The Edge of Honor

by P. T. Deutermann

  She led him through a third set of doors into yet another pool room. In this one, the water was still and there was no steam. When he touched a toe to sample the temperature, he found it to be cool. There seemed to be more light in this room, and this time the girl stayed.

  He noticed she was holding a large white towel in her hands. He submerged himself a couple of times to cool off and then, aware that she was waiting, he came out.

  She stepped behind him and wrapped his midsection in the towel in three deft movements, then headed for the final set of doors.

  They turned right, walked down a small carpeted hallway, and into a square room about the same size as the pool rooms. It had wooden walls and was carpeted in some kind of matting. Two overhead fans turned very slowly above a stainless-steel massage table in the middle of the room.

  There was a small tray table on wheels alongside the main table and there were four smoked glass bottles on it. The massage table was padded on the top and had a single white towel rolled into a tight log on one end to serve as a pillow. She indicated that he should get on the table, which he started to do, except that he did not know what to do with the towel. She solved the problem for him by taking it off and, once he was lying facedown on the table, draping it demurely over his buttocks.

  He lay there for a few minutes, his muscles relaxing even more, his eyes closed, the light downdraft from the fans drying off his skin. He didn’t hear the girl return until she was standing behind him and opening the bottles.

  He had never had a massage in his life and his skin tingled with anticipation. She started on his back, standing by his hips and reaching up to stroke the long muscles of his upper back, then smoothing the skin down along his flanks. Brian wondered what his body looked like. He had done all the compulsory athletics at school yn and had even fooled with weight lifting for a while, but he had not done much since then. If anything, he was probably a little skinny after the long line period out in the Gulf and those torturous midwatches.

  Her fingers were piled in a fragrant ointment and they probed deeply, maintaining a sinuous rhythm from his neck down to the small of his back. He put his head to one side on the towel, his arms crossed under his chin.

  He felt drowsy but did not want to miss any of the wonderful sensations.

  Her hands were competent and strong, much stronger than he would have thought possible from such a tiny thing.

  Then she changed position, moving around to the head of the table so that she could reach over his head and down his back. As she reached, he was aware of the warmth of her body inches from his arms and he detected a faint perfume. That perfume, he had smelled it once before. He wondered. Moving very slowly, he tilted his head up slightly and cracked open one eye. A drape of diaphanous white cotton gown filled his vision.

  Holy shit.

  Definitely not the servant girl. She was too big, too strong. My God, could it be—

  “Relax, Brian. The massage does not work if you are tense.” There was a hint of amusement in her voice.

  “Josie?” he said, his voice slightly strangled because of the position of his head.

  “Straighten your neck, Brian.” She took his head in her hands, brought it around so that she was holding him, her fingers against his cheeks.

  “Yes, that’s it. Rest your chin on the tips of your fingers. Just so.

  That is much better.”

  Boy was it. As she reached over and down, the top of her mons rose above the edge of the table, the vision of her nakedness swimming into his face and then away, her creamy skin shimmering through the cotton gown.

  The curve of her hips filled his peripheral vision and he felt himself stirring under the towel. Then she started working the back of his neck, stepping back slightly from the table and giving him a fuller view of her lush body, lovingly enfolded, in the gossamer embrace of the gown, tantalizing him as the translucent material gathered and relaxed with her efforts. Then she took his right arm in her left hand, held it straight out, and turned herself around so that she could pull the muscles in his arm, stroking them from the shoulder to his fingertips with her right hand, pressing her buttocks against the edge of the table, letting his forearm barely brush against her right breast. By the time she had repeated the procedure with his left arm, he had to restrain himself from touching her, but he sensed that, whatever was going on here, it was not yet time for touching.

  She folded his arm back under his chin and walked around to the tray table, where she replenished the oils on her hands. Then she moved to the opposite end of the table, where she began to massage his feet, left first, then right, gripping and smoothing. He wanted to see her, wanted to turn around, roll over, and look at her, but he knew he couldn’t, not yet. And he suddenly realized that rolling over was going to be a protuberant maneuver, a fact that probably was not going to come as a surprise to the lady. She started on his legs, reaching up his calves, rolling her hands on the back of his knees, and then higher, strong fingers searching out the major muscles, holding, weighing, and then pressing down and along the full length of his limbs. Then she was moving again, back to the tray table and then back to the head of the table.

  She stood before him once again, took his hands in hers, and indicated that he should roll over. He complied, the towel deserting him. With his hands tightly held in hers, he was not embarrassed. She made an “mmm” of appreciation and then placed his hands flat under his hips. She poured warm oil on his chest and began to stroke the front of his body, leaning over him farther and farther, her breasts heavy beneath the fabric, settling lower and lower to envelop his face and barely brush his chest.

  His lungs were filled with the scents of her, her perfume, the salty tang of perspiration, and something far more elemental. When he thought he couldn’t stand another minute, she stepped back, shed the gown, and then came around to the side of the table and mounted him, taking him inside in one smooth, exquisite movement that brought him immediately to climax. As the breath shuddered out of him, he reached for her, but she put his arms back, pinning them under his hips again.

  When he was finally still, she began to move her hips, gradually restoring him while lifting her weight from his body until their only contact was where their cores connected, a continuation of the massage by a less familiar but no less effective channel, until he sensed that her control was finally beginning to slip. He opened his eyes and looked at her face, her eyes opened but unseeing, her mouth parted, and her breathing quickening. He recognized the moment, and this time his arms came out and would not be denied. He pulled her face down to his and kissed her lips and her mouth while taking over control of the movement, moving harder and faster now, pulling her down and into him, his lips glued to her mouth. As he felt her going over the edge, he arched his back and doubled the rhythm until she cried out and collapsed on top of him, her breath coming in great heaving sobs as her limbs dissolved and she seemed to melt.

  Afterward, they lay entwined on the table for some time, he stroking her back and calming her, both of them trying to regain their breath. For the first time on the cruise, Brian’s mind was perfectly clear, the pumice of fatigue gone from those seemingly permanent pockets behind his eyes, all of his apprehensions about career and promotion kicked into a mental corner, where right now they seemed to belong. He searched his heart for the expected strands of guilt over betraying his wife and found none. Maybe later, but not now. Not during this perfect here and now, joined with this exquisite woman who had coiled him up like a spring with just her hands, released him, and then done it again long enough and well enough for him to be able to send her over the mountain when her time came. He had never known what satisfaction could be had from bringing a woman to such pleasure. Maddy in all her days with him had never come like that, and a part of him wondered why that was so.

  But she was moving again and he closed his eyes and stopped thinking about Maddy.

  San Diego The afternoon after the aborted phone call from Subic, she ca
me home from the bank an hour early, just to get out of there. The accounting department was so dreadfully dull, she thought she would scream by 3:00 p. m., so she had just gathered up her purse and left.

  The supervisor had been in a meeting that was supposed to last until 5:00 p. m.; Maddy hoped that it would—she had been pushing the limits of that nice lady’s patience. Once home, she looked through the mail, found a letter from Brian, and, for once, didn’t open it at the front door.

  After talking to him last night, this morning, whenever the hell it was, whatever was in the letter would be very definitely old news. She decided to save it, an unopened treat, for a day when she hadn’t had mail for a while.

  She went into the bedroom, shucked her clothes, and got out her tennis outfit. It was a one-piece short white skirt and halter top number with a built-in bra, under which she wore cotton underwear and white tennis panties.

  The skirt was pleated and was probably about two inches shorter than it had looked when she bought it.

  White tennis shoes and short white socks completed her outfit, along with a bag for her Kramer and a couple of cans of tennis balls and a towel.

  She played just about every day at the public courts in the park across the street from the apartment. She could usually rustle up a set with one of the women who showed up every day around five. She deflected the male mashers by pretending that she couldn’t keep up with men players and was waiting for a girlfriend. She had one other tennis dress, which Brian had bought her in the Exchange, but the color was a vile lime green. She wore it only if he was joining her on the courts, and there wasn’t much chance of that these days, was there?

  She glanced at her watch. It was a little early, but then again, the end of daylight saving time was darkening the days about an hour sooner, so a little more daylight wouldn’t hurt. There was always the backboard until someone showed for a game. She tied her hair back with a large barrette, grabbed her keys, and started out the door, when the phone rang. She put her stuff down and answered it. It was the exec’s wife, Barbara Mains.

  “Maddy, I’m putting together a scratch potluck for tonight. We’ve got most of the wives who can come, or at least those who can get baby-sitters. Honestly, that’s a real chore these days—you don’t know of a good one, do you? But of course, you don’t live near me. What am I thinking. Anyway, my house, sevenish?”

  Maddy hesitated. She had no real reason not to go, but all of a sudden she didn’t want to. Didn’t want to see the rest of the wives, or talk Navy, or listen to the latest kinder crisis from the diaper-and-tricycle set. Maddy thought the exec’s wife was a sweet lady, but Barbara was one of those flaky Southern California blondes who often appeared to have misplaced their trail of bread crumbs while tripping through the magic forest.

  “Barbara, I’ve got a tennis match starting at five thirty, and that usually goes for an hour and a half. Then I’m probably going to take a shower, nuke a TV dinner, drink some wine, and go to bed. But thanks for calling.

  Another time, okay?”

  “Oh, sure, Maddy. It is short notice. No big deal. A bunch of us were just really bored, you know, Friday night and everything? But Mrs. Huntington said to be sure to call you, to be sure to call everyone, actually— didn’t want anyone to feel left out, you know?”

  “Right, Barbara. Thanks. Say hi to everybody. Bye now.”

  Maddy trotted across the street in front of the apartment building and into the public park that fronted the renowned Balboa Zoo park on the other side. The park was about six blocks by three in size, with softball diamonds, ten tennis courts, and even a boccie lawn at one end.

  Grand old eucalyptus trees stood everywhere, above lots of grass and graveled walkways. It was a very pretty oasis among the parched hills of Southern California, and one of the main reasons they had taken the apartment. Maddy crossed the park, threaded her way through some energetic Frisbee teams, ignoring the bold looks and a wolf whistle, and set up shop at one of the two backboards on the south end of the courts.

  The courts were filling as she arrived, but none of her regular partners had shown up yet. She warmed up and then began working on her serve. She had the form right but not enough power, and for some reason, she had been chunking balls about six inches below the net line for about twenty minutes when a voice interrupted her.

  “Look over the net after you hit it, then the balls will go over.”

  She was bending over to retrieve the returning ball, forgetting about the skirt, and she straightened up quickly and turned, to find Autrey standing by the bench that had her bag on it. He was smiling as usual, and she felt a sudden warmth in her cheeks. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt that had been hacked into a vest, a pair of loose khaki shorts that might have been swim trunks at one time, and some dirty old tennis shoes with no socks. He leaned one arm on the back of the bench, his tanned body loose and lanky, almost insolently posed, and yet poised to move if he had to. She looked at him for a long moment, her racket held in both hands, before walking over from the back of the backboard court.

  “You’re a tennis expert, too?” she asked.

  “No expert. But I’m tall enough to do some damage, especially on the serve. If you can win the serve, you don’t have to win the point.”

  She handed him the racket and the ball, nodding sideways with her head to show her what he was talking about. She was working hard to keep her mind in neutral.

  He grinned again, took the racket, grunted in approval at the wooden Kramer, walked to the baseline, and bounced the ball a couple of times.

  Then he set himself, threw the ball impossibly high over his head, put the racket back between his shoulder blades, waited for a fraction of a second, and hit it so hard that she could barely see it go, not focusing on it again until he was scooping it off the court. The ball had hit the board hard enough to attract the attention of the players in the near courts. Then he did it again, once more producing a resounding whack on the board. He scooped up the ball and held on to the racket.

  “Height is what does it. Long arms. You’ve got the form right, but you’re not tall enough to do a power serve. You need to be tricky instead. Let me show you?”

  He squared his shoulders; the movement seemed to make every muscle in his arms and legs move. At that instant, it wasn’t about tennis anymore.

  She knew if she closed the eight feet between them, let him stand behind her and position her body, and then work her arm through the serve, it wasn’t going to stop there. She hesitated, almost forgetting to breathe, and waited for him to shamble and grin, take her off the hook. But this time, he didn’t do it. He turned instead to face the backboard again and continued to talk, instructing an invisible person by his side, explaining where the feet went, how to turn and throw it while positioning the racket, how to substitute control for power, while she stood behind him, her hands clenched in front of her, trying not to watch the muscles of his upper back as he set the racket or the way his legs tightened up when he hit the ball. He kept talking, his voice steady, unexcited, mesmerizing her until she found herself stepping forward, getting closer until he sensed she was there, and then letting him put the racket in her hand, adjust the grip, and show her the moves.

  She could smell the fine mist of perspiration on his face, an intensely male scent, and waited for him to close in from behind. But he didn’t do it. He stood just outside of her space, not touching anything but her hand and her elbow, forcing her finally to concentrate on what he was saying and not what she was feeling.

  It went on for about forty-five minutes before she began to tire, some newly used muscles in her arm and shoulder complaining. But he had shown her something about serving, and she had been hitting consistently into a difficult backhand corner by the end of the lesson. They sat together on the bench afterward, she sharing the towel with him as she talked about how hard she had to work at tennis. She was perspiring by then and her hair felt like a damp mop on the back and sides of her head.

  But
after fifteen minutes, the sun slipped behind her apartment building and suddenly it was cool again. She wanted to reach for her sweater. She was dying for something to drink.

  “So when do you leave for Vietnam?” she asked, draping the small towel over her thighs.

  “I think in two more weeks. I finished up with my last class of new guys today, and the training schedule is blank after that. I may go do some weapons training up at Pendleton next week. I don’t know yet.”

  “How do you feel about it? I mean, the news is full of talk that it’s going to be over soon, that we’re going to pull out.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I think there’s going to be a lot of talking first. The Corps, the military, hasn’t forgotten Tet; that was just last year. It was a surprise, but we kicked their asses for it, and the people I work for still think we can win it on the field. I think it’s going to be interesting times for a while longer.”

  She rubbed the top of her thighs with the towel absently.

  “I sometimes believe the antiwar people have it right, that this is a hopeless cause that we have no business being involved in—if only because the people we’re supporting don’t really care.”

  “They care, the ones who have to live there. The generals, the ones with Swiss bank accounts and French wives, they don’t care. But there’re people over there, people who will have to stay there if the Communists win. They care. But it’s not the politics. It’s just me, I guess. The way I am and what I am. Hell, I want to go.

  It’s what I do. I want to see how good I really can do it.”

  She nodded this time. That was more like it. It was what he did, just like deploying and going to sea was what Brian did. It was simply the way men were. Women were a part of their life’s experience but would never be the objective of their life’s experience. A breeze swept across the courts. The people playing welcomed it, but Maddy shivered.

  “Time for you to go in,” he said.