Mama's Boy Read online

  “Brandy goes down easier,” Gus said.

  She sipped carefully. Then not so carefully. Showing off, Gus knocked his back then poured another. He refilled Tracy’s glass before it was empty.

  They went into Gus’s room, taking an extra pint of brandy with them. Gus told Tracy how his folks had followed him around the country and made this room a replica of his room in La Jolla. Gus waited for the interpretation according to some world famous psychologist. She didn’t offer one. She sipped her brandy, thoughtful and silent. Gus was grateful for her silence. She knew instinctively that Gus’s peculiar family wasn’t fair game for analysis, and he liked her for that. They sat on his bed. He put his arm around her.

  “I’m freezing,” she said. “I can’t get warm.”

  Gus refilled her brandy glass.

  Gus said, “I think I’m in love with you, Tracy.”

  She stiffened. “Don’t. Use. That. Word,” she said, her voice mechanical with suppressed fury.

  “Why? You think it’s dirty?”

  “It’s the dirtiest four letter word of all.”

  She looked at Gus, her eyes fierce with conviction, her lips trembling. He wanted to kiss her lips but she turned away.

  “Do you understand me?” she said.

  “About that word? Yes,” Gus said. “Bourgeois bullpucky.”

  She allowed him to kiss her then. It was a long, physical kiss. When they emerged from it, Gus refilled the brandy glasses.

  “Don’t think you can get me drunk so you can have your way,” she said.

  “I’m not as bourgeois as all that,” Gus said. He was beginning to like the stupid word.

  “Let’s get under the covers,” she said. “It’s cold in here.”

  Gus started to take off his clothes.

  “No. Don’t undress. I just need to get warm. I’m freezing.”

  “Won’t that make things kind of difficult?” Gus said.

  “There aren’t going to be any ‘things,’ ” she said.

  “You’re waiting for ‘Mr. Right,’ ” Gus said.

  “Don’t be a shit,” she said.

  They finished the bottle in bed. Gus opened the other one.

  “I’m so drunk,” Tracy said. “But don’t think that’s an invitation.”

  “You’re saving yourself for marriage,” Gus said.

  “Oh, you smart-mouth rat!” she said.

  They necked for another hour. Gus developed a fierce case of lover’s nuts. He grimaced. He groaned.

  “You’re angry with me,” she said.

  “No, I’m not angry.”

  “You’re pissed off. You have been ever since the movie.”

  “I’m not pissed off. I’m hurting.”

  He tried to find her thighs under the blanket, under the layers of clothes. She squirmed away. Gus gave up.

  “I’m not … experienced,” she said.

  “I know,” Gus said.

  “You do? How could you know?”

  “It’s obvious.”

  “But I know how to help you. I’m not a bourgeois tease. Give me some more brandy first.”

  Gus poured the brandy. She gulped it down. He put a hand on her teacup breast. She shoved it away.

  She unbuckled his belt, opened his pants, worked her hand inside, found what she was looking for. She massaged him gently, then less gently. Gus gritted his teeth. He made noises he couldn’t control. He pulled a pillow over his face.

  When she finished, Gus said, “You’ve done this before.”

  “That is none of your business,” she said.

  “You start something going, then you put an end to the poor bastard’s misery.”

  “You prefer misery?”

  “I prefer you.”

  “Maybe I am waiting for Mr. Right,” she said.

  “That would be me,” Gus said.

  “The jury’s still out, flyboy.”

  They eventually fell asleep and woke up to daylight.

  The bedroom door creaked open. Flora stood in the doorway in her robe.

  “How could you do this to me?” she said. She looked stricken. Her face warped, as if the skull behind it had turned to putty.

  “We didn’t do anything,” Gus said.

  “You,” she said, pointing at Tracy, “This is my house! You are not welcome!”

  “This is my friend, Tracy Winshaw,” Gus said. “Her dad’s a dentist, too.”

  “You think that’s a recommendation? Get her out of here!”

  “What sort of dentist?” FDR said, appearing behind Flora in his long johns.

  “Where’s the bathroom,” Tracy said. “I’ve got to throw up.”

  27

  They walked back to town. The wind had changed direction, from north to west. “Chinook,” Tracy said.

  “What’s that?” Gus said.

  “It’s wind coming off the Rocky Mountain front. It’s going to warm everything up. It’s a ton warmer already.”

  “Like the Santa Anas back home,” Gus said.

  Gus explained the Santa Ana phenomenon—how, in fall and winter months, cool air moved west from the desert, compressing and heating as it roared down the western slopes of the inland mountains, raising the temperatures in the coastal cities to the eighties and nineties.

  “I suppose it’s like that,” Tracy said.

  She stopped as if she was going to be sick then started moving again holding on to Gus’s arm. Gus turned windward, felt the soft warm air on his face. Even the sun’s pale disk sent a miserly ray of heat earthward.

  “Feels like spring,” Gus said.

  “Don’t count on it,” she said. “It’ll get above freezing for a few days, maybe a week. Then go back to normal.”

  By the time they reached the Athenian, the temperature had climbed to above forty. They hopped over the brown snowmelt that ran in the gutter.

  Josh Billings was in a booth by himself drinking coffee and smoking his pipe. He wore his red beret at a rakish slant. He looked like the professor he would most likely become. When Gus and Tracy came in he glanced up from the book he was reading and waved them over to his booth, white meerschaum suavely clenched in his smile.

  “Comment allez-vous?” he said to Tracy. “Bien, merci,” Tracy said. To Gus she said, “Josh is taking French this semester.”

  “I’m thinking of taking a year at the Sorbonne,” Josh said.

  Gus saw the title of Josh’s book: Being and Nothingness. Josh saw Gus looking.

  “You’ve read Sartre?” Josh said.

  “Nope,” Gus said.

  “Quel dommage. You’ll find it a bit over your head, unless of course you’ve read your Hegel and Heidegger first.”

  “I’ll put them on my reading list.”

  “Don’t procrastinate, mon ami,” Josh said. “Being, you see, precedes essence, non? It only stands to reason, d’accord? You’ve got to invent yourself from scratch or the world will do it for you, oui? The challenge, you see, lies in inventing a self that is authentique, one you can live with day to day without shame or guilt. Have you ever thought about it, Gus?”

  “How authentic can it be if you have to invent it?” Gus said.

  Tracy started to speak but only managed a moan. She leaned forward and held her head in both hands.

  “What’s wrong, Trace?” Josh said.

  “I feel sick,” she said.

  “She’s hungover,” Gus said.

  “You’ve been drinking?” Josh said.

  “I got stinko last night,” Tracy said.

  “I don’t understand. You’re not a drinker, Trace.”

  “It was brandy and we were cold.”

  “We?” He looked at Gus for clues.

  Gus yawned. “We were at my folks’ house. We killed a couple of pints of brandy playing double solitaire.”

  Josh relit his pipe. He pulled hard on it to get the tobacco crackling. When the tobacco was sufficiently fired up, he said, “Maivaise foi, Tracy. I’m disappointed in you.”

&
nbsp; “Don’t be. It was fun. Now I’m paying the price.”

  “The shithouse rule,” Gus said.

  Josh ignored Gus. He gave Tracy a hard disciplinary look. “Getting back to Sartre,” he said, “Acting in bad faith denies your authenticity. Getting drunk, don’t you see, is a form of that denial. Beyond that, alcohol hampers your ability to process ideas in a clear and orderly way.”

  Tracy said, “You act differently when you’re drunk, but that doesn’t mean you’re playing a role.”

  “What transpires between two people when they are intoxicated is false from the outset,” Josh said. “You can’t put any value on what people say to each other when they’re not themselves.” His eyes drilled this message home to Tracy.

  “Just the opposite,” Gus said. “Booze is like truth serum.”

  Tracy said, “I never pretend to be something I’m not. I don’t do it when I’m sober and I don’t do it when I’m drunk.”

  “And how often have you been drunk?” Josh said. “Once? You’re fooling yourself, Trace.” He tapped the air instructively with the stem of his pipe. “En vin, il n’y a pas vérité—there is no truth in wine.”

  “What’s your point?” Gus said.

  “The point is this. The world punishes you for being yourself. Getting drunk just numbs the pain. It’s not the answer. The only answer is to hold firm to your inner convictions. Très difficile, mais la recompense est le merité.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Gus mumbled.

  Josh gave Gus a sour grin. “Aren’t you afraid of being seen with us, airman?” he said. “Won’t your commandant put you in irons? You know—guilt by association with dangerous subversives?” He reached across the table and covered Tracy’s hand possessively with his.

  “I don’t think you qualify as dangerous,” Gus said.

  “Ideas are the most dangerous things in the world,” Josh said.

  “Excuse me,” Tracy said. “I’m going to the powder room.”

  When she was gone, Josh said, “You shouldn’t have done this to her, Gus.”

  “She did it to herself,” Gus said.

  “With your help.”

  “I try to be helpful.”

  Josh leaned toward Gus confidentially. “Tell me, Gus. Did you …?”

  “None of your business, Josh old buddy,” Gus said.

  Gus left the Athenian and went to the Milk River Hotel to catch the morning shuttle back to the base.

  He sat in the empty bar sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes, wondering if Tracy would be jacking off Josh Billings before the day was over.

  28

  A bird opened and closed its wings atop the UHF mast. A speckled barn owl big as a turkey. Gus had read somewhere that Indians believed a visitation by an owl was bad news. Owls had some kind of connection to unfriendly underworld spirits. They signified unhappy events to come. He climbed the mast without harness or lanyard to shoo the owl away. The big owl wouldn’t shoo. Its unblinking yellow eyes met Gus’s with unhurried curiosity. It flew away when it had seen all it wanted to see.

  He went to the chow hall for lunch. They were serving Swiss steaks and mashed potatoes and creamed spinach. The Swiss steaks were glazed with gravy. The potatoes, formed into the shape of radar domes, steamed. Even the creamed spinach looked good enough to eat. The cook on duty was creative. He obviously enjoyed being a cook. Gus was glad Lamar Harkey wasn’t on duty. An image of Harkey pulling wads of black lint from between his enormous toes occurred to him. He put the image out of his mind. Gus spotted Lyle Dressen sitting alone at a table. He joined him.

  “I’ve gained twenty pounds since joining up,” Dressen said. “I figure at this rate I’ll weigh 260 pounds by the time I get out.”

  “I can eat twelve times a day and not gain a pound,” Gus said.

  “It’s metabolism,” Lyle said. “You got a metabolism problem. You’re wired like a hummingbird. You know how long it takes a male hummingbird to fuck his woman? One millisecond. I bet you don’t do much better.”

  They ate for a while without talking.

  Mutt Runkle approached their table carrying an overloaded tray. He stopped and smiled at Gus. “How you doing, dingle-berry?” he said. “Still going down on the local quim?” Runkle’s smile went from nasty to nastier. His smile threatened bodily harm. Runkle moved on, looking for an isolated table. Conversations stopped as he passed by.

  “What was all that about?” Dressen said.

  “I’ve got to go,” Gus said. “I can’t stand to be in the same room with that prick.”

  Gus walked with Lyle to the radar operations blockhouse. Something was up. There were more officers in the blockhouse than Gus had ever seen. Mostly second lieutenants, crowding around a radar display. Major Darling was there, too. Lyle asked an airman at the Flight Plan Identification desk what was going on.

  “Kruschev’s plane is crossing Canada. We’ve got him just south and west of Moose Jaw. He’s travelling in a fucking Tupolev. Division’s got their tits in the wringer over it.”

  “They think Kruschev’s going to bomb us personally?” Lyle said.

  “It’s supposed to be a goodwill trip. He’s sucking up to Canada and the Canadians are letting him suck. We’ve scrambled a flight of Scorpions just in case. They’ll shadow the Tupolev to Swift Current, Medicine Hat and Lethbridge, staying this side of the border.”

  “Let me know if they drop the bomb,” Gus said to Dressen.

  Gus started to leave. Major Darling saw him and caught his elbow. “Reppo,” he said. “I want to see you this afternoon. Come by my office at fifteen hundred hours.” Major Darling’s smile was friendly but his jumpy red-streaked eyes said something else.

  “Yes sir,” Gus said. “What for, sir?”

  “Just be there, Reppo.”

  Gus went to his barracks and plopped down on his cot. He dozed off and dreamed of an owl with Kruschev’s face on it. Then it was Runkle’s face. The face grinned, the owl flew off.

  29

  First Sergeant Burnside, broad shouldered, in crisp gabardine, a god of military correctness, was at his desk reading Stars and Stripes. He looked up at Gus. Gus started to salute then remembered you didn’t have to salute master sergeants even if they were as impressive as Burnside.

  “You look like you’ve been rolling in the sheep dip, Reppo,” Burnside said. “You got any clean fatigues in your footlocker? You got a razor blade? I understand the Gillette company is putting out a good product these days.”

  Gus shrugged. “Major Darling doesn’t care,” he said.

  “That shouldn’t make any difference, airman. You wear the uniform, even fatigues, with some sense of pride. The air force is bigger than one easygoing base commander.”

  This conversation made Gus nervous. He hadn’t realized he looked so bad. “What should I do, Sarge?” he said.

  “Just go in, Reppo. You haven’t got time to clean up. The major’s expecting you.”

  Gus went in. He stepped up to Major Darling’s desk and snapped a salute. Major Darling waved off the salute and pointed to an uncushioned wooden chair in front of the desk. “Sit your butt down, Reppo,” he said.

  Gus sat and endured a long silence while Major Darling looked at him as if he were looking at an empty wall. The major opened a bag of peanuts and poured some into his hand. He popped the peanuts into his mouth. He chewed energetically while looking at Gus who was beginning to feel invisible.

  “You have a good time in LA?” Major Darling said.

  “Not really, sir,” Gus said.

  “Not really. Well, that’s better than ‘Fuck no,’ I guess.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gus said.

  “I didn’t have a good time either,” Major Darling said.

  “Sorry to hear that, sir,” Gus said.

  “You don’t have to kiss my ass, Reppo. San Antonio was a fucking disaster. Maybe you heard about it.”

  Admitting he knew how Major Darling destroyed his career in San Antonio was probably not a smart thi
ng to do. “No sir,” Gus said.

  “I won’t go into it. Let me just say there are some people with birds and stars on their shoulders who would like to take my nuts off with a butter knife.”

  Gus nodded carefully.

  Major Darling chewed his peanuts.

  After a long moment, Major Darling said, “You’ve heard of the OSI, Reppo?”

  “No sir.”

  “OSI—Office of Special Investigations. Air force’s version of the gestapo. They might pay us a little visit. They might want to ask you a few questions. I’d advise you to clean up your act before they do. On second thought, no. Go just as you are. Be yourself. Maybe they’ll appreciate your honesty.”

  Gus felt the stubble on his chin. He squirmed in the hard, uncushioned chair. He nodded in agreement, as if he saw good sense in Major Darling’s advice.

  “My pension is at stake, Reppo,” Major Darling said. “Maybe more than my pension. When those bastards want to string you up, they find ways to do it that would test your powers of invention.”

  Gus squirmed, nodded.

  “You remember steering the C-47 from LA to Salt Lake?”

  “Yes sir!” Gus said. Now that the terrifying experience was history, Gus recalled it fondly, even with some pride.

  “No, Reppo, you do not. You don’t remember a fucking thing about sitting in the copilot’s seat and steering the C-47. In fact, you slept the whole way back to Malmstrom. Isn’t that right, Reppo?”

  “Sir?”

  “You’ve heard the term ‘flight pay,’ right?”

  “Yes sir,” Gus said.

  “Do you think you’re eligible for flight pay, Reppo?”

  “No sir. Definitely not, sir.”

  “That’s good because you’re not getting a red cent in flight pay. Only the pilot gets flight pay. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes sir. Only the pilot. Absolutely, sir.”

  “Some OSI jerkoff asks if an unqualified airman was alone in the cockpit of that C-47, what are you going to tell him?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Not nothing, Reppo! You’re going to tell him that Major Clive Darling flew the old bucket of bolts all the way to Great Falls while you and your buddy sacked out. You woke up when we touched down. You with me on this?”