Free This Enemy Town by Marcia Talley Page A

afternoon in the basement of Mahan, and he was actually wrapped up in a conversation with the lieutenant, his broad shoulders blocking the narrow hallway just outside the dressing room door. The officer shrugged. Kevin snapped to attention, delivered a proper salute, did a textbook about-face and left. The lieutenant stared at his back for a few moments, then turned, walking down the hallway in my direction.
    The first thing I noticed was her lips. Fat cupid’s-bow lips slathered with lipstick in a nonregulation shade of frosted pink I hadn’t seen since college.
    The next thing I noticed … boobs. A prodigious pair, straining the dark fabric of her uniform, challenging the brass buttons that held her jacket together. And teetering precariously on her right breast pocket, pointing in my general direction was her name tag: LT GOODALL .
    I started. Blood pounded in my ears. I stood frozen in the hallway, staring so hard at the woman’s name tag,willing the letters to slide around like Scrabble tiles and spell something, anything else, that she couldn’t help but notice. She glanced down, then up, one pale, puzzled eyebrow raised.
    I should have said something, apologized maybe, but I was trying too hard to breathe.
    Goodall.
    Jennifer Goodall?
    I’d never met the woman face-to-face, but I was all too familiar with the black and white photos in the Baltimore Sun that had spoiled my breakfast every morning for two and a half months. Five years had gone by, but the blond hair seemed right. And the breasts. Jennifer Goodall, the midshipman whose baseless accusations of sexual harassment had nearly cost my husband his reputation and his career. What was she doing back at the Academy?
    â€œExcuse me, ma’am,” Jennifer Goodall said crisply.
    I was standing stupidly in the doorway, blocking the exit.
    â€œSorry.” I stepped aside and she chugged past me, leaving traces of Irish Spring soap in her wake.
    I backed into the dressing room, found a chair and sat down in it, struggling to assemble a single coherent thought. Jennifer Goodall was back.
    One thing for sure. I had to tell Paul. I fumbled at my waist for my cell phone, but when I flipped it open to a screen devoid of bars, I remembered you couldn’t get a signal down in the bowels of Mahan, so I hustled outside. I stood by the memorial fountain and had paged down to Paul’s number before it occurred to me that I was practically at his office anyway, so I hurried over to see him.
    I found him grading papers at a long flat table in Chauvenet Hall, a pen in his right hand and a mug of coffee, probably stone cold, in his left.
    He smiled up from his work when I came in, “Hannah! To what do I owe …” The smile vanished and a puzzled expression took its place. “Hannah, are you all right?”
    â€œYou’ll never guess who I just ran into,” I said, plopping down heavily in the armchair next to his worktable.
    â€œWho?” He put his pen down and turned toward me, giving me his full attention.
    â€œJennifer Goodall.” I waited for this news to sink in.
    Paul didn’t even blink.
    â€œShe was down in the dressing room, talking to one of the mids.”
    Paul’s features hardened. They could have been chiseled into the face of Mount Rushmore. He dragged his chair over to face mine. “I know,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
    Rage boiled up inside me. “What? You knew?”
    Paul nodded glumly. “I ran into her in the sandwich line at Dahlgren one day.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t think to tell me?” I exploded, each word a piece of shrapnel aimed straight at his heart.
    â€œI thought it would upset you.”
    â€œUpset me?” I sputtered, fighting for breath. “ Upset me? Why do you think it would upset me?”
    Paul leaned forward and captured both my hands. He stood up, dragging me along with him, enclosing me in his arms,