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3470 Saint Charles Avenue New Orleans 1715 18 July 1945
“I’ll get it, Jean-Jacques,” Dorotea called out in the house. “I’m at the door.”
She pulled it open. A tall and muscular Navy commander stood there, a thick silver cord hanging from his shoulder.
“Mrs. Howell?”
“No, I’m Mrs. Frade. Mrs. Howell is my mother-in-law. Please come in, Commander.” She then raised her voice. “I think you had better come out here, darling. I think the other shoe has just dropped.”
“Mrs. Frade, I’m looking for Lieutenant Colonel Cletus Frade. Your brother, perhaps?”
“No, he’s my husband, something he’s been keeping a dark secret from the U.S. government for reasons he hasn’t elected to tell me.”
Clete appeared at the library door, carrying one of his sons in his arms and holding the hand of the other one.
“Colonel Frade?”
“Guilty.”
“My name is Portman, Colonel. I’m Rear Admiral Sourer’s aide-de-camp. The admiral’s compliments, Colonel. The admiral desires that you attend him immediately. In uniform, please, Colonel, and bring with you sufficient uniforms for a week.”
“And those are the Colonel’s children,” Dorotea said. “Something else I suspect he hasn’t told the Marine Corps.”
“Have I walked into a family argument?” Commander Portman asked.
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Dorotea said.
“She’s been drinking Sazeracs,” Clete said. “They make some women romantic and some belligerent.”
“You have no complaints in the romantic department,” Dorotea said. “Even if you’re hiding me from the goddamn Marine Corps.”
“What happened, Commander, is that I told her when they checked my records at Pensacola, there was no record of our marriage—”
“Or of the boys,” Dorotea furnished.
“You really should look into it, Colonel,” Commander Portman said. “Your wife and children are entitled to dependent status. A monthly check comes with that.”
Frade looked askance at Portman, and thought, You sonofabitch, you’re enjoying this!
“And you know how we need the money,” Dorotea said. “Oysters by the dozen aren’t cheap. Can I offer you a Sazerac, Commander?”
“Well, perhaps while Colonel Frade is getting into his uniform. Thank you.”
“Where are we going, Commander?” Frade asked.
“Sorry, I can’t get into that, sir.”
“I thought if we’re headed for Pensacola, I could get my records fixed.”
“We’re not going to Pensacola. I can tell you that. Colonel, the admiral doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
There was a Navy Chevrolet staff car at the curb. From it, the last thing Clete saw was Dorotea standing on the porch, holding one of their sons in her arms and holding the hand of the other. The older boy was crying.
“Okay. She can’t hear. Where are we going?”
“To the airport. I can tell you that much.”
There was a Constellation at the airport, with U.S. NAVY on the fuselage and wings, and blue plates with the silver stars of a rear admiral in holders beside the pilot’s window and the passenger door.
