Polar Bear in Parrot Jungle, Book one of the Polar Bear Trilogy

By Charles Petterson

Navy enlisted man Jason Beckman reluctantly agrees to stand as best man for his Division Officer at a high society wedding. Joyce, his last minute accommodation date, changes from tolerating the imposition to being charmed by the unaffected Jason.
He is smitten with her, while she is cool to the idea of forming any type of relationship even though they spend the following week together at her Boston apartment.
Jason goes to sea and at a port of call in St.Croix he encounters a second wealthy young lady who is very much interested in developing a relationship with the sailor.
This is a nice romantic story set in the techy and sex deprived life of a submarine sailor. Decide for yourself who is the Polar Bear!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles Petterson
• Release date: Aug 4, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452391373

Charles Petterson

Thanks for visiting my smashwords page. I'm originally from Minneapolis Minnesota. After Graduating from Roosevelt High School in 1963, I joined the Navy. I served in the Atlantic Submarine Force following Nuclear Power training until 1972. I served with Cdr Crispin, Mack, Greene, and Peterson. I participated in operations that were awarded two Meritorious Unit Citations,and a Presidential Unit Citation. I was awarded the Navy/Marine Corps Achievement Medal.I have been married to my wonderful lover and partner, Lynn, for 46 years. We have lived all over the country and settled in the Omaha, NE area in 1988. We currently live with three dogs in rural Harrison County, Iowa.I write alot about the people I met in the Navy and their/my experiences with a touch of spice thrown in to make it interesting.Chuck Petterson, May, 2015

Book preview

Chapter 1

I had a sore butt after sitting behind the wheel for seven hours. The radio provided little distraction to the increasing pain as the uninspiring miles of lowlands, tidal flats and produce farms of the Delmarva Peninsula and New Jersey passed. Consequently I obsessed on my situation. A billboard along Highway 9 encouraging prisoners en route to Sing Sing Prison to find Jesus and the promise of a more productive life seemed to mock me, TURN AWAY! IT’S NOT TOO LATE! I thought the sign might be for me, not because I was a felonious sinner, but because I headed into a weekend that could only end up being disastrous for me.

The image of a chicken tossed into the ocean crossed my mind the moment Benny asked me to stand with him at his wedding. Amelia’s wedding. The tying of the knot between Bancroft old money and Hamphille older money. Holding a finger on the string during this ceremony would be me, no money.

A few miles north of Ossining the road curved to the right and I could see the mansion for a few seconds off to the left through a break in the trees, still three miles distant. I considered turning back, but my butt wanted relief, which overrode my better judgment, so I kept going.

Skeptical of the situation over class differential, the officer/enlisted gap was of greater concern, although my anxiety didn’t just feed on Benny being an officer and me being enlisted, because in an ordinary wedding the difference would be un-noticed. Amelia insisted on the pageantry of a military wedding and that would leave me, the sole enlisted man, dressed differently than the dozen or so other Navy men there, all officers.

Benny shrugged at my protest, Trust me, no one will notice. Anyway, you will know most of the guys there. Relax.

Relax, hell. My anxiety would breed defensiveness; I just knew it. Then, in the defensive mode, I would say something stupid and ruin the whole evening for me and someone else.

My fixated mind almost caused me to miss the poorly marked turn to the mile-long private drive. They could’ve put a balloon on the minimal street sign indicating Bancroft Drive. I’d do it if I were getting married and guests were coming.

I drove my eight-year old Corvette up the narrow asphalt lane and stopped at the iron gates blocking further progress. I could still turn around. You know, just a guy who got lost and was looking for a place to turn around. Nobody would know it was Jason finally getting smart.

But, the gates opened for me from an unseen command and after taking a conscious breath of resignation I eased through the opening and followed the Belgian block-paved drive to the house.

In an effort to shake off my growing anxiety I tried to identify the species of aspiring trees lining the drive for the first hundred yards, planted between the depressions marking the removal of ancient elms devastated decades earlier by Dutch elm disease. As the drive curved the trees gave way to a spacious vista dominated by a 19th century robber-baron mansion, with a second building trying to peek out at the far end.

For a fleeting moment my stomach went sour. There is no way anything good is going to come from this.

My instructions were to stop at the main entrance and someone would be there to greet me. I turned the ignition off and was removing the seat belt when I noticed a valet standing next to my door.

Mister Beckman?

Yes, I answered, surprised he knew my name.

He opened my door and I got out, happy to stretch and allow my butt the relief it needed, but anxious with the realization I was committed. Like piloting an airplane, when the wheels leave the ground, you are committed to making a landing.

As I reached for my luggage he politely advised me the items would be delivered to my suite. I asked about the car and was likewise informed someone would park it for me.

I turned with a halt to the mansion; its imposing granite construction sullied by decades of coal soot wasn’t that much different from the prison walls I passed minutes earlier. There was nothing I could do except take the few steps to the doorway where another servant waited to facilitate my arrival. The oversized doors, oak-plank and strap-metal constructed, along with the septuagenarian guard, surely would thwart any attempt to escape.

As the servant escorted me through the house my brief observations of opulence reminded me of the palaces I toured in my travels; Biltmore, Neu Schwanstein, Edinburgh Castle. Not that this house was in the league with those fabled palaces, but it wasn’t too many levels removed. I looked for signs of a stone staircase leading to the underground dungeon, but it’s probably behind a secret panel.

French doors opened onto a flagstone patio overlooking a small park in the rear and the servant announced me to a group seated around a large, round, glass-topped table. Three older women and two older men looked my way. One of the women rose, Oh, Jason, isn’t it? I am so glad you’re here. I’m Georgia Bancroft, Benny’s mother. Let me introduce you.

Her words said she was glad, but her face displayed instant distress.

The others were aunts and uncles, correct and polite in their greetings.

Tolerance. That is what the next 36 hours will be for these folks, an exercise in tolerance. I can smile my way through this, it’s not the first time.

Benny and his father should be returning shortly, Georgia said, Edward wanted Benny to have lunch with some associates in the city. Do have a seat. Help yourself to some refreshments. There’s lemonade in the pitcher or help yourself to the bar.

She motioned toward a nearby hut that had a swing up front, opened to reveal a stock of liquor and glasses. Would you care for lunch? I am sure Francine can come up with something in no time.

No thank you, but I appreciate the offer. I stopped along the way. I instantly regretted my decision to purchase an overpriced, near tasteless stale sandwich when I stopped for fuel in New Jersey. I’ll make up for it at dinner.

I took a seat and poured a glass of real lemonade, with squeezed-out lemon rinds floating in the mix, and just enough sugar to overcome the bitterness.

Benny tells us you are shipmates, one of the uncles said.

Actually, he’s my boss. My defensive shields went up. This will not go well. These society guys are supposed to have their cousin or some college fraternity brother standing with them, not their leading first class petty officer.

I had made that argument to Benny, along with several others, some of which I thought were rather clever. One night I offered, I don’t have a sword.

Benny looked at me with a blank expression.

I made a swishing movement with my right arm, The only reason to have a military ceremony is so you and what’s-her-name can dash through the arch of swords as you leave wherever it is you leave from. Enlisted pukes don’t have swords, and don’t say you will loan me one, because it isn’t part of the uniform.

Benny responded by placing an open-end wrench against my nose and casually informing me, That’s what Amelia wants. That’s what Amelia is going to get. I want you for best man. Are you going to stand with me or not?

And there I was, ‘No Guts,’ having a non-conversation with, as I learned much later, a former Senator and a multi-national corporate CEO.

The other uncle asked, So, what do you do in the Navy?

I’m a Machinist’s Mate. I operate the nuclear propulsion system.

I was in the Navy, too. I was a Third Class Bo’ sun; Served on the Flaming Forrestal. I had a choice, go to the Navy or go to jail.

I laughed. I hear some of the old-timers talk about that. I think times have changed now; the magistrates don’t have much regard for the military’s effect on a young man these days. I have a shirt tail relative in the court system and she and I were talking about that a year or two back.

It didn’t hurt me any, the uncle continued. Let me tell you right now, don’t let these folks buffalo you. They start throwing their O-ganger crap around, you just find me and we’ll show them who really runs the Navy, okay?

I laughed while replying, Okay, Mister Bancroft. I’ll keep that in mind. I’m not expecting hostilities to break out.

Call me Carl. I’m not so sure about the hostilities, I’ve seen the guest list. Benny has a cousin flying in from San Diego for this. Not my boy, on Georgia’s side. He thinks his shit don’t stink.

Carl! all three women said in an unsynchronized protest.

Carl waved them off. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone hasn’t given him a blanket party or two. He turned to me. So, how long you been in? You going to stay for twenty?

I gave a brief history and told him I planned to stay in.

Carl nodded. Yeah, not a bad move. I think Benny will stay in. Of course Amelia may have something to say about it. She might not take to the separation.

Carolyn, Uncle Carl’s wife, interjected, They’ve been going together for four years now. I think she has an idea what she’s in for. Plus, she has Navy in her blood. Her maternal Grandfather was an Admiral.

Uncle Carl shook his head. It’s different when you’re married. She’s going to be there in Norfolk with him, right? He looked around to see Benny’s mother nodding.

She won’t have her mother to cling to and she won’t have any old friends. I don’t know what social activities there are, although I guess the officer’s wives have stuff they do. How about it, Jason?

Yeah, I guess they get together. I left it at that. I wasn’t going to start a discussion on the eve of someone’s wedding about what some wives do while their husbands are gone.

The conversation didn’t stay on me very long after that as the women went back to each other. Benny hadn’t said much about his extended family and I didn’t recognize Uncle Carl’s name, nor connect it to any position of fame or notoriety, but I sensed that my ignorance was a faux pas.

I also sensed from the brief exchange between Georgia and Carl that Carl and Georgia weren’t particularly tight. I came away with an impression Uncle Carl wasn’t tied to the Edward Bancroft enterprises, although I suspect he was doing all right on his own, as evidenced by Aunt Carolyn’s diamond on her right hand big enough to gag a pelican. Her clothes, although suggesting she was ready for a casual day in the sun, were well tailored which to me implied she wouldn’t be involved in any activity that would include dirt or sweat. My impression was further reinforced by her perfectly coiffed hair and her face finished in a well balanced make-up scheme. She exuded wealth, in addition to being drop-dead gorgeous. Never mind her age, she was magazine- cover attractive. Conversely I could tell Uncle Carl didn’t spend a lot of money on his wardrobe, but he didn’t shop at Sears, either. His giveaway was a large diamond on his right hand, also.

Aunt Holly Wilcox, Georgia’s sister, stayed out of the conversation except to answer direct questions. Her days of being standout attractive were long past, but that didn’t stop her from being impeccably groomed and sporting more jewelry than you would see on any woman in North Dakota in the afternoon.

Uncle Fred indicated we men should move away from the table and the women and Uncle Carl followed, saying there were a few things I might like to see in the carriage house.

I assumed the carriage house had been converted to guest quarters or perhaps a game room, but that wasn’t the case. Uncle Fred said, This will knock your socks off, Jason.

And he was right. Uncle Carl and Uncle Fred wrestled with the large wooden doors to allow entry, and some sunlight, into the building. Six boxy vehicles sat covered with light tarpaulins. I could see the tires were flat on all of the cars. Taking no heed of the dust storm he was creating, Uncle Carl proceeded to unceremoniously drag the covers from the cars: two Packards, a Duesenberg, an ugly, ugly early vintage Rolls Royce, and a boat-tail Auburn.

Holy shit, these are just sitting here? I looked into the driver’s compartment of one of the Packards. The top was folded down, and a man would have to be from the jungles of New Guinea not to recognize and appreciate the prestige of the twin cowl body with its hood projecting toward the other side of the river. I lifted the hood and whistled in amazement at the un-chipped, porcelain-coated exhaust manifold, a rare condition to be sure. No feigned indifference here: I stood dumb-struck..

The Rolls Royce was right hand drive and didn’t allow the driver to have protection from the elements. Moths had flown off with most of the upholstery, but other than that the body looked to be sound and there weren’t any obvious parts missing. I just shook my head in disbelief. Man! There must be a million bucks worth of old cars sitting there.

Ignoring the dirt floor, I laid down to look at the running gear of the Duesenberg: no damage, no rust.

As I stood and dusted off I looked at Uncle Fred. I felt comfortable confronting Uncle Fred, he seemed like he would understand. So, you brought me out here just to rub it in, huh?

Uncle Carl laughed. Uncle Fred countered, No, not at all, Jason. This is an excuse to get away from the women! There are a lot of other neat things out here, if you care to see them. This place has been a collecting place for junk for 150 years. Dust it off and install some lights and this could be a museum.

He was right. Uncle Fred uncovered two beautiful carriages, one enclosed and the other open. A sleigh sat in the gloom of a corner; the passenger area piled with moth-eaten buffalo robes. Boxes and cabinets were haphazardly filled with old tools, telephones, radios, phonographs, furniture and toys. Everything looked to be in good condition, save for the dust.

Now I’m going to get sick. I complained. This is like going to a candy store and not even having one penny.

Carl gave an appreciative smile. You seem to know a bit about cars.

I guess. That’s kind of how I became friends with Benny; working on our cars together. For however rich he might be, he likes getting his hands dirty.

I changed my tone and put on a tough face. He ain’t allowed to touch nothin’ on the ship. I don’t touch his paper and he don’t touch my tools.

Carl laughed. "Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. If the braided bunch wanted to do honest work they should have seen their recruiter instead of their Senator.

Tell me, son, do you do any sailing, under canvas, that is? Uncle Fred asked as I examined a large metal toy truck.

Yes sir. I’ve gone out with Benny and a few other guys. They rent sailboats at the naval base and I’m signed off for several models. Benny’s been our tutor. I think he has cards for just about everything they had at the Naval Academy. At least that’s what he claims. I wouldn’t know, for sure.

Well he should, Uncle Carl said, he’s been on the water since he was old enough to fill a life jacket.

I set the truck back and caught a glimpse of a group of shelves filled with train sets. One shelf had train cars still in the original boxes, stacked maybe three or four deep and four high for five feet. I blew off the dust covering a paperboard box and determined it held a Nickel Plate locomotive.

I set the carton back. I crewed for him a couple of weekends when Amelia came to visit. I guess he didn’t think he would have enough hands for the boat and for her. Uncle Fred and Carl roared with laughter.

Would it be out of line for me to ask what all of this stuff’s doing, just sitting here?

Yeah, probably, Uncle Fred said, but I’m not in the line, so I’ll tell you. The Bancrofts have a long history of mental instability. This building, and all the contents, is waiting for the Messiah to appear. After the Messiah appears, hopefully he will clean out the building. But don’t mention to anyone I told you that, because it’s supposed to be a big family secret. The Bancrofts like to think they have secrets.

Unlike your family secrets, Uncle Carl chided, that nobody would dare reveal.

A female servant appeared at the door. Excuse me, gentlemen, Misses Bancroft asks that you return to the house.

I looked at Carl. He must have anticipated what my comment was going to be because he countered first, No, somebody couldn’t have just yelled, ‘You men come back to the house,’ that would not be proper.

As we placed the covers back on the vehicles Uncle Fred agreed, affecting a haughty accent, No need to raise one’s voice when one can send a messenger.

I will have to tell mom that line. I know she’ll get a laugh from that.

All of us had smudges of dust on our clothing, but Carl and Fred either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Their lax attitudes seemed in direct contrast to the formal atmosphere among the women.

The seldom exercised rusty hinges on the doors screeched in defiance behind us as the servant closed the doors.

Benny and his father were standing near the table, chatting with the women. Benny spotted me. Jason! Glad you made it. Was your trip uneventful? Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived, father’s compelled to take me to his club whenever I’m in town.

We shook hands as he introduced me to his father. I see Carl and Fred had you in the junk box, Benny’s father said. I couldn’t make out his inflection, but I noticed the smallest sideways head motion from Carl, so I avoided making a flip remark.

Yes, sir, was the best I could come up with.

So, give me some details. Benny tells me you are on the same submarine. Did you know Benny when he was at Annapolis?

I really didn’t think much of the question as I answered, Yes, Benny and I were on the same submarine during one of his midshipman cruises.

Yes, well, it’s good when you see old schoolmates from time to time.

I drew in a breath to correct the misconception, but Uncle Carl stepped in, Edward, you missed out by not going into the service. You would know what true friends are all about.

Edward Bancroft gave his brother an exasperated look and then turned to me. Well, Jason, I just want you to know how happy we are you could make it for the wedding. Benny’s mother was pressing for Benny’s cousin to stand with him, but Benny insisted it was his wedding and it would be his choice.

That would be Georgia’s other sister, Betty. Her son. Coming in from San Diego, Uncle Carl said with a reminding inflection at the end.

I understood. This ought to be more fun than I needed.

Chapter 2

A luxury coach drove us to SeaSwept, the Fuller estate in Fairfield, Connecticut, for the rehearsal. The original estate house burned in the late 1940s and Amelia’s grandfather commissioned, at least at first glance, an inauspicious replacement structure. Benny led us around the house to the two acre lawn that ended at the ocean. A handful of workers were setting up chairs, tables, flower stands and an altar. There wouldn’t be a temporary arch bedecked with flowers: swords would be substituted.

Amelia greeted me warmly and introductions were made to her parents, the minister, and the wedding planner. The wedding planner surely had a stick up her ass. There’s no way anyone could be so not-pleasant, so dour, and not have a stick up one’s ass.

I kept out of her way as much as possible.

The wedding planner, not really much older than Benny or I, was condescending in her every remark, which surprised me since these two families had to be in the top fifteen or twenty families in the region. Had to be. How can one stay in business and be an irritation to the top customers?

Now you boys make your entrance from this side. Wait for the signal from the minister.

BOYS?? Screw you, bitch.

She left us to control the women.

Okay, children, here we go. She pressed the button on a boom box and music started playing. Parents and Amelia’s Grandmother were ushered to their seats. The minister signaled and Benny and I walked to our marks; small, bright green spots spray painted on the grass. Amelia’s Grandmother stared at me with what I took to be a disapproving expression. Amelia’s mother had a flash of unhappiness, but I think her medication overrode whatever anxiety my appearance caused.

The matron of honor, Amelia’s sister, made her journey down the aisle. The music changed and Amelia came down the aisle on her father’s arm. Amelia’s a pretty lady and the late afternoon sun highlighted her auburn hair and lit up her radiant face. I wondered if somebody took the time to figure the sun angle and when the optimum time would be for Amelia to make her entrance. The wedding planner had a script sheet and the times for each event were to the minute.

The run through was quick along with more boom box music in place of the soloists. During a brief huddle about the vows the wedding planner tried to interject her opinion into the discussion and was informed by the minister, Young lady, I performed my first wedding ceremony before your conception. If I feel the need for your advice I will ask for it. This is my space, you have the rest of the estate to manage, I will manage this.

When the minister, Benny and Amelia and above all, the wedding planner, were satisfied with the alter portion the recessional gargled through the small speakers of the boom box. The set-up crew was recruited to stand in for the naval officers and they crossed broom handles and an assortment of other long, skinny implements to form the arch. The matron of honor and I made it to the end of the seating area without incident.

For as small as the actual rehearsal group had been, the rehearsal dinner seated sixty or thereabouts at the adjacent country club (to which Amelia’s father held the deed, according to Uncle Carl). The sword-holding-stand-ins were not among the guests.

When the wedding planner saw the empty seat next to mine at the dinner table she went ballistic. No, my date isn’t here tonight, I notified her in a firm voice with a pleasant smile. I don’t have a date for tonight and I won’t be escorting anyone tomorrow, either. I’m single, I’m from out of town and not only do I not have any friends ‘here,’ I’m not sure I even know where ‘here’ is.

Based solely on the screwed-tight expression on her face I made the not-so-hard-to figure-out assessment that without a doubt a woman would, even if she had to be purchased to fill the unpalatable task, be sitting by me the following evening at the reception. The image of an inflatable sex doll occupying the chair next to mine crossed my mind, causing a smirk to form on my face.

I ordered a Maine lobster without apology. The waiter asked if I would like wine with my meal and I said, Yes, white wine please, thinking that would be an adequate demonstration of my sophistication. When the waiter asked what kind I looked at him and, as if I knew that he was really just another guy doing his best to do his job right, I quietly said, Whatever goes good with lobster. You pick.

While I waited for my meal I thought back about the other shipmate I stood with at his wedding in Levittown. Following the ceremony we were carried in a well-used stretch limo to a facility that only catered weddings. The highlights were portion-controlled food, small plastic glasses for the drinks and a band that only played the Chicken Dance and other wedding favorites. Three hours and they ran us out: another party had the room booked. I drove 400 miles for that. I agreed to do it because I figured it would be an excuse to get away for a long weekend and I might get laid. That never happened. And it didn’t happen, I’m reasonably sure, because of who I am, I think it didn’t happen because all of the girls in that clique were attached with boyfriends that had the chance to take them out for a movie and a pizza every week, or at least sit in the folks’ rec room and watch movies on TV while they necked.

No preformed, portion-controlled offerings were served at the country club (to which Amelia’s father held the deed, according to Uncle Carl), not in Fairfield, Connecticut, by the ocean. No sir. Cloth napkins and heavy stainless steel tableware and three different sized glasses graced the table, along with nice centerpiece flower arrangements. We capped off the meal with cherries jubilee for desert.

Following the meal I wandered around the party, thinking I might encounter an introduction or be included in a conversation. I prepared as best I could for the occasion. I bought new slacks and shirts, with Amelia’s shopping advice at a Norfolk high end men’s store, so my clothing wasn’t an obvious give away, but contrary to the old axiom, in my case clothes don’t make the man, at least not for me in that crowd. Benny and Amelia were fully engrossed in each other and politely obliging interlopers and I felt it better not to horn in.

I spotted a young lady who appeared to be a fifth wheel to a foursome of her parent’s generation. I figured she might be willing to sit with me at dinner, plus she was attractive. I looked around and saw Amelia’s sister nearby and went over to ask for an introduction.

No problem, Amelia’s sister said, that’s Kellie Warren. Her father was our father’s best friend in college. They live in Texas. He’s CEO of an oil services company.

We walked to the group and they stopped their conversation when we got close.

Amelia said, "Pardon