“I’ll tell her.”
“Keep the faith, shipmate,” Jake Grafton said, and was gone. “Yeah,” said Toad Tarkington, hanging up the receiver and wip- ing his eyes. The tears wouldn’t stop. So he laughed and cried at the very same time.
Monday evening after work Commander Smoke Judy went home, changed clothes, then drove to a bar in Georgetown. He had trou- ble finding the place, then he had to park six blocks away and hike back. The streets were packed with the trendy and the chic. Poo- dles anointed lampposts and fire hydrants as their ladies gazed away with a studied casualness.
Judy had to stand by the door until a stool opened at the bar. He perched there and studied the beer list The bartender paused across the polished mahogany bar and said, “On draft we have Guinness, Watney’s, Steinlager —“
“Gimme a Bud. In a bottle.”
He saw Harlan Albright come in about fifteen minutes later and grab an empty stool on the far end. Albright was carrying a gym bag.
Nice touch that, Judy decided. Half the people in the place, men and women, had a gym bag with them or were wearing exercise clothes. Not sweaty tank tops and grungy shorts, mind you, but stuff that looked like it came from Saks and routinely visited a dry- cleaning plant.
When the man beside Judy left to visit a woman who had just slipped into a booth, Albright came over and sat on the vacant stool.
“Ever been here before?”
“Nope. Gonna come back, though. This is a real meat market And on a Monday evening too!”
“Next Monday. A week from today, same time, right here.” Albright signaled the bartender, laid a five on the wood and left. Smoke nursed his second beer. The mirror behind the bar gave him an excellent view of the Lycra thighs and hungry eyes of the female patrons, most of whom seemed to be drinking white wine or Perrier with a twist.
Smoke Judy, fighter pilot, took a last swallow and counted his change. He left a dollar tip. With a final glance around, he hoisted the gym bag and walked out, right past some sweet little piece in spandex on her way in.
Tuesday evening Rita grinned as Toad entered her room. She had been moved from the ICU and was in a semiprivate room, but the other bed was empty. The respirator and heart monitor had not accompanied her.
Toad closed the door behind him and kissed her. “How you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.
“I’ve been talking to the doctor. They’re going to medevac you to Bethesda on Thursday if you keep improving. Being as how I’m next of kin, I get to ride along.”
“Good,” she said, and continued to grin with her eyes on him.
“So,” he said, returning her smile. “So.”
“I’ve read a little bit.” Her grin broadened.
“I thought you couldn’t focus very well yet.”
“I can’t. Read a little here, a little there. The Adventures of Tarkington. You’re a pretty good writer.”
“You’re a poor critic.”
“I’m glad I married you.”
“I’m damn glad you did.”
The air force medevac plane, a C-141, landed at Andrews AFB. Rita traveled the rest of the way to Bethesda in an ambulance. That evening, when she awoke from her nap. Toad was waiting with her parents, whom he had driven straight to the hospital from National Airport.
Mrs. Moravia was teary but determined to maintain a stiff upper lip. Five minutes after she arrived she launched into a speech that she had apparently been rehearsing for weeks:
“It’s time, Rita. It’s time. You’ve got a fine husband and it’s time you stopped this flying business. Why, Sarah Bames — you remem- ber Sarah, the cheerleader who went to Bryn Mawr? Such a sweet girl! I can’t think of her new married name… Sarah just had her second baby, a perfectly darling little boy. Her husband’s a med student who’s going into pediatrics. And Nancy Stroh, who married that new dentist from Newport — you knew about that, a perfectly gorgeous wedding in May — her mother told me just last week that Nancy’s practically pregnant. And Kimberly Hyer…”
Mr. Moravia slipped out into the hallway and Toad followed-
“She looks very tired.”
“She’s had a long day,” Toad said.
“Is she going to recover completely?”
“No way to tell. The physical therapy will start in a few weeks and we’ll know more then. Right now she’s pretty desperate to get out of that lower-body cast. The itching and all is driving her nuts. That’s a good sign, I think.”
Ten minutes later, as they finished coffees from a vending ma- chine, Toad suggested, “Maybe we’d better go get your wife and say good night to Rita. She wears down pretty quickly and she’ll need some sleep.”
“We can visit some more in the morning,” the older man agreed.
Walking back toward the room, Toad said, “Rita turned out a little different than her mom.”
“Different generations.” Mr. Moravia shrugged. He was a phi- losopher.
“They want different things,” Toad said, probing gently.
“Every generation does.”
“Rita’ll keep flying if the doctors let her.”
“I believe you. Madeline’s just blowing off steam. Rita knows that. Where are we going to eat tonight?”
The next morning, a Friday, Toad accompanied the Moravias to the hospital, then had Mr. Moravia drop him at a Metro station. They were going to the National Gallery. Toad went to the office.
Even the subways were stifling in the August heat. Toad’s white uniform shirt threatened to melt before he reached the air-condi- tioned sanctuary of the lobby in Crystal City.
The elevator took forever to respond to the call button. He waited impatiently. For seven weeks now he had been speculating on the cause of the accident, and Jake Grafton and Helmut Fritsche and Smoke Judy had all refused to enlighten him on the telephone. They had been noncommittal. “We’re investigating.” That was the party line. Toad jabbed the up button again. He wanted some answers.
He gave the secretary the hi sign and marched straight for Grafton’s office- The door was closed, so he knocked, then opened it and stuck his head in. ” ‘Lo, Captain.” Two men he didn’t know were sitting in the guest chairs,
“Be with you in a few minutes, Toad. Good to see you back.”
Tarkington went to his desk and impatiently pawed the stuff in his in basket. Routine read-and-initial crap. He threw his hat on his desk and sat staring at Grafton’s closed door.
The secretary came over to his desk- “How’s Rita?”
“She’s up at Bethesda. I think she’s gonna be okay.”
“It was big news around here that you two were married.” She grinned and leaned forward conspiratorially. “None of us had any idea! It’s so romantic.”
“Yeah,” said Toad Tarkington.
“We’re all just delighted that she’s doing so well. We’ve had her in our thoughts and prayers every day.”
“Thank you,” Toad said, finally pulling his eyes from Grafton’s door and giving the woman a smile. “Know anything about that accident? Why it happened?”
“It’s all very hush-hush,” she confided, her voice low. She glanced around. “I just haven’t seen anything on it, but it was so temblor.”
After he assured her he would convey her good wishes to Rita, she went back to her desk. She was sitting there sorting the mail when Smoke Judy came in. Toad went over to him. “Commander, good to see you.”
“Hey, Tarkington. How’s your wife?”
“Gonna be okay, I think. Commander. Say”—Toad drew the senior officer away from the secretary’s desk —“what can you tell me about the accident investigation? What went wrong?”
“Toad, all that is classified special access, and I don’t know if you have access. All I’ve seen is the confidential section of the report- You’ll have to talk to Captain Grafton.”
“Sorta off the record, it was the E-PROMs, wasn’t it? I figure EMI dicked them up.” EMI was Electromagnetic
