That weekend was cottage close-up weekend. When the family’s yellow station wagon pulled away on Sunday afternoon leaving us alone for the night, we ran down to the water, tore off our clothes, and skinny-dipped off the end of the dock in broad daylight. That night, we cooked steaks on the grill, baked potatoes in foil, boiled corn on the cob, drank lots of beer, and spent an entire night in the same bed.
Third year was off to a good start. Our new classmates from Royal Roads and CMR actually seemed less hostile to women, and right away I did well in all my subjects. My room decor was understated this year; the pink and green flowered duvet cover remained the same but my tastes had changed. I liked to think of myself as more mature and sophisticated. To display this new attitude, my room included a framed Sierra Club poster of an Eliot Porter photograph of trees at the edge of a forest with the caption “In Wildness Is the Preservation of the World” and, on my bulletin board, a magazine photo of a young female Soviet Union soldier guarding a Second World War memorial. I nicknamed her Nikita and liked to imagine her life and our similarities despite being on opposite sides of the Cold War. She made me think back to Mr. Kendall’s poster of Che Guevara in recruit term.
One day in late September I was making my way across the square, heading for breakfast, when I passed a gang of second-year cadets outside Yeo Hall. I recognized a few of them from the Frigate and smiled. They looked right through me.
One of the guys muttered, “Sweat.”
I whirled back around to face them. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said ‘sweat,’” he repeated with a sarcastic wobble of his head. He was from Six Squadron. “You heard me.”
We stared each other down. Oh my god, you’re a dick.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” I asked, unable to control the tremble in my voice. “I’ve been here longer than you.”
He straightened his posture. “I think I’m Derek Snyder, a third-generation RMC cadet, and I don’t care how long you’ve lasted. This is no place for a woman. I’m not the only one who thinks sweats should be banned.” He reached into his pocket and thrust a button in my face. It had a cartoon head of a girly looking pig on it. The pig was wearing a pillbox hat. The edge of the button was rimmed in red, with one thick red line slashed through her pig face. “Ban the sweats,” he said. “I’ve had buttons made up for Ex-Cadet Weekend.” As if on cue, the other guys straight-armed their buttons into my face.
“You guys need to get a fucking hobby.” I walked away.
I took a seat next to Meg, picked at my scrambled eggs, and grumbled to myself. Snyder’s gang of second years was entering the dining hall, laughing and looking smug. I cocked my head toward them and said to Meg, “Have you seen the latest bullshit?”
“No. What’s going on?” she asked.
I told her about my exchange with Snyder and she rolled her eyes. I swung around when I heard the sound of blakeys clicking on the marble floor in their wake. The cadet wing training officer for this term, none other than Fourth Year Louis Arsenault from the Frigate, was gaining ground on Snyder and his posse. Arsenault’s back was straight and there was purpose in his step. I watched with glee and nudged Meg with my elbow.
“Second years! Halt!” Arsenault roared at them. “Remove those buttons this instant and report to my room immediately.”
The second years looked stricken, all except for Snyder, who looked pleased with himself. Mr. Arsenault turned on his heel and clicked out of the dining hall ahead of them.
“Arsenault’s stocks just went up,” I said, digging into my eggs.
We heard the rumour later that Snyder had made 250 copies of the buttons and was selling them for two dollars each. Apparently, after the meeting with CWTO Arsenault, Snyder had had an afternoon session with the new commandant, General Howell C. Pratt, whose claim to fame was that he intended to put the M back in RMC. After the meeting, Snyder was madly chasing down the buttons he had sold.
It was a luxury to simply be a spectator at the obstacle course this year. I trailed the Frigate recruits and enjoyed being out of the spotlight. Jake was running as spotter for a recruit in his squadron.
29
CAUGHT
On Thanksgiving weekend, my brother Craig was getting married in Burnaby. It was my first and only weekend trip home from RMC. Jake and I caught a direct flight from Ottawa on Friday afternoon. We had been on the plane for about three hours when a visit to the bathroom confirmed that my period had come — it was late by ten days. When I got back to our row, I crawled over Jake into my window seat, leaned in, and whispered, “I got it.” Jake grabbed my hand and squeezed it tight. Thank you, God. My lungs eased and I could breathe a full breath again. “Even so, don’t forget. My mother is difficult. You might not like her.”
“I don’t need to like her,” said Jake. “I need her to like me — and my chances just got better.”
We were staying with my sister, Ellen. She’d put us together in their downstairs guest room, which had a king-sized waterbed and a private bathroom.
My mother arrived while Ellen was helping us get settled. She appeared in the bedroom doorway, hands crossed over her chest. “I’m not sure I approve of this arrangement,” she said in a clipped tone. Jake leapt forward and introduced himself. I watched her size him up and soften a bit.
Ellen piped up, “Oh, come on, Mom. By Kate’s age, we were both married and having babies. Besides, she said they already sleep together.”
I bore a hole in the side of my sister’s head with my glare. Shutupshutupshutup.
“Oh my lord!” Mother cried indignantly, grabbing my upper arm. “What will people say?”
“Whose business is it?” Ellen asked. “It’s not a big deal. It’s the eighties, Mom. Get with the times.”
I pulled my arm from my mother’s grasp, suppressing the urge to strike out at her.
She was nailing me with her stare. “I thought you said you weren’t going to be like that.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“You know what,” she said.
“I’m a grown woman in university. I’m free to make my own choices,” I said. I wasn’t going to back down; I was sharing a bed with Jake this weekend whether she liked it or not.
“You’re not a married grown woman,” she said, and then stormed back upstairs.
“Well, that went well,” Ellen said and laughed. She seemed to enjoy upsetting our mother. Jake stood awkwardly to one side, not saying a thing.
“Seriously, do you have to be so blunt?” I asked.
“She’s such a hypocrite,” Ellen said. “She was already knocked up with me when they got married.”
“Well, at least now we don’t have to pretend to get along for Jake’s sake. Welcome to my family, Jake.”
Ellen looked at her watch and said, “It’s time to get ready for the rehearsal. I’ll see you upstairs.”
As soon as Ellen had left, Jake turned to me. “Holy shit. Imagine if you were pregnant? Your mother would’ve had my nuts.”
“I am glad you’re getting a clear picture of what I’ve been telling you all this time,” I said. “I tried to warn you. That was actually pretty tame.”
Jake hugged me. He doesn’t know the half of it.
One mid-October evening, after watching Hill Street Blues at Bill and Alfie’s pub, I went back to Jake’s room to grab my jacket before heading home to the Frigate. It had been ten days since our trip to Vancouver, and we were both frustrated at our lack of privacy at the college. Repeats of our first night together in a fancy hotel room were not sustainable on a cadet budget, but when desperate to be alone, we had on occasion borrowed a car and taken a room for the night at the Highway Inn, a grimy roadside hotel just off Highway 15 near CFB Kingston. We ignored the wheezing air-conditioner wall unit loudly circulating damp air and the cheap, worn-out sheets, and revelled in one another’s bodies, laughing a lot, and gossiping a while after making love. Sometimes we ordered pizza.
We had not been perfect
at abstaining on college grounds. Early on, a few occasions of hurried, fumbling sex were each followed with a solemn promise not to let it happen again. We’d kept that promise for eight months now without incident, even though most college couples weren’t bothering. Penny Miller was basically living common-law with Nigel Maxwell in the Frigate and went seemingly unnoticed and undisturbed — she openly joked about being an honorary Frigateer.
“Let’s mingle,” Jake said. He pulled his sweater and T-shirt over his head in one swift motion and stood bare-chested in front of me. I frowned and stepped back.
“Just shirts,” he said, reaching for me and unbuttoning my blouse. After the third button, he turned on his desk lamp and flicked off the overhead light.
We didn’t speak while we kissed and undressed each other slowly. By the time we were down to our underwear, our twisted clothes were strewn about us on the floor. My bare breasts pushed against his hot skin. I exhaled tiny gasps of pleasure as Jake slid his hands under the waistband of my panties and scooped up my buttocks. A simple movement of his wrists edged the panties down my hips.
“No,” I groaned, grabbing his wrists.
Three loud knocks rapped on the door.
“Oh shit!” Jake whispered. I dropped to my knees and frantically untangled my clothes from Jake’s.
More loud knocks.
“Hello?” Jake feigned confusion in a calm voice. He scrambled to untwist the legs of his khaki rugby pants. The door handle rattled. I was shaking so violently that I struggled to fasten my bra and get my limbs back into my clothes.
Jake stuck his legs into his pants. “Who is it?”
“It’s Brian Floyd. Open up!”
Brian Floyd and Jake had been classmates for two years at Royal Roads and were members of the same squadron. Brian had a reputation as a jerk who pulled really disgusting stunts on peers and juniors, like getting drunk and pissing under the doors of people he disliked. He was a slimy sort of character with bad skin and he gave off the fug of a greasy diner.
“What the hell do you want?” Jake asked, flapping his hands for me to hurry up.
“Open the door! I know Third Year Armstrong is with you!”
Jake opened the door a crack and blocked Floyd from entering. I instinctively hid myself inside the closet, pulled the curtain closed in front of me, crouched down, and trembled as I re-buttoned my shirt.
“What business is that of yours?” Jake said, holding him off.
“You’re having sex! Let me in or I’m going for Geoff Hampstead.”
“What’s your fucking problem? You’d better get Geoff. There is no way I’m letting you in here,” Jake roared. He pushed Floyd back and locked the door behind him.
Floyd said to someone outside the door, “Stay here. Make sure she doesn’t leave.” His footfalls clomped down the hall at a run. More doors opened and voices filled the hallway. I came out of the closet, still shaking. We were both properly dressed and stood looking at each other. We were trapped.
Moments later, a lighter rap sounded on the door. “Jake? It’s Geoff. Can you please open up?” Cadet Squadron Leader Geoff Hampstead was the top cadet of their squadron. I was seated in the lounge chair by now and trembling uncontrollably from adrenaline.
Jake put his forehead right against the door with his hand on the knob. “I’ll let you in, but there is no way Floyd is coming in my room.”
“Agreed.”
Jake opened the door and Geoff stepped into the room wearing a housecoat and slippers. His expression seemed apologetic as Floyd pushed forward, trying to enter, a shock of greasy black bangs hanging over his shiny, pimpled face. Jake blocked him with the door. “Fuck off, Floyd.”
“Hi, Kate,” Geoff said to me and then he turned to Jake. “What’s going on? Brian said that he caught you having sex on the college grounds. He insisted that I come at once.”
“I was hoping you could tell me what’s going on. We’re not having sex. The guy is a freak,” Jake said.
“He said he followed you back from B and A’s just after eleven p.m. He watched in the hall for half an hour to make sure no one came out.”
“Holy shit. How creepy,” Jake said.
“He said he caught you red-handed,” Geoff continued.
“He’s a liar.”
“He says that he listened at the door and it was quiet in here. That’s his story.”
I sat in the chair shaking. Jake was red faced and indignant. “Geoff, I’m serious. I question his behaviour. Does he seem normal to you?”
Geoff closed his eyes, dropped his chin to his chest, and sighed through his nose. He turned to me. “What do you have to say, Kate?” he asked.
I stood up and faced him squarely. “I swear, Geoff. We did not have sex.”
He looked at my face and my clothes and scanned the room. “It looks to me like nothing has happened in here. There are no rules against spending time together in each other’s rooms,” he said. “The trouble is, he wants to press charges. It’s your word against his. I have no choice but to proceed if he wants to push it.”
“You have a choice. Don’t do it,” Jake said.
“Sorry, Jake, my hands are tied.”
“Jesus.” I fell back into the chair in exasperation. This would be my fourth breach parade.
“You’ll receive orders tomorrow for next steps,” Geoff said. He opened the door and stepped out. Floyd and two others remained in the hall. “Show’s over. You can go back to your rooms.”
Jake braced against the closed door and stared at me. “Holy crap,” he said. “Listen, Kate. No one knows what happened in here besides us. We tell the truth. No sex, which is true. The only thing we need to keep secret is anything about taking off clothes — which technically is not against the rules, but we don’t need to go down that path. Agreed?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “What a nightmare. Why us? Others are way worse.”
“Who the hell knows?”
I hardly slept a wink, tossing and turning, feeling a mixture of desolation and outrage. This story would crash through the cadet wing rumour mill like a tidal wave.
The summons came early. CSC Jerry Stawski, my cadet section commander this term, knocked on my door just after 07:00 hours. Jake and I were scheduled to meet with the director of cadets, Colonel Gilmore, right after class. Elmer Fudd’s going to blame me as the temptress. Jake’s never been in trouble. General Pratt, the new commandant, would be presiding over our breach parade. My past performance could finish me: three previous charges, average marks, no merit badges. On paper, I was average. Lacklustre, even. General Pratt’s plans to put the M back in RMC meant I could expect severe treatment.
My crimes: being a twenty-year-old woman in love and in a relationship. That’s not a crime in the real world — it’s an ideal. Why did I feel so much shame?
30
CHOPPED LIVER ROW
“Enter, Miss Armstrong,” Colonel Gilmore, Director of Cadets, called from his office. I shakily closed the door behind me, marched to his desk, and stood at attention in front of him, a place I never imagined standing in my cadet career. Jake had just been there. Gilmore was making notes and did not look up at me. I stared over his head and focused on the painting of a C-130 Hercules that was perched on the fireplace mantel behind him. He clicked the lid onto his fountain pen and stared at me across his desk as though I were simply one in an infinite series of trivial problems he must set right.
He looked me up and down and declared, “Well, you’re definitely not going to end up in the chopped liver row.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“That’s our nickname for the less attractive girls, the ones who never get requested by the press for interviews. The press just wants the pretty girls,” he said.
I fought a grimace. What the fuck?
Gilmore registered my response. “It’s meant as a compliment. But never mind all that.” He turned his attention to the paper on his desk and read out my charge sheet. The charges cla
imed I had been disrobed and had shared the bed with Jake and had tried to conceal my presence in the room for approximately one hour in the dark. “Give me your version of what happened last night,” he said, shifting away from me in his chair, lips tightening. I said my piece and he pressed for more details. “What were you doing during the half hour while Mr. Floyd was guarding the door?”
“Talking, sir.”
“Talking?” he asked, and raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, sir.” My heart was thundering in my ears. I hoped that my answers matched Jake’s.
“About what?”
“Probably nothing much. I can’t recall entirely, sir. Maybe the Hill Street Blues episode we’d just seen on TV?” I kept it vague in case Jake had been asked the same question.
“So, did you have sex?” he asked.
I blushed. “No, sir.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely sure.”
“You don’t seem sure.”
“I’m sure, sir.”
He stared at me in silence. This proud man, so used to giving orders, seemed unsatisfied with this response.
They’ve got nothing. There is nothing more to do. Make him ask the right questions.
“Do you love him?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Do you love Fourth Year Tatham?”
“Yes, sir. Very much.”
“The sad thing about these cases, Miss Armstrong, is that regardless of the truth, the damage to your reputation is done. Mr. Tatham becomes the stud, and you’re the slut.”
I tried not to let the shock show on my face. He just called me a slut.
“It’s unfair, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you have anything else to say?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Right, then. Dismissed. Fall in outside General Pratt’s office.”
I had never known such terror in my life. Making out with Jake may have cost me everything. When Jake came out of the commandant’s office, his gold two-bar section commander pins were gone, leaving pinhole marks in his epaulettes “You’ll be okay,” he whispered as he went past. “I’ll be in my room.”
The Stone Frigate Page 18