The Edge of Honor (7 page)

Then watch them squint their eyes trying to look like John Wayne while they light up a cigarette and say something really clever like ‘Yup.’ “

Maddy laughed nervously and shook her head as Tizzy sped up Rosecrans toward the base known throughout San Diego as MCRD, shorthand for the Marine Corps Recruit Depot. Her right hand fingered her bare ring finger as she thought about what Tizzy had said. It was well after dark on a Thursday night, but the overcast San Diego sky reflected enough of the city lights to dilute any sense of nighttime. Tizzy had picked Maddy up at her Balboa apartment to go to a seven o’clock movie, after which they had put down a Big Mac attack. While stuffing debris into the white bag, Tizzy had proposed they go check out the scene at the MCRD Officers’ Club. Initially, Maddy had had some reservations. She tended to distance herself from knowing much about the Navy scene in San Diego, much to her husband’s annoyance.

But even she had heard MCRD O-Club stories and was aware that Thursday night offered one of the city’s hotter body exchanges. She was also mildly apprehensive about Tizzy Hudson. She suspected Tizzy might have more on her mind than just spectator sports. It was rumored among the wardroom wives that the Hudsons’ high-flying, swinging sixties lifestyle was centered on what the wives delicately called an “open relationship.”

Tizzy’s instructions to take off her rings hadn’t helped.

Maddy gave up on her hair, clasped her hands in her lap, and closed her eyes, as much an attempt to relax as to ignore Tizzy’s outrageous driving. The ship had been gone how long? Four weeks, two days, twelve hours, seven minutes—but who’s counting? Only six months to go. What’s half a year between friends? As she listened to Tizzy’s hilarious description of several standard MCRD opening lines, she realized that Tizzy knew more about that scene than any proper Navy wife should.

Tizzy Hudson was a tall, dark-haired, vivacious woman whose appearance inevitably inspired the adjective cute. She seemed to be irreverent about wardroom protocol in general and the intricate network of Navy wives’ social functions in particular. Maddy had been attracted to her from their first meeting at Brian’s hailand-farewell party.

They had become even closer friends now that the ship was gone, if only because Tizzy displayed no inhibitions about saying what many of the wives so obviously felt.

Like Maddy, Tizzy had a day job, while most of the other wardroom wives stayed at home raising children. The two of them generally declined invitations to join the coffee klatches, shopping trips, and playground gatherings that united the wives.

Maddy’s quiet sigh was snatched away by the wind.

Her life had gone into limbo with Brian’s departure to WESTPAC. She woke up each morning with an oppressive amalgam of sadness, self-pity, rejection, and even despair puddled in her stomach like a lump of yesterday’s oatmeal—the “poor me’s,” as the captain’s wife, Mrs.

Huntington, described it, feelings we endure but do not enunciate, especially in letters to the ship, girls. Or, as Tizzy was wont to put it, “Deployments really suck.”

Maddy experienced the familiar flash of guilt for being so self-centered about the separation, realizing that her own anger and sense of abandonment implied that Brian felt none of these things as he chased around some godforsaken place everyone called the Gulf on his oversized “frigate.” And all because of this tragically absurd war in Vietnam.

Like most Navy wives, Maddy despised the disheveled, screeching antiwar protestors who were paraded nightly on the television news by supercilious anchormen. But as the deployment dragged on, she sometimes found herself wishing they would prevail. At least now, President Nixon was talking about ending it.

She tugged on her skirt as Tizzy swung the white convertible into the bright lights of the MCRD main gate area. She noted that Tizzy didn’t bother and that the Marine guard very definitely did not keep his eyes in the boat as they drove through. Tizzy, who was almost five ten, wore a very short bright yellow one-piece summer dress that complimented her trim figure nicely, even if it did not leave her many secrets when she sat down.

Maddy realized now that Tizzy must have had MCRD on her mind right from the start. She, on the other hand, had not had time to change after work. She wore a straight white above-the-knee skirt with a cream-colored sleeveless blouse and a short-sleeved white linen jacket over her shoulders. She was always surprised at how cool San Diego could get at night.

Maddy Holcomb had an arresting face, with finely arched eyebrows over large violet-blue eyes. Her upper lip described a perfect red bow; her lower lip was prominent and pendulous, giving her mouth a slightly breathless look. Her dense blond hair was cut in a long pageboy that framed her face and fell around her shoulders in a shimmering mantle.

With her face in repose, she had a direct gaze that bordered on a stare, an expression accentuated by a slightly down-curving nose and a tendency, because of her height, to tilt her face slightly to one side to look up at people. Where Tizzy was the tall, slim, athletic, and outgoing California girl, Maddy was barely five six in low heels and presented an image of curves and soft roundness, accentuated by wide shoulders and the graceful poise of her Atlanta upbringing.

She had lost a good deal of her southern accent and Georgia idiom after four years at school in Boston, although she could turn it on if the situation warranted.

Maddy’s real first name was Madison, in deference to the southern tradition of a daughter taking her mother’s maiden name as a given name.

With a mental smile, she recalled a remark Brian had made once, comparing Maddy with Tizzy, after it had become evident they were going to be friends. Tizzy, he had said, was eminently streetable, a tall bundle of fun and flash, the perfect partner for a night on the town, especially in Southern California. Maddy, on the other hand, had the kind of looks that men wanted to get off the street and into the bedroom before some other man saw her and wanted to fight.

“Here we are, boys and girls,” announced Tizzy, whisking the car into a parking place with a scrunch of complaining gravel. She shut off the engine, twisted the rearview mirror toward her, and began to fix her own hair.

Maddy let out a breath and looked around. The MCRD Officers’ Club was a low, sprawling Spanish hacienda style building complete with red tiled roof and rose colored stucco walls. The club was surrounded by groves of palm and eucalyptus trees interlaced with gravel walkways.

The manicured lawns and lush shrubbery bespoke Mexican gardeners and generous irrigation. The grounds and the walkways were illuminated by faux gaslights placed strategically near the trees. The distinctive smell of eucalyptus blended with the tang of salt air from the nearby harbor. She could hear the whining rush of jet engines from the San Diego airport, which adjoined MCRD on the harbor side. She noticed that the parking lot was full and that a steady stream of young people filed into the 0-Club’s main entrance, the men and women arriving separately but already giving one another the once-over. The sounds of a rock band thumped through the gardens surrounding the club. There were even a few couples strolling around the gravel pathways in the gardens. Maddy felt torn: She was definitely up for a night out but uncomfortable at coming to a singles watering hole.

“This place looks jammed,” she said, brushing out her own hair and appraising her day-old makeup in a compact mirror. The flickering yellow lights made the assessment difficult. “If we get separated, what time do you want to meet back here?”

“Separated? Separated?” asked Tizzy, giving Maddy a speculative look from under her own busy hairbrush.

“The southern belle thinking of maybe scoring a little Marine action tonight?”

“Oh, Tizzy, don’t be ridiculous. Really. I just meant …”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Well, look—it’s ten-thirty. Let’s say midnight back here at the car. After midnight, they’re all so drunk, they, uh

…”

It was Maddy’s turn to cock her head to one side.

“Yes, Tizzy? Something you want to tell me?” To remove any implied criticism, she half-smiled when she said it. But she was a bit curious.

Tizzy grinned and looked down, smoothing her dress over her legs. “Well, not exactly,” she said. “Although if something fun came up, er, along—I mean, I might not be opposed to going somewhere to party a little bit.

Just for a while. You know.”

“Tizzy, maybe we shouldn’t be doing this,” said Maddy, her expression suddenly serious. “We don’t really belong here, and I’ve got to get home at a reasonable hour. So do you—we have jobs, remember?”

Tizzy made a face. “Oh, Maddy, ease up. I just want to go in and have a glass of wine and dance a little—it’s so crowded in there, you can just let yourself go, dance with whomever turns up; everyone’s anonymous.

You’ll see. Pretend for a little while that you’re not some old married hag stuck in an empty apartment for the next half a year. MCRD’s always got a great band. You want to, you can just sit and watch, although I’ll bet you don’t.

Anyway, if we do get split up, I promise I’ll meet you back here at the car around midnight and I promise to get you home. It’s not like your husband’s going to call and check up on you or anything.”

“Okay, but I’m serious about the witching hour.”

Tizzy rolled her eyes. “Yes, dear.”

They left the car and joined the stream at the main entrance, small groups of two or three women and a similar number of young officers, each group trying to eye the action without seeming to do so. The noise from the band and the exuberant crowd within washed over them as Maddy and Tizzy stepped through the front doors. The entrance portico led to a large hallway, rest rooms, and offices to the right and a large combination dance floor and main bar to the left. The hallway was crowded with people milling about or going to and from the rest rooms, and groups of men were standing along the wall, talking, smoking cigarettes, and holding drinks.

Maddy noticed that the standees were not being at all discreet about appraising the women, making comments, whistling, or expressing feigned horror at the talent coming through the front door. The entrance to the bar itself was packed with people looking for tables, partners, or both.

They had to wait in line for several minutes before they could get near the doorway leading to the dance floor. When the standees finally noticed them, they actually drew some cheers as they moved up to the doorway.

Maddy flushed; Tizzy smiled and winked. Two large Marines immediately put down their drinks, detached themselves from the standees, and swooped down, taking Maddy and Tizzy by the hand without a word. They pushed through the crowd at the doorway, which parted according to the unwritten rule that people with partners had priority over those who were still window-shopping.

Maddy lost Tizzy as soon as they reached the dance floor, and after shouting something about Bob in her ear, her Marine launched into a frenetic dance routine that exactly matched the tempo of the bombastic noise coming from the bandstand. Maddy gave it her best shot, but her experience with dancing to rock-and-roll music was limited. Brian liked the soft and slow stuff, but this music, with its overwhelming bass beat, jangling electric guitars, and incomprehensible lyrics, was definitely of the hard-and-fast variety. And it was nonstop; once a set began, the band segued into each new number while the final crashing chords of the last song were still buzzing in the speakers.

The room was larger than she’d thought, but with over two hundred people packed inside, it was hot and smoky despite the air conditioning.

Silvery planet lights hung from the ceiling and threw moving spots of light all over the room and the dancers. Small bar tables lined the perimeter of the floor, and these, too, were packed with people. Maddy was amazed at the number of good looking women put on the dance floor, all in their twenties or early thirties, with expensive clothes and hairstyles, and every one of them dancing with surprising intensity.

Here and there, waitresses made their way gingerly through the gyrating crowd, writing shouted orders on tiny pads of paper before escaping to the service lines at the bar. Within minutes, they would start back into the crowd, where eagle-eyed customers would wave five-and ten-dollar bills at them until the trays emptied. The crowd on the dance floor was so thick that people consumed their drinks without ever leaving the floor.

Maddy’s partner managed to secure two rounds of drinks this way, and Maddy found herself drinking scotch on the rocks on the first round and gin and tonic on the second, while the music and the dancing went on nonstop.

She had no idea of how long she had been dancing and she downed the drinks quickly, wondering whether she could get off the dance floor for a minute to shuck the linen jacket. Handing her empty glass to a passing waitress, she shook the lapels at Bob to signify that she was dying of the heat. Bob grinned and shouted, “Take it off!” She laughed, slipped the jacket off, and continued to dance with it in her left hand. As the drinks took effect, the jacket became something of a prop, which she let fly around her hips, and she closed her eyes and concentrated on the insistent beat, no longer quite so worried about looking ridiculous, moving her body in time with the music as she got into the whole scene and tried now to keep up with the insistent pumping movements of her partners.

Partners? Opening her eyes, she found that she was now dancing with two men, both in front of her and both as close as they could get to her without running into each other. She sensed there were other men behind her, but she couldn’t tell in the dim light whether they had other partners or whether she had become the local center of attraction. When a pair of strong hands settled on her hips from behind, she knew the answer and began looking for a way out, but they were too close, big men, looking strangely alike with their buzz haircuts, sport shirts worn outside of their trousers, and direct, leering eyes. When she turned to see whether there was an opening, they turned with her. She could feel hands touching her and heard their taunting voices, “Do it, baby. Shake that thing, mama. C’mon, c’mon,” mimicking the refrain from the rock group as they moved closer and then withdrew as the music grew even louder. Someone pressed another drink into her hands. It tasted like fruit juice of some kind, and she downed it in one motion, desperately thirsty, still wanting out of the small knot of men around her but also beginning to feel the sexual energy flowing from the dense pack of human bodies, the pounding music, and, despite herself, responding, moving more provocatively, looking back at the men, letting them press closer, aware that there were other groups like hers on the floor with one or even two women in the center of a ring of anonymous men. Now she understood why Tizzy wanted to come here. She lost track of time, working herself into a dreamy state of rhythmic exertion, letting the music and crowd and the noise carry her along, letting the anonymous males into her space, forgetting about the Navy and the deployment and the wardroom wives and her job and the fact that Brian had disappeared into the sunset for the next half a year.