I walked past, pretending not to notice, and went straight into the women’s washroom. In that private space, I literally looked myself up and down in the mirror, trying to discover if there was something about me that was making them laugh. What was wrong with me? I couldn’t see it. I’d been found wanting when I so badly wanted to fit in, to be part of the fun and jokes, not the target of them.
In response, I did what had come naturally to me in high school. I played the clown. I made jokes. Pretended they weren’t getting to me. I hit my stride and discovered a knack for drawing a laugh. It became like a drug to me. I needed my fix to survive this place. In my worst moments, my skill could be dark. I would lash out with humour and cut them with my words.
Back on the recruit hallway, Mr. Theroux called out, “Mail call!”
Please, God, let me have a letter.
“Fitzroy. Armstrong. Holbrook. Dahl. Carter. Carter. Travers. Maxwell. Carter. Your mommies love you. The rest of you, you’ve already been forgotten by your families.”
I instantly recognized the handwriting on my letter. It was from Gary, my boyfriend back home, who had rarely entered my thoughts these past weeks. Straight away I could picture his easy smile and habit of casually hanging his arm over the steering wheel as he drove his beloved car, a burgundy 1969 Cougar with flame decals on the hood, and his blond hair, longer than mine now, standing straight up from his head like wheat stubble.
Mr. Morgan spoke from the end of the hall. “Okay, A Flight, listen up. We’ve been thinking that your mommies and daddies might want to hear from you. We bought some postcards for you. Pick one that you like and pass the stack along.”
The postcards were identical. Each bore a view of RMC taken from Fort Henry Hill. The Stone Frigate was front and centre across Navy Bay. In the background, Kingston City Hall and the docked Wolfe Island ferry were visible across the water on the other side of the college peninsula.
“Damn it, Holbrook,” Mr. Morgan said. “You’d better not be writing already! Take three circles.”
Richie looked up and froze. He had written a line. Mr. Kendall walked over, tore the postcard from his hand, ripped it in half, and threw him a blank one.
Mr. Morgan continued. “You will write what I tell you to write, when I tell you to write it, and only what I tell you to write. ‘Dear Mom and Dad.’ Stop. Don’t be an idiot. Decide now who is going to receive it and address your postcard appropriately. Mom, dad, guardian, but no girlfriends or buddies. This is a family postcard.”
Mr. Morgan spoke slowly, one line at a time, until we got through the text. “‘It’s hard to believe I have been here nearly a month and haven’t made time to write. I really miss you, even though life in the Stone Frigate makes me happy beyond my wildest dreams. Our senior cadets are the best, paying such care and attention to every little detail of our lives, and they are SO fun. They laugh all the time. I’m eating well and getting in great shape. The biggest surprise is how much sleep we get around here. Wish you were here. Write soon. Please send care packages. Love, X.’ When I say X, sign your fucking name, people. Address the postcard and pass them back up here to Mr. Theroux.”
Back in our room, I hid my unread letter in our underwear drawer. After lights out, I snuck across the hall into the women’s bathroom and sat on the toilet, raised my unopened letter to my face, and breathed in deep. Old Spice.
The letter was only one page long, and my heart sank at how little he had written. The handwriting was pinched and messy. “I hope you’re enjoying your new life,” it began. Gary told me about his progress on his plumbing apprenticeship at the British Columbia Institute of Technology and a bit about hanging out with the guys to shoot hoops and kill time on weekends. My mind flashed to our gang of friends meeting under the causeway by the Fraser River on Friday nights for music from car stereos, a bonfire, and drinks. I craved a sip of fizzy cool rye and 7 Up. A little farther on, he got to the point: “You’re married to the Army now.” Gary was dumping me. I doubled over and stifled a cry in my terry housecoat.
The life I used to know is carrying on without me.
I felt the same sick feeling I’d had after Gary came back from the grade-twelve guy’s basketball trip to California and broke up with me for refusing to have sex with him. I was only in grade eleven. I couldn’t know for absolute certain, but I was sure he had cheated on me.
I reacted instantly with an intense need to be found attractive by someone. In the coming days, I began to flirt relentlessly with my favourite fourth year, Mr. Theroux, which was no easy feat while under constant scrutiny. He picked up the thread of my attention and our short-lived dalliance culminated with a kiss in his room one night after lights out that was interrupted by yelling in the hall.
“Armstrong is out of bed! She’s off the hallway!”
A mad search was underway as I stood shaking behind Mr. Theroux’s open door. He set out to help them look for me and led them down the fire escape stairs and I slinked back to bed undetected. I had never been more terrified since arriving at RMC. Later, I said that I had been sitting on the back steps of the Frigate stealing a moment alone from all the madness. That lapse in reason cost me a pretty penny in circles and I smartened up. We stopped flirting and never spoke of it again. Meg never let on that she ever doubted my story.
One evening, recruits were granted a five-minute phone call home. The fourth years called it a privilege. The heavy black receiver was still warm when I picked it up and dialed.
“Hello?” my mother’s voice sounded hesitant. The operator asked if she would accept long-distance charges from Miss Kate Armstrong in Kingston, Ontario. I swallowed hard. I was afraid I might cry.
“Yes, of course we’ll accept,” she said, as though the operator should have known already. “Gordie! It’s Kate on the line from camp.”
“Mom, it’s not camp. It’s RMC,” I said. The tingle in my sinuses disappeared.
I heard the second receiver rattle when Dad picked it up.
“Hi, Dad!” I said.
“Hey, girl! How’s life in Kingston?”
“Okay. It’s really hard. They never let up. We made a joke about the recruiting commercial: ‘There’s no life — like it.’ I’m tired and pissed off a lot and it’s fun at the same time. It’s hard to explain. How’s everything at home?”
“We’re all good. Everyone is doing well. Nothing much has changed here,” Mom answered. “We got your postcard. The grounds sure are beautiful.”
“I can’t wait for you to see them. That postcard was a joke, dictated by the fourth years and mailed for us. We all sent home the exact same one.”
“I thought things sounded a bit rosy compared to your other letters,” said Dad. “By the way, your friends come by to visit me in the store all the time and ask how you’re doing. Gary was in the other day —”
Mom cut in. “He really looked terrible and smelled like pepperoni. I don’t know how you ever dated him.”
“Mom —”
She was talking over me again. “Anyhow, he was crying and telling your dad that he regrets breaking up with you. He cried right in the store. Can you believe it? How did he break up with you when you can’t even receive phone calls?”
For her, it was all about the logistics. I didn’t expect her to ask how I felt, because she never did.
“I got a letter,” I said. There was no way I was talking to her about this. “It’s okay. I get it. Hey, thanks for sending the leftover grocery money. What I would really love is a care package with food and goodies, if you get a chance. We share the treats with each other.”
“Just like camp,” Mom said.
“Gary said he’s been running to get fit and win you back at Christmas,” Dad said.
“I am sure you can find a much nicer young man at RMC,” Mom piped up. “I told one of the ladies at work that you’re going to university in Kingston. She said to make sure you get yourself invited to an RMC ball. When I told her that you’re a cadet at RMC, she thought you
were lucky to be right there and able to meet a really nice eligible bachelor for sure.”
“The last thing I want right now is a boyfriend,” I said hotly, thinking of my treatment by my classmates. “Especially an RMC cadet. I barely have enough time to sleep, much less date. Did you get my letter about having to study first-year engineering?”
“You’ll do fine. You’ve always been smart in school,” Dad said.
“I can’t concentrate. I keep reading the same lines over and over in my textbooks, but nothing goes in,” I said, checking over my shoulder to make sure I was alone. “Listen, I really don’t know if I want to do this. I’m in way over my head in classes. Being with so few women is really hard — much harder than I expected. Some of the guys really hate us.”
There was silence on the line. I didn’t even know I was thinking it until the words flew out of my mouth. “I’m thinking of quitting,” I said.
“I think you should,” Mom said eagerly. “I never liked this idea in the first place. You can come home, live here, and go to Simon Fraser University. We’ll help you,” she added, her voice firm, as if the decision were already made.
“Actually, now that I’ve said it out loud, it feels too soon to quit. I’ll at least make it through recruit term and see if life gets better. We have an awesome flight. I like lots of my classmates. If I quit, they’ll say women can’t cut it at the college,” I said, backpedalling as fast as I could. I could picture her wilting smile.
“Why do you even bother asking when you never listen?” she asked.
“Well, give it your best shot. If you don’t make it, you’ll always know you tried hard,” Dad said reassuringly.
“I know, Dad,” I said. “I will.” I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned with a start. Colbert was holding up a finger for the one-minute warning. I scowled at him.
“I have to go. My turn is over.”
“You just called. That can’t be right. Tell them to wait,” Mom argued.
“I can’t, Mom. I gotta go. Don’t worry about me. I have friends here. I’m doing well. The food is good. Take care of yourselves. Say hi to everyone for me.”
I made my way back through the gunroom, the navy term for a junior officers’ lounge on a ship. Our gunroom was in the basement. It was basically the squadron rumpus room, furnished with an old TV and some dilapidated couches and chairs. The ceiling was networked with a series of plumbing pipes painted baby blue. Recruits were forbidden in the gunroom without permission, but we had been allowed to pass through to use the phones.
My feet barely touched the stairs on the way up. I looked around at the yellow-beige paint, the huge spiders out of reach adorning the fixtures, the worn grey-specked linoleum on the stairs, and I felt proud.
I’m going to do this. I laughed out loud in relief as I made my way across the blue carpet of the second-floor foyer.
And then I heard a voice fill the stairwell. “Recruit halt!” Footsteps bounded up the stairs, two steps at a time.
I halted at the edge of the recruit hallway within sight of my door as Second Year Arsenault came around from behind me. “I suppose you think you’re allowed to saunter down the halls, laughing out loud and doing whatever you please?” he said, looming over me.
“No, Mr. Arsenault,” I said. His nose nearly touched between my eyebrows. I held my ground and did not lean away even when his chest brushed lightly against my breasts.
“Do you think this is a fucking joke!” he barked.
No, but I think you’re a fucking asshole.
“No, Mr. Arsenault!” I said.
Behind him, down the hall, Mr. Kendall was smiling as he tiptoed up behind Arsenault.
“This is no place for a woman. Maybe you’re not really a woman. A real woman wouldn’t want to come here and pretend to be a man. If you had a reason to be laughing to yourself, you don’t now. I’m going to make your life hell.”
I cracked a half-smile at Mr. Kendall, who stood right behind Arsenault.
“What the fuck?” Arsenault’s face turned beet red. “Take five circles, recruit. Report them to Mr. Morgan.”
“That won’t be necessary, Louis,” said Kendall.
Arsenault spun around.
“I witnessed the whole thing,” Kendall said. He pulled out his notebook and wrote the circles down. “I’ll record Recruit Armstrong’s circles, and you’ll run along and learn how to play nice instead of lurking around the entrance to my recruit hallway.”
“Fine, as long as you know that she was laughing,” he complained. He turned on his heel and stomped off.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say he is sweet on you, Recruit Armstrong. What do you think?”
“Please, Mr. Kendall. That is simply too vile to contemplate.”
“Of course, it is. You have to watch out for the handsome ones. They can be especially cruel,” he said. “Even so, we can’t have the rest of the squadron thinking that you’re enjoying recruit term. So I’ll add another two circles for creating a false impression.”
Back in my room, safe at last, I slumped at my desk. I was staying. It was decided, but the moment of exhilaration I’d felt before Arsenault accosted me was gone. I was being punished more than anyone else. There had to be something else to it, something unreachable by me, because I was trying my hardest. I felt pushed to the limit, as if they were waiting to see if I could keep up. I always could. So what was I doing wrong? I was nearly killing myself trying to gain my superiors’ approval.
My mother always told me that I asked for trouble. Maybe she was right, but for some reason I was blind to my mistakes. I rested my head on the cool surface of my desk and made myself a promise: Just keep going through the motions until things calm down.
10
THE BET
“Are you okay, Kate?” Kurt Samson asked. We were running back from basketball practice alone together for the first time.
“I hardly know. I can barely stay awake in class. I struggle with my homework. I’m running eight circles a night.” It seemed like my answers were always the same. I didn’t dare criticize my own classmates and their treatment. “And the spiders.”
“It gets better. You’re almost done the worst part,” he said. “Soon you’ll be a regular cadet — one weekend parade a month, the occasional room inspection, lots of sports events and parties and balls to enjoy. The main focus becomes academics. Every year gets slacker. Next thing you know, you’ll be a fourth year celebrating at your one hundred days to grad party.”
“If I complete the obstacle course.”
“You’re fit. You’ll do great,” he said. “Say, Kate, do you mind if I ask you some personal stuff?”
“I guess not.”
“What are you doing here? You could do anything. Why this place?” he asked.
I stopped dead in my tracks. It took Kurt a stride or two to react. He turned back toward me with a bewildered look.
“No one has ever said anything like that to me before. Is that really what you think?”
“Absolutely.”
I looked down at my feet. A scattering of red leaves lay around. I thought about admitting that, given my childhood, I was statistically more likely to be a drug addict or a prostitute than a successful military officer, but I wasn’t going to say that to anyone. I soaked up my tears with the sleeve of my sweater. Nobody had ever told me I had anything to offer before. I was always too loud and worthless and ungrateful and a little slut. I started to jog again at a lope.
“Kate, for what it’s worth, I am glad you’re here.”
“It’s worth everything,” I said. I gathered my courage and looked over at him. Our eyes met. I liked how he said my name so often.
“Listen. I … I want to tell you something,” he stuttered. “Shit. I know I shouldn’t do this. But I want you to know.”
“Uh-oh.” A tingle ran through me. I wanted to know and didn’t want to know in the same breath.
“It’s the bet. I want to tell you about the bet,�
�� he said, looking around as if there might be spies in the bushes.
“What bet? What do you mean?” I asked, trying not to let my disappointment show.
“The fourth years have a bet to see who can sleep with the most female cadets.”
“What?”
“Look, I’m not part of it. I didn’t know if I should say anything, but I wouldn’t forgive myself if anything bad happened to you. I think you’re probably at high risk.”
“What do you mean? From who?”
“I don’t know. Let’s face it, you’re pretty and you have a great personality. You act tough, but you seem kind of … innocent to me.”
I felt my hair prickle along my scalp. “I am not sleeping with anyone,” I said from between clenched teeth.
“Just be careful. I’m not telling you what to do. But I wanted you to know. Plus, there’s something else. The Frigate has a new nickname.”
“The Love Boat,” I said. Kurt blinked. Now I had surprised him.
“Pretty much everyone is saying the Frigate has the best-looking women,” he said. “Just keep your chin up and your wits about you.”
I broke into a disdainful rendition of the chorus of the college song: “Life’s but a march, and it’s easy if your spirit’s willing.”
He laughed and we ran in silence down the stairs passing under the overhead walkway connecting the buildings of the Sawyer complex. The parade square came into view. Without a word, we increased the distance between us and become more formal with each other. Playing on the same team was okay, but people might be watching for fraternization.
“See ya at dinner,” he said. We parted at the statue of Brucie.
I approached the white line at the edge of the parade square, halted at attention, and did the pre-run check. I raised my forearms to ninety degrees and stared straight ahead for a moment as Kurt ran away. I felt pissed off, as if I’d been cheated somehow. The recruiters had sold me on an image of this place being filled with the leadership elite of Canada, but I was having another experience.
The Stone Frigate Page 7