Pickering fetched his clubs and a pair of golf shoes from the trunk of the convertible and then went to the locker room and paid the fees. After that he hung his blouse, hat, Sam Browne belt, and field scarf in a locker and went outside. A lanky teen-aged Negro boy detached himself from a group of his peers, offered his services as a caddy, and led him to the first tee.
A middle-aged woman was already on the tee. A woman who took her golf seriously, he saw. She was teed up, but had stepped away from the ball and was practicing her swing. He at first approved of this (his major objection to women on the links was that most of them did not take the game seriously); but his approval turned to annoyance when the middle-aged woman kept taking practice swings.
How long am I supposed to wait?
And then she saw him standing mere and smiled. "Good afternoon," she said.
"Hello," he said politely.
"I didn't see you," she said. "I'm really sorry."
"Don't be silly," Pickering said.
"I was waiting for my daughter," the woman said. And then, "And here, at long last, she is."
Pickering followed her gesture and found himself looking at Martha Sayre Culhane. She was wearing a band over her blond hair, a cotton windbreaker on top of a pale blue sweater, and a tight-across-the-back khaki-colored gabardine skirt. That sight immediately urged into his mind's eye another image of her. In that one she was in her birthday suit.
Martha Sayre Culhane's eyebrows rose when she saw him; she was not pleased.
"If you don't mind playing with women," Martha Sayre Culhane's mother said. "They really discourage singles."
"I would be delighted," Pick said.
"I'm Jeanne Sayre," Martha Sayre's Culhane's mother said. "And this is Martha. Martha Culhane."
In turn, they offered their hands. Martha Sayre Culhane's hand, he thought, was exquisitely soft and feminine.
"My name is Malcolm Pickering," he said. "People call me Pick."
"I thought your name was Foster," Martha Sayre Culhane said, matter-of-factly.
"Oh, you've met?" Jeanne Sayre asked.
"The desk clerk at the San Carlos, almost beside himself with awe, pointed him out to me," Martha Sayre Culhane said.
That's not true, Pickering thought, with certainty. She asked him who I was. She was curious.
"Oh?" her mother said, her tone making it clear that her daughter was embarrassing and annoying her.
"According to the desk clerk," Martha Sayre Culhane said, "we are about to go a round with the heir apparent to the Foster Hotel chain, now resident in the San Carlos penthouse."
"He told me about you, too," Pickering blurted.
Jeanne Sayre looked uncomfortably from one to the other. And then she looked between them, avoiding what she did not want to look at.
"But your name isn't Foster?" Martha challenged. "What about the rest of the story? How much of that is true?"
"Martha!" Jeanne Sayre snapped.
"Andrew Foster is my mother's father," Pickering said.
He saw surprise on Jeanne Sayre's face. But he didn't know what was in Martha Sayre Culhane's eyes.
"And what brought you to honor the Marine Corps with your presence?" Martha Sayre Culhane challenged.
"An old family custom," Pick snapped. "My father-my father is Fleming Pickering, as in Pacific & Far East Shipping-was a Marine in the last war. Whenever the professionals need help to pull their acorns out of the fire, we lend a hand. I am twenty-two years old. I went to Harvard, where I was the assistant business manager of the Crimson. I am unmarried, have a polo handicap of six, and generally can get around eighteen holes in the middle seventies. Is there anything else you would like to know?"
"Good for you, Lieutenant!" Jeanne Sayre said. "Martha, really-"
"If there's no objection," Martha Sayre Culhane interrupted her mother, "I think I'll go first."
She stepped to the tee and drove her mother's ball straight down the fairway.
Whoever had taught her to play golf, Pickering saw, had managed to impress upon her the importance of follow-through. At the end of her swing, her khaki gabardine skirt was skintight against the most fascinating derriere he had ever seen.
"If you would rather not play with us, Lieutenant," Jeanne Sayre said, "I would certainly understand."
"If it's all right with you," Pick said, "I'll play with you."
She met his eyes for a moment. Her eyes, Pick saw, were gray, and kind, and perceptive.
"You go ahead," Jeanne Sayre said. "I'll bring up the rear."
Martha Sayre Culhane hated him, Pick was aware, because he was here. Alive. And her husband-the late Lieutenant Whatever-his-name-had-been Culhane, USMC-had died in the futile defense of Wake Island.
Pick was ambivalent about that. Shamefully, perhaps even disgustingly ambivalent. He was sorry that Lieutenant Culhane was dead. He was sorry that Martha Sayre Culhane was a widow. And glad that she was.
By the time they came off the course, there was no doubt in Pick Pickering's mind that he was in love. There was simply no other explanation for the way he felt when-however briefly- their eyes had met.
(Two)
Thirtieth Street Station Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 1820 Hours, 8 January 1942
The weather was simply too cold and nasty for Ernie Sage to wait on the curb outside the Thirtieth Street Station as she had promised.
But she found, inside the station near one of the Market Street doors, a place where she could look out and wait for him. It was hardly more comfortable than the street: Every time the door opened, there was a blast of cold air, and she desperately needed to go to the ladies' room. But she held firmly to her spot; she was afraid she would miss him if she left.
And finally he showed up. Except for the path the wipers had cleared on the windshield, the LaSalle convertible was filthy. The bumper and grill were covered with frozen grime, and slush had packed in the fender wells.
Ernie picked up her bags and ran outside; and she was standing at the curb when he skidded to a stop.
She pulled open the door and threw her bags into the car.
"If they won't let you wait, go around the block," Ernie ordered. Then she ran back inside the Thirtieth Street Station to the ladies' room.
He wasn't there when she went back outside, but he pulled to the curb a moment later, and she got in.
She had planned to kiss him, but he didn't give her a chance, The moment she was inside, he pulled away from the curb. She slid close to him, put her hand under his arm, and nestled her head against his shoulder.
"Hi," she said.
"What's with all the luggage?" McCoy asked, levelly.
"I thought you'd probably be going through Harrisburg," Ernie said. "I thought I would ride that far with you, and then catch a train."
He looked at her for a just a moment, but said nothing.
"I'm lying," Ernie Sage said. "I'm going with you. All the way."
"No you're not," he said flatly.
"I knew that was a mistake," Ernie said. "I should have
waited until we were in the middle of nowhere before I told you. Somewhere you couldn't put me out."
"You can't come with me," he said.
"Why not? 'Whither thou goest..." Book of Ruth."
When there was no reply to that, Ernie said, "I love you."
"You think you love me," he said. "You don't really know a damn thing about me."
"I thought we'd been through all this," Ernie said, trying to keep her voice light. "As I recall, the last conclusion you came to was that I was the best thing that ever happened to you."
"Oh, Jesus Christ!"
"Well, am I or ain't I?" Ernie challenged.
"You ever wondered if... what happened... is what this is really all about?"
"You mean," she said, aware that she was frightened, that she was close to tears, "because we fucked? Because you copped my cherry?"
"Goddamn it, I hate it when you talk dirty," he said furiously.
Her mouth ran away with her. "Not always," she said.
He jammed his foot on the brakes, and the LaSalle slid to the curb.
"Sorry," Ernie said, very softly.
There was something in his eyes that at first she thought was anger, but after a moment she knew it was pain.
"I love you," Ernie said. "I can't help that."
He was breathing heavily, as if he had been running hard.
Then he put the LaSalle in gear and pulled away from the curb.
"I was afraid you were going to put me out," Ernie said.
"Do me a favor," McCoy said. "Just shut up."
When she saw a U.S. 422 highway sign, Ernie thought that maybe she had won, maybe that he even would reach across the seat for her and take her hand, or put his arm around her shoulder. U.S. 422 was the Harrisburg highway. If she got that far, if they spent the night together...
In Norristown, ten miles or so past the western outskirts of Philadelphia, he turned off the highway and pulled into an Amoco station.
A tall, skinny, pimply-faced young man in a mackinaw and galoshes came out to the pump. McCoy opened the door and got out.
"Fill it up with high test," McCoy ordered. "Check the oil. And can you get the crap off the headlights?"
"Yes, sir," the attendant said.
"Dutch around?" McCoy asked.
"Inna station," the attendant said.
McCoy turned and looked through the windshield at Ernie, and then gestured for her to come out.
By the time she had put her feet back in her galoshes, McCoy was at the door of the service station. Ernie ran after him.
There was no one in the room where they had the cash register and displays of oil and Simoniz, but there was a man in the service bay, putting tire chains on a Buick on the lift.
"Whaddasay, Dutch?" McCoy greeted him. "What's up?"
The man looked up, first in impatience, and then with surprised recognition. He smiled, dropped the tire chains on the floor, and walked to McCoy.
"How're ya?" he asked. "Ain't that an officer's uniform?"
"Yeah," McCoy said. "Dutch, say hello to Ernie Sage."
"Hi ya, honey," Dutch said. "Pleased to meetcha."
"Hello," Ernie said.
"How's business?" McCoy asked.
"Jesus! So long as we got gas, it's fine," Dutch said. "But there's already talk about rationing. If that happens, I'll be out on my ass."
"Maybe you could get on with Budd in Philly," McCoy said. "I guess they're hiring."
"Yeah, maybe," Dutch said doubtfully. "Well, I'll think of something. What brings you to town? When'd you get to be an officer?"
"Month or so ago," McCoy said.
"Better dough, I guess?" Dutch asked.
"Yeah, but they make you buy your own meals," McCoy said.
"You didn't say what you're doing in town?"
"Just passing through," McCoy said.
"But you will come by the house? Anne-Marie would be real disappointed if you didn't."
"Just for a minute," McCoy said. "She there?"
"Where else would she be on a miserable fucking night like this?" Dutch asked. Then he remembered his manners. "Sorry, honey," he said to Ernie. "My old lady says I got mouth like a sewer."
Ernie smiled and shook her head, accepting the apology.
She had placed Dutch. His old lady, Anne-Marie, was Ken McCoy's sister. Dutch was Ken's brother-in-law.
"Gimme a minute," Dutch said, "to lock up the cash, and then you can follow me to the house."
Anne-Marie and Dutch Schulter and their two small children lived in a row house on North Elm Street, not far from the service station. There were seven brick houses in the row, each fronted with a wooden porch. The one in front of Dutch's house sagged under his and McCoy's and Ernie's weight as they stood there while Anne-Marie came to the door.
She had one child in her arms when she opened the door, and another-with soiled diapers-was hanging on to her skirt. It looked at them with wide and somehow frightened eyes. Anne-Marie was fat, and she had lost some teeth, and she was wearing a dirty man's sweater over her dress, and her feet were in house slippers.
She was not being taken home by Ken McCoy to be shown off, Ernie Sage realized sadly, in the hope that his family would be pleased with his girl. Ken had brought her here to show her his family, sure that she would be shocked and disgusted.
Dutch went quickly into the kitchen and returned with a quart of beer.
Ernie reached for McCoy's hand, but he jerked it away.
To Dutch's embarrassment, Anne-Marie began a litany of complaints about how hard it was to make ends meet with what he could bring home from the service station. And her reaction to Ken's promotion to officer status, Ernie saw, was that it meant for her a possible source of further revenue.
In due course, Anne-Marie invited them to have something to eat-coupled with the caveat that she didn't know what was in the icebox and the implied suggestion that Ken should take them all out for dinner.
"Maybe you'd get to see Pop, if we went out to the Inn," Anne-Marie said.
"What makes you think I'd want to see Pop?" McCoy replied. "No, we gotta go. It's still snowing; they may close the roads."
"Where are you going?" Anne-Marie asked.
"Harrisburg," McCoy said. "Ernie's got to catch a train in Harrisburg."
"Going back to Philly'd be closer," Dutch said.
"Yeah, but I got to go to Harrisburg," McCoy said. He looked at Ernie, for the first time meeting her eyes. "You about ready?"
She smiled and nodded.
When they were back in the LaSalle and headed for Harrisburg, McCoy said, "A long way from Rocky Fields Farm, isn't it?"
A mental image of herself with McCoy in the bed in what her mother called the "Blue Guest Room" of Rocky Fields Farm came into Ernie's mind. The Blue Guest Room was actually an apartment, with a bedroom and sitting room about as large as Anne-Marie and Dutch Schulter's entire house.
And it didn't smell of soiled diapers and cabbage and stale beer.
"When you're trying to sell something, you should use all your arguments," Ernie said.
"What's that supposed to mean?" McCoy asked, confused.
"You asked your sister why she thought you would want to see Pop," Ernie said. "What did that mean?"
"We don't get along," McCoy said, after hesitating.
"Why not?" Ernie asked.
"Does it matter?" McCoy asked.
"Everything you do matters to me," Ernie said.
"My father is a mean sonofabitch," McCoy said. "Leave it at that."
"What about your mother?" Ernie asked.
"She's dead," McCoy said. "I thought I told you that."
"You didn't tell me what she was like," Ernie said.
"She was all right," McCoy said. "Browbeat by the Old Man is all."
"And I know about Brother Tom," Ernie said. "After he was fired by Bethlehem Steel for beating up his foreman, he joined the Marines. Is that all of the skeletons in your closet, or are we on our way to another horror show?"
There was a moment's silence, and then he chuckled. "Anyone ever tell you you're one tough lady?"
"You didn't really think I was going to say how much I liked your sister, did you?"
"I don't know," he said.
"I didn't like her," Ernie said. "There's no excuse for being dirty or having dirty children."
"That the only reason you didn't like her?"
"She was hinting that you should give her money," Ernie said. "She doesn't really like you. She just would like to use you."
"Yeah, she's always been that way," McCoy said. "I guess she gets it from Pop."
"Daughters take after their fathers," Ernie said. "I take after mine. And I think you should know that my father always gets what he goes after."
"Meaning?"
"That we're in luck. Our daughter will take after you."
There was a long moment before McCoy replied. "Ernie, I can't marry you,"
he said.
"There's a touch of finality to that I don't like at all," Ernie said. "What is it, another skeleton?"
W E B Griffin - Corp 02 - Call to Arms Page 15
