“Sorry I missed it,” my dad commented. “It would have been something, to see you all piped aboard ship as an admiral and his party.”
I caught the point. Fortunately no one else seemed to. No matter how much John proved his connection to the military, Dad always had reservations about John’s former career. Why couldn’t he take Mark’s lead? Mark had served in the Navy and saw action in the Vietnam War, and he didn’t needle John about his military career.
The band picked up in volume to signal the start of the activities. Several dignitaries spoke at the podium. A lone plane flew overhead, and paratroopers with colorful chutes fluttered out to announce the parade of ships. A majestic aircraft carrier cruised under the Golden Gate Bridge and into San Francisco Bay. “Look! The
Enterprise
is in the lead,” John said. “I was the executive officer on her years ago.”
One by one, other large ships slipped in behind her, past the review stands, under the Bay Bridge and on to the Alameda naval base. John described each ship in detail. After the last one, smaller boats suddenly appeared, bouncing in the choppy water as they crisscrossed through each other’s wakes. They fired one volley after another, and soon they disappeared in the ensuing smoke.
“It’s the black boats, the black boats!” John cried, almost jumping out of his seat. “That’s what I commanded in Vietnam, where I lost my lung.” He almost tipped over backward from excitement, like a boy who has hit his first home run or caught his first fish.
The Blue Angels soared over the spraying fireboats. A loud roar filled the air as the six F/A-18 Hornets made their first pass and dipped their wings right in front of our bleachers. I covered my ears. Goose bumps rippled my arms.
In the middle of the excitement, I suddenly felt a pang of sadness. John and I would never have a child who would share his exciting history and feel the rush of the Blue Angels as John pointed out that he had belonged to the elite flyers not once, but
twice
during his tours of duty. We had tried to conceive, but John’s continued physical deterioration eventually made sex impossible. He was in too much pain from his back and neck to find a comfortable position. We discussed the effect this had on an objective important to both of us. More than once he hung his head and said, “Having a child with you would be the most wonderful thing in my life.”
We tried artificial insemination, but John’s sperm was not motile. The doctor said it could be his age or the excessive amount of medication he took, and he suggested we use an anonymous donor who closely matched John’s physical characteristics. I selfishly refused. I wanted John’s child. I was childless from my first marriage, glad there were no little Bryans to remind me of that mistake. Maybe that was selfish, too. With children out of the question, we filled our void with plans for Gobi to sire a litter of golden retriever puppies. We took the first step and brought home a bouncing bundle of fur that we promptly named Gidget. Gobi was delighted.
The Blue Angels show concluded, and the stands emptied much faster than they had filled. We gathered up our coolers, coats, and cameras and shuffled to the bottom of the bleachers. “Wait here while I find out where we need to go for the cruise,” John said. He approached an officer near the podium; they exchanged salutes and shook hands. A young officer and his family walked past me and mentioned a stop at the commissary on the way home.
John returned. “I sure made a mess of this one,” he said. “I blew it. I misunderstood about the day and conditions of the sail. It’s tomorrow, and only officers and their immediate family will be on board.” We all expressed our disappointment.
At the end of the pier, we said our good-byes and parted. Near our car, I put my hand on John’s arm. “What ever happened to the military IDs you were going to get for us so we could shop at the commissary?”
“Haven’t been able to get it done.”
“It’s been two years now. You promised when we got married.”
“I’ve been trying, did again last week, in fact. But the issuing clerk at the Alameda naval base was on vacation.”
“It’s always some excuse,” I said, realizing as the words slipped from my mouth that I had not chosen the right time to bring it up.
John tensed and abruptly stopped. He turned to me with glaring eyes and hissed under his breath, “Are you trying to embarrass me? I told you I’d get them. You don’t believe me, and that really hurts. You’ve seen how the Navy treats us with respect, so get off my back.”
Once again my aspirations of having tangible proof that I was indeed the admiral’s wife were dashed by his evasive words. Once again I felt guilty, as if my persistence were wrong. How could I not trust my admiral? Still, deep inside, it nagged at me that he had not come through.
On July 24, 1985, Gobi and Gidget presented us with a litter of eight squirming puppies. The first one was born in our bed, in the middle of the night. We quickly hustled Gidget to the birthing area we had set up in my downstairs office and as each wet head popped into the world, we proudly selected a name from our list of male and female names that started with the letter “G.” (Ironically, we had had to use artificial insemination. Either Gobi couldn’t quite figure out how to connect with Gidget, or she was playing hard to get. She kept sitting down.)
We sent out birth announcements with a photo of the new family and received visitors with gifts and good wishes. As the pups neared nine weeks old, we took applications for “adoption” and promised a pup only if the new family met our strict criteria for a loving environment. Departure days were heart wrenching. When the first car drove away with Gatsby, I stood on the curb and broke into tears. John hugged me but he did not cry. However, when Gigi left a couple of days later with our friends the Passinis, John joined me with big crocodile tears flowing down his cheeks and, as each successive puppy left, he sobbed right along with me. I took his tears as a measure of his love for the puppies. Now I have to wonder. I have since learned that psychopaths do not feel emotion and that they watch the reactions of others in order to mimic the feeling. Psychopaths are like magicians. They grab our attention and hold it by pulling whatever emotional prop they need out of the proverbial top hat.
Almost a year later, in 1986, John and I stood in our garage, packing up salmon-colored floral arrangements that would decorate the tables at my graduation party that evening. After seven long years of dragging myself into the city, my day of reward had arrived. When John glanced at me and grinned, I grabbed my camera and clicked. I captured him in his well-worn fleece bathrobe, leather moccasins, and black felt beret. He looked comfortable. And he was mine. I sidled up to him and put my arms around his waist.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I said. “You’ve been my encouragement and my rock.”
“Now don’t get all mushy on me. You’ve got to get ready for the limousine. Remember, you have it for the whole day.”
I smiled as I remembered my first limousine ride the year before, for my fortieth birthday. We cruised around Fisherman’s Wharf three times, then dined at the exclusive Big Four restaurant on Nob Hill. It was special then. It would be special now.
“It’s a good thing we can afford limousines.” I laughed. John finished putting the artificial flowers into the back of our van as I continued, “I just wish...”
“Wish what?”
“Well, I wish your family were going to attend.”
“You know how they are,” John said, shaking his head.
“I know. But my family and friends will be there.”
“Hey, don’t ruin your graduation day,” John admonished.
“I know the invitations came back, like everything else we’ve ever mailed them, but I was hoping . . . just hoping that...”
“. . . that the impossible would happen? Look at the positive side; we don’t need Grandmother’s money any more.”
We were on an even keel, for a change. John’s salary was somewhat constant, and during the last two years the finances had remained in check, even if John’s spending had not. John had signed a contract with Westinghouse as a consultant. Then we formed our own company, Two Star Incorporated. John assured me everything would be fine; there wouldn’t be much to it. We’d keep our business spending separate, and our lawyer would help us with any legal issues. We received our own corporate stamp to use on official company business. The business cards I ordered were printed with two gold stars above the name
Rear Admiral John F. Perry,
to match his personalized license plate, TWO STAR.
The main financial stabilizer during this two-year period was a settlement for John’s injuries from the baggage cart accident before we had met. I had watched him deteriorate during our courtship and marriage. John was constantly in pain from excruciating headaches and neck spasms, and in a state of discomfort from the numbness in his right arm. He still intermittingly wore a foam neck brace, especially when we traveled in a car. His leg crumpled beneath him without notice. His debilitating back pain still precluded sex.
With the settlement came the relief of a check to help fill the financial gaps. We brought our creditors up to date. We contracted for needed renovations to the Concord house to help ease John’s afflictions—a therapeutic Jacuzzi tub and resloped stairs.
“That’s the last of the graduation flowers,” John said as he shut the back door of the van. “The officers’ club at Treasure Island will look better than it ever has when we’re done decorating.” He put his arm around me as we walked back into the house.
“I still can’t believe you arranged it,” I said.
“My rank provides some privileges.” He laughed. “Also, it doesn’t hurt that we’re friends with the rear admiral who heads the base.”
During the last two years, I learned that being the admiral’s wife did have advantages. When the USS
Missouri
was decommissioned in San Francisco, we were there. When John arranged to take several of our friends on a personal tour of the USS
Enterprise,
we lunched in the Alameda officers’ club. When John escorted a couple of male friends on an overnight excursion aboard a Navy ship, they had observed the respect given to him. When the Coast Guard Commander for District 12 hosted a luncheon for retired admirals and their wives, we were among the honored guests. If I ever had doubts about John’s status, I had none now.
Today I was about to graduate with a bachelor of science degree in marketing from Golden Gate University, summa cum laude, and receive the Outstanding Student of the Undergraduate Business School Award. With hard work and sacrifice I had met the challenge and reached my goal. I would have preferred to complete my higher education right out of high school, but I was the oldest of five children, and my siblings then were all under age eight. We were a one-salary machinist’s family. My parents would have been happy to give me a four-year ride, but the money wasn’t there. So I settled for Diablo Valley Junior College, catching a bus every day to go fifteen miles over the hill to get there.
I suffered from OCS (Oldest Child Syndrome), as I called it. Ask anyone who’s an oldest child. It’s hard. Parents are extra strict. They overreact. They’re afraid the baby will break or get in trouble, and they err on the side of caution while trying to figure out how to do their job.
The oldest child is the trial run. My case was no different. I tried to be the good little girl, to help out in the house and with my siblings and still keep up my grades, but my parents’ attitudes affected my studies. I felt like I was being squeezed in a vise, and I didn’t know how to escape. Finally, when they balked at my taking the car to a nighttime lecture back at the college, I went to see a school counselor.
I wanted out. She offered a way and I made a choice. I accepted a live-in babysitter and housekeeper position for a family in upscale Alamo, with full use of their car to help me keep up my studies. Within a year I confronted yet another life-changing choice. When the family’s husband got promoted, entailing a move to Ohio, they asked me to come with them; they even offered to send me to Ohio State University. I was astonished by their generous offer, but was too scared of the unknown to do it. Instead, I moved back home and took a job as a lab technician at the same chemical plant where my dad worked.
That was in the past. Today my biggest choice centered on who should ride with me in the limousine. I wanted to share my good fortune and make people happy. It was ingrained in me. Later, when I was called across the stage, the audience in the Masonic Memorial Temple broke into applause, and many of them stood up for me.
After the ceremony I proudly showed my diploma to my dad so he could see I had included my maiden name on it. “Hmm,” he said and handed it back.
“I thought you would be pleased to see your name on my diploma,” I said.
This was my day. It was important to me to please Dad and make him feel honored. Why didn’t he? Because today was no different than any other. I had always tried to please him, hoping to hear him say three simple words . . .“I love you.” It was too much to expect. I never heard him tell anyone he loved them, not even my mother. His Germanic background forced his feelings into hiding and left his loved ones yearning.
My father was an honorable man who worked hard for his family. He was strong, steady, and always there. He helped guide me in my schoolwork. He toiled in a chemical factory to provide a decent home, food, and clothes, even though his health suffered. He took us on exciting camping vacations to national and state parks. No matter how much I told myself that actions speak louder than words, a simple whisper of “I love you” would have resonated as loud as if it had been bellowed from a mountaintop.
“I don’t know why you did it,” Dad said. “It’s no longer your name.”
Even his negative reaction couldn’t bring me down, not today, with its beautiful weather, my award, and my upcoming party, where all our friends would have a grand time.