For All Their Lives (12 page)

The morning was quiet, Mac noted, perfectly windless, and that surprised him for some reason. It was cold, though, and damp. He hated dampness and the smell dampness brought. He thought of one of his father's rental houses on the Chesapeake which always smelled like someone's wet galoshes. The air smelled the same way today. He wondered if it was some kind of omen.

He needed to find her.
He wasn't sure why. He wanted to see her again. He'd made a date with her. He'd promised to call. What the hell was she going to think? It bothered him that she might think he was some kind of pickup artist. It had been so natural, their meeting. He'd loved every single minute of it.

Moments later, when the taxi driver turned right off Geary Street onto Divisadero, the heavens opened in a downpour. “I have to pull over, son. I can't see to drive. I can tell you this is going to last for a while,” the driver said authoritatively. “We get rain like this at least once a week at this time of year.”

Mac grunted as he smacked his closed fist into his open palm. “Damn it to hell.”

“If you don't mind me asking, son, if you don't have an address, how do you know which house you want? This isn't a good street to be a looky-look, if you know what I mean. It's so crooked, you can kill yourself if you don't drive at the right speed.”

“Are there a lot of houses?” Mac asked, a note of desperation in his voice.

“A right fair amount. It's not a good street to stop and start on, if you get my point. Can't hold up traffic. Be a lot easier if you know what you're looking for.”

“A girl,” Mac blurted.

“Okay, that's different,” the cabbie said, grinning.

“I put her in a cab last night, but I didn't have the address. I just told the driver to take her to Lombard Street. She's visiting here from France, and her father has an unlisted phone number. I want to see her again, and I have only two weeks, possibly less if my new orders come through. Any suggestions?” So much for his West Point education, he thought wryly.

The cab driver removed his cap and scratched his grizzled head. “What about the cab driver who brought her here? You could call them if you know the name of the company. The dispatchers keep logs of all drivers' trips. If you have the time, the driver who picked her up should be able to get the address. Or you can try the post office. They might tell you. The electric company or the water company might help. I don't know how free they are with their information, but it's worth a try.”

“Thanks,” Mac said, grateful for a course of action.

“If you strike out at the post office, you could think about waylaying the mailman. Of course, you'll have to sit somewhere along the way if you don't know what time he delivers on Lombard.”

He hadn't thought of that either. He thanked the cabbie a second time.

“I think we can take a stab at driving through this now. I got new wipers last week. They seem to be working pretty good. What's the plan, sir? Do I just drive up and down or what?”

Or what. “Yeah, I guess that's all we can do. Do you know where the post office is or the utility companies? I'll make it worth your while,” Mac said. “I don't know the name of the cab company. The cab was cruising.”

The drive up and down Lombard Street was an exercise in futility, Mac decided an hour later. He was wasting his time and he knew it. He wasted his time at the post office too. They also refused to tell him the name of the mail carrier for Lombard Street and the time the mail was delivered. He fared no better at the utility companies.

It was two-thirty when the cab driver dropped Mac off at his hotel. He smiled and tipped his hat when Mac handed him a fifty-dollar bill. He promised to call Mac at the hotel if he found out anything on his own, as he thought he might ask around, among his friends, just in case.

In his room Mac ordered a ham and cheese on rye and a bottle of beer. While he waited for it, he put through a call to Sadie. His spirits lifted the moment he heard her voice. He explained about the box of books and then proceeded to dump his immediate problem in her lap. “Do you have any ideas, Sadie?”

“When you come into this country from another country, don't you have to give the address where you're staying?”

“Yes, you do. She has a dual citizenship. Still, there should be a record. I'll give it a try.”

“Mac, honey, don't get your hopes up, okay? I've never been able to find Bill. You need more to go on. Didn't she say anything that would give you a clue? What about France? Did she mention any names you could call over there? I know that sounds rather extreme, but if you're determined to leave no stone unturned, it's worth a try:”

“She mentioned a friend but only by her first name. She said she worked in a hospital, but she didn't say the name of it. She can't get a job here because her nursing credentials are from France. It's hopeless, isn't it, Sadie?”

“It sounds that way, honey. Listen, why don't you go back to the place where you met her or where you had dinner. Go back and forth. She might realize by now that you have no way to get in touch with her, and she might be doing the same thing. Does she know where you're staying?”

“I didn't tell her. I have to see her again, Sadie, I just do. I know I shouldn't . . . it's just that she was special . . . I never felt the way I felt with her. Jesus Christ, you should have seen us. We were trying to catch fog. She made me happy, Sadie, she made me laugh. I know it's wrong, but I can't help myself. Alice

. . . Alice is . . . when I get back we're getting a divorce. It's been over for a long time. That doesn't make this right, but it makes me feel better to say it out loud. I'll write, Sadie. Take care of yourself.”

“Good luck, Mac. I hope you find her.”

“I do too. Bye, Sadie.”

“Good-bye, Mac.”

The airport and Customs took up another two hours of Mac's day with no results. He spent three more hours going back and forth between the diner and the French restaurant on Polk Street, with no better results. At seven o'clock he left the restaurant and headed back to his hotel.

 

I
T WAS TWO-THIRTY
in the afternoon when Casey called for a taxi. In her purse she carried all her credentials along with her passport. “Take me to the nearest army recruiter,” she ordered firmly.

Twenty minutes later Casey leaped from the cab before she could change her mind. She thrust bills at the driver, not knowing if she was giving too much or not. Her teeth were clenched so tightly, she thought her jaw would crack.

She sucked in her breath, squared her shoulders, and moved through the door of the recruiting office with the same force she used to shoulder her way through the doors of the operating room. She didn't lose a second when she marched straight to the sergeant on duty and said in a clipped voice, “I'm a nurse and I want to join the army. I would very much like to work at Walter Reed in Washington. Is this possible?”

The sergeant blinked. “Uh-huh, you bet. You'll be offered a commission. As to Walter Reed, well, they're staffed right now,” he lied. “Sit down and let's talk a bit. You seem like you're in a hurry.”

“Yes, yes I am. Where are your other hospitals here in the United States?” she asked, hating the desperate sound of her own voice.

“There's nothing available stateside. Those posts are the first to fill. What is your speciality?”

“The last three years I worked in the operating theater. In Paris. My certificate is French. Does it make a difference?” she asked anxiously.

“What's your feeling about working out of the country?” the sergeant asked, ignoring her question.

“I just came from ‘out of the country,' ” Casey said quietly. “Why?”

The sergeant chewed on his lower lip. “Our boys sure could use a good nurse in Vietnam.” He shuffled through a looseleaf binder. “Well, it says right here in paragraph 1-6 of AR 601—139—this is about commissioning in the Army Nurse Corps—that ‘waiver of professional requirements will not be considered.' But let me work on that. They require an examination, and with your experience, you'll pass with flying colors. You'll go in as a second lieutenant. Now, that's not too shabby. I'll tell you what,” he said, “you go out and get a cup of coffee, walk around a bit, let me make some phone calls, and I'll see what I can do. Leave all your papers here, they're safe with me. Come back in, say, an hour and a half.” At the doubtful look on her face, the sergeant pressed his advantage. “Our boys sure could use someone like you. It's the patriotic thing to do.”

“Vietnam? Well . . . I don't . . . it's not that I'm unpatriotic, it's just that I . . . I was thinking of returning to France . . . I can work there . . . I never . . . it's so far away. I really wanted to work at . . . Walter Reed. I'm not sure about joining the army if I can't . . . all right, I'll think about it,” Casey said, making her way to the door.

Outside in the brisk air, she did think about it as she walked up one street and down another. Mac Carlin was going to be in Vietnam soon. Why shouldn't she go too? There was nothing holding her here. Going back home meant failure. She would be an officer, the sergeant said. Mac Carlin was an officer. Not too shabby, the sergeant said. It would definitely be a new start. “I'll do it!” she muttered, spinning around on the sidewalk to head back to the recruiting station.

Inside the building the recruiter looked up from his paperwork and smiled.

“How big is Vietnam?” Casey demanded.

The sergeant shuffled his papers. “Here's a map. Judge for yourself.”

“It looks very large,” Casey said quietly. The sergeant shrugged.

Casey's second question surprised the sergeant even more. “How many American soldiers are in Vietnam?”

“Around three hundred thousand at last count. Why do you ask?” the sergeant asked curiously.

Instead of answering him, Casey asked another question. “How difficult will it be to locate a captain in the army?” She flushed a bright pink to the sergeant's amusement.

“As long as you know where the captain's stationed, it won't be a problem. Your own personnel sergeant can help you.”

Casey debated a full five seconds, shifting her balance from one foot to the other. “I wish to . . . accept the commission,” she said firmly.

“Atta girl!” the sergeant said enthusiastically.

The sergeant started his paperwork. He prided himself on his fast and accurate judgment of character. This girl, this young woman, cared about people; he could see it in her eyes when he mentioned “our boys.” He'd had only one bad moment of guilty conscience. There were six openings at Walter Reed, but this girl would be wasted there. He knew it as sure as he knew it was going to rain again later that evening.

 

A
FEW DAYS
later Casey Adams, and two student nurses, were sworn into the United States Army.

Casey mourned the loss of Mac Carlin as she packed her bags that evening. She unbuttoned her stiffly starched caps and laid them on top of her uniforms. She looked around doubtfully. What should she do now with her winter clothing? She made piles on the bed: packing her girdles, stockings, and underwear in the bottom of the bag. Assorted blouses and skirts followed, then three dresses she wondered if she would ever get to wear. Shoes and sandals came next. She still had room in her bag when she was finished.

Casey called a taxi to take her to the nearest drugstore, where she filled a shopping bag with aspirin, shampoo, soap, talcum powder, toothpaste, two new toothbrushes, deodorant, and anything else she could think of that she might need. When she paid for her purchases, her brow creased with worry. What was she going to do about her money? She'd meant to open a bank account, but for some reason, she hadn't gotten around to it.
Mon Dieu,
this was all so sudden and so out of character for her. The bank check in her purse, wrinkled now and creased, had to be deposited somewhere. Not here though, an inner voice cautioned. Then where? she fretted. Nicole. Send it to Nicole with a letter of instruction. She trusted Nicole.

Jack Adams's desk was full of writing paper, envelopes, and stamps. Casey scribbled off a note to Nicole explaining her situation. She added a long postscript telling her about Mac Carlin. Uncertain about postage, Casey licked five stamps and scrawled
AIR MAIL
across the envelope.

For the second time that evening, Casey put on her coat and walked down the street to the corner where she'd seen a mailbox. She heaved a sigh of relief when the lid snapped shut with a loud clang.

An hour later her winter clothing was packed in a box from the garage. She carried it to the attic, along with her second suitcase. The writing materials were back in her father's desk drawer. Her clothes for the morning were laid out on the chair in her room. Earlier she'd called the attorney at his home to explain her situation, and she asked him to take care of closing up the house and to pay the bills with the money in her father's small bank account.

The long evening loomed ahead of her. She built a fire, then watched television for a while. Her nerves twanged with anxiety.

Evening television programming turned out to be so silly and ridiculous that she soon turned down the sound and reached for the telephone directory. On a whim, she flipped to the list of hotels and started to call the ones she hadn't reached the several days before. It was twenty minutes to twelve when the switchboard operator at the Hotel Savoy announced she would put Casey's call through to Captain Carlin's room. Casey's grip was so tight on the receiver that her knuckles turned white, and her heart was beating so fast, she thought it would leap out of her chest.
He was there. She'd found him. Mon Dieu.
She listened to the ring, knowing there would be no answer. “Captain Carlin isn't picking up. Would you care to leave a message?”