The Heavenly Table

35

ON HIS WAY to lunch in the officers’ mess, Bovard came around the corner of a building lost in thought and almost tripped over Wesley Franks seated on the ground reading a letter. The lieutenant had learned yesterday that Dr. Lattimore, his adviser at Kenyon, had dropped over dead from an aneurysm a couple of weeks ago, and he’d just realized this morning that the many times the man had brushed up against him when they were alone together in his office were not as “accidental” as he’d claimed. He couldn’t believe how naive he’d been. Clearly, the old classicist had wanted to fuck him. Had it been so apparent that he was homosexual? Even before he knew himself? “Pardon me, Private,” Bovard said, as Wesley dropped the pages and scrambled to stand up and salute.

“My fault, sir,” the private said.

“A letter from home?”

The boy stared straight ahead. “Yes, sir.”

Bovard let his eyes wander for a moment over the slim body. Though it didn’t make a big difference in the way he imagined he and Wesley might die together, it was nice to know that at least he could read. He wondered if he should offer to loan him the copy of The Oxford Book of English Verse that his parents had sent him the other day. Accompanying the book was a note in which his father informed him that they had gone to Elizabeth’s wedding in New York, and that she sent her regards. It sounded almost like an apology, the way it was worded, as if the old man were afraid his son might look upon their attendance as a betrayal; and Bovard reminded himself to write and reassure them that he was more content than he’d ever been, that he had no ill feelings whatsoever toward the money-grubbing bitch. If they only knew how happy he was not to be stuck in that life anymore. He looked down at the letter on the ground near Wesley’s feet, two sheets of paper covered with a large, childish scrawl, and suddenly realized this was the perfect opportunity to ask a question that had been on his mind ever since he’d first laid eyes on the boy. “Fiancée?”

Wesley twitched a little, but stayed at attention. “Well, sort of, sir.”

“At ease, Private.”

As the soldier bent down to pick up the letter, the lieutenant sneaked another quick glance, then turned and walked away. So what if Wesley had a girlfriend? As Lucas had told him the other night, half the men he’d fucked over the years wore a wedding ring. Though most of them endured marriage only because it provided a cover-up for their deviant behavior, hating every minute of it, there were some who actually got a thrill out of living a double life. “Think about it,” Lucas said. “Sucking a prick one day, knocking up the wife the next. It’s like walking a tightrope that never ends, knowing that one little slipup could ruin you forever.”

By the time he arrived at the mess hall, most of the men had finished eating, and Bovard settled for just a cup of coffee. “I’m telling you, fatso, that’s a bargain,” he heard First Lieutenant Waller say to a chubby gunnery officer. “Four dollars a shot for a pretty little wench that speaks French? You can’t beat that with a stick.” With his black curly hair and pencil mustache and endless talk of sex, Waller had quickly established a reputation around camp as a master fornicator, and quite a few inexperienced men sought out his advice before they made their first trip to the Whore Barn. He claimed to know every crack and crevasse of every working girl within a thirty-mile radius of Meade.

“Yeah, but you could choke it with your hand,” another lieutenant joked.

“Ha!” Waller said. “No doubt in my mind, Bryant. You probably try to strangle that snake of yours to death every night, don’t you?”

“Why would I do that?” Bryant said. “Just hang out at the Majestic long enough and that ol’ boy that runs the place will do it for you.”

“Isn’t he a friend of yours, Bovard?” Waller asked, winking at a couple of other officers sitting across from him.

“Who are you talking about?”

“The funny boy that runs the theater uptown.”

“Oh, him,” Bovard said, trying to act casual. “No, I’ve talked to him a time or two, but I wouldn’t call him a friend. I can’t even recall his name now.”

“Snyder here says he tried to grab his cock in the men’s room last night.”

Bovard’s stomach did a flip, but his face remained calm. “Good Lord,” he said. “You mean intentionally?”

“Hell, yes,” Snyder said. “He had his hands all over me. I’ll give him this, though, the little bastard can take a punch. I must have hit him seven or eight times before he stayed down.” He raised his fists up for them all to see the red abrasions on them.

“Looks like you nailed him pretty good,” Bovard said weakly.

“Did he ever try any of that stuff with you?” Waller asked. Several men at the next table laughed.

“What stuff?” Bovard said.

“You know, that queer stuff?”

“Certainly not!”

“Well, maybe he thought Snyder was another one of his kind,” said an aide named Hurley who worked for Major Willows.

“It’s an abomination,” said Second Lieutenant Elkins, a teetotaler since birth and head of Camp Pritchard’s newly formed Morality Committee. He saw this as an opportunity to let everyone know where the organization stood in regard to faggots and dykes. Granted, only one other man, a little Bible-thumper from Ironton, had showed up at the first meeting, but, as his mentor, the clap doctor Eisner, later reminded him, it takes only a single spark to start a fire.

“I never thought I’d say this, but for once I agree with you, Elkins,” Waller said. “Goddamn queers. If they’re not going to hang ’em, they ought to at least round them up and stick ’em on an island out in the ocean somewhere away from decent folks. What do you think, Bovard?”

“Well,” the lieutenant said, as he sat down at the table and recalled the opiated fantasy he’d had about Wesley the other night, “it sounds to me like you might have hit upon the perfect solution.”