I went to a military wife prep school.  A college for Southern belles and debutante wannabe’s.  Half of the freshmen girls would be engaged to an army-bound lieutenant by the beginning of their sophomore year.  I fit the mold. I fell in lust with a dark-haired, long-eyelashed Mississippi man in a uniform.  He wined me.  Dined me.  Indulged my every whim.  And late one July night as we curled up alone on the sofa, he dared me to marry him.  I took the dare.  

My role in life changed. No longer the cute pony-tailed girlfriend, my status elevated.  Nights at the movies became military balls and coronations.  Blue jeans and tennis shoes became formal gowns and long white gloves.  The ponytail morphed into an elegant up-do. Old companions at the local burger joint became reception lines and caterers.  

Yes, my role had changed. I was no longer the companion, the lover, the confidant. I was the prize.  The battle he had won.  The lady forced on his right arm, treated as though too weak to pull out her own chair.  A product of some backward idea of chivalry.  The army did not receive the memo that “lady” does not mean porcelain doll.  

But I played the part and accepted it readily as my duty.  My duty not to  country, but to the man that was to be my husband.  I hung on his arm and admired the brass buttons and medals that hung from the chest, he displayed as proudly as his arm.  I smiled and made small talk with strangers, superiors and the prizes on their arms.  I waltzed when the music played.  I flaunted my diamond. I nodded quietly during conversation.  The other dolls admired my dress, and I admired theirs.  I was introduced to this man and this man and this man.  All of whom informed me of the lieutenant’s glowing attributes and accomplishments.  All of which I knew.   

I opened no doors but the one leading to the ladies’ powder room.  I checked my plastered hair and painted face.  If I did not look perfect,  he did not look perfect.  If I did not smile at the general, he did not smile at the general.  If I had something in my teeth, he had something in his teeth.  I was a small but vital role in the production.  The dancer in the back of the chorus line. No one notices her, but if she is missing  everything is thrown out of symmetry.  The picture perfect pictures that are never taken would be ruined.  One of America ’s perfect gentlemen would not be whole. Complete. Perfect.  Even the army knows that a man needs a woman more than a weapon.  The difference is that he can take the weapon with him when they send him away.  

Months went by.  He traveled from Washington to Texas to Colorado .  I waited by the phone every night. To hear his deep voice through the airwaves was the perfect end to a perfect day.  We talked about the todays, the tomorrows, work, school, and how one day he would come home and give me the biggest most perfect hug ever. I imagined his dimpled smile and dark fringed eyes.  The smell of his cologne beneath his uniform. The texture of the olive green wool.  I remembered the hugs and the night we curled up on the couch.  How long would it be till I saw him again? Till I felt his warm arms around my waist as I slept?  A month? A year?  

Little by little, I realized things were not perfect.   I changed.  I fell more in love with the phone calls than with the man making them.  His orders changed.  Louisiana, New York, Korea.  “Come with me."  "You can not come with me."  "We need to set a wedding date."  "Maybe I can fly home for two weeks, just long enough for a ceremony and the honeymoon.”  My head hurt to hear the words.  A new bride left alone.  Was this the sacrifice of all military wives?  Was this the cost of happiness?  I was not happy. I admitted it in a waterfall of tears one evening as I sat in the middle of a cold bed in Tennessee.  He sat on a cold bed in Texas.  

So what will America do now that this porcelain doll has removed herself from the perfect photograph, and refuses to save the last waltz?  Will it comfort him as he hugs his gun to sleep at night?  Will it pay the long distance phone calls that beg for forgiveness and understanding?  Understand, because he can not back out now.  He has a contract.  He vowed to fight for this great nation, for God and country, to fight for my right to dream the American dream.  It is his obligation. His duty.  His sacrifice.  He rests at night knowing that his sacrifice is worth something greater.  

For the dream I have taken my contract off my left finger, and it sits in a dusty jeweler’s box.  I have moved the formal gowns to the back of the closet and placed the white gloves in a drawer.  I have taken the memories, the smells and textures, the nights, and buried them deep in my mind.  I rest in darkness hoping that time will make my sacrifice seem not so great.  
 
 

Author's Biography

Essay Reviews!

Want to read some? Or write some? Great! 
We need your input!

Site Reviews!

We'd like to know from our readers if they enjoy Seven Seas Magazine! Do you have praise or complaints? Suggestions or ideas? 
Would you like to read reviews by other readers? 
Please check out our Site Reviews Page

Get notified!

Would you like to get notified as soon as new Seven Seas issues are published on the Web?
Get notified!

Tell a friend!

Do you enjoy the Seven Seas site? 
Please tell a friend to stop by!
Tell a friend!

Go back to the table of contents
 of the current issue.

You just read essay # 3.  Read essay #

1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9   10