|
11
Tory felt thrilled about this interesting new man as she sat in the plush chair by the window. The wall tv flickered with news, a talking head speaking softly, but her thoughts were in outer space. David Gordon. She couldn’t help saying his name quietly to herself every few minutes. She was finding it hard to concentrate on the novel she was reading, and yet she wasn’t interested in the news either. She hoped she wouldn’t make a fool out of herself at lunch tomorrow—but he seemed such a fun person, so really serious and quiet yet lively and certainly decent. And yet, she already felt the pain beginning, the fear of disappointment, that dark wall she would never be able to get past, had never been able to get through with any of the men who’d taken an interest in her and then—
Her reverie was interrupted by Maxie, who stormed out of the bedroom dressed to go out. “Tory, ya gotta go with me. I’m not going alone, and I’m not staying here.”
“Maxie...”
All her protests were in vain. Maxie’s beau had been mean to her, and she wanted to go out man-hunting. Tory was tired. She was a little worried about Ib, although surely he was at his book club and he’d contact David with his morbid fears and conspiracy papers tomorrow. She wanted to climb into the feathers and fall asleep daydreaming about David Gordon. Maxie, more hyper than usual, begged, pleaded, and cajoled with Tory to accompany her on a wild night out this evening. Tory didn’t drink much—two glasses of wine and she had a headache. She worried that if Maxie went alone, she’d wreck her car driving home drunk, so she agreed to go along.
As Tory finished dressing and stepped to the curb, Maxie was already in the gray Porsche. Tory walked through the fog and got in. Maxie looked crisp in sweater and denim skirt. The usual blonde whisp floated over her forehead.
“Why don’t you give Van Meeuwen the shoe?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.” Tory couldn’t stand Van Meeuwen.
Maxie rummaged in her glove compartment. Out fell expensive lipstick, perfume, a mechanical pencil, a USO New Testament, cigarettes, surgical gloves, a stethoscope, a. field NBC (nuclear, biological, chemical) kit. Even so, Maxie was class, like her blondness, which wasn’t overly gold or loud, but soft and bright as a sunbeam as it whipped energetically around her temples. She had a handsome wide face, with crinkly eyes, a model’s streamlined nose, a few freckles, and a sensuous mouth. Tory had once thought, if someone wanted to have lots of plastic surgery, they’d want everything to end up like what Maxie had naturally. In fact, though her white uniform looked tailor-made, it was bought off the quartermaster shelf; she was just that thin and shapely. She looked ravishing in her Army officer’s nursing whites, and she’d look just as ravishing in her flight suit. Then again she smoked, occasionally drank too much, and regularly received speeding tickets. “That’s our Maxie,” people said.
Maxie tore down the city streets. Tory closed her eyes. “Gotta give you driving lessons.”
“It’s been tried.” Maxie laughed and lit an imported oval with gold imprinted paper. Tory rolled her window down. Maxie drove around the Beltway and then westward out of town. Soon they cruised along tree-lined country roads.
Maxie said tipping her soda can up but keeping her eyes on the road: “I hear you and David Gordon are having lunch tomorrow.”
“He seems to be a nice guy,” Tory said guardedly. The last man in her life was an Air Force officer transferred to Alaska a year ago, from whom she’d never heard again, after a hot and steamy romance of (she’d counted, fool) 117 days. Tory had forced herself to forget his name, his rank, his serial number, and his state of origin. She couldn’t really remember at this point what he’d looked like. Didn’t want to.
“Whoo-hoo!” Maxie whooped, pulling an imaginary train-whistle. Tory was puzzled. Maxie could have had David, at least as a fling, certainly as a friend, and yet she always seemed to fall for guys who hurt her. Paul Van Meeuwen, Maxie’s current squeeze, a handsome doctor in his mid-30’s, performed buttpucker surgeries at Walter Reed, played 18 rounds of golf on Saturday, owned two houses and part of the family tire fortune, sponsored Formula 1 races at Watkins Glen, and loved Maxie—in that order. Tory wasn’t convinced but didn’t want to say so for fear of seeming jealous.
They drove through a guard gate onto the small Virginia military reservation. The Porsche stopped in a cloud of dust outside the Officers’ Club. Maxie turned her huge keyring and the motor went from hum to silence. Tory had once asked why she had so many keys. They were for half of Washington, Maxie said; and she kept them all with her to remember the people she loved.
Tory got out and zipped up her jacket. Her breath steamed as she stared at a dilapidated building. “Yu-uk. Want to leave?”
“It’ll be an adventure!” Maxie protested. Tory went along, though she’d always hated these places. They stopped at the ladies’ room to touch up their makeup. Then they walked through the swinging doors into that redly glowing, music-pulsating world of clinking glasses and laughing voices. They found a table. A waiter took their orders—Campari and soda for Tory, martini with a twist, up, for Maxie. Tory leaned forward under the waiter’s tray. “You change that to white wine, you hear?”
“You’re right,” Maxie said. Tory thought Maxie seemed a little off tonight.
“Hello,” said several men all at once, holding drinks and looking charming.
“Are you one guy with five heads?” Maxie said.
The men separated and babbled: “I’m Bill. I’m Bob. I’m drunk. Ha ha ha. No really, we saw you here and. Two beautiful women. Bookends, a dark sultry one and a light happy one. The blonde, now you must be a nurse.”
“That’s a rodge,” Maxie said.
“And you,” Jeff said, kneeling by Tory so his head was level with hers. “You are a chopper pilot. You have that glint in your eye.”
“I’ve got the glint,” Tory said, “but not the chopper. To chop onions, maybe.”
Jeff had hair on nine of his fingers. Tory exchanged glances with Maxie. “This is an infantry post,” Jeff said. “Ahah! You run a tight ship in the AG’s office.” He snapped his finger. “No, you are the AG.” AG was the Adjutant General, responsible for personnel and administrative matters. She leaned forward and patted the hand with the missing ring. “I’m a truck driver.”
Jeff grinned coldly. “A truck driver.”
“Honest. Big rig.” She extended her arms out as far as she could. “Big, big truck. Full of frozen chickens.”
“That’s right,” Maxie said. “And we have to hurry up and drink, or the chickens will thaw. Then we’ll have to drive extra fast to make it to California before they spoil.”
“But you’re a nurse,” reminded Bill or John or Bob or Stu.
“That’s why I have to ride along, to take care of all those chickens.”
“Civilians,” said one of them with a wave-off as they left for easier game.
“Thank you,” Tory said.
The men drifted off and had a fist fight and the MP’s came. At peace for a while, Maxie and Tory chatted. Then a young blond guy who’d been hanging back shyly came over and offered to buy Maxie a drink, roses, anything. Maxie laughed at the inventiveness and bantered with him a while. Tory’s mind drifted to other things. One Campari, and it went to her head a little. Now what about Ib and his strange file? His strange behavior in general. Men and their strange—
“Tory!” Maxie shouted, shoving her, and Tory realized she was leaning tiredly in her seat. “Hey, come on!” Maxie said. Jeff and Bob and whoever were back. Two cold beers slid across the table in a wake of suds and shaved ice. “Lady,” Jeff said, “you have some serious laughing to do.”
Tory laughed. “Probably another true statement.”
A Major Krest or Krist, biggest guy of the lot, who spoke with a beer in his fist and a pointing finger big as a salami, shouted hoarsely: “I don’t know about you guys but I’m going overseas to police dick heads, pardon my french, a single man, unlike some of you gentlemen—” Everything Major Kryst said came out in a hoarse blare.
“—Everyone here is single—” interjected someone.
“—And I,” continued Major Krust or Krost, “for one, would like to spend my last evening in the civilized world, if you can call this armpit of Gehenna such, with two of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. Gentlemen, I give you”—he pointed finger and beer bottle at Maxie—”the golden glow of sunshine peering through mother’s grape bower on the morning of perfect civilization. Am I right, gentlemen?”
They all clapped.
Major Krast continued: “Gentlemen, I give you for your astonishment and breathless introspection”—pointing at Tory, who found herself genuinely gasping at the flattery—”this violet-eyed Mona Lisa whose memory shall haunt me across the wine-dark sea, this siren whose song draws bolder sailors, soldiers, and merchant marines than I onto the pounding shoals of divorce, dementia, and other self destruction. Am I once again right, Gentlemen?”
They clapped and whistled and cheered.
“Barkeep! Barkeep!” the major bellowed, mangling Homer: “Line ‘em up! I want to go down to the she in sips! Ladies,” he said turning, “will you grace us by telling us your names, nicknames, aliases, any old monicker will do for a love-starved old pirate crew like us.”
“Maxie.” “Tory.”
“Ahah!” he bellowed. “Max ‘n Vic. A shopping center for our hearts. Gentlemen, we take our hearts in hand like shopping carts and wheel them hungrily from the rutabagas to the antofagasta oysters, hoping for a dram of such sweet liquore as resides in these noble vessels, these falernian bottles, these amontilladan casks!”
Tory estimated later that she laughed nonstop for two hours. Or was it three? She didn’t drink much, but it didn’t take much. Maxie got pretty looped, but she always had a hard inner core of self-control. Singing loudly a number of marching songs, from “Far Away” to “See the lady in red, she makes a living in her bed,” the men carried Max ‘n Vic on their shoulders. “Home, home, sweet soldiers, ‘tis the dawn light calls to mine forsaken heart!” bellowed Major Karst or was it Kurst.
“Let us cast lots for their delicate hands,” ventured an understudy thespian.
“No, no,” shouted Tory, still laughing, “our car will do nicely.” Her anxiety was moot, however, for at that moment up pulled the long prisoner van of Company A, 194th MP Battalion. Six armed men in olive green, with white hats and night sticks, stepped out. A sergeant said: “Gentlemen, you have just awakened the wives of all senior officers on post.”
Tory covered her face with her scarf.
“My good man,” Major Kirst said.
The NCO held up a hand. “Gentlemen, I can offer you choice—a ride home, or a ride to the station. Anyone who wants to go home, please board now.”
“Ah, ‘tis a ruin upon fair Ithaca’s face,” grumbled Major Kerst, but he meekly joined his fellows in climbing in. Max ‘n Vic waved goodbye as the van tooled away.
Tory drove. She and Maxie grew increasingly quiet on the way back to Washington. The car’s powerful engine purred hypnotically, and Tory cracked a window to get the cool night air. She didn’t look at Maxie much. Smelling cigarette smoke, she assumed that Maxie was quietly indulging in her nasty habit. “I did have a great time after all,” Tory said after a while. Then she looked over and saw that Maxie’s face was covered with tears. “Maxie! What on earth!”
“Oh Tory,” Maxie said, “I feel terrible.”
“What? You gotta throw up?”
“I’m such a total failure.”
“No you’re not.”
“I am, I am, I am. Oh!” She bawled loudly for a minute or two. Then she spoke lucidly, with only an occasional sob. “I don’t have a decent man in my life, and I never will. You’ll fall in love with David Gordon, I know you will. He’s such a nice man, he’ll love you madly. I’ll never have anything like that. Just stupid guys who drink and tell jokes and wind up in the pokey, like that dumb major back there. Or Van Meeuwen, that bastard—don’t think I’m kidding myself for a minute.”
“Then why do you waste time with guys like Van Meeuwen?”
“I dunno. I have to, I guess. I’m an only child and my parents’ only hope in life. I’m a rich girl and I hate it, Tory. They trained me so well, sent me to all those stupid schools, and I can charm Lincoln off a penny, but what good is it, I’m so empty inside!”
“Maxie, where is this all coming from? You’re a wonderful nurse. You help people and save lives every day. Look at how David brought you flowers and all. People really do love you, Maxie, not your money or your smile. You are a great person.”
“Thank you.” Maxie was silent for a while. She lit another cigarette and stared out the window at the passing night lights with tear-stained face. “I’m sorry, Tory. Don’t mean to spoil your night.” She blew her nose. “Actually, sometimes I don’t want to be a nice person or a great person. I just want to be me, but I don’t know who that is underneath the charming hostess and all. I could have had a thing with David, maybe, but I couldn’t let myself. I’m ashamed to say. It’s got to be a doctor or a judge or a senator. Lotta money. That’s what my folks beat and pressed and nagged into me. Try growing up with my mother! Not to mention my father.” She blew her nose again. “That’s why I’m going airborne. I’m going to show them.” She put out her cigarette.
Tory said gently: “You’re going to show yourself. That’s all that counts.” It became quiet in the car. The long monotonous miles ticked away and Maxie slept soundly, slumped against the window.
|
