Ding-dong, the bell sounded.
Dave called, “Who’s that?”
“The iceman, Daddy.”
Brent held Bea for a long kiss then slid a hand to her buttock as he pressed her close. “Hi, Den Mother.” He used the nickname coined by Woody Parnell the night of their drive to Bremerton Bachelor Officers Quarters (BOQ).
Bea wore blue jeans and a red cotton shirt open at the neck. She perceived herself unattractive as a child, though now she accepted that time had ripened her like a rare wine. An abundance of chestnut hair tumbled to her shoulders. She smiled back at Brent through brown eyes set in a slightly oval face. Bea’s firm full figure brought the top of her head to Brent’s chin.
She bombarded him with questions. “Hi, yourself. How can you be so casual? What happened out there? The story is all over the yard and it scared the hell out of me, Brent. Good thing it ended before any of us heard or I’d have been worried sick.”
Brent used a nonchalant monotone, “Must’ve been a slow day at the yard if that’s all you talked about. Taxpayers won’t like that.”
“They say you’re the hero. Tell me about it.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Okay, I know how to get it from you later.”
“Promises, promises. How will you do that? Spare none of the torrid details.”
“Wait and see,” she teased.
Dave arrived to claim Brent; his excuse, a vino refill. “Hello, Brent. What a nice surprise. Can you stay for dinner?”
“Dad!”
Opening the refrigerator, Dave asked, “Glass of wine, Brent?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
“Good. Maybe Bea will let me crack this good stuff seeing you’re here now. All I ever get is that fifty cents a gallon stuff from a box.”
Patting her father’s generous stomach Bea said to Brent, “Your heart just has to bleed for this poor, neglected fellow. He looks so starved.”
Brent grinned and said, “Don’t see how you make it, Dave.”
Uncorking a bottle of chardonnay Dave poured two glasses.
Bea asked, “What about the cook?”
Dave winked at Brent and gave him a grin. “Drinkin’ and cookin’s bad as drinkin’ and drivin’. Don’t want to spoil our dinner.”
“Pour me a glass, turkey, unless you plan to drive to McDonald’s for dinner.”
Dave poured his daughter a glass of chardonnay. “Should give ya the stuff you make me drink.”
Bea embraced her father, kissed him and said, “Yeah, sure,” then surrendered Brent gracefully. “You two get out of my kitchen if you expect dinner anytime before midnight.”
The men retreated to the family room.
Dave turned off the television, silencing a local concern over what should be done about excessive wild geese populations that no longer migrate because tourists feed them.
Being sarcastic Dave said, “I’ll sleep a lot better when they get that goose thing straightened out.”
Walls of cedar backed a recycled clay brick fireplace that blended well with the Pacific Northwest décor of the room. A glass sliding door provided a view onto a lush lawn that had already begun to green under the early spring rain.
At sixty-three, Dave considered himself overdue for grandchildren to spoil and hoped Bea and Brent might remedy that.
Dave sipped the golden chardonnay. “Ah … that’s good stuff. Not as good as a stiff belt of gin, mind you, but a stomach as old as mine, well, ya gotta compromise. Sit down, Brent, and tell me what’s doing in these new fangled submarines. Bea says you had some wild sea trials.”
“You could say that.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“There’s not a lot to tell.” Brent reviewed the casualty and went on, “It’s happened on other ships but always on the surface. Just our bad luck to be at test depth.”
Dave understood the circumstances and nerves of steel needed to perform Brent’s rescue feat. He sensed Brent didn’t want to discuss it further.
“It’s really a lousy design, driven by the need to push torpedoes against the higher sea pressures of deeper diving submarines. Other things should have been factors, but they weren’t.”
“Other things?”
“War fighting capability. We had ten launchers in the ships that won World War II and only four in that 688 of yours. You got two eject pumps. If one goes down, and you just found out it can, you’re left with only two launchers. Result … we got the fastest, quietest boats in the world, but they’re tactically bankrupt.”
“You’ve witnessed a lot of change, Dave.”
With an edge on his voice Dave asked, “For the better?” Then went on in softer tones, “I can get heavy on this subject, especially after a couple of vinos. Be thankful it’s not after a couple of gins. We’re not warriors now, we’re scientists and professors. Academia has replaced initiative. Not too good, in my humble view.”
“Humble, Dave? You?”
Bea entered the room. “The choir still preaches to the choir, I see. Here’s the only topic more important than you two saving the submarine Navy. Dinner is served, gentlemen.”
They moved to the dining room and sat down to Bea’s succulent rack of lamb that could hold its own in any four star restaurant. Brent enjoyed the change of venue. With Bea around, more pleasurable topics held greater appeal.
Brent primed Dave’s memories of earlier happy times, many which included his wife. At the conclusion of each monologue, Dave’s face brightened, and he would turn to Bea, no doubt to capture traces of his wife’s countenance so apparent in her daughter.
Next came cognacs by the fire and a few more tales before Dave excused himself for the evening.
With Dave out of earshot, Brent said, “What a guy. I can't think of your dad in any other way than he is now.”
Bea gave a curious look, “Meaning?” Her tone signaled need for a good explanation.
Brent caught the signal and groped for words. “You know, old, wise.”
Staring Brent down, Bea asked, “Old?”
He squirmed. When will I learn to think before speaking to this woman?
She went on, “You mean it’s hard to visualize Dad as a young guy like yourself?”
Brent leapt on her words like a drowning man upon a sandy beach. “Exactly,” he replied.
Bea said, “Let me show you.” She took a photo album from the mahogany bookshelf above the fireplace and began to page through. “Here.” She produced a black and white snapshot of twenty-six year old Lieutenant Junior Grade Dave Zane, Navy binoculars hanging about his neck, standing on the bridge of a World War II fleet type submarine. “There’s one fine looking officer. Too bad you didn’t look that good as a JG.”
“Touché.”
They paged through the album and shared occasional oohs, aahs and laughs, mostly over childhood photos of Bea. They came upon a five by eight folder fronted with a formal photo of Bea’s mother, beneath which read Celebrating the Life of Dale Beatrice Walker-Zane, July 22, 1930 to August 12, 1984.
“What a beautiful lady.”
Bea, pleased by his remark, rewarded him with a smile. “Really want to know Dad? Read this.”
Remembering my Beloved Wife, Dale
A summer hike through the Olympic National Park at Sol Duc Hot Springs brought me upon a rare orchid that would beautify the rest of my life. It came about while doing an unwise thing — leaving the trail to explore side canyons. Good fortune for me that I elected the ‘unwise’ path. Though searching for the elusive cephalanthera austinae orchid, I found instead my own Olympic Blossom, Dale, whose beauty exceeds that of every flower in the forest. A soft cry, “Help,” floated through the balmy afternoon air, and I found a young lady lying on the ground in great pain. “I think my ankle’s broken.” She raised her eyes to me apologetically. A quick look proved her right. Words came to mind, you shouldn’t hike alone! But then that would be the pot calling the kettle black. Depleting my first aid kit supplies, and with help from two small tree branches, I fashioned a splint, then gathered Dale into my arms for the six mile trek back to the trailhead. Such a dilemma! Speaking depleted my breath and strength, but how could I impress her without doing that? And from the first instant, impressing her became more important than anything in my life. I must have done well. The trail we walked together that blessed day extended through thirty-two beautiful and precious years.