The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline (5 page)

“I was talking to Donald Hunter today. Seems that son of his is running with a bad crowd.”

“Sebastian? Is that likely? He seems such a nice boy.”

David frowned. He didn’t like having his story interrupted. I stood up quickly to clear the dishes—I didn’t have the energy for either a fight or a lecture.

“He’s spending all his time at the beach, surfing.” He sneered the last word. “He’s wearing his hair long, and Donald thinks he’s probably smoking pot—he caught him with a lighter.”

I hid a smile. Didn’t most high-schoolers do things like that? It hardly seemed the crime of the century. But David’s mantra was that rules were to be obeyed. I preferred my Papa’s version: ‘Rules are for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men’. A version which covered a multitude of small sins.

“He says he’ll have to put his foot down.”

“What does that mean?”

“He wants him to enlist—sooner rather than later. I think it’s a good idea. A young man out of control—he needs some discipline. It made a man out of me.”

I didn’t want to start an argument so I stayed quiet, for a moment, seething inside. “Oh, I got the impression Estelle wanted him to go to college first.”

David’s frown deepened. “Well, Donald’s the one paying the bills, so he’s the one calling the shots.”

And this was what it always came down to. I became even more determined to get some work—writing, if possible. I wouldn’t mind serving in a shop or a bar, but David would never allow that. Pursuing my writing was acceptable; a suitable hobby for an officer’s wife.

I loaded the dirty plates into the dishwasher and stacked the pans by the sink. I liked doing the dishes; it meant I could stay busy while David filled me in on more of the dull trivia that completed his day. I’d have washed the plates, too, except then he’d complain about me not using the household appliances properly.

I felt sorry for Sebastian; he’d seemed so happy and carefree as we’d wandered through Little Italy. It must be awful living with a controlling bastard like Donald Hunter—and Estelle, so cold and heartless. Well, I didn’t have to guess how it felt to have a mother like that: I knew exactly.

Perhaps it would be a good thing if he enlisted, if only to get away from his damn parents.

I realized I was spending way too much time thinking about Sebastian; and I had enough concerns of my own. I resolved to get my résumé up-to-date, and to contact
City Beat
in the morning. And then I had an idea—it was something that might help Sebastian—and it would definitely wind up his father at the same time. Undoubtedly it would irritate David, too; that was practically a given.

Pleased with my idea, I finished up in the kitchen and hunted down my notepad. I wanted to sketch out my thoughts while they were still fresh in my mind.

I sat cross-legged on the bed and began to make some notes. I really needed internet access, but we hadn’t yet got around to hooking up DSL. David expected me to take care of things like that; for once I was in agreement with him. In the meantime, I’d have to find a café with Wi-Fi, or head to the library.

“What are you doing?”

Sometimes I wondered if it would be simpler if I just gave David an itinerary of my day rather than answer his endless questions on how every hour had been spent, or was going to be spent.

“Just jotting down some notes; I had an idea for an article.”

“You look tan; it suits you.”

I looked up, recognizing the tone in David’s voice: he wanted sex.

He took the notepad and pencil out of my hands and tossed them on the floor.

“Come here.”

Dutifully, I stood up and went to him. He unzipped my dress and lifted it over my head, dropping it on top of my notepad.

I started to unbutton his shirt, but he brushed my hands away.

“Turn around.”

I followed his instruction and he unhooked my bra, then briskly yanked my panties down.

“Lie on the bed. No, face down. You really have gotten some nice color today; I can see your tan lines.”

I felt the bed shift as he lay down next to me.

“I’ve always liked you with a tan, Caroline.”

He ran his hand down my spine and stroked my ass several times. I heard him undo his zipper and I rolled onto my side as he stroked himself, steadily encouraging his erection.

“Do you want me to do that?”

“Okay.”

I carried on, watching his eyes close and his mouth slacken.

“Okay, that’s enough.”

Then he lay down on top of me, his weight forcing me into the bed, and entered me carefully. He thrust half a dozen times, shuddered, then stopped.

“Mmm!”

He lay back on the bed, smiling. I stared at the sheets. I’d have to wash those in the morning.

“What are your plans for tomorrow, Caroline?”

“I’m going to get my résumé together and then contact that newspaper I mentioned. Oh, and I’ll call the telephone company to get DSL hooked up.”

“Good idea. I’d like to throw a little party for the guys at the hospital—a week from this Saturday okay? About 7
pm
.”

“Sure. Canapés and red wine?”

“Better get some beer, too. And that fancy pressé you like, for the wives. Maybe some of those little … what do you call them … cannelloni?”

“Oh, cannoli siciliani? Sure.”
Damn it. It would take me all morning to make those tricky little fuckers
.

“Great. Thanks, honey.”

He heaved himself off the bed and strolled into the bathroom. I heard him pissing into the toilet bowl and, a moment later, running the faucet to brush his teeth. He flushed the toilet afterwards—that had always irritated me.

I knew from experience that I’d find his uniform tossed onto the floor. I pulled my nightgown out from under the pillow, picked up my dress and notepad, waiting for him to finish.

CHAPTER 3

David was up and out early. Getting that promotion had made the world spin his way, for a while at least. I hoped the good mood would last. He was easier to live with when he wasn’t mad at me all the time.

I wasn’t keen on the idea of a party, but it was something that was expected. I looked forward to these little soirées with the enthusiasm of someone going for root canal.

I cleaned up the kitchen just in case anyone decided to drop in for coffee, then finished off the notes I’d started last night. I wasn’t entirely happy with the necessity of asking Sebastian for his help, but I suspected he’d get a kick out of my idea for an article.

When I’d cornered the laptop and intimidated it into crawling into action, I updated my résumé. It certainly looked a lot better than last time I’d had to do this. Now I had solid experience under my belt, sort of; not as much perhaps as many women my age, but enough—I hoped. I also knew that the fact of my being a military wife garnered enough cachet to get me through the door. Civilians were always intrigued by the idea of a world within a world: nearby, but closed.

I called the phone company and they agreed that I’d be hooked up by Friday; they were usually pretty good at attending to military folk. It made them feel patriotic.

Having ticked off all my chores but one, I was now faced with the tricky prospect of contacting Sebastian without raising his hopes—or getting him into more trouble with his parents. I had no idea how I was going to do that. But, unwittingly, Donna Vorstadt was kind enough to help me out.

The phone rang, loud and demanding.

“Hello?”

“Hi Caroline, it’s Donna. I just thought I’d ask, if you’re not too busy unpacking; some of the girls and I usually get together on a Monday afternoon and have coffee ... chew the fat. I was wondering if you’d like to join us? You’ll know some of them: Penny Bishop, Estelle Hunter, Margarite Schiner.”

“Oh, that’s so kind of you, Donna, but I’m just up to my ears in jobs. I have to call the phone company to get DSL; David is on my case about that. And I have a thousand and one things to do. Did he mention we’re having a few friends over for drinks a week from this Saturday? About 7
pm
. Maybe we could catch up then. And coffee another time—for sure.”

She accepted my excuses with good humor and said she was looking forward to Saturday. We hung up on good terms after she gave me Estelle’s number, obviously surprised by my request. Donna was easy company—I was beginning to feel she was a woman I could like.

Estelle, however, was something else altogether.

I started to dial her number and, to my surprise and chagrin, I felt a nervous knot in my stomach.
Oh, for crying out loud. You’re a woman of 30!
I really didn’t like having to ask her for help.

Irritated, I dialed the number.

“Hunter residence. May I help you?”

Sebastian’s voice was cool and polite. I was so surprised, I couldn’t speak immediately. I’d assumed he’d be at school.

“Hello?” he said again.

“Hi, Sebastian … it’s Caroline,” I stuttered.

Over the phone I heard him take a sudden, sharp breath.

“Caroline, hi! How are you?”

“Good, thanks. I was expecting to reach your mother…”

“I had a free period—and I’m graduating on Thursday anyway,” he reminded me.

“Oh, well, as luck would have it … I wondered if you could help me—with an article I’m writing?”

“Sure, anything!”

I tried to ignore the obvious delight in his voice.

“Well, when we were talking at the barbecue the other day, you mentioned that your friend’s dad surfed—I think you said his name was Ches? Well, I wondered if you could give me his number; I’d like to speak to him.”

There was a short pause.

“You want to speak to Ches?”

He sounded hurt.

“Well, I really wanted to talk to Ches’s dad,” I said hurriedly. “I’m writing an article about Base personnel who go surfing. I thought it would make a great piece for
City Beat
.”

“Oh, right.” He sounded ridiculously relieved. “Sure, I can get you that. We were going to hang out at the beach this afternoon. There’s a swell coming in off the Pacific that looks awesome. Mitch was going to ride with us. You want to come, too?”

“Mitch?”

“That’s Ches’s dad. He’s a Staff Sergeant.”

“Well, that would be great. What time were you going to go?”

“About 3:45
pm
. We could pick you up?”

“Um … are you going to Point Loma again?”

“Maybe … we were going to sort of drive around till we found the best break.”

Oh, well…

“In that case, yes, I’d love a ride. Are you sure it’ll be okay with Mitch and your friends?”

“Sure!”

He answered so quickly I couldn’t help a small chuckle escaping. “Well, okay, but I’d feel happier if I could talk to Mitch first.”

With some reluctance that had me smiling to myself, Sebastian gave me his friend’s number and confirmed three times that he’d see me after school at 3:45
pm
.

I hung up, still smiling. Then I redialed for Sergeant Peters. A woman answered.

“Hi there, Peters’ residence.”

“Oh, good morning. My name is Caroline Wilson—I’m Commander David Wilson’s wife. I was wondering if I could talk to Sergeant Peters.”

“Oh. Good morning, Mrs. Wilson. This is Shirley Peters. I’m afraid Mitch isn’t available at present. May I take a message?”

“Yes, thank you. This will probably sound a little odd, but I understand Mitch is taking the boys surfing this afternoon and I wondered if I could tag along.”

She hesitated long enough to let me know that this sounded more than just a little odd. I rushed to fill in the blanks for her.

“It’s just that I used to write some stories for the local paper back east,” I said, exaggerating slightly, “and I hoped to try and do the same here—I thought an article on Base personnel who go surfing would be interesting. I was hoping your husband could give me some tips.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I’m sure that Mitch will be just fine about that, Mrs. Wilson.”

She still sounded surprised and I knew why—officers’ wives didn’t have much to do with the families of the enlisted ranks. A distinction that had always rather offended me.

In the end, we agreed that Mitch would call me if there was a problem, otherwise I was to be ready to go at 3:45
pm
.

“Um, Mrs. Wilson, that van is pretty old; the boys use it for all their surf stuff. It’s got half the beach in there. Well, I wouldn’t want you to ruin any of your clothes.”

I was touched by her thoughtfulness.

“Thank you, Mrs. Peters. I’ll wear an old beach dress then. Thank you so much.”

After that, I felt full of energy, delighted with how the day was panning out. I drove over to the library, got online to check up on the local surf spots, and also to find out a bit more about what kind of stories
City Beat
ran.

I just had time to stop by the Kwik Shop to stock up on groceries for supper and, as an afterthought, picked up a dozen focaccia rolls before running home to change into my old, yellow sundress and pick up my notebook.

I filled the rolls with pastrami, lettuce and tomatoes, and was finishing wrapping them up in kitchen paper and loading them into a cardboard box when I heard a horn honk outside. I grabbed my camera and notebook, swiped a bottle of pressé from the refrigerator and scooted out to meet my surf Svengalis.

Sebastian had already leapt out of the van, smiling hugely.

“Hi, Caroline!”

He looked so thrilled to see me; I didn’t have the heart to be cool.

“Hello, Sebastian. Could you help me with this? I brought some sandwiches for you and your friends.”

“Wow, thanks!”

He tucked the box under one arm and opened the passenger door. “This is Mitch, um, Staff Sergeant Peters.”

Mitch Peters was a thick-set man of medium height with the trademark Marine buzz-cut. “Mrs. Wilson, pleased to meet you.”

“Oh, call me Caroline, please. You’re doing me the favor. I really appreciate you letting me crash your surf safari.”

He smiled and his face immediately relaxed. “No problem, Caroline. It’ll make these beach bums mind their manners. Right, boys?”

Then he introduced me to his son Ches, Sebastian’s friend, whom I recognized from a few days back; Bill, Mitch’s buddy; and another boy they called Fido, for some reason.

I sat in the front, sandwiched between Mitch and Bill, and the boys crowded into the back of the van among a motley collection of surfboards, body boards, wetsuits, and strange, shiny t-shirts that I was told were rash vests.

“To stop the wetsuits rubbing around the neck and under the arms when you’re paddling out,” explained Mitch. “We won’t need them today—the water at this time of year is around 63
o
F.”

I made a note of that and snapped a quick photo of the back of the van with all the boys pulling faces and flipping the bird.

“Caroline brought food,” Sebastian announced happily.

They must have all been starving because the rolls evaporated like water in the desert, and the pressé was passed around between them. I was sure I could have brought twice as much food, and it would have disappeared the same way.

We drove across the spectacular Coronado Bridge, then headed south, stopping occasionally for a surf check.

Mitch explained that they were looking for a steady swell and offshore breeze to hold up the waves; the best conditions for producing long, workable rides.

In the end, Mitch pulled up at the side of the road near Cays Park and the boys spilled out of the back, their reckless enthusiasm catching. Mitch and Bill were somewhat more circumspect, but I couldn’t tell whether that was because of their seniority, or because I was inhibiting them from the whole male-bonding ritual.

“Just forget I’m here,” I added, somewhat helplessly. “I’ll just watch and soak up the vibe.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Bill, smiling at me, as he tugged off his t-shirt to reveal a barrel chest, thickly coated with reddish-brown hair.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sebastian scowl at him, yanking off his own t-shirt. His skin was the same beautiful, golden color that I remembered, but I’d not noticed before how well muscled he was. All those hours of surfing had left him with long, lithe muscles, and a marvelously toned body. In fact all of them were in great shape. I wondered if I should get into surfing, although 63
o
F didn’t sound that warm to me.

Mitch handed Sebastian a garish red and yellow board, smiling kindly. It was then I remembered that Sebastian’s own father had destroyed the blue surfboard I’d first seen him with.

I took some more snaps as they posed for the camera, and then watched as they sprinted into the water and paddled out beyond where the waves were breaking. I knew from my half-hour of research that this was called the line-up. They sat there, a gaudy flock, waiting for their wave. As the swell approached, they all started paddling, their arms stroking through the sea, the green water lifting them up; they raced down the shoulder of the wave, so graceful, so powerful. It took my breath away to watch them. Then, inevitably, the wave broke and they all dived off in different directions, bobbing to the surface seconds later.

After I’d watched for a while, Sebastian caught a wave that carried him into the beach, and he jogged over to join me, flicking his hair out of his eyes, skin glistening.

“You finished already?”

“I thought it might help if I explained some more—for your article.”

“That would be great—it all looks kind of the same to me.”

He laughed lightly. “Not really. See, Mitch is using a long board with a rounded nose. He can work the smaller waves with that, and do some hippy shit like hang ten. Ches is riding a short board, so he can slash across the wave, catch some air and do the more radical stuff.”

I had no idea what he’d just said to me—it was like learning a foreign language, but for some reason his words made me smile.

“What sort of board do you have—have you borrowed?”

“This is a short board, a thruster; same as Ches and Fido. See how fast they’re going there? You can’t do that on a long board.”

I began to see what Sebastian meant about the surfing styles as he patiently pointed out the differences, then named and described the different maneuvers. I made copious notes and was pretty sure I could turn this into a workable article.

“How many guys on the Base surf?”

“Quite a lot: once you’ve got your board, the ocean is free. You can be an individual out here—you know, different from military stuff.”

I got what he meant immediately: there were no rules out here, no regulations, no one barking orders at you.

“Well, there are some rules,” Sebastian said, seriously. “Firstly, you don’t drop in and steal someone’s wave. That’s bad etiquette. The guy who takes off first—that’s his wave.”