“You both appear to be intelligent men,” Crowley says to be flattering but not truthful. “Name me a country in this world that is civil and prosperous that isn’t ruled by white people.”
Hinckley searches his brain and finds nothing. Rodgers nods and sips his beer. He doesn’t know too many countries.
“Exactly!” Crowley exclaims triumphantly. “You can’t and you never will because they are inferior, the blacks, the Jews, the Asians.
“You see, people like us, Caucasians, we are chosen. We are special. I don’t want to confuse you, but we are descendants of supermen, probably from Atlantis. We need to take back what is ours and restore peace and harmony to this wretched world.”
“Aren’t you, you know, a priest? Don’t you believe in God and stuff?” Hinckley asks.
“Not the God you’re thinking of, not anymore. You and me, we were deceived. The whole of Christianity was a plot conceived by the Jews. Notice how they are the ‘chosen ones’ in the Bible? That was their way of holding sway over those vagabond tribes, and even they were surprised at how quickly it spread. Notice how all religions are scrutinized by Christianity except Judaism? Christianity was started by Jews. As for me being a priest, well, it’s a job. I don’t know how to do anything else. Except change the world. Another beer?”
Crowley quickly drains his and Hinckley does the same. Rodgers has long since finished his. In his alcoholic stupor, Crowley’s words are sinking into his brain.
Crowley returns with three more tins. “I hope I can trust you guys, you know, to keep this conversation amongst us. By the way, did either of you grow up around black people?”
Rodgers shakes his head. Hinckley nods.
“Did you like them?”
They both shake their head.
“Did they make you feel uncomfortable?”
They both nod.
Crowley beams. He silently thanks the spirits that led him to these two young men. “They shouldn’t live among you and you shouldn’t live among them.”
“So what can a fella do?” Rodgers asks, breaking his silence.
“Change the world.”
“How?”
“Separate the races. White among white and black among black and yellow among yellow. Never shall they coexist… nor want to coexist.”
“It’ll never happen. Not in your lifetime, not in mine. The niggers are everywhere, and there are even Mexicans moving into Nebraska,” Hinckley says.
“It will happen, but it will take effort,” says Crowley. “A war effort.”
“Well, shit,” says Rodgers. “I ain’t fighting no war passing out paychecks. Sign me up.”
“It’s not that easy,” says Crowley gravely. “You first need to earn my trust. If I take you in, and you join me and the armies back in the States and around the world, how do I know you won’t betray me, you know, to the Navy?”
“We’ll swear,” says Hinckley, “on a Bible or something.”
“That won’t do.” Crowley desperately wants compatriots but is rightfully cautious of two so immature and obtuse. He had hoped to find more cerebral partners, but the gods apparently don’t have that in their plans.
“Come back tomorrow, and I will find a way to test your word. If successful, we will start straight away.”
Crowley calls a cab for the two young men, to take them the five miles back to base. They finish another beer and smoke another cigarette while they wait for the taxi.
After they leave, Crowley is so excited that he nearly has an erection, a sensation he hasn’t felt since Houston. Even then, it was seldom, only occurring when he heard debauched confessions or during that awkward moment when a child would sit on his lap and squirm, shame reddening his face to a crimson hue.
He has a plan of attack. He has formulated this plan since Houston, but the opportunity to carry it out never arose there. The opportunity has now presented itself to him in Scotland, in the Navy, as he had hoped it would.
The previous week, just before the Saturday Mass, a young black couple, a sailor and his wife, had entered his office.
The sailor himself was slight and very dark, dark skinned of a hue Crowley would expect to find only in Africa. The girl was very pregnant and very light-skinned; so light-skinned that Crowley decided she was of a mixed race origin.
Crowley was disgusted at the thought of her mixed ancestry, just another example of the races intermingling. Just another example of the dilution of the white race.
He was polite to the couple. They asked him to baptize their child when it was born.
“I’d be delighted,” he said. “Please, tell me, where do you live? I would like to check up on you from time to time, and see how you’re doing, with the child and with each other. I long for the time when priests made house calls. I think the world, the parishes, were better places.”
“We live in Lutherkirk, right in the village,” the young sailor replied. “I guess you could come and visit, though the place may be messy.”
“You should see mine,” said Father Crowley, knowing that would never happen.
As the young couple left his office to take their place in the pews, Crowley called them back.
He placed his hand on the lower abdomen of the mother-to-be and blessed the unborn child.
In his mind, he said a curse.
A chartered bus takes Chris and a small number of recent graduates to Pensacola and the various “A” schools on three different bases in that city.
He was paid just before leaving boot camp and allowed to cash his first check, about eight hundred dollars, more money than he has ever seen. He has no idea how to save it or spend it.
It is his first trip in public with his uniform on. He is wearing the white uniform with a short-sleeve shirt, white pants, patent leather shoes and the typical sailor’s hat, known as a Dixie cup. As he is an E-1, the lowest possible rank, he has no stripes on his sleeves and no service ribbons on his chest. He is a swath of solid white, not unlike an ice cream man. His shaved blond hair is just starting to grow back; too short to lie down, it stands straight up out of his pink scalp.
Still, despite the blandness of his uniform, he feels special. He feels official. He wears the uniform of an organization, and he feels like a part of something solid, like a family or a fraternity. He doesn’t feel quite as alone.
Even though his destination is not glamorous, Chris is traveling, going somewhere, to yet another place he has never been.
The trip is about seven hours, a large chunk of it on I-75, the same interstate that runs through his part of metropolitan Detroit. The scenery is uninspiring, flat and lush and green, but Chris spends every moment staring out the window, trying to take in all he can, noting the names of different cities he passes through, exit signs pointing the way to Ocala, Gainesville, Tallahassee.
Just outside of Orlando, the bus driver stops to let them buy beer and cigarettes to take on the bus. Florida’s drinking age is eighteen, and Chris is quite content staring out the window, sipping beer and nearly chain smoking. He is starting to feel more like a man as he becomes giddily intoxicated.
It is eight in the evening when he arrives in Pensacola, at the smallest of the three bases there that hosts an “A” school. The alcohol has worn off, and he is feeling the ill effects: tiredness, headache and thirst. He is sent to one of the barracks, a three-story brick structure with two wings that looks more like an apartment building or dormitory than what he expected; there is even a small courtyard with benches and planted flowers. There are young men and a few young women wandering around. The evening is warm, and the relaxed atmosphere is in direct contrast to the more intense one Chris left in boot camp.
He is checked into the barracks, thrust keys and linen and is given directions to his room and told to be at morning muster downstairs at 0700.
His room is on the top floor of the building, down a long, dark hallway.
He nervously opens the door, not sure who or what he will find inside.
&nb
sp; The room is small, not much larger than his bedroom at home. There are four beds in a row, and the room is divided by two desks, back-to-back in the middle. There are four closets built into the walls.
Three faces stare at Chris in disgust and discouragement. The room just got more crowded. Books and clothes and magazines are stacked upon the fourth bed, Chris’s bed.
Grudgingly, the three other sailors remove the items from the bed. Chris is allowed to deposit his linen and seabag and start unpacking. He introduces himself clumsily, offering handshakes that are received coolly by the other three. They appear to be more seasoned; their hair is longer and they are wearing civilian clothes, which is permissible after a month at the school.
One asks Chris where he is from, one asks Chris for a cigarette, and the other asks to borrow some money. Chris obliges all three. They warm up to him gradually, because of his gentle and compliant nature. Chris learns they are all southern, one from Alabama, one from Tennessee, and one from northern Florida. They have been at the school for nearly three months and are almost done. They are all headed to ships out of Norfolk; two are going on destroyers, one on a carrier. Chris is jealous and also excited. He is getting close to the real Navy. He asks them questions about what to expect and the places he can go.
After Chris unpacks and makes his rack, his roommates suggest a trip to the enlisted men’s club. They know Chris has money in his pocket.
They call him “boot,” the term for newly arrived recruits.
They take Chris to the club. It is full of many young men and, again, only a few women. Chris gets very drunk and stands alone while watching his roommates talk to people they know. They don’t introduce him to anyone. He will get drunk many times before leaving Pensacola.
He spends over a hundred dollars by the time the evening ends.
After a week, he starts to feel more comfortable, although he is wary of his roommates. He makes one close friend from his own class, a boy named Ben Mahler, who is from Staten Island, New York. Like Chris, Mahler is an outcast back home. Both are young men without current or past girlfriends, non-athletic, and introverted. They drink in the base club and wander to some bars off base, and talk mainly about the future and what the Navy might bring. Chris is fascinated by Mahler’s accent, the New York dialect that he has heard in so many television shows and movies. Mahler is obsessed with Woody Allen movies, and he can relate every aspect of his life to a scene in a particular movie. Chris lets him talk, even though he is not in the least interested in the work of Woody Allen. He finds it too cerebral, too weird.
The training isn’t effortless. Chris is required to learn Morse code. He learns how to send it and receive it at an increasing speed as the weeks progress. It is tough at first, and some can’t do it. They are removed from the school and sent directly to a ship without a skill, or rate, as the Navy calls it. They’re the ones on the ships who swab the decks, scrape and repaint the hull, and all the other worst imaginable jobs the Navy has to offer.
Chris pretends that the Morse code is music. He finds a sort of rhythm, tapping his fingers and his feet to the beat of each individual letter. He actually does quite well and is given a letter of merit for being the most proficient in his class.
He had never done well in school as a child. He feels proud in a new way, proud of being tops at something, a feeling that he’s never had.
He loves the Navy, the work, the structure, the freedom to do what he wants when off-duty. He loves the look of the uniform. And he loves the thrill of the future and the promise of all the places he will go.
His friend Mahler doesn’t fare so well. He can’t comprehend the code, and as a result of his frustration, he decides he hates the Navy. He chooses not to conform. He leaves his uniform wrinkled, his face unshaven, and his hair too long. With one week to go of the twelve-week course, he is summarily sent to a carrier out of San Diego as a deckhand. He will probably spend his whole enlistment in that fashion, without a rate, without rising past the rank of a lowly seaman.
Towards the end of school, Chris is promoted to E-2 and given stripes. Finally, his uniform isn’t a blank page anymore. He also receives his first duty station. He is disappointed; it isn’t a ship. Shore duty. Naval Communications Station, Lutherkirk, Scotland, United Kingdom.
He hadn’t given much thought to the possibility of not going to sea. It was pretty much assumed, especially for a first duty station. At first, it leaves him puzzled.
He goes to the base library and studies atlases and encyclopedias and finds the spot on the globe. His future home.
It is far from Detroit and a lot of other things.
Chris is granted two weeks of leave before he is sent to Scotland. Because it’s his home of record, the Navy gives him a one-way ticket to Detroit from Pensacola, and then from Detroit to Scotland.
He will be home for Christmas.
Excited, with just a week left in Pensacola, he calls home to let his mother or father know he is on his way. He hasn’t talked to them since he left for boot camp, and though he feels ignored, he still loves them and misses them a little. He wants them to see him in his new uniform. He wants to scan their faces for a look of pride when they gaze upon him.
The phone rings and rings, but no one answers. He makes several attempts over the next few days, but no one answers. He is disappointed, but not surprised. His mother is probably out with god knows who, his brother stoned, and his father lethargic in the basement.
He drafts a letter and sends it priority, hoping it will reach Detroit sooner than he does. He gives them his arrival time, the airline, and all the necessary information they will need to pick him up from the airport.
He gets paid just before leaving, and he is given a travel allowance and the pay he would miss while on leave.
He heads for Detroit with a thousand dollars in his pocket. Suddenly, he feels very adult.
Again, he is thrilled by traveling, even if it is a return to familiar territory.
He dons his dress blue uniform for the flight home. That uniform is referred to as the “cracker jack” due to the similar dress of the character on that box of candy. His uniform bears two stripes and the insignia of his rating, a feather cutting diagonally over radio waves.
The flight to Detroit is interrupted by a change of planes in Atlanta, and Chris nearly gets lost in that very large airport. The shuttle trains and the crowds daunt him.
He makes it to his plane. There is a warm feeling at the base of his stomach as the plane taxis into the gate in Detroit.
There is no one there to greet him.
He scans the cluster of people at the gate, looking for first his mother and then his father, but no one is there. He waits, hoping, assuming, someone will come for him. An hour passes. Dejectedly, he finds the baggage claim and retrieves his garment bag for his dress uniforms and his sea bag, which contains everything else he owns.
He tries phoning his parents’ house, but still there is no answer. He rings his uncle, his father’s brother, but no one answers there, either. It’s four in the afternoon, and he assumes everyone is at work.
For the first time in his life, Chris hails a taxicab outside the airport and heads home. The Detroit airport is west of the city, and Chris lives in a northern suburb. The cab fare is over forty dollars. Chris is stunned at first, but then he realizes he is a man of means. He gives the driver sixty dollars.
There is a for sale sign in front of his house. There is a SOLD sticker splashed on the face of it.
Confused, Chris leaves his luggage on the front lawn, not caring that it sinks into nearly six inches of snow. He looks inside the front window.
Relieved, he still sees the furniture he has known most of his life.
But the house has been ignored. The walks haven’t been shoveled; only a footpath beaten into the snow going from the driveway to the front door is passable without feet getting wet.
Chris is wearing his patent leather shoes, and snow has already gotten inside them,
saturating his socks. He tries the front door; it is unlocked. As he enters the house, the warm air fogs his glasses. He wipes them off with the bottom of his jumper.
Inside, he finds his mother sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette, smiling in a way he hasn’t seen her smile in a long time. She is not alone; leaning against the kitchen counter is a large, broad-shouldered man in a sweatshirt, blue jeans, and dark, worn work boots. His hair is cut short, almost like Chris’s, and he has stubble on his cheeks and his chin. Chris notes his youthful appearance; he would guess him to be about twenty-five.
“Hey, Chris. Sorry about missing you, but I just opened your letter a minute ago. I haven’t been here in a few weeks. I’ve been staying with Nick,” his mother indicates the young man leaning against the counter with a nod, “giving that damn father of yours a chance to get his crap out of here. We have until January 3rd to get our stuff out, and he still hasn’t done it yet.”
Chris turns pale. He knew his mother dated, but not someone so young. Plus, the house is being emptied. His family is obviously moving. He sits down at the kitchen table and doesn’t say anything.
“Look, honey,” says his mother, a woman of about forty-five, short, slightly overweight with brunette hair that is dyed darker than its natural color, nails manicured, rings on her fingers, bracelets on both wrists and wearing a tight-fitting sweater and tight jeans, “I know you’re upset. I was hoping your father would write to you and explain everything, but I guess he didn’t, or you wouldn’t be here. We hung on as long as we could, and we agreed years ago we wouldn’t split up until both of you boys were finished with school. Well, that’s happened, and it’s time to move on. Your brother moved in with a friend from work a few weeks ago, and your father is moving in with your Grandma and Uncle Steve. Nick and I are moving to Phoenix tomorrow. Detroit is dead; there’s nothing here for us. Nick’s in construction, and they’re building like crazy in Phoenix. He’ll get a job like that,” she says with a snap of her fingers. She walks over to Nick and leans against him. She holds his hand, letting Chris know that she is bonded to Nick, not to her family.
The Trinity Page 4