And that was the last time Arthur would contact his family for many years to come, just as it was almost the last time he ever danced with his jitterbugging self-pity.
Because now he was a Marine.
"Semper fi." Always faithful.
But to what or to whom, he wasn't yet sure.
And it would take him nearly twenty more years to find out.
Chapter 8
"What time's your flight?" Danny asked from behind his menu.
"I have to be back at Fort Myer by midnight; then we leave around four in the morning, depending on orders," Arthur replied, and then grabbed a roll from the basket on the table. He broke it in half, dabbed part of it in the ramekin of olive oil nearby and popped it in his mouth.
"Jesus. I don't know how you do it." He shook his head. "What are you having?"
"Probably the chicken piccata. What about you?"
"You always get that. Why don't you try something else?"
"Because I like it. Want to split a salad?"
"Sure." Danny put down his menu and leveled his gaze at him. "But if you've got to be back at midnight, then we won't have any time together."
Arthur finished chewing his bread and then swallowed. "I know this trip's been shorter this time, but that's how it goes. There's nothing I can do about it."
"Except to leave."
"I can't and you know it. And I'm not going over all that again."
"You could retire early. Between your pension and what I make, we could live pretty comfortably."
"And what would I do all day?" Arthur asked, eyebrows raised.
"I don't know. Have a second career. Do volunteer work. Go back to school."
"The Marines is my career, and I'm not leaving until I have twenty years. I'm only thirty-one, for God's sake. I'm only just now halfway there."
"But you could get some kind of pension, right?"
"Are you saying I should throw in the towel?" Arthur asked. "I'd lose most of what I've already put in."
"All the more reason to get out now," Danny said, and then put down his menu. "I mean, how much longer can you keep up with this? You always say how you're sick of the homophobia, the lies, of always looking over your shoulder. You should get out now before they find out."
"They aren't gonna find out." Arthur rolled his eyes. "If they haven't in eleven years, they sure as hell won't now. Anyway, can we please talk about something else?"
Danny sighed. "You're right. I'm sorry. It's just that I'd love for us to be together like other couples. Like David and Larry, or Lee and Andre. You know--a lovely house, two dogs, clever dinner parties...that golden boredom with each other that settles in after a while." He reached across the table to take Arthur's hand.
Arthur pulled it away. "You can't do that," he whispered, his eyes bugged out.
"Fuck you," Danny sneered. "I don't even know why I bother."
"Well, maybe you shouldn't, if it's so much goddamn trouble." They'd had this argument more times than he could remember, and it always ended in a stalemate.
"Anyhow, here she comes."
"So what looks good, gentlemen?" asked the pretty waitress.
"How's the veal?" Danny asked.
Arthur shot him a don't-you-dare look, and Danny threw him back a just-watch-me smile.
"It's fabulous," she replied. "It's everyone's favorite."
"Why don't you just order the golden retriever stew?" Arthur suggested.
"Then, veal it is," Danny told the girl.
"You do and I won't eat at this table with you," Arthur warned him.
"Medium rare," he added.
"And for you?" she asked Arthur.
He looked from Danny to the waitress and back. "I'd like the chicken piccata, and another glass of Fumé blanc."
"And we'll split the Bellisima salad," Danny added.
"Thanks!" she piped, then turned and fled. They waited until she was out of earshot, then resumed their discussion.
"I'm serious, Arthur. You said yourself that sometimes they wait until the gay guys get close to retirement; then suddenly they uncover some 'new information' that triggers a dishonorable discharge. Then it's all for nothing...no retirement, no medical benefits, no cozy plot waiting for you at Arlington. You could put in nineteen-plus years and then 'Oops, we found these pictures of you on your knees in front of your attorney here.'"
"Look," Arthur began, "nine more years is gonna go by in a flash. And in the meantime we can still continue like we've done for the last six years." He smiled.
"Has it really been so hard for you?"
Danny smiled wanly. "I guess not. I just...miss you so much sometimes. And I worry. A lot."
"But it's peacetime."
"I know. But what if something happens? I mean there was that whole thing on the USS Cole a while back. And there you are over in Germany, where anything could happen. I mean, it'd be different if you were here in the U.S."
"Things could happen here, you know," Arthur said, and then threw the last of his wine down his throat.
"What could possibly happen here in New York? Another bomb on Broadway?"
He laughed. "There've been at least"--he counted slowly on his fingers--"four this year that I can remember."
"What could happen here is that you could get tired of me. And I would just get fat and lazy in six months if I didn't have the Marines kicking my ass." He eyed the waitress as she approached with his glass of wine, and their salads. "Anyhow, what's going on with that case you're working on?"
"I don't want to talk about work. I hate practicing law."
"And so you want me to quit my job? What would we live on then?"
"We'd live on love--and the proceeds from the sexual harassment suit I'll file against a certain soldier I know, as well as his beloved USMC. And then we could open our own little B and B up in Provincetown."
Arthur's smile vanished. "Don't even joke about things like that."
"I'm not joking. About the B and B."
"I know you're not, and that sounds great--when the time is right. I'm talking about your suing the Marines."
"Why not? Since they won't let us get married, I'm still allowed to testify against you, and then after I win there's no law to stop us from sharing the damages. I think it's all rather brilliant."
The waitress placed his wine on the table and a small plate of salad in front of each man. "Pepper?"
They nodded.
She twisted the grinder over each pile of lettuce, then vanished.
"You're crazy," Arthur told him, and then dug into his salad.
"Crazy about us," he said, his voice dropping suggestively. "So...whattaya say we flag down Missy and take the food back to the apartment?"
Arthur looked up at him. "What?"
"You don't want to be all pent up on that long flight to Germany with all those hot young Marines on board, do you?"
Arthur cocked an eyebrow. "So...what did you have in mind?"
"I just thought I should do my duty for God and my country. You know...maybe a hot shower followed by a hotter massage?" His fingers made like he was playing a piano in the air.
He grinned. "Well, when you put it that way--"
Danny grinned back at him. "Then it's a deal?"
As the waitress appeared with their entrees, Arthur withdrew his wallet and handed over his credit card. "Everything to go, if you don't mind," he told her, and raised his glass. "And a bottle of this nice Fumé blanc to go, too."
As she took the card from him, he felt Danny's shoeless foot rub his leg. The contact aroused him immediately.
Their eyes locked.
Arthur adjusted himself before standing. "Let's go. I'll sign the slip on the way out."
Danny folded his napkin on the table and pushed his chair back. "Let's walk," he suggested. "It still feels like summer tonight."
"It is summer. Fall doesn't start until the twenty-first."
"That's only next week."
"So we should enjoy tonight," he
said as he signed the receipt. Then he took the plump white bags from the maître d'. "Because everything's going to feel very different when I get back next month."
* * *
The flight to Germany was uneventful, except for the presence of a couple of Marines who presented, to Arthur, very much like a couple. One was tall, dark and muscular, while the other was shorter, blond and wiry. They were typical soldiers; their talk, their practiced swaggers-- everything about them said "men's men." But it was the intimacy between them that was the giveaway: the soft talk, the brevity of their sentences...as if few words were needed in public because so much had been shared privately. Arthur smiled while imagining the two sharing a bed, with their secret serving not only to sharpen their sex, but also to sweeten their time relaxing. He'd heard of couples like them hooking up in the military, and then spending their remaining civilian years growing fat and gray together, surrounded by a herd of silky terriers in a suburban ranch house. It was uncommon, but not as unusual as most people, especially the government, thought. After all, the military sated a hunger many men have for daring exploits and relentless fitness and exotic travel.
And the chance to be chummy with other men.
The pair brought to his mind those black-and-white World War II movies where the noble Allied soldiers were getting slaughtered by the enemy but then revived their exhausted courage to triumph, even under heavily uneven odds. Toward the end of each film, just before or after the heroes experienced the most thrilling of victories, a mortally wounded soldier--usually the youngest and the cutest--would be cradled in the arms of his usually gruff but now tearful buddy, who encouraged him, with their noses nearly touching, to "hang in there...everything's gonna be OK." After the pup whispers his final, fate-accepting phrase, his head drops to the side and his rag-doll body is engulfed by his comrade, whose hidden-from-the-camera, grief-stricken face says, I loved this boy, and now my heart is broken.
Scenarios such as this had pushed him to the recruitment center on that desperate morning more than a decade before. But after he'd enlisted, he kept scenes like those tucked away for good, because the thought of having to live through a moment like that was just too much to bear.
And things had gone well for him in the Marines, despite his rocky start at boot camp. He was well on his way to becoming a major by his mid-twenties and had earned the respect of the U.S. armed forces, as well as a small legion of men. But his personal life hadn't flourished as well as his career; he'd tried out a few relationships over the years, but nothing more than two months here or three weeks there. So he channeled his sexual energy into one-nighters or barroom encounters or sex-club jaunts, because his pewter eyes, calisthenics-hewn physique and
"Semper fi" tattoos garnered him just about anyone who turned his head.
But no one he might cradle in his arms and cry over.
Until he met Danny.
He'd just been promoted to captain and had a four-day pass to spend, so he took a string of trains up from Fort Myer, then caught a cab from Grand Central Station down to Dick's Hangout in the meatpacking district of Manhattan.
The athletic build, Boy Scout's haircut and luminous blue eyes caught Arthur's attention immediately. But he learned very quickly that Danny's boyish appearance was the sheep's clothing for the Black Irish wolf lurking inside; he had a wit and a tongue and a temper that frustrated Arthur as much as it charmed him. Hence their frequently argumentative--but always passionate--relationship.
When he was on leave, Arthur lived at Danny's one-bedroom walkup overlooking Franklin Park in Chelsea. And perhaps it was the size of the apartment, or the transient nature of their relationship, or Arthur's living in a military closet, or just the dynamic of two strong-headed men trying to make a go of it together that fueled the Sturm und Drang of their relationship. They argued too much, they both knew, but both were committed to each other, and the love that they felt for each other was real. And very, very strong.
Arthur missed Danny terribly when he was away, as Danny did him.
Besides Arthur, Danny's career was his other passion--in spite of his protestations to the contrary. He worked for a law firm in the World Trade Center in lower Manhattan that pursued corporate civil rights violations and did considerable pro bono work. He was only twenty-nine and was close to becoming a partner. They figured that in a couple of years, after Danny was promoted, they would buy a place in Brooklyn, get themselves a few silky terriers of their own and put some money away for their early-retirement B and B in P-Town. Fulfilling their dreams was still years away, but with each month's passing the vision that each had for their future together grew more focused, and a bit more tangible.
All they needed was to stay the course.
* * *
It was mid afternoon when Arthur landed in Frankfurt. After grabbing his bags and reporting to his commander, he made his way to his quarters and unpacked.
He decided to ignore the stack of papers waiting for him and called Danny instead.
The phone rang. "Hey," said Danny.
"Hay is for horses."
"How was your flight?"
"Long. But otherwise uneventful."
"Thank God. What are you gonna do tonight?"
"Get settled. Take a nap, maybe. It's too early for dinner and too late for lunch, so I'll check my e-mail and get ready for tomorrow. What about you?"
"Oh, I don't know. There's some briefs I need to go over before tomorrow. We've got our big Tuesday meeting in the morning with the partners, and I'm determined to be over prepared, in case Steve the asshole tries to make me look like I'm not doing my job again."
"If he does, I feel sorry for him." Arthur laughed. "Are you having dinner with anyone tonight?"
"I called Margo but she hasn't called me back. So it'll probably be just me buried in my briefs."
"Better your briefs than someone else's."
Danny giggled. "That's something you don't have to worry about."
"Neither do you," Arthur murmured. "I better get going. I'll give you a call tomorrow."
"What time? I want to make sure I've got my cell on."
Arthur looked at his watch and did a quick calculation. "In the morning--I'll try to reach you about ten."
"OK. I'll talk to you then. Heedle-de-dee," he told him, which was their secret code, in case Uncle Sam was listening, for I love you.
"Heedle-de-dee. Big time."
Arthur hung up, shucked his clothes and took a hot shower, during which he decided to call down to the commissary and have some food brought up; it was too much to think of actually interacting with anyone this evening. He'd eat, do a little work and then go to bed early--maybe he'd even do a little fantasizing about that couple he'd seen on the plane.
He just knew he needed plenty of rest.
He had a lot on his plate for tomorrow.
* * *
He was at his desk the next afternoon when both his landline and cell phone rang.
"Major Blauefee," he barked into the landline, figuring his cell would go to voice mail.
"I'm sorry, Major. You're needed at the command center right away," instructed the calm but urgent female voice. He recognized the speaker as the general's able secretary, Corporal Dorian.
"What's going on, Corporal?"
"There's been an attack. We're mobilizing."
"What? Where?"
"New York. The general will explain it all. He's waiting for you."
* * *
Because of Arthur's career, they had been unable to register as domestic partners, so he was not privy to information regarding the recovery of Danny's body. But eventually the sad proof was unearthed, and Danny's very polite family called him back to Connecticut for a small memorial service. As he stepped inside the white clapboard saltbox where his partner had learned to walk and fought with his brothers and did his homework and slept and ate and prayed, he looked at the simple bronze urn in the center of the simple wooden mantel, between the clustered snowy roses and
the gaudily framed eight-by-ten photo, and thought, Is that all there is?
In the meantime, his dishonorable discharge had been processed at near record speed--for the military--after he'd requested a furlough to search for his missing partner (they hadn't asked him, but he'd told them because they were granting search furloughs only to immediate family members). Thus, he found himself unemployed and stripped of his benefits.
Then one grief-stricken morning, before leaving Danny's apartment for a job interview at a local Italian restaurant, he caught an article in the Times about some former gay and lesbian armed forces personnel who were flourishing at the FBI, as the bureau didn't have the same archaic, bigoted restrictions on sexual orientation as George W. Bush had for his own doomed troops. In fact, the article stated that the bureau preferred their queer agents to be "out," as their security clearances were only in question when they had something to hide, and this would make them more "vulnerable to blackmail."
A few weeks later he was notified that his application had been approved.
So, bravely he vacated Danny's flat and flew off to Quantico, Virginia, to undergo his eighteen-week training at their facility. There he did well: His background enabled him to speed through courses in hand-to-hand combat, as well as firearms, surveillance and cloaking. He dazzled the trainers with his gun toting in Hogan's Alley, the mock city that's peopled with pop-up plywood assassins, as well as ambling tourists and ladies pushing baby carriages. He also sailed through the exams on ethics and constitutional law and found that he was a natural interrogator--he excelled at playing both good and bad cop. With those successes, he'd been snapped up into a special investigations unit in Roanoke, with the promise of an eventual supervisory position.
At Roanoke he submerged himself in the cases he was assigned to: mostly mail fraud and Internet pirating and a few grisly crime scenes and an assortment of foreign nationals transporting goods illegally across international lines. Then one day, years later, after some big, scary computer had cross-referenced his own background information with new cases, they called him in to see whether he knew anything about Katharine Tyler and her allegedly crooked husband, Bill Mortson, back in his hometown of Ballena Beach. He'd told them everything he could remember, while glossing over the true nature of his relationship with Jonathan, and offered to go there on special assignment in a sting operation designed to snag Bill.
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