Page 132 of The Book of Summer

“Yep. Gram basically stalked the poor woman. Most of it’s just box scores and beauty tips, the odd piece on the war. But this.” She flicks the paper. “I found it in the bottom of an old jewelry box.”

She passes Evan the article, which is from a magazine, the page having lost its gloss. The paragraphs are taped together, likely snipped from different places.

“‘Is He Man Enough?’” Evan reads. “‘And do we care?’”

He hands it back.

“Scintillating,” he says. “But Harriet Rutter can keep her man musings to herself. I’m not really up for an education in lovemaking techniques from the forties.”

“It’s not what you think. In some ways, it’s the opposite.”

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t know what to make of it,” Bess says. “The article is backward and progressive simultaneously. Sometimes it’s touching and other times appallingly non-PC.”

“Well, it was written in, what?” Evan asks. “Nineteen forty-five? They hadn’t invented political correctness yet.”

“It was forty-three. Okay, listen to this. ‘It used to be,’” Bess reads, “‘that the Armed Forces did not allow among its ranks a certain type of fella. You know the kind. Those with the swish and the swash, the sort of man interested in the charms of other men.’”

Bess looks up.

“She means gay,” she says.

“Yeah, I got that.”

“‘Heretofore Uncle Sam was choosy,’” Bess continues, “‘and enjoyed the benefit of being able to exclude confirmed homosexuals from service. Whether diagnosed by self-admission or a battery of tests—’”

Bess drops her jaw for effect. Evan remains stone-faced, confused as to why they’re talking about gay soldiers from World War II.

“I mean, ‘diagnosed’?” Bess balks. “How is one diagnosed?”

“According to that article, a ‘battery of tests’?” Evan says, holding up air quotes.

“And what are these diagnostic proceedings? The man must redecorate a room? Dunk a basketball? His dance skills are assessed by medically trained experts? What?”

“They gave him guy-on-guy porn and waited for a boner?”

“That,” Bess says, trying not to laugh, “is disgusting.”

She reads on.

“‘Whether diagnosed by self-admission or a battery of tests, a man could be precluded from enlisting simply due to his feminine nature, a lightness to his step.’” Bess looks at Evan again. “‘Lightness to his step’? She knows they’re not actual fairies, right?”

“Continue,” Evan says, smirking and making a circular motion with his hand. “Sounds like you’re close to the good stuff.”

“It’s all good stuff, in a crooked sort of way.” Bess returns her eyes to the page. “‘But with a war on, things have changed and now the entire world is at stake. Men are dying and new ones are called to the front. Our fathers and brothers and friends are being drafted and each day we cast our nets ever wider. As the war bloats and our troops thin, we must ask ourselves, are we truly sending all able-bodied men? Can a person be too homosexual to serve?’

“You see?” Bess says. “I can’t tell if Harriet Rutter is being compassionate, as in, hey, they’re still men, why are we excluding them? Or whether it’s more a matter of, as long as we’re killing people, why do the queers get a pass?”

“I don’t know,” Evan says with a shrug. “Despite the lightness in the shoes and whatnot, I’d bet that evensuggestinggays should serve in the military was extremely avant-garde.”

“You have a point,” Bess says. “Just wait, it gets better. Also worse. ‘Homosexuals can presumably shoot a gun. And I’ve known many that are quite the sportsmen; some can even run like the wind!’ Because, naturally, running like the wind is of chief importance in battle. Is she implying they’d run away screaming? Like a woman from an old-fashioned cartoon finding a mouse in her kitchen?”

“I think she’s just saying they’re athletic.”

“Geez, you really are the nice guy,” Bess answers with a smirk. “She goes on to talk about how, and I quote, ‘the setting is not ideal. To send confirmed perverts to live in stressful conditions, conditions featuring communal showers and stacks of other men, seems like a recipe for sodomite disaster.’ I mean…!”

Bess makes a gagging sound and slaps the paper again.

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