about what the captain’s wife had said. Was she strong enough to take a visit like that? Since Friday night to this very moment, she had squeezed everything, including Brian, especially Brian, right out of her mind. How would she feel about a chaplain standing at her door? Shattered?
Would her very soul fracture? After what she had done with Autrey this weekend, to say that her soul would break would be the height of hypocrisy. Sad, yes. Sorry for herself, yes. But she had dishonored her marriage, and you can’t break a soul that has no honor. “Think about it,” the woman had said. Think about why she had been doing the things she had been doing.
She loved Brian, but she had needed Autrey. As she thought about it, Autrey the person was practically anonymous, and yet, at one elemental, almost atavistic level, the level where the she had been summoned out of the cave, flattening the her enroute, Autrey had turned her head and then her body every way but loose. Autrey had come right at her, and something very basic in her had responded. Brian, the nice guy, the idealist, the guy who had simply fallen in love with her—and married her—Brian had never done that. And Brian had elected to go away. But no, that wasn’t correct, either. She had married a naval officer. He had been very clear about the going-away part of it. She had even experienced it in the Decatur tour. Brian was simply doing his duty by going away. But where the hell do you strike the balance between the dishonorable need and the honorable need, between sex and love, between a man who hunts women and a man who marries one? Mrs. Huntingdon had been very grown-up about this, and Maddy now thanked God she had not tried to deny everything: Lying would have provoked contempt on top of censure. Was she strong enough? In her lust, she had never considered any particular consequences.
And the ironic thing was, Autrey was where? Autrey was gone. Mrs. Huntington had unwittingly put her finger right on it. Maddy had checked the bedroom and the kitchen for a note, a sign that it wasn’t over, but there was nothing. Autrey was gone, just like Brian. No, not just like Brian, is it? And now that he was gone, she remembered something she had read once, that the difference between making love and just fucking was that after making love, both people wanted to stay, but after fucking, at least one, if not both, wanted to go.
She sighed again, deciding to take another bath. She wondered how she would face the wardroom wives again, even if Mrs. Huntington did keep her word to tell no one.
Three nights later, Mrs. Huntington called her. The wives were congregating at her house this coming Friday— nothing special, just a potluck supper, something to chase away the Friday night. Maddy had hesitated.
“Mrs. Huntington, I’m not sure I should. I guess I’m still in the ‘thinking about it’ mode right now.”
“I told you I would keep this whole thing to myself, Maddy. And I have. I’ve told no one, not even Barbara Mains, with whom I normally share everything that’s going on in the wardroom. So it’s not like anyone will be pointing fingers.”
Maddy had nodded, as if Mrs. Huntington could see her.
“Maddy?”
“Yes, sorry, Mrs. Huntington. And I’m deeply grateful for that. I guess it’s just that I would know, and you know, and that still makes me uncomfortable. I’m doing what you said—thinking about what I want. I’m just not done yet, if that makes any sense.”
“Well, yes, dear, of course it does. But you don’t have to do all that by yourself, you know.”
“But this is something I think I do have to do by myself.” Maddy thought for a moment. “It’s not …”
she began, then paused.
“It’s not what, Maddy?”
“It’s not that there’s anything still going on. I mean, that’s all over.
If that matters to you, I mean.”
“It does matter, Maddy. I’m just trying to help, you know.”
“Yes, I do know. I’m just not ready yet to talk about it. But I will be.
And then I’m probably going to call you, if that’s still okay.”
“It is, and I’ll make your excuses for Friday. But if you change your mind, just come—you don’t have to call or anything. Just come, okay?”
“Thanks, Mrs. Huntington. Goodbye.”
Maddy put the phone down and turned the TV back on to the evening news.
She watched it for a while, not really seeing it. She had told the truth; she had been thinking about it—nonstop, as a matter of fact.
During the day, her mind was carefully focused on her job. After work, and especially at night, she ran through the entire gamut of emotions—guilt, anger at Autrey, anger with herself, with the world for interfering, afraid of what might happen, deeply embarrassed at who might know, defiant if they did, afraid that what she had done might eventually mean she would be left alone again, very afraid of opening the door to find uniformed men with hats in hand.
She had begun and then ripped up several letters to Brian, ranging from full confessions to nothing, everything’s just fine letters. Each time, she could not get around the basic obstacles: tell him, and destroy him; don’t tell him, and deceive him; tell him how very much you love him, and make him wonder what’s going on.
And all of her anxiety revolved around the basic question Mrs. Huntington had posed: What do you want, Maddy?
Do you want to go through life walking on the wild side, playing manipulation games with exciting men? Or do you want a loving, stable marriage, one where it is so good for both of you that what your father did will never even cross Brian’s mind? That’s easy to describe, but how in the hell do you achieve that in the Navy?
As she thought about it, the mechanics were becoming clear enough: You soldiered on. You accepted that the separations were going to be a fact of life and you made the best of them, just like all those women were doing.
Friday-night potluck dinners, for instance. And days at the beach with the kids. With the kids you don’t have.
Who’s to say that you will be able to have kids, anyway.
But you made the best of the times together and lived on the memories in between, like a desert flower that blooms and then waits for the next season of rain. You stop whining and complaining and you get on with it.
Just like they do. Which means that what they do is not to be despised or ridiculed, that what they do is an honorable endeavor, that the Tizzy Hudsons of the world have it all wrong.
Well, okay, that’s how it’s done. But could she, Maddy Holcomb, manage it? She hadn’t managed worth a damn so far, and the deployment was barely three months old. This deployment. What about all the rest, the deployments yet to come, the empty piers, the empty mailboxes, the everyday crises that greeted every wife and mother like the sunrise—could she, Maddy Holcomb, handle all that? Your mother did, girl. Talk about a deployment—at least you’ve got a schedule on the refrigerator of when your man’s coming back. Maddy gritted her mental teeth every time she thought about her mother, and yet, and yet: Maybe just a smidgin of sympathy was in order there.
She refocused on the TV again and then got up and turned it off. She decided to clean the apartment again, for the third time this week. She decided to put her mind back in neutral again and go to work, substituting activity for thought, tire herself out as she had on the backboard for the past three afternoons, blasting the fuzz off those tennis balls with a fierce determination that had kept the mashers at their distance. She thought again about Friday.
Not yet. Eventually, I’m going to have to do that, to rejoin, maybe to find out how this business is done.
Because I’m pretty sure that I do know what I want. The weekend with Autrey had been time in the furnace, all heat, all her female nerve ends thrumming at once, glorious, frightening, exalting, thrilling—and pointless.
After all the noise, just fucking, not loving. Mrs. Hunting ton had done her an enormous favor in reminding her that there was a difference. All she needed now was some time to regroup, to step back
and look again at what she wanted out of life. Yes, she would think about Friday.
WESTPAC
Rocky leaned on the temporary lifelines rigged across the back of the helo deck. It was nearly sundown. He and several other men stood around the flight deck, smoking the day’s last cigarette after chow or just hanging out.
The western horizon was beginning to bloom in all the colors of a fantastic sunset. Down below, on the fantail, he saw Bullet holding court with some of his young disciples. They were gathered on the port side, in the shadow of the five-inch gun mount. Bullet was reading from a book and then explaining what he had just read as the others listened carefully. With the wind astern, Rocky was able to catch bits and pieces of what Bullet was saying, and he was struck by Bullet’s language, which was definitely not of the street-talk variety. There was a lot more to this guy than met the eye.
His immediate problem was to place Bullet squarely and irretrievably in the path of Jackson’s manhunt, but he hadn’t the first idea of how to do it. Bullet knew that he was under suspicion but also knew that, with Garlic out of the picture, the only guy who could finger him could be fingered back. The Mafia called it a lock for a reason. Jackson was already predisposed not to believe the second-man theory, and Rocky had dismissed it, too, during his last session with Jackson, on the basis of the well-known fact that drug organizations were clear-cut about who was in charge. He had fed back to the chief as subtly as he could the idea of Bullet as the kingpin, trying to reinforce the prime suspect in the Sheriff’s mind. But the longer Jackson went without substantive evidence on Bullet, the more likely that he’d start branching out and looking for other suspects.
He watched the group of blacks below out of the corner of his eye, trying not to be too overt about looking at them. He was surprised, therefore, when about fifteen minutes later Bullet wrapped it up down there and looked up to the flight deck and gave Rocky the high sign, the signal that he wanted to meet. They met in the laundry, after Bullet had told the two black servicemen working there to get lost for half an hour.
The Edge of Honor Page 56
