Scorpion in the Sea

TWENTY

Diane Martinson pushed her shopping basket past dry cereals and headed for the meat counter. She was doing her biweekly shopping somewhat on autopilot, getting the same things she always bought, making the identical circuit of the base commissary store that she always made.

She was still preoccupied with Mike Montgomery. J.W. had listened to her story about the car impatiently, frowned when she told him who her rescuer had been, but focused more on the Volvo and when it would be salvaged than on the fact that she had spent some time with the maverick CO of the Goldsborough. He had just turned off the lights when she arrived, and had gone back to bed without much more than a complaint that his Sunday would probably be completely occupied screwing around with the damn car, and thank you very much for the repair bill. Diane remembered thinking that he could go screw around with the car and she … she smiled at the outrageous thought, and smiled wider at the thought of her actually saying such a thing to J.W. She wondered if J.W. would splutter.

“Hamburger that amusing, Diane?” asked a woman’s voice.

She turned to find Admiral Walker’s wife making her way down the meat counter. Diane forced a quick laugh.

“I was thinking about our episode with the Volvo over at NAS Jax,” she said lightly. “We’ve always called that car a big boat and it very nearly was.”

“George told me about your weekend travails,” said Mrs. Walker. “J.W. said you had a very harrying experience. Wasn’t it lucky Commander Montgomery was right there and everything.”

Diane wondered if she detected just the hint of a meow in Mrs. Walker’s words.

“Yes, it certainly was. I don’t know what I would have done out there with my car sinking before my very eyes. Although in that downpour that little sports car he was driving needed a periscope.”

“Yes, I’ve seen that car. George thinks it’s a wee bit flashy for the Captain of a destroyer, but Commander Montgomery seems to lead a — different life than most of us.”

Diane picked up some items from the meat case, moving slowly down the display line. Mrs. Walker did the same, staying close enough to talk as they moved along.

“Different?” asked Diane. “He drives a sports car, and he told me he lives on an old houseboat at the marina, but otherwise he seemed pretty normal, although I don’t know how he fits in that sports car.”

“Yes, he is a large man, isn’t he. But George says he has some rather, unconventional, I think he said, ideas about how to get along with the rest of the Navy in Mayport. I’ve heard him come home in the evening griping about another Montgomery-gram. Apparently Goldsborough complains a lot. But you know how it is with these young CO’s. I’m sure it’s nothing. George was very pleased that he took the time to rescue you and see to it that you got home. But wherever did you hide out during that awful weather — George said J.W. told him that you had to wait at the gas station for most of the night?”

Diane’s female antennae began to quiver. She sensed that there might be more than just passing interest in this question. Without putting too fine a point on it, Diane knew that her looks would always be grounds for suspicion among the more ordinary looking wives on the base. She would have loved, for just once in her decorous life, to smile sweetly and say that she and Commander Montgomery had gone to a motel for eight hours for some serious fucking. Even as she made her reply, she realized that she wanted to do something very much along those lines with the “large” Commander. She also realized that almost instinctively she would have to be the initiator if something was going to happen, and surprised herself when she realized that this would not necessarily be a problem. Her subconscious mind had apparently made a decision. But now it was story time, part two.

“We waited for a while at the gas station, but they were blacked out in the storm, so we went over to Orange Park and found one of those awful roadside restaurants to wait it out. They tell me Orange Park used to be a pretty little town, but it’s just one big neon strip now. We went back to NAS at around ten again and waited some more.”

Mrs. Walker finished with the meat counter and prepared to turn away into another aisle.

“Orange Park was never pretty, my dear. Little, but never pretty. Anyway, I’m glad the car’s going to be all right. We wouldn’t want you to stop your volunteer work for lack of a second car, would we. It does make a difference, believe me. See you later.”

She waggled her fingertips in Diane’s direction and steamed off down the soft drink aisle. Diane continued to walk along the meat counters as Mrs. Walker disappeared. Prying old biddy. Actually, she wasn’t that old, and was actually well regarded by most of the wives on the staff. Some Admirals’ wives wore their husband’s stars quite prominently, but Mrs. Walker almost never did. But that had been an unmistakable probe; wherever did you hide out … meaning, watch it, babe, this is a small town and a thoroughly Navy town.

Diane tossed her head and headed for the checkout counter. In for a penny, in for a pound. We did nothing wrong, but maybe we should have. If the upper stratum of Navy society could look aside while J.W. attended to another woman on his trips to Navy headquarters in Norfolk, they could damn well look aside if Mrs. J.W. decided to take a walk on the wild side. A part of her knew this was all wishful thinking; the Admiral probably was very well informed about his Chief of Staff’s girlfriend, but had not told his own wife. If Diane were to be found out straying from the reservation, there would be an immediate scandal. Do as we say, not as we do, dearie. The Navy is a man’s world.

“Good morning, Mrs. Martinson,” said the young man behind the checkout counter. “A light basket today.”

“Good morning,” she replied, “Yes, you’re right, I’m not getting much today.”

She turned a thousand watt smile on him, daring him to pick up on the double entendre. He promptly scanned the same sack of oranges three times.