Mrs. Lieutenant: A Sharon Gold Novel (18 page)

When her father returned from his own tour –
alive! – she would agree to leave the apartment, although only
briefly each time. "Mama," she would say, "I'm keeping us all safe
by staying home."

Her father's next assignment was Ft. Riley,
Kansas. Once there and her younger siblings in school, her parents
decided a job could be her path back to living. A nearby college
had an open secretarial position in the economics department.

"Excuse me, miss," the student said. She
hadn't seen him come in. The typewriter ribbon had unspooled and
she was struggling with it, the red and black ink tattooing her
hands. She looked up into a smile.

"I'm Jerry Lautenberg. I'm a junior and I
need to check on my requirements for graduation. Can you help
me?"

She held up her hands and said, "Let me wash
first before I look at your records."

He came around the desk without an
invitation. "Are you having problems with that ribbon? Let me
try."

His breath brushed her check as he wrestled
the ribbon back into place. "There," he said. "Now we can wash our
hands together." And, for the first time since the yellow message
of the third telegram, she laughed.

She helped him with his records, told him her
name when asked, and accepted his thanks as he walked out of the
office. She smiled as she resumed her typing.

The next day he returned. "Would you consider
going out with me?” he said, offering a single red rose. “That is,
if no one else has captured your heart."

Surprise, flattery, confusion flooded her.
Was it too soon after Miguel ... too soon to go out with someone?
And an Anglo at that. What would her parents say? And what a
strange expression – "capture your heart." She blurted out: "I'm
not a college girl. I'm ... a widow. I wouldn't want to mislead
you."

He hesitated, then said, "You didn't have to
tell me that now. You could have waited until I was so caught I
wouldn't care. You know what? I'm caught now. Would tonight at 8 be
okay?"

They had gone out that night, and the next
night, and the night after that.

Jerry had been polite and friendly with her
parents, making them feel less self-conscious about an Anglo dating
their daughter. Eventually her parents became so comfortable that
they sometimes lapsed into Spanish in front of him. When they did,
he didn't get upset. He just smiled and reminded them he didn't
understand. They would smile too, and apologize, and switch back to
English.

Her parents had been happy for her. Pleased
that she could start over again, to overcome the setback that had
befallen her at such a young age.

Jerry's parents were a different matter.

When Jerry proposed to her, she hadn't yet
met his parents. For all she knew, he hadn't even told them about
her. He was their only child, his father a high school teacher, his
mother a housewife.

The father didn't serve in World War II
because of a physical disability Jerry had explained. "Perhaps
that's why my parents are unhappy about my decision to join ROTC.
They don't understand where I'm coming from," he said. Now he would
be delivering a double whammy: marrying a Puerto Rican and a
widow.

"I can't say yes until I meet your parents,"
she said. "I have to see for myself if they'll accept me."

"Great idea," he said. "We'll go to St. Louis
for a weekend to visit them."

Her parents gave their consent to the
trip.

Only as she and Jerry approached the front
door of the brick two-story house in a quiet neighborhood did Jerry
admit he hadn't told his parents anything about her beyond her
first name. "I want them to form their own impressions, not have
preconceived notions."

As he rang the doorbell she trembled with
fear, afraid that his parents would betray their prejudice the
moment they saw her. Yet all his mother said was, "So you're the
one our son's in love with." And then his father had ushered her
into the house.

She would be lying if she said it wasn't
somewhat uncomfortable. Jerry's parents hadn't been prepared for
her. Yet they were gracious.

At the end of the two-day visit, she told
Jerry, "I may never be close to your parents. Yet if they can
continue to be this polite to me, I'll marry you."

Jerry hugged her. "I already told my parents
you said yes. And my mom gave me my grandmother's ring for you."
Out of his pants pocket he pulled a ring with a garnet stone
surrounded by pearls. He slipped it on her ring finger as tears
sluiced down her cheeks.

She isn't giving up this happiness – ever.
Not if she can help it.

She’ll speak to him now.

"Jerry," she says, rubbing her hands across
his chest. "I talked to the major from Washington right afterwards
– while you were talking with Robert and some other men – about ...
about Miguel."

Jerry stiffens under her hands. "Why would
you do that?"

"I wanted to know ... to know if what
happened to him could keep you from serving in Vietnam."

"What?" Jerry sits up in bed.

She sits up too. Do not cry, she tells
herself. The tears don't listen – they drop onto her bare
breasts.

Jerry wraps his arms around her. "Darling,
darling," he says.

"I can’t ... lose you," she says, sobs
interrupting her words. "I've made ... one sacrifice. You can get
... an exemption ... because of him."

Jerry tightens his arms around her body – she
can read his answer in his eyes before he speaks.

"Darling, I can't use that exemption. I'd
never be able to look myself in the mirror again without seeing a
coward."

"You wouldn't ... be a coward! You'd be doing
... it for me. For our love."

He kisses her tears. "Please forgive me. I
have to take my chances like everyone else."

She can't stop sobbing.

He strokes her face. Then says, "Maybe we
should consider his vol indef option. Robert thinks it could keep
us out of going to Vietnam because Nixon wants to be
re-elected."

“
On your husband’s card the service should be
designated as ‘United States Army’ but indication of the branch is
optional.”
Mrs. Lieutenant
booklet

Two days after the voluntary indefinite
meeting, Sharon puts on her black-and-white seersucker two-piece
suit in preparation for following up on something she saw at the
commissary – a notice for a meeting of the Jewish Wives’ Club. The
concept seems a little funny in the middle of hicksville Kentucky,
but she’s not going to pass up the chance to possibly make new
friends.

Sharon has nothing in common with her
neighbors Anne and Elizabeth. Sharon can't stand going over to
watch their "programs" with them. When invited, Sharon always gives
the same excuse – she and Kim have plans – which is usually true
anyway.

And Sharon enjoys getting together with her
entertainment committee. Yet something is missing. She longs to be
among others more like herself. Today she hopes to do that.

Sharon checks herself in the bedroom mirror.
She’s wearing the same outfit she wore to the voluntary indefinite
meeting. She thinks again of Robert walking her to the car after
the meeting. He asked what she thought of the major’s talk. She
gave a noncommittal answer, too agitated by Donna’s “announcement”
to say anything more.

As Robert walked back to class, Sharon sat in
the car, her hands clasping the steering wheel, not turning on the
engine, fixating on an image of Donna’s first husband dying in
Vietnam. And then Sharon’s mind switched to another imagined mental
picture – the death of Robert’s friend Kenneth in Vietnam. Sharon
could recall quite clearly when she heard the news.

It was only a few weeks after her first date
with Robert during which he had told her he was going to Vietnam –
a first date followed by other dates in spite of Sharon’s better
judgment that a relationship with a Jewish boy headed for Vietnam
was not for her. Something very appealing about Robert in spite of
this major drawback made Sharon hesitate to call off seeing
him.

During those weeks of their first dates the
“State News” carried several articles related to the war in
Vietnam:

On April 5
^th
a news analysis
headlined “Johnson bows out, but not too far” began: “President
Johnson’s announcement Sunday that he will not seek re-nomination
certainly will be considered one of the most startling political
moves of the century.”

On April 8
^th
an article headlined
“U.N. official shows war, racial optimism” reported: “His
Excellency C.V. Narasimhan, Under-Secretary-General for General
Assembly Affairs of the United Nations, indicated Friday that
President Johnson’s decision to de-escalate the war in Vietnam and
seek meetings about an eventual case-fire is viewed as an
‘extremely hopeful development’ at the United Nations.”

On April 11
^th
an analysis
headlined “Asians fear U.S. withdrawal from Vietnam” began: “While
public support for President Johnson is on the rise in the United
States following his announcement of de-escalation in Vietnam, the
government of that country, and countries in the area, probably
view it as an abandonment of the American commitment in Southeast
Asia.”

And then on April 23
^rd
an article
headlined “Current Vietnam stand result of policy change” detailed
author David Schoenbrun’s appearance at MSU, including: “In a
speech in Wells Hall, punctuated by frequent plugs for his
just-published book and digs at MSU professor of political science
Wesley Fishel, Schoenbrun traced the history of the conflict and
called for negotiations, a cease-fire and free elections in
Vietnam, accompanied by a U.S. troop withdrawal.”

Sharon had read this entire article in a fury
at the U.S.’s sending soldiers to fight in Vietnam, especially when
she got to the paragraph that said Schoenbrun “received his biggest
hand during the speech when he said, ‘Anything I can do to help any
young man avoid fighting in this immoral, illegal and cruel war, I
will do.’”

With this article clutched in her hand she
entered the student union for a pre-arranged coffee date with
Robert. The intended rant against the Vietnam War died in her
throat the moment she saw the bleak expression on Robert’ face.

“What is it?” she asked as she slid into the
booth opposite him.

He looked up. “It’s Kenneth.”

"Kenneth?"

"My best friend in high school. An infantry
officer in Vietnam."

Sharon pressed her two hands together under
the Formica table top. "What about him?"

"Dead. Killed in an ambush near his
firebase."

Her stomach lurched. She grabbed for Robert's
hands across the table. He pulled out of her reach.

"When?"

"I'm not sure. His parents called my parents
last night. They called me."

Robert's voice almost inaudible: "He was so
gung-ho. Enlisted, went to Officers Candidate School, thrilled to
be assigned infantry. He wanted to fight for his country. And he
died for it!"

Sharon said nothing.

Robert recited:

Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.

Because your lover threw wild hands toward the
sky

And the affrighted steed ran on alone,

Do not weep.

War is kind.

Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,

Little souls who thirst for fight,

These men were born to drill and die.

The unexplained glory flies above them,

Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom
–

A field where a thousand corpses lie.

Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.

Because your father tumbled in the yellow
trenches,

Raged at his breast, gulped and died,

Do not weep.

War is kind.

Swift blazing flag of the regiment,

Eagle with crest of red and gold,

These men were born to drill and die.

Point for them the virtue of slaughter,

Make plain to them the excellence of killing

`And a field where a thousand corpses lie.

Mother whose heart hung humble as a button

On the bright splendid shroud of your son,

Do not weep.

War is kind.

When Robert finished reciting he said nothing
more.

"Who wrote that?” Sharon asked. “I don't know
it."

"It's Stephen Crane's 'War Is Kind.'"

Sharon dropped the clutched newspaper article
onto the tabletop and ran into the women’s restroom.

There she stared at herself in the three-way
mirror. Was he referring to Kenneth? Or was Robert warning her
about getting involved with him? The ultimate risk – loving someone
about to go off to war? And here Sharon’s anger flared – especially
going off to an “immoral, illegal and cruel war” according to David
Schoenbrun.

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?"

The officer 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.

In the student union restroom Sharon splashed
water on her face. She had made a decision – she was resolved never
to see Robert again.

As she approached the booth she saw that his
fingers drummed the article she had dropped. Yet when she sat down
again he made no mention of the article. Instead he said, "I have
one other poem I want to share with you."