by D. F. Jones
I remember picking her up, carrying her into that clean, bright bedroom, and I remember that, clear against her fastidious nature, we made love. She was not my first woman, but she was the first I had really possessed. Beyond doubt, she gave herself; and without that intangible gift the sex act can be, for the male, the loneliest activity in the world. For both of us, it was marvelous, and for her, I knew it was a whole lot more than that.
For a long time we lay there, Bette asleep, her head on my chest. Like many things, it had not happened the way I had dreamed, but I saw we were through the biggest hazard and her trauma was broken.
Time passed. Easing my encircling arm which had gone numb on me, I disturbed her. Her head moved until it touched my chin; I caught the all too vivid smell of burned rubber and wood in her hair. That smell brought Denver into sharp focus; perhaps I shivered, for she awoke.
Puzzlement changed with remembrance to a warm smile. She kissed me, saying again some of those things a woman can only say at the height of her ecstasy. She saw her dirty hand, and abruptly broke off, and for her the world restarted.
“Oh God!” Her eyes were shut, she clung to me. “Mitch —oh, Mitch! I didn’t mean it to happen like this, and at such a time—”
“Life must go on.” How trite can you get? I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
She caught sight of her arm, and shuddered. “And to think I should be so filthy!”
“Aw, forget it, darling!”
But her state drove her to action. “What’s the time?”
I found my watch on the floor. “Half past four.”
“What! It can’t be!”
“It is,” I assured her. “You slept for the better part of two hours.”
“God! Mitch, darling, how could you?” At once she took that back, lightly touching my chest. “No, you wouldn’t know … we must hurry!” She sprang off the bed. “I could scream! There is no time!”
“Why?” Some of her urgency got across to me. Both of us were oblivious to the fact that this was the first time we had seen each other naked….
“We must get out—if we can! I must shower. Pack up, darling!”
She ran into the shower. I cleared away the remnants of my meal and dressed. By that time she was out of the shower, hair streaming, toweling herself.
“Are you packed, Mitch?”
“Sure! My stuff is in my car.”
“Did you arrange for Boston?”
I told her about that and updated her on the latest news, missing out on Suffren’s hotter bits, adding that we should aim for L.A., then Texas.
“Right, L.A. it is! I’ll pack a bag and dress—”
“How about eating?”
“No, Mitch! There is no time!”
All the same I fixed her a couple of king-sized sandwiches, and grabbed a carton of milk. In less than ten minutes she appeared, clutching two bulging bags, and dressed in fresh K.D.
“Why the combat rig?”
“You are so out of touch!”
“Why?”
“Come on! Let’s get this stuff down to the garage!”
“Hey! Don’t you think we’re going—”
“Please, please, darling! Don’t argue!” Her expression hardened. “What I saw—and heard—in Denver makes the difference. Any time now, there’ll be a total standstill order! Vast, uncontrolled movement can’t be allowed— you didn’t see Denver Airport!” She paused, went on somberly, “No. If we want to be free agents, we have to be out of the emergency zone before the barriers go up.”
“How about the hospital?” She was pushing me to the door.
“Nothing about the hospital! Take that bag and this, will you, please? All medical services are being concentrated further south. I’d get sent anyway in the next day or so.”
“Then why—”
“Why!” Her eyes glittered with anger. “Why? Why, you, you idiot! You’d be trapped! Now, come on!”
We loaded up her car and headed south on 101, Bette, by virtue of her uniform and car sticker, leading. I didn’t care much for the way we were going; I just had to trust Bette. Too late, I remembered Karen was calling, but there was nothing I could do about that.
It was starting to rain; outward bound traffic was light, but a lot of covered Army trucks were rolling toward town. Bette was driving fast, and I had little time to think.
Just short of the International airport she slowed down, then stopped. Ahead, through the rain-blurred windshield, it looked as if there was some blockage.
I got out and walked up to her. As I approached, she looked back at me, and her expression was enough.
A big sedan moved slowly to one side, and I could see two armored personnel carriers slewed across the highway, and the gap between the two vehicles was being filled with a pair of trestles and a red and yellow pole. Beyond, I could see a soldier standing guard, a submachine gun slung casually over one shoulder.
This was no accident. The barriers were up, and we were too late.
Chapter 12
The Army, as represented by a young lieutenant so new his uniform creaked, was not prepared to argue. Either you had the right piece of paper and went through, or you didn’t, and stayed.
Bette did not waste time. We were shepherded back on the northbound track of 101 and she tore off; I followed. We turned west in San Bruno, but the Army hadn’t overlooked state highways 82 or 35. We were in the trap. There was nothing else to do but return to the apartment. My state of mind was not improved when I remembered my time-wasting argument.
We were sitting, silent, drinking tea when the phone rang. I jumped almost two feet, my nerves twanging like guitar strings. Bette took it; it was Karen.
One glance at Bette’s face told me what he was thinking. She spoke with unusual warmth. “Sure, Karen, come on over—how about Bill? Yes? Of course we must! Okay, we’ll be right over.”
She looked at me, one hand still resting on the phone. “Yeah,” I said. “Obvious, isn’t it? But will Bill agree?”
“I don’t see why not!”
“The Navy can be as tough as the Army.”
She shook her head. “I doubt it. Boats are not cars, and Bill’s a foreigner. They’d be glad to see him go.” She picked up her shoulder bag. “Come on, Mitch. This could be our last chance.”
Naturally, we took her car, but had no difficulty in getting into the dock area. It was quite a time since I had been near the waterfront in daylight, and it was something of a shock, and a very depressing one, to see that regular swell again. We located the drydock without much trouble, and parked alongside.
There were about twenty craft, mostly harbor utility vessels propped up in the dock. Mayfly was easy to spot, even in that small forest, the tall mast standing up proudly above the stumpy sticks of the garbage lighters, fishing boats, and water barges. Even an inexperienced eye could have picked out the ocean-goer.
Bill saw us and waved. He was painting the hull. We clambered down a greasy steel ladder and picked our way across the floor of the dock to Mayfly. She looked good, gleaming redly with fresh antifouling composition below the waterline, and brilliant white above. Bill came down to meet us from a ladder propped against the stem. Under the paint, he looked very fit and cheerful.
“Nice to see you!” He rubbed ineffectually at a paint spot on his prominent nose.
“Hi!” Karen waved a scraper at us from the bows. “Come aboard!”
Bill shifted the ladder to a dry patch and we got climbing. I began to see why Karen had been dumped ashore. Life in a drydock was hot and exhausting, and the smell of rotting seaweed and paint was terrific. I also suspected that those dockside lavatories were not much used.
Bill, wrapped up in his yacht, was at first inclined to talk of little else, praising the USN for its speed and efficiency, but when Bette’s uniform had registered, he remembered and switched.
“Sorry, Bette, you must forgive me. I’m rather out of the main stream. How have things been with you?”
“Rugged,” she said, crisply. “Bill, we want to talk with you—okay?”
His smile diminished. Bette’s tone conveyed that this was no social call. “Certainly! Come down to the cabin. Forgive the mess.”
We found enough room to sit around the table. Bill pulled out his pipe. At least the smell was a change. The heat was flattening. Overhead, Karen’s scraper was still at it. She must have drawn an inference or two from our faces.
“Right,” said Bill. “Let’s have it!”
Bette looked at me, I looked at her, and she nodded impatiently. “Go on, darling.”
“Well, Bill, this is the way it is.” I gave him our personal angle, skipping the national side, ending, “It’s not Medal of Honor stuff, but we want out; you’re going our way, so how about a couple of fare-paying passengers to L.A.?”
He puffed away for a while with us watching anxiously. He noted our expressions and smiled. “Don’t misunderstand me, I’d be glad if you came, I was just wondering how we would be viewed by the USN—and the best way to keep them happy.”
Bette joined in. “At worst, all they can do is to take us off. I can’t imagine they would do more than give you a black look or two.”
“Good Lord, you don’t think I’m worried, do you? No, it is this problem of avoiding an awkward situation. It’s perfectly true they want me out of here, and I don’t blame ’em. I think that’s one reason why I’m in this dock now; I couldn’t sail the way she was.” He puffed some more. “We undock on the morning tide, and I hope to be alongside that damned pontoon by eleven-thirty A.M. The swell out there is now really very troublesome, and I intended sailing as soon as possible. As soon as I had fueled and watered, in fact—and, of course, got fresh provisions aboard. That’s a point, have you much gear?”
“A fair amount, yes,” admitted Bette, “but we can cut it—”
“No, I don’t think that is necessary. You have a seaman’s sense, and I don’t imagine you have a pet elephant or anything.”
“Well, if you agree to the general idea, how about now?” I said. “All Bette’s stuff is on the dockside. We could get it down on a line—it could be Karen’s gear—I suppose she’s okay?”
“Oh yes. I reported her as crew when we arrived. Yes, that’s a splendid scheme! Let’s do that now!”
So we sweated some more, and no one stopped us, or even looked vaguely interested. As we got the last of her stuff aboard, Bette took over.
“We’ll go back. Mitch, you drop me off in town so that I can get the medical items Bill wants before they all shut. Transfer your gear to my car and pick me up and we’ll get the rest aboard.”
It looked foolproof, and was. By dusk, all our bags were aboard. Better still, in our absence, Bill had gone to get his clearance from the USN—the old Customs system had been paralyzed by the wave. Bill said, “Frankly, they couldn’t care less. I gave my ETD—”
“Your what?”
“My Estimated Time of Departure, as twelve o’clock midday.”
Encouraged by the ease of our various moves, Bette asked both of them back for a final meal. She would drive Bill back afterward. Bill was, as he put it, “sleeping all standing”—that is, with his clothes on—as all his clean clothes were stowed, so We ate once more in the apartment. Bill showered, Karen cooked, and Bette did some late shopping. Meanwhile, I went off and turned in my rented car, and bought a quart of ice cream.
It was an uneasy meal, with Bill crackling with every movement of his paint-coated garments, made worse by the newspaper he insisted on sitting on because of the state of his clothes. We discussed the details of the morning, and soon decided that it would be best if I went back with Bill and spent the night on board. No one was going to take much notice of another hand on deck in the confusion of undocking. Bette and Karen would buy the provisions and come down to the pontoon promptly at eleven-thirty. We considered the idea of trading in Bette’s car, but decided that might look suspicious; she would have to leave it. It meant losing around four hundred bucks, but that was dirt cheap as the price of a cure for claustrophobia.
After the meal Bette called the hospital. She returned to the kitchen where the rest of us were doing the dishes, looking slightly relieved.
“Guess what! I knew it was coming, but I’m glad I know it for sure. My Job has been terminated, a high-class way of saying I’m fired! Told to call daily, stick near my phone, and await orders—and a broad hint tossed in that I should have my ‘essentials’ packed, ready.” She laughed. “Let me guess—it’ll be orders to collect a permit and go to L.A.!”
“Seriously, Bette,” I said, “wouldn’t you prefer to stay for that? You could go out quite legally.”
“Don’t you know me better than that, Mitch? Professionally, I don’t like taking orders from people I regard as inept. After two foul-ups by the top brass, they’ve lost this little girl’s confidence.”
“Two?”
“No sooner were we operating in that place I told you of, than we were relieved by another team.” She looked meaningly at me. “From Boston.”
That cleared up one point. It struck me that she might now be prepared to talk about Denver; perhaps she read my thoughts, for she switched on the radio.
“There might be something.” She turned her attention to Bill. “How long d’you expect the trip will take?”
He drew a deep breath and exhaled noisily, staring at the ceiling for inspiration. “It could be as little as four days— if the weather is kind.”
“Four days—which could easily be six,” said Karen reflectively, “stores, fresh food.”
That led to the production of a shopping list, and for twenty minutes or so there was earnest discussion about green vegetables and I do not know what else. I nursed my glass and kept clear, not very happy about my situation in all this escapade, and regretting the loss of the night with Bette. Privately, I had decided when we were making our first escape bid, that if Bette cared that much about me, we were going to be together in the future. She might hesitate, but I knew she really wanted it that way. The doctor and the seaman Bettes might be independent and self-reliant, but Bette the woman would follow me.
They’d got as far as estimating the number of eggs needed when the radio intruded. The music stopped abruptly in mid-bar, and the tone of the announcer was no lead-in for a commercial.
“We interrupt this program for an important announcement from the Governor’s Office. Over to Sacramento!” Bette turned up the volume, and a cold, impersonal voice filled the room.
“This is the Governor’s Office in Sacramento. The following orders were issued, under the Governor’s signature, at six o’clock, local time, this evening.
“In accordance with the powers granted by the state legislature this day, the Governor has signed the following orders, effective as of now.
“All movement out of, or into, all that part of the State of California north of the thirty-seventh parallel of latitude is hereby controlled. No person will be allowed to cross this boundary unless they hold a permit issued under the authority of the Governor’s Office. Similar orders are being issued ‘simultaneously in Oregon and Nevada. These orders will be strictly enforced by the United States Army, who have been assigned this task by the President of the United States in all emergency zones.”
That was all. We were hurried back to dance music. Bette produced an atlas.
“Thirty-seven … that means everything north of San Jose.”
“Glad there’s no mention of the USN,” observed Bill.
I went on playing with my glass and kept quiet. There were undertones in that statement which suggested that the situation had deteriorated rapidly. In particular, I did not like that “all emergency areas,” and dragging in the President. To issue an order like that, without a very full explanation, at least indicated a high degree of urgency or confusion. It could start a riot.
In a more subdued way we returned to the provision list, and then we talked and drank a little and tried to
look as if we didn’t have an ear glued to the radio. An hour passed, then it was announced that the Governor would speak “shortly,” which turned out to be twenty minutes later.
“My friends. You will have heard the orders, which, with the greatest reluctance, I signed this afternoon in the State Capitol. When last I spoke I told you that stern and difficult measures might be necessary. We had hoped these might be avoided, but conditions, circumstances are against us. As of this time, this movement restriction order is only a precaution, but a necessary one against ill-advised, uncontrolled movement. I have to tell you that, as yet, the atmospheric situation has not improved. We have every hope that it will, but we must be ready if it does not. You will ask, what then? Well, it may be necessary to move some people out of sensitive spots. To do this quickly and efficiently, we must have control of the roads and airports, and that is why we have this order. Working closely with adjoining states and the Federal Government we can, and will, lick this problem. It is up to all citizens to help us to help them. It is all for the good of this great country we hold so dear.”
“That,” said Bette, switching off, “is pure banana oil! Did you get that bit about ‘uncontrolled movement’ and ‘atmospheric situation’?” She went on with savage derision, “I love that ‘uncontrolled movement’ gag!”
“Aw, be fair, Bette—”
She turned on me. “If you’d seen—” She broke off. “Skip it!”
Bill intervened in a strained silence. “Well, it’s a damned nasty situation, but one that we can do nothing about, except get some sleep.”
Bette took the broad hint, Karen said she would come too, and we all trooped down to the garage. As we got into the car, Bette said impulsively, “Let’s go see what it’s like downtown at the Santa Fe depot on Market and Fourth. Won’t take long.”
She was the hostess and it was her car and no one argued, although none of us were wildly excited.
We parked at Market Street and Fifth and walked down one block. It was a wise precaution; a dense crowd surged around the depot entrance, blocking the roadway. Two armored cars and three or four police cars, lights flashing, were parked across the main entrance. We watched from across the street. Some people were shouting courageously from the anonymity of the mob; a sudden swirl in the crush marked a scuffle. A police car speaker blared out.