Chapter 2

Allen had been gone six months when they came.

Gwen had tried everything, from bowling leagues with the Officers' Wives Club to college night courses.

She was nervous and irritable, clinging to the door and watching for the postman every day, hoping he had a letter from Allen.

But the letters came, three and four at a time, only once a month. Allen had written he was on reconnaissance patrol most of the time and could only write when they came in to headquarters. His letters were short and choppy, mostly asking questions and saying he loved her and would be home soon.

What little she knew about what he was doing came in the form of news stories from the Camp Pendleton Scout, when occasionally his name would be mentioned and the reporter told about a night attack or the blowing up of a bridge deep in enemy territory.

The Vietnamese medal had come first. The commanding officer of the reconnaissance company from the camp had sent her a letter with a copy of the citation explaining why Allen had received the medal. The letter had praised Allen's work and stated that he was also recommended for the Silver Star.

But the glory had only salved her loneliness for a while, and then she sank back into the morose climate of the war-widow existence, always doing things with other women, never being seen alone with a man, avoiding going out too often at night for fear someone in the neighborhood might get the wrong idea.

It was frustrating and she often cried herself to sleep, beating her small fists into the pillow and wishing for Allen to appear in the doorway, to take her roughly in his arms and cover her body with kisses, to rape her, and then caress and comfort her in his strong, hirsute arms.

But her dream never came true and she ended up sobbing herself into the darkness of sleep, to awake to another empty day.

That was all before she met them. They had come on a Saturday afternoon.

The doorbell rang and Gwen peered through the split in the curtains before answering it.

"Yes?" she said through the locked screen door.

"Mrs. Gwen Farrow?"

"Yes?"

"We're Bob and Sybil McCusker. A friend of mine in Vietnam knows your husband, Allen, and we thought we'd drop in and say hello."

"Allen?"

"Yes, may we?"

"Certainly. Yes, please, come in." She nervously unlatched the door and stepped aside as the couple entered.

"Sorry about the locked doors and everything, but you know how it is these days. Can't trust anyone." Her voice was excited as she ushered them into the front room.

"Care for something to drink? It's a hot day."

"No, thank you," the woman said, smiling up at Gwen.

"You sure? Only take a see to fix something. How about you, Mister..."

"Bob. Call me, Bob, Gwen. Yes, I'd like something. Glass of water will be fine."

"We have some beer..." Gwen blushed and wiped her hands on her apron. "I mean... I have some beer or gin if you'd like a drink."

"Well... sure, how about a Collins?" Bob asked, smiling at her. "Sybil?" he asked, addressing his wife.

"Fine. But don't go to any trouble."

"No trouble. No trouble at all," Gwen called over her shoulder as she scurried to the kitchen to make the drinks.

"Prime," Bob whispered to his wife. Sybil smiled, a haughty, nonchalant air about her as she tapped a cigarette on her gold case and waited for Bob to light it for her.

"Very prime," she replied, tilting her head back and exposing her creamy neck as she blew a hazy shaft of smoke up toward the dropped ceiling.

Gwen balanced the tinkling glasses into the room and bent, offering them to the couple. Bob hesitated as he reached for his glass, peering down the low-cut neckline of Gwen's sundress.

"Very attractive apartment," Sybil said throatily, taking Gwen's attention from Bob's prying eyes.

"Thank you. I don't have much else to keep me busy."

"Too bad Allen's away. Such a lovely woman you are," Bob said, raising his glass and smiling.

"Thanks again," Gwen said innocently, settling on the edge of the large ottoman. "I don't get many male compliments these days."

"Reclusing?" Sybil asked, her long, false eyelashes lifting and falling over her hazel eyes.

"War widow. Suppose you know what that's like. Were you in the service, Bob? Marines?"

"Army," Bob said setting his drink down.

"Ohhh," Gwen sighed, disappointed.

"Oh, I know how you Marine wives are. Your men are the toughest, meanest, best-trained in the world. And I agree. I made a mistake. Should have walked across the hall to the Marines instead of the Army."

"Gwen, tell us about what you've been doing," Sybil interjected, tilting her head and looking at Gwen from the corners of her eyes.

"Loafing. Trying to keep busy. Allen doesn't want me to work. I read a lot. Write a lot of letters. Swim in the pool. Bowl. Play bridge sometimes." She read the list off in a bored voice.

"But tell me about Allen. Who sent you? Do you have a message? Is Allen all right?" The sudden thought of harm raced through her mind.

"He's fine. Fine," Bob said reaching out and patting Gwen's leg. Sybil looked sharply at him and he retracted the lingering hand. Gwen appeared to pay no attention to the contact.

"But what about the message. You said a friend..."

"Yes." Sybil smiled, her sensuous red lips stretching into a thin smile. "A good friend of ours in the Army, George Hinman, just got back and mentioned your husband's name. He's a helicopter pilot, and said he lifted your husband's team. I think he called it..."

"Yes... yes..." Gwen scooted closer to Sybil, her firm, round buttocks barely glued to the edge of the ottoman.

"And he said he talked to him briefly. He mentioned he had a wife in Oceanside, told him about you..." Sybil paused and pressed her finger to her lips. Gwen blushed. "And he said he'd send a message back. Your husband said, to quote, keep a stiff upper lip, unquote."

"Ohhh," Gwen said, her excited tone melting to disappointment. "Anything else?"

"No, Sybil had the four-word message right," Bob chimed in, tinkling his empty glass. "Say, I'll have another one of those delicious drinks, if they're handy."

"Ah, yes. Sure," Gwen said, rising and taking his glass from him. She moved toward the kitchen, her left index finger hooked in her lower lip like a pouting child.

"You did a beautiful job of bombing the poor kid," Bob hissed, baring his gleaming white teeth in a phony smile.

"You got your feelie, dearie," Sybil recoiled, baring her teeth into an equally false grin.

"You're quite a bitch, Sybil," Bob replied, widening his crescent-shaped smile.

"Careful, or I'll blow the whole thing and you'll be out of fresh meat for a while, Bob baby." Sybil forced her grin to widen.

"Don't kid me. All you want is your face between her tender thighs, my dear, vicious wife," Bob hissed, reaching across and squeezing her knee painfully.

From the kitchen, Gwen saw the smiling couple. Her heart sank as she though how loving and happy they looked, smiling and touching each other, giving support, being there in the critical times. For a moment she wished she were Sybil and that Bob's hand was squeezing her knee, and that he was whispering sweet things to her. She forced herself to turn away and purposely dropped a spoon on the floor to alert the lovebirds she was coming.

"Clumsy me," she smiled, trying to recapture her gay mood. She had been disappointed nothing more was sent to her than "keep a stiff upper." It might mean something to a boxer, she thought, but it didn't do a damn thing for her.

There was no more talk of Allen or Vietnam.

Bob asked interesting questions about Gwen's background, where she went to school, what she did, where she had worked. They were both surprised when Gwen told them Allen didn't want her to work.

"Why, that's criminal," Sybil said pursing her lips and shaking her head. "What's a poor thing like you to do? Sit around and go crazy looking at four walls?"

"I keep busy," Gwen lied.

"Come on, now," Sybil said, puffing her cheeks and fluttering her inch-long eyelids, "tell me the truth? You're bored stiff. And you cry yourself to sleep every night."

"No. No, Really, I'm quite content." Gwen felt embarrassed. Sybil knew so much, she was so mature, graceful.

Since a teen-ager, Gwen had admired women like Sybil. Sybil was tall and strong-looking. She had a long, statuesque face and slender, tapered legs. Her breasts were very large, jutting out against the front of her suit jacket. Her waist nipped in and her wide, curving hips flared out and swept in around her parenthesis- shaped buttocks. Her lips were thick and together formed a matching pair of gull's wings, one on top of the other. Her nose was bold, sloping down from her mascara-lined eyes and curving under sharply at the tip to make two small ovals.