General Brooks began to pace, punching the newspaper as he walked. “Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve exposed our plan to the world, that’s what. Or you will have if anyone from Lanconia sees this.”
“I don’t think anyone will recognize her, sir.”
“Don’t get smart with me, young man. This is your fault. The army gave you a solemn responsibility and you have failed. What coercion did you use to get that poor young woman to do this? You were to teach her to be an American, not some South American hootch dancer.”
“Sir! The idea was hers alone. It was a surprise to me.” J.T. was still standing on the stairs, still at attention.
“Who’s playing that confounded radio?”
“It’s—” J.T. began.
“Her idea? You expect me to believe that? For God’s sake, man, the woman is a royal princess. She’s been raised in style and elegance, yet here she is wearing”—he held the paper up—“wearing platform shoes.”
“Again, sir, it was not my idea.”
General Brooks sat down on a wicker chair, the stiff straw creaking under his weight. “Well then, maybe you should have allowed her a little freedom. Sometimes women are like wild ponies: you can’t keep them locked up all the time, sometimes you have to let them run a little free or else they break the traces altogether.” He ran his hand over his face. “I’ve been married thirty-two years and I’m no closer to understanding my wife today than I ever was. What a day this has been! I’ve been on that plane for hours. You have any bourbon?”
“Yes sir,” J.T. answered, but didn’t move.
“Then get it!” General Brooks snapped.
J.T. went to the kitchen while the general continued talking.
“To pull this off, the princess has to act like an American. American women don’t dress up in barelegged skirts and dance at a Commander’s Ball. It seems like a simple thing to ask that you could explain that to her. Did she think it was one of her blueblood masquerades? And who is that harlot with her?”
“My mother, sir,” J.T. said, handing the general his drink.
“Lord,” General Brooks gasped, and downed the drink. “I thought they checked you out. Look, Lieutenant, this is an order, you take control of the princess or I’ll give you a desk job under the stupidest officer in the navy. You understand me? What the princess did was obviously a reaction against too tight a rein. My wife once reacted like that when we were first married.” He waved his hand. “That’s neither here nor there. Let the princess have a little fun now and then and maybe she’ll learn to be an American. Time is running out. She’ll never fool the Lanconian kidnappers this way. Damnation, but that radio is loud! Tell whoever is playing it to turn it off.”
“Sir,” J.T. said, “perhaps I could show you something.”
The general looked tired and greatly put out but he heaved himself up from the chair and followed J.T. to the kitchen window.
In the backyard was a smoking barbecue grill and a cord stretched through an open window leading to a radio blaring “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree with Anyone Else But Me.” Aria was wearing baggy jeans rolled up to her knees, triple-rolled bobby socks, brown and white saddle oxfords, a plaid shirt of J.T.’s, and her hair was in pin curls with a polka-dot scarf tied over her head. She was chewing gum to the tune of the music while slapping hamburger patties between her hands.
“That is Her Royal Highness?” General Brooks gasped.
“She does look like an American housewife, sir.”
“She looks too much like an American housewife.” He turned to glare at J.T. “There is such a thing as going too far in the opposite direction.” His expression changed and he put his hand on J.T.’s shoulder. “You want to talk about it, son? I mean, this isn’t exactly the usual wartime assignment. Has it been very difficult?”
J.T., seeming to forget the general’s rank, poured out two glasses of bourbon and took a healthy drink of his. “I can’t make her out at all. One minute she’s stretching out her hand to me like I’m one of her damned subjects and the next she’s embarrassing me in front of hundreds of people and the next she’s—” He broke off. “Let’s just say that she’s not shy when we’re alone.” His eyes narrowed. “And she r
efuses to do what I tell her to do. I explained to her about ironing and she laughed at me.”
“My wife refuses to iron too,” General Brooks said sadly. “Always has.”
“I guess I don’t know much about wives, sir, only women, and this woman doesn’t fit into either category.”
“You like her, do you?”
J.T. grinned. “I’m beginning to, but I sure as hell don’t want to. I plan to fight it. I’m going to turn her over to her fiancé count with a clear conscience.”
A look of guilt crossed General Brooks’s face but he didn’t say anything. “It looks to me like she’s got your lunch ready and I better go. Don’t tell her I was here. Tomorrow someone will come and tell you the details of returning to Lanconia. Do me a favor and don’t let her pack her Carmen Miranda dress when she goes. Who knows what she’ll do.”
“No, sir, I won’t,” J.T. said, smiling as he walked the general to the door. He stood for a moment, thinking that the Carmen Miranda dress was in shreds, still lying on the floor of his car.
Aria called that the hamburgers were almost ready and, still smiling, he went outside.