Mrs. Lieutenant: A Sharon Gold Novel (2 page)

Her mother had the last word: “Two days with
your grandparents will be too much.”

She looks at Robert now, his eyes on the road
ahead. "I think they accept my coming with you."

"If they do, why did they get your brother to
show up and try to talk you out of going?"

Sharon studies her husband's face. His tone
isn't belligerent, but she can't read his expression.

In fact she suspects Howard did receive an
official summons from his studies at the University of Illinois to
say good-bye to his only sibling. His assigned mission probably
included trying to dissuade her from her "ridiculous" plan to go
with her husband. If so, her parents wasted their train money and
Howard's time.

Howard, her younger brother by two years and
several inches taller than her 5'5" height. There is a clear family
resemblance with their light brown hair, narrow faces with strong
noses, and dark eyes, not to mention their good complexions thanks
to a rigorous dermatologist who burned off their blemished skin
with dry ice treatments. And their opposition to the Vietnam War is
equally strong.

Finally she says, "It was nice to have a
chance to say good-bye. I don't know when we'll see him again."

Robert snorts, flipping one hand momentarily
off the wheel. "It would have been better if he had left his 'make
love not war' paraphernalia at school. He overdid it."

Sharon leans toward Robert, about to say
something. Instead she stares straight ahead.

Robert glances over at her, then returns his
eyes to the road. "How will you feel if he's drafted and goes to
Canada? You may not be able to see him for years."

Not see Howard for years? Robert insists that
Howard has the luxury to be anti-war due to his college deferment
along with his high lottery draft number based on his birth date –
239 – drawn five months ago in the December 1st draft lottery.
Robert’s lottery number was 16, making his college commitment to
ROTC – Reserve Officers Training Corps – appear to be a prescient
choice. Even an anti-war protestor like herself realizes it’s
better to be entering the army as an officer rather than at the
lowest enlisted rank.

"Do you really think Howard would go to
Canada?" she says.

"You'll have to ask him yourself."

Sharon can't predict what her younger brother
would do. Even if Howard says he'll never flee to Canada, he still
might.

Roberts hums along with the song on the radio
– Kenny Rogers singing "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town." Sharon
wants to ask Robert to switch the channel, not to listen to the
song of a paralyzed Vietnam vet whose woman has to go "to town" to
get physical love. War is wrong, so wrong! Robert can get
killed!

She wills the tears not to start and studies
the farmland all around them. The top of the convertible is up to
prevent their possessions from flying out, and the open windows let
in the pungent odors of grass and cattle. She shrugs the smells
away. She does not like the country. Too few people around and too
few things to do.

Her hair blows around her head. The
microscopic hairs on Robert's head don't move a fraction. Her
mother whispered to her last night, "Why is his hair so short?"
Obviously her mother doesn’t know anything about the army. And the
nightly television news shots of men fighting in Vietnam are too
blurry to see the men’s hair length.

Sharon yanks her mind away from the thought
of men fighting. To calm herself she silently recites the opening
lines of the Prologue to Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales,” a relic from
her English literature classes in college:
Whan that April with
his shoures soote/The droghte of March hath perced to the roote
...

In the midst of these Middle English words
the last line of a Milton sonnet pops into her head:
“They also
serve who only stand and wait.”

Sharon fingers the bag on her lap. Is this
also heroism? And will she be prepared if a sacrifice is
required?

The radio signal from Chicago suddenly dies
out. They must be approaching Louisville. She fiddles with the
knobs to find a local channel.

She knows she’s found a Louisville station
when she hears: "Pete, what did you think of Dust Commander's
winning time of 2 minutes and 3 2/5 seconds?"

"Chuck, I think Mike Manganello was a hell of
a jockey."

"I agree with you, Pete.

"And for you listening out there today who
may have been in outer space this past Saturday and not near a
radio or television, we're discussing this year's Kentucky Derby, a
1 1/4 mile race for three-year-old horses run at Churchill Downs
race track here in Louisville.

"So, Pete, let's talk about some of the other
horses who gave Dust Commander a run for the money."

Sharon pictures spectators leaning over the
railing along the race track. Their lips move but she hears
nothing. Instead of horses thundering down on top of each other,
their jockeys bunched close over them, Sharon sees her own life
ahead on the racecourse, the obstacles past the turns still
unknown. How will she ever fit into a military environment?

"This just in," a different voice erupts on
the radio. "The National Guard has fired on Kent State University
students protesting the Vietnam War and Nixon’s incursion into
Cambodia. Some shootings have been reported. We'll have more as
soon as it's available."

"The National Guard fired on students!"
Perspiration dots her palms. Howard could have been there; she
could have been there.

"Find another station," Robert says. "See if
there's any more news."

The police siren comes out of nowhere as she
jerks the knobs along a static-filled band.

"We've got company," Robert says.

Sharon flicks the radio off and peers behind
them. A police car right on their tail signals them to pull over.
"Were you speeding?" she asks.

Robert brings the car to a stop on the
shoulder and looks at her. He turns back to the driver's side
window.

A tall police officer in his early 30s comes
alongside Robert. His hat, low over his forehead, covers his eyes.
"May I see your license?"

Robert pulls his wallet out of his back
pocket and hands over his driver's license.

"From Chicago," the officer reads.

Can he tell they are Jewish? Will he throw
the book at them because he hates Jews? They are in the South now,
and everyone knows about prejudiced Southerners.

The officer leans closer, cigarette smoke
pulsating off his uniform. "Now why were you doing 60 in a
40-mile-per-hour zone?"

Robert squirms. "I didn't realize the speed
limit had dropped, sir."

"Yep, you're right outside Louisville" – he
pronounces it Loullville like her grandmother – "and this here is a
speed trap." He grins, stretching his suntanned face.

"Then you caught us," Robert says.

The officer peers into the car, stuffed with
all their things. "Where you folks going?"

"To Ft. Knox, sir."

The officer smiles again. "The Golds going to
the gold."

What does he mean? Oh, yes, the gold at Ft.
Knox.

"Reporting for active duty – Armor Officers
Basic," Robert says.

"An officer, huh?"

"Yes, sir."

The police officer straightens up and
gestures down the road to Louisville.

"If you
promise to follow the posted signs from now on,” he says, “I'll let
you off this time. Have to support our boys in uniform."

“
If the wife is well informed as to what is
expected of her, the probability is greater that the officer will
have an easier and more successful career.”
Mrs. Lieutenant
booklet

Kim Benton places her pet white rat Squeaky
in his metal cage under the sagging bed and out of Jim's sight. It
is a small motel room, and it smells of hair spray and shaving
cream and liquor and sex. Tomorrow if they are lucky they'll find
an apartment.

When they crossed the state line today into
Virginia, Jim leaned over and kissed her. "Welcome to being out of
North Carolina for the first time," he said.

She hadn't felt any excitement, just anxiety.
And the anxiety had less to do with the new state, she knows, than
with the reason for the move.

She glances into the bathroom, where Jim
stands shaving, his serious, good-looking face reflected in the
mirror. She refused his parents' offer to stay with them while Jim
drove up here to Ft. Knox and found housing. His parents have the
same fear of Northerners that she does. They thought it would be
better if Jim made all the arrangements before subjecting Kim to
such changes. It took a lot for her to say no to their offer,
especially with Jim encouraging her to accept.

She waited once before, a long time ago, for
the most important people in her life to return from a short trip.
They hadn't. And now she can't bear to be separated from her
husband, even for a few days. For a moment her mind darts to the
terrifying thought of a year's separation if he is sent to Vietnam.
Just as quickly she thinks of something else, anything else, to
prevent the pounding headache that always accompanies her deepest
fears.

"Honey, I'm ready," Jim says as he comes out
of the bathroom.

He must have seen the expression on her face,
because he puts his arms around her. "Everything's going to be
fine."

She smiles up at him. "You're bleeding. Did
you nick yourself shaving?"

She raises her hand to wipe away the blood.
But before she can, he says, "Let's just go."

The blood droplet hits the floor as she
follows him. No need to stop and wipe it up; it doesn't even show
among all the other stains.

In the car Kim reaches for the map as Jim
starts the engine. "I know where to go, honey," he says. He backs
the car out of the motel lot and turns towards Ft. Knox.

The air still drips the heat of the day. Kim
brushes perspiration off her forehead and searches the sky for
signs of rain.

"It was sure nice of our preacher to arrange
this introduction," Jim says. He hums a tune, something familiar,
perhaps a church hymn, she can’t quite recognize it.

Actually, this meeting worries Kim. The
preacher of their Southern Baptist church contacted a captain and
his wife from their hometown stationed at Ft. Knox. The couple
wrote Kim and Jim inviting them for dinner this first night. Bill
and Susanna Norris are a few years older than she and Jim, so she
and Jim don't know them. Will Kim embarrass herself with her
ignorance?

"They live in post housing for officers – but
it's not really on the post," Jim explains as he turns away from
the sign pointing to the entrance to Ft. Knox. "We won't be seeing
the actual Ft. Knox tonight."

Kim isn't disappointed. She is in no rush to
see an army post.

It's not yet dark, and she can clearly see
the houses they drive past. The ranch-style semi-detached red-brick
buildings look nice, with kids' bikes in the driveway and an
occasional small camper parked in front. Trees and some scraggly
flowers break up the monotony of identical lawns.

Jim stops in front of one of the buildings.
When they reach the front door, a sign announces "Captain William
Norris."

A little girl of about three with two brown
braids and a pink gingham dress stands in the open door. Right
behind her comes a woman with shoulder-length blond hair and a
cotton patterned dress covering a plump body. "Welcome to Ft.
Knox," she says. "I'm Susanna Norris. Bill will be right here. He's
just chasin' Billy Jr. 'round the yard out back. And this is
Patty."

"Hello," Kim says.

Patty says nothing.

"Patty, mind your manners! Say hello to Mrs.
Benton," her mother says.

Patty still says nothing as they all walk
into the living room. She's shy Kim thinks.

"Patty! Pay attention to me!" Susanna's voice
increases in volume. She grabs Patty by the arm. "Say hello."

"'ello," Patty says, then sits down next to
her mother on the couch.

Susanna smiles at Jim and Kim. "We expect our
children to have good manners. I was raised without parents but I
know how important manners are."

"Sure are," Jim says.

Relief edges up Kim's chest. Thank heavens
Jim doesn't say anything more.

Susanna nods in appreciation of Jim seconding
her opinion. "My daddy died when I was just Patty's age and my
brother was as little as Billy Jr.," Susanna says. "My mama had
what my granny called a drinkin' condition."

Susanna twists around to Patty. "Stop that
wigglin'," she says, slapping Patty on the arm. "Now sit
still."

Kim's stomach wobbles. Patty hasn't been
doing anything wrong. How quiet can a little girl sit?

Susanna turns back to them. "One day my mama
just didn't come on home. My granny raised us as best she could,
but she wasn't one for talkin' to kids or showin' any love."

Has slapping her own daughter shown love?

"Hello, everyone, I'm Bill Norris," says a
tall thin man coming into the room with a baby boy in his arms. The
roly-poly child is as blond as his father and mother. Where does
Patty get her brown hair?

Jim immediately stands. "Good evening,
Captain Norris."

The man waves Jim back to his seat. "Just
call me Bill. We're informal here at home."

Kim smiles her hello.

"Can I get you anything to drink?"

"No, sir, we're fine," Jim answers for both
of them.

Susanna turns to Bill. "The chicken and
dumplin's will be ready in a few minutes. We're just gettin' to
know each other."

"It was very nice of you to have us for
dinner," Jim says.

"Our pleasure," Bill says.