Mrs. Lieutenant: A Sharon Gold Novel Read Online Free Page B

Louisville, wandering past
fast food places and used car lots. Although early in the day, the
humidity fills the Fiat, now lightened considerably by the stashing
of their belongings with her grandparents.
    Her grandmother is really her
step-grandmother, a Jewish woman who grew up poor in the cotton
fields of Mississippi, where, she claims, she often played with the
"colored" children. This morning Sharon had been tempted to ask if
blacks still rode in the backs of buses in Louisville. Instead she
and Robert graciously accepted the offered breakfast of hot – in
this heat? – oatmeal and then hit the road.
    She flicks the radio on and twiddles the
knobs. They watched the news last night at her grandparents'
apartment. Rows and rows of helmeted armed National Guardsmen
rushing unarmed student protesters. The sounds of the shots buried
in the chanting and screaming. The slumped bodies lying on the
ground unmistakable. Four students. Add them to the total of war
dead.
    ". ..256 Vietcong captured ," the cast
of the Broadway musical "Hair" sang when Sharon and Robert had seen
the production in New York the night after their Chicago wedding.
Yet the musical’s "Age of Aquarius" with its promise of "harmony
and understanding" doesn’t seem likely to materialize any time
soon. Then peace will guide the planet/And love will steer the
stars.
    Sharon twiddles the knobs harder and still
finds only commercials on the radio. She swats the knob into the
“off” position, then brushes at the clammy film of moisture
shimmering across her face and sliding down her neck.
    The face she sees is always
indistinguishable:
    The perspiration drips down his face, oozing
into his eyes and sliding over his mouth. He swipes at the beads
dripping from his nose with the arm of his filthy fatigue shirt.
"This heat is unbearable," the armor officer says to the
19-year-old enlisted man quivering beside him inside the tank. "How
do the Vietnamese survive?"
    He pops the hatch, standing upright in the
commander's seat to check the terrain. The enemy hides somewhere
nearby.
    The explosion lifts his body up into the air,
twisting it around before dumping it on top of the tank, his
sweat-stained face turned downward as if searching for the softest
place to land.
    The 19-year-old screams.
    Robert doesn’t notice her panic – he’s busy
pointing at a sign on the highway indicating the approach of Ft.
Knox.
    "You better start learning to recognize
officer rank insignia. It's important for you to know," he
says.
    Is this really happening? The National Guard
kills four students protesting a war that the U.S. has no hopes of
winning and she's about to become an officer's wife?
    She must concentrate on the present. She
takes a deep breath and considers what she knows about officer
ranks: 1) Robert as a second lieutenant is the lowest level of
officer; 2) Within the two years he will be serving he can expect
to automatically become a first lieutenant. "What's after first
lieutenant?"
    "Captain, then major, then lieutenant
colonel, full colonel, and several ranks of generals. The generals
you won't have to worry about – you won't see a lot of those. For
the others, you should know who's who."
    Sharon peers towards the Ft. Knox entrance as
Robert moves over into the highway's left turn lane. Suddenly a
huge semi-trailer hauls towards them – in their lane!
    "Shit!" Robert jerks the wheel and they spin
out of the semi's path.
    The five-ton truck couldn't stop. Something
wrong with the brakes. The family in the Rambler station wagon
didn't have a chance. Just facts on the evening news. To Sharon,
hiding in her dark closet, it is the end of her life too.
    Sharon releases her clenched hands. She says
nothing.
    At the entrance to Ft. Knox a uniformed
soldier waves them to a stop. He wears an armband with the letters
MP. Robert displays his orders.
    "Welcome to Ft. Knox, sir."
    Following the MP's directions, they drive
onto the post and head towards the housing office.