Chapter 3

        I balanced on my tiptoes, reaching for a shoebox on the highest shelf in the closet. In it were my black spiked heels. "Can you come here?" I asked Gene. "I can't get this box."
        "Which box?"
        "The one on top. The brown one with the white letters."
        Gene lifted it down. We were dressing for Captain Davis's cocktail party. During the five months we had been at Great Lakes, we had attended three cocktail parties, all gala events with plenty of food and liquor. I expected that Captain Davis's party would be equally gala and lavish.
        I put on my new dress, black shantung with a fitted waist, a full skirt, and a wide bow that tied at the neck. This was the first time Gene had seen it and I twirled before him, flaring the skirt flat out like a saucer. "Like it?" I asked.
        "I love it," Gene said, reaching for me.
        But I jumped away from his hand, wavered on the spindly heels, and said, "Stop it. Our baby-sitter's going to be here in a second." I smiled, though, enjoying the play.
        Gene came after me and kissed my neck. "You're beautiful, gal."
        I put my arms around him. "Really, she's almost here."
        "I could call and cancel."
        I laughed. The doorbell rang and I rushed from the soon. "Hurry up and finish dressing," I called from the hall. Then from farther on down the hall I shouted, "Have I ever met Captain Davis? I don't remember."
        Gene shouted, "Once, I think. At the reception for new officers."
        At Captain Davis's home a teenage girl answered our ring and led us to the edge of the large living room. Gene leaned close and said, "Take it easy on the drinks."
        "Of course!" I snapped.
        "Don't get huffy."
        "Then don't--" I started to say but was interrupted by Captain Davis.
        "Hello there. Glad you could come, Gene, and humm, let's see--I've got it--Muriel," the captain boomed out. He was about five feet four and I wondered if, unconsciously, he boomed to compensate for his lack of height.
        "Well, yes, now," he continued, "how's the little mother? It's the best time of your life. The very best. No other to match it." He patted Gene's shoulder and stretched his thin mouth into a long smile.
        "We--" I said.
        "Yes, of course, you want a drink. This way, Gene." Like a dinghy pulling a sailboat, the captain bustled off with Gene in tow.
        I started through the living room toward a group gathered next to a floor lamp. The living room was about thirty feet long and contained only the floor lamp, three table lamps, and three mahogany end tables. At this naval base it was common practice to remove the living room furniture before a large cocktail party. About forty people were grouped around the room, and the doorbell continued to ring.
        I kept well to the left side of the room, as Wilbur and Mollie Lowe were to the right, in front of the fireplace. Whenever I saw them, I felt foolish. But despite my best efforts to avoid them, we had met at a couple of gatherings.
        Gene touched my shoulder and handed me a pale bourbon and water, mostly water. "What kind of drink is that?" I said, keeping my voice low.
        "A normal drink."
        "It is not! " I snapped. But my irritation left quickly, for at least it was a drink.
        We both stepped up to a group. There was Tom Page, a hulking young man, and Ruth Coogan, also young and evidently in love with Tom. Standing slightly behind them was Janet Hack, a kind-looking woman in her early forties. Janet acknowledged Gene and me with a nod and turned back to Tom and Ruth.
        "I run three miles before work," Tom was saying.
        "That's wonderful," said Ruth, her eyes fixed on Tom.
        "I never miss a day," he added.
        "Neither do I," said Ruth.
        "Nor I," said Janet.
        I didn't comment, because I neither ran nor exercised. I felt inferior.
        I stepped away and went to the kitchen to fix a drink. I poured a few ounces of bourbon in a glass and topped it with Coke to hide the quantity of bourbon. I drank half of it, then poured in more bourbon, more Coke and started back to Tom, Ruth, and Janet. I met Gene on the way. Studying my glass, he said, "Coke?"
        "Not exactly," I said, irritated. This was his second comment about my drinks. What was wrong with him? Why didn't he relax and let me have a little fun? Then for a moment, I understood. Earlier, he had wanted to stay home. But then I thought, No, it isn't that. He was nagging me because he was nervous and overpressured by his navy work, his evening classes at Northwestern, his homework. (Gene was now working toward a master's in business administration.)
        "Calm down and leave me alone," I said and rejoined Ruth, Tom, and Janet, who were now discussing running shoes. After several swallows of the drink, I felt up to their running ability and said, "I used to trot ten times around my high school track." That was a lie, but I felt good about it. The truth was that every month or so I had run four laps and collapsed on the grass.
        Ruth and Tom nodded, as though impressed and Janet Hack said, "That was a good run."
        "It was," I said.
        A couple of drinks later, feeling wonderful about myself, I began to circulate. To a group standing in front of the French doors, I said, "When Gene and I were first married, I headed a chemical lab in North Chicago."
        "Quite a responsibility," said a tall woman with broad shoulders.
        "Yes," I responded. "I hated to quit, but Gene got called into the Navy."
        To a group near the dining room table, I said, "Someday I hope to become a fine writer, maybe even better than Melville, but not as good as Shakespeare. He's pretty good."
        Two of the women smiled politely and a man with a round face said, "A peach of an ambition."
        I continued to circulate, carefully staying away from Gene. But well into the evening, I saw his belt, then his shoes. As I bent down, spread my fingers flat against the carpet, straightened my legs, and pulled my knees together. In an effort to further impress Janet Hack, I was demonstrating my toe touching technique. Gene lifted me up by the elbow. "We'll be right back," he told Janet.
        Grasping my arm he steered me to an empty corner. "How many have you had?"
"Just a few."
        "You're lying. Why are you touching your toes? This isn't a gym."
        I stared at him and my head spun. I said, "Toes can be touched anywhere."
        "We're leaving. Where's your purse?"
        "We're not," I said.
        "We are going." His tone was hard, obstinate. Though it seemed senseless to me, I concurred.
        I found Captain Davis and said, "Gene's looking for my purse, because we've got to go--he's tired from all his homework at school. We had the best time we've ever had. We'd like you to come and visit us sometime." I paused and glanced at Gene, who had returned with my purse. His eyes were wide with either embarrassment or wonder. After deciding that it was wonder brought on by my gracious good-bye, I continued, "The ham and turkey and those hors d'oeuvres--"
        "I appreciate your thanks," Captain Davis said, "but I'm not your host."
        Confused, I said, "You're not?"
        "It'll be Captain Davis you want to thank...."
        "You look like Captain Davis," I said. I was dizzy and drunk. "I guess maybe Captain Davis is shorter," I said.
        "My wife's a little mixed-up," Gene said.
        "An easy mistake to make," the man replied.
        "Well, excuse us," Gene said.
        "Of course."
        The man walked away and I said, "Who is he?"
        "Captain Jensen."
        "It was an easy mistake to make...."
        In anger he barked, "It was not. Captain Jensen's six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than Captain Davis."
        "If you were in a room full of my friends, you'd thank the wrong person too."
        Without answering, Gene grabbed my arm and sped me through the door and to the car.
        I said, "We should go back and thank Captain Davis."
        "I'll thank him Monday."
        "It was an easy mistake."
        "Enough, Muriel. It's not that you thanked the wrong man. It's that you're plastered."
        "I am not."
        "Cut it."
        "I want to discuss it."
        We drove home in silence.
        In the morning under a warm sun and a sky as blue as a swimming pool, Gene had Donny out crawling in the grass. I was drooped on the couch, watching them and thinking. If only I hadn't gotten drunk and raced around lying and misthanking. Captain Jensen must think I'm a fool. I was one, I thought. I could never face him again.
        If only Gene weren't so upset. After getting up, he had gone to the kitchen, rattled around, then yelled, "Where's the coffeepot?"
        Then before taking Donny out, Gene had asked, "Where's my toolbox?"
        That was about all he had said to me.
        I felt as if Gene and I were on the Sahara, with the air shimmering in heat waves and the sand ridged by the wind. As if Gene were a mile away, screaming, "Where's my toolbox?" Unless I brought him the box, we would remain separated.
        In August, three months after Captain Davis's cocktail party and an hour or so after Gene went to bed, I lay on the couch drinking a can of beer. It was muggy, the air so still that the curtains were flat against the window. I picked up a magazine and fanned myself.
        When I cooled down a little, I went to the window and looked at the apartment on the other side of the courtyard. Here and there a light shone, but most people were in bed. None of them knew I watched and I felt partly as if I spied, partly as if I were omniscient, like God.
        That is, if there is a God, I thought. From the beginning of time on, man has created gods. Chances are, God just exists in a person's mind.
        But I hated to believe that. I wanted God to exist, to listen to man, to me. If that were so, right then I could say, "I'd like to talk to You."
        And God would say, "I'm listening, Muriel."
        And I would tell Him my worry. "I think I might be drinking too much sometimes. I think I might need Your help."
        "I'll help you," God would say.
        With a feeling of caring for God catching at my throat, I went to the coffee table, set my beer can down, and knelt. I bent my head and prayed, "God, please help me. Please speak to me."
        I scanned the corners of the room and glanced at the motionless curtains, looking for God. But I didn't see Him. I closed my eyes and concentrated on hearing His voice, but He didn't speak. I waited. I gave Him time. Finally 1 opened my eyes and tears ran down my cheeks.
        Anger followed regret, and I thought, If God does exist, He's silent, invisible, and as impersonal as a tree. I'll never pray again. I went to the kitchen and opened a can of beer. I was still crying.
        That same August, I became pregnant, and the following May I gave birth to a girl, Deborah Lynne. Though I loved her and Donny, I found it difficult to give them my full attention because every morning I had a hangover.
        Having a hangover was like having the flu. I had one now. It was 8:00 a.m. and Donny was calling, "Mommy, Mommy," and Debbie was crying and I was pushing myself out of bed. My head ached and my mouth felt as if I had been sucking on a ball of cotton. I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of soda, then went to the bedroom and let down the side of Donny's crib. While I dressed and fed the children, my stomach rolled and my muscles ached. I had gone to bed at 3:00 a.m. and I was exhausted. I had to get more sleep.
        I lifted Debbie from the living room couch, took Donny's hand, and brought them to their bedroom. I locked the door, laid Debbie in her bassinet, scattered Donny's toys on the floor, and climbed into his crib. In order to fit, I turned on my side and drew up my legs. It was a snug fit, but it would do. I slept.
        But not for long. Donny began poking at my face, "Get up, Mommy. Get up."
        "Soon," I mumbled. "Let's see your truck catch your doggie."
        Diverted, he played awhile and I slept--until he poked me again. "Up, Mommy. Get up."
        "Okay, in a minute. Can you make a train with your blocks?"
        I shut my eyes again.
        About an hour and a half after we came in, Donny began to whine, evidently hating that he was confined and ignored. He tugged at my arm, "Up, Mommy. Up, Mommy. Up, Mommy--"
        "Okay, okay." I climbed out, not feeling perfect, but well enough to face the day.
        The morning sleep in the crib became a routine. During that time the phone often rang, but I didn't answer it. One afternoon Gene phoned and said, "It's almost impossible to reach you in the morning. Where are you""
        "I'm busy with the kids."
        "Too busy to answer the phone?"
        "Yes. Please don't ever call before noon."