Earlier last week, I mentioned to Keith that it's been a while since we had a date night.
"I know!" he exclaimed, the light of victory in his eyes. "But I got us tickets to the Regimental Ball this Friday."
That was the first I heard of it. Thoughts flashed through my head: the need for restrictive nylon underthings, the lack of a long, evening wear gown, the fact that I should get my hair done and my complete acceptance that I would never get any of it in the time allotted.
Indeed. Late on the Friday afternoon, I found myself being driven down to Louisville in an old black and white sheath dress- very Jackie O, sixties mod, with a broad white trim around the hem and around the boat neck, which sets off my shoulders and neck very well. Still, not at all the thing for a Regimental Ball.
I had taken my wet hair firmly in two hands and with the help of two elastics and about twelve hairpins had knotted it tightly at the base of my neck, where it ended up making an off center coil of glossy black. I also put mascara on for the first time in years and I was surprised to remember how beautifully it opened up my eyes.
Keith was frazzled, since he'd been on the flag detail but had ended up taking care of everyone else's business as well, like securing vans. He had to, since everyone else who needed one was trying to grab his. His pursuit of the vehicles got him called in the Chief Warrant Officer's office, since he had bipassed the chain of command in his frustration.
"We need thirty days to process a request," the Chief reminded him.
"I would have loved to have given you thirty days," snapped my husband, "especially since I was given this detail two days ago."
In fact, the day before he had called me and declared that we weren't going, which I took as an answer to my prayers. Bliss! I settled down to watch my program but a few hours later he called to say that he'd gone to the Command Sergeant Major and he'd straightened some things out and we were going after all.
I tried to fake enthusiasm, but not very convincingly. Then there was this confused pause and some strange man was on the phone, telling me to make my husband go and asking me what dress I was going to wear, so he could be on the look out for me.
"Excuse me?" I asked, bewildered. "Who am I speaking to again?"
Who else but the Sergeant Major. Naturally.
When we got close to the hotel parking, I saw a girl in a dress from the Special K commercial, all long red chiffon and my heart curled up and died. I was exactly all wrong, from my open toed spectator stilettos to my lack of an evening bag. It was the critical moment. Either I was going to own my exactly wrong self or I was going to spend an evening completely miserable, unable to look anyone in the eye.
I owned it. What else could I do?
Keith paused a moment in the hot afternoon sun to tuck various things away into pockets. He had, of course, brought down a flask of whiskey. It made a tell tale bulge in his blue jacket, he had no pockets in his blue pants with the gold stripe down the sides. He wanted me to bring my purse but I put my foot firmly down on that one. I was already going to stick out like a sore thumb, adding my day purse to my ensemble was just too much to bear.
So off we went, Keith holding not just the whiskey flask, but his cell phone and can of chew in his hands, still trying various pocket combinations. He looked very toothsome, I should mention, freshly shaved and smelling delicious, with what another soldier later assured me was an "impressive stack" of ribbons on his breast.
"You don't have to tell me about my husband's stack," I quipped, but that was much later on.
When we arrived in the soaring, marble floored lobby, we saw it was full of women in long evening gowns and high heeled sandals. But I was owning my bad self, so I was able to hold my head up and looked around. The first thing I saw was an older couple and immediately the man was gesturing us to come over.
It was the Command Sergeant Major.
"You made it!" he said, shaking my hand. "You look lovely."
Keith had both hands behind his back, understandably. The two talked for a while and then the Sergeant Major held his hand out to shake hands before moving on.
There was a long, pregnant pause as Keith's face turned red and frantic motion went on behind his back. The Sergeant Major suddenly narrowed his eyes.
"What have you got back there?" he asked in a completely different voice from the one he had been using.
"Nothing!" proclaimed my husband with a sudden grin and produced both hands as though a magician. In the left hand was his chew and phone, his right hand miraculously empty. Sergeant Major laughed and said that he would be happy to relieve Keith of the chew but Keith assured him that wouldn't be necessary.
They shook hands and we escaped, heading for the elevators so we could go up to the main floor.
"Where's the whiskey?" I asked him, leaning in.
"I shoved it up my sleeve!" He showed me his right arm and there indeed was a huge bulge on the inside of his arm.
He was very high from the close call and as soon as he saw the CO the story was told again and the flask proudly displayed for a moment before being tucked away.
By this time, I couldn't help but notice that a lot of other woman had dressed in shorter dresses, a few in sheaths like my own, some in flowery summer dresses. The last of my dread disappeared and I simply enjoyed the pageantry all around me, the romance of men in formal uniform with Stetsons and gold spurs on their boots, their women like exotic birds on their arms, everyone with their hair up, lots of them with a little jewel or feather tucked up amid the curls.
Someone blew a bugle and we all went in. I found a stately woman standing along at our table, in a dress like a column of twisted silk. She had pulled her brown hair away from her face very simply and had quiet, dark eyes.
"Are we not meant to sit down yet?" I asked her.
"You can, but I wouldn't recommend it. After they begin the speeches you'll have enough of sitting," she replied. Her accent was the soft music of South Africa.
She made an excellent table companion, on the other side of my husband. On my other side was a young supply sergeant who was already well lit, with expressive dark eyes in his thin face. He wanted to know if I would trade him my strawberry shortcake for his pecan pie and I was happy to make the deal.
The speeches did take a long time and so did the making of the grog, which we missed a great deal of, since we were sitting at the far edge of the room. Keith, being on the flag detail, had been in a position to stack our table and had done so. Dinner was therefor a lively event at our table, which I was quick to realize was the party table.
There were a great deal of toasts, the most moving of which was the toast to the fallen soldiers. The lights were dimmed and the whole room grew quiet and weighted down. One had the feeling that there wasn't a man in the room who didn't have a former friend to raise his glass to.
By the end of the event my husband was wandering happily around, offering everyone a high ball, including the Sergeant Major, and dancing the macarena when it came on. Which was a sight, especially to see him swivel his hips so expressively on the dance floor. We did dance one slow song together, my arms wrapped around his neck, swaying under the hot lights. I felt both dizzy and incredibly happy.
When we left the building Keith looked as impeccable as he'd had at the beginning of the night, only his black bow tie a little skewed. I, on the other hand, had put down my hair and it hung loose and straight down my back. In one hand I held the neck of a bottle of Jamison.
"Damn woman," said my husband, taking a second look at me under the streetlights. "You look dead sexy. Holy crap." He's a silver tongued beguiler, is my man.
I'm already looking forward to next year's ball. Though I have absolutely no idea what to wear.
