Mrs. Lieutenant: A Sharon Gold Novel (4 page)

"That's an MP – a military policeman," he
explains to her as they drive onto the post.

Wendy nods, then watches out the window.
Wooden buildings perch haphazardly on green lawns, trees shading
the buildings. The overall effect reminds Wendy of her college
campus, and she resists the impulse to twist her head around,
searching for the campanile at the center of the college
quadrangle.

They follow the signs to the post housing
office, where Nelson introduces himself to the clerk: "I'm
Lieutenant Johnson. I understand you have a list of available
units."

The clerk hands Nelson a manila envelope.
"The list is inside. The ones with vacancies as of yesterday
afternoon are marked," she says. "The one over in Muldraugh north
of the post – Hansen's Apartments – is a good one. You should try
there first."

Back in the car, they study the list and the
accompanying map. Then they drive to Muldraugh and pull into
Hansen's – a paved central parking lot surrounded on three sides by
two-storey motel-like units. Sprinkled across the lot are a handful
of cars, but no people.

The sun has already begun to fry the air, the
moisture oozing onto their skin. Overgrown wild grass, edging the
buildings, stands motionless. Food odors transmit signals from the
closest units.

A hand-lettered OFFICE sign points to their
right. Wendy fans herself with the housing list as they enter the
office, where a man in a dirty t-shirt sits at a desk holding a
bottle of beer.

"Hello," Nelson says, not offering his hand.
"I'm Lieutenant Johnson. This is my wife. We've come about the unit
to rent."

The man doesn't stand. He just stares at
them, then grins. Watching him, Wendy's neck hairs itch.

"Sorry to say, that's been rented. I was just
about to call the housing office and tell 'em."

Nelson says nothing. Wendy says "Thank you"
as she follows Nelson out of the office.

"Damn!" Nelson says as they drive out of the
parking lot.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm sure that unit's not rented yet; he just
wouldn't rent to us."

"Why not? He knows you're an officer."

Nelson turns his eyes on her, then swings his
eyes back to the road. "An officer yes, but still a black man," he
says. "Hell, I don't know if it's going to be any different here
than elsewhere. We're still going to be treated like shit."

Wendy stares out her side window while she
wipes away the tears trapped in her eyes. "Can we go back to the
housing office and complain?" she asks. "Maybe they can convince
that man to let us rent from him."

"I don’t think so. We should just try the
trailer park on the list and not waste our time with the
others."

Wendy gasps. "Live in a trailer?" White trash
does that back home. She isn't going to live like they do.

And how can she tell her mama what kind of
place she and Nelson rented? If her mama finds out, she and her
papa might arrive on the trailer's doorstep and demand Wendy pack
up and return home with them.

"It's our best bet. People will be more
willing to rent to us if we're not living right next to some white
folk, sharing a common wall and everything. I'm not up to taking a
lot of this shit. It's only for a few weeks."

A few weeks! A few weeks of living in a tiny,
dirty trailer with a little patch of gravel in front of a rickety
metal doorstep? A few weeks of being totally isolated there, all
alone, except when her husband comes home in the evenings! How will
she ever survive?

As Wendy tries to decide what to say to
Nelson, that little familiar flutter ripples through her. It's been
there since the first time she laid eyes on Nelson.

She smiles to herself. She'll put up with
whatever it takes to stay with her husband – she isn't going
home.

“Where’s the trailer park?” she asks.

“
... be proud of the fact that you are making an
effort to contribute to the esprit de corps that is developed when
we serve with the United States Army as part of a happy, congenial
and proud family.”
Mrs. Lieutenant
booklet

Sharon and Robert leave her grandparents'
apartment and take the road south of Louisville, wandering past
fast food places and used car lots. Although early in the day, the
humidity fills the Fiat, now lightened considerably by the stashing
of their belongings with her grandparents.

Her grandmother is really her
step-grandmother, a Jewish woman who grew up poor in the cotton
fields of Mississippi, where, she claims, she often played with the
"colored" children. This morning Sharon had been tempted to ask if
blacks still rode in the backs of buses in Louisville. Instead she
and Robert graciously accepted the offered breakfast of hot – in
this heat? – oatmeal and then hit the road.

She flicks the radio on and twiddles the
knobs. They watched the news last night at her grandparents'
apartment. Rows and rows of helmeted armed National Guardsmen
rushing unarmed student protesters. The sounds of the shots buried
in the chanting and screaming. The slumped bodies lying on the
ground unmistakable. Four students. Add them to the total of war
dead.

".
..256 Vietcong captured
," the cast
of the Broadway musical "Hair" sang when Sharon and Robert had seen
the production in New York the night after their Chicago wedding.
Yet the musical’s "Age of Aquarius" with its promise of "harmony
and understanding" doesn’t seem likely to materialize any time
soon.
Then peace will guide the planet/And love will steer the
stars.

Sharon twiddles the knobs harder and still
finds only commercials on the radio. She swats the knob into the
“off” position, then brushes at the clammy film of moisture
shimmering across her face and sliding down her neck.

The face she sees is always
indistinguishable:

The perspiration drips down his face, oozing
into his eyes and sliding over his mouth. He swipes at the beads
dripping from his nose with the arm of his filthy fatigue shirt.
"This heat is unbearable," the armor officer says to the
19-year-old enlisted man quivering beside him inside the tank. "How
do the Vietnamese survive?"

He pops the hatch, standing upright in the
commander's seat to check the terrain. The enemy hides somewhere
nearby.

The explosion lifts his body up into the air,
twisting it around before dumping it on top of the tank, his
sweat-stained face turned downward as if searching for the softest
place to land.

The 19-year-old screams.

Robert doesn’t notice her panic – he’s busy
pointing at a sign on the highway indicating the approach of Ft.
Knox.

"You better start learning to recognize
officer rank insignia. It's important for you to know," he
says.

Is this really happening? The National Guard
kills four students protesting a war that the U.S. has no hopes of
winning and she's about to become an officer's wife?

She must concentrate on the present. She
takes a deep breath and considers what she knows about officer
ranks: 1) Robert as a second lieutenant is the lowest level of
officer; 2) Within the two years he will be serving he can expect
to automatically become a first lieutenant. "What's after first
lieutenant?"

"Captain, then major, then lieutenant
colonel, full colonel, and several ranks of generals. The generals
you won't have to worry about – you won't see a lot of those. For
the others, you should know who's who."

Sharon peers towards the Ft. Knox entrance as
Robert moves over into the highway's left turn lane. Suddenly a
huge semi-trailer hauls towards them – in their lane!

"Shit!" Robert jerks the wheel and they spin
out of the semi's path.

The five-ton truck couldn't stop. Something
wrong with the brakes. The family in the Rambler station wagon
didn't have a chance. Just facts on the evening news. To Sharon,
hiding in her dark closet, it is the end of her life too.

Sharon releases her clenched hands. She says
nothing.

At the entrance to Ft. Knox a uniformed
soldier waves them to a stop. He wears an armband with the letters
MP. Robert displays his orders.

"Welcome to Ft. Knox, sir."

Following the MP's directions, they drive
onto the post and head towards the housing office. Wooden frame
buildings and trees dot grass lawns, almost like the Jewish camp
she attended two summers in Wisconsin, where the counselors lorded
it over the campers in probably the same way the officers lord it
over the enlisted personnel. She hates that claustrophobic feeling
of someone else being in control of one’s life, Big Brother
watching every move. And now THE ARMY controls her life.

Before leaving Chicago Sharon read the brief
entry for "Fort Knox" in her childhood “World Book Encyclopedia.”
The post – named for Major General Henry Knox, the first secretary
of war – covers 110,000 acres 35 miles south of Louisville. Ft.
Knox houses the United States Army Armor Center as well as the
depository since 1936 of billions of dollars worth of gold.

"Where's the building with the gold?" she
asks Robert.

"We’ll find it later."

Sharon inhales. "What else should I
know?"

"Officers wear their rank on their shoulders
– or on their collars when they're wearing fatigues."

Fatigues. The olive green shirt and pants
worn in combat. Every night on the news all of America can see men
in fatigues, often soaked in blood. The bloodstains don't show up
clearly on black-and-white television.

Robert swats a fly away from his face.
"Second lieutenants have one gold bar. First lieutenants one silver
bar. Captains two silver bars. Majors one gold maple leaf.
Lieutenant colonels one silver maple leaf. Full colonels one silver
eagle. Generals gold stars, one for each rank – one-star general,
two star, etc."

How confusing, and this is only the officers'
ranks. "What about enlisted men?"

"Enlisted men always wear their rank on their
sleeves. You won't have to learn their ranks. Officers aren't
supposed to fraternize with the enlisted men."

Just lead them into battle, often to their
deaths Sharon thinks.

The sign indicates the housing office
straight ahead. Inside, a woman in a polyester pantsuit glances up
from her desk behind the counter.

"May I help you, Lieutenant?" Robert has worn
his Class A uniform from ROTC to look more official. Obviously this
woman can read rank insignia.

"I'm Lieutenant Gold and I'm reporting for
Armor Officers Basic. You have listings for available housing off
base."

The woman stands up and walks towards the
counter. "If you were here alone, we'd quarter you in Bachelor
Officers Quarters. As you have your wife with you, we can give you
some leads on housing in the surrounding areas. I caution you, the
places may not be what you're used to." She hands Robert a manila
envelope. "Here's your information packet. Welcome to Ft.
Knox."

"What does she think we're used to?" Sharon
asks as she and Robert return to the Fiat. "She certainly couldn't
tell from what I'm wearing – a simple summer dress. And the uniform
is the same for everyone."

Robert grunts. "Maybe they've had complaints
from new lieutenants before." Then he grins. "Or maybe because I
didn't say 'you all.’"

They drive back out of the post and, starting
with the first place on the list, turn onto the highway that leads
south towards Elizabethtown. Inside the town limits small and
medium-size houses line the roads. Bright flowers decorate many of
the front lawns, the air as hot as everywhere else.

They follow the map provided by the housing
office and stop in front of a brick ranch-style house. Robert rings
the doorbell. After a few seconds a thin man in his early 50s
dressed in casual clothes answers the door.

"Hello," Robert says. "We're interested in
the apartment listed with the housing office."

The man looks Robert up and down. He doesn't
even glance at Sharon.

"You wouldn't be happy here, Lieutenant."

"I'm sure the apartment is fine," Robert
says.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I really can't rent you
the apartment." The man closes the door in their faces.

"We didn't even see the apartment," Sharon
says. "How does he know we wouldn't like it?"

Robert walks back down the sidewalk without
saying a word. Sharon follows and gets into the car. Robert starts
the engine, then speaks as he pulls away from the curb.

"He's obviously a former enlisted man."

"How could you tell that?"

"From the way he called me 'sir.' He doesn't
want to rent to an officer. Makes him uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable! We wouldn't be living with
him. Just renting his apartment. How dare he be so rude to us!"

Robert flicks his eyes towards Sharon. "We
have a lot to learn."

**

Hours later they drive back to the housing
office. They have seen trailers not fit to live in, apartments so
small they couldn't have turned around without bumping into each
other, and plain dumps. For this she insisted on coming with
Robert?

"Maybe there'll be some new listings now,"
Robert says.

"Since this morning?"

The clerk greets them like long-lost friends.
"One of the best apartment complexes in the area – Hansen's
Apartments – has an opening. I didn't tell you this morning because
I thought someone else was taking it. But it's still available.
Hurry over to Muldraugh and see about this one."

They look at each other. What does this clerk
consider a good apartment?

Muldraugh lies north of the post. They easily
locate the place. The town isn't big enough to get lost. The
complex looks just like a motel, with three buildings surrounding a
parking lot.