I searched the lobby, the restroom, and parking lot twice each, but the general had vanished. At last, reluctantly, I drove the staff car back toward the headquarters, but I didn’t pass him anywhere along the route. Just to make sure, I looped around again, searched the parking lot once more, and took an alternate road back to the office. No luck. I worried, but all I could do was wait. I returned to the office.
“Where’s General O’Neill?” demanded Lieutenant Colonel Cartwright, the moment I entered the door.
I hated to admit I’d lost him. I knew how she would take that news.
“I don’t exactly know, ma’am.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“After the briefing, I went out to the lobby, but I couldn’t find him. I looked everywhere around the auditorium, even the restrooms—”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” I’d never seen her so livid. She pointed at the door. “You get out there and find him! Don’t you dare come back here until you do.” She had plenty more to say, and at a volume on par with the general at his most pompous. To my tremendous relief, he strode in at that moment and caught her in mid-tirade. His color was up, as was his temper. His unlit pipe was clamped in his teeth hard enough that he could have bitten off the stem.
“That’ll do, Jenny,” he barked. I knew how she felt about being called Jenny. The general only did it when he wanted to annoy her.
“Where have you been, sir?” she said, meek. “I was getting concerned.”
He cut her off. “I walked back. No reason for anyone to be concerned. Y’all aren’t my keepers. I can take care of myself.” Under his defiance, Lieutenant Colonel Cartwright slunk away to her desk.
I fumbled with an apology, assuming I was to blame for his irritation, but he shook his head. “It’s not your fault, Schoolyard. For once.”
That stung a bit.
From his office a few minutes later, he yelled for coffee. I hustled in with the percolator and a sugar cube. He remained sullen and testy all afternoon and didn’t even bother to open the window as he puffed away on his pipe.
At twenty minutes past four, as usual, I stood in his doorway and waited for him to acknowledge me. I was proud of him for what he’d done at the briefing and wasn’t sure how he would respond if I told him, but I couldn’t resist. When he finally looked up, over the top of his eyeglasses, he barked again, impatient. “Well? What?”
“Thanks for speaking up at the theater this afternoon, sir. That was a good call.” He stared at me for a moment, and his face softened.
“Thanks, Arkansas.” He sighed. “I should apologize for being so short-tempered today.”
“It’s okay, sir. I know I’m not your keeper, as you pointed out, but it is my job to know where you are during the duty day, and I get worried when I can’t find you.”
“Understood,” he said. “I am genuinely sorry, but nothing gets my dander up more than ignorant people showing off their ignorance like they’re proud of it. I had to blow off a little steam afterward, and it was best for me to do it by myself.”
“I don’t blame you, sir,” I said. “I was angry, too. The briefing was hard enough to sit through without all the catcalls making it worse. It was so clinical. Kind of dehumanizing. Speaking up was a brave thing to do.”
He shook his head. “No. It was the right thing to do. And I should be the one thanking you instead. Trailblazing is never easy. I admire your courage.”
He could talk that way all afternoon, and I’d be content to listen. But he waved me away. “Out,” he said. “I promise to behave myself from now on, but I have work to finish now, and you’re always distracting me.”
Hmm. And I thought I was the only one being distracted.
As I pondered this conundrum, he roared, “Git!”
I got. And spent that night, and some of the nights and days after that, uselessly and hopelessly in love.
Chapter Eight
The trouble started innocently enough, with the kind of out-of-the-ordinary tasking I dreaded. It amounted to little more than babysitting after hours on a Friday night in mid-July. The occasion was a formal retirement dinner for another general whom I’d never met. The actual ceremony had taken place earlier in the day, with the celebratory dinner the same evening at the base club, the usual venue for such doings. I was to meet my boss there at six o’clock sharp, and I’d arrived in plenty of time.
When I saw him walking toward the club from the parking lot, my mouth dropped open. In keeping with the note on the invitation for formal civilian attire, he’d chosen an elegant black suit, Italian by the cut of it. The fabric bore a faint sheen that, in the falling sunlight, looked as if it were shot through with sparkling colors. He wore suspenders (real ones that buttoned to the pants, rather than the clip-on sort), gleaming wingtip shoes, a perfectly starched white shirt, and for distinctive accessorizing, a neon stoplight-red tie.
I was shocked at how arrestingly handsome he looked. How sexy. The suit had clearly been tailored to fit his lean frame. He was quite at home in it, and he cut a sharp, elegant figure. He would certainly outshine the nominal “star” of the evening and everyone else on hand, too. I knew I was staring. I couldn’t help myself.
He walked up to me and grinned and said, “What’s the matter, Telescope? See something you like or something you’re scared of?” My answer, had he stopped to listen, would have been “both.” But he paused only long enough to drop his car keys into my trouser pocket and tell me, “You’re the designated driver tonight. I’m having myself a good time, and consequence be damned.”
Consequence be damned. Hmm…
The event kicked off with cocktails, then dinner, followed by interminable speeches and testimonials. The night would conclude with music for dancing, courtesy of an Air Force band ensemble. The general, per his rank, had a place of honor at the head table, while I sat quite far back. I kept in his line of sight, discreetly, in case he wanted anything from me, but I figured he could take care of himself. He remained seated until after the speeches, when the dancing commenced.
The band leader was a friendly sort, tall and blond, rather handsome—a senior master sergeant, probably ten years older than I. It didn’t take either of us long to figure out we both belonged to the same club. Some eye contact, a smile, an unspoken signal, and we knew as soon as we introduced ourselves.
“Your band sounds fantastic,” I said.
“Thanks. We play a lot of events like this. Do you know the guy who’s retiring?”
“Nope,” I said. “I’m only here to chaperone General O’Neill so he can have a good time tonight. I’m his aide. He likes his champagne, but he doesn’t want to drive home later. I can think of better ways to spend a Friday night.”
“Yeah. Most of our gigs are Friday and Saturday nights, so I don’t get much of a social life myself,” he said. “Do you get stuck very often?”
“Not much. He leaves me alone on the weekends, usually.”
“Which one’s General O’Neill?”
I pointed.
The band director’s eyebrows went up. “Wow,” he said. “Mr. Red Tie is a general, eh? I noticed him the second he came in. You can’t miss him, and he obviously knows it. And he’s your boss, huh?”
“Yup.”
The band director shook his head. “Damn. Bet you enjoy working around him every day. What kind of boss is he?”
“He can be a prick sometimes, as he’s well aware. When I do something dumb, he’s not shy about pointing it out. But overall, we get along pretty well,” I said. “It’s interesting work, except I could do without some of the fringe benefits. Like having to waste a perfectly good Friday night at a retirement dinner for someone I don’t even know.”
“Oh, come on, sir,” the band leader said. “Don’t tell me you really mind.”
For once, I think, someone had guessed my secret. I enjoyed fringe benefits that had nothing to do with being a general’s aide and everything to do with being the clos
e companion and confidant of a very attractive man. I grinned. The director and I understood each other.
When the dancing kicked off, my general truly came into his own. Somewhere along the line, he’d gotten the lessons, or maybe he was just naturally talented. I was amazed to discover how graceful he was, and how much he enjoyed himself. It’s a pleasure watching a good dancer dance, and dance he did, with all of the officers’ wives and anyone else who was interested.
Clearly, he was without peer. And without anyone planning it, a contest ensued. The band threw down a foxtrot as its first challenge. Easy. A waltz? Small stuff. The floor gradually cleared, the crowd circling at its edge to watch. A samba. He called it and danced it. Next? A tango, a mambo, a rumba, a western two-step, even the Charleston. And there he was, slicing up the floor with one lucky female partner after another, none of whom matched his flair. It was all they could do to keep up, but by the time they were finished, they were flushed with pleasure.
The band director waved his baton, but he wasn’t watching the musicians. His eyes were fixed on the general. After a beguine, the director conceded. He bowed to the general amid much laughter and applause, and the general bowed in return, a huge grin on his face. Someone brought him a bottle of champagne. “Compliments of the band,” the director said into the microphone. The general popped it open, toasted the crowd, and took a long swig, directly from the bottle. More laughter.
“Y’all can have the floor back now,” he said. “I’ve done enough showing off for three generals.” More applause. The band took a break after that, with the director promising to return for one last set. The general nursed his bottle of champagne by himself, as graceful as ever, and even more handsome, if such a thing were possible. I let him be.
The director caught my eye, and I gravitated to the bandstand to chat.
“Your general is a damn good dancer,” he said.
“He is. I didn’t know that.”
The director gave me a suggestive leer. “I’ll bet there’s a lot you don’t know. He looks like he’s keeping some big secrets to me.”
“You think so?”
“Most definitely. I’m tracking on him, big time. Don’t tell me you haven’t already figured him out.”
If I could be honest with anyone, the band director was the man. “Actually, I’ve been thinking the same thing for a long time. But even if he is, what good will it do me?”
He nodded and smiled, a little sadly. “What a waste,” he muttered, and I agreed with that, too. I understood precisely what he meant. From any perspective, a queer serviceman has his work cut out for him whether he chooses to come out or stay in the closet. It isn’t easy. So much fear. So many regrets and so many potential opportunities lost. I didn’t know what to say. I complimented him on the band’s chops and his direction, thanked him for the music, and wished him luck.
“Good luck yourself, sir,” he said as we shook hands. He whispered to me, “He’s pretty well lubricated, if you ask me. You’ll never have a better opportunity to make your move, if you have a mind to!” The break ended as the band regrouped for its last set, and I drifted back to my chair. My move? The mechanics of what might constitute such a maneuver kept me lost in thought for a while.
The floor filled up once again with couples, and my general continued to listen to the music, tapping his foot, restless. Before long, he was out there again, cutting in on various couples, being very gracious. And when the night was nearly over, the company thinned considerably, and the waiters discreetly clearing the tables, he found me.
“You’re next, Rugcutter.”
“Sir?”
“This is your dance. There’s no one left worth interfering with, and you haven’t had a turn all evening.” His face was flushed. His grin, in the hushed light of the ballroom, seemed quite devilish. I was more than a little unsettled.
“Um, thank you, sir, but if it’s all the same to you, no, thanks. I don’t know the first thing about ballroom dancing.”
He would have none of it. “I’m an equal-opportunity employer, and this is your dance, damn it.”
What could I do? The sooner I gave in, the sooner it would be over. He led me to the floor as the band began its last number, a waltz. I even picked out the tune, “Beautiful Ohio,” my home state’s official song.
“By special request,” he said. “The waltz is the easiest kind of dance. Just follow me. One-two-three, one-two-three,” and he folded me into the music and rhythm as if we had been dancing together for our whole lives. “Good, good,” he said as we skirted the floor. “Move with me. Just follow. Let me lead. Pay attention to the clues, and you’ll know what to do.”
Good advice for a long life, I thought.
The other dancers were amused. Who could help but notice the general’s latest stunt? From the good-natured laughter, I assumed no one minded. But perhaps they thought they knew the general well enough to recognize he was just kidding around, sparked by a little extra champagne. Even though it was now perfectly legal for one man to dance with another at a military function, no one expected to see such a thing. And certainly not with a general participating, unless he were having his little joke. None of this was lost on the band director, either, who caught my eye and gave me a wink and a thumbs-up.
The general held my right hand in his left. He pressed the fingers of his right hand lightly against the small of my back, and I had my left arm around his shoulder. We were close enough that I could feel his breathing, inhale the scent of his pipe tobacco and peppermints. I hadn’t drunk anything stronger than coffee all night, but dancing with the general went to my head like a double shot of whiskey swallowed neat, the warmth spreading through me like fire in short, dry grass.
He held me a little too close for my comfort. His proximity gave me an erection, that lazy arousal that builds like a slow elevator climbing to the top of a tall building. Pressed against me, he could very well have felt my excitement through my trousers, and the more I concentrated on ignoring it, the more trouble it gave me. That would be the final indignity, for he would surely make some remark that would embarrass me even more.
But he did not.
Instead, did I hear him whisper into my ear? “If you’re not careful, you’re never going to shake this trouble, Foxtrot.”
The waltz reached its end too soon. The general bowed to me formally, and said, “You’ll make a fair Ginger Rogers with the right partner.” And that was all. He went over to shake hands with the band as the musicians packed up their music and dismantled their instruments. I’m sure his compliments made the director happy.
I waited by the door with the general’s half-empty bottle of champagne, and he found me when he’d bid his good nights. He fished his watch from his pocket and checked the time. “Damn,” he said. “It’s already tomorrow. You ready to go, Cabdriver?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take me home.”
Sometime during the warm evening, the rain had come, slow and sufficient enough to dampen any weekend plans. I parked the general’s car in his garage and helped him to the front porch without incident, but before we could go inside, he remembered he’d missed his evening pipe. He would not be persuaded against it, so I could do little but watch and wait as he tamped tobacco into the bowl. In quick succession followed the scritch of the match against the box, the sudden flame illuminating his face in the dark as he puffed, shaking the match out. He seemed quite content to stand on the porch, enjoying an unhurried smoke as I paced nervously behind him.
After the last draw, he knocked the pipe against the railing, unwrapped a peppermint for himself, and declared he was finished. I unlocked the door and escorted him inside. So far, so good. Perhaps I could be on my way shortly. I groped for a light switch and faced the general. The wicked grin he wore suggested he would not continue to be cooperative.
“How are you feeling, sir?”
He laughed. “Damned fine, Foxtrot.” Much to my surprise, he wrapped his arms around me in a v
igorous bear hug, squeezing tight in a most familiar way. When we separated, he laughed as I stared at him. “Something the matter, Foxtrot?”
“Nothing at all, sir.” Everything under the sun and moon and stars, sir.
I was inside his house. I’d long wanted to see it, to get some sense of how he lived his life outside the office. I had imagined getting a tour under different circumstances, however. I retrieved a hanger from the hall closet and helped him out of his jacket. “Come on, sir,” I told him. “Let’s get you upstairs.” But he seemed intent on more dancing. He turned on a lamp in his expansive living room and wrapped his arms around me as I attempted to loosen his tie, but he was more interested in doing a samba. Or was it a mambo? I didn’t know the difference. He was laughing, and I had to join in.
“We need some music,” he said. He showed off an old Magnavox stereo record player, probably forty years old, its wooden cabinet polished and gleaming, a piece of furniture worthy of its elegant name and clearly a source of pride for him.
“And all these?” he said, indicating the ornate cabinets lining the walls. He opened one. “Full of records. Thousands of ’em.” He selected a particular LP, slid it out of its cover and protective sleeve. Handling the vinyl carefully by its edges, he placed it on the turntable.
The music started, bright and up-tempo and vaguely familiar. Against my protests, he took me in his arms again and navigated me expertly around the floor. We finally collapsed onto the couch, perspiring from the exertion and the warmth of the night in spite of the cool air-conditioned hum inside the house.
“Enough?” he said.
Rank Page 9