The Edge of Honor

by P. T. Deutermann

  I guess I’m glad you called me.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah. See, I don’t get letters, I never know whether he’s just not writing, or the Navy’s losing them, or I’ve done or said something wrong and he’s mad at me, or what. But from what you’ve said, now I think I know the score.”

  “Couldn’t you just ask?”

  “No way, Maddy. See, you ask a question like that, it’s automatically a criticism. Think about it. How do you phrase it: Why aren’t you writing me? Have you been writing me? Are my letters getting through? Yours aren’t, and I’ve sent three a week since you’ve left. And then you wait five, six weeks for an answer. It’s almost like asking someone if they’ve stopped beating their wife.

  There’s just no good answer to questions about mail on a WESTPAC deployment. You can bitch to the other wives, but you can’t ask.”

  “Wow. I write Brian about once a week and I get a letter back about once a week, although, of course, there’s all that dead time. For me, it’s sort of a monologue.

  I tell him stuff, he tells me stuff, but we don’t actually connect much.”

  “You connect by dropping it in the mailbox.”

  “I suppose. But I’m wondering now if I’m sending enough letters. One a week—is that enough?”

  “Probably not. You gotta figure they’ll lose every fourth or fifth letter. All it takes, one mailbag blows off the carrier’s deck and a whole week’s worth of letters is gone. That’s a disaster. Vinnie’s told me a million times, it’s not the news; it’s the piece of paper, the contact.

  Getting mail when everyone else gets mail and not being the only guy who didn’t get mail. So I do three a week and hope for the best. Keep the bad news out and don’t bitch and moan too much—they can’t do anything about your problems; you can’t do anything about theirs. And even knowing about them is pretty frustrating. You got problems—and who doesn’t?—you cope, that’s all. You handle it.”

  “No matter what it is?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, they can’t do anything for you, three weeks later and from a gazillion miles away. I tell Vinnie about the successes and let the failures sort of age. You’d be amazed how many crises can dry up and blow away six months later when they get back. Hell, he knows he’s not seeing the whole picture, but then, I don’t think he really wants to. It’s not like he doesn’t have problems of his own, like all those bozos in his department. This your first deployment?”

  “Well, not actually, although my first one was only three months long, when Brian was in the Med. But he could call—Europe, you know, they have phones. And it wasn’t wartime.”

  “Yeah, well, you want to keep track of when they go back to Subic, then.

  They can make a phone call back to the States from the base, although there’re only ten phones for all those ships. But if you’re stepping out, make sure you’re home for that week or so they’re in port.”

  Maddy felt a sudden constriction in her throat. “Stepping out?” she said weakly.

  “Hey, figure of speech. I was just kidding. You just don’t want to miss the one and only phone call you’ll get during the cruise, unless they get to Hong Kong. Soon’s he tells you when they’ll be in port—and it should be coming up pretty soon, a coupla weeks, I’d guess, then give him some dates to shoot for. And remember, they’re a day ahead, so they’ll call at two or so in the morning here. It’s expensive, but it’s nice to hear their voices, you know?”

  “Yes, I’m ready for that. Thanks, Angela. I’m glad I called you.”

  “Call anytime, Maddy. It’s good to keep in touch. The problems don’t get so big that way.”

  Poor woman, she had thought as she hung up. No mail.

  She would definitely follow up Angela’s suggestion about the number of letters. They lose one out of four? How would you ever know which one got lost, with six weeks of turnaround time? She would write him tonight, right after she had dinner. And tell him what—you’ve got a hot date for tomorrow night? She groaned and shook her head again, then went to change for tennis.

  By midday on Wednesday, she was a nervous wreck.

  Her supervisor in the accounting department had shaken her head when she had seen Maddy’s morning balance sheets, kindly suggesting that she might want to use a machine the next time. Maddy had used a machine, but her mind was only partially present for duty in the Bank of America. The other part, the worried part, was on Parker’s Place. She had stolen a few minutes to look up the address and then a few more to scan a map of San Diego they kept tacked to the back of a door in the bookkeeping offices. From the Balboa Park area, it was easy—down Route 163 to Highway 80, east for six miles, and then off on the College Boulevard exit to College Avenue. She had actually looked around the office to see whether anyone was watching her consult the map.

  She stacked the morning’s balance sheets on her desk, carefully arranging the edges, her mind drawing bright square lines around the next eight hours. Nine-thirty.

  Maybe she should call Mrs. Huntington, go over there tonight, tell her she needed company. Mrs. Huntington had often said that any of them could call anytime if they needed to. I need to do something, she thought. You need to see him again. You want to see him again. Damn him!

  He’s playing head games with me. Used to be your game, Missy. What she could not decide was whether she wanted to see him because he was that attractive or if she just wanted to win this little game once and for all.

  And just how, pray tell, will you know you’ve won? How does one declare victory with an Autrey, Just Autrey?

  She squirmed in her chair, her fingers unconsciously tapping the edges of the balance sheets into an ever neater stack, all the edges just so, straight, sharp, solid, longways there—damn it! She felt a wave of giddiness, as if her mind were perched on the edge of a cliff, watching the struggle below between her fireside and her heartside, and right now her heartside was scrambling to find safety in a cave somewhere. What is it about this man? Okay, he’s physically attractive, but so are a lot of men. He has an aura of danger about him, partly because of what he does, what he says he does, and partly because of how other men react to him.

  That’s exciting. He’s in control of himself when he’s focused on me, which suggests that he might be a very good lover. So it’s sex. I’m just horny, and this guy might be a white-hot wire when it comes to the bedroom. He’s nice, diffident, occasionally awkward, self-effacing, and, underneath all that, focused on me.

  He wants me. I’m sure of it. And I want him. There.

  Okay, so now we know what this is all about. It’s got nothing to do with Brian or the fact that I’m married and everything to do with the fact that I’m alone and here’s this powerful man who put one fingernail on my belly and lit up half the San Diego skyline.

  She leaned back in her chair, her eyes closed, a fine sheen of perspiration on her upper lip. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m Mrs. Brian Holcomb, church-married, ring on my finger, vows taken with no one objecting at the wedding. My husband is overseas, serving his country, even if great parts of it spit on what he does every night on the evening news. He’s doing the honorable thing. Why can’t I? I love the man. I like the man.

  He’s fun and he’s caring and he’s loving and he’s strong when he loves me. What’s this other half, this devil half that’s driving me to go to the flame like a moth, wings spread, legs trembling, around and around, back to this man, this Autrey, just because he asks nicely and can light my fires with one look. Is this what I did in college?

  I know it is. But those poor bastards were fair game.

  Maybe that’s the fascination with Autrey. Maybe I’m the game this time.

  “Mrs. Holcomb? Maddy? Are you all right? Do you need to go home, dear?”

  She had given her supervisor a quick smile and nodded emphatically. Yes, that’s exactly what she needed. Practically bolting from the office, she fought it all the way home, thinking up alternative plans: go see a movie
, go to the library, go for a drive. But in her belly, she knew.

  She was going to go home, wash her hair, pick out something provocative to wear, take her time with the war paint, and then go out there tonight to see what this was all about.

  At ten o’clock, she found a parking place just off the main drag, parked and locked the car, and sat there for a minute. The university district was so named because of San Diego State. The university sat up on the edge of a mesa overlooking the valley through which interstate Highway 80 ascended the foothills east of San Diego and headed for Yuma, Arizona. College Avenue contained the usual college town collection of bars, cheap restaurants, bookstores, laundromats, grocery stores, and dry cleaners.

  The sidewalks along the street were crowded with young people of every description, costume, and length of hair. Maddy smiled at their ardent efforts to be nonconformists, with most of the boys wearing exactly the same thing: faded jeans, loose shirts, sandals or shabby sneakers, headbands, granny glasses, and various kinds of Indian jewelry, as if there was a de rigueur, up-yours dress code for college students in honor of the Age of Aquarius. Many of the young women looked almost as if they were trying to be unattractive, with lots of Mother Hubbard dresses, baggy shirts, flopping, braless fronts, deliberately unkempt or frizzy hairdos, no makeup, and what looked like downright dirty clothes.

  From the shadows in the darkened car, Maddy shook her head, brought up as she had been to accentuate whatever attributes the Good Lord had provided.

  Attributes. Yes, well, and weren’t we dressed for trouble this evening.

  She wore a tight-fitting cream-colored skirt that came to just above her knees when she was standing, shiny white stockings, medium heels, and a peach-colored short-sleeved knit sweater over a pushup bra that very definitely accentuated the assets. She had fixed her luxurious hair to obscure partially the left edge of her face, then topped it off with a black velvet beret.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The sign for Parker’s Place was about ten doors back up the street. She waited until the crowd on the sidewalk had thinned out a bit before getting out, locking the door, and heading for the club.

  She had to keep her eyes lowered as she walked toward the club in order not to laugh out loud at the boys, who tried to stay in character as dedicated hippies while trying not to trip over themselves looking at her. Maddy knew she presented something of a college boy’s dream as she walked as fast as the heels would allow to Parker’s Place, wreaking havoc among the boys while drawing disdainful stares from all the Mother Hubbards, even the occasionally good-looking ones.

  Parker’s Place was long and narrow, decorated in a western motif. There was a crowded anteroom up front where a girl dressed up as an Indian princess, right down to braids and buckskins, was trying to sort out tables and reservations. Behind her podium was the entrance to the actual bar area, through which could be seen a long room of closely spaced tables, a sit-down bar along one wall and a tiny stage at the very back, where the group was setting up for the first set. Maddy caught the attention of the first man at the back of the crowd by pressing her front into his back and, when he turned, easing her way through the crowd, murmuring soft “excuse me’s” in her best Atlanta drawl as the men drew back to stare while they let her through, their dates rolling their eyes. Once in front of the podium, Maddy waited to get the hostess’s attention, then asked for the manager.

  “Is there a problem?” The hostess frowned.

  “Not at all, but I think he’s holding a table for a friend.”

  The manager solved the problem by appearing from the smoky haze of the bar, taking one look at Maddy, and beckoning her to come around the podium. The manager was a beefy young man with very short hair and a Semper Fi tattoo on his right biceps.

  “Maddy?” he asked as she stepped around the podium.

  “Yes.”

  “Damnation. I just lost twenty bucks. Bet Autrey that you wouldn’t show.

  After he described you, I thought he was connin’ me just to get a good table. C’mon. He’s up front, like he promised.”

  Maddy lowered her lashes, smiled, and followed the manager as they wound their way through the packed tables, creating something of a ripple movement of turning heads and a moving dip in the noise level as she went by. She gazed straight ahead and wondered why people were bothering to wait up front—all the tables were taken. And then she saw Autrey. He was standing there, practically in front of the stage, with a big grin on his face. He was wearing a flowing white long-sleeved silk shirt that draped from his wide shoulders and was open at the throat. The shirt was straight out of a Three Musketeers movie; she almost checked to see whether he was wearing a sword and sash. But instead, he was wearing tight, well-worn jeans, brown loafers, and a belt buckle with some kind of turquoise design worked into a matrix of silver.

  He continued to smile as she came to the table. He palmed the twenty from the manager without taking his eyes off Maddy. She smiled demurely and sat down.

  Autrey jabbed the manager on the shoulder; the manager shook his head and tipped him a one-finger, edge-of-the eye salute before heading back to the bar area.

  The singing group consisted of two men and one very good-looking young woman. There appeared to be more instruments than people, and the whole arrangement was barely able to fit on the stage. The singer was ready, but the other two musicians were making small noises, tuning amps and adjusting dials. The singer smiled and nodded at Maddy, who smiled back.

  Autrey was speaking.

  “Nice hat,” he said, emphasizing the word hat, as if the rest of the package was just okay.

  She laughed out loud as a waitress arrived with two glasses of white wine. She looked at the two glasses.

  “Pretty sure of me, Mr. Catches Crow?”

  “It’s Autrey, just Autrey. And these represent high hopes more than anything else.”

  “And the twenty-dollar bet—what did that represent?”

  “Revenge. Buddy said there was no way I could get a woman who looked as beautiful as I described you as to meet me anywhere this side of heaven.”

  Then it was his turn to laugh as she groped for a way around the compliment. Buddy appeared at the microphone at that moment and announced The Three of Us to enthusiastic applause. The group went right into their first song, and Maddy relaxed as she recognized that they were not only good but very good, the singer comfortable in her range and the musicians adept at making several black boxes sound like a seven-member rock group. Maddy concentrated on watching the singer, taking care not to look directly at Autrey while moving around in her chair just enough to let Mr. Smart Ass there get a good look—at the hat.

  As she sipped her wine and absorbed the songs, she tried to think about what they would talk about when the first set ended. She knew that she had lost control the last time she was with him, and that was not the way she liked to conduct relationships with men. That would have never happened when she was in college, unless she wanted it to. So what’s the game this time? Tantalize and then go home? Show him who’s in charge?

  What’s the point? He’s an attractive man; this is the second time you’ve gone out with him. All the other times you’ve indulged in cock teasing, there was an objective, something you wanted well over and above sex. So what is it you want from Just Autrey? She conjured up the melange of images she had of him, standing by the table, his long, lean body, the tight jeans, his fingernail edging across her stomach, the studied way he had of moving, the implied power, grace, and control. As a song hit a quiet spot, he was saying something.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “I’ve got something to tell you,” he replied, leaning forward, making her look at him. “I guess I’m going to get my chance to go see what it’s really like.”

  “What what’s really like?”

  “What I’ve been teaching these guys. I’m going over to nam.”

  She sat upright, barely restraining a loud ‘No!’ He saw it in her eyes and n
odded. “They figure I ought to see it firsthand, make me a better instructor, give me more credibility with the new guys and the other instructors.”

  “But you’re a civilian.” Because the music was still going, they spoke softly. She was having to lean toward him, faces nearly touching, her breasts on the table a few inches from his hand.

  “Yeah. But there are other civilians over there, from different government, uh, agencies, if you know what I mean. They dress you up in jungle gear; everybody looks the same.”

  “When?” Suddenly it was important. She felt his knee just barely touching hers under the table.

  “Two, three weeks. Scheduling’s not their strong point. They just told me to get myself ready, shots, passport, and they’d let me know.”

  The first set ended and they sat back in their chairs.

  Maddy was suddenly very thirsty; she finished her wine.

  He signaled the waitress to bring another round, but she changed hers to ginger ale, remembering her plan. After the applause, the level of noise in the room had risen precipitously, so she had to lean closer to him again to hear what he was saying. If he was wearing any cologne, she could not detect it.

  “It’s actually a pretty good deal,” he was saying.

  “This thing can’t go on forever, and I don’t know what I’ll be doing after Nixon shuts it down. But if I have some actual in-country experience, it will help me keep a job with the military after the war is over.”

  “How long will you be over there?”

  “Nobody can say right now. Probably until I say, I guess. Being a civilian, I can probably wrap it up when I want to.”

  She ran her finger through the ice cubes in her ginger ale, thinking about Brian, who was stuck on the deployment for seven months. Why was he telling her this? I’m shipping out, baby, so how’s about let’s get this thing going, a last fling at love before I face the hostile shores?

  “I’m very glad you came tonight,” he said, staring down at his own drink. “I really did want to see you again.”

  “Why?” she said, looking up.