To love you, to worship you, to hold you in his arms, to buy you expensive underwear and quart bottles of musky French perfume.
“You make pretty good soup,” he said.
She smiled at him.
“Don’t look at me that way,” she said.
“What way?”
“Like a puppy dog,” she said.
“I can’t help it,” he said.
“You’re a fool, Geoffrey,” she said. “A fool.”
He loved the way his name sounded when she said it. And he was aware that she didn’t seem quite so absolutely certain that he was a fool as she had earlier.
“Actually,” he said, “I’m not such a bad fellow. Most dogs, except Dobermans, like me….”
At that moment the dryer, with a squeal and an off-key bell, announced that it had completed its assigned task.
They both looked at it as if annoyed by the distraction, but there was nothing for Geoff to do but go to the damned dryer, confirm that his goddamned uniform was clean, dry, and as warm as toast, and carry the goddamned thing into the bathroom and get dressed.
She went with him to the door.
“Can I come back?” he asked.
“Sure, why did you have to ask?”
“Because now that I’ve told you I love you, I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to have me around.”
She looked up at him and met his eyes, and as he fell into them, she said, “I don’t even want you to go now.”
“I don’t really have to go now,” he said.
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t,” he said.
“There’s something I think you should know,” she said. “I never do this before.”
“Are you sure you want to now?” he asked, very softly.
“What do you think?” she asked, and then she walked away from him, across the little living room and into the bedroom. His heart beating heavily, in sort of jumps, he went after her.
“Don’t look,” she ordered.
He cheated, he turned his back, but he saw everything she didn’t want him to see in the mirror. And she caught him.
“Well, you satisfied?” she asked, her face coloring.
“Is it all right, now, if I tell you I love you?”
“Oh, my Geoffrey!” she said, and went to him.
A minute or so later, he was able to remove his jump boots with considerably more speed than he had earlier been able to put them on. And it hurt her, as it was supposed to hurt virgins, but she told him that if he stopped, she’d kill him.
(Two)
U.S. Army Station Hospital
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
0830 Hours, 6 February 1962
When Dianne Eaglebury parked Tom Ellis’s Jaguar in the visitors’ parking lot and reached in the backseat for the doll, her breasts fell out of her brassiere, and after she had the doll sitting on the roof, she had to put her hands under her sweater again and, desperately hoping that no one was watching, put things back where they belonged.
The reason her breasts had come out of the brassiere, she was well aware, was that the brassiere was not designed to hold things in place, but rather to sort of put things on display. It was of thin, lacy material, and the cups were one quarter of an orb rather than a hemisphere. When properly in place, it lifted the lower portion of her breasts while leaving the upper portion, down to the nipple, exposed.
She had seen it in the window of a store on Book Row in Durham and bought it for $29.95, even though that seemed like a hell of a lot of money for a bra and panty set that contained in all about as much material as a man’s handkerchief. She thought that it was entirely likely that she would be able to display the bra—and what it offered—to Tom. It made her feel delightfully wicked. Finding the opportunity to give him a look at the black, transparent panties seemed less likely. There was no lock on his door, and while she was prepared to be shamelessly lewd for him, she was not willing to do it for an audience of nurses, ward boys, or anyone else who might come sailing into the room without knocking.
The doll had begun life as a cutsey-pie little girl in darling little pigtails, a skirt beneath which white-ribboned pantaloons could be seen, and with an adorable little pink beret perched cutely atop its head. The beret had inspired her. The beret was now green, the result of thirty minutes’ careful labor with a green Magic Marker. Hours of additional careful labor had created a miniature Special Forces flash on the beret. The blond nylon pigtails had been carefully untwisted, combed, and refashioned into a rather good representation of Dianne’s own coiffure. The skirt had been cut off above the knees, and the white-ribboned pantaloons were now black-lace panties about as brief as the ones she was wearing.
Tom would be amused, Dianne believed.
God, she hoped so. Tom wasn’t doing well.
Dr. Parker had called her the night before and warned her that Tom might be a little “strange” when she saw him. He had some kind of a fever, and a perfectly ordinary to-be-expected symptom of this was a degree of irrationality.
It was nothing to be concerned about, Dr. Parker had told her, but she wanted Dianne to be prepared for it. It would pass when the fever was reduced, and it might very well be reduced by the time Dianne came down from Durham.
Dianne could not bring herself to call the lanky physician “Toni,” or even think of her as “Toni,” although the physician kept telling her to, and they had become friends. Antoinette Parker had insisted that Dianne stay with her in her quarters. With a good deal of wine in her to give her liquid courage, Dianne had asked for, and Dr. Parker had delivered, a lecture on the fine points of birth control, accompanied by both the appropriate prescription and the confession that she, too, had been greatly surprised with the ease and abandon with which, prior to marriage, she had presented Phil Parker with her pearl of great price.
“One week, I was a high—and virginal—priestess of medicine at Mass General, devoutly convinced that carnal desires were an affliction of the less intellectually endowed, and the next week I was a card-carrying camp follower, slinking around a motel room in Manhattan, Kansas, in black underwear, praying the sight would convince a soldier that life without me was unthinkable.”
Dr. Antoinette Parker seemed to understand how Dianne felt about Tom. Dianne did not think that understanding was going to come that easily, if at all, from her mother and father.
She didn’t have to sneak in the hospital today the way she had on her first visit to see Tom, when they wouldn’t let her in to see him and desperate measures had been required. Dr. Parker had arranged for family status for her with the hospital administration. Dianne sensed that that wasn’t a routine thing, for she got a strange look from the soldier at the visitors’ desk before he gave her a visitor’s badge to pin on her sweater and asked her if she knew where the ward was.
“I know where it is,” she said.
Dr. Parker was in the corridor by the nurses’ station when she got to the ward, talking to a tall, good-looking Irishwoman just starting to turn gray and, Dianne thought, so confident of her good looks that she wasn’t going to try to dye the gray away.
“Good morning,” Dianne said cheerfully.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” Dr. Parker said. “This is Patricia Hanrahan, another friend of Tom’s.”
“Hello, Dianne,” Patricia Hanrahan said softly.
Dianne made the connection.
“You’re the general’s wife,” Dianne said. “Tom’s told me about you.”
“He talked to me about you too,” Patricia Hanrahan said.
Dr. Parker had taken her arm and was leading her off the corridor.
“Where are we going?” Dianne asked.
“We have to talk, and I don’t want to do it in the corridor,” Dr. Parker said.
“Talk about what?” Dianne said as uneasiness swept through her.
They were now in a small room furnished with chrome pipe vinyl-upholstered furniture, two small tables, and a Coke machine.
“Tom’s gone, Dianne,” Dr. Parker said.
“Tom’s gone? What do you mean, ‘Tom’s gone’? Where did he go?”
“Tom died at seven-fifteen this morning,” Dr. Parker said.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” Patricia Hanrahan said.
Part of Dianne’s brain told her this couldn’t be true. Another part told her it was.
“What the hell happened?” she asked, barely audibly.
“Nobody really knows,” Toni Parker said.
“What the hell happened?” Dianne repeated angrily.
“It was probably the infection…” Toni Parker said.
“Probably? He’s dead, and you don’t know what killed him?”
“Oh, God!” Patricia Hanrahan said, and sobbed.
“Yesterday morning, early yesterday morning, his temperature began to rise to a dangerous level,” Toni Parker said. “We managed to reduce it during the day. When I called you, we thought we had it under control. And then it went up again, and we were unable to reduce it.”
Dianne looked at her.
“Do I have to say they did every thing humanly possible?” Toni Parker asked, having considerable difficulty keeping her voice under control.
“You weren’t there?” Dianne accused.
“I was with him most of the afternoon,” Toni Parker said. “And last night. I was there when he died.”
“What happened?” Dianne asked.
“There was interference with the nerve system,” Toni Parker said in a flat voice. “And with the chemical balance of the body. I don’t know what the autopsy will reveal, if anything.”
“Autopsy? Oh, God! They’re going to cut him open?”
“Maybe we’ll find something that will help the next time,” Toni Parker said.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” Patricia Hanrahan said.
“Why didn’t somebody call me?” Dianne asked very softly. “I could have come yesterday, last night.”
“I made that decision,” Toni Parker said.
“Thanks a lot,” Dianne said bitterly.
“He was comatose,” Toni said. “He was in intensive care. You wouldn’t have been allowed in there. I thought—we all thought—that we would be able to reduce the fever. I prayed we could.”
“I should have been here,” Dianne said, and then more angrily: “I should have been here!”
“I’m sorry,” Toni Parker said. “Good God, I’m sorry!”
“Where is he? Can I see him?”
“No,” Toni Parker said quickly, positively, as if she had anticipated and dreaded the question.
“Why not? Why can’t I see him?” Dianne said. “Jesus Christ, why can’t I even see him?”
For the first time she wept. Toni Parker put her arms around her and held her. Patricia Hanrahan, biting her lips, dabbed at the tears in her eyes.
A minute later, still holding her, Toni Parker said slowly, levelly, as if carefully choosing cach word, “Tom’s father is here, Dianne. When Tom’s condition was considered to be life-threatening, he was notified, and he flew down here.”
“You told him? He was ashamed of Tom, and Tom couldn’t stand him, but you told him? And not me?”
“That was done by administration,” Toni said.
Dianne pushed herself away from Toni Parker and went into her purse for a handkerchief.
“What happens now?” she asked, after she had blown her nose.
“When the body is released—”
“Released?”
“After the autopsy,” Toni said. “There is some concern about contamination.”
“What about ‘when the body is released’?” Dianne asked.
“Oh, Mary, Mother of God!” Patricia Hanrahan said.
“We think it’s best if the remains are cremated,” Toni Parker said. “Mr. Ellis has agreed.”
“So?” Dianne asked. “What difference does that make?”
“Mr. Ellis has decided to place Tom’s ashes in the VA cemetery in Fayetteville,” Patricia Hanrahan said. “There will be a military funeral, of course. Tom is considered to have died as the result of wounds suffered in combat.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re leading up to,” Dianne said, “but something.”
“Mr. Ellis has been asking about Tom’s things,” Patricia Hanrahan said. “He’s asked about Tom’s car.”
“The sonofabitch walked out on him, had nothing to do with him when he was growing up, but he shows up to get Tom’s car, right?”
“Tom made a will before he went to Vietnam,” Patricia Hanrahan said. “We don’t know yet what’s in it. It’s with the Judge Advocate General. I don’t know…Is it possible he made provision for you?”
“I don’t think so,” Dianne said bitterly. “He went over thinking I was too good for him.”
“Oh, my dear!” Patricia Hanrahan said.
“Will he sell the Jag to me?” Dianne asked.
Toni Parker and Patricia Hanrahan exchanged glances.
“I’m afraid not,” Patricia Hanrahan said after a moment.
“How will we know until we ask him?”
“My husband asked him,” Patricia Hanrahan said. “My husband told him about you and said that he thought you might want to buy the car.”
“And…?”
“Tom’s father said that this was probably the only chance he would ever have to own a car like that, and if he sold it, his wife would just spend the money.”
“It’s outside,” Dianne said.
“The funeral will be at ten tomorrow morning,” Patricia Hanrahan said.
“The funeral or the cremation?” Dianne asked.
“The cremation will be today,” Toni Parker said.
“I know,” Dianne said, bitterly bright, “as soon as ‘the body is released.’”
“You can stay with me,” Toni said.
“Is his mother coming?” Dianne asked.
“She said she can’t afford to come,” Patricia Hanrahan said.
“Would she come if I sent her a ticket and paid for a motel?”
“I don’t know,” Patricia Hanrahan said. “I could call and ask if you want me to.”
“She was hardly what you could call an ideal mother,” Dianne said. “But she was his mother. Would you, please?”
“I’ll do it right now if you’d like,” Patricia Hanrahan said.
“Can I get you anything?” Toni asked. “You want a pill, or a chaplain? Anything?”
“No,” Dianne said, and a moment later: “Thank you.”
Patricia Hanrahan called Sergeant Major Taylor and got the number, then she told the operator to charge the call to his quarters phone and called Tom Ellis’s mother and told her that if she could come, there was a fund that provided transportation for next of kin, and motel expenses.
“You’re very good at that, aren’t you?” Dianne said admiringly when she had told Tom’s mother she would get back to her within the hour with the details.
“I try to be,” Patricia Hanrahan said. “Honey, if Tom’s car is important to you, perhaps you could talk to Mr. Ellis or Tom’s mother after the will is probated. Or my husband could. Maybe you could say something at the funeral, to both of them.”
“I’m not going to the funeral,” Dianne said. “I’d spit in his eye if I went to the funeral.”
“Are you sure?” Toni Parker asked. “About not going to the funeral, I mean?”
“I said my good-byes to Tom, my hello and my good-bye, down the hall,” Dianne said.
“You’re going back to Duke?” Patricia Hanrahan asked. “Or home?”
“Back to school,” Dianne said. “I don’t want my father feeling sorry for me.”
“I’ll take you,” Patricia Hanrahan said.
“You don’t have to do that,” Dianne said. “I’ll rent a car.”
“I’ll take you,” Patricia Hanrahan said. “Tom would want me to.”
She picked up the doll with the black lace panties and the gre
en beret and handed it to Dianne Eaglebury.
(Three)
Office of the Commanding General
U.S. Army Special Warfare School and Center
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
1130 Hours, 2 March 1962
First Lieutenant Charles J. Wood, Jr., Infantry, aide-decamp to Brigadier General Paul T. Hanrahan, jumped to his feet when the tall mustachioed officer entered the outer office.
“Good morning, Colonel,” he said. “May I help you?”
Tom Ellis, Craig Lowell saw, had been replaced by a proper aide-de-camp. This one was everything a good aide-de-camp was supposed to be and probably everything that Tom Ellis was not. This one was a ring-knocker—on whose hand was proudly displayed the ring signifying graduation from the United States Military Academy at West Point. He was erect, looked as if he had shaved ten minutes ago after a daily haircut, and was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
He had probably been selected, Lowell thought, because he would not remind Hanrahan of Tom Ellis.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Lowell said. “My name is Lowell, and if the general is not tied up, I’d be grateful if he could give me a moment of his time.”
“I will see if the general is occupied, sir. Would you care to tell me the nature of your business?”
“I’m paying my respects, Lieutenant, while here on temporary duty.”
Lieutenant Wood went to the general’s door, knocked, was told to enter, entered, and closed the door behind him.
“I’ll bet he makes life interesting,” Lowell said to Sergeant Major Taylor.
“The lieutenant does make us all toe the line,” Taylor said.
“Isn’t that Tom Ellis’s car outside?” Lowell asked.
“Yeah.”
“Mrs. Hanrahan told me his mother came down for the funeral.”
“Very nasty, Colonel,” Taylor said. “Both of them thought the car, and the rest of his stuff, was theirs.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Not until the will’s probated. They were both highly pissed when they couldn’t take his stuff home with them.”
“Christ!” Lowell said.
“I hope his mother finally gets it,” Taylor said.
“She was, I gather, the nicer of the two?”
“No. On a ‘nice scale’ of one to ten, they’d both run about one and a half. But the mother would sell the car to Ellis’s girl. His father wants to play sport with it.”
The Berets Page 40