Memorial Bridge

by James Carroll

  She pulled her gloves on and began to walk. She passed the houses of the other generals without seeming to see them, as if to look would turn her into a statue of salt. She refused to worry anymore who might be watching at those curtains as she strode the length of the tidy street. The wives of the other generals had yet to extend an invitation.

  It still stunned Cass that the main effect of Sean's sudden reception into the world of prestige and power had been to make her feel, for the first time in her entire life, inferior. In his Pentagon world, she knew, literally thousands of men owed Sean deference, but here, in her corner of Boiling, all of the women outranked her. She could identify the wives of General Eason, General Cabot, General Polk and a dozen others, having seen them at the swimming pool in the summer, at receptions in the O Club, coming and going on the shady street and in the park at the end of the Row, where Cass went with her son and where other women went, when their aides didn't, with their dogs. They acted not only like the wives of gods and heroes but like goddesses and heroines themselves. And to Cass's true horror, she had herself begun to think of those women that way, as if they had been born to a higher order.

  Cass might have taken the initiative with some of the generals' wives herself—they were neighbors, weren't they?—but Sean had drilled her in the protocol that now was supposed to rule their lives. Juniors, he said, do not extend invitations to seniors. But Cass wondered, Was protocol his only inhibition? He never referred to it, but Cass knew very well that even if it was absurd to think the other women had been born to a higher order, they were still quite different from her. The pink-bordered roster of the Officers' Wives' Club, for example, listed its members not only with the ranks of their husbands in parentheses, but also in each case with another word that Cass had failed at first to understand, the name of the woman's school. The generals' wives seemed all to have attended Vassar, which she had heard of, or places called Briarcliff or Goucher, which she hadn't. Cass had pictured "St. Gabriel's" inside such parentheses, and at that had felt her lack of education not as a mere regret, but as a matter of shame. Was Sean ashamed of her too? That was a question past which she strode as if it were a blank-windowed officer's house.

  Cass Dillon was no fool. She had known right off that she had to find a niche for herself in her husband's new world. She had wasted little energy bemoaning her background or lack of it, or waiting for the Mrs. Generals to call. Instead, she had instinctively pushed open the one door on the entire base that was locked to no one. She was on her way to open it again now. As she did every morning, once Sean had left, she was going to the chapel for Mass. Her devotion here was a measure not of her piety, but of her savvy intelligence.

  She walked briskly out of the generals' enclave, past the club and its now tarp-covered swimming pool, down the hill to the corner on which the little wooden church sat with its unadorned steeple. The dozen entrance stairs were covered with cocoa matting. Instead of stone, the steps were of wood and made a hollow, muffled sound. As she took them she stifled the usual feeling of foreignness. This was still a Protestant church to her, not only its prim white exterior, but the interior too: its amber, unstained windows, its unornamented white walls, the bright mysterylessness of it. The pews were as white as the walls, and the carpet was the same pallid blue that covered the floor and chair cushions in the Officers' Club. Cass knew she would never forgive the place its lack of saints' statues—no Joseph, not even Mary—or the blankness of the walls where the Stations of the Cross should have hung.

  Two dozen other people, mostly men in uniform, were already kneeling here and there around the chapel with their heads in their hands. It never failed to move Cass that men outnumbered women at this Mass, young men, airmen with stripes oh their sleeves and spit-polished shoes. At St. Gabriel's they would never have come to the early morning weekday Mass, and she wondered what stresses of barracks life drove them here now. She crept a third of the way down the aisle and genuflected, which was not strictly necessary, since the Blessed Sacrament was not reserved here. There was no sanctuary lamp requiring the obeisance, but the blank Protestant cross had been removed from the wall behind the altar, and its framing blue curtain had been drawn back to expose the true crucifix, the Catholic cross with its near-naked tortured body of Jesus. Cass was genuflecting to Him and to the transformation His presence worked upon the cold, uninviting place.

  She stepped sideways into the pew, fumbled for the movable little stool—instead of the sturdy fixed plank of a Catholic kneeler—and settled onto her knees. The stool was covered in crisp needlepoint, not dimpled leather padding, and against the stretched skin of her knees she felt the tiny threaded grid. Flowers decorated those stools, she knew, lilies, roses of Sharon, palm fronds, all embroidered on the same washed-out, spineless blue that the air force splashed everywhere.

  Like the others, Cass covered her eyes to pray, but before the consoling shadow of God's presence fell across her mind, the altar bell rang once, announcing the priest's entrance. She stood. The altar boy, leading Father in from the side door, was a robust young man in uniform, not a child in the effete gown of a miniature priest. Her breath caught in her throat as she admitted that some things she liked better here; she preferred the unapologetic manliness of the congregation. She quickly surveyed her fellow worshipers again, the familiar backs of their heads, their butch haircuts, their bright, pulsing necks around which it was so easy to imagine mothers and girlfriends clasping arms. In addition to the airmen, there were two—no, three—men in officers' uniforms, insignia gleaming on the epaulets of their jackets. She had not mastered those various symbols of rank, bars of silver and gold, stylized eagles and leaves, but she knew, since none wore stars, that they were not generals. To her knowledge, Sean was the only Catholic general on the base.

  Only four other women were present, and all were familiar to her, especially a middle-aged bespectacled woman who always wore the same out-of-fashion cloche hat and a brown wool coat slightly frayed at the collar. For a while now Cass had had the distinct impression that the woman watched her carefully each morning as she approached the communion rail. The woman herself, Cass had noticed, never received, which was unusual in someone who attended daily Mass. Sensing her interest, Cass had intended to approach the woman, but she was always gone before Cass herself left the church. The other ladies at Boiling avoided Cass because she was not enough of a general's wife. Did this one do so because she was too much of one?

  Now the woman seemed intent only on her prayers, and following her example, Cass took out her own rosary. Cass blessed herself, kissed the cross and, putting everyone out of her heart except her Richard and her Sean, placed it so gently in the outstretched hands of God's mother.

  After Mass the priest followed the server off the altar into the sacristy. The chaplain's assistant—Cass still did not know the difference between an assistant, an orderly and an aide—appeared carrying the long-handled brass candle snuffer. After dousing the two candles, he moved easily about the sanctuary, collecting the cruets and altar linens. He then stripped the altar bare, folding the cloths with care, a function which in all other parishes was performed by ladies of the altar guilds and sodalities. The masculine cast of religion in the military seemed complete, and Cass found it easy to imagine the priest of this church genuflecting before the makeshift altar of the hood of a Jeep parked on a rough hillside, then raising the sacred host above the helmeted heads of GIs on the morning of a big battle. She did like religion here for the way it included men, but also, always at this moment, the lack of roles for lady volunteers left her feeling useless, which was exactly how she felt at home, where the high-spirited, ingratiating sergeants did all the cooking, cleaning and shopping.

  Cass finished her prayers and left the chapel just as the orderly drew the blue curtain back across the crucifix, hiding it. Outside, to her surprise, she found the priest waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He was in his blue uniform, necktie, shoulder bars and all. Only the stark naked c
ross on his left lapel marked him for a chaplain. He could have been a Methodist.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Dillon." He touched his cap. He was a tall man, blond and good-looking, younger than she was.

  "Hello Father Boyle."

  "I was hoping to have a word with you."

  . Cass smiled with real pleasure. She admired this priest for his easy way with the enlisted men, the clear sense he and they had that he was there for them. He had rarely addressed more than a few formal words of greeting either to Cass or, on Sundays, to her husband. "I'd be delighted to have a word with you, Father," she said. "Why don't you come back to my house and I'll give you some coffee."

  "No thanks, Mrs. Dillon."

  "I've been meaning to invite you. Besides, it's cold." She grinned, turning up the collar of her tweed coat.

  "It will just take a minute, Mrs. Dillon. I wanted permission to send you a proposal for—"

  "Permission! Father, really!" Cass laughed. She noticed the woman standing a dozen feet away near the curb of the street, the woman in the cloche hat. As if aware of Cass's quick glance, the woman looked up sharply. Cass realized that the priest had been speaking to her.

  The priest was blushing, which made Cass want to blush too. She had never felt such deference from a priest before. He said, "It's about the National Shrine. There's going to be a military chapel, dedicated to soldiers, sailors and airmen. We are all expected to help with it."

  "The National Shrine! The Shrine of the Immaculate Conception?"

  "Yes."

  "My son was baptized there."

  "Have you been out there lately? It's really coming along."

  "I knew Monsignor Barry when he was rector."

  "The bishop? Bishop Barry?"

  "Yes." Sean was not the only one who'd been promoted. The priest who'd been so nice to them was now the auxiliary bishop of Washington. "I still think of him as monsignor."

  "Well, that's another reason. Bishop Barry would be delighted if you took a part in helping with the military chapel."

  "Well, that's another reason for you to come for coffee."

  The priest glanced awkwardly back at the other woman. She pointedly avoided his eyes.

  "Oh, I've interrupted—"

  "No, I ... That is..." Father Boyle reached an arm toward the woman. "Allow me to introduce you."

  The woman raised her eyes and smiled shyly.

  "Mrs. Dillon, this is Mrs. Jones."

  "Hello, Mrs. Dillon."

  "Mrs. Jones?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Are you Sergeant Jones's wife?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  Cass almost blurted out, My Sergeant Jones? Instead, she crossed to her and touched the tips of her gloved hands to Mrs. Jones's hands. "My goodness, I think the world of your husband."

  "You do?"

  "He's a good man. I can tell from the way he treats my little boy. Rickie loves your husband."

  Mrs. Jones's eyes went to a spot on Cass's left shoulder. "We have no children of our own."

  "I know." Neither woman spoke for a moment. Cass's heart flowed toward her. Now she understood why the woman didn't go to communion. She said, "I didn't know he's a Catholic."

  "He's not. I'm the only Catholic."

  "Well, he's proof you don't have to be. Your husband has been teaching me all the things I'm supposed to do. Did he tell you how new I am?"

  Mrs. Jones nodded. "He likes it, with you and the general."

  "I'm glad."

  Father Boyle stepped between them. "I didn't know this," he said, and there seemed more than a hint of rebuke in the expression with which he turned to Mrs. Jones. "Your husband works for General Dillon?"

  "Yes."

  "You could have told me that."

  Cass touched the priest's sleeve. Where was his deference now? "Why should she have?"

  "Because I was going to ask you to head up the officers' wives' committee."

  "I didn't know that," Mrs. Jones said miserably.

  "I don't understand," Cass said.

  "I already asked Mrs. Jones to head up the NCO wives."

  "That's all right, Father. I don't have to—"

  "What's the problem? I don't see the problem," Cass said.

  The priest backed away. "I'm sorry."

  "No, wait a minute. You have to explain to me what's wrong here."

  "If Sergeant Jones works for you, then it might be awkward..."

  "I didn't know Father was going to ask you, Mrs. Dillon."

  "And what are these committees to do?"

  Father Boyle said, "Sodalities and altar guilds see to the finishing decorations for all the Shrine chapels, which mostly commemorate immigrant groups. The servicemen's chapel will be finished by military wives' committees organized through the chaplains. There will be committees from Fort Meyer, Andrews, Fort McNair, Boiling, the marine barracks and Anacostia."

  "So why are there two committees from Boiling?" Cass laughed. "It's not like there are that many of us Catholics."

  "That's standard, Mrs. Dillon. There will be two separate committees from all the chapels, one for officers and one for enlisted personnel."

  "Why not one committee? Aren't we one family in church? I've never heard of this before."

  Instead of answering, Father Boyle glanced at Mrs. Jones. She knew how these things worked.

  Cass said, "I invited you for coffee, Father. And you too, Mrs. Jones. Please come to my house for coffee."

  Mrs. Jones's uncertainty disappeared. "No, that would not be right."

  "What, serving a priest and a fellow Catholic coffee in my home? How in the world could that not be right?"

  Mrs. Jones replied matter-of-factly, "You would not be serving it." Then she added, "My presence would embarrass my husband."

  Cass's visceral and by now habitual impatience with mindless military barriers became something else. What block of the imagination had kept her from picturing Sergeant Jones extending the creamer to his own wife? What's wrong with this picture? She had no choice but to turn this moment away. She said to the priest, "I meant it about the Shrine, Father. I'm devoted to that church. If military women are supposed to help with it, I must be a part of that. Mrs. Jones and I won't have any problem, will we?"

  Mrs. Jones shook her head.

  "So you'd head up the officers' wives' committee?"

  "Maybe if it's for the Shrine, then the military protocol could take a backseat to the way, well, to the way the Church works."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'd be glad to serve on Mrs. Jones's committee. With her as the head, I mean." The priest hesitated. Cass pushed him. "This is the air force, isn't that the point? Aren't we starting fresh as a service? Who says there have to be separate committees? Maybe at Fort Meyer or Anacostia, but this is Boiling." Cass turned toward Mrs. Jones and addressed her as if they were alone. "I've only been an air force wife for six months, but nobody has been one for a year yet. We're the ones starting the traditions, aren't we? We're the ones setting what is 'standard.' What do you think? Your husband wouldn't be involved. Neither would mine."

  Mrs. Jones said simply, "If there was one committee, the officers' wives wouldn't join, and neither would the NCO wives. Where would that leave us?"

  Suddenly both women laughed.

  Cass felt the jolt of an energy she had not experienced in months. But at once she wondered, Am I really so hungry for a way into the life here? And what way was this? Do I just want to feel superior to someone? She would not have to worry about Mrs. Jones's school, that was sure.

  But Cass Dillon would have offered herself like this to the chief of staff's wife if Mrs. Eason had let her. Uncowed by the requirements of an alien society, Cass was simply being who she was. They stopped laughing finally. For a long moment neither spoke, then Mrs. Jones said, "We could have coffee at my quarters." Her gentle smile brightened the air between them.

  Cass understood in a way she would not have only minutes before what a violation of the "standar
d" even this invitation was. "That sounds lovely." Cass removed her glove and they shook hands, each surprised by the feeling that joined them.

  Cass added self-mockingly, "But your 'quarters'? How long did it take you to get used to calling your house 'quarters'?"

  "It isn't a house. We have a small apartment in the barracks."

  "Oh." Cass felt dizzy to think she'd offended the woman again.

  But Mrs. Jones squeezed Cass's fingers. "It's nice, though," she said, with such patent satisfaction that Cass envied her.

  Late in the afternoon of that same day, Sean Dillon was summoned to Randall Crocker's office. When he arrived at the anteroom, the receptionist simply opened the inner door ahead of him, with no announcement, which was the first clue that something was wrong.

  The second was the presence in Crocker's office of General Eason and General Macauley. Eason was seated in a wooden armchair next to the long leather couch, on which Macauley sat alone. Behind the couch was the familiar wall-sized polar-vantaged map of the world.

  Even apart as they were, the pair of four-star generals mirrored each other, sitting rigidly, their hands stubbornly capping their knees. Dillon saw them for an instant as perpetrators—"perps" in the old parlance—waiting in a holding cell.

  Crocker was loose in his chair behind his huge desk, but for once on Dillon's entrance his face remained as perfectly buttoned as the vest of his brown suit. His pipe was jammed firmly in the side of his mouth.

  Behind Crocker stood Lloyd Nevin, deputy chief counsel of the air force, the civilian attorney whose office supervised all air force–related testimony on the Hill. Nevin, a taciturn man, was exceptionally tall, and Dillon sensed that he had remained standing behind the secretary as if this were a courtroom, as if the intimidation of his height would be useful.