Chapter 28

14:35 Friday, October 4th, 1991

MLK Student Union

University of California, Berkeley, CA 94720

Denise walked by the steps where Lynne sat scanning the crowd, deep in conversation with a girl Lynne didn't know. Relieved, Lynne ran to catch up to the two girls, though this time she remembered to be more polite.

"Hi, Denise," Lynne said, when there was a lull in the conversation. Something in her voice must have given her away, though, since Denise snapped her head toward Lynne, and then said to the other girl, "Um. If you'll excuse me, I'll call you later, Tonia."

Tonia had also sensed something, Lynne saw, but that was unimportant. "Sure, Denise," she said uncertainly, but then headed off in the opposite direction.

"When does Lenore get back?" Lynne tried to wait until Tonia had left hearing distance, but the softest tone she could manage was a harsh whisper.

"Sunday night, I think. Lynne, what's wrong?" Denise asked, concern and worry in her voice.

"I tried calling her, Denise, but all I got was a message saying 'The cellular customer you are trying to reach is currently unavailable'." Her tone was bitter, she knew.

"What the hell is wrong, Lynne?" Denise was getting exasperated, Lynne realized.

"I'm in trouble, Denise. I'm late."

"Come in here with me," Denise ordered, and turned up the staircase into Barrow Hall. Leading Lynne quickly, she found an unused classroom, and shut the door behind them. "Tell me," she demanded.

"My breasts are sore, I was queasy for the last three mornings, and I haven't been drinking to get that way. My period's a week and a half late. I'm sure. I got a testing kit, Denise."

Denise held Lynne by her shoulders. "I've been there, too, Lynne. I had to make a choice, too." She spoke delicately, her eyes boring into Lynne's own. "Have you thought about your options?"

Lynne felt the exasperation well up in her. "God, yes, Denise. God knows I want to keep it, but I just can't. I have a career, and I have promises, and the ... father ... is just way out of my reach." She stumbled on the one word, but bit her lip while dragging air in, and then let it out. "It's what it means to the Navy that I need to talk to her about. I don't know if I can go to a clinic ... I'll be really fucked, not just preggo-fucked, but Captain's Mast or Courts-Martial fucked if I go to a free clinic and something goes wrong and I have to go into a real hospital and the Navy finds out..." Lynne felt lost, but rallied. "I'll need a friend to lean on, Denise, and I hope you'll help for that part, too ... but I need to know the answer."

"Okay. We'll talk more, but for now, what about the Gunny? Would he know the answer, or who to ask? Discreetly?"

Lynne thought about it for a moment or two, and then nodded. "I'll get him to give me the phone number for Deb, and no, you don't know her, or Lenore's mom. They'll help, too. They helped me get into this..." Lynne's self-honesty rose up, and she amended her last thought. "But I'm responsible for the mess."

"We don't have to tell him why we need the number, Lynne," Denise said, pragmatically.

Lynne's heart jumped for a moment, and then fell again. "I don't know his phone number. And talking to him is going to be hard ... I just know he'll decide I fucked up, and that I let Lenore down."

"You're sure you'll have an abortion, then?" The sentence was hanging in the air between them, and Lynne heard the word resound in her ears.

"Yes."

Denise nodded. "Okay, we'll meet at five at your dorm, and then we'll go to Lenore and the Gunny's, and we'll have some wine, and I'll tell you all about mine, and you tell me about yours. And after we cry, we'll get the Gunny to give us Deb-who-I-don't-know or Lenore's mom's number." She shrugged, and then continued. "You know, Lynne, he may not be as hard to talk to as you think. I think Lenore wouldn't be madly in love with him if he were."

Lynne sighed a little at Denise's phrasing, and hugged the taller girl. "Thank God you're here, Denise."

16:20 Friday, October 4^th, 1991

35º 22' 50.8" N, 123º 01' 54 W

(83 NM WSW of San Martin Rock, CA)

"Just pull the trigger once for each shot." Kostowe stood at the rail with her, after having made a heading adjustment for the changing wind. The clouds were solid over them now, a large arc of cloud band showing against a blue sky dotted with cloud behind them, as a warm front blew north and east from the subtropics. It would mean rain and wind for San Francisco, Lenore knew, and she hoped things would work out so her parents would cull the harvest of grapes in dry weather. The harvest was close, her Mom told her, when Lenore had called on Thursday night to tell her she was sailing in the morning.

She was holding the Springfield Arms .45 as the Chief had showed her, and had lowered the lever safety. Near sunset, and not aiming at anything in particular, Lenore looked through the sights at waves against the red-tinted sky and fired at the horizon. With a sharp "Pow!" the pistol bucked, not unpleasantly. Sure enough, it fired each time she pulled the trigger, until the magazine was empty and the slide stayed locked in the opened position.

"That wasn't so bad."

"We'll get you some practice with aiming and targets when we get to Coronado," the Chief promised.

A few moments later, Lenore held the shotgun to her shoulder. "No," Kostowe told her. "Wooden cheek to wooden stock. If you give the shotgun room to accelerate it will hurt, but if you make it push your cheek and shoulder at the same time as it's pushing itself, it won't hurt."

Lenore nodded, understanding the concept, and did what Kostowe had suggested – give the stock a firm cheek-to-cheek hug. When she pulled the trigger, was surprised at the dull (but loud) 'blatt' noise the shotgun made. She noted the bead on the top of the barrel, near the tip, and guessed that since the shotgun was more an area weapon (the Chief's term), aiming was apparently less precise than with the handgun. To prove the point, the Chief had her fire the shotgun from her hip, also, and feel the push the gun gave to her hands in this position.

Lenore was actually looking forward to shooting at targets. A large part of that was that it was part and parcel of her chosen profession, she was sure, but no small credit was due her teacher. Giving Kostowe a warm smile after the fifth shot shell, she groaned when he told her it was time to clean the firearms.

Supper was under artificial light and cloud, lending credence to the fanciful notion that the world was only constructed of ocean, and that there was nothing but water outside the dull pool of light cast by the deck and cabin lights of the Joy Redux while the diesels drove them forward into the night.

17:50 Friday, October 4th, 1991

7914-B Arthur Street

Oakland, CA 94621

The Gunny stood in suit pants and a sleeveless tee-shirt, having obviously just come home. He held a bottle of Anchor Steam beer by the neck, and absolutely filled the door. "Oh, here's trouble," he said and moved out of the door, ushering his guests inward with a sweeping bow.

"Gunny," Denise said, and stopped to give him a peck on the cheek as she went by.

Lynne giggled, and motioned for him to bend down to her as she stepped over the threshold. With a dull 'thunk', she set the bag she was holding down on the wooden floor, and put her arms around his neck, pulling him further down until she could, on her tiptoes, give him a peck on the cheek, also.

"You've been drinking," he told them. "You shouldn't drink and drive, ladies."