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Authors: George Simpson, Neal Burger
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together until she'd ruined it all by demanding marriage.
He had told himself that her leaving was all for the good. She didn't know him at all, what made him tick. She had even poked fun at his work, his involvement in "national security." She had found things funny that he didn't and she'd never understood the things he had laughed at. What did she expect of a man who had been raised and suckled by the service? He thought he had more of a sense of humor about it than most.
And her husband? Harold Fletcher, insurance agent. What was so distinguished about that? Sure, he probably made more money, kept her happy and secure, but what did they ever talk about? Did they go for walks, visit the museums she had always loved, go to the same movies three and four times? Or had they spent their evenings lounging around Harold's country club, boozing it up with Beverly Hills doctors and dentists?
What had she lost that was worth crying about? What was there about Fletcher that Hammond had lacked?
He glanced at the clock. It was almost six p.m. He had to get going or it would be too late to visit Yablonski. He went to his closet to fill a flight bag with a change of clothing. On the way out of the bedroom, he paused for another look at Jan. She was sleeping soundly now, her head buried in the pillow, her arms embracing it.
He closed the bedroom door behind him.
The dispatcher at Base Operations confirmed that an F4 Phantom was waiting for him. He could take off in twenty minutes. That didn't even leave him enough time to get sandwiches.
Hunger pangs growing, Hammond put on a G-suit and walked out to board the aircraft.
As the F4 roared down the runway, the enormous pressure pushed him back into his seat. With a slight touch on the control stick, he lifted the sleek jet up and into the evening sky.
At Otis Air Force Base, he requisitioned a car and a thermos of soup. It was pitch dark by the time he reached the outskirts of Cotuit, a small summer resort town in Barnstable County on Nantucket Sound, noted for its oyster beds. He stopped at a beachside trailer advertising "Oysters by the Dozen," bought a bagful, and asked for directions to Yablonski's home. He drove through the town, then inland a half-mile or so until he saw a freshwater pond gleaming through the trees. Old New England frame houses ringed the pond at obscenely spacious intervals. He rattled carefully around the shore on a dirt road until he saw a two-story yellow clapboard house with bright red shutters.
Hammond parked across the slope of the embankment and got out, looking around the yard. Grass grew in ragged patches, but there were two fenced-in gardens—one for flowers, another for vegetables. A sagging pier thrust into the water at an odd angle. A rowboat up on the dirt was tied to a stake. The air buzzed with insects. He walked up to the verandah and stared at the old porch swing and the lazy retriever lying on it with one eye on him. Hammond winked at the dog and called, "Hello the house! Anybody home?"
The kitchen light was on; but he didn't see anyone moving behind the screen door. He waited a moment before calling again, reflecting ,on this throwback. He remembered homes like this from his boyhood.
"Yes? Who is it?"
A woman appeared at the door. The light was too dim for a clear view, but she must have recognized his uniform.
"Oh, hello." She pushed open the screen door and came out-wiping her hands on an apron. Mrs. Yablonski was in her early fifties, with a great motherly bosom and a ruddy New England complexion. Her hair was done up in a bun; the blonde in it reflected the porch light.
"Mrs. Yablonski, I'm Hammond." He presented her with the oysters and her eyes lit up.
"You must be a New Englander," she said.
"I was once—and I've never lost the taste for those."
She laughed and led him into the house. They cracked a couple of oysters and ate them, then she gave him coffee and pumpkin pie. They were friends within moments. Hammond
He had told himself that her leaving was all for the good. She didn't know him at all, what made him tick. She had even poked fun at his work, his involvement in "national security." She had found things funny that he didn't and she'd never understood the things he had laughed at. What did she expect of a man who had been raised and suckled by the service? He thought he had more of a sense of humor about it than most.
And her husband? Harold Fletcher, insurance agent. What was so distinguished about that? Sure, he probably made more money, kept her happy and secure, but what did they ever talk about? Did they go for walks, visit the museums she had always loved, go to the same movies three and four times? Or had they spent their evenings lounging around Harold's country club, boozing it up with Beverly Hills doctors and dentists?
What had she lost that was worth crying about? What was there about Fletcher that Hammond had lacked?
He glanced at the clock. It was almost six p.m. He had to get going or it would be too late to visit Yablonski. He went to his closet to fill a flight bag with a change of clothing. On the way out of the bedroom, he paused for another look at Jan. She was sleeping soundly now, her head buried in the pillow, her arms embracing it.
He closed the bedroom door behind him.
The dispatcher at Base Operations confirmed that an F4 Phantom was waiting for him. He could take off in twenty minutes. That didn't even leave him enough time to get sandwiches.
Hunger pangs growing, Hammond put on a G-suit and walked out to board the aircraft.
As the F4 roared down the runway, the enormous pressure pushed him back into his seat. With a slight touch on the control stick, he lifted the sleek jet up and into the evening sky.
At Otis Air Force Base, he requisitioned a car and a thermos of soup. It was pitch dark by the time he reached the outskirts of Cotuit, a small summer resort town in Barnstable County on Nantucket Sound, noted for its oyster beds. He stopped at a beachside trailer advertising "Oysters by the Dozen," bought a bagful, and asked for directions to Yablonski's home. He drove through the town, then inland a half-mile or so until he saw a freshwater pond gleaming through the trees. Old New England frame houses ringed the pond at obscenely spacious intervals. He rattled carefully around the shore on a dirt road until he saw a two-story yellow clapboard house with bright red shutters.
Hammond parked across the slope of the embankment and got out, looking around the yard. Grass grew in ragged patches, but there were two fenced-in gardens—one for flowers, another for vegetables. A sagging pier thrust into the water at an odd angle. A rowboat up on the dirt was tied to a stake. The air buzzed with insects. He walked up to the verandah and stared at the old porch swing and the lazy retriever lying on it with one eye on him. Hammond winked at the dog and called, "Hello the house! Anybody home?"
The kitchen light was on; but he didn't see anyone moving behind the screen door. He waited a moment before calling again, reflecting ,on this throwback. He remembered homes like this from his boyhood.
"Yes? Who is it?"
A woman appeared at the door. The light was too dim for a clear view, but she must have recognized his uniform.
"Oh, hello." She pushed open the screen door and came out-wiping her hands on an apron. Mrs. Yablonski was in her early fifties, with a great motherly bosom and a ruddy New England complexion. Her hair was done up in a bun; the blonde in it reflected the porch light.
"Mrs. Yablonski, I'm Hammond." He presented her with the oysters and her eyes lit up.
"You must be a New Englander," she said.
"I was once—and I've never lost the taste for those."
She laughed and led him into the house. They cracked a couple of oysters and ate them, then she gave him coffee and pumpkin pie. They were friends within moments. Hammond
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