Rally Round the Flag, Boys!

by Max Shulman

  “And what of our daughters?” cried Laura Beauchamp, the amateur-theatricals lady. She rose now and threw her arms dramatically upward. “What of our young, innocent daughters when the town is full of sex-starved soldiers, crazed with drink!”

  “I’ll tell you what the biggest irony of all is,” said David Coleman, the comic strip artist. “The biggest irony of all is that Nike doesn’t even work! A couple of Air Force guys I know told me that Nike couldn’t hit the side of a barn! It’s just a big boondoggle for the Army; they’re trying to get the guided missile program away from the Air Force.”

  “Then why must we have it?” shouted Laura Beauchamp. “It will ruin our daughters, ruin our homes, ruin our town, and it doesn’t even work!”

  “What’s all the talkin’ for?” said Manning Thaw mildly. “If the Army says we’re gettin’ it, we’re get-tin’ it.”

  “We’ll see about that!” said Laura Beauchamp grimly. “Mr. Thaw, who’s in charge of this Nike and where do we find him?”

  “It’s a Colonel Thorwald,” replied the first selectman. “He’s over in Long Island—Fort Totten.”

  “All right then,” said Laura Beauchamp. “I move that we appoint a representative to visit Colonel Thorwald and tell him in the strongest possible terms that he cannot put his rockets in Putnam’s Landing!”

  “Good idea,” agrees George Melvin. “Let’s pick someone with a flair for words—like a writer.”

  “Yes!” cried Grace, leaping up. “My husband is a writer—and a darn good one! Harry, you’ll draft the protest, won’t you?”

  “Huh?” said Harry, blinking rapidly.

  “Excellent!” exclaimed Laura Beauchamp. “I know you’ll do a fine job, Mr. Bannerman. But time is of the essence. How soon can you get it done?”

  “Well—” said Harry, still blinking.

  “He’ll do it over the weekend,” said Grace, “polish it up on Monday and deliver it to Fort Totten on Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday!” yelped Harry.

  Grace looked at him askance. “Yes. Why not?”

  “But don’t you—” Harry began, and then abruptly stopped. What was he going to do—tell the whole town that he had made a date to sleep with his wife on Tuesday? And, worse, that his wife had forgotten all about it?

  “Tuesday’s all right, isn’t it?” asked Grace.

  “Yeah,” he mumbled and sank into a snit.

  Angela Hoffa noted his condition and rubbed her hands. No doubt about it; this apple was ripe for plucking. All that remained now was to find the time and the place.

  “Folks,” said Manning Thaw, “things bein’ how they are, hadn’t we better call it a night?”

  “Second the motion,” said George Melvin.

  “Golly,” said Betty O’Sheel to Grace Bannerman, “how about the garbage thing?”

  Grace waved her hand impatiently. “Next time, Betty. Not tonight.”

  “I guess you’re right,” said Betty bravely.

  “A motion to adjourn has been made and seconded,” said the Moderator. “All those in favor—”

  “Aye,” came the cry.

  The meeting broke up into little swirls. The O’Sheels, the Steinbergs, the Beauchamps, the Colemans gathered around Grace. “Let’s go over to Fatso’s Diner and kick this thing around some more,” said Rodney O’Sheel.

  “By all means,” said Grace. “Come on, Harry.”

  “I don’t want to go to Fatso’s Diner,” said Harry in a black pout “I want to go home.”

  Angela Hoffa heard the brisk knock of opportunity. “As a matter of fact, sweetie,” said she to Grace, “I’m pretty bushed myself. I’ll grab a cab and go home.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Grace. “Harry will be glad to drop you—that is, if he’s going home. Are you, Harry?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to come to Fatso’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, dear.” She rose on tiptoe and kissed him quickly on the cheek. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll get a ride home with somebody … Goodnight, Angela.”

  “Goodnight, honey,” smiled Angela. “Thanks for the use of your husband.”

  9

  “Come in for some coffee.”

  “No, thanks, Angela, I’ve got to be going.”

  “A drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Brandy?”

  “No, honestly.”

  “What can I tempt you with?” said Angela in mock despair. “Raisin cookies? Eskimo Pies? My beautiful white body?”

  “Ha, ha!” said Harry uneasily, a vision of Angela’s white body scampering lewdly across his brain-pan.

  “Oh, come on in!” she said, taking him firmly by the arm. “Your wife is at Fatso’s Diner, my husband is in Hollywood, and we could both do with a little booze and sympathy.”

  “I guess we could at that,” he allowed and followed her into the pecky cypress living room.

  “I know this is going to sound awful corny,” said Angela, “but would you excuse me while I slip into something more comfortable?”

  “Of course,” said Harry, feeling a sudden twitch of excitement. He had been to enough movies to know what ladies meant when they said they were going to slip into something more comfortable.

  “You fix the drinks,” said Angela. “I won’t be a minute.”

  Harry studied her buttocks switching up the stairs. In his ten years of marriage he had, like any red-blooded American boy, had an occasional letch for a woman other than his wife. But these seizures were not so much carnal as contemplative—just a kind of quiet, non-urgent speculation as to what kind of bedmate this one or that one would make. Scholarly, you might call it.

  But now, watching Angela’s shimmering bottom, a tremor of unease shot through Harry. This, it suddenly occurred to him, might not be in the realm of academics. This might be available.

  His first impulse was to bolt. He had an unbroken record of fidelity to Graces—not because of any high moral principle, but simply because he had honestly never wanted anybody else. Why smirch the scutcheon tonight?

  Oh, but this was ridiculous, he told himself, moving over to the bar. Not only ridiculous, but libelous. There had never been a breath of scandal about Angela. By what right did he assume that she was a pushover tonight? … No, he was ’way off base. All the woman wanted was, as she said, a little booze and sympathy.

  And supposing, thought he, pouring himself a White Label and water, supposing she wanted more than a little booze and sympathy. Supposing she came slinking down the stairs in a transparent negligee and pinned him to the hearthrug. Was that such a dismal prospect? Was there anything better waiting for him at home? In fact, was there anything at all waiting for him at home?

  He took a long, angry pull on his drink. If he should end up in the hay with Angela tonight—he wouldn’t, of course, but just if—then Grace would have nobody but herself to blame. If she hadn’t run off to Fatso’s Diner, he wouldn’t even be at Angela’s right now. And, what’s more, if she wasn’t so goddam busy being a home-maker, clubwoman, and patriot, then he wouldn’t be thinking about getting his jollies elsewhere!

  It was Grace’s fault. Whatever happened, it was clearly Grace’s fault. He didn’t want Angela. He didn’t want anybody. All he wanted was his wife. But, for Pete’s sake, it was like trying to get tickets to My Fair Lady!

  Having fixed the blame where it belonged, Harry turned with a good conscience to the problem at hand—namely, what to do when Angela came downstairs in her peek-a-boo peignoir.

  It had been a good long time since Harry had done anything in the seduction line, and, truth to tell, he had never been any great shakes at it. But this much he knew: soft lights and sweet music were de rigueur. He walked now around the room and doused every light not necessary for minimum visibility. Then he went to the phonograph, rummaged through the albums, selected some rape-tempo Rodgers and Hart, and switched on the turntable.

  A fire, thought he,
would lend a nice sexy glow. He knelt and lit the birch logs in the fireplace.

  Next he swung the sofa around to get the full benefit of the fire. He fluffed up the cushions, arranged pillows artistically in the corners.

  Finally he mixed two drinks—for himself a weak one so he could stay alert; for Angela a double so she could not. He lit a cigarette, assumed an insouciant pose, and waited his quarry.

  Then he heard Angela’s footsteps coming down the stairs, and panic closed around him like a big clammy fist. “Well, I guess I better be going,” he croaked, licking his dry lips and plunging toward the door.

  He stopped at the foot of the staircase. There stood Angela, not in a filmy negligee, but in a pair of pink velvet toreador pants and blue silk blouse, both perfectly opaque.

  She looked at Harry in astonishment. She looked around the room, noting the dim lights, the soft music, the fire, the rearranged sofa. She burst into peals of laughter. “Oh, no!” she cried. “Oh, no, you can’t go home! Not now. Not after you’ve gone to all this trouble to set the scene for a seduction!”

  Harry felt his neck and face turn crimson.

  “And a blush too!” exclaimed Angela delightedly. “An honest-to-goodness blush! Oh, Harry lamb, I’m tempted to throw myself right in your arms and yell ‘Take me!’”

  “Small favors gratefully accepted,” said Harry in what he hoped was a tone of light badinage. It came out more like panting.

  Laughing, she walked over to him and patted his cheek. She sat down on the sofa, curled her legs underneath her, and pointed to the cushion at her side, “Sit down.”

  He sat.

  She lifted her drink off the coffee table and tasted it. “A double, huh? You weren’t taking any chances, were you?”

  “I’ll get some more water,” he said sheepishly.

  “No, it’s all right.” She took a slow sip, looking at him with amusement over the rim of the glass.

  “Well,” he said uncomfortably, “I’ll be going.”

  “Not just yet.” She held his hand lightly. “Let me ask you something. Don’t think I’m not flattered, but what put these hot little thoughts in your mind tonight?”

  “Well—”

  “Well?”

  “Well, you said you were going to slip into something more comfortable—”

  “Ah!” said Angela. “So you thought I was going up to do the kimono bit!”

  “Well, that’s what it sounded like,” he said defensively.

  “New at the game, aren’t you, son?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Believe it or not, so am I.”

  “I believe it,” he said.

  “Now tell me, after I came downstairs in this diaphanous wrapper, what was your plot—to hop in bed with me, hop right out again, and get home before Grace does? Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am?”

  “Something like that,” he mumbled.

  She shook her head. “I’m surprised, Harry. You never struck me as the Wham-Bam type. You know how I see you? Slow and easy and romantic—a satin dressing-gown—a white scarf at your throat—champagne cooling in a silver bucket—caviar and thin rye toast—gleaming linen—candlelight—a balcony looking out over the sea … Do you like the picture?”

  “Very much,” said Harry. “There’s only one thing missing.”

  “What?”

  “A girl!”

  “Do I detect a note of bitterness?” she asked.

  Harry shrugged. “Listen, I better hit the road.”

  “Oh, relax. You came in for booze and sympathy, remember? You want to cry on my shoulder?”

  “It’s a very nice shoulder but—no, thanks.”

  “Okay,” said Angela cheerfully. “No sympathy. But let me get you some more booze.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  But Angela was on her feet. “You sit still. There’s nothing I like better than doing for a man.”

  She went quickly to the bar in her pink toreador pants and came quickly back with a scotch and water. She gave Harry the drink and sat down beside him. “Put your feet on the coffee table,” she said. “Loosen your tie.”

  He put his feet on the coffee table. He loosened his tie. He leaned back. The fire was warm. The lights were low. The drink was balm. The lady next to him was round and fragrant. The phonograph was playing Small Hotel.

  “Another drink?” said Angela.

  “No,” he answered. “Are you a good dancer?”

  “One of the best. Are you?”

  “Airy like a fairy. Come on.”

  They rose. Gracefully, lightly, they skimmed around the room as the phonograph played Small Hotel and Blue Moon and Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered. Angela was soft and weightless in his arms, and her thighs pressed pleasantly against his, and she smelled wonderful.

  “What are you smiling at, Harry?”

  “Nothing. It’s just that I thought I’d never feel young again.”

  “But you are young.”

  “You’re goddam right I am!” he said vehemently.

  “All right, Harry,” she answered in a placating tone. “I said you were, didn’t I?”

  “That’s right, you did,” he admitted. “You’re a very nice girl, Angela. And pretty too.”

  “Thank you. And you are a fine figure of a man.”

  “And young,” he reminded her. “Don’t forget young.”

  “You’re a boy, Harry. That’s what you are—a darling, dashing, impetuous boy.”

  He nodded his agreement. “Listen,” he said, “do you want to kiss me or anything?”

  “That sounds jolly!” said Angela.

  He looked at her to see if she was kidding. She was not. She ran her hands lightly over his cheeks. Carefully, deliberately, she drew his lips down to hers and gave him a long, busy kiss.

  “I better go now,” he said thickly.

  “You’ve got a few minutes.”

  “Now,” said Harry. “It’s either go or Wham-Bam.”

  She disengaged herself quickly. She linked her arm in his and walked with him to the door. “Goodnight,” the said softly.

  “Goodnight,” he answered, looking at the dimly lit room, the cheery fire, the luxurious sofa, the creamy lady beside him. “I don’t want to go very badly,” he said.

  She squeezed his hand. “Harry,” she said, “you know what we were talking about before—candlelight, champagne, a balcony overlooking the sea?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s a lovely old hotel called the Miramar in Port Jefferson on the North Shore of Long Island. Have you ever been to Port Jefferson?”

  “No.”

  “You’re going to be.”

  “Me? When?”

  “Next Tuesday. Don’t you remember? You have to go to Fort Totten about that Nike business. Port Jefferson is only a few miles away.”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe,” said Angela, averting her eyes in a maidenly manner, “maybe when you’re through at Fort Totten, you could go over to Port Jefferson. Maybe I could be waiting for you there.”

  Harry suddenly felt his ardor ebb away and his heart grow chill. It was one thing to put horns on your wife when it happened quite unexpectedly; then you could chalk it up to a temporary derangement, a lapse of the moment. But when premeditation came into the picture—when you laid plans, booked hotel rooms, took trips—you were clearly out of the novice class; you had won your “A” for sure.

  “Gee, Angela, I don’t know,” he said doubtfully.

  “All right, darling, let’s forget it.”

  “Maybe we better.”

  “Sure … Goodnight, Harry.”

  “Goodnight, Angela.”

  He stood indecisively, wondering whether in these circumstances protocol called for a goodnight kiss. His problem was settled as Angela suddenly threw herself in his arms and gave him a fierce, probing kiss. “Oh, darling, let me make you happy!” she whispered and stood without moving as his hands flew eagerly over her body.

  “Hotel Miramar,�
� she said softly in his ear. “Port Jefferson.”

  She opened the door, let him out, pointed him at his car, closed the door and returned to her drink. “He’ll be there!” she said aloud, smiling confidently into her glass.

  “Like hell I will!” said Harry aloud, driving through the night.

  10

  “My teeth,” said Guido di Maggio.

  “Your teeth, did you say?” asked Major McEstway, post adjutant.

  “Yes,” said Guido. “Look.” He leaned forward across the Major’s desk and opened his mouth wide.

  “In a minute,” said Major McEstway and turned his attention to a crop-haired, angry faced captain wearing a chest full of battle ribbons who had just come into the office. “Yes, Captain,” he said.

  “I’m Walker Hoxie,” said the newcomer. “Colonel Thorwald sent for me.”

  “Hello, Captain Hoxie,” said Guido, looking up at him with a tentative smile.

  The Captain regarded Guido blankly.

  “I’m Guido di Maggio,” said Guido. “We met briefly at the club the other night. Remember?”

  Walker Hoxie gave Guido an ill-tempered grunt and turned abruptly back to the Major. “Okay to go in?” he asked.

  “Go ahead,” said the Major.

  Walker Hoxie went past the adjutant’s desk and into the office of Colonel Thorwald, battalion commander. Guido, watching him, suppressed a shudder. Mean looking bastard, he thought. “Who’s this guy Hoxie?” he said to Major McEstway.

  “He’s going to command one of the new bases,” replied the Major. “But never mind him. Get back to your story. I’m fascinated!”

  “Where was I?” said Guido.

  “You were explaining why you couldn’t go to Alaska,” the Major prompted. “Something about your teeth.”

  “Oh, yes.” Guido opened his mouth and leaned toward the Major. “Look here,” he said, pointing at his molars. “See all those fillings?”

  “Yes.”