Chapter 3: Autumn

If mine heart have been deceived by a woman, or if I have laid wait at my neighbor's door;
Then let my wife grind unto another, and let others bow down upon her.

Job 32:9-10

Cleveland—January 1965

Hal held up two fingers; the bartender saw him. Hand signals were easier than yelling over the noise in the crowded bar. Outside, the snowstorm turned into a blizzard. No one would get in or out of town that night. For a while, Hal had been afraid he would be sleeping in the hotel lobby, but the storm kept things at status quo, so he was able to book his room for one more night.

"Whad'd ya say your name was?" he asked the person next to him.

The bartender brought two whiskies and set them down in front of them. He took a few bills out of the pile of money Hal placed on the bar.

"I didn't," the woman replied and took a sip of the whiskey.

"This is the second drink I bought ya. At least, I deserve a name."

"Hmmm; I suppose so." The woman paused, pursed her lips as she thought for a few seconds. "Lola," she replied. "You can call me Lola.

Hal absorbed the new information. It was true—he'd only asked for a name, not the real one.

"What's the difference, anyway?"

He tossed his head back and took a gulp of the stinging dram. He plunked the shot glass back on the bar.

"Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets," he sung out loud, off-key.

"If only that were true," the woman, now renamed 'Lola', replied.

She fell silent, staring into the mirror in back of the bottles on the backbar. Hal didn't say anything, either. Whiskey has a way of easing a person deep into one's own thoughts.

The Division Reunion had been more-or-less a flop. Hal didn't know many of the guys. Most of the attendees were replacements that came into the ranks after the unit was chopped up in The Bulge.

When it started snowing the night before many of the men left ahead of time so they could get out of town before the snow stranded them. Hal thought he should, too. He would have if Martha hadn't been so against him going to the reunion in the first place. Besides, he was one of the senior non-coms and felt guilty about leaving too soon. So, he had nothing to do but sit in a hotel bar in Cleveland, buying drinks for a woman who had just renamed herself. He had knocked down more than a few that afternoon and night, so somehow it all made sense.

"Do you hear that song all the time?" Hal asked her.

"Huh? What song?" Lola asked, seeming a little annoyed at the sudden break in wordlessness.

"You know," Hal reminded her, "whatever Lola wants, Lola gets..."

"Oh, yeah," she said. "No; no one ever sings that to me. You're not going to, are you?"

"Someone should start singing something. Look at us, a couple of sad sacks sitting at a bar, drinking 'cause we don't know what else to do."

"You seem to be doing alright," she said.

"Holding one's liquor is the single-most important thing a young man learns in the Army," Hal declared. "It's how I got my stripes." He tossed down the last of his drink and signaled the bartender for two more. Lola was laughing.

"Tell me the story of that," she demanded, "of how you got your stripes."

"Everyone was drunk. I'm the only one who could still stand up," Hal explained. "The Captain told me to march the men back to camp and when we got there he made me a Sergeant."

Lola gave him a curious look for a few moments then started laughing again. She pushed him on the shoulder. "Go on," she said in a slight slur. "Stop pullin' my leg."

Hal raised his glass but only sipped enough to let the fresh anesthetic wet his lips. He stopped talking; he was out of jokes for the moment. He took a look at Lola. She wasn't bad looking. He put her in her late thirties; just a touch younger than Martha.

"She looks like Susan Hayward," he thought to himself.

She even wore a cocktail dress that had bare shoulders and showed a calculated amount of cleavage—just like many of the actress' photos.

"She's kind of saucy like Susan Hayward, too."

"Been married a long time?" she asked as Hal wandered inside his thoughts.

"Seventeen ... uh ... how did you know?" Hal hadn't worn his wedding ring since he broke two fingers in an accident at work several years before."

"I can always tell," she told him. "Married men have a certain look. You all look like little boys who want to do something naughty because you haven't had any fun in a long time."

Hal didn't answer. He was thinking about Martha. He always thought she looked like Eva Marie Saint—more mother than mistress. Martha was tender and giving with firmly bridled passion, a woman whom Hal hated to disappoint.

"She always looks like she's ready to cry, even when she's happy."

He had seldom disappointed her and when he did he made it up as soon as he could.

"When's the last time you called her?" Lola asked.

"Just this afternoon, when I knew I wouldn't make it out of here."

"She wasn't too happy about it, was she?"

"Not really. She didn't want me to come here in the first place. The worst thing is that she was right. The reunion was a real dud; not worth the trip. She won't let me forget it for a while."

Hal looked down at Lola's hand and saw no ring. She was of an age when most women were married. There were a lot of possibilities. Hal considered for a brief moment about asking Lola if she was married. It would have only been a polite rejoinder. Finally, he decided not to ask her. It wasn't that he was afraid of the answer—he didn't really care. The whole subject was uncomfortable and delving into her life story could only prolong the unpleasantness. He didn't think that she looked like she was aching to tell him.

"She doesn't really understand you, does she," Lola said on the stool beside him.

"What was that?" Hal's thoughts were elsewhere.

"I said that your wife doesn't understand you," Lola repeated.

Hal paused and screwed up his face in a puzzled look. "I never really thought about it. Understand what?"

"You know what I mean," Lola accused. "All men say it—at least the men I know. Go ahead and say it. You'll see how much better it makes you feel."

Hal took a breath, ready to recite as Lola suggested. He stopped before the words came out.

"Hey, Lola," he complained. "What's all this about? I thought were just having a good time."

She shrugged and lifted her glass again but set it down again when she found out it was empty.

"Want another?" Hal asked. She nodded her head. Hal stuck two fingers in the air.

The crowd was beginning to dwindle so it was less noisy, which meant that sitting in silence was more awkward. Hal was unsure what to say. Serious conversation only meant more unpleasantness. On the other hand, he hated superfluous chatter.

"I ... I like your dress," he stammered.

Well, he did like it (or possibly what was underneath it) and the situation called for something superfluous.

Lola's face brightened. "Why, thank you. I haven't worn it in months. I almost didn't wear it. Do you think it ... you know ... shows too much?"

"I hadn't noticed."

Lola dismissed the denial with a laugh.

"Come off it," she scoffed. "All men notice. I only asked if it shows too much, not whether you noticed if it shows something."

"I don't think it shows too much," Hal said. "I was thinking before that it makes you look like one of those movie stars. You know—in one of those head and shoulders photos."

"Mmmm, you are full of interesting answers," Lola purred. "Which movie star?"

"C'mon, you'll laugh," Hal pleaded, but Lola pursed her lips in a pout and that meant she insisted. "One of my favorites," Hal confessed, "Susan Hayward."

"Susan Hayward," Lola mused. "Now that's a surprising answer. I would never have expected you to say that. Susan Hayward," she repeated slowly.

"Well, you have your hair fixed like her," Hal said in defense.

Lola leaned close to Hal. "What else?" she whispered at him. Hal could feel her breath on his face. "What else about me reminds you of her?"

Lola's eyes were wide and expectant. Hal didn't want to disappoint her. Another comment about her hairdo just didn't seem good enough.

"And, you're saucy like her," Hal offered.

"Saucy..." Lola mused and a wry smile slowly spread across her face. "So, you think I'm ... saucy. I don't know how to take that. You like saucy women?"

"Uhm ... uhm ... I don't know," Hal struggled to find the right response.

He struggled to find the answer that told what it was that he felt, for it was that which eluded him. He watched Lola's smile change to a stern look.

"You like me, don't you?" she asked. "And you just said that I'm saucy—so you must like saucy women."

"Yeah, I guess so..." Hal said.

"You do like me?" she demanded.

"Yeah—of course."

He succumbed to the demand without honesty. He neither liked nor disliked her. At least he hadn't paused to figure out the question. It was an answer born of convenience; a prevention of termination. He liked that she was there and available to pretend to like at the moment. Thus, for lack of clarity he pimped himself; he knew it, but for the moment—at least—he didn't care.

Hal felt Lola's hand on top of his. It was a soft woman's touch—a promise, perhaps, of more. She stroked the top of his hand, a gentle searching with her fingertips. She lifted his hand and turned it over and held it. With the fingers of her other hand she probed the flesh of his palm and the calluses where his fingers joined it.

The soft caress of skin-on-skin bade him finally to gaze upon her bare shoulders—and lower to the tops of her breasts not quite concealed beneath the neckline of her cocktail dress. She must have seen him looking because she leaned forward a bit, granting his eyes access to the valley of cleavage and to his imagination the rounded completeness of her flesh that the dress did not quite hide.

"I like these hands," she said. Hal tore his gaze from her breasts and found her looking at him. Her eyes told him that she knew what came next. He allowed himself to be led. "Strong hands; used to ... handling things. They have character in them."

Hal didn't respond. He looked down again, instead, into the valley of flesh. Lola drew a deep breath and the breasts swelled up at him and it made Hal believe what she had just said.

She leaned close to whisper in his ear. It spoiled his view but he still felt her holding his hand and her breath on the side of his face.

"I don't want another drink—do you?" she whispered.

Hal weakly shook his head. She hadn't removed her lips from his earlobe.

"Your room?"

"Yeah, let's go," Hal mumbled.

He left a tip for the bartender and picked up the rest of his money. As she slid off the barstool Hal noticed that the alcohol had made her a little wobbly. He grasped her arm with one hand and her waist with the other to help her stand up.

"I knew I'd like those hands on me," she turned and said with a smirk. She leaned back against him. Hal looked around to see if people were watching.

"Let's wait 'til we get upstairs," he murmured to her.

She straightened up and took his arm. Hal didn't care for that either, but it was a short walk to the elevator.

In those days, old hotels still had operators running the elevators. He was a small man, balding, with a swarthy complexion and a pencil-thin moustache. He stared straight ahead as the pair entered. They were alone, but chose to huddle in the back of the compartment, just the same.