“Some surgery on my back and shoulder.”
“What the hell did they do?”
I don’t know why she got me in a talkative mood—maybe it was her age or her presence—but I said, “Had two nasty tumors taken out.”
She swore like a sailor on dry land for the first time in two years. “You okay now?”
“Think so.”
“They malignant?”
“Don’t know yet,” I said. “They’re out for testing.”
Another impressive string of expletives, and she said, “Okay, if it comes back malignant, you let me know. My age, I got lots of doctor and nurse contacts, get you first in line. If it’s benign, you have a party of a lifetime, okay?”
“Deal,” I said.
She took a slurpy sip and said, “Okay, what can I do for you? My sweet little Mia told me that you wanted to know what was happening in this little slice of paradise back in the 1950s.”
“That’s right.”
“Hoo-boy,” she said. “I was just beginning to write for the newspapers back then, doing church raffle reports, collating school lunch menus, crap like that, when I got wind of a big story happening right under this roof, back in 1954, a year after the Korean War ended.”
“I heard this place was being used as barracks for Navy corpsmen while they received training over at the old Exonia Hospital.”
She laughed. “Sure. Barracks. Training. Story back then was that with the war over, lots of training was winding down. Them’s the rules of war, right? They can end on a certain date but lots of things are in the pipeline, like planes and ships being built, bullets being made, and training going on. With the war over, the corpsmen were getting their training, but they didn’t give a shit. Nobody gave a shit. The training was ignored or postponed, stuff was getting stolen, the barracks here was on a beach in the summer, and you had guys in their teens or early twenties who stayed here and partied because they knew they weren’t going to be sent to some bombed-out frozen landscape where you had thousands of Chinese boiling over the hills coming at you.”
“And what was the story?”
“Story was that some young girls from Tyler Beach and other locales came up here and got a hell of an education in sex, drinking, drugs, and other nefarious activities.”
I didn’t say anything for a moment, and Gwen leaned over the couch and slapped me on the knee. “Sweet Jesus, every generation thinks they invented sex or drinking or drugs. Everything you have now, from pot to whatever, was easily available back then. Guys and girls were humping to and fro in the backseats of cars or in the dunes. Nothing new.”
“A scandal, then?”
“Hell yes, a scandal. Somehow a North Tyler cop found out his niece was sampling the Navy wares, and he came down to get her. A fight broke out, then the shore patrol came down from the Porter Naval Shipyard and raided the place. Cleaned it out tight. And found out that one of the girls was a cousin to a U.S. senator from Maine—and that was that. Within twenty-four hours the place was cleaned out and locked.”
“What paper did your story get in?”
Another laugh. “I was working for the Wentworth County Dispatch—God rest its inky soul—and that story was spiked.”
“Got killed.”
“Like a zombie on TV getting its head blown off. That’s when I learned one of the unwritten rules of small-town journalism, that you don’t embarrass the locals or put them in a bad light. There was enough bad light with this one to light up a football stadium. So I ended up writing a story about how the brave trainees at this barracks were sent home, thanked everyone for their service, and that was that.”
“Do you remember any of the names from back then?”
“Whose names?”
“The corpsmen who were here.”
“Oh, Lewis, c’mon, I’m about ninety percent ahead of my neighbors in keeping my noggin straight, but I don’t remember that. I don’t even know if my notes still exist.”
“Okay, thanks.”
She shook her head. “Boy, you give up easy.”
“What?”
“You heard me, youngster. Just because I don’t know doesn’t mean I can’t find out. In fact, I can guarantee it.”
“Why?”
“Because I ended up dating one of the corpsman before he got out, and he’s still alive, and he’s living just over the line in Massachusetts. Bobby Turcotte, bless his soul.”
That got my attention. “You always keep track of your former … acquaintances?” I asked.
“Aren’t we being the gentleman,” she said. “Yeah, you know why? Because it gives me great joy to outlive them or outdo them. They say revenge is a dish best served cold. Honey, growing old and being in good shape while your rivals and old friends are shitting in diapers and eating Jell-O is the coldest dish you can think of.”
I limped back into the kitchen to wash our few dishes, and Gwen insisted that she come along to help; I was being polite and tired and decided to let her do so.
When the washing was done and Gwen wiped the dishes and put them away, she said, “Ask you a favor?”
“Ask away.”
“I spotted your deck over there. I’d love to take a look outside.”
“Sure,” I said. “As long as you give me a hand getting it open.”
Gwen got the length of wood out and got the door open with no difficulty. I followed her out. “Oh my …” she whispered.
It was a windless, sunny day, and the sun was baking the wood of my rear deck. I got the plastic covers off two Adirondack chairs and we both settled down. The wood was fairly clear of sand and it was nice to sit down without worrying about a broom.
The waves were gently rolling in, the sky was clear, sharp blue, and there were little bits of color on the water where lobster pot buoys bobbed up and
