There Should Have Been Castles

by Herman Raucher

  So I was awarded the Gypsy Robe, a tradition that had started a few years earlier in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes when one of the girl dancers, upon leaving the show, gave her dressing robe to one of her successors. The robe was passed from show to show, from gypsy to gypsy (gypsy being the affectionate term for a dancer), and I had it, a once pretty thing that started out as white satin with a white mirabou fur shawl collar but had had things added onto it that had to do with each show it turned up in: a banana peel from Top Banana, some beads from The King And I, a ribbon from Most Happy Fella. It was a bit tacky by the time I got it but it was the thought that counted, and someone had thought to bestow the Gypsy Robe on me.

  I was a star—of sorts. A fucking star. My language, bad to begin with, was fast becoming worse than a longshoreman’s, but so was Tallulah Bankhead’s so what the fuck else was new?

  Word of my triumph spread quickly and I was encouraged to keep my inverted line in the show. It livened things up and added to my growing legend as the dumbest fucking girl in town. Only I wasn’t fucking anyone. I was saving myself for Ben. Yes, admirers came around. And, yes, I went with some of them to dinner. But the game stopped at the front door to my apartment because no one was allowed in. Only Ben.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ben

  1951

  I was moved into the Medical Holding Detachment barracks which meant that I was billeted with psychos, weirdos, and finks. All the madmen and misfits of the Army, waiting to get out, were herded and restrained in the same corral.

  Oddballs abounded, most of whom I met during my one night in the psycho ward, it being standard procedure that anyone leaving the Army with anything other than a perfect honorable discharge be made to go that route. It seemed little enough price to pay for the gaining of one’s freedom, so not even those of us who considered ourselves normal objected to that one night in paradise.

  The windows of the psycho ward were on the outside of the cages, and wisely so, in that more than one sicko had attempted to hurl himself through a window, only to bounce back in ricochet surprise. Three of the men had stayed all night on the mesh screen, like roosting birds or pondering apes. They never moved—except their bowels—so one was well-advised to give them all vertical leeway.

  We were allowed no sharp objects, our only eating utensil being a flat wooden spoon. Needless to say, we ate mush. And any of us wishing to shave could do so only under the supervision of two muscular aides. As to the blades we were provided with, they were so dull that it wasn’t a shave at all, it was a rub.

  No belts or shoelaces either, and pyjama drawstrings were removed with the diligence of a urologist guiding a jagged kidney-stone out of a spiralled penis. It would have been difficult enough to garner any sleep in the psycho ward, but it was made all the more futile because of O’Connell, the Mad Bunny, so named because he went from man to man, throughout the night, asking if he could take the Easter eggs out from beneath our beds. I told him that he could have all the eggs he could find, and he was so pleased at my generosity that he promised me a chocolate egg by morning. I had the good sense to not ask how he’d get it chocolated. Still, the next morning, when he brought me that imaginary chocolate egg, I ate it graciously, shell and all, because he said it was the best part.

  Also that morning, Major Howard Hochman, the psychiatrist in charge, came by to see how I had passed the night. I suggested to him that if he left me there one more night, he needn’t return ever. He smiled, checked me out of the ward, and I went with him to his office for consultation.

  Major Hochman was a bright man, fifty and balding but magnificently clear-eyed. Having served in the Army during World War II, he had gotten called back into service to treat the nutsies of the Korean conflict. He had had to leave a healthy practice in New York City to do so but didn’t seem too upset by it, being one of those scientific men who was forever learning, forever squeezing something worthwhile out of every adversity. I liked him because he had no time for bullshit. He was not interested in impressing me. He only wanted to help me. And he started right in.

  We discussed my case with my 201 file open on his desk. There it was again, my Javert, forever hounding its Jean Valjean—and the good doctor’s evaluation of me was not calculated to contribute to my peace of mind. He said that I was angry—where or how it started was no longer pertinent—that, though unaware of it, I had approached all of my problems with an unconscious desire to disrupt rather than overcome, and that I hosted a whole slew of antagonisms which, if left unattended, might eventually bring about my doom.

  The profile was neither flattering nor satisfying and, like Scrooge, I vowed to make myself over before it was too late. I would do it for Tony and for Deyo, two men whose deaths I had helped bring about, if in no other way but by my continual baiting of Holdoffer. I had contributed to Holdoffer’s death, too, prick that he was, and to the deaths of Dickie Stovall and Junior Light-man and Alan Kirkpatrick. By virtue of all my subsurface anger, I had touched off an entire chain of subversions, all of which I had been able to sidestep but for which others had to pay. Captain Grace had spotted me. And General McArdle had my number. And Major Hochman had nailed me to the cross. Still, I’d be getting out of the Army soon, and how I used the time remaining to atone for my deeds and salvage what remained of my conscience was suddenly a matter of utmost importance. I didn’t have much time left. A week, ten days—who knew? And I wanted to use that time well. So I called Maggie and she was in. And I tore up that unflattering photo I had developed of myself because I’d be damned if I’d let it show up in my high-school yearbook.

  I strode through the Ritz-Carlton lobby like Patton. And it was good. I had the entire day off, all twenty-four hours of it, and Maggie the Marvelous was around the bend with new clevernesses to institute and old ones to reprise.

  As I got on the elevator a woman got off. I’d say she was about thirty and kind of cheap-looking. Lemon hair, pitted skin, broad-shouldered and flat-waisted. At first I thought it was a man. She smiled at me. “Ben?”

  “Yes?”

  “Some other time.” And she was gone.

  I went up to room 503 and Maggie answered the door. “Did you see Betty?”

  “Yeah. I think so. Who’s Betty?”

  She smiled. “Someone I didn’t think you were quite ready for yet.”

  “I may not be ready for her ever. I thought she was a man.”

  “She thinks so, too. Come on in. Relax.” Maggie was in a robe, looking good but obviously a bit tired from her workout with Betty. “Well, now you know the depths of my degradation.” She lit up a cigarette. “You will admit that Betty is about as low as a girl can go for a lover.”

  “I don’t know. She seemed kind of an all-around good fellow.”

  “Take your clothes off. You’d think, with the money at my disposal and the circles I move in—you’d think I’d come up with a lesbian with chic, not a dyke with muscles.”

  “Oh? She a dyke?”

  Maggie laughed. She laughed a lot and often too quickly, and sometimes when there really wasn’t any reason to laugh. “Well, I tell you, whenever I feel that I’m not all that bad, I call Betty and she comes over and brings the truth with her.”

  “I don’t think you’re so bad.”

  “When it comes to me, you shouldn’t think anything. You should just get it while it’s hot. It’s part of your growing up. There’s women and there’s woman. Big fish eat little fish. Eat or be eaten. Come over here.”

  Naked, I walked over to her and she put me into her mouth as if I were an ice cream pop she had forgotten she was eating. “How’s that?”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  She slipped out of her robe. “Come with me please, sir.” She walked into the bedroom and I followed. The bed was rumpled, echoes of Betty. It didn’t stop us. We rumpled it some more. She was incredible. I was like a toy. She took me right out of it, out of wherever I had come from and whatever was on my mind. Finished, I felt completely new. Not
even tired. “Dear Ben, it’s all happening to you so quickly, isn’t it? When shall we do it again?”

  “How’s five minutes?”

  She laughed. “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t know. My orders could come through almost any time.”

  “And you’ll be going home.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well, if you’re still around, give me a call during the week. Only I don’t know either. Kevin and I may be going to London. Think you can stretch your cock that far?”

  “Sure. But how do I get back?”

  She laughed and then grew sober. “I’m suddenly very sad. This may be the last time we ever see each other.”

  “Should we write to each other?”

  “Christ, no! No letters! If you’re still around, call. But no letters, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I got dressed and she didn’t. She just walked me to the door. “I don’t mean to rush you but I do have to get back. Some maharajah from somewhere is coming for dinner.”

  “You going to eat him?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t like Indian food. Too much curry.”

  We were at the door and she opened it, standing naked in the doorway. It didn’t bother her. Actually, I think she’d have liked it if somebody came by. “Well, Maggie—”

  “No long good-byes.” She was smiling but there were tears in her eyes. “Good-bye, Ben.” And she moved her face to mine and our lips met in the sweetest of kisses. And I remember thinking at the time that, despite all the randy sex we’d had together, that was the first time that she ever truly reached me—and the only time that I ever truly felt anything for her.

  Back at Fort Devens my orders had come through. I was out. Me and the Army were through. Kaput, fini and good riddance. I would miss Johnny; I would miss Maggie. But the rest of it? So long and I won’t look back.

  Major Hochman gave me another bit of information. It pertained to the infiltration course investigation. General McArdle had concluded his findings, which had to be submitted to the judge advocate for approval, of course, but which still represented a final ruling in that the judge advocate had undoubtedly been a party to its conclusions.

  Sergeant Frank Kuyper was to be brought up on a charge of homicide. Considering his record and the weird circumstances, it was not likely that he’d get the firing squad. Still, twenty years to life seemed the best he could hope for.

  Captain Albert Mackie, the range officer, was cited for dereliction of duty, reduced to the rank of first lieutenant, and confined to quarters pending even further investigation. He would probably be encouraged to resign from the Army, no questions asked, and he’d be an asshole if he didn’t snap at the offer.

  Colonel Herbert Cranston of the 42nd Group was transferred to Fort Riley, Kansas, and placed in charge of a laundry company where his battlefield skills in that field could be made proper use of and where his stupidity as a commanding officer would never be called upon again.

  Lieutenant Colonel Terence Beakins remained on as second-in-command of the 42nd Group but only for as long as the new first-in-command chose to keep him on in that post—which was not likely to be long. Lieutenant Colonel Beakins would then stand a fine chance of disappearing within the folds of some fuck-up brigade where his talents as a fool could be properly utilized.

  Lieutenant Wyatt Collings, our company commander who forgot to show up, was busted to sergeant and sent directly to Korea, where we all had every confidence that he would be killed, probably by an American.

  Corporal William Simmons, machine gunner, was exonerated from all blame as he was judged to have been only doing his duty, four men having been killed as a result of his zeal, so maybe he’d do it again one day and make Sergeant.

  Johnny Munez and Ben Webber got drunk one last time together. They did it at PX 5 and they did it well, both of them carving their initials on a wall so deeply that they would last there a millennium. The next day I was on a Trailways bus, barreling toward New York City. I had written ahead to Josh Meyerberg to tell him of my impending release from service and that I was looking forward to getting my old job back. I just thought I’d let him know in advance so as to disarm that apparent snake, Sam Gaynor.

  A disquieting note. On the bus I found a Boston newspaper, and in it was a report of a train crash near Pittsburgh. Naturally, I read the story to see if anyone I knew had been on that ill-fated train. There had. Elizabeth Jane Satterly, aged eighteen; killed. Farewell Elizabeth Satterly, yellow your color, black your hair, grey eyes of such a hue as never had I seen before. And I wondered, had she been leaving Pittsburgh finally on her way to New York to find me?

  As to my new roommate, Ginnie, I had told her that I’d be coming home soon but had deliberately not chosen to tell her when. I wanted to surprise her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Ginnie

  1951

  Guys and Dolls went on and on and on until even I was getting bored with it. Yes, it was my first Broadway show, and yes, it was all very exciting, but it was also hard work and getting harder, bordering on drudgery, with hours better suited to goblins and Karloffs than to humans. Finishing up at eleven thirty each night, we’d then go out for dinner, a small army of pancaked chorus girls and screaming faggots all determined to be young and gay noisying up the streets, staying frantically out until three or four, and stumbling into bed only after the sun had come up over the blanket.

  Well, that was okay for a while, but when you threw in two matinees with the regular six performances a week the whole thing was suddenly not so delightful. The dressing room stunk and was cold. The girls were always bitching and the boys were even bitchier. My body ached. I was smoking and drinking too much, not getting enough sleep. The pay—$115 a week—was lousy, and the caste system, at parties, was intolerable. We were only replacements. We were the four hundredth Guys and Dolls. Even kids in a flop show that had opened and died were more highly thought of than we were. They were “openers.” We were “tail-enders,” and the snobbery stuck in our throats like old toe shoes. So, after a tour of duty in Guys and Dolls—the greatest show I’d ever seen, my all-time favorite, the one show I’d have killed to get into—when Florrie came to me with this crazy idea, I gave it a good listen.

  “Ginnie,” she said, “I think it’ll work.” My friend Florrie was a thin kid, originally from Brooklyn, whose father parked cars and whose mother worked for the phone company. They lived together in a basement apartment with five cats and three hundred water bugs coming up through the floor each night that were so big that they looked like mice—which is why the cats. Florrie had enormous blue eyes and beautifully capped teeth (which is why I knew she’d be a star). And her legs—well, she had the most unbelievable insteps in town, a straight line from her knee to her toe tips. And she had a baby way that made her seem like Little Miss Innocence, even though her language was so filthy that, coming out of an ordinary-looking girl, it would have earned a crack in the mouth. But coming out of Florrie all it got was ignored because people just believed they’d imagined it. Still, when she got to cursing in that wee widdle voice I often had the feeling that the paint was curling off the walls. “Richie is a helluva fuckin’ dancer and, if we formed a trio—two girls and a boy—we could bust out of the fuckin’ chorus and do club dates and maybe some television and live like human beings.”

  “Why does Richie want me?” I asked. “He can go with Annie or Ethel or Shellie.”

  “Wanna know the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “They all turned him down.”

  “Swell.”

  “But that’s because they’re assholes.”

  “Maybe they know something we don’t.”

  “They don’t. They’re all pushing thirty—from the wrong side. And they’re tired and looking for husbands, only they’re never gonna find them in the chorus line. I tell you, Ginnie, you’re eighteen and I’m twenty-one and we can dance the tits off all of ’em. Richie’ll acce
pt your inexperience because he knows you can learn. As to the others, all they’ll learn from now on is how to grow older. And, sweetie-puss, ain’t nothin’ less saleable than an old chorine. So, whaddya say?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? It’s a chance you may never get again!”

  “I understand.”

  “Why don’t you know?”

  “Well, I may get married.”

  “What?”

  “It’s not definite, but—”

  “Who? Not the dentist! Jesus Christ, not Murray the stammerer-er-er-er!”

  “No.”

  “The guy from the garment center?”

  “No.”

  “Phillie the fairy?”

  “No.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t talk about it yet. Things still have to be worked out. He’s getting out of the Army soon and—”

  “The Army? He’s in the Army? What is he, a gun?”

  “He’s a very unusual and special person.”

  “You’re describing a three-legged elf.”

  “Cut it out, Florrie. He’s very nice and—I love him.”

  “Shit, you get married now and knocked up, and it’s the end. End of the fucking line.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Listen, Ginnie, shack up with the guy, but keep the door open. What is it? Ah, he’s married, right?”

  “Florrie, I really can’t talk about it.”

  “What am I going to do with you? Richie Pickering’s time has come. He’s got the talent, the drive—we can be dancing at Bill Miller’s Riviera in no time. Monty can get us on The Joey Magnuson Show. He’s already spoken to Noah Sobel about it. We’ll be The Pickering Trio. Shit, you got a fella stashed away somewhere, swell! But it doesn’t mean you have to let your career go down the toilet. You know Richie’s good.”