The Edge of Honor (55 page)

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.

“Yes, I suppose. I’m not up for a game right now; I think my arm would fall off.” She turned to face him, her mind made up, the decision solidifying in her brain and in the sexual part of her with astonishing ease. “But I do thank you for the lesson. You’ve taught me a lot.”

He did not reply, just looked into her face. She cocked her head to one side and looked back.

“Want to go get something to drink?” she said softly.

“I’m simply dying … of thirst.”

“Yes.”

They walked in silence across the park, he carrying the bag, she with her head down, the racket in her hands, the delicate fabric of her skirt lifting in the breeze, making her feel almost undressed in the cool night air. She was conscious that her hair was a mess and that she needed a shower and that her heart was pounding just a bit. They went through the lobby of the apartment and took the elevator to her floor.

She did not look at him while they stood together in the elevator. She unlocked the door and went straight into the kitchen, dropping the racket onto the couch. In the kitchen, she retrieved two glasses from the cupboard and then began rummaging in the refrigerator. There were some diet Cokes, a can of beer, a half bottle of Gallo’s finest plonk, and a jug of spring water.

Autrey came into the kitchen. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him standing there in the dim light, his long, lean body a study in bronze, his dark face in shadow, eyes shining softly, an expression of gentle interest barely imprinted on his face. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned back slightly, his left hip propped against the kitchen counter but the rest of him posed in tension. She was glad she had not turned on the light.

She brought out the various bottles and put them down on the kitchen table, trying not to look at him, her face down so that her eyes were hidden by her hair. But she could not avoid the image of his shorts against the mahogany skin of his legs, the smooth muscles of his thighs.

She felt a wave of warmth in her belly and her thoughts began to tumble.

She began to move things around on the table, aware that she ought to turn the light on or do something to break the spell that was growing between them. The tips of her fingers tingled as she touched the smooth glass of the wine bottle, the solid heft of it inducing unbidden images to invade her mind as Autrey, Autrey of the slow moves and languid grace, held himself motionless across the room. Her hands became still.

She had to swallow to find her voice.

“Autrey.” The strength of her voice surprised her.

Then more softly, the emerging edges of desire drawing a flush to her face and arousing the sensations of a tingling web settling on her breasts and a feeling of liquid awareness in her thighs, she said, “Autrey … for God’s sake.”

He moved then, reaching her with soundless steps, standing behind her and pulling her in, his hands on her stomach, his muscular scent all around her, his hands on her hips, pulling the backs of her thighs into demanding contact, kissing her hair while he moved slowly against her body, his movements lifting the tennis skirt and pressing the front of his shorts against her panties until she moaned. He turned her around then, touching only her hips, and lifted her onto the kitchen stool, her knees apart, her hands resting on his chest. He stood between her knees, the outside of his thighs touching the inside of hers, his hands on the edge of the table behind her, and began to kiss her mouth, pressing closer until she put her hands on his back and began to pull. He kissed her mouth and then her throat, moving in a circle as the hard edges of his thighs pressed her knees farther apart in time with the insistent pull of her hands but keeping the rest of his body from touching hers.

He reached down to her shoulders and pushed aside the straps of her halter top and then released the hooks at the back. As the halter fell away, he bent forward and touched her breasts with his lips, kissing her front, her throat, her mouth, and back down again. At last, she put her fingers in his hair and then he knelt down between her legs, stripped off the rest of her clothes, and kissed her whole body until she rocked in glorious climax, pinioned on the stool by his insistent mouth. As she regained her breath, he rose, shed his own clothes, and then lifted her legs in the crook of his arms to enter her and begin again, his movements controlled and deep, giving her time to catch the rhythm, her arms flung wide, her hands gripping the edge of the table now, her weight partly on the stool and partly on him as, together now, they climbed the mountain, rocking faster and faster, until he reached down and lifted her fully onto him, holding her full weight in an exquisite penetration, vibrating more than moving, their bellies fusing as they came together with an indescribable sound.

Afterward, he picked her up and carried her easily to the bedroom, where they lay on the bed together in the darkness. Her heart would not slow down and she could feel every single cell of her skin responding to his smooth, strong hands as he stroked her body, front and back, keeping her near the edge. When she finally felt the need to move, she pressed him onto his back and then lay down full length on top of him, applying her mouth to his in small liquid kisses, then moving to the rest of his face and gradually down the smooth muscles of his chest.

He reached for her, but she pressed his arms back down on the bed, holding his wrists tightly while she explored his body with her mouth, taking her time, marveling at the contrast between the smooth expanses of his skin and the hard ridges of sinew and bone just beneath, the acrid scent of their lovemaking, and the swell of his revival.

She pulled herself up and then lowered herself onto him, bending forward from the hips so that the mass of her hair enfolded and obscured her face while she dragged individual strands across his chest. Every time he started to move, she signaled for him to stop, wanting to control it, wanting to get it just right, rocking back and forth for a long time, her eyes tightly shut as she felt the wave rise and recede, and then he was moving anyway and she couldn’t stop him and didn’t want to, holding on as he moved harder and harder until she cried out and collapsed along his length, gasping for air as he held her gently until she was asleep.

The next ten days in Subic passed without major incident for Brian. He did not return to Olongapo, heeding Josie’s advice that perfection should not be improved upon.

After the failure of his first phone call home, Brian waited for three hours in line the day following his next duty day to place another call, but she wasn’t home. Well shit, he had tried. He then sat down and wrote her a lengthy letter that tried to minimize any political difficulties he was having aboard the ship, especially since he had found out that the special fitness report had indeed gone out.