"What in the hell are you going to do without me, Luth?" Bull said.
"Prosper, relax, and enjoy your absence. Now, Bull, here's how I think I'll handle Weber. I'll talk to Admiral Bagwell. He knows Larry Weber and he knows you. He outranks Weber and for some unknown reason he loves your ass."
"Baggie and I go back a long way together. He knows great leadership when he sees it. And Baggie ain't afraid to raise a little hell. I've seen him take a drink or two to feed that wild hair that grows up there where the sun don't shine."
"Bull, let Papa Luther give you a little advice."
Pulling up a chair, Bull sat down and said," Shoot, Luth."
"This assignment in South Carolina is a big chance for you. Somebody thinks the last promotion board blew it and this is your chance to prove him right. Don't screw it up with your old Corps, stand-by-for-a-fighter-pilot shit. That Boyington shit is dead. Let the young lieutenants play at that. You've got to start acting like a senior officer because I'm not going to be there to cover for you when you pull some of your shenanigans."
"Luther," Bull said, suddenly serious," I hope and pray I never start acting like a senior officer."
"Well, if you don't, Bull, you might have to learn how to act like a senior civilian. And it's up to you to choose which one you'd rather be. Now you're going to be C.O. of a strategically important squadron if this rift with Cuba heats up anymore. A lot of people will be watching you. Give it your best shot."
"May I have your blessing, father?" Bull said.
"I'm serious, Bull."
"You may not believe this, Luther, but I plan to have the best squadron in the history of the Marine Corps."
"I believe it, Bull. You can fly with the best of them. You can lead men. But you've got to become an administrator. A politician even."
"I know, Luther. I'll be good."
"When are you leaving, Bull?"
"Thirteen hundred."
"Your gear ready?"
"Affirmative."
"Will you give Susan a call when you get to Atlanta, Bull? She's down in Dothan, Alabama, with her folks and she sounded a little depressed in her last couple of letters. You could always cheer her up."
"I can't do that, Luth. I don't want to break up your marriage. Susan's always been crazy about my body and I don't want to torture her by letting her hear my John Wayne voice over the phone. No kidding, Luth, I'll be glad to call her. Any other last minute directives?"
"Give Lillian a kiss for me."
"Roger."
"Same for Mary Anne and Karen. Tell Ben and Matt I can still whip both their tails with one hand tied behind my back."
"I wouldn't mess with Meecham kids. They'll find a way to beat you."
"O.K., Bull," Luther Windham said, rising to shake hands with Bull. "Keep your nose clean and fly right. And remember what I said."
"Did you say something, Luth? I must have been having a wet dream."
"You son of a bitch. You're living proof of the old saying, 'You can always tell a fighter pilot, but you can't tell him much.'"
"I'm gonna miss you, Luth," Bull said. "It's been great being stationed with you on this tub."
"Well, we started out in the Corps and we finally got back together after nineteen years."
"With you a colonel and me a light colonel. You're living proof of another old saying, Luth. 'The shit rises to the top.'"
"Have a good flight. What time are you due in?"
"Tuesday at 1530, Zulu time. I got a hop to Wiesbaden. Then one to Charleston Air Force Base."
"Give that squadron hell in South Carolina. I'll take care of the admiral for you."
"Come see me when you get Stateside, Luth."
"You ol' bastard."
"You cross-eyed turtle-fucker."
"Adios, amigo.
"Sayonara, Luth."
And the two fighter pilots embraced fiercely.
Chapter 2
Ben watched for the plane. His father was coming home. For much of his youth, Ben had strained to see black and silver fighter planes coming out of cloud banks or winging down like huge birds of prey from heights where an eye could not go unless it was extraordinarily keen or the day was very clear. He had lost count how many times he had waited beside landing strips scanning the sky for the approach of his father, his tall, jacketed father, to drop out of the sky, descending into the sight of his waiting family, a family who over the long years had developed patient eyes, sky-filled eyes, wing-blessed eyes. As a child, Ben had not understood why he had to stare so long and hard into a sky as vast as the sea to cull the mysterious appearance of the man who had fathered him, the man who could do what angels did in the proving grounds of gods, the man who had fought unseen wars five miles above the earth. But Ben's eye had sharpened with practice and age. By instinct now, it responded to the slanting wing, the dark, enlarging speck, growing each moment, lowering, and coming toward Ben and his family, whose very destinies were fastened to the humming frames of jets.
Now, as he watched, Ben wondered how much his father had changed in a year or how much his father could change in a year or a lifetime. He lowered his eyes and looked around at his mother, his brother, and two sisters. All of them were looking up toward the north where the transport plane would come; the plane bearing the father who had flown off an aircraft carrier in the Mediterranean for a year. A sense of excitement flowed through the family like a common blood. Ben's mother stroked her hair with a nervous, raking motion of her hand. She caught Ben's eye and smiled.
"You look beautiful, Mama," Ben said, winking at her.
"Thank you, darling," his mother answered. "Get your shoulders back. You're slouching again. That's it. Now you're standing like a soldier. All right, children, let's say another Hail Mary that Dad's plane will have a safe flight."
"We've already said five Hail Mary's, Mom," Mary Anne Meecham said to her mother. "This is turning into a novena fast."
Lillian Meecham disregarded her daughter's objection and in a clear, lyrical voice filled with the soft music of southern speech, prayed to the Virgin," Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. "The voices of her children joined her in an uneven chorus that lacked some of the fire and fervor of the first five prayers for their father's safe and punctual return.
A steady breeze came from the south. The family stood huddled outside the control tower of Smythe Field, a washed-out naval air station outside of Atlanta, Georgia. A windsock at the end of the field, swollen with moderate gusts, pointed like an absurd finger past the control tower and to the far runway. As lifetime students of windsocks and their essential reliable messages, the family knew from which direction the plane would be coming, knew that planes and pilots were bound by simple laws of physics, and would land according to the wind. The windsock reminded Ben of one of his father's sayings," If you ever meet a man as truthful as a windsock, you have just met a hell of a man. "Then he would add," You've also met a real dumb ass."
Near the lone hangar, lethargic mechanics in grease-stained uniforms poked among the entrails of decrepit jets far removed from their vintage years. Three jets with their wings folded were parked like maimed insects awaiting rebirth among the tools and oils of the men who swarmed over the broken-open jet in the hangar. The hangar itself emitted a dark wet smell like a cave, and the pale, voiceless men who swarmed therein seemed imprisoned in the huge shade, grease-ruled men who worked on planes once a month when their reserve units were on duty.
"If Dad's plane crashed, we'd never forgive ourselves for not having said that one extra Hail Mary," Mrs. Meecham said.
"I don't really think it works that way, Mom," Mary Anne said.
"Well, I'm glad we said it anyway," her mother answered, eyeing the men working in the hangar.
"You can tell this isn't a Marine base. There's no spirit here. No esprit de corps."
"That's what I like about this base," Mary Anne said.
"What is that supposed to mean, young lady?"
"It's
relaxed here. Marines aren't good at relaxing."
"But they're the best at some very important things," Mrs. Meecham said.
"Like hitting," Ben said," they're great at hitting their kids."
"Ben," Mrs. Meecham said sternly.
"I was joking, Mom. That was just an attempt to add a little levity."
"I meant they're the best at waging war. You'll thank your lucky stars if this country is ever attacked. They're the greatest fighting force in the whole world."
"Let's say a Hail Mary for our lucky stars," Mary Anne said, suppressing a giggle.
"Hush your foolishness, Mary Anne," Mrs. Meecham said, lightening up and smiling. "Ya'll aren't serious about anything."
"I don't want to leave Atlanta, Mama," Ben heard his younger sister whine to his mother. "I'm gonna run away if I have to leave Atlanta."
"I know you don't want to leave, dumpling, but we must. Your father has orders," Lillian Meecham replied, her voice sad with understanding.
"I'll never see Belinda or Kate or Tina or even Louise again."
"Well be back for visits."
"That's what you said when we left Cherry Point," Karen answered.
"Well get back to Cherry Point someday."
"That's what you said when we left Camp Lejeune too."
"Well get back to Camp Lejeune someday," Mrs. Meecham said, her eyes hunting for her husband's plane again, her voice trailing off into a slurred whisper. "We'll get back there, I promise. Now help me watch for your father's plane."
"You're absolutely right, Karen," Mary Anne said to her sister matter-of-factly," you'll never see Belinda or Kate, or Tina or Louise again. They're as good as dead."
"Don't you start spreading dissension, Mary Anne. I want Dad's homecoming to be absolutely perfect."
"Yes, ma'am," Mary Anne said. Then in a whispered aside to Karen, she said," They're all dead, Karen. They're as good as dead. But don't worry, you'll make lots of new friends in this town we're moving to. Wonderful friends. Then Dad will get orders again and they'll all be dead too."
"Mama," Karen squealed," Mary Anne's trying to spread dissension."
Matthew, the younger brother, who had been monitoring the entire conversation, shouted to his mother," Hey, Mom, do you want me to punch Mary Anne?"
"If you punch me, midget, they'll be burying you in a match box that same night."
"Did you hear that, Mom? Mary Anne's teasing me about being small again."
"Mary Anne, stop that right now."
"You're not that small, Matt. You're practically a giant for a midget."
"I'm going to slap you if you don't hush."
"O.K., O.K., I'm hushing."
"You're lucky Mom stopped me, pig-face. Or I'd've had to hurt you bad," Matt said.
"Yeah, I was worrying about you jumping up as high as you could and hitting me on the knee."
"C'mon, Mary Anne, let's take a walk up the runway while we're waiting for Dad."
"A splendid idea, Ben," Mrs. Meecham agreed.
"That's true form, perfect brother. The Great Peacemaker. You rack up brownie points with Mom and maintain the image of the perfect son."
Ben and Mary Anne began to walk slowly to the northern end of the runway beside the wire fence that paralleled the strip. The voices of their family dimmed with every step. As he walked Ben looked for the plane again and listened for the old buzzing sound, the old familiar anthem of an approaching plane to announce the descent of his father.
"Do you see anything yet?" Mary Anne asked.
"Yes, I do," Ben said, a smile inching along his face. "I sure do see something. If my eyes aren't playing tricks," he said rubbing his eyes with disbelief," I see fourteen passenger pigeons, a squadron of Messerschmitts. Over there I see Jesus Christ rising from the dead. Mary being assumed into heaven. I see a horde of Mongols, Babe Ruth taking a shit, and a partridge in a pear tree."
"I mean, do you see anything interesting?" Mary Anne answered unemotionally. "By the way, Ben, how long have you been waiting for me to ask that question?"
"Oh, about eight months."
"I thought so," Mary Anne replied. "You have very limited powers of spontaneous thought. I knew you'd thought that up a long time ago. I maul you when it's just my mind against your mind."
"Baloney."
"You know it's true. I have a quicker mind and you just won't admit it."
"It might be a little quicker," Ben admitted, "but I want you to remember I can knock every tooth out of your head whenever I want to and there's nothing you can do about it."
"Big brave jock. Big, handsome, he-man jock. I admit you could do it. But I'd get you back."
"How?"
"I'd sneak into your bathroom and steal your tube of Clearasil. I figure that without Clearasil your pimples would multiply so fast you'd be dead within forty-eight hours."
"Your cruelty knows no bounds."
"Of course not, I like to win arguments. In fact, I always win arguments. Back to the subject—have you noticed how bad your face has been breaking out lately?"
"It's not that bad, Mary Anne. When you talk about it, I start feeling like a goddam leper," Ben said, slightly irate.
"I've seen lepers who look a lot better than you do. You know, Ben, if Jesus were alive today, I'd go to him as he preached beside the Jordan, and throw myself at his feet. I'd intercede for you. I'd say, 'Master, you must cure my brother of his maggot face. His name is Benjamin and he likes to be perfect and kiss ass. If you think you're working miracles by curing these lepers, Jesus, my boy, I'll show you a face that will make leprosy look like kidstuff. This will be the greatest challenge of your ministry, Jesus, to cure Ben Meecham, the boy whose face is one big goob."
A sailor with a transistor radio blaring from his back hip pocket passed near Ben and Mary Anne. The long, pure notes of a clarinet spilled out into the Georgia sunshine as Mr. Acker Bilk played "Stranger on the Shore. "The song ended, replaced immediately by Neil Sedaka's "Breaking Up Is Hard to Do. "Both of them stopped talking until the music and the sailor faded out of earshot.
"Ah, yes," Ben sighed, philosophically, "breaking up is hard to do."
"How would you know? You've never gone with anybody."
"Neither have you."
"That's what you know. Boys are constantly lusting after my body."
"Oh yeah! I've seen your body cause other emotions. Like nausea. But never lust."
"Let's talk about your nose for a while."
"I surrender. God, with you talking about my skin and my nose, you're going to make me sensitive about my looks."
As they began the long walk back to their mother, the heavy languor of the afternoon soaking into them, Ben studied his mother.
Lillian Meecham was a stunningly beautiful woman of thirty-seven. Time had encircled her softly, enriched and deepened her beauty as the years tiptoed past her. Her hair was long, a dark luxuriant red, swept to one side of her head and half covering her right eye, a haughty, insouciant mane that added a touch of ingenuous naughtiness to a face that otherwise had the innocence of a Madonna.
Her face was a reflection of many things; a sum of many transfiguring, even violent events. Her smile was joyous, but the joy was fringed with grief. Her lips were full and passionate, her nose, mischievous and arrogant. In her face, hardening experiences were registered in soft places. Pain was exiled to the nearly invisible lines shooting out from the eyes. Grief radiated in tight stars from both sides of her mouth. These wrinkles were the only indications that the face had suffered and that time had left at least a few footprints in passage. It was a kind face; a face that sons could love, husbands worship, and daughters envy.
Her body was firm, ripe, and full. It had rich curves that invited the secret scholarship of men's eyes. She had borne four children and suffered three miscarriages, but her stomach was as hard and flat as her hand.
From a distance of a hundred yards, Ben saw her speaking to Karen and Matthew. She spoke with her hands, entertainin
g her two youngest children with fluid movements of such consummate grace that it seemed as though light music should be filtering from somewhere in the dizzying late afternoon heat. Her fingers could speak individual words. They were long and slender; each nail was richly translucent and sculpted into the small white eighth moons where her file had worked: she had more vanity about her hands and her stomach than any other parts of her body.
But Ben had watched his mother change as the day approached for his father to return from his year's journey overseas. It was a universal law in military families that mothers could not maintain the strict discipline enforced by fathers to whom discipline was a religion and a way of life. When the military man left for a year, the whole family relaxed in a collective, yet unvoiced sigh. For a year, there was a looseness, a freedom from tension, a time when martial law was suspended. Though a manless house was an uncompleted home, and though the father was keenly missed, there was a laxity and fragile vigor that could not survive his homecoming.
Lillian Meecham was not a disciplinarian, but as the day of her husband's return neared, she knew instinctively that she had to harden into a vestigial imitation of her husband, so his arrival would not be too much of a shock to her children. His hand had traditionally been very heavy when he returned from overseas, so intent was he on re-establishing codes of discipline and ensuring that the children marched to his harsher cadences. For the last month she had been preparing them. She conducted unannounced inspections, yelled frequently, scolded often, and had even slapped Matthew when he argued about one of her directives. Tension flowed like a black-water creek through the family as the day of Colonel Meecham's arrival neared. The change of command ceremony took place the moment his plane arrived at Smythe Field. Lillian Meecham would hand the household over to her husband without a single word passing between them.
Mary Anne had a very different face from her mother's. Her face was wise, freckled, and touchingly vulnerable. Thick glasses diminished somewhat its natural prettiness. The gaudy frames of the glasses were cheap, drawing attention to features that needed no heavy emphasis. She was much shorter than her mother and seemed chunky and ungainly in comparison. Her breasts were large and full, but she dressed in loose-fitting tentlike clothes so as not to draw attention to herself. Because of the thick glasses, her eyes had a bloated appearance as though they were both trapped in a goldfish bowl. Her eyes were precisely the same blue as her mother's, but they nursed a wisdom and hurt strange to find in so young a girl. She opened a compact as she walked along and dabbed at several faded freckles. Never in her life had she liked the stories told by mirrors.