Saturday morning. Back in his room, after his self-assigned early swim, Dan couldn’t resist the siren song of his rack. He asked Scherow to run the morning come-around, and crashed.
When the ten-minute call went, he woke groggy and sweating. It had to be ninety degrees. Through the open window pulsed the ominous drone of millions of cicadas. He lay disoriented for a moment, then bounded off his bunk, suddenly eager.
He was picking up his car today. And, not only that … Mignon was meeting him in DC, and she’d agreed to spend the night with him.
Saturday classes went by in a nodding blur. By noon meal most of the tables were nearly empty. The second class and first class had liberty after their last Saturday class.
Back in his room, he grinned as he changed into chinos and a short-sleeved madras shirt from Peerless. He wavered between gym shoes and his class shoes, and decided on the black leather.
The seller lived in Arnold, across the river. The MG was in the front yard when Dan’s taxi pulled in. A luscious dark green. Freshly waxed, it gleamed in the sun. He stood admiring it, and the emerald lawn that sloped down to the river behind the big, obviously well-cared-for house. A sailboat lay moored at the end of a long pier.
He rang the doorbell and handed the owner, an old guy with a pointed beard, a check for his down payment. More than he’d figured on, but the seller was cool with getting the rest by the end of the month. Until then, he’d keep the title, and Dan would house the car there, in the guy’s garage, until he rated parking in the Yard.
“Want the top on today?” the guy said, looking Dan up and down.
He checked the sky. “Is it gonna rain?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Then I’ll take it without. Sir.”
“Sir? Heh heh. Well, enjoy her,” the old guy said, handing him the keys. “The engine hesitates if you hit the gas too hard. But keep up with the maintenance and oil, and she’ll get you around.”
Dan climbed in. It felt strange and new. His first car. He patted the driver’s-side door, fitted the key, and fired it up. Depressed the clutch, and ran through the gear changes in his head. He’d hardly ever driven before, except his uncle’s station wagon. He’d scraped a telephone pole and had to mow lawns all summer to cover the repairs.
So, take it slow … he slammed it into first, let up on the clutch, and the car bucked to a stall. Grimacing, he tried again.
He rolled out of the driveway and up the hill. Braked at a stop sign and turned onto Ritchie Highway. Steering cautiously, he eased up to thirty. Thirty-five. The motor purred. The wind ruffled his hair. He flashed on the house again. The boat.
Maybe someday he could have a place like that.…
Beltway traffic sucked. Trucks kept cutting him off, bulling over into his lane. A thicker coat of wax, and the rig would have sideswiped him. His hands were shaking on the wheel by the time he got to Mignon’s college. The old stone pillars braced the gate like two plebes at rigid attention.
“Dan, you’re late. I was getting worried.”
She had a sweet smile, and she seemed to care about him. Mignon M’Naughton was petite, blond, and cutely pretty in a light blue summer dress that looked like silk, a paisley scarf, and the sleeves of a knit sweater over her shoulders. She was majoring in education and planned to teach elementary school. They’d met at one of the Academy dances popularly known as Pig Pushes or Tea Fights. He liked her, but he wasn’t sure it was going anywhere. So many mids got Dear John letters that The LOG ran them as a regular column. So far she’d allowed him deep kissing, a brief exploration of her breasts, and a hand dipped inside her panties in the parlor of the drag house on Randall Street.
She looked the car over. “So, this is it?”
“Like it?”
“It’s cute, but … Dan, what did this cost? Can you afford it?” Frowning a little, she slid her overnight bag into the back seat. Tentatively, as if it might be repossessed along with the vehicle.
“No worries. I’ll be getting an ensign’s pay come June.” He helped her in; she seemed to appreciate gentlemanly attentions like that.
They were nearly at the hotel when traffic slowed, clotted, and stopped dead. She sat patiently for a while, hands folded in her lap. Finally she smiled at him. “Do you still have my picture in your hat? The one of me at Virginia Beach?”
He grinned at her. She did look good in a swimsuit. “I’m the envy of every plebe in the company.”
“Something’s going on,” she said, craning to look down the avenue. “Oh yeah! Some of the girls were going. It’s the march, today.”
“March?” He blinked, uncomprehending. “Uh, I get enough marching, thanks. What if we—”
“Just for a minute. Please?” She turned a sweet pleading look on him.
Okay, whatever … He spotted a space down a side street, locked their overnights in the trunk, and followed her down the avenue.
Toward a clamor of shouting. A pulse of cheers, like a pep rally, but with a menacing undertone. They edged between black-and-white pedestrian barriers. A pair of uniformed cops scowled at Dan when he nodded to them. Then looked Mignon over, with obvious appreciation.
When they came out on Pennsylvania Avenue Dan halted, astonished.
Hundreds—no, thousands—of demonstrators thronged the pavement, milling, circulating, but gradually flowing north. Most were young, though a few older folks hiked along with them. Some carried banners or placards. No one seemed to be keeping step. The boys were long-haired, in mustaches and frayed Levi’s and sandals. The girls wore bell-bottoms and halters, or embroidered peasant dresses and headbands. He smelled burning leaves. They chanted, “Hell, no, we won’t go,” and “Ho Chi Minh is gonna win.” He sucked air; felt his back stiffen. These were the people he’d be defending?
Mignon tugged his arm. “Let’s march. For a little ways. Okay?”
“What? Uh, I don’t know—” But he interrupted himself. “Sure. Okay.” Despite his revulsion, he was curious too. They could tag along a few blocks, see what it was all about, then duck out and circle back to the car. At least he was in civvies. He glanced back, noting the cross street, then grabbed her hand and joined the throng.
They hiked along, Dan feeling awkward, even sort of treasonous just being here. Mignon joined in the chant, “Stop the bombing, stop the war,” but he just looked around, keeping his mouth shut. Who were these people? Communists? They looked like regular kids, his own age. Except for the older ones. Those must be the leaders.
A bearded guy stared at Dan’s head. Yeah, the high and tight. “You military, buddy? Like, a vet?”
“Uh … sort of.”
“What, they draft you? Sending you to Nam?”
“Uh, not yet. I mean, not exactly.”
“Whatever, cool of you to come. Appreciate the support.”
“I’m not really supporting this,” he muttered under renewed yelling from up ahead.
“Hey, it’s you guys that are getting killed over there.”
“So, what, we just leave the Vietnamese to the Communists?”
The guy looked confused. Mignon pulled at Dan’s arm. “Isn’t this great? They’re protesting all over the country today. Dow Chemical. The White House. The Pentagon. We’re making history.” She stopped herself, glancing up at him. “It’s not, I mean, like, anti-military. If that’s what you’re thinking—”
“Whatever.” He put a hand on her back. “Is this far enough? How about if we—”
The marchers around them slowed, bunching up. Someone was shouting up ahead. They were packed subway-close now. He smelled sweat, perfume, hot asphalt, grass. Puzzled murmurs shivered through the crowd. Then shrill cries lifted. Shouts of alarm.
A short, rapid popping. Then, screams.
“Shit!” Dan dragged her down to the pavement as something zipped past overhead. The screams grew louder. The crowd surged, falling back as the marchers in the lead recoiled, shouting, knocking an older woman to her knees. A siren scraped the sky.
A mist drifted over them, and his eyes started to sting. “Tear gas,” he yelled, and the warning was taken up, repeated, back along the route.
The crowd tried to scatter, but cop cruisers and National Guard jeeps were pulling up, blocking the side streets. People started hammering on the doors of the buildings, but they were locked. Kids were smashing windows, then boosting each other into them to escape. A girl sobbed, working a glass shard out of a bloody palm.
The cops came in with clubs drawn and started cracking legs and arms, knocking people down. Vicious-looking dogs lunged on short leashes, barking and slavering, teeth bared. The mist thickened. It became a choking, throat-burning smoke. He pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose, and helped Mignon wrap her scarf over her face. Half dragging her, he headed off the avenue. Realizing, belatedly, he’d stumbled into trouble.
Just then he tripped over an overweight man in a coat and tie and jacket. Dressed like a math teacher. He was slumped on the curb, coughing and choking. His ridden-up shirt exposed a pale hairy belly. He was gasping, cheeks cherry red, legs kicking feebly. A knot of students surrounded him, looking helpless.
Dan dropped to his knees, recalling buddy-care and field trauma training. Airway, breathing, circulation. Mignon knelt too, looking anxious as he rolled the guy onto his back. She pulled off her sweater, folded it, and stuck it under the man’s neck.
“Asthma,” the guy choked out, rolling a terrified gaze up at them.
“We gotta get him out of this gas,” Dan told the students. “Give me a hand.”
A bearded kid bent to help, then others. Dan got his arms under the upper body. “And … heave,” he grunted. They hoisted, together, and staggered off with their burden down an alley.
Only to run into another line of District cops. They were collaring protesters, dragging them off to vans. One, in blue uniform and gas mask, spotted Dan and hustled over. “What are you doing?” he shouted through the mask diaphragm, above a renewed pop-pop-pop of more gas rounds, farther up the avenue. The wind was blowing it back down on them, channeled between the buildings. A German Shepherd, barely held in check by a tough-looking female cop, lunged snarling at Mignon, who screamed and backed away.
Dan yelled over the noise, “Officer, this guy’s having some kind of seizure. Needs medical help.”
The cop grabbed his collar. “Tough shit for him. You, you’re under arrest.”
“Arrest? For what?” Dan nearly threw the hand off, then lowered his arm. His career could end here and now. Arrested at an antiwar protest … that had to be something like a Class A infraction squared, if not grounds for outright dismissal. “Sir, look. I’m military.”
“Yeah? Makes you a fuckin’ traitor.”
“Sir, honestly, we didn’t plan to be here. I was just taking my girl on a date. We just got … caught in the crowd.”
“What’s the trouble?” An older cop, obviously senior. His tone didn’t convey sympathy.
“Says he’s military, didn’t mean to be here, was just scorin’ points with his girlfriend.”
“Accidental protester, huh?”
Dan said earnestly, “No, sir, I’m on weekend liberty. We were on our way to our hotel, and just … wondered what all the fuss was about.” He was sweating now. The dog kept lunging at them. Mignon was sobbing. “And this guy here, he needs a doctor. His airway’s closing up. He could die.”
The cop eyed his haircut. “What’re you, a marine?”
“Navy. Naval Academy.”
“Annapolis, huh? Should’a known better than to get mixed up in this. Book ’em both.”
“Take me, then, but let her go. Please.” Dan took Mignon’s hand.
The older cop shook his head wearily. “Oh, fuck it. Let these two lovebirds go. And call the EMT, get that guy some help. Jee-sus Christ in a basket.—I said, get out of here, you two!”
Dan pulled a limping Mignon, who said she’d turned her ankle, along to D Street. They fought their way over discarded placards and wind-tumbled trash in what he hoped was the direction of the car. Coughing, eyes and noses burning, tears streaming down their cheeks. Behind them the avenue was a welter of gas, smoke, shouts, and weeping. To his relief, he found the little green sportster parked where he’d left it. And his new key, thank God, was still secure in his trouser pocket.
The hotel was a faded redbrick pile that had hosted presidents and lobbyists in its nineteenth-century glory days. Since then it had decayed, to put it mildly. But Academy scuttlebutt had it that the desk didn’t look too closely at unmarried guests. Which turned out to be true; the clerk signed them in without a question. Dan pushed cash across—more than they’d said when he’d called on the phone, but he was afraid to object—picked up his AWOL bag and Mignon’s overnighter, and headed for the elevator.
They both went quiet, not looking at each other as the car ascended. She said in a low voice,”I’ve never done this before. Stayed in a hotel with someone, I mean.”
“Um, me neither.” He rubbed his stomach, fighting nausea. They’d had dinner at an Italian place north of the Capitol. Now pork cutlets and pasta churned in his gut. His eyes and throat still burned. Maybe his first-ever glass of wine and a big meal hadn’t been a good idea.
He ventured an arm around her. She leaned into him, and they looked at themselves together in the flyspecked elevator mirror. “You smell really nice,” he said. Even with her hair messed up and her eyes still red, she was cute. She smiled up at him. But her lips trembled.
When they got to the room, she disappeared into the bathroom. He went to the window. It was getting dark. The avenue was clear now, traffic flowing again, lights coming on. Should he get undressed? He let down the dusty shades and sat on the creaky bed.
She came out with her hair loose to her shoulders, in a knee-length nightdress he could almost see through. The curve of her breast, the shadow of nipple, made him catch his breath. She went to the window and pulled the curtain closed over the blinds he’d already dropped.
Alone at last, without the Drag Mom back in the kitchen, her ear tuned to anything going on in the parlor. They kissed. He cupped her breasts, then slipped two fingers lower. She lay back with eyes closed, as if pretending to be asleep.
When his fingers grew warm and wet, she shifted on the bed. Sighed. Her thighs parted. She murmured, “That feels so … Can we put the light out?”
He grew bolder in the dark. With her eyes closed, she did as he directed. He was close to coming, but he wanted more. From the way she kept shifting her hips, so did she.
He rolled atop her. But the moment she felt him hard against her belly, she stiffened. Tried to roll away. “Dan. No.”
“What? I thought you wanted—”
“No. Not yet. Not until—you know.”
At the push-up position above her, hands on hers, he realized he had her pinned. Now she wanted to back out? He felt a sudden surge of frustration. Lust. Anger. Positioned his hips again, preparing to drive home.
“Don’t,” she murmured. “Dan. Stop. Please.”
He swayed suspended on his forearms. She was sweet. Pretty. He liked her. But enough to get married? Besides, he’d be at sea for years. What good would it do either of them?
“I’ve got a condom,” he tried. “It’s safe.”
“Oh, Dan. You thought I’d let you go all the way?”
He whispered angrily, “I don’t get it. Why the fuck did you come, then?”
She turned her face away. Was she crying? Again? “You said, a weekend in DC. Museums. I didn’t think you wanted to—do this.”
“What? You knew I did. You knew.”
“Maybe. But I changed my mind. Can’t we just—I can do what you liked before, make you come that way.”
He hung poised for another second, then rolled away, cheeks burning. “Shit,” he muttered. “Okay. Whatever.”
Afterward he lay in the dark, the blinds up and the window open again, the night air carrying the distant many-stories-up hum of the streets, cooling them as they lay no longer speaking. A distant light moved across the sky. Not Venus. An aircraft of some sort. Its landing light waxed and waned, as if it was searching for something; for its home port, its goal, its landing place; and finally disappeared.