lodged in the crockery feet of Jesus. Next, she twisted the candles into the small brass holders, filled the font with stale holy water, put a small oriental rug in front of the altar, and positioned Michael strategically to the far left. Finally, she placed Mary directly below her crucified son. At her feet, she placed the airplane Bull Meecham flew.
Behind her, the children gathered, watching each ritualistic step in the installation of the shrine.
Mary Anne whispered to Ben," Oh, Jesus. Here we have the Lady of the Fighter Pilot again. Why don't you tell Mom that it's a bit much?"
"Why don't you tell her, big balls?" Ben whispered back.
Before Mary Anne could answer, Lillian motioned for her children to come to the vestibule. "Let's say a prayer, thanking the Blessed Mother for a safe trip."
The children knelt while Lillian lit the candles. Then she began to pray aloud and Ben, her son, had an image of her prayers floating light as pollen into the ear of God.
Chapter 6
Oleander bushes flanked the road leading up to the main gate of the Ravenel Marine Air Station. Colonel Meecham watched as an F-8 lifted off an unseen airway, cleared the treeline, thundered eastward, accelerating and rising in a clean parabola. As Bull's eyes followed the plane, he had an old feeling come over him and he knew he wanted to climb into a jet very soon. He heard the afterburner of the jet kick off, the plane bank to the right and fade like a sliver of light into a blue sky. The feeling was a thirst, a thirst borne of time, of memory, of blood; an almost diabetic thirst that afflicted him whenever he passed a long period of time without flying. He had not flown in the month he had been home and he felt this abstinence in his mouth and bones.
Pulling up to the gate, Bull studied the young PFC who stared at the unfamiliar bumper sticker on the front of the car. The dust from the trip and the dried butterfly parts made it difficult to decipher. Finally, the guard looked into the car and spied the silver leaves on Bull's collar. Gracelessly, the PFC pumped a salute. Instead of returning the salute, Bull stopped the car completely and stared with visible truculence at the guard who held his salute as rigidly as some umpires who call strikes on batters with exaggerated formality. Bull spoke to the boy in a frozen, humorless voice.
"You call that a salute, mister?"
"Yes, sir."
"I call that an abortion. I call that a disgrace. I call that an insult to a Marine Corps officer. I call that a court-martial offense. Now straighten that arm, get that elbow up, and don't bend your neck to the right. You salute like you have no pride, son. Now salute me again. Make it snap. That's it. Old Marines should have arthritic elbows from snapping salutes. Good. That's outstanding. Now if I ever see you give me one of those spaghetti salutes again I'm going to have your arm amputated up to the shoulder. Carry on, Marine, and tell your buddies at the barracks that Colonel Bull Meecham has just reported in and that he will be making his presence known soon."
"Yes, sir."
Bull drove straight to the Operations Building. Like all bases where he had worked the buildings he was passing were bleached-out structures of white and gray as though the architect had applied special leeches in the heart of each foundation to bleed off color should it ever appear. The architecture had a spareness and an economy of line that were pragmatic to the point of absurdity.
He drove into the parking lot of the Operations Building. Two Marines saluted him as they left the building. Bull returned the salute and grunted "good morning."
Bull walked down the long polished hall with a bouncing gait that was distinctively unmilitary. Old friends could pick him out of a dismissed battalion, so singular was his walk, so indelibly a part of him, and he could change it no more than he could change his blood type.
He opened the door of the operations officer and entered a sparsely
Behind her, the children gathered, watching each ritualistic step in the installation of the shrine.
Mary Anne whispered to Ben," Oh, Jesus. Here we have the Lady of the Fighter Pilot again. Why don't you tell Mom that it's a bit much?"
"Why don't you tell her, big balls?" Ben whispered back.
Before Mary Anne could answer, Lillian motioned for her children to come to the vestibule. "Let's say a prayer, thanking the Blessed Mother for a safe trip."
The children knelt while Lillian lit the candles. Then she began to pray aloud and Ben, her son, had an image of her prayers floating light as pollen into the ear of God.
Chapter 6
Oleander bushes flanked the road leading up to the main gate of the Ravenel Marine Air Station. Colonel Meecham watched as an F-8 lifted off an unseen airway, cleared the treeline, thundered eastward, accelerating and rising in a clean parabola. As Bull's eyes followed the plane, he had an old feeling come over him and he knew he wanted to climb into a jet very soon. He heard the afterburner of the jet kick off, the plane bank to the right and fade like a sliver of light into a blue sky. The feeling was a thirst, a thirst borne of time, of memory, of blood; an almost diabetic thirst that afflicted him whenever he passed a long period of time without flying. He had not flown in the month he had been home and he felt this abstinence in his mouth and bones.
Pulling up to the gate, Bull studied the young PFC who stared at the unfamiliar bumper sticker on the front of the car. The dust from the trip and the dried butterfly parts made it difficult to decipher. Finally, the guard looked into the car and spied the silver leaves on Bull's collar. Gracelessly, the PFC pumped a salute. Instead of returning the salute, Bull stopped the car completely and stared with visible truculence at the guard who held his salute as rigidly as some umpires who call strikes on batters with exaggerated formality. Bull spoke to the boy in a frozen, humorless voice.
"You call that a salute, mister?"
"Yes, sir."
"I call that an abortion. I call that a disgrace. I call that an insult to a Marine Corps officer. I call that a court-martial offense. Now straighten that arm, get that elbow up, and don't bend your neck to the right. You salute like you have no pride, son. Now salute me again. Make it snap. That's it. Old Marines should have arthritic elbows from snapping salutes. Good. That's outstanding. Now if I ever see you give me one of those spaghetti salutes again I'm going to have your arm amputated up to the shoulder. Carry on, Marine, and tell your buddies at the barracks that Colonel Bull Meecham has just reported in and that he will be making his presence known soon."
"Yes, sir."
Bull drove straight to the Operations Building. Like all bases where he had worked the buildings he was passing were bleached-out structures of white and gray as though the architect had applied special leeches in the heart of each foundation to bleed off color should it ever appear. The architecture had a spareness and an economy of line that were pragmatic to the point of absurdity.
He drove into the parking lot of the Operations Building. Two Marines saluted him as they left the building. Bull returned the salute and grunted "good morning."
Bull walked down the long polished hall with a bouncing gait that was distinctively unmilitary. Old friends could pick him out of a dismissed battalion, so singular was his walk, so indelibly a part of him, and he could change it no more than he could change his blood type.
He opened the door of the operations officer and entered a sparsely
Similar Books
