open the door. “Please come in. I was just leaving.”
“Am I interrupting anything?” Mrs. Babs Mitchell asked.
“No, you’re not,” Dawkins said. “We have concluded our business. Good afternoon, ma’am.”
Mrs. Babs Mitchell entered the room. General Dawkins went through the door and it swung closed after him.
“Was it all right that I came without calling first?” Babs Mitchell asked.
No. Jesus Christ, those eyes!
“Of course. The general got me out of a poker game at just the right time.”
“Excuse me?”
“I was playing poker at the club,” Pick said, and pulled the thick wad of bills from his bathrobe pocket. “And I was way ahead, and wanted to quit, but couldn’t think of a way to.”
Jesus Christ, I’m babbling!
“Oh,” she said, obviously confused. Then she asked, “You won all that money?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” she said. “How about you?”
I’m just trying to sort out that I’m going to get a Navy Cross I absolutely don’t deserve but have to take for the good of the Corps, but that’s all right, because I didn’t get the Navy Cross Billy Dunn got, even though I deserved it more than he did.
And when I saw you, my heart jumped.
In addition to which, I learned, just before I went to the club to play poker so that I wouldn’t have to think about it, that Jeanette’s body is already here. A day early. Flown to the States, probably because of Dad, as cargo in a Lockheed Constellation of Trans-Global Airways. Too late to reschedule the welcoming ceremony, of course, so that will be held tomorrow, as per schedule. And I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to handle that.
Aside from that, everything’s just hunky-dory.
“I’m fine.”
“You look a little funny, Pick,” Babs said. “Are you sure?”
When she looks at me that way . . .
“I’m fine.”
The door swung inward, and General Dawkins walked back in.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Is it too much to hope there’s been a change in the schedule?” Pick asked.
“There may be,” Dawkins said. “Depending on Mrs. Mitchell.”
“I don’t understand,” Babs said.
“Mrs. Mitchell, Captain McGowan tells me that you haven’t received your husband’s decorations,” Dawkins said.
“I told . . . whatever his name is, the next-of-kin officer, that I would prefer to get them later, that I wasn’t up to two ceremonies, the funeral, and that,” she said.
“If you don’t like this idea, just say no. I assure you I’ll understand,” Dawkins said. “This afternoon, there is going to be a retreat parade at Camp Pendleton, during which a number of Marines are to be decorated—”
“Oh, I don’t think so, General,” Babs interrupted.
“—including Major Pickering,” Dawkins went on, “who will receive the Navy Cross.”
Babs looked at Pick.
Oh, Christ, don’t look at me that way!
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked.
“He didn’t know until I told him just now,” Dawkins said.
“What are you proposing, General Dawkins?” Babs Mitchell asked. “That I get Dick’s medals at the parade? ”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s just what I am suggesting.”
“Thank you, but no, thank you,” she said.
“I understand,” Dawkins said.
“Pick, what do you think?” Babs asked, looking into his eyes. “Wouldn’t I be out of place?”
I really wish you wouldn’t turn to me for advice, Mrs. Mitchell, he thought. I’m the last sonofabitch in the world who should be offering advice to you.
“No. No, you wouldn’t be out of place. You’re entitled to Dick’s medals. And getting them at a retreat parade would be something you’d remember the rest of your life.”
She exhaled audibly.
“Maybe you’re right,” Babs said, and turned to Dawkins. “All right, General. What do I have to do?”
“I’m going to send an officer to escort Major Pickering, ” Dawkins said. “Would you like him to pick you up, too, and take you out to Pendleton?”
She thought a moment.
“Yes. That would probably be best. What time?”
“The retreat parade starts at 1700, which means you’d have to leave San Diego at, say, 1600.”
She looked at her watch. “That doesn’t give me much time to dress. Simple black dress, hat, and gloves?”
“Spoken like a true Marine officer’s wife,” Dawkins said. And then heard what he had said. “That was intended to be a compliment, Mrs. Mitchell.”
“And I took it as one,” Babs Mitchell said. “That’s what I was, until recently—a Marine officer’s wife.”
She put her hand on Pick’s arm. The warmth of her fingers immediately went through the thin hospital bathrobe.
You really have absolutely no idea what you’re doing to me, do you?
“I’ll see you in a little while,” she said. “I’m relying on you to get