Mrs. Lieutenant: A Sharon Gold Novel by Phyllis Zimbler Miller Page B

clerk handing out the checks and he couldn't
figure out why mine was missing. He said he'd look into it right
away."
    "You think he did it on purpose? He’s
probably angry that you’re an officer and he’s an enlisted
man."
    "Len isn’t like that. It's an accounting
error, I'm sure. But I do need the money for more uniforms."
    Robert follows her to the front of the
apartment and sits down at the table. "I almost forgot to tell you.
Some of us decided to get together tomorrow night at the Officers
Club after dinner. There's a band from Louisville playing. Should
be fun. I said we'd go."
    **
    Sharon pulls the Fiat into a parking space
alongside the brick building and smiles at Kim. "Here we are,"
Sharon says. "The Officers Club."
    "I'm glad you suggested we come today," Kim
says. "It's a good idea to see it before tonight."
    In the foyer there's an announcement board
listing the activities of the day along with the menu at the snack
bar.
    "Let's eat at the snack bar," Sharon says.
Robert had informed her last night that he and Jim wouldn’t be home
for lunch the next day.
    At the back of the building they find a
good-sized room with several tables and a snack bar counter. At the
tables there are a few other women, all around their age, as well
as several men in an assortment of uniforms from olive green
fatigues to khaki suntans to olive green Class A uniforms.
    They order hamburgers and fries at the
counter, then sit at a table to await their order.
    Kim whispers, "It's kind of funny to be here,
don't you think?"
    "What do you mean?" Sharon asks.
    "Alone by ourselves, without our
husbands."
    Doesn't Kim go anywhere without her husband?
Are women still chaperoned in the South?
    Sharon purposely switches the subject.
“Memorial Day weekend the pools will open. We can go to the one at
the Officers’ Country Club; it’s only for adults – no children
allowed.”
    “I have to be careful not to tan. I’ll have
to bring suntan lotion,” Kim says.
    "Why don’t you want a tan?" Sharon asks.
    Kim wrinkles her mouth. "That's unladylike.
Dark skins are for the ... I mean ..." She pauses for so long
Sharon thinks Kim has forgotten the question. Finally Kim says, "I
don't look good with a tan."
    The employee behind the snack bar counter
motions for them to come get their food. As they sit down again,
Kim says, "We can't even go to our swimming hole anymore in my
hometown."
    "Why not?"
    Kim’s eyes fix on her plate. "Because the
blacks go there now."
    "Why can't you go?" Sharon asks.
    "Because we can't."
    A deep voice says, "Hello, Sharon. It's been
a long time."
    Sharon looks up into the face of an extremely
good-looking young man wearing suntans. Mark Williamson!
    "May I have this dance?" he says.
    This time her stomach flip flops for a
totally different reason. She and Mark Williamson have a history,
one with a prologue in seventh grade. He attended the six weeks of
dancing class she took then in preparation for the myriad Bar
Mitzvah parties to which she would be invited. Never mind that with
her teeth swathed in braces and pimples rearing their ugly
blackheads – not to mention her perfectly straight hair that
wouldn't rat no matter how many perms her mother gave her – Sharon
didn't have much hope of being asked to dance by the Jewish boys
who clustered in protective flocks at one end of the hotel
ballrooms.
    Mark wasn't Jewish – the class had been
sponsored by a community recreation center – and she hadn’t taken
much notice of him. He first blipped on her radar when he fought
with his older brother Roger over her hand for the last dance of
the final class. Mark shoved Roger out of the way, even though
Roger asked first, and she and Mark danced a slow waltz with Mark's
right arm pressed tightly against her back. Then the class had been
over and she hadn't seen him again until they attended the same
high school. And that’s when their history truly began.
    She stands up. He towers above her. "What are
you doing