“Johnny? Raymond. There’s an FBI man outside my hotel room door in St. Louis to say that they are holding an Army plane for me. Did you tell the Army to request FBI cooperation, and did you have that plane sent here?” He listened. “You did. Well, I knew damn well you did. But why? What the hell did you decide to do a thing like that for?” He listened. “How could I be late? It’s Wednesday morning and I don’t have to be at the White House until Friday afternoon.” He listened. He went totally pale. “A parade? A par—ade?” He stared at the details offered by his imagination. “Why—you cheap, flag-rubbing bastard!”

Mardell had slipped out of bed and was starting to get dressed, but she didn’t seem to be able to find anything and she looked frightened. He signaled her with his free hand, caught her attention, and smiled at her so warmingly and so reassuringly that she sat down on the edge of the bed. Then she leaned back slowly and stretched out. He reached over and took her hand, kissed it softly, then placed it on top of her flat smooth stomach, while the telephone squawked in his ear. She reached up and just barely allowed her hand to caress the length of his right cheek, unshaven. Suddenly his face went hard again and he barked into the telephone, “No, don’t put my mother on again! I know I haven’t spoken to her in two years! I’ll talk to her when I’m good and ready to talk to her. Aaah, for Christ’s sake!” He gritted his teeth and stared at the ceiling.

“Hello, Mother.” His voice was flat.

“Raymond, what the hell is this?” his mother asked solicitously. “What’s the matter with you? If we were in the mining business and you struck gold you’d call us, wouldn’t you?”

“No.”

“Well, it just so happens that you’re a Medal of Honor winner—incidentally, congratulations—I meant to write but we’ve been jammed up. Johnny is a public figure, Raymond. He represents the people of your state just the same as the President represents the people of the United States, and I notice you aren’t making any fuss about going to the White House. Is there something so slimy and so terrible about having your picture taken with your father—”

“He is not my father!”

“—who represents the pride the people of this nation feel for what you have sacrificed for them on the field of battle?”

“Aaah, fuh crissakes, Mother, will you please—”

“You didn’t mind having your picture taken with that stranger in St. Louis yesterday. Incidentally, what happened? Did the Army PRO send you in there to slobber over the Gold Star Mother?”

“It was my own idea.”

“Don’t tell me that, Raymond darling. I just happen to know you.”

“It was my own idea.”

“Well, wonderful. It was a wonderful idea. All the papers carried it here yesterday and, of course, everywhere this morning. Marty Webber called in time so we were able to work in a little expression from Johnny about how he’d do anything to help that dead boy’s folks and so forth, so we tied everything up from this end. It was great, so you certainly can’t stand there and tell me that you won’t have your picture taken with the man who is not only your own family but who happens to have been the governor and is now the senator from your own state.”

“Since when do you have to get the Army to ask the FBI to set up a picture for Johnny? And that’s not what we’re arguing about, anyway. He just told me about a filthy idea for a parade to commemorate a medal on which you and I might not place any particular value but which the rest of this country thinks is a nice little thing—for a few lousy votes for him, and I am not going to hold still for any cheap, goddam parade!”

“A parade? That’s ridiculous!”

“Ask your flag-simple husband.”

Raymond’s mother seemed to be talking across the mouthpiece in an aside to Johnny, but Johnny had left the apartment some four minutes before to get a haircut. “Johnny,” she said to nobody at all, “where did you get the idea that they could embarrass Raymond with a parade? No wonder he’s so sore.” Into the telephone she said, “It’s not a parade! A few cars were going out to the airport to meet you. No marching men. No color guard. No big bands. You know you are a very peculiar boy, Raymond. I haven’t seen you for almost two years—your mother—but you go right on mewing about some parade and Johnny and the FBI and some Army plane, but when it comes to—”

“What else is going to happen in Washington?”

“I had planned a little luncheon.”

“With whom?”

“With some very important key press and television people.”

“And Johnny?”

“Of course.”

“No.”

“What?”

“I won’t do it.”

There was a long pause. Waiting, staring down at the girl, he became aware that she had violet eyes. His mind began to spin off the fine silk thread of his resentment in furious moulinage. For almost two years he had been free of his obsessed mother, this brassy bugler, this puss-in-boots to her boorish Marquis de Carrabas, the woman who could think but who could not feel. He had had three letters from her in two years. (1) She had arranged for a life-sized cutout of Johnny to be forwarded to Seoul. General MacArthur was in the area. Could Johnny arrange for a picture of the two of them with arms around the photographic cutout of Johnny, as she could guarantee that this would get the widest kind of coverage? (2) Would he arrange for a canvass of fighting men from their state to sign a scroll of Christmas greetings, on behalf of all Johnny’s fighting buddies everywhere, to Johnny and the people of his great state? And (3) she was deeply disappointed and not a little bit shocked to find out that he would not lift one little finger to carry out a few simple requests for his mother who worked day and night for both of her men so that there might be a better and more secure place for each of them.

He had been two years away from her but he could feel his defiance of her buckling under the weight of her silence. He had never been able to cope with her silence. At last her voice came through the telephone again. It was changed. It was rough and sinister. It was murderous and frightening and threatening. “If you don’t do this, Raymond,” she said, “I will promise you on my father’s grave right now that you will be very, very sorry.”

“All right, Mother,” he said. “I’ll do it.” He shuddered. He hung up the telephone from a foot and a half above the receiver. It fell off, but he must have felt he had made his point because he picked it up from the bed where it had bounced and put it gently into its cradle.

“That was my mother,” he explained to Mardell. “I wish I knew what else I could say to describe her in front of a nice girl like you.”

He walked to the locked door. He leaned against the crack in despair and said, “I’ll be in the lobby in about an hour.” There was no answer. He turned toward the bed, untying the belt of his new blue robe, as a massive column of smoke began to spiral upward inside his head, filling the eyes of his memory and opaquing his expression from behind his eyes. Mardell was spilled out softly across the bed. The sheets were blue. She was blond-and-ivory, tipped with pink; lined with pink. It came to him that he had never seen another girl, named Jocie, this way. The thought of Jocie lying before him like this lovely moaning girl excited him as though a chemical abrasive had been poured into his urethra and she was assaulted by him in the most attritive manner, to her greater glory and with her effulgent consent, and though she lived to be an old, old woman she never forgot that morning and could summon it back to her in its richest violence whenever she was frightened and alone, never knowing that she was not only the first woman Raymond had ever possessed, but the first he had ever kissed in passion, or that he had been given his start toward relaxing his inhibitions against the uses of sex not quite one year before, in Manchuria.