Monday, May 7, 2001

Clear
High—61°F
Low—51°F
Dew Point 49 °F
Chance of Rain—0%
Wind 16 mph (ENE) Gusting to 25 mph
Sunrise 5:04 AM Sunset 6:59 PM
Moonrise 7:14 PM, Full, 100% of the Moon is Illuminated

The Stuart-Forrest Home, 05:07

My eyes popped open and I listened to determine what had awakened me from a sound sleep. On the other side of Nat, Caroline was sliding out from underneath the covers.

"Momma!"

I lifted covers and rolled right. I had my feet on the floor first. I hoped we didn't wake Nat up, too, but our baby needed her mommies. Priorities.

Rounding the foot of the bed, Caroline held out my robe. We dressed on the way to Tiffany's room, turning on the hallway's fifteen-watt bulb. Even its dim glow, muted behind a hand-painted bowl, made us squint.

The night-light in Tiffany's room was much dimmer, and easier on the eyes. We could see Tiffany sitting up, clutching Mr. Raggedycoon, her other arm twisting a fist into one eye. Tiffy's expression wasn't so much woebegone as annoyed, until Caroline lay down beside her. Her free hand shot around Caroline's neck, her face butted itself in Momma's robe.

"Bad dream, sweetheart?" A solemn headshake, up and down. "All gone now?" Same headshake. "Want me to stay here until you fall asleep?" A third rendition. "Okay, roll over." Tiffany let go Caroline's neck and settled in. Caroline snuggled down beside her.

I whispered to Caroline, "You just sleep in with her. I'll get the menfolk moving this morning." I leaned past her to kiss Tiffany's cheek, which she promptly rubbed off—scamp—and kissed Caroline, too. She turned her head enough to catch it nearly on the lips. We squeezed hands and I left them, pulling the door loosely closed.

I noticed the light come on under the guest room door. John had to leave early, to catch the ferry to the peninsula. His orders called for him to report to CASA by noon. I figured I'd send the latest family hero off with at least a decent breakfast, so I went to the kitchen.

I'm not a bad cook, but I never get much practice, not with Caroline around. Both our families had the tradition of one stay-at-home mom, though her mothers had rotated that enormous responsibility; in my family, Mama Celeste was eternal mistress of the hearth. But Mama insisted that all her daughters and sons know how.

Scrambled eggs are a snap. Chop a small onion, a mushroom or two, saute in butter and dump in a bowl of eggs, then keep it all moving over low heat until it reached the right firmness. Slabs of bacon under the broiler take no time at all. Slice up some of Caroline's fresh bread from yesterday, butter it, and broil that for a minute or two—voila!

John came into the kitchen as I was setting plates in the breakfast nook. "You shouldn't have gone to all this bother," he said, but he wore a happy grin. He glanced down the hallway. "Will Caroline be getting up before I have to leave?" He seemed wistful, almost hopeful.

I shook my head, but he wasn't looking. "No. Tiffy had a nightmare. Caroline is keeping her company; they'll both sleep in today."

John almost managed to hide his disappointment. I thought I understood. Caroline had confided to me that she and her younger brother had enjoyed some... youthful experimentation, as she put it. She was concerned that John had come away from it with an unrealistic infatuation. One she tried to discourage.

From my vantage, it was more a case of "tried not to encourage." I don't think the feelings were entirely one-sided. It was just that Caroline wasn't willing to violate marital taboo, whatever she might have done as an adolescent. Society frowns on that sort of behavior.

For my part, I think John Carter is excellent husband material. Handsome, trim but well muscled, polite, even-tempered. I could see that if I'd met him before Caroline, a choice would have been difficult. But for the fact of his brotherhood, Nat, Caroline and I would by now have held a family council over whether or not to pop the question.

I wonder ... Caroline told me that she and John have different biological mothers but the same father. How could they be certain? There are tests, these days, but how did one go about arranging for them? Paternity in a polygamous society isn't usually a matter for concern, babies are the children of all the mothers and fathers.

But if it would make John and Caroline happy, I figured I would have to find out. Quietly. I wouldn't want to raise any false hopes.

I began to consider John from a different perspective. Okay, I'd need to find out quickly and quietly.

On the Road in Portsmouth, VA, 07:25

David hugged Marla goodbye while Arthur kissed Melody, then they swapped. Their wives stayed in the open door, smiling and waving until they were in the car and out of the driveway. Even with their hair sleep-tousled, their figures hidden in bulky robes, David thought his wives heartrendingly gorgeous.

"Dave," Art said, breaking into his pleasant thoughts, "do you feel like going to work this morning is like taking a vacation?"

Dave laughed. "Feeling a little worn out, Art?"

Art nodded. "Getting pregnant is hard work!"

"Maybe," David agreed, still laughing, "but you have to admit the wages are great."

"You think so?" Art groaned through a grin. "I guess maybe you're right. I'm gonna miss all this overtime when they cut us back to regular hours."

"Your problem is, you're putting it in terms of a job. Making a baby isn't a job, it's an adventure!"

"Dave, ol' husband, ol' pal, you ought to go into advertising. That'd make a great slogan for some company. Maybe even the military."

"Oh, sure, I can see it on the recruiting posters. 'The Army: It's not a job, it's an adventure.'" They both laughed. "So, anyway, what's your 'vacation' schedule this week? How's the Birmingham coming?"

"I'm done with Birmingham until trials. This week we're doing the same mods on Chattanooga, upgrading launch systems and fire control. Piece of cake. Then, if all goes well, I get a shot at the upgrades on that new sub, the Areolee."

"The 'Areolee?' They named a sub after anatomy?"

"Nah. It's the Robert E. Lee. Areolee—R. E. Lee, get it?—is just a very unofficial nickname." Arthur snickered. "I hear the skipper of that boat has a conniption every time he hears it. Seems his name is R. E. Lee, too." They laughed again.

Things were quiet for a few minutes as David negotiated his way into the inbound shipyard traffic queue. David had been thinking. "Are you going to ride that sub for recommissioning trials?"

"Probably, if I get to do the upgrades. Why?"

"Well, you know the tradition about tee-shirts?"

"Sure." At this shipyard, civilian riders on Navy vessels generally had a clever message printed on tee-shirts worn for the ride. It was a long-standing tradition. The leading contender for the next ship due out of the yards was "There ain't no fat on a Birming Ham."

"How about, 'I love to go down on your Areolee'?"

Arthur burst into laughter. When he had it under control, he said, "Like I said. Advertising. Make us a fortune."

David grinned.

Bachelor Officers' Quarters, 08:28

"Ouch! Damn it"

Some other day, I might have taken myself to task for muttering a curse aloud over a little shaving cut. Strange, I suppose, given the reputation for "swearing like a sailor" that all members of the Navy have. But Mama Willow insisted that all her children learn to express themselves without resort to mere profanity. "If you want to make your strong emotions and intense feelings understood under stressful conditions, learn to master the language arts. A well formed sarcastic remark, or a timely rhetorical question, delivered in a quiet tone can be far more effective than swearing."

She was wonderful.

She followed her own precept. Mama Willow could tan your hide with words alone, and leave you stinging without ever raising her voice once, or allowing a single obscenity to touch her lips. Except of course when she said, "Follow these rules, and you will be known as a person who can keep their head in a crisis, remain rational despite severe provocation. And besides," she'd finished, "when you do say 'Shit!' the object of your anger will know they are well and truly fucked."

"Ouch! Da... Bless me, I'm clumsy this morning." I moved the razor away from my face and took a deep breath. Yes, I was keeping my future wife waiting, but I'd be ready no faster by committing seppuku one tiny nick at a time. Calmer, I finished removing my overnight stubble.

That was the wording I stumbled over: "Well and truly fucked." Last night had been quite an eye opener. Coached by the demure, proper fiancée waiting in the lounge downstairs, I had uttered phrases and euphemisms I hadn't used since junior high school, sniggering with other boys behind the gymnasium. With every obscenity that passed my lips, my other fiancée became more aroused, more passionate. more consumed with lust.

She was wonderful.

While Nancy recovered, Deborah demonstrated that grammar and rhetoric were not the oral skills she most prized in the bedroom, either. When Nancy regained her wits, she, too, became a coach. I discovered that a skill I thought mastered could be honed and improved. The art of the tongue-lashing without profanities; lessons that Mama Willow never taught her children.

She was wonderful, too.

We still had a lot of things to work out, but all three of us were ... satisfied ... that the bedroom would be the least of our problems.

The bathroom, on the other hand, would take some careful negotiation. Being relegated to the guest bathroom this morning, after what we'd shared the night before, was a bit of a surprise. Another surprise, given what I'd explored, was the total lack of shaving equipment. None at all.

Well, I hadn't been prepared to spend a night. I suspect that wasn't in their original plans, either. Likely there were feminine beauty secrets to which I'd be exposed slowly, in order to avoid destroying my illusions.

Or maybe it was a pigsty. By their own estimation, I mean, not mine nor anyone else's. There had been some preparation before the night's festivities commenced. No doubt they'd been embarrassed.

I checked my own appearance, dressed now in freshly pressed dress grays. The tiny bits of toilet paper stuck on my face did not enhance my image of authority, but I was otherwise ready to perform my duties. I glanced at my sink. I grimaced. Then I spent a few minutes rinsing hair and shaving soap from the bowl. I wouldn't have wanted Deborah or Nancy to see my mess, either.

Out the door and down the stairs to the lobby. Deborah stood when she saw me, one hand clutching an impressive sheaf of messages. At a guess, the engagement announcement had generated even more messages for me than for them. After a chaste kiss, Deborah confirmed the guess.

"I've organized your 'congratulations' messages as best I could. Family first, then crew, then other military, mostly Ships' Captains. After that, the advertisements for wedding services. There's one I'm not sure which category to put in. Perhaps 'old girlfriends'?"

I winced. That certainly seemed unlikely. "Who does it say it's from?"

"I'm guessing they are female," she said. "Who are 'Cilla' and 'Charybdis'?" Was there a touch of jealousy in her tone?

If so, it didn't stop me from laughing. "Family, definitely family." A raised eyebrow told me I'd better explain. "Priscilla and Constance Lee, two out of three of my romance advisors."

That lovely eyebrow arched even higher. "Did they advise you to place that engagement announcement?"

I barely stifled a snort. "Quite the opposite. They physically assaulted me for having the temerity to even consider such a thing. At the time, I'd thought to have a week before it would appear, and had to promise to cancel it first thing this morning. Only that promise saved my scalp."

Deborah considered a moment. "I think I'm going to like your family."

What could I do but smile?

Officer's Parking, 08:52

It had the potential to turn into a party. One of those outdoor "block parties" you may have attended at one time or another. I kept trying to herd the Captain and his fiancée into the building, but it was slow going.

Every couple of steps, the skipper had to salute and shake hands with another round of congratulations, as did the Assistant Weapons Officer. Handshakes and hugs abounded for both. Crewmembers were being very demonstrative, and so were many of their spouses. I don't think the Captain realized just how much his crew liked him.

I noticed various faces at the windows of the Squadron Headquarters building, including Rear Admiral Shingleton himself. Squadron HQ was where the offices of Submarine Cadre Units were located. No telling what impression this was having on the HQ Staff. I spied the COB in the crowd, and waved him over.

He saluted. "Yes ma'am?"

I returned the salute. "COB, we've got to get this mob into the offices and under control before our boss," I indicated with a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the Admiral's office, "takes a notion to get involved."

The COB grinned. "Yes ma'am." He spun around, producing a shiny whistle which he proceeded to blow, quite shrilly. "Cadre Unit, Atten-HUT!" Quiet descended over the parking lot, even among the dependents. "Three cheers for the Captain and his intended! Hip-hip-"

"Hurrah!"

"Hip-hip-"

"Hurrah!"

"Hip-hip-"

"Hurrah!"

"Now fall out and muster by divisions in the Cadre main office!" That broke up the party atmosphere, at least enough to get things moving in a more organized, proficient, military manner.

I clapped the Chief of the Boat on the shoulder. "Thanks, COB. You're a lifesaver."

He grinned. "All part of the job, XO."

"Do you carry that whistle all the time?" I was curious.

He nodded. Then he leaned in closer, his voice much quieter. "Do you think anyone missed the fact that the Skipper arrived in Lt. Hubbard's car?"

"Just giving the Captain a ride, COB."

"Yes, ma'am. And then providing transportation the next morning." He waggled his eyebrows.

When I stopped laughing, I gestured for the COB to lead the way inside. "You're a dirty-minded old sea-dog, COB."

"Yes, ma'am." He grinned again, unrepentant.

"But you're probably right."

"Yes, ma'am."

Portsmouth Marine Terminal Offices, 10:15

Okay, so taking Friday off wasn't the smartest thing to do, Nancy told herself. Still, if I had to do it over, I wouldn't change a thing. She wasn't aware that she was humming to herself as she processed her backlog of paperwork. She'd even smiled at Amy when she'd delivered another stack. Smiles being contagious, Amy was now infecting everyone who passed her desk.

I can't believe I've got a fiancé. It seems like only yesterday I was a quivering blob of insecurity over even dating Bob. Now I'm ready to go down the aisle on roller skates. She hummed a snatch of a wedding march, and smiled even more.

She pressed her intercom. "Amy? I've got the first batch done, can you pick them up and send them on their merry way?"

Amy entered, still smiling from her previous visit, to be greeted by another incandescent smile. Emboldened by that smile, Amy asked, "Good weekend, Mrs. Hubbard?"

You wouldn't believe how good! "Great weekend, Amy! And you can call me Nancy when it's just us girls."

Amy beamed. "Really? Gosh, Mrs ... Nancy, that must have been some hot date." She retrieved the outgoing files.

Thinking about last night, Nancy blushed. "I guess you could say that." She held up her left hand.

Amy's eyes grew huge. "Oh, wow!" She moved closer and leaned down to look. "Who're the lucky guys? I mean, if you don't mind my asking."

"I don't mind. Remember that phone call on Thursday from Robert E. Lee?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"That's him." Nancy's smile outshone the rock on her finger.

Amy squealed her congratulations and wished her and her wife happiness, then retreated smiling again from the office to her own desk. Nancy returned to her work with a smile and a song on the tip of her tongue.

Their smiles persisted until nearly lunchtime. That's when Amy informed Nancy that there was a Mrs. Cummings on line two.

Nancy's smile disappeared. No sense putting it off. It'll just get worse. She picked up the phone and stabbed the blinking button. "Hello, Mother."

"No, Mother, I—" No, Mother, you didn't raise a daughter to be rude to her parents, and I would have called if I had known the announcement was going to be in yesterday's paper. If I had known I was engaged, even.

"No, Mother, I—" No, Mother, you didn't raise your daughters to not to answer your every phone call promptly. We learned that on our own.

"Yes, Mother." Yes, I understand a daughter has a duty to her parents. But what about the parents' duty to be supportive to their children? I'd be happy to explain everything if you'd just give me a chance, just listen for once!

"Yes, Mother, but—" Sure a young bride's prospective husband should have the approval of the brides' parents. But I'm not a young bride, I'm a grown women and a wife already. Why can't you see that?

"No, Mother, he—" No, Mother, he certainly isn't trying to marry into the Cummings name. How can you even think such a ridiculous thing? For God's sake, he's a Lee of Virginia!

Mother! How can you—" Pregnant? I wish! But nothing we've done so far could make me pregnant, even if I wanted to be. So, no, I don't have to marry Bob. I want to.

"Yes Mother." Why am I even listening to this? You made me the compliant, obedient, dutiful wife that The Dick loved to vent his spleen on, just like you're doing now. Bob likes me to be feisty—he told me so. He said it was one of the things that attracted him to me.

"Yes Mother." Whatever. I'll certainly take precautions. I'll take the precaution of not raising my own children to be doorstops or whipping posts. God, enough is enough!