Daisy’s head hung lower. She shrugged and answered, defensively, “Your discretionary funds. I was going to put it back. Soon.”
“Put it back now,” McNair ordered and was, somehow, unsurprised to see the amount at the bottom of the ledger drop. He noted that it didn’t drop much.
“All of it.”
“Captain, that was all of it. I told you. You and the crew have lots of money. I wanted you all to have nice things, the best food… and I wanted a new dress.”
McNair hung his head. It wouldn’t do any good to explain when the inevitable investigation showed up that his ship had wanted a “new dress.”
A ship’s captain is responsible…
“Pork Chop, tell the chaplain, the Jag and the IG that I need to see them,” he ordered. Then he thought about that and countermanded, “Belay that. Just tell the chaplain I’ll be over to see him in a few. Dismissed.”
Except for the crucifix on the walls, and a few other odds and ends, the chaplain’s office aboard Des Moines was pure Navy. This extended even to the standard Navy steel gray desk.
“I see by your face you have a terrible burden, Captain, laddie,” observed a mildly ruddy-faced Chaplain Dwyer from behind that desk.
“I need a drink,” McNair announced.
Without a word the chaplain stood up and went to a storage alcove built into his office. McNair’s eyes followed, and then wandered over the signs adorning the cabinet doors in the alcove. He read:
Sacramental Wine.
Continuing to peruse the signs, he read further:
Sacramental Scotch
Sacramental Bourbon
Sacramental Irish
Sacramental Vodka
Sacramental Grappa, Cognac and Armagnac
Sacramental Tequila.
“What, no sacramental rum?”
Seriously, Dwyer answered, “The ship’s physician is holding that for me, Captain, laddie. It’s ‘medicinal rum’ for now but will become holy as soon as I make some room for it and bless it. And which sacrament would you prefer?”
“Northern rite,” McNair answered, dully. It was one of those days.
“Scotch, it is!” said Father Dwyer, SJ, opening a cabinet and reaching for an amber bottle.
Dwyer was, drinking habits aside, quite a good chaplain, quite a good listener. So he waited, while the captain sipped his scotch, for the other man to begin. Unfortunately for the technique, McNair said not a word.
Assuming the captain needed a touch more “holiness” to loosen his tongue, Dwyer reached again for the bottle.
Understanding, McNair covered his glass with his hand. “No, that’s not it, Dan.”
McNair looked up. “Daisy?” he asked.
Instantly, and still looking contrite, Daisy’s avatar appeared.
“Yes, Captain.”
“Daisy, is it possible for you to shut this room off from your hearing?”
She answered immediately, “I’d be lying if I said I could. I mean I could compartmentalize, sort of pretend that I could shut it off, make it hard for me to look at or think about what you say… but I’d still hear everything you say and I’d still have a record.”
McNair nodded. “Thought so. Okay, Daisy. Not your fault. Chaplain, let’s take a walk. I know a pretty good bar, if it’s still there, about half a mile from here. Bring the bottle; the owner won’t mind. And he won’t have anything nearly as good in stock.”
But for the bartender, the Broadway was empty. Well, it was early in the day, after all.
Laying a twenty dollar bill on the bar, McNair said, “Solo necesitamos hielo, Leo.” We just need ice.
“I speak perfectly good English,” the gray-haired, Antillean descended bartender answered, very properly. “Maybe better than you. But I’ll bring you your ice anyway.”
Taking the ice while the chaplain ported the bottle of scotch, the two sat down at a table under a slowly circulating ceiling fan.
“I came here the first time as an able bodied seaman in the ’40s,” McNair announced. “It was an Army hangout then. I suppose it is again now, too.”
Dwyer looked around. He thought maybe the place had seen better times. Then again, the entire city of Colon always seemed like it had seen better times and yet never seemed to get any worse.
McNair thought that another test was in order. Loudly he called out, “Daisy, can you hear me?”
Nothing.
“Daisy???”
Still nothing, except that the bartender, Leo, looked at him strangely.
“Safe enough, then, I guess,” McNair said.
“I’m not even going to begin to think about what it does to the sanctity of my confessional that the ship can hear every word spoken,” sighed the priest.
“But she’s just a machine, right, Father?” the captain asked.
“That’s what I tried to tell myself,” answered the priest, clasping hands and looking down at the unclothed table. “But I had my doubts. As a matter of fact…”
“Yes?” McNair pressed.
“Well… I don’t know how to say this, but… whatever she is or isn’t, she’s a Roman Catholic now.”
Eyes gaping, the captain exclaimed, “Huh?”
“Oh, yes,” the priest answered, pouring himself another drink. “Came to me and asked to be baptized. The chief of chaplains told me ‘not just no, but hell no.’ So I went over his head to the head of my order. He said… well, it isn’t fit for Christian ears, what he said. So I went to the holy father; we go way back, we do. Back to when he was the head of the Holy Office of the Inquisition. Wise man; he was always wise beyond his years. And, unlike me, a truly holy man.
“Anyway, the pope asked me a few questions, told me to search my soul and to search for one in Daisy. And then, wise and holy man that he is, he told me to trust myself and do what I thought was right.
“So, yes,” Dwyer concluded, “Daisy is a member in good standing of the True Faith.”
“Whew! So she’s human after all. That takes a load off my conscience.”
“I didn’t say she was human, Captain. I decided she had a soul and, though I don’t think she was in need of salvation, her soul having no portion in original sin, I could hardly refuse her the sacraments of our mutual God.”
The priest raised his glass and swirled its contents. “Except for the scotch, of course; that’s completely wasted on her. Poor thing.”
“Well, that doesn’t really help me,” McNair muttered, looking extremely confused and inexpressibly sad, neither of those being expressions he would ever have permitted himself aboard ship.
Dwyer looked hard at his ship’s captain. “Oh, dear. Tell me it isn’t so.”
McNair sighed. “It’s so.”
“For Daisy?”
“You know anyone else on the ship with a beautiful face, big blue eyes and a thirty-eight inch, D cup chest? That gravity doesn’t affect in the slightest?”
“Oh, dear,” the priest repeated uselessly.
Without waiting for Dwyer, McNair reached over, took the bottle, and poured himself another drink.
“When I awaken, she’s there for me. When I lie down to sleep she’s the last thing I see before I close my eyes. Quite a lot more often than I like to think about, she’s there after I close my eyes and before I open them in the morning.
“She’s always there to talk, if I need to talk. She’s a great conversationalist, did you know that, Dan?”
The priest nodded that, yes, he knew.
“And she takes care of the ship… err, of herself, I suppose. When was the last time a ship’s captain had a ship that took care of all the little things for him?”