Loving Women Read online

  Copyright © 1989 by Pete Hamill

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hamill, Pete.

  Loving women.

  I. Title.

  PS3558.A423L68 1989 813′.54 88-42995

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79966-1

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:

  Acuff-Rose Music, Inc.: Excerpt from the lyrics to “Hey, Good Lookin’,” written by Hank Williams. Copyright 1951, renewed 1979 by Acuff-Rose Music, Inc. and Hiriam Music, c/o Warner/Chappell Music, Inc. Excerpt from the lyrics to “Jambalaya,” written by Hank Williams. Copyright 1952, renewed 1980 by Acuff-Rose Music, Inc. and Hiriam Music, c/o Warner/Chappell Music, Inc. Excerpts from the lyrics to “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” written by Hank Williams. Copyright 1949, renewed 1977 by Acuff-Rose Music, Inc. and Hiriam Music, c/o Warner/Chappell Music, Inc. Excerpt from the lyrics to “Move it on Over,” written by Hank Williams. Copyright 1947, renewed 1975 by Acuff-Rose Music, Inc. and Hiriam Music, c/o Warner/Chappell Music, Inc. Excerpts from the lyrics to “Cold, Cold Heart,” written by Hank Williams. Copyright 1951, renewed 1979 by Acuff-Rose Music, Inc. P.O. Box 121900 Nashville, Tennessee 37212-1900. International Copyright secured. Made in the U.S.A. All rights secured.

  The Goodman Group Music Publishers and MCA Music Publishing: Excerpt from the lyrics to “Goin’ Down Slow,” words and music by James Oden. Copyright 1942 (renewed) Arc Music Corp. for the United States. Copyright 1942 by Duchess Music Corporation. Copyright renewed. Rights administered by MCA MUSIC PUBLISHING, a Division of MCA Inc., New York, NY 10019 for the world excluding U.S.A. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Arc Music Corp. and MCA MUSIC PUBLISHING.

  CPP/Belwin, Inc. and Concord Partnership: Excerpt from the lyrics to “Goin’ Home” by Antoine Domino and Alvin Young. Copyright © 1956, renewed 1984 UNART MUSIC CORP. Rights assigned to SBK CATALOGUE PARTNERSHIP. Excerpt from the lyrics to “Driftin’ Blues” by Charles Brown, John Moore and Ed Williams. Copyright 1947, renewed 1975 UNART MUSIC CORP. Rights assigned to SBK CATALOGUE PARTNERSHIP. Rights controlled and administered by SBK CATALOG INC. All rights reserved. International Copyright secured. Reprinted by permission of CPP/Belwin, Inc. and International Music Publications.

  Alberta Hunter Music Co.: Excerpt from the lyrics to “You Got to Reap Just What You Sow,” written by Alberta Hunter. Copyright © 1976 (renewed) Alberta Hunter Music Co.

  Walter Kent Music Co. and Shapiro–Bernstein & Co., Inc.: Excerpt from the lyrics to “The White Cliffs of Dover,” words by Nat Burton, music by Walter Kent. Copyright Walter Kent Music Co. and Shapiro-Bernstein & Co., Inc.

  MCA Music Publishing: Excerpt from the lyrics to “See See Rider,” words and music by Ma Rainey. Copyright 1943, 1944 by MCA MUSIC PUBLISHING, A Division of MCA, Inc., New York, NY 10019. Copyright renewed. USED BY PERMISSION. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  SBK Entertainment World: Excerpt from the lyrics to “Lawdy Miss Clawdy” by Lloyd Price. Copyright 1952, © 1967 renewed 1980 VENICE MUSIC INC. All rights controlled and administered by SBK BLACKWOOD MUSIC INC. under license from ATV MUSIC (VENICE). All rights reserved/International Copyright secured. Used by permission.

  Warner/Chappell Music, Inc. and Rube Bloom Music Co.: Excerpt from the lyrics to “Maybe You’ll Be There” by Sammy Gallop and Rube Bloom. Copyright 1947 WB Music Corp. (renewed). All rights reserved. Used by permission of Warner/Chappell Music, Inc. and Rube Bloom Music Co. on behalf of the composer.

  Warner/Chappell Music, Inc. and Jamie Music Publishing Company: Excerpts from the lyrics to “There Stands the Glass” by Mary Jean Shurtz, Russ Hull and Audrey Greisham. Copyright 1951, 1953 Unichappell Music, Inc. & Jamie Music Publishing Co. (renewed). All rights reserved. Used by permission of Warner/Chappell Music, Inc. and Jamie Music Publishing Company.

  Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.: Excerpts from the lyrics to “Jumpin’ with Symphony Sid” by Lester Young. Copyright 1949 Unichappell Music, Inc. and Elvis Presley Music (renewed). Excerpt from the lyrics to “Junker’s Blues” by Jack Dupree. Copyright © 1959 Unichappell Music, Inc. (renewed). All rights reserved. Used by permission.

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  v3.1

  A gone shipmate, like any other man, is gone forever; and I never met one of them again. But at times the spring flood of memory sets with force up the dark River of the Nine Bends. Then on the waters of the forlorn stream drifts a ship—a shadowy ship manned by a crew of Shades. They pass and make a sign, in a shadowy hail. Haven’t we, together and upon the immortal sea, wrung out a meaning from our sinful lives? Good-bye, brothers! You were a good crowd.…

  —Joseph Conrad, The Nigger of the Narcissus

  Well, I’m driftin’ and driftin’ like a ship out on the sea

  Well, I’m driftin’ and driftin’ like a ship out on the sea

  Well, I ain’t got nobody, in this world to care for me …

  —Charles Brown, “Driftin’ Blues”

  Ah for another go, ah for a better chance!

  —Henry James

  I was stationed at Ellyson Field in 1953–54. But this is a work of fiction. The characters and events are imaginary.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Part One Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part Two Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Part Three Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Part Four Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Part Five Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  About the Author

  PART

 
ONE

  Anchors aweigh, my boys, anchors aweigh.

  1987

  I am on this bed in a cheap motel listening to the growl of the Gulf. My cameras remain in their silvery Halliburton case. I have hung the shirts and jeans in the closet. On the wall there is a fading photograph of the Blue Angels flying in tight formation over Pensacola. There is no room service and I am hungry, but I don’t care to move. It is a week now since my third wife left me, and I am 1,536 miles from home.

  It was easy to pack my bags and drive down here, to the places I had not seen in more than thirty years. I was weary of many things: New York and the people I knew there. Photography. Myself. We were in a time of plague. All around me people were dying, as a fierce and murderous virus spread through their blood and destroyed all those immune systems that had made them so briefly human. Each day’s newspaper carried the names of the previous day’s body count. I knew some of them. Their names filled my head as I remembered them in life and tried to imagine their painful final days, but after a few hours they just became part of the blur.

  In restaurants with my wife, Rose, in the final weeks, I heard other names staining the air around me: Bernie Goetz. Donna Rice. Ivan Boesky. Fawn Hall. Oliver North. A hundred others. They were chewed along with the food, their squalid tales consumed like everything else in the city that season. I would gaze around, and see the young in their West Side uniforms talking about junk bonds and arbitrage and leveraged buy-outs and treacherous partners, and I would feel suddenly old at fifty-one. I smoked too much, and most nights was growled at in restaurants by the lean young men with the health-club tans, while their women pawed self-righteously at the smoky air. The cigarettes marked me as part of another generation, my style and attitudes (though not my work) shaped by Bogart and Murrow, Camus and Malraux, those once-living icons who jammed cigarettes in their mouths as signals of their manhood, inhaled a billion of them, and died. Worse, I was twenty pounds overweight in a time when eating was paid for by hours at a Nautilus machine. I was not yet old and no longer young, and on the night of my birthday, Rose leaned over and asked me in her gray-eyed, direct way: “Michael, what is it that you want?”

  I was quiet for a long while, looking out at the spring crowds parading on Columbus Avenue. I told her: “1953.”

  She didn’t understand. In 1953, Rose Donofrio was not yet born. In the months when we were, as they used to say, courting, she would have smiled, and asked what I meant and tried to pry some answer from me. But that night she didn’t really care. That night, Rose had other matters on her mind. That night, Rose blinked at me and shook her head; her gaze drifted away, and when she came back, she told me that she’d met another man and wanted to go and live with him. Her eyes were suddenly liquid, as if she expected some melancholy response from me or some explosion of protest. I couldn’t give her either. That was the problem. That had been the problem for a long time. Rose gave me this fresh information, this trembling admission of betrayal, and it merely drifted like my cigarette smoke into the great blurry fog of other information, along with the contras and the calorie count of sushi. I waved at the waiter and asked for a check and Rose and I walked home in silence. By midnight, we’d agreed that she could keep the loft and I would get the country house. She packed three bags and said she would spend the night at a girlfriend’s house, a fiction to spare my feelings. We’d call the lawyers in the morning.

  “You never loved me, did you?” Rose said at the door.

  “Yes, I did. More than you’ll ever know.”

  She closed the door, all teary now, and I looked at my watch and thought: I’d better go down soon, and buy the Times. Rose had a gift, inherited from her Italian mother, for the melodramatic gesture and the venomous aria, the cutting word and the slammed door. In a way, that was what had attracted me to her when we met, four years earlier at a party on East 71st Street. But I didn’t, or couldn’t, respond any more. There was nothing left in me of such theatrics. Maybe I was just too old. Maybe I had seen too many real bodies in too many real places for too many years. Passion had killed them all. Political passion, or religious passion, or personal passion. And I had known for years that the greatest occupational hazard I faced as a photographer was indifference. So I never plunged into her dark Sicilian storms. And I felt nothing about her abrupt and treacherous departure. It had been a long time since I’d felt anything at all.

  But late on that first night alone, emptying my file cabinets and packing cartons in one of the sad ceremonies of departure, something shifted in me. I had little interest in the old tear sheets of my work, the yellowing pages of magazines (some of them dead), the folders full of birth and death certificates, licenses and diplomas. I was too old to be moved by the snapshots of people I’d once loved, and I couldn’t bear to read again the letters from vanished friends, postmarked Saigon or Lagos or Beirut. And then I came up short. Lying flat on the bottom of a file drawer was a thick, dog-eared folder. It was marked in large tight lettering, done in India ink with a Speedball pen, Personal Stuff. There were some letters inside, a group of drawings held together with a rusting paper clip, a few slips of paper bearing phone numbers, and The Blue Notebook.

  I was seventeen years old when I had first started writing in The Blue Notebook—a kid in the Navy. And here it was, intact. Improbably, that sweet and serious boy I used to be had survived in its pages into the years of manhood. I set the Notebook aside. I finished packing the files and stacked the cartons along the wall beside the door. I took some pictures off the walls: a drawing by José Luis Cuevas, a painting of city rooftops by Anne Freilicher, a watercolor of Coney Island by David Levine. Over the fireplace was a nude photograph of Rose Donofrio, her hair streaming forward, her features obscured. I left it there. I filled a steamer trunk with winter clothes. I packed three more cartons with records—all those people Rose could not bear to hear: Charlie Parker and Sinatra and Dinah Washington and Wynonie Harris. A hundred others. I sealed the cartons with masking tape, then went down and bought the Times.

  But toward morning, lying alone on the futon, staring at light patterns on the ceiling, listening to the slow murmur of the early-morning traffic, my head began to fill with long-gone images. Faces. Sounds. I heard the clatter of palm trees in the Florida night and Hank Williams singing on a jukebox. I smelled great tons of bacon frying in a mess hall. I saw the faces of men I used to know. And a woman I once loved more than life itself.

  When I woke that afternoon, I thought I had better go South.

  From The Blue Notebook

  Journey. n. 1 Travel from one place to another, usually taking a rather long time. 2 A distance, course, or area traveled or suitable for traveling. 3 A period of travel. 4 A passage or progress from one stage to another.

  I’ve said good-bye to everybody now. I am going away. They have said their good-byes too, but I don’t think they even know who I am. Not my friends. Not my family. Not the girl I loved. They see me now as Michael Patrick Devlin, USN, a sailor. Just like they used to see me, only a year ago, as a high school student or a stickball player or the crazy kid who drew his own comics. I could tell them (or anyone else who asks) that I was born June 24, 1935, which makes me seventeen and a half. I could tell them that I went to Holy Name School in Brooklyn for eight years and Bishop Loughlin High School for three. I could tell them I have dark blond hair and blue eyes that are turning gray and that I’m five-foot-eleven and weigh 178 pounds. I’m a Dodger fan (of course). For fourteen months I boxed (not very well) at the Police Athletic League as a middleweight. I could tell them that my father was born in Ireland, in the city of Belfast, and that makes me Irish-American. I could tell them that my mother was born in The Bronx and is dead. Catholics. What else? I could tell them I have two younger brothers and a sister. That the greatest book I ever read was Rabble in Arms by Kenneth Roberts. That I want to be a comic-strip artist. But even if I told them all those things, it wouldn’t add up to me.

  They don’t really know me, not one of th
em, and I’m not telling any of them.

  I’m going away.

  On a journey.

  Every Navy man has two jobs: he is a fighting man and a specialist. His fighting duty at his battle station comes first; his daily work and his special jobs are important, too. Each man’s job may seem small, but it is part of the fighting efficiency of his ship. Every man’s job is small compared to the ship as a whole, but if one man falls down on his job, the ship may be lost.

  —The Bluejackets’ Manual.

  Aunt Margaret asked me when I came home from boot camp what it was that I wanted. I couldn’t tell her. It would have felt as if I were asking her for something, and I don’t want to ever have to ask anyone for anything. But there were some things I wanted: a Parker 51 pen. A television set for my brothers and sister. A telephone too. Rooms with doors. I wanted Craftint paper so I could draw like Roy Crane. A set of Lionel trains. Every one of the Bomba the Jungle Boy series. I wanted to wake up one morning and discover that I looked like a combination of Wiliam Holden and Chet Baker. I wanted a new girl. But when she asked me, I just shrugged and said, “Nothing, Aunt Margaret. I don’t want anything at all.” A complete lie.

  Love. n. 1 The profoundly tender or passionate affection for a person of the opposite sex. 2 A feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child or friend. 3 Sexual passion or desire, or its gratification. 4 A person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart. 5 A love affair; amour. 6 A personification of sexual affection, as Eros or Cupid. 7 Affectionate concern for the well-being of others. 8 Strong predilection or liking of anything (the ~ of books). 9 The object or thing so liked. 10 The benevolent affection of God for His creatures, or the reverent affection due from them to God.

  Chapter

  1

  And so, early one chilly spring morning, the sky still purple, I drove out through the Holland Tunnel. Slowly, then vividly, the images of an old journey began to emerge, like a photograph in a developing tray. I began to hear voices and music and the sounds of travel. And then I was on a Greyhound bus. It was New Year’s Eve, 1952, the bus was heading South. I was desperate for the love a woman.