Memphis(11)

Miriam was exhausted. Most days caring for Joan, now ten, and Mya, seven, left her worn out by eight. Plus, she and Jax had stayed up late the night before hurling burning insults at each other. You ain’t a man at all. You need all them medals and badges, don’t you? Can’t be a man at home though. Miriam had been clutching the note she’d found from his secretary in his fatigues pocket. And Jax. Sitting in a plush armchair in the dark, chain-smoking and smirking all the while. Tongue as good as forked. Laughter in his voice. So what, I strayed? You let that boy do that to Joan. Having you for a mother is worse than having no mother at all.

She had decided that morning to wear a gown the color of spun gold. The Marine Corps Ball was traditionally a black-and-white affair. Miriam didn’t care. For once, she wanted to take charge, wear what she felt like wearing that night, answer to no one.

The dress was heavy. The sequins were hand-stitched. The gown had a dramatic side split and nothing for a back. It was held together by a small clasp at the base of the neck and the sheer will of the gods. The dress had been her grandmother’s creation. She remembered her mother gazing at it fondly when she’d passed it on to Miriam, wrapped in blue tissue paper and stored in a tight trunk to keep out moths.

“My mama made this for me. I wore this the night Myron came home from the war. We had a right fine meal out on Beale…” Hazel had said, drifting off into nostalgia. Miriam would pull out the dress from time to time but had never worn it before. Wanted to save it for an occasion that would honor the last time it was worn.

“You look like a goddamned fool,” Jax whispered. He clutched her arm with more force than was necessary to help her keep her balance as he steered her into the elegant, elaborate ballroom.

Everyone in the ballroom—Marines with their wives in long black and white gowns and jacketed waiters holding trays of champagne—all seemed to crane their necks as one as Miriam walked across the floor. The lively chatter cut out, replaced by gasps from some of the Marines’ wives. Even the music stopped for a moment. The band fumbled at their instruments as the couple continued walking to their assigned table. Not a sound could be heard apart from Miriam’s ruby red heels clicking along the pine floor.

Miriam whispered, “You’re hurting my arm.”

Jax ignored her—her and the hundreds of shocked eyes that followed their progress across the room.

Then, a Chicago accent, thick with sharp As and crisp Os, broke the silence. “Well, well, well. Look at the couple I brought together.” Always the bachelor, Mazz stood alone next to their table, holding a tumbler of whiskey, swaying a little already from the booze. Ever the spitting image of a young Marlon Brando, he looked sharp in his Marine Corps dress blues. He was as tough as he was handsome. Had scorpions as pets in the Gulf. Smoked cigars or chewed tobacco. Scoffed at cigarettes. Said those were for women and children. He was what the Marines called “Old Salt.” He was the finest marksman on Camp Lejeune, and though a rank below her husband, Mazz commanded almost as much respect.

The orchestra resumed a lively waltz, and people turned back to their conversations.

With one strong tug, Miriam broke free from Jax’s hold on her arm. “Antonio,” she said and, in the Italian way he had taught her, planted two soft kisses on both Mazz’s cheeks.

“Miriam,” Mazz said. Then, nodding toward Jax, “I still can’t figure it out. How in the world you get you a woman like this?”

Miriam, lifting a champagne flute from a passing tray, let out a bitter laugh, threw her head back, and finished the glass in a few swift gulps. She handed the empty glass to Jax, who took it without looking at her.

“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she said then, not making any effort to conceal the disgust in her voice.

“Don’t you go starting the next Troy on me, Meer,” Mazz called out as Miriam left. “I’m too fucking lit to hold my rifle, swear to God.”

Clutching at her train, and praying she wouldn’t trip and fall on her gown on the way to the bathroom, Miriam didn’t turn back.



* * *



—

Brooke Sanderson, wife of First Lieutenant Billy Sanderson, was applying lipstick the shade of a rotten plum to her pursed lips in the long vanity mirror. She stopped and stared when Miriam walked in. Brooke was dressed in a long, black satin gown with embroidered white gardenias that ran from the one shoulder in a long line down to the hem, her hair curled all over in tight ringlets. The picture of a perfect first lieutenant’s wife.

“Well, where on earth did you get that dress?” she said.

There were two types of military wives, in Miriam’s opinion—those who supported their husbands and those who thought they, too, were Marines. Brooke was squarely in the latter set. Attended every officer’s wife function—high teas and luncheons and charity drives and golf outings. She ran the Camp Lejeune Toys for Tots Christmas program as if she were Britain’s prime minister during the war. Miriam thought her the most entitled white women she had met—uninteresting, her life so intertwined with that of her husband’s that she was no longer distinguishable as a woman.

“Oh, Brooke,” Miriam said with indifference. “Hi. It was my mother’s, actually. Brought it with me from Memphis.” Miriam took her own lipstick out of her matching gold sequined purse and began applying the bloodred color to her full lips.