Hank Landry changed out of his blue New York City policeman's uniform and checked the jacket and pants. He brushed off a little dust and straightened them on the hanger. He checked his uniform shirt and decided he'd need a clean one on Sunday. "Ma!" he yelled. "Got a uniform shirt to be washed and ironed."
He changed into black pants, put on a clean blue shirt and tucked it into the pants. He buckled the belt.
The stairs creaked as heavy footsteps trod upstairs and down the hall of the two-story Queens' house where he lived with his parents. Joanie Landry, his mother, stood outside his door and said, "OK, give it here." He handed her the shirt and she draped it over her arm. "Are you going to the dance with Louie tonight?"
"Yeah," Hank said. "He met some nice girls there before and wants to go again."
"Maybe," said Mrs. Landry, against all hope, "you'll meet a nice girl there. Settle down."
Hank laughed. "You're moving too fast, Ma. I want to meet someone, but it's not easy to find the right girl. I thought I had her before." His face stilled. He selected a tie with blue and white stripes and slipped around his neck.
"Come over here," said Joanie. Hank walked over and stood while she fastened the tie. He slid the knot up.
"How do I look?"
"Handsome, very handsome. All the girls will want to dance with you."
"Dream on, Ma. I just want one."
"Nancy is getting divorced," said Joanie. "Two kids. That husband of hers left her for another woman."
"Louie told me all about it, Ma. I'm sorry to hear it."
"If only she hadn't married that bum while you were in Viet Nam." Joanie sighed. "Shotgun wedding." She'd liked the petite, dark-haired girl like her own daughter.
"That's past. It was hard at the time, but I've got to move forward. Please don't try to get us back together." He remembered the 'Dear John' letter he'd gotten in 1968 that broke his heart. The college sweetheart who'd promised to wait for him had been lonely. A handsome, good-time 4F had shown up. If it hadn't been for Louie's support, he might have drunk himself into oblivion. Or worse.
Joanie looked up at her tall, blond son. Her mouth drooped.
"Promise me, Ma."
"I'll promise if you'll dance with at least three girls."
Hank looked down at his mother and put his hands on her shoulder. "I'll try to ask three girls to dance. Can't make them. OK?"
"OK."
"You'll just have make do with the grandchildren my sister and brother gave you. Ma, I know you want me married and settled down, but you'll have to be patient."
Mrs. Landry said, "My son. Eight years a policeman, two years a soldier, going to law school. What girl wouldn't think you're a good catch?"
"Cops and Nam veterans aren't popular, not in 1969." He kissed her forehead. "I'll see you in the morning."
The front doorbell rang. "That's Louie. Bye, Ma." He left the room. The front door opened and shut. Hank was off to the dance. Another night with another girl or two. Interchangeable like dolls.
The sun had set and the day cooled off slightly as Hank and Louie sat at a table at the Garden Ballroom in Midtown. Louie fanned himself with a menu as the men stirred drinks with melted ice. They watched the men and women, dancing, talking, checking out the room and each other.
"Hottest July I can remember. Not as hot as Nam, though," said Louie.
"No," said Hank. He pushed his warm drink away. "Today on First Avenue there were dust devils," said Hank.
