uniform.
He shipped porcelain vases and Asian objects of art to his mother. He sent his
brother black-and-white photos of Japan that had thin, white borders with rippled edges.
The time passed quickly, and before he even realized it was happening, he was on his
way back to Atlanta and ready to begin a new life as a civilian again.
Back in Atlanta, Gregory wasted no time with school. He’d already been accepted
to Georgia Tech’s architectural school once, so all he had to do was enroll for the fall. He
studied hard and focused on what he loved doing most: designing wonderful buildings.
Going out and meeting other men wasn’t all that important anymore, at least not as
important as it had been in the Army. He wasn’t a monk—he slept with a few guys from
the dorms once in a while, a professor who liked to cruise the library’s men’s room, and
two of the security guys who patrolled the parking lot while he was studying late. But
school and career came first. He kept a dildo hidden in a loose floorboard under his bed,
and that kept him satisfied when there weren’t any men around. Then he met Betsy Lampnick and everything changed. She was a plain, heavyset
young woman with mousy brown hair that was cut bluntly at the base of her neck and
usually pulled back in a tight bun. She had transferred from a school up north. She rarely
wore makeup or jewelry except for a set of plastic pearls and a round circle pin on special
occasions. Her outfits were either slim gray skirts with white cotton blouses and Peter
Pan collars, or brown slacks and dark sweaters. The dressiest pair of shoes she owned had
chunky, awkward, two-inch heels. Her eyeglasses had thick black frames and she always
had a pencil above her right ear. Their friendship blossomed from casual laughs on the
school steps to going to the movies every Saturday night.
They read the same design books, liked the same movies, and laughed at the same
jokes. When he was with her, Gregory didn’t feel obligated to be something he wasn’t,
and she didn’t pressure him to do anything he didn’t want to do. She seemed happy and
content to be with him just as he was. Dinner and a movie on Saturday night was fine
with her. In the 1950s, good girls didn’t have sex before marriage. And Betsy was a good
girl. But more than that—and unspoken—she seemed to know he was different from
other men and she was fine with the fact that a marriage with Gregory would never be the
fairy tale romance most women her age dreamed about.
Gregory’s mother wasn’t exactly thrilled that her son was seriously dating a
Yankee, especially a lumpy one who didn’t wear lipstick and get a permanent wave every
three months. Betsy wasn’t one of the girls. But his mother didn’t object when Gregory
announced to the family in November of his last semester of school—he’d graduated
early because he’d taken summer courses—that he and Betsy were engaged to be married
in June. He was twenty-five by then and there hadn’t been a parade of pretty young girls coming in and out of the house. Gregory’s father smiled so widely, his dimples turned
into wrinkles. He slapped his son on the back and congratulated him. His mother forced a
smile, then pulled Betsy aside and promised to help her choose the proper wedding gown
to suit her figure and help with the arrangements.
Then one night in April before Easter, while Gregory was sitting with his family
watching the eleven o’clock news on television, Kadin’s face appeared on the TV screen.
One minute he was watching the local weather report, and the next he was staring at
Kadin’s strong chin.
Gregory’s mother had been flipping through a wedding magazine and his father
had been dozing off in a wing chair. His father sat up straight and blinked at the screen,
and his
He shipped porcelain vases and Asian objects of art to his mother. He sent his
brother black-and-white photos of Japan that had thin, white borders with rippled edges.
The time passed quickly, and before he even realized it was happening, he was on his
way back to Atlanta and ready to begin a new life as a civilian again.
Back in Atlanta, Gregory wasted no time with school. He’d already been accepted
to Georgia Tech’s architectural school once, so all he had to do was enroll for the fall. He
studied hard and focused on what he loved doing most: designing wonderful buildings.
Going out and meeting other men wasn’t all that important anymore, at least not as
important as it had been in the Army. He wasn’t a monk—he slept with a few guys from
the dorms once in a while, a professor who liked to cruise the library’s men’s room, and
two of the security guys who patrolled the parking lot while he was studying late. But
school and career came first. He kept a dildo hidden in a loose floorboard under his bed,
and that kept him satisfied when there weren’t any men around. Then he met Betsy Lampnick and everything changed. She was a plain, heavyset
young woman with mousy brown hair that was cut bluntly at the base of her neck and
usually pulled back in a tight bun. She had transferred from a school up north. She rarely
wore makeup or jewelry except for a set of plastic pearls and a round circle pin on special
occasions. Her outfits were either slim gray skirts with white cotton blouses and Peter
Pan collars, or brown slacks and dark sweaters. The dressiest pair of shoes she owned had
chunky, awkward, two-inch heels. Her eyeglasses had thick black frames and she always
had a pencil above her right ear. Their friendship blossomed from casual laughs on the
school steps to going to the movies every Saturday night.
They read the same design books, liked the same movies, and laughed at the same
jokes. When he was with her, Gregory didn’t feel obligated to be something he wasn’t,
and she didn’t pressure him to do anything he didn’t want to do. She seemed happy and
content to be with him just as he was. Dinner and a movie on Saturday night was fine
with her. In the 1950s, good girls didn’t have sex before marriage. And Betsy was a good
girl. But more than that—and unspoken—she seemed to know he was different from
other men and she was fine with the fact that a marriage with Gregory would never be the
fairy tale romance most women her age dreamed about.
Gregory’s mother wasn’t exactly thrilled that her son was seriously dating a
Yankee, especially a lumpy one who didn’t wear lipstick and get a permanent wave every
three months. Betsy wasn’t one of the girls. But his mother didn’t object when Gregory
announced to the family in November of his last semester of school—he’d graduated
early because he’d taken summer courses—that he and Betsy were engaged to be married
in June. He was twenty-five by then and there hadn’t been a parade of pretty young girls coming in and out of the house. Gregory’s father smiled so widely, his dimples turned
into wrinkles. He slapped his son on the back and congratulated him. His mother forced a
smile, then pulled Betsy aside and promised to help her choose the proper wedding gown
to suit her figure and help with the arrangements.
Then one night in April before Easter, while Gregory was sitting with his family
watching the eleven o’clock news on television, Kadin’s face appeared on the TV screen.
One minute he was watching the local weather report, and the next he was staring at
Kadin’s strong chin.
Gregory’s mother had been flipping through a wedding magazine and his father
had been dozing off in a wing chair. His father sat up straight and blinked at the screen,
and his
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