“H
ELLO, AGAIN.”
I turned with a start. The admiral, that little guy I’d met last month who’d served with Nimitz and all that good shit, was standing behind me with a couple of bottles of dope in his hand. Just standing there like any old regular model builder, not like some famous Navy legend. I knew he wasn’t exactly a legend, but he was close; close enough for me.
“How’s your battleship model coming along?” he asked real pleasantly, like we were two regular guys sitting around shooting the breeze. He was dressed like a regular guy—flannel shirt under an old windbreaker, khakis, plain old shoes. Nothing fancy or important, although his khakis had a crease ironed in them you could’ve cut your finger on, it was that sharp.
“Pretty good,” I told him, “it’s taking a lot of time, but it’s fun. I love building models.” I was kind of flattered that he’d remembered what type of ship I was working on.
“Good. That’s the point, particularly at your age. What are you in for today?” he asked.
“Dope and brushes.” I held up my purchases for him to see.
“Small world; so am I.” He showed me his. We’d selected almost identical stuff.
He paused for a moment, staring at me with this Navy look he had, where you look hard at someone without blinking. “I was hoping I’d find you in here again.”
You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. “You were?”
He nodded. “I enjoy meeting fellow model builders. You’re
the
first one I’ve met who seems to take it seriously. The first young one, I mean; teenager-size.”
“They’re too hard for most kids,” I agreed, knowing that would impress him—my ability to make grownup models. “Usually their dads wind up doing all the work.” I knew that because Bill had told me, but I said it because I wanted to blow my own horn, impress him; besides, it’s true, I know what my friends are like, none of them have the patience to stick with anything as complicated and time-consuming as building professional-looking models. I do it because I like starting a job and finishing it, especially when it takes hard work and concentration and is something I can do by myself without anybody’s help or interference; and because building models is part of my Annapolis goal, like in my head I think if I build miniature ships, someday I can sail real ones.
“You build them all by yourself? No help?”
“Pretty much. It’s not something my old … my father’s interested in.”
“Sometimes it’s fun to work with someone, though.”
Admiral Wells lived in Washington, on Kalorama Road, which is one of the classiest areas in the whole D.C. area. I’ve never in my whole life seen a house as big and fancy as this one was, let alone been in one; it made the houses in Cheverly, which I’d always thought were the hottest shit there was, look like matchboxes. This house was huge, three stories, all brick and stone, with a big front lawn overhung with oak and maple and birch trees, plus a separate three-car garage.
Only millionaires live in houses like this, I was thinking to myself as the admiral and me drove up and parked in his driveway. Admiral Wells drove this old-time Packard which was shined like burnished leather, inside and out. He’s probably the kind of guy who hand-waxes his car every month. That’s one of the things they teach you in the Navy.
As we walked towards the front door I saw another car parked in the garage, which had the doors open. It was this 1956 Lincoln Mark II, one of the cherriest cars in history, painted a metallic turquoise-blue. My old man would cream in his jeans to get a ride in a set of wheels like that. There’s hardly any around, they’re all made special-order. I’ve never seen one for real, only in magazines like
Life,
with a movie star behind the wheel, Cary Grant or one of those guys.
“You’re noticing the Lincoln,” Admiral Wells said.
“Yes, sir.” I was gawking, my mouth wide open.
“I’ll show it to you later.” He paused for a minute. “It’s my wife’s automobile. She has an eye for fine things and fortunately the pocketbook to pay for them.”
A colored maid wearing a starched uniform took my jacket. I followed the admiral through the house to the study, which was in the back, on the ground floor. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, one incredible thing after another, rooms filled with fancy furniture, none of it with plastic or slipcovers on them, and paintings on the walls that I could tell were real, not paintings-by-the-number like Burt’s mother does. Some of them looked like Revolutionary War art, like you see in museums. Pictures of Admiral Wells’s great-grandparents, I figured.
“My wife’s people,” Admiral Wells commented as he saw me looking at the paintings. “She’s a long-standing member of the D.A.R., almost before the Pilgrims.”
He was kind of grinning when he said that, like we were sharing a secret. I don’t know who the D.A.R. is, but they must be important, the way he said it.
The study was a real man’s study, like a duke or an earl in England would have, all wood and leather like you’d expect from an old Navy man, they don’t go in for any of this modern shit. There was a large picture window overlooking the back yard. The grass was brown now and the trees were all bare, but come spring it would be pretty. Lots of flowers, tulips and roses, the kind of yard my mom would kill for; when she was growing up her family always had gardens, flowers and vegetables both. She misses flowers, growing things, our yard’s too small to grow anything.
My mom’s never been in a house this nice. No one in my family ever has.
The thing that really knocked me for a loop was the models. There must’ve been three or four dozen all over the room, ships and boats of all types from every period of Navy history in America, sitting up on side tables, bookshelves, some even on stands that were just for them to sit on.
“Whoa!” I couldn’t help myself. They were beautiful, I’d never seen so many fantastic models in my life. On one of the shelves I saw a Confederate Civil War cutter that was the same as one I’d built. It looked to me that mine was about as nice, no bragging intended, but I bet if I took it down and looked at it carefully I’d see little things Admiral Wells had done to really fit it out perfectly.
“Take a look around, pick up anything that catches your fancy, I can tell a connoisseur when I see one,” the admiral offered.
“You sure it’s okay?” I asked. I was nervous, that’s all I needed was to drop one of them.
“I built them, so I guess it is,” he said, like I was this old friend of his that he trusted with his best stuff.
“Are your grades good, Roy?”
“Pretty good.” I squirmed, feeling uneasy about answering that question, because I had to lie, and I didn’t want to. “They’re okay, I mean they could be better.”
“Pretty good won’t cut it, Roy, not if you want to go to Annapolis. You have to be at the top of your class.”
“Yes, sir. I know that.”
We were sitting in the admiral’s study. The admiral was sipping sherry and I was drinking a Coke, the two of us resting after finishing off working on models all day long.
The admiral’s workshop was in his basement. He had the neatest tools I’d ever seen, from England, Czechoslovakia, Germany, places like that, you couldn’t buy tools this good in Washington even if you could afford to. He knew everything about every tool, what specialty it was used for, where he’d bought it, he’d even in some cases tell a little story about the toolmaker. It was like talking to a living encyclopedia of tools.
He made most of his models from scratch, not kits, using all these exotic woods, cherry and teak, stuff like that, some of them I’d never even heard of, wood from Hawaii, all kinds of places he’d been to in his travels in the Navy, all over the world. I would be, too, he said, if I went to Annapolis.
What was really great was he’d let me use these expensive tools of his—made me, in fact. I was pretty nervous, all I needed was to ruin one, but he was real cool about it, tools are for using, he’d say, and he’d handed me one, like it was no big deal.
“Is it a good school, Ravensburg High School?” the admiral asked, taking a sip of sherry.
“I’m in junior high actually,” I corrected him, “high school doesn’t start till tenth grade around here, but it’s okay, I guess, I mean it’s not great or anything, there’s a lot of vocational training, shop and stuff like that.”
“But they do have an academic program?” He was pressing me, like he was worried about how good the school was, whether it was good enough. “A college preparatory curriculum?”
“Oh yeah, sure, plenty of kids from Ravensburg go to college.” That was a crock of shit, hardly any kids from Ravensburg High ever go to college. What it’s good at is teaching auto mechanics, practical stuff. That’s what all the older brothers of my buddies take. None of them have even given a thought about going to college. I’ll bet I’m the only one, and I don’t talk about it. I don’t mean I’m embarrassed about it, it’s just they wouldn’t get it, especially about me.
“Good.” The admiral took a sip of his sherry. “That’s good. A first-rate school, especially if it’s a public one, is essential.” He paused for a moment. “One more thing, Roy: about your grades …”
“Yes?” I felt my stomach knot up.
“You said they were … pretty good?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t mean to harp on this, Roy. But pretty good doesn’t cut it. They have to be excellent. The very best.”
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“Can you get them up?”
This guy knew me. He had me nailed.
“I’ll try, sir.”
He looked at me sharply, like he was looking straight through me.
“I mean yes, sure, absolutely.”
“
I
know you can,” he said, smiling at me again. “I’m counting on you, Roy.”
I was moving restlessly in my chair, a high-backed leather armchair, extra-soft leather. I didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking—my schoolwork was crummy and there was no getting around it, I’d never cared about school and my teachers had never cared about me, as long as I kept my mouth shut that’s all they wanted. The truth was I gave up on school a long time ago—even when I knew the answer to a question, which was actually more frequent than my teachers realize, I wouldn’t speak up in class. I’d been labeled as a poor student, a loser, and once that happens it’s about impossible to turn it around. Teachers talk to each other, they know who the smart kids are and the dumb ones, and they especially pass on who the troublemakers are. I’ve been in the troublemaker category since the first week of junior high, when me and Bobby Londale and Alex Dappa had been caught out in the hall without a pass, because we’d been kicked out of class for wising off, and had gotten the paddle for the first time. Maybe I’ll be able to turn things around in high school, but junior high’s been a complete waste.
“What’s that picture?” I asked, pointing to a small framed newspaper photograph that hung on the wall opposite where I was sitting. I wanted to change the subject, but it also interested me for real.
“That was taken during the war,” the admiral told me, turning to look at it.
“Is that you on the left?”
“That’s me, all right.” He smiled. “I looked a lot younger then, didn’t I?”
I got up to take a closer look. The picture was from the
New York Times,
1942, fifteen years ago. No wonder the admiral looked younger.
“I was a captain then,” he said, “I didn’t get my star until a year later. During that part of the war I was a commodore,” he explained, “a rank that no longer exists.”
“Who’s the other guy?” I asked.
“Nimitz.”
“Wow.” I looked back at the admiral, who was sitting in his chair by the fire, smiling at me looking at his picture. It was true, all that stuff Bill from the hobby shop had told me. This little guy—who couldn’t be more than 5’6” when he was standing ramrod-straight like Annapolis men do, he was sitting here, working with me on my models, and talking to me like I was a regular person, not some dumb kid—had been an admiral in the war. Probably a hero, but I’ll bet you’d never catch him bragging on himself.
“You must’ve seen a lot of action,” I said.
“Enough to last a lifetime,” he said tensely.
I was tongue-tied, which is certainly not my normal way.
“Mrs. Wells put those pictures up,” the admiral said. He stood up and came over to me. “Ancient history as far as I’m concerned, but they mean something to her, I suppose.” He took my glass. “You could use a fill-up.” That was him being polite about not wanting to talk about himself anymore.
A woman came to the door. She was in the shadows, all I could see of her was the way she held herself erect, as straight as the admiral did.
“A new friend?” Her voice was low and husky, like that movie actress who’s married to Humphrey Bogart. She took a deep drag from her cigarette, and when she exhaled the smoke curled up around her head.
The admiral stood up. I did, too. I’d been feeling comfortable in this house, but suddenly I felt like an intruder.
“Come in, darling,” he said to her.
The woman took a few steps into the study, far enough so I could see her. She was small and thin, with one of those drawn-tight faces that have strong cheekbones, like a model’s face. Her hair, which she was wearing twisted in a long braid on top of her head, was very black.
“I met this young fellow at the model shop,” the admiral told her, introducing me, “he’s quite the experienced shipwright for someone so young.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. It wasn’t like when someone in school does it, a teacher or a principal, it felt friendly.
“Roy, I’d like you to meet my wife. Beatrice, this is Roy Poole.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” I said in a quieter voice than usual. She wasn’t the kind of woman you talk loud around, something about her told me that.
She stepped closer. She was older than I realized, almost as old as the admiral was, probably, which figured since they were married. Her eyes were the greenest I’ve ever seen. She was wearing a black dress that was pretty tight across her hips and breasts, I couldn’t help noticing—she had quite a good figure actually, it looked better than my mom’s even though my mom was much younger. She was kind of an old woman, I realized, but she sure was beautiful. I didn’t want to stare at her but it was hard not to.