“I don’t really know. Sometimes upperclassmen call a plebe a faggot when they don’t mean it. Faggot. Maggot. Worm. Shitbird. Fuckup. You know, DI stuff.”
“DI?” Liz asked. Ev heard Julie sigh.
“Drill instructor. Look, you’re a civilian. I’m not sure you’re going to understand all this stuff.”
“Try me.”
“Okay,” Julie said. “The whole point of plebe year is to break down the individual civilian teenager and remold him into someone with a military mind-set. To drive the plebes together so they begin to think like a unit-roommates, a class within the company, then a class within the Brigade. To expose them to pressure, so they learn to think fast on their feet and to organize their hours to get it all done, their schoolwork, their plebe duties, their rooms, their uniforms, all of it.”
Liz said, “My first husband was a Marine pilot. He used to talk about Marine OCS. Same kind of thing, but with one big difference, I think: The Marines had professional drill instructors, whereas what I’m hearing now is that this program is run by the midshipmen themselves.”
“Not entirely,” Julie said. “The program is supervised by the company and battalion officers. There’s a whole executive department in Bancroft Hall.”
“But basically, at the sharp end, it’s kids running kids.”
“Well, that’s the system we were handed,” Julie said sweetly. “We didn’t invent it, and it’s been succeeding for a hundred and fifty years. I went through it, and earned the right to continue to a commission. This crop of plebes is going to go through it if they want to earn that same right.”
Liz changed tack. “Back to homosexuals, whom, I assume, occasionally slip through the admissions process. I thought the official Navy policy on gays was don’t ask, don’t tell. They keep their sexuality a secret, their hands to themselves, and no one is allowed to go after them.”
“That’s the policy.”
“And? You sound like it really isn’t the policy.”
Ev could hear Julie sit back in her chair and take a deep breath, as if forcing herself to relax. “The Academy isn’t the Navy, Ms. DeWinter,” she said finally. “Or so we’re often told by the commissioned officers. As in, Don’t confuse Bancroft Hall with the fleet.”
“What is it, then?”
“My father says that Bancroft Hall is like a big simulator. It looks like the Navy, but it isn’t. Same thing at West Point, too, from what I saw during our exchange weekend. Being a plebe in Bancroft Hall is like being in a pressure cooker. Officer Candidate School is, too, but that only lasts three months. Plebe year lasts one whole year.”
“So it’s a matter of scale?”
“This place takes four years to develop naval officers who can take the heat, who can stand up to steady pressure and not only perform but perform in a superior fashion. Ultimately, it becomes a matter of pride: Keep dumping stuff on my head-the academic load, the required athletics program, the physical tests, the whole plebe year, the constant inspections, the competition for class standing, responsibility for leading the lower classes-and I can not only hack it but do it well. Because I want to, and because I’m going to show them.”
“You’ve been to hack-it school, as my first ex used to say.”
“Precisely. It’s competitive across the board, from admission to commission, and we’re always being tested. Strong men and women, with strong character, visible moral courage, a clear sense of ethics. We consciously address issues of right and wrong. It’s a black-and-white world we live in, or at least that’s what the system tries to accomplish.”
“And you’re saying that gays can’t fit into that mold?”
“It’s not being gay that’s the problem, Ms. DeWinter,” Julie said softly. “It’s the system to cope with gays that doesn’t fit here. The policy you just mentioned. The don’t ask, don’t tell policy. It ducks the question. It’s basically an evasion. Evasion violates our principles.”
“Ah,” Liz said. “And so, if someone is suspected of really being gay, he or she could be in trouble.”
“Oh yes.”
“How do you personally feel about gay people?”
“Poor them,” Julie said.
Liz let out a long breath. “Let me try a hypotheticaclass="underline" Is it possible that Dell was suspected of being gay, and that someone or some group threw him out a window? Like some kind of antihomosexual vigilante group?”
“No,” Julie said emphatically. “No. Look, when the subject comes up, what you hear is that individuals mostly don’t care if someone is gay. What nobody wants to have is some queer hitting on you, whether you’re male or female. Plus, there’s the practical problem. We’re all headed for commissions. Picture a bunch of gung ho Marines taking orders from their second lieutenant if they think he’s a fairy. I don’t think so.”
“And Dell?”
“Dell was a little guy. Not short, but, like, not much heft to him. A diver, not a swimmer. From the few times I worked with him, he was too passive. Not assertive. Not effeminate, either, but maybe just scared. I could see why people might think he didn’t belong here.”
“But wouldn’t it take some balls to sneak into an upperclassman’s room and steal underwear?”
“Guys with balls don’t wear panties,” Julie snapped. “Besides, we don’t know that he did that, Ms. DeWinter. Hell, the laundry might have done it. Sent back something of mine in his laundry bag by mistake. I’ve gotten other women’s things back in my laundry. It happens. I told my father that I thought Brian was weak, not gay.”
“Brian?” Liz asked softly.
“His classmates called him Brian,” Julie said. “And best I know, that wasn’t the rap on Dell. And, no, there aren’t any Brigade vigilante groups. Against gays or anyone else.”
“How can you be sure of that?”
“Because everyone’s too damned busy,” Julie said patiently. “It would have to be firsties who’d run something like that, and firsties have only one thing on their minds at this stage of the game.”
“Which is?”
“Getting the fuck out of here,” Julie said with a vehemence that surprised Ev. Liz apparently had had the same reaction, and Julie caught it. “Well, you know what they say, Ms. DeWinter. This is a four-hundred-thousand-dollar education, shoved up your ass a penny at a time.”
“Yes,” Liz said softly. “Your father mentioned that one to me.”
“My father?” Julie asked. “When did he tell you that?”
“At dinner last night,” Liz said. Ev held his breath when he heard that. He felt Liz looking at him.
“Oh,” Julie said.
“Your father is paying the bills here,” Liz said. “I promised to keep him in the loop as to what I was doing. But we did have a nice evening, nonetheless.”
Ev sensed what was coming next when all Julie said was “Oh” again.
“How do you feel about your father and I seeing each other, Julie?”
“Seeing each other?”
“Yes. Seeing each other. You know exactly what I mean. He’s very worried that you’ll be upset if he starts seeing someone.”
Holy shit, Ev thought, and finally looked over at Liz, aware that he was blushing. There was the hint of a smile on her face.
“Mom’s death hit us both pretty hard,” Julie was saying slowly. “But I’m out of here in a few weeks. I don’t want him living all alone in that big house, so I’ve got zero problems with him seeing you or anyone else. You’ve been married before, Ms. DeWinter?”
“Yes, twice,” Liz said. “And it’s Liz.”
“Then you must know what you’re doing,” Julie said. Ev heard an element of challenge in Julie’s voice.
“Meaning?” Liz replied evenly.
“Meaning he’s a bit fragile right now. Don’t you dare toy with him.”
It was Liz’s turn to say nothing. Ev tried to imagine the scene in the conference room, the two women glaring at each other. This was a side of Julie he’d not seen or heard before. Liz finally spoke.
“Not that it’s any of your business, Julie, but I do understand that your father’s been through a rough time. And I don’t trifle with men I like.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Ms. DeWinter,” Julie said. “Have I answered all your questions? I need to get back.”