Mrs. Lieutenant: A Sharon Gold Novel

by Phyllis Zimbler Miller

  She should go to this meeting. See if she can contribute.

  The notice she spotted had been posted on the Officers Club announcement board: "Volunteers Needed to Help Out in Post Clinic." The notice invited interested wives to come to an introductory meeting at the post hospital at 1300 hours today.

  Whenever Wendy sees time noted in military terms she feels as if she has wandered into the pages of a futuristic novel. The phrase 1300 hours connotes space ships blasting off, captains synchronizing their wrist communicators.

  Wendy has read ever since she was little. Her mama encouraged her to travel through books. Once, at age 10, she asked her mama, "Why are all the girls white in the books? Aren't there any little black girls who have adventures?" Her mama said, "Sure, honey, but they just don't get written about." Then her mama added, "Just pretend the little girls are black."

  Wendy still wonders why she can't read about black women having adventures the way white women do. It's getting harder and harder to pretend the heroines are black.

  As she starts the car, she remembers there will be black patients in the clinic because lots of black enlisted men are stationed here at Ft. Knox. It's just in the officers' ranks that black men are not very prevalent. There’s one other black man in Nelson's AOB class. His wife's home having a baby and Wendy hasn't met him.

  Yesterday evening, feeling lonely for other blacks, Wendy suggested to Nelson that, when the post pools open on Memorial Dad, they swim at the pool where children are allowed – the one that families of both officers and enlisted men go to – so that she might meet some black women. Nelson said no. "I'm an officer and I want to be with my fellow officers."

  Wendy parks her car in the lot outside the post hospital. Why hasn’t she told Nelson where she's going? He might discourage her, perhaps say, "You think a bunch of whites want your help?"

  Determined to do something herself, she whispers “I think I can, I think I can” from the children’s book “The Little Engine That Could.” Then she walks into the hospital.

  Next to the door marked "clinic" a taped sign announces the volunteer meeting in the multipurpose room down the hall. Wendy hesitates outside the room, stalling before confronting a room of strangers, white strangers. She reminds herself she went to the coffee for new AOB wives. Yet she was rightfully there. Here she may not be wanted.

  "I think I can, I think I can."

  She enters a room where six white women sit around a long table. An older white woman standing near the tables approaches Wendy.

  "Good afternoon. I'm Mrs. Donovan." For perhaps the first time in her life Wendy is relieved not to hear a Southern drawl but a clipped New England accent. Aren't Northerners less prejudiced? "Have you come about the volunteer meeting?"

  "Yes, I have." She hesitates. "I'm Wendy Johnson."

  "Welcome, Mrs. Johnson. Please be seated. We'll just wait another moment to see if anyone else comes."

  Wendy sits down in a chair two away from the nearest woman. All the women wear suits. Following the dress code in “Mrs. Lieutenant,” Wendy has worn a navy blue cotton suit. She puts her purse down on the table. Has she sat in the wrong place?

  Wendy has never ridden a bus. Her mama or papa drove her anywhere she wanted to go and she walked to school. At college everything was close enough to walk to or she would take a taxi to shop in the nearby stores. She knows that in the South blacks sat at the back of buses for decades. In school she learned about Rosa Parks' refusal to give up her bus seat to a white man in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1955, resulting in a black boycott of the buses and ultimately the desegregation of those buses. Yet now Wendy feels as uneasy as a black dropped in from Mars might feel sitting down in the front section of any Southern segregated bus and then noticing the white sea of hostile faces.

  Mrs. Donovan takes the chair at the far end of the tables. "Let's start." She welcomes them all again, then asks everyone to say her own name and her husband's assignment at Ft. Knox.

  Everyone makes a point to state her husband's rank. All the husbands are officers. Perhaps there was no notice posted at the enlisted men’s club.

  Wendy explains that her husband is here for Armor Officers Basic.

  "You'll only be here a short time, isn't that right?" Mrs. Donovan asks. Mrs. Donovan's husband has the highest rank of the husbands of the women here. Is that what makes Mrs. Donovan in charge of this meeting?

  Wendy nods. "I'd like to help out. I really would."

  A dark-haired woman in a lime green linen suit asks, "How do you think you can help, Mrs. Johnson?"

  "My papa is a doctor" – she feels, actually feels, the surprise of the other women – "and I've watched him do simple procedures. I could ..."

  "Your father is a doctor?" the same woman asks.

  "He's an internist in South Carolina."

  "I'll be," the woman says, turning to the person next to her.

  Tiny droplets of moisture prick Wendy’s hands. See, Nelson would say, you asked for this, going to a meeting where you don't belong.

  Mrs. Donovan stares down the table at the whispering woman. "Please, ladies, let's have no extraneous talking."

  She turns to Wendy. "That's wonderful, my dear. I'm sure we can find something for you to help out with."

  Relief washes over her. Mrs. Donovan has included her, made her feel welcome.

  A half hour later Mrs. Donovan ends the meeting after explaining the workings of the clinic and the opportunities for volunteers. Then she passes around a sign-up sheet. Wendy records her name, address and phone number. In the column marked "preferred assignment" she writes "whatever will help most."

  Mrs. Donovan stands at the door saying good-bye to each woman. As Wendy comes up to her, she smiles and says, "We very much appreciate your offer. I will call you in a few days. I have something specific in mind for you."

  In her mind’s eye Wendy sees herself on her knees, scrubbing the clinic floors. Stop it! she tells herself. She'll just have to wait for Mrs. Donovan's call.

  If there is a call.

  **

  Later that day Wendy sits at the minuscule kitchen table in the trailer and opens a letter from her best friend in college. Assigned as roommates in their first year, Regina and Wendy also roomed together during the following three years. Regina remains at school, now doing graduate work in literature.

  "Dear Wendy," the letter reads. "I miss you terribly and hope that you are having a good time in Kentucky. Ginny and I have been getting along rather well this year in our graduate dorm suite. Tim sends his best and hopes that you'll be able to come to our wedding in December in Chicago."

  Wendy rereads the words "our wedding," then peers at her formal wedding photo in its silver frame propped on the coffee table. She purposely placed the photo in the middle of the small trailer to remind her of better times.

  Her parents saw to it that her wedding day was truly magnificent. Chantilly lace completely covered her dress of ivory satin, and she had a matching Chantilly lace mantilla. The dress' train stretched for several yards behind her, and two little girls in ivory satin dresses held it up.

  The ceremony took place in her family's neighborhood church with the reception in the church hall. Huge flower bouquets transformed a drab chapel and reception hall into a tropical paradise.

  Only blacks attended the wedding. Her papa had white patients, and her parents knew many of the whites in the town, but her parents didn’t want to chance any trouble at their only child's wedding. Peace and serenity were the reigning attributes of the day. And much joy.

  Afterwards she and Nelson drove to a hunting lodge loaned to them by a white friend of her papa's. They were welcome to the place for two weeks, with one condition: they couldn't tell anyone except her parents whose place they used.

  In the bathroom Wendy took off her going-away outfit – a checked sleeveless dress with matching coat – and slid her new silk nightgown over her excited body.

  She could feel Nelson's tension as she slipped int
o the double bed. Wendy had been brought up that respectable women didn't sleep with men before marriage. So here she and Nelson were – about to make love for the first time. A wave of nervousness rocked her stomach. Then Nelson put his arms around her and kissed her.

  The knock on the trailer door startles Wendy.

  At the door stands a thin woman perhaps in her late forties holding a plastic tumbler. "Hi, I wondered if I could borrow a cup of ..." The woman stops in mid-sentence.

  She's realizing that I'm black Wendy thinks. She'll probably decide she doesn't need to borrow anything.

  "... sugar." The woman holds up the tumbler. "I ... I brought my own container.”

  Wendy lets out her breath and smiles. Maybe the woman's hesitancy came from nervousness over asking a favor of a stranger. "Come on in," Wendy says. She opens the trailer's screen door and motions the woman inside.

  A white neighbor has entered her home for the first time. Wait till she tells Nelson.

  **

  Two days later Wendy sits in the passenger seat as Nelson drives their blue Ford Mustang. It's at graduation gift from her parents, a gift they made plain they hope her husband Nelson will live to enjoy.

  Every time she thinks of her parents and their adamant views against the Vietnam War she shivers.

  "We shouldn't be fighting that war for those people who don't even appreciate our sacrifices," her mother would say if a friend happened to mention Vietnam. "We should be spending our money and efforts here at home. There's plenty to fix in the United States."

  And her father would add, "It's not the same as World War II. We're not fighting to save the world from fascism."

  Neither one understands why Nelson would want to serve in the U.S. Army. They seem to have forgotten knowing that all male students at Wendy and Nelson’s college were required to take two years of ROTC. And once in ROTC Nelson became convinced that he should serve.

  Wendy watches Nelson drive, seeing him as she did the first time, singing a solo in the college glee club, his round face glowing, his voice echoing throughout the practice hall. She joined the glee club her second semester at college; she didn't have the confidence to join first semester. As her homesickness intensified, she wanted to recreate the joy that filled her whenever she sang in her church choir. As she watched Nelson perform, a thrill ran through her.

  She didn't have the courage to introduce herself. He came up to her.

  At this moment Nelson signals for a right-hand turn, and they pull into a parking lot in front of an industrial building.

  They need to get the most out of Nelson’s one-time $300 uniform allowance. Obviously the lower the price paid for each uniform, the further the allowance will stretch. So here they are, at a warehouse in Louisville reputed to sell officer uniforms for better prices than on the army post.

  The building's door opens into a huge room where ceiling fans churn the humid air. A mothball-and-lint aroma floats up from the endless rows of uniforms hanging from rods stretched vertically away from the door. Glass cases off to their right showcase brass insignia and other accessories. The colors of the rows make clear the location of the different uniforms. Cardboard signs indicate the sizes.

  "I'm going to get my dress blues first, then see how much money I have left for everything else."

  Nelson leads her over to the far right wall of blue and finds the section marked 42 regular. He takes out a set of navy blue pants with a yellow stripe down each leg and a lighter blue jacket.

  Within 30 minutes Nelson buys all the uniforms he needs along with the accessories, including a bowtie and shoulder epaulets for the dress blues.

  "We need gas," Nelson says when they are back in the car. “I don’t want to cut it too close.”

  Wendy buckles her seat belt and rolls her window down, hoping for a little limp breeze. “There’s a station on the next corner," she says.

  They pull up to a pump as an older man in a plaid shirt and blue jeans appears at the driver's side of the car. Wendy smells sweat and tobacco smoke as he peers in at them, then checks out the stack of uniforms laid neatly across the back seat with the dress blues on top.

  "Hey, boy, what ya doin' with that officer uniform?"

  Nelson's hands grip the steering wheel. "I just bought it for Armor Officers Basic training at Ft. Knox. I'm an officer."

  "Ya, boy? Niggers ain't officers. Niggers a' cannon fodder. That's what we'a fighting that war far. Rid us of some niggers."

  Nelson guns the engine and races out of the gas station. The man's laughter follows them.

  "I should have known better than to get gas up here," he says. "We have enough to make it back to the post.”

  She's nauseous and afraid of the answer, but she has to ask. "Nelson, what did that man mean about blacks as cannon fodder?"

  Nelson shifts the car into third gear. "He's just an ignoramus."

  She's heard this word before. It's Nelson's favorite for explaining away the insults directed at blacks.

  "Nelson, you're trying to protect me – just like my parents – but I'd really like to know what that man meant."

  Nelson honks at a pickup truck cutting in front of them, then says "Statistics."

  "What?"

  "Statistics. How many blacks getting killed in Vietnam compared to how many whites."

  She swats at a fly buzzing around her face. "What about the statistics?"

  "Some people think they're skewed. More blacks than whites proportionately in line units."

  "Line units?"

  "Combat units."

  Wendy's stomach protests as she remembers the Bible story about King David. He sent Uriah the Hittite into the front lines to be killed so that David could marry Uriah's beautiful wife Bathsheba. Was that horrid gas station man saying that whites send blacks into battle in the front lines to get rid of them?

  "Nelson? Can I ask another question?"

  "Honey, can it wait? I want to concentrate on the traffic. Let's listen to some music."

  Nelson snaps the radio on. Steam sings "Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye." Wendy chokes back the tears.

  **

  The next day Nelson asks "Why did you have to say yes to Sharon?" as Wendy places the hotdogs wrapped in cellophane into a straw basket.

  "Why shouldn't I have said yes? It was nice of Sharon to organize for the whole class a bring-your-own barbecue."

  Nelson stands up from the kitchen table. "It wasn't so nice at the Officers Club. It was noisy and crowded and hardly anyone spoke to us."

  Wendy closes the top of the straw basket, hooking the latch into the leather slot. "No one hardly spoke to you because you didn't speak to anyone. And besides, the music was too loud to hear anyone say much of anything."

  She takes the basket in one hand and his hand in the other, then leads him out of the trailer and into the car.

  Nelson says he wants to be with his fellow officers – won't let her go to the family pool when it opens in a week. But now he doesn't want to go to this picnic with his class members.

  It isn't just being with all the whites that makes him uncomfortable, she knows; he's also self-conscious about his lack of social skills. He didn't have the same opportunities she did. Large family gatherings with aunts, uncles, and little cousins running around constitute his idea of "getting together" with other people.

  Her parents warned her when she announced her intention to marry him: "Honey, Nelson's a nice enough young man, but he doesn't have any class, he's not very 'presentable.'" She didn't listen. He appealed to her in a way that the other boys her parents introduced her to back home didn't. Perhaps the appeal was that Nelson needed her and the others didn't.

  Nelson starts the car. "I just hope no one says anything about 'niggers.' It could really ruin my appetite."

  SHARON – VI – May 24

  Armed Forces Day observances at 23 military bases canceled due to planned anti-war demonstrations ... May 16, 1970

  “Protocol is simply good manners.” Mrs. Lieutena
nt booklet

  Sharon places the beef hotdogs and buns on a paper plate and adds a paper towel on top to keep off the flies. All the other hotdogs will probably be pork. And while she and Robert don't keep kosher, she doesn't eat pork. She'll have to keep a close eye on her beef hotdogs while they cook on the communal grill.

  This AOB class barbecue will be a chance to get together where there isn't a band so loud you can't hear yourself think let alone talk. Hansen's Apartments has an area with barbecue pits and picnic tables. Perfect for this.

  "Hurry up,” she says to Robert. “We don't want to be late to our own party."

  "One minute, honey. I'm just filling out a withdrawal slip for our savings account."

  "Why are you doing that?"

  Robert looks up from the kitchen table. "I need the money to buy more uniforms. I told you I haven't gotten my uniform pay voucher yet. The paperwork apparently keeps getting lost."

  "Don't you think that's odd?"

  "It's routine for the army to mess up."

  Sharon hesitates before speaking. “Robert, we agreed not to spend any of our wedding money."

  "I promise to replace it just as soon as my pay voucher comes through."

  A car enters Hansen's parking lot. With these thin windows and walls you can hear everything from inside the apartment. Sharon peers out the living room window as Wendy and Nelson get out of their car.

  Sharon hopes there won't be any trouble at the party. There's no telling what someone might say about blacks.

  Sharon well remembers the day at college when an edict was announced to the editorial staff of the “State News”: "From now on the correct description in our pages for Negro is 'black.' It will be used lower case. The word 'Negro' will no longer be used." And henceforth and forevermore no one used the word “Negro” in the pages of the college newspaper. One of her colleagues even wrote an editorial about the mandate. The editorial had been an eloquent plea to adapt one's oral speech to the written word.