The Edge of Honor (45 page)

Every time, he makes the decision mine.

A jazz bar. She had done that scene in Boston many times, usually with some guy she was toying with, tantalizing a little bit. The music …

well, the music wasn’t the point, was it? The music, the bar, the drinks, that was the playing field, and she had always been in charge.

Her rules, her game. But Autrey: … well, Autrey was acting as if it was his rules, his game. She felt the old familiar challenge. And what the hell, this isn’t for score: He’s not going to do anything—that’s the beauty of it.

He doesn’t paw, he’s not a covert toucher, not one of those clowns who get too close and breathe in your ear.

You go in your own car, come home in your own car.

Just like last time.

Except the last time—well, that’s the damn problem.

Yeah, but last time it was all the booze—champagne, red wine, liqueurs.

That was the mistake. You can go this time and stick to Coca-Cola, or maybe have one beer.

Yuk. Hate beer. Okay, but don’t drink. Don’t let that other part get out of control. Play it cool, listen to the music, and then go home.

Recapture the game and the rules. Just another diversion, no different from going to the beach with the wives: one more day down.

She sat down on the couch and gnawed her lower lip.

That last bit was, of course, a bunch of BS. It was not at all like going to the beach with the rest of the WESTPAC widows. How did Brian put it, about the old Navy headquarters rule: the Washington Post test?

If you would not want to read about it in the Washington Post, then don’t do it. If she wasn’t ready to tell Mrs. Hunting ton that she was going up to a bar in the university district with a single man, for the second time, to listen to some folk music, then she ought not to do it.

Tell Mrs. Huntington? How about telling Brian?

Fine. I just won’t do it. I didn’t say I would. End of problem. See?

That was easy.

On Tuesday, she had received mail from Brian. She had been delighted, almost relieved, to find the letter, until she read it. It was a say-nothing letter, just more about what they were doing, PIRAZ jargon, the weather, the Weapons Department. No more dirt about the drug incident or news on the prospects for his fitness report or how he was getting along with the captain and the exec and the other department heads. He closed with his usual

“I love you and miss you.” Except for the closing, it was about as personal as a Navy newsletter. She sighed and put it down on the table with the bills. It was good to get mail, but she wished—oh well. During the Decatur deployment, he had occasionally written soulful letters, late-at-night letters—okay, love letters. These she had opened when the mail came, read a few lines, recognized them for what they were, and closed them back up at once, to be savored, again and again, just before she went to sleep. She sighed again.

As she had flipped through the rest of the mail—the bills, a promotional flier from the Exchange, notice of a rate increase from San Diego Gas & Electric—she had to admit that her letters to him had not been much different.

Her job, activities with the wives, progress with her backhand, a late-arriving allotment check, a mysterious noise in the car, all the mundane events of her life that she seized upon and even magnified to make the days go by. He’d been gone for over two months and she hadn’t written any love letters, either. Why was that? she wondered.

Brian’s letter said he had little time to do anything but stand his watches and sleep, that he was port and starboard with Austin. Maddy did not know what that meant, and, not up to another verbal sparring match with Tizzy, especially after Autrey’s latest call, she phoned Angela Benedetti, a fellow department head’s wife. Angela was an abrupt, sensible woman from a large Italian family in New Jersey; she managed a family of four kids with an iron hand. She had been married to Vince Benedetti since he was a fresh-caught ensign right out of Officer Candidate School. She was normally bright and cheery on the phone, but tonight she seemed to be down. She told Maddy that she had received almost no mail from Vince, which usually meant he was struggling, if not over his head, in his current assignment.

“Vinnie’s a trooper, you know? He slugs away at it, whatever they hand him, and he usually gets it done. But he can’t handle problems when the command won’t admit they’re there, like all the druggies he’s got down in the holes.”

“Brian mentioned in one of his letters that drugs were involved in whatever went wrong with the shooting mission, but he hasn’t said any more about it.”

“Yeah, see? There’s something funny going on in the Hood on the drug scene. I think Vinnie knows but feels he’s gotta go along with it, and he doesn’t like it, you know what I mean? He gets like that, I don’t get any mail. So, enough already. How you doin’?”

“De, lonely, horny.

Feeling sorry for myself.”

“Yeah, right, the usual.” Angela laughed.

“But I had a question: What’s port and starboard mean? Brian says he’s port and starboard with Austin.”

“Means Brian is standing watch six hours on, six hours off, alternating with Mr. High and Mighty. That’s kind of a bitch, although I’ve gotta say, the enlisted engineers do it all the time. Practically speaking, it means the guys stand their watches, grab some chow, hit their racks, and get up again in five hours to do it all again, day in, day out. It’s okay for the enlisted; that’s all they have to do anyway when the ship’s out at sea. Really makes the time go by. But for the officers, with all that paperwork and the personnel stuff on top of their watch duties, port and starboard gets old quick. Especially if he’s stuck with the mids, which I suspect Prince Austin or whatever they call that jerk has sniffed off onto Brian. Hey, that also might explain why I’m not seeing much mail. It probably means Vinnie’s off the CIC watch bill so’s he can keep an eye on all those potheads he has running around in the boiler rooms. And knowing Vinnie, he feels bad about putting the other two guys in port and starboard, and so he’s spending twenty-six hours a day in the main spaces.

I guess I’m glad you called me.”

“You are?”

“Yeah. See, I don’t get letters, I never know whether he’s just not writing, or the Navy’s losing them, or I’ve done or said something wrong and he’s mad at me, or what. But from what you’ve said, now I think I know the score.”

“Couldn’t you just ask?”

“No way, Maddy. See, you ask a question like that, it’s automatically a criticism. Think about it. How do you phrase it: Why aren’t you writing me? Have you been writing me? Are my letters getting through? Yours aren’t, and I’ve sent three a week since you’ve left. And then you wait five, six weeks for an answer. It’s almost like asking someone if they’ve stopped beating their wife.

There’s just no good answer to questions about mail on a WESTPAC deployment. You can bitch to the other wives, but you can’t ask.”

“Wow. I write Brian about once a week and I get a letter back about once a week, although, of course, there’s all that dead time. For me, it’s sort of a monologue.

I tell him stuff, he tells me stuff, but we don’t actually connect much.”

“You connect by dropping it in the mailbox.”

“I suppose. But I’m wondering now if I’m sending enough letters. One a week—is that enough?”

“Probably not. You gotta figure they’ll lose every fourth or fifth letter. All it takes, one mailbag blows off the carrier’s deck and a whole week’s worth of letters is gone. That’s a disaster. Vinnie’s told me a million times, it’s not the news; it’s the piece of paper, the contact.

Getting mail when everyone else gets mail and not being the only guy who didn’t get mail. So I do three a week and hope for the best. Keep the bad news out and don’t bitch and moan too much—they can’t do anything about your problems; you can’t do anything about theirs. And even knowing about them is pretty frustrating. You got problems—and who doesn’t?—you cope, that’s all. You handle it.”

“No matter what it is?”

“Yeah. Like I said, they can’t do anything for you, three weeks later and from a gazillion miles away. I tell Vinnie about the successes and let the failures sort of age. You’d be amazed how many crises can dry up and blow away six months later when they get back. Hell, he knows he’s not seeing the whole picture, but then, I don’t think he really wants to. It’s not like he doesn’t have problems of his own, like all those bozos in his department. This your first deployment?”

“Well, not actually, although my first one was only three months long, when Brian was in the Med. But he could call—Europe, you know, they have phones. And it wasn’t wartime.”

“Yeah, well, you want to keep track of when they go back to Subic, then.

They can make a phone call back to the States from the base, although there’re only ten phones for all those ships. But if you’re stepping out, make sure you’re home for that week or so they’re in port.”

Maddy felt a sudden constriction in her throat. “Stepping out?” she said weakly.

“Hey, figure of speech. I was just kidding. You just don’t want to miss the one and only phone call you’ll get during the cruise, unless they get to Hong Kong. Soon’s he tells you when they’ll be in port—and it should be coming up pretty soon, a coupla weeks, I’d guess, then give him some dates to shoot for. And remember, they’re a day ahead, so they’ll call at two or so in the morning here. It’s expensive, but it’s nice to hear their voices, you know?”

“Yes, I’m ready for that. Thanks, Angela. I’m glad I called you.”

“Call anytime, Maddy. It’s good to keep in touch. The problems don’t get so big that way.”

Poor woman, she had thought as she hung up. No mail.

She would definitely follow up Angela’s suggestion about the number of letters. They lose one out of four? How would you ever know which one got lost, with six weeks of turnaround time? She would write him tonight, right after she had dinner. And tell him what—you’ve got a hot date for tomorrow night? She groaned and shook her head again, then went to change for tennis.

By midday on Wednesday, she was a nervous wreck.

Her supervisor in the accounting department had shaken her head when she had seen Maddy’s morning balance sheets, kindly suggesting that she might want to use a machine the next time. Maddy had used a machine, but her mind was only partially present for duty in the Bank of America. The other part, the worried part, was on Parker’s Place. She had stolen a few minutes to look up the address and then a few more to scan a map of San Diego they kept tacked to the back of a door in the bookkeeping offices. From the Balboa Park area, it was easy—down Route 163 to Highway 80, east for six miles, and then off on the College Boulevard exit to College Avenue. She had actually looked around the office to see whether anyone was watching her consult the map.

She stacked the morning’s balance sheets on her desk, carefully arranging the edges, her mind drawing bright square lines around the next eight hours. Nine-thirty.

Maybe she should call Mrs. Huntington, go over there tonight, tell her she needed company. Mrs. Huntington had often said that any of them could call anytime if they needed to. I need to do something, she thought. You need to see him again. You want to see him again. Damn him!

He’s playing head games with me. Used to be your game, Missy. What she could not decide was whether she wanted to see him because he was that attractive or if she just wanted to win this little game once and for all.

And just how, pray tell, will you know you’ve won? How does one declare victory with an Autrey, Just Autrey?

She squirmed in her chair, her fingers unconsciously tapping the edges of the balance sheets into an ever neater stack, all the edges just so, straight, sharp, solid, longways there—damn it! She felt a wave of giddiness, as if her mind were perched on the edge of a cliff, watching the struggle below between her fireside and her heartside, and right now her heartside was scrambling to find safety in a cave somewhere. What is it about this man? Okay, he’s physically attractive, but so are a lot of men. He has an aura of danger about him, partly because of what he does, what he says he does, and partly because of how other men react to him.

That’s exciting. He’s in control of himself when he’s focused on me, which suggests that he might be a very good lover. So it’s sex. I’m just horny, and this guy might be a white-hot wire when it comes to the bedroom. He’s nice, diffident, occasionally awkward, self-effacing, and, underneath all that, focused on me.

He wants me. I’m sure of it. And I want him. There.

Okay, so now we know what this is all about. It’s got nothing to do with Brian or the fact that I’m married and everything to do with the fact that I’m alone and here’s this powerful man who put one fingernail on my belly and lit up half the San Diego skyline.

She leaned back in her chair, her eyes closed, a fine sheen of perspiration on her upper lip. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m Mrs. Brian Holcomb, church-married, ring on my finger, vows taken with no one objecting at the wedding. My husband is overseas, serving his country, even if great parts of it spit on what he does every night on the evening news. He’s doing the honorable thing. Why can’t I? I love the man. I like the man.

He’s fun and he’s caring and he’s loving and he’s strong when he loves me. What’s this other half, this devil half that’s driving me to go to the flame like a moth, wings spread, legs trembling, around and around, back to this man, this Autrey, just because he asks nicely and can light my fires with one look. Is this what I did in college?

I know it is. But those poor bastards were fair game.

Maybe that’s the fascination with Autrey. Maybe I’m the game this time.

“Mrs. Holcomb? Maddy? Are you all right? Do you need to go home, dear?”

She had given her supervisor a quick smile and nodded emphatically. Yes, that’s exactly what she needed. Practically bolting from the office, she fought it all the way home, thinking up alternative plans: go see a movie, go to the library, go for a drive. But in her belly, she knew.

She was going to go home, wash her hair, pick out something provocative to wear, take her time with the war paint, and then go out there tonight to see what this was all about.