Laura seemed to perk up at that. “Well, then, that means our husbands are going to be spending a lot of time together.”
“I guess that’s right,” I said.
“See?” said Mary Lou. “Not a coincidence that I’ve got you two sitting together. I knew you’d hit it off.” At that, she turned her attention to the woman on her other side and left us to it.
“Are you at the Excelsior?” I asked Laura, but she shook her head.
“The Villa Marina.”
Over our pasta course, Laura and I compared notes. Like us, she and Bobby had been to see Marcello in the housing office. “He tell you the same thing he told us?” I asked.
“To treat being homeless like a vacation?”
“Yeah,” I said, and speared a piece of penne with my fork.
Laura had figured out the commissary and the NEX and had even found the clinic, because she’d gotten a UTI on one of her first days on the island. “Aren’t they the worst?” she asked, and I agreed that they were, although I’d never actually had one.
What was clear to me from the start was that Laura was the type of girl who readThe Navy Wifecover to cover. She’d probably taken notes. Made flashcards, even. In a few weeks on the island, Laura had already agreed to serve as treasurer of CAWS, opened a local bank account, and applied for an Italian driver’s license, which required sitting for an exam that the NSO’s Motor Vehicles Office had permission to administer to us in English, thank God. She’d also applied for a sojourner’s permit.
“Do those do anything?” I asked her, because Tom had made them seem almost optional.
“They’re not a work permit, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said. “But yeah, you can get in big trouble if you don’t have one.”
The woman across from us interrupted again. “That’s true in theory, but not in practice.”
Laura nodded along, like she didn’t mind being corrected, so long as she got the right information.
The woman continued, “There are a bunch of girls who are either married to or dating enlisted guys, guys who don’t have a prayer of getting an accompanied tour. They just come on a tourist visa and overstay, and they’re all fine.”
“You mean they don’t have CHAMPUS? Or a housing allowance?” asked Laura.
“They don’t even have commissary privileges.”
“What do they do for money?” I asked.
“Most of them find work under the table,” she said. “But it’s tough going.”
Hearing about these women who lived at the fringes of our own community made me grateful to be sitting so squarely at its center. Sure, I was intimidated by Mary Lou and Laura and all the wives who seemed to know the navy inside and out, but it wasn’t like I couldn’t figure out how to apply for a sojourner’s permit or open a bank account. I could learn all of that stuff. I just had to want to, and as I looked around the table at the women I’d just met, I almost did.
36.
WHEN PAUL ARRIVEDback at the hotel, at a quarter after six, he changed out of his uniform and into civilian clothes and we walked to a little restaurant near the church called Osteria da Liò. It was a warm night, so we sat outdoors, and while we waited for someone on the staff to notice us, I told him about the luncheon.
“The place was insane,” I said after I’d described the Greers’ house in some detail. “Like, you think you’re showing up at this modest house on the water, and then you realize, no, it’s a full-on villa.”
“Sounds incredible,” said Paul.
“I met this girl, Laura. She thinks you probably know her husband.”
“What’s her last name?”
“I can’t remember, but I think his first name’s Bobby. He does something with nuclear maintenance?”
“Bobby Carpenter?”
“That’s it,” I said. “Carpenter. They just moved here from New London.”
“Yeah, he was telling me he just finished a tour on the U.S.S.Nautilus, which is cool.”
