Chapter Twenty-Four
Twenty-Four
“You owe me,” Frankie said again.
Barb stood in their small pine-plank-walled living room, wearing only her underpants and a bra.
Their old black-and-white television hummed quietly behind them; Hugh Downs saying that the Nixon administration had arrested thirteen thousand anti-war protesters in three days.
The footage of the Gold Star Mothers and the medals being thrown filled the oval screen; after that came footage from Kent State, where the National Guard had killed unarmed students. “You’re glad you went to the march.”
“I am. And you’ll be glad we went to a fundraiser to help bring POWs home. I followed your lead. Now you need to follow mine.”
“Why do you even want to go? You’re not a Navy wife.”
“I was supposed to be,” Frankie said gently. “And for Fin. I can’t imagine him stuck in a cage somewhere, forgotten. Why don’t you want to go?”
“Navy wives. And pantyhose. You know I haven’t worn them in years.”
“You can shimmy into pantyhose and eat lunch with other women. I’ll buy you a rum and Coke after.”
“I am going to need one.”
Frankie dressed in a way that would have made her mother proud: in a navy blue knit pantsuit. Beneath the jacket, she wore a bold geometric print blouse with large, pointed lapels. She pulled her hair back from a severe center part and put it in a ponytail.
Frankie knew about Navy wives. Coronado was full of them. She knew they maintained a strict social hierarchy based on their husbands’ rank. Frankie wouldn’t be surprised to learn that they still gave out calling cards to each other. But she didn’t share any of this with Barb.
At 11:50 A.M. , she and Barb (who wore a black miniskirt and a black turtleneck and black knee boots) pulled up in front of the Hay Adams Hotel.
A stream of protesters passed the hotel, marching toward the Capitol. Thousands of them, intent on disrupting the government.
Police in riot gear stood behind barricades.
“We should be with them,” Barb said.
“Not today,” Frankie said. “Come on.”
Once inside the hotel, they rode the elevator up to the rooftop, which overlooked the White House and the Washington Monument.
Inside the rooftop restaurant, a giant banner had been strung up: DON’T LET THEM BE FORGOTTEN.
Frankie felt a shiver of emotion. They had been forgotten. Even by her.
At the front entrance, two well-dressed women sold tickets for the luncheon and handed out donation envelopes.
Frankie bought two tickets and led Barb into the luncheon. The room reminded her of the Coronado Golf and Tennis Club: white tablecloths and bone china plates and sterling silverware. In the front of the room stood a podium with a microphone.
Women in dresses and pantsuits drifted into the room, talking to one another. Several moved from table to table. The officers’ wives, probably. She and Barb found two empty seats and sat down. A waiter promptly poured them wine.
“See?” Frankie said. “Not all bad.”
The room filled up slowly. Waiters moved from table to table, serving each guest tuna salad in a scooped-out red bell pepper.
A slim blond woman in a knit cornflower-blue dress took to the podium and said, “Hello, Navy wives and friends. Welcome to our nation’s capital.
I’m Anne Jenkins, from San Diego. My husband is Commander Mike Jenkins, who is currently a prisoner of war in Hoa Lo Prison in Hanoi.
I am here, along with several of my fellow wives, to seek donations, in both time and money, to help bring our POWs home. ”
The room fell silent. Forks were set down.
“As some of you may know, many of us have been fighting this battle for years. The information coming from the Nixon administration is shoddy and incomplete at best. The military’s missing in action and killed in action reports are unreliable.
Jane Adon’s husband was shot down in 1966.
The government first told her he was killed in action and reported that his remains were ‘unrecoverable.’ She held a funeral for him.
We all mourned for him. And then, six months ago, my husband included a mention in his letter of the perfect daylight he’d seen recently.
Well, that was the name of Adon’s boat. We think it may mean he is alive and at the Hanoi Hilton.
But, I ask you, what is she supposed to tell her children now?
“This is unacceptable. And Jane is not alone. I spoke with Senator Bob Dole last year, who admitted that as of 1970, most senators didn’t even know what MIA or POW meant.
Think about that. Last year the people running our country—a country at war—didn’t know what missing in action meant.
Thankfully, Mr. Dole—a proud vet himself—is on our side, and we finally hope that the tide is turning our way.
Enough of our silence, enough asking for information politely.
Enough being ladylike. Being ‘just’ wives.
It’s time that we stand up, strong and proud as military families and wives, and demand answers.
We’ve set up headquarters in an empty building here in D.C.
And we are looking for space in San Diego, where most of us live.
It is our goal to find the name of every American POW in Vietnam and put pressure on the government to bring them home.
With help from our imprisoned husbands, we have been collecting a list of names.
We believe we know all of the prisoners in Hoa Lo now.
We intend to become a political machine with one purpose: make everyone in this country aware of the military men in cages in Vietnam. ”
“How?” someone asked.
“We start by writing letters and giving interviews. Make our missing husbands a story that needs telling. Who is willing to write letters to bring our brave boys home?”
Applause. Women stood up, clapping.
Anne waited for the noise to die down, then said, “Thank you. Bless you. And if you can’t write letters, please donate generously to our cause. We will make this happen, ladies. No more silence on our watch. We won’t let them be forgotten.”
Anne nodded and left the podium, stopping at each table to say hello. She came at last to Frankie’s table and paused there.
“That was wonderful, Anne,” said one of the women at the table.
“Thank you. Lord, I hate public speaking.” Anne looked at Barb, then at Frankie. “Welcome, ladies. Are you Navy wives?”
“We were Army nurses in Vietnam,” Frankie said. “First Lieutenants Frankie McGrath and Barb Johnson.”
“Bless you,” the women at the table said in quiet tones.
Anne said, “We all know sailors who came home because of the medical aid they received. Are you ladies from D.C.?”
“Georgia,” Barb answered.
“Coronado Island, ma’am,” Frankie said.
“Coronado?” Anne said, looking at her. “Frankie McGrath. You’re Bette and Connor’s daughter?”
“Guilty as charged,” Frankie said.
Anne smiled. “What a lovely woman your mother is. A tireless fundraiser even after… your brother’s death. Bette and I chaired a beautification committee a few years ago. No one does a better event. I was sorry to hear about her stroke.”
Frankie frowned. “Her what?”
“Her stroke. It’s a reminder to all of us, isn’t it? Tragedy can strike in an instant. And after all you’ve already suffered. Please tell your father she’s in my prayers.”
Beneath the bright glare of white light, Frankie sat in an uncomfortable chair, staring out at the busy runways of Dulles Airport.
A series of recorded announcements blared through the speakers, but it was just noise to her.
The mix of people in here was a microcosm of the sharp division in America—long-haired kids dressed in ragged jeans and bright T-shirts, soldiers coming home from war, ordinary folks trying not to make eye contact with either side.
Frankie had called the house a dozen times in the past twenty-four hours, but not once had anyone picked up the phone.
She had no way of leaving a message, so she’d called her father’s office for the first time in years and found out from her father’s secretary that Mom was in the hospital.
Ten minutes later, she was packed and ready to fly home.
At the gate for her flight, she dug through her macramé handbag for a cigarette and lit up.
How could her father not have called her and told her this terrible news?
Just more proof that he’d written her out of their family.
When they called her flight, she put out her cigarette, slung her old travel bag over one shoulder, and boarded the aircraft.
At her row, in the smoking section, she took her seat on the aisle.
When the stewardess came around in her pert red-and-blue miniskirt uniform with matching hat and shoes, Frankie ordered a gin on the rocks. “Make it a double.”
Frankie had never been to the medical center before. It was an impressive white building positioned at the top of a hill in San Diego: a glittering glass and stone architectural gem. They’d been building it the year Finley died.
It was nearing nighttime when her taxi pulled up in front of the hospital. She stepped into the brightly lit lobby, with its two-story wall of exterior windows and the curving wall of interior windows. Palm trees stood tall and vibrant, in contrast to the white walls and silver metal window frames.
The lobby held a collection of modern, comfortable-looking rust-colored chairs, most of which were empty on this Tuesday evening in May. A television in the corner stuttered out a canned laugh track on an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies .
Frankie walked up to the front desk, behind which sat a tall, bony-faced woman wearing round glasses and bright red lipstick. A name tag identified her as Karla.
“Hi, Karla,” Frankie said. “I’m here to see Bette McGrath.”
Karla consulted a set of papers. “Family only.”
“I’m her daughter.”
“Okay. She’s in the ICU. Second floor. The nurses’ station is to the left of the elevator.”
“Thank you.” Frankie headed to the bank of elevators and went up to the second floor.