James Salter - Cassada

“They think I’m pigheaded.”

“Maybe after this they’ll listen.”

“Because it turned out I was right?”

“Yes.”

“I doubt it. Usually it works out just the opposite.”

“It’s really a shame.”

“The accident?”

“That you’re not in charge.”

“I know.”

A glass in one hand, Mayann regards herself in the mirror, turns slightly one way, then the other, puts the glass down on the night table, and somewhat too deliberately smooths her dress around the hips where it looked a little tight. She looks for the cigarette she had a minute ago, but it isn’t there. It’s in the bathroom or living room or both. She has a sip of the drink and closer to the mirror examines her eyes. Still young. Young enough. She takes a deep, nostalgic breath. For some reason she thinks of driving, being driven, leaning back in the seat, the road pouring by. The night wind, the radio on. A little cool jazz. All those times, she thinks. There is the sound of a key in the lock and the door closing.

“Bud?”

“Damn cold out,” Dunning says, coming down the hallway. “It’s winter again.”

He stands in the doorway. Mayann nods at her glass.

“Want to join me?”

“What have you been doing, having a little party?”

“Having a drink.”

“ A drink.”

“I may have another.”

“That’s a surprise.”

“You’ve never had a drink?”

He looks at her and looks away.

“Well, how’d it go?” she says. “Kill anyone else today?”

“What in the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Forget what I said.”

“I don’t consider that funny. Neither should you. I see you didn’t bother to change your dress.”

“So? You didn’t change your uniform.”

“I work in my uniform.”

“You work wearing all your medals?”

“You wear them sometimes. What are you getting at? I gave the order to wear them. Wickenden didn’t bother to obey it.”

“Seems like you have more of them than you used to. Can that be? You don’t have any duplicates in there, do you?”

“Just what’s bothering you?”

“What’s that one again?” she says, pointing.

“What’s what one?”

“Purple Heart, right?”

“Stop it.”

“Don’t get angry. I just forget what they all are. God, there’s enough of them. Little bronze doodads. You must have more than anybody. You earned them, I know.”

“Each and every one of them.”

“I’m just happy to see you haven’t lost any, misplaced them somewhere. I mean, they’re very small. Compared to other things.”

“Now what does that mean?”

“That’s for me to know, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know if you really know anything. You don’t act like it. Is there any beer in the refrigerator?”

“Search me.”

“Thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Search me, that’s all. I don’t know.”

Dunning goes to find a beer, opens it, and comes out of the kitchen cleaning the lip of the bottle with his palm. He sits down with the newspaper. For a minute or so he reads in silence.

“Didn’t that sicken you a little today?” Mayann asks.

There is a soft sound as Dunning, not answering, turns the page.

“What?” he finally says.

“Didn’t that make you a little sick today?”

“Didn’t what make me sick?”

“That sermon. All that stuff. Doesn’t anybody tell these chaplains what’s really going on?”

Dunning takes a swallow of beer and sets the bottle down again. He turns another page and unbuttons his blouse. His shirt is tight over his belly. From across the room his wife looks at him, big legs stretched out in front of him.

“Why doesn’t somebody clue them in?” she says.

“Fine. Why don’t you?”

“I’m hardly the one to do that.”

“You can say that again,” Dunning says.

“You bastard.”

“Watch yourself. Enough’s enough, you know what I mean?”

“It was so phony. That wasn’t the way it happened.”

“It was something like that,” Dunning said wearily.

“It wasn’t right,” she insisted. “It was just words.”

“Maybe you’d like to be the chaplain.”

“No, I want you to answer me.”

“Answer you what?”

“You know what I mean. Don’t you feel it?”

“I’ve got a lot more to worry about than the chaplain.” He lowers the newspaper. “In case you don’t know it, I might get relieved. I might lose the squadron.”

Mayann is silent but feels a chill. Although she doesn’t care about the Officers’ Wives Club, she knows she is in a position not to care. They have to respect her, but not if she weren’t a squadron commander’s wife, if her husband was only another major.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“Tell ’em that.”

“It wouldn’t be fair.”

He raises the paper again and mutters a single word,

“Shit.”

After a few moments she says, “Where was Billy today? I didn’t see him.”

Dunning lowers the paper again, looking at her in a way that makes her feel a chill. “What’d you say?” he asks.

“I said where was Billy. I missed seeing him.”

“Billy.”

Her heart jumps. She is certain he is about to say something else, something unthinkable.

“He’s on A.O. today,” Dunning says.

“Couldn’t he switch with someone?”

“Maybe he didn’t want to come,” Dunning says as if bored. He goes on reading.

She cannot believe the relief even though it is something she lives on. For a moment she feels almost dizzy.

“Bud.”

“What?”

“I’m going to cook dinner. Let’s have a nice dinner.”

“Fine,” he says, lifting the bottle, tilting it up.

“What all would you like? Never mind, I’m going to surprise you.”

“Don’t bother about me. I’ll get something at the Snack Bar.”

“Why are you going to do that?”

“I have to go out anyway. I have a Rod and Gun Club meeting.”

“I thought that was Wednesdays.”

“This is a special one.”

“Oh.”

His chin is in the air as he reads something at the top of the page.

“I see they give his name today.”

“I saw that,” she says. “Did he have a girlfriend?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Somebody ought to tell her.”

“She’ll hear about it.”

“I just wonder if anybody’s going to tell her or if she’ll read it in the newspaper.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” He shakes the page flat to read it better.

Mayann looks at her glass. There’s only a little left at the bottom of it.

“Listen, let me cook us a dinner.”

“I told you. I can’t.”

“Can’t you just skip the goddamn meeting? Call and say you won’t be able to make it?”

“I’m the president,” he reminds her.

She drains the glass.

“Isn’t there a vice-president?”

“I have to be there.”

“I guess so. I guess it’d be bad if you weren’t. There wouldn’t be anyone to rap the gavel or whatever you do.”

He takes a swallow of beer. She goes to the refrigerator for some ice, two cubes of which she drops into her glass so he can hear it.

“I let you down.”

“Nah, Cassada was the one let us down.”

“It was my job to… Well, there’s no point in going back over it. It’s hard to anticipate everything.”

“He couldn’t cut it, that’s all. It could of been worse.”

“I don’t see how,” Isbell said.

“It could of been.”