“What?” Jake said, finally realizing that he had been addressed.
Judith repeated the question and noticed that Callie’s hand was now on top of her husband’s.
“Probably not,” Jake said. “I never thought so. But that’s the way Callie wanted it.” He shrugged, and turned his hand over and opened it. He smiled at Callie. Their hands remained together.
Judith Farrell grinned broadly and sat back comfortably in her chair. She even found a smile for Toad. Then the waiter brought their dinner.
Over dessert the conversation somehow turned to the political situation in the Mediterranean. “Captain,” Judith said, “what will the president do about the kidnappings in Lebanon? Will he use the navy?”
“Is this off the record, or on?”
“Background. Not for attribution.”
“Nope. If you want background, go to Washington, They pay flacks to give reporters background. I don’t want you to even hint in print that you have ever heard of Jake Grafton, or even know who he is.”
“Jake,” said Callie. “She’s just doing her job.”
“So am I.”
“Okay. Off the record. A never-said-it noninterview.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea what the president or anyone else in government will do,” Jake said and sipped his coffee.
Toad chuckled, then swallowed it when Judith glanced at him.
“Do you know anything about the terrorist boat incident several weeks ago?”
“You mean the one where the boat tried to attack the task group off Lebanon?”
“Yes.”
“I know about it.”
“What can you tell me about it?”
“Judith, I think you’re being coy. You know very well I flew that mission and later answered questions at a press conference. You’ve undoubtedly read some of the stories. You should have been at the press conference. We missed you.”
“Nothing else to say? Is that it?”
“I’m not going to sit at the dinner table and tell war stories. That’s a bad habit old men fall into. Ask me some questions about something I am qualified to comment on, off the record.” The waiter delivered the check and Jake palmed it.
“I’ll help with that,” Judith said and reached for her purse.
“My treat,” Jake said.
“We should go dutch. I can pay my way.”
“Hey, if you aren’t spending a dollar a minute, you aren’t having any fun. Tonight I’m having fun. This one’s on me.”
“Is he always like this?” Judith asked Callie.
“When he’s on good behavior,” Callie told her.
“Okay, I have a question you are qualified to comment on. Do you think the law should be changed so that women can serve on all navy ships, in all career specialities?”
“Why not? There isn’t a job in the navy that a woman couldn’t do.”
“Come on, CAG,” Toad scoffed. “You can’t mean that! Can you imagine having women in the ready rooms? In the wardroom? The navy would never be the same.”
“It would be different,” Jake acknowledged. “But so what? We need their talent and brains, same as we need the abilities of the blacks and Chicanos. Sexual segregation is the same as racial segregation. People use the same arguments to justify it. People will see that someday.”
“You surprise me, Captain,” Judith Farrell said softly.
“Me, too,” Toad sighed gloomily.
Judith picked up her purse and stood. “Thank you for the lovely evening, Callie, Captain Grafton.” She walked away without a glance at Toad.
“Toad Tarkington,” Callie said. “You owe Judith and me an apology.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by that, Mrs. Grafton,” Toad said, reddening slightly. “But the CAG wanted me to get rid of her and I wasn’t making much progress on the romantic angle.”
The whites of Callie’s eyes became very noticeable and her lips compressed to a thin, straight line. “Thanks a heap, Toad,” Jake said disgustedly.
“Uh, well, I guess I’d better be shoving off.” Tarkington rose hastily. “Thanks for the fine meal. ’Night, Mrs. Grafton.” He tossed the last phrase over his shoulder as he marched for the elevators.
“Callie, I’m sorry. I thought Judith and Toad would hit it off.”
“Oh no you didn’t. You don’t like her.”
“She’s okay. A little strident. But she’s a reporter and I don’t need any reporters. I was hoping Toad could waltz her off for drinks and whispers, and you and I could be alone.”
Callie giggled. “She had you stereotyped.”
“Yeah, as a Mark One, Mod Zero military Neanderthal. All Toad did was act like one.”
* * *
Judith Farrell sat in a stall in the ladies’ room off the lobby with her purse on her lap. She smoothed a thousand-lire note and wrote on it in block letters, “The rabbit was good. You must try it soon.” She placed the pen back in her purse and made some noise with the roll of toilet paper. She flushed the toilet, and after washing her hands, handed the thousand-lire note to the rest room attendant on her way out.
* * *
The street was too dimly lit. Jake swore to himself when he realized his eyes were not going to adjust. He stumbled twice and felt Callie’s arm on his elbow.
“Ha! How does it feel to lead a blind man?”
“You just need some practice in this light.”
“Like hell. I just need more light.”
“Don’t we all,” she said mildly and tightened her grip on his arm.
“Why are we out here, anyway?”
“Because we both needed a walk.”
He relaxed a little when he realized he could see, though not very well. How the devil had he flown like this? It was a miracle he was still alive. He snorted again.
“Maybe it would be better if you put your hand on my arm and let me stay about a half step ahead.” They tried it, and it did work better. “See, you can feel me step up or down.”
“Yeah,” Jake said sourly.
“Don’t you wish you had eaten your carrots all these years?”
Jake found himself smiling. He swung her around and hugged her. Four blocks further on they came to a small bistro and sat at one of the outside tables under an umbrella labeled “Campari,” after a local wine. They each ordered a glass. Light from the window behind them fell upon the table and traffic rattled by.
“Do you want to stay in the navy now that you can’t fly?”
“I don’t know. That beach house sounds awfully good right now. But I’m not sure how it would wear in six months or a year. I’m afraid I’d go stir crazy.”
“You could always find something to do. Perhaps open a shop. Or go back to school for a master’s. Don’t think you’re going to sit and wait to grow old.” Her tone implied that if he did think that, he had better rethink it “Perhaps you could teach classes at some civilian flight school.”
“I don’t want to see and smell and taste it and not be able to touch it.” He sipped the wine. “But I guess I’ve nothing to complain about. Flying has been pretty good to me.”
“I guess it has,” she said. “You’re still alive, in one piece, reasonably sane.”
“Hmmm,” he muttered, seeing Mad Dog Reed sitting in his office, explaining why he should go on to other things. God, how many of those faces had he seen in the last twenty years? So many dead men, so many withered, malnourished, blighted marriages, so many kids with only part-time fathers or no father at all, so many talents squandered and dreams shattered when careers went on the rocks or promotions failed to arrive. What had all this … waste … what had it bought?
And Jake Grafton? What had he spent the last twenty years doing? Driving airplanes! Dropped some bombs in Vietnam, and we lost that one. Taught a bunch of guys to fly, pushed a few mountains of paper, and drilled a lot of holes in the sky. Made a lot of landings. Got promoted. What else? Oh yes, spent fifteen years married to a beautiful woman, but only wa
s there about half the time.
And buried some guys. Attended too many memorial services and too many changes of command, too many retirement ceremonies, made too many false promises about keeping in touch.
“I’m glad,” he said at last, “that you think I’m reasonably sane.”
An hour later they watched the moon set from their hotel balcony. As it sank toward the sea it appeared embedded in the clouds, which glowed with a golden light.
“You know,” Jake said, “I guess it’s the flying I’ve always went back to.” The lower edge of the moon slid into the sliver of open space between the clouds and the sea. The sky with all of its moods and all of its faces was always new, never the same twice. But the flying, the flying — the stick in his right hand and the throttles in his left, the rudder pedals under his feet, soaring as he willed it with the engines pushing — the flying was pure and clean and truly perfect. When strapped to an ejection seat, encased in nomex and helmet and mask and gloves and survival gear, sucking the dry oxygen with its hint of rubber, he was free in a way that earth-bound humans could never understand. As he sat here tonight he could feel the euphoria and freedom once again as the flying came flooding back and he flew through an infinite sky under an all-knowing sun. Irritated with himself, he shook the memory off. “For what? I’m no wiser, no richer, certainly not a better person. Why in hell did I keep going back?”
“Because you couldn’t leave it, Jake,” Callie said softly.
“I’m not going to miss the night cat shots, though. I’ve had enough of those to last three lifetimes. I’m not going to miss the damned paperwork or all those long, miserable days at sea with no mail. And the ruthless, implacable bastards that make it all happen — the ‘results matter, everything else is bullshit’ crowd — I won’t miss them either.” He realized he was feeling his pockets for cigarettes. “I guess the bag is empty. Maybe I just never had any answers and am finally old enough to realize it.”
“Whom are you trying to convince?”
“Myself, I guess.” He examined his hands with the chewed fingernails, then remembered Majeska doing that not many hours before, so he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “We all go through life making choices, and each of us has to live with his choices, good, bad, or indifferent. But occasionally, every now and then, someone makes a mistake and finds that he can’t live with it. And he can’t correct it.”
“Not you, I hope?”
“A guy on the ship.”
“Someone I know?”
“Yes.” He slouched deeper into the chair, his chin almost on his chest, and stared at his feet stretched out before him.
“That’s what religion is for, Jake. It teaches us to live with mistakes we think we can’t live with.” She touched his arm. “That’s God’s grace.”
“Well, I’m no chaplain.” Jake sat silently watching the moonset, then finally levered himself from his chair and went inside.
Callie sat and watched the moon’s glow fade as it slipped lower and lower into the sea. When she heard him dialing the phone, she stepped in through the open door.
“This is Captain Grafton. Who am I talking to?”
She knew he must be on the phone to the beach duty officer at fleet landing.
“Okay, Mr. Mayer. I want you to get on the radio to the ship, talk to the OOD. Ready to copy? Have the senior chaplain aboard tonight go see Commander Majeska immediately. Tell the chaplain it is an urgent request from me. That’s it. Got it?” He listened a moment, muttered his thanks, then hung up.
“John Majeska?” she asked.
He nodded miserably and gathered her into his arms.
* * *
Judith Farrell was sitting in a corner of the hotel bar facing the door when Toad Tarkington walked in, saw her, and came her way. There were two couples seated at tables in the windowless, paneled room, and several men stood at the bar chatting with the bartender. An opera murmured from the radio on the ledge behind the bar.
“May I sit down?” Toad dropped into a chair before she could answer. “Listen, I owe you an apology. Several apologies, in fact. Tonight I was just trying to move you out so Captain Grafton and his wife could have some time alone together. Honest, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ve got two sisters who have fought like hell for decent jobs, so I know how hard it is for women to find them.”
“Did you come here just to say that to me?”
He nodded. “And to buy you a drink. Please, will you accept my apology?”
“Ah reckon,” she drawled thickly.
He leaned back and laughed. “Thanks. Maybe we should start over. I’m Toad Tarkington.” He stuck out his hand.
She took it, and he found her hand was dry, warm and firm. “I’m Judith Farrell, Mr. Tarkington.”
“Call me Toad. Everyone does.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Robert.”
“Why did you really come back to the hotel this evening, Robert?”
“To apologize. You’re a nice lady and I felt pretty miserable.”
“Oh. I was sitting here thinking you might have had a romantic motive.”
Tarkington flushed. “Well, I confess that the possibility of a little romance might have been lurking somewhere way back there amid the cobwebs in the attic. After all, if you were some ugly old matron with three chins, I would have been nicer to you in the first place and my conscience wouldn’t have squirmed and writhed and tortured me so.”
She laughed, a deep, throaty laugh, and her eyes twinkled. “You impress me as a man who knows a lot of girls, but not many women.”
“I know one or two,” Toad said, well aware that he was on the defensive, yet unable to keep silent.
“You see them as girls. Soft, cuddly little things.”
It was true. He stared uncomfortably across the table. In the past, one or two of his female acquaintances had thrown down this gauntlet and he had walked away, unwilling to discuss his feelings. The urge to leave was there now, but there was something else, too. This Judith Farrell …
The bartender came to the table and they ordered.
Small talk, Toad thought, small talk. Chat with her, man. But for the life of him he couldn’t think of anything to say. She broke the silence. “How long have you been in the navy?”
He opened his mouth and his life story came pouring out. In a few minutes he realized he was making a fool of himself. He didn’t care. He gestured and tried to say witty things and kept his eyes on her as she smiled appropriately and watched his face.
The drinks came and he paid. By now she was talking and he found her comments deliciously humorous.
Judith Farrell was certainly no girl. She was a mature, adult woman, happy with life. Perhaps contented was the word. He found her enchanting.
Then, in the middle of a vignette about her family, she gathered her purse in her left hand and pushed her chair back a millimeter. She finished the tale with a flourish and as he laughed, stood up.
“Do you have to go?”
She nodded. “I’m glad we had a chance to get to know each other.”
“Could we see each other again?” Toad stood. “Listen, I …”
She reached out and her fingertips grazed his arm. “Goodbye, Robert.” Her high heels clicked on the polished floor as she walked away.
Toad watched her go, then sank back into his chair. She had scarcely touched her drink. His glass was empty. He waved at the barkeeper, and failed to notice the man in his early forties wearing a gray pinstripe suit who set his empty glass on the bar and strolled out, less than a minute behind Judith.
What had he said that struck her wrong? Dejected, he sat contemplating the chair where she had been.
15
The September haze obscured the sky, except for a pale, gauzy blue patch directly overhead. Here and there the tops of fluffy little clouds could be discerned embedded in the insubstantial whiteness. The haze completely obscured the peaks of the two islands that formed the gate to the
Bay of Naples, Capri and Ischia. Looking toward the coast, one could make out the major features of the Naples estuary, but the coastline north and south merged into this gray-white late-summer mixture of moisture, smoke, and North African dust.
Toad Tarkington strolled along the flight deck of the United States and cataloged the day as a partial obscuration, visibility five miles in haze. Then his attention wandered to a more important subject — a woman.
“Women!” he grumped to himself. Just when your life is flowing along like smooth old wine, a woman shows up.
Women are like cars, he told himself as he meandered along with his hands in his pockets, automatically weaving around the parked aircraft and their webs of tie-down chains, looking only at the gray steel deck in front of his shoes. There are the old sedans, he decided, dowdy and faded, the Chevys and Fords of the world that putter along and get you there for as long as you want to go, not too fast and not in style, but dependable. Then there are the racy Italian jobs that can rip up to warp three in a heartbeat, wring out your skinny little ass, and leave you broken and bleeding beside the road. And finally, there are the quality machines, the Mercedes of the world, the ones that go fast or slow in elegant style, that last forever, and you are exultantly happy with all of your days.
Judith Farrell was a Mercedes, he decided. His Ms. Farrell was not some cheap crackerjack hot rod for a flashy Saturday night date, but a quality piece of design, engineering, and workmanship. She had character, brains, wit, beauty, and grace. He thought about the way she moved, how her hips swayed slightly — but not too much — above her long, shapely legs, how her hair accented the perfect lines of her face, how her breasts rose and fell inside her blouse as she breathed. How her lips moved as she spoke. How she smiled. Just thinking about her was enough to make a man sweat.
And you dumped all over her, fool! Not just once, not just the first time you met her. Oh no. You did it twice. Providence gave you a second chance and you blew that too. You idiot!
He descended into the catwalk that surrounded the flight deck and leaned on the rail just above the forward starboard Phalanx mount. Immediately below him a barge lay tied to the side of the ship, but Toad took no notice. He stood with his elbows on the rail and his chin propped on one hand, gazing blankly at the hazy junction of sea and sky, cataloging once again all the charms he now knew Judith Farrell possessed, charms that apparently lay forever beyond his fevered reach.
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