One September Morning (5 page)

Washington
Suz

“I
hate MapQuest.” Suz Wollenberg leans closer to the steering wheel, as if that will help her read street signs that are not there. “Can I have a street sign? Just one goddamned sign?” She tosses the printout of her directions onto the floor and grips the steering wheel with her fists. “Dear Lord, please give me a sign!” she moans dramatically.

How’s a person supposed to get around without signs? Maybe the city of Greendale can’t afford them. Or they were stolen by a bunch of kids. She’s seen movies where they make it a fraternity prank to steal them, then use them to decorate the frat house, bringing new meaning to signs like
DEAD END
and
DAN
-
GEROUS CURVES
and
SLIPPERY WHEN WET
. You betcha.

Oh…her sick mind. Like she’s ever going to have a chance to have sex again in this millennium. Scott took care of that by dying. Sometimes she gets so pissed off at him for getting killed and leaving Sofia and her alone. But that’s when she’s not aching for him and wondering if there is some sort of afterlife and gaping at this whole big world where she’s supposed to find a place for herself and her baby to live beyond the safety net of an army base.

Which, so far, has not been as easy as it might seem.

Bottom line, she’s never going to find this apartment complex if she can’t locate NW Walnut, and even though the rent on this one is a little beyond her comfort zone, she doesn’t want to piss off the apartment manager by making an appointment, then not showing up. She can’t afford to burn any bridges. Now that she’s a widow with a three-year-old, she’s got to behave more responsibly and not fly off track like a bat out of hell, which in her book is all easier said than done.

Even if the town of Greendale is more than a tad disappointing. Yes, it’s close to the base, but it’s not so much a town as a cluster of one-story storefronts offering tire service, pawn shops, fast food establishments, and OTB. She might be a desperate housewife, but this place is no Wisteria Lane.

She rolls past another street, this one with a twisted sign surrounded by laurel leaves. But before she can eyeball the name of the street, her eyes flit over to a group of kids, eight or maybe a dozen if the ones sitting on the concrete sign that says
WELCOME TO GREENDALE
are a part of the group. The kids are milling around the spit of lawn between the convenience store and gas station, holding signs that say “
WE NEVER DECLARED WAR
!” and “
GET OUT OF IRAQ
!” and “
VOLDEMORT FOR REPUBLICAN PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE
!”

Hmmm. At last, some signs she can read.

And right in the center of the goths with their fluorescent orange hair, pierced noses, and thick, charred black eyes is a thin blond waif waving a sign against the spanking blue sky.

Suz narrows her eyes in recognition. That’s Madison Stanton, Abby’s sister-in-law. Abby’s in-laws are all-army—good people. Suz knows because Madison’s mom, Sharice, really extended herself when Scott was killed, cooking for her, helping her tidy the house and send out thank-yous, sending Madison over to sit for Sofia. Yeah, the Stantons are good people, but they’re going to freak when they find out about this.

She pulls into the convenience store parking lot and heads inside to ask directions, smiling slightly at the chorus of “Give Peace a Chance” from the small green mall behind her. Kids! If only it were that simple.

Inside the store she winces over the long line but heads over to the wall of fridges to grab a drink, so she’s not asking directions without patronizing the place. Water is better for the bod, but she snags a Diet Coke with every intention of getting jacked up on caffeine. She’s addicted for sure, but at least it’s legal.

She joins the line behind a large teenage boy who appears coy behind his scruffy hair, and begins the internal debate of where Scott would want Sofia and her to live. He’d always joked that they could return to Oklahoma, but that was a joke, wasn’t it? Especially the part about living in his parents’ basement? Suz sighs. She knows her parents would take her and Sofia in in a heartbeat, and wouldn’t it be so reassuring to tumble into their arms and leave the big choices to them, as well as the electric bill? That would be a huge relief. Her parents and Scott’s could help with Sofia while she worked—but at what kind of job? Stocking shelves in the Wal-Mart or waiting tables at the diner? And all the while Suz knew she would just be itching for escape, some star to hitch on to, some other way to get the hell out of Oklahoma.

As the teenage boy points to something behind the counter, Suz presses the cool can of soda to one cheek. No, no, no…she can’t go backward. Got to move forward.

But does that mean an apartment at the edge of the military base? In a town like Greendale, where their yard might back up on a pawn shop? Where most of the neighbors will come and go with their two-to three-year tours of duty?

The store clerk, a broad man with a military buzz cut and bulldog jowls, has some issue with the teenage boy. The man reaches under the counter and slides out a wooden baseball bat. “No ID, no cigarettes, kid,” he says, sliding one palm menacingly over the smooth wood of the bat. “Now don’t be giving me any trouble, or I’ll whoop you from here to the Canadian border.”

The sight of the bat, solid and deadly, sends a tingle of alarm running down Suz’s spine. It would be crazy to start a fight with it, and yet she’s not convinced that this man wouldn’t take a swing.

“No trouble,” the kid says, rubbing the back of his neck. With his broad shoulders and doughy face, the teddy bear of a boy clearly out-sizes the man, but his fear is palpable. “I told you, they’re for my old man.”

“Yeah? Then let your old man come in and buy his own cancer sticks,” the clerk says before mumbling something Suz can’t discern under his breath.

“Then I’ll just take this.” The teenage boy gestures to the two long sticks of taffy and bottle of water on the counter.

“Yeah, okay,” the man with the square jaw and shaved head grunts. “That’s two ninety-nine, and I’m happy to keep the change.” He snatches a five-dollar bill out of the kid’s hand and points him toward the door. “Now get the hell out of my store, you and your liberal-ass friends, and don’t come back. This is a marine you’re insulting with your asinine protest.”

“Sorry, man, but you’re kidding, right?” The teenager squints, frown lines obvious in his forehead. “What about my money?”

“It’s mine now,” the store owner growls. “And I’m not your
man.
That would be
sir
to you.”

Suz steps back, her head down, one hand closing over the cell phone in her pocket. She will not allow this kid to take a beating, even if she has to call 911 or fling a bag of frozen peas at the man.

“Okay…” The kid backs away warily, as if the store clerk might snap at any minute.

Which he does.

“Now get the hell out of here!” the clerk growls, raising the baseball bat high and revealing pumped, tattooed biceps.

The boy tries to gather his purchases and flee. As he scrambles toward the door, a stick of taffy drops to the floor but he leaves it behind. Better to lose part of his purchase than a quadrant of his brain, Suz thinks.

As soon as the kid is gone, the man chuckles and slides the bat out of sight. “Wimpy kids. Can’t even get a fight out of ’em anymore.”

“He was frightened,” Suz says, nodding toward the bat. “I hope you really wouldn’t use that thing.”

“Only when necessary,” he says, a gold tooth glinting from the back of his mouth as he smiles and rubs his hands together. “Though I’ve done some damage in my day. Now, what can I get you?”

“Just the soda,” she says. “And a promise that you’ll stop torturing America’s youth.”

He scowls at her. “Just the soda, then.” He rings it up. “Don’t you know caffeinated beverages are bad for you? Put pits in your bones.”

“So I’ve heard.” With the sorry state of her life, a few holes in her bones are the least of her worries. She hands him two dollars and wonders if this man, who reminds her of one of her sergeants in basic training, will steal her change, too. Forget about asking directions to NW Walnut. When her time in base housing is up, she’s going to take Sofia and move on…north toward Seattle.

Get the hell out of the military.

She doesn’t need Colonel Major Buzz Cut–types barking orders at her anymore.

When she returns to her car, two of the teens from the protest group approach her.

“Could you spare some change for the liberation of the oppressed?” the boy asks. Scarecrow thin, with stringy hair dyed fiery orange, he delivers the line with the futile tone of someone who expects to be rejected.

“We’re working for peace,” the girl beside him says, with more enthusiasm. “If you could spare a quarter or even a dime…we’re using the money to pay for poster board and supplies and stuff.”

Suz looks to the scattered group beyond the two kids, where Madison Stanton and another girl are listening to Teddy Bear Boy’s horror story about the clerk with the baseball bat. Madison makes eye contact, then looks away, as if caught in the act of committing a crime.

“Nope, no money.” Suz turns to her car and locks the door. “But I will give you a hand.” She walks past the kids to the stack of signs leaning against the brick posts that bear the
WELCOME TO GREENDALE
sign. She can feel the kids watching her as she picks through their poster boards and lifts a square of cardboard decorated with flowers drawn by marker. “Where have all the WMDs gone,” she reads aloud. “My question exactly.”

Madison’s face is pink with embarrassment as Suz crosses to the kids circling the lawn with signs.

“Oh…” Suz stops in her tracks and reaches into the pocket of her skirt. “I almost forgot.” She pulls out a stick of taffy and hands it to the Teddy Bear Boy. “You dropped this. And your change is there, too.” Two dollar bills are wrapped around the bottom of the stick.

“Whoa! I can’t believe you got the money out of that old geezer.”

She didn’t, but Suz can’t stand to let it go.

“I told you he’d give it back, Ziggy,” Madison says, turning to Suz. “We knew he was exaggerating.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Suz lifts her protest sign, spots Mount Rainier in the distance, and faces north toward Seattle. Come December, she’ll be out of here.

She started her day looking for a sign, and dammit, she found one.

Fort Lewis Sharice

Y
ou can always learn something new. Sharice Stanton likes the style of the new chaplain, a young man who is trying to lecture on the ways to ease into reunion after your spouse has been assigned overseas for so many months. After a lifetime in the military, first as an army brat and now as an army wife, Sharice has weathered her fair share of reunions. As a girl, she waited for her father to return from exotic-sounding places like Vietnam, Germany, Guam, Korea, and Thailand. How the days would stretch out into plodding weeks, and when at last he returned, the reunion was over so fast. A kiss and a toy doll or necklace, and then he was just a boring normal father again, going to work, sitting at the head of the dinner table, taking care of small projects in the house or yard.

Still, a childhood in the army made her the perfect wife for Jim, who was a career man, a graduate of West Point. When he proposed to her on one knee one spring day at Fort Drum, he warned her that, as a lifetime soldier, he couldn’t promise her a settled home in one place. And she said that was good, because she got bored being in one place for too long.

She smiles, thinking of how they’d laughed at that…laughed so hard that one of the MPs had come out of the guard booth to make sure they were okay. Yes, she and Jim had lots of laughs over the years…and many trying yet fulfilling reunions when he returned from overseas assignments.

Of course, her husband has been a fixture at the training academy here for so long, she doubts he’ll be deployed again, but both her two sons, Noah and John, are currently in Iraq, and she wants to be on her game to help them ease back into life stateside when they return.

The new chaplain asked them to take the chairs out of rows and put them in one big circle, and Sharice liked the approach, which allowed her a chance to see the adorable baby boy who had been wailing in his mother’s lap in the row behind her. Sometimes it seems like minutes ago that she was holding a baby of her own, little John with a full head of dense black hair, and Noah, whose bald head had made him resemble an old man until wispy brown hair started sprouting at eight months. And then, years later, her surprise baby whom Jim called “Oops!”, sweet Madison with downy hair so pale she could have been mistaken for an Easter chick. Now Maddie’s in high school and her baby boys are in their twenties, soldiers, grown men, one with a wife.

“They grow up so fast,” she whispers to the young mother, who is now burping the baby over one shoulder.

“Not fast enough when they’re crying,” the mother answers wryly, and they exchange a smile.

From this spot in the room Sharice is one of the first to notice when the door opens and two uniformed officers enter. One of the men is Lt. Col. Mitch Preston, a chaplain Sharice has known for years, the minister who baptized her youngest, Madison.

The other officer, a captain, appears exceedingly nervous, beads of sweat on his brow and a pinched look around the mouth. Together, the two men have the look of a CAO—casualty assistance officer—the team that notifies family members when a soldier has been killed or wounded. Since the war in Iraq began, Sharice has been part of many a CAO team. Usually, wives from the Family Readiness Group wait in the car while the officers make the notification. Then the women approach the home to offer support. After that, any number of scenarios might follow, usually involving tears, hugs, phone calls, stories, and covered casserole dishes.

With so many soldiers from Fort Lewis deployed in Iraq, Sharice has been a part of this process more times than she’d ever imagined. The war has taken a huge toll on the men who serve, and their families, and sometimes Sharice wonders if the rest of the country is half aware of the sacrifices that have been made by military families.

With an apologetic gesture, Mitch makes an apology to the young chaplain as he moves around the circle of chairs. When Sharice meets Mitch’s eyes, his look is sobering, and she gathers her notes and purse, knowing it’s time to make a notification.

“Sharice,” he says softly, “would you step outside with us?”

“Of course.” She excuses herself as she quietly rises from her chair and follows Mitch to the door.

“Are the other women from the FRG outside?” she asks once they’re outside the door. Although she’s tucked her notepad away, she’s not happy to be wearing chartreuse dress shorts for such a somber task. She smooths down the hem of her black tank top. “I’d like to go home and change.”

“No.” The reluctant tone of Mitch’s voice snaps her head up. The gray pallor of his face makes panic bubble up inside her. “We’re here to talk to you, Sharice.”

Me?

She thinks of Jim, who is at the NCO Academy this very minute. Could it be…? No, more likely it’s the boys, Noah and John, assigned to a Forward Operating Base in the al-Anbar Province, that vast no-man’s-land in western Iraq.

Oh, dear Lord, her boys…

Whoever it is, let him be injured,
she prays. Wounded. Able to heal.

Despite the heated panic in her chest, Sharice maintains her composure as she follows the men out of the building, into the cool, surreal sunshine of the small Northwest garden. Mitch invites her to sit with him on a bench beside yellow black-eyed Susans and a wild lavender bush, and her heart is thudding so furiously she can barely hear the details when he tells her that there’s been a casualty in her sons’ unit in Fallujah.

She holds up a hand to stop the white-washing words. “One of my boys?”

“John.”

Her eldest. “Is he dead?” she asks.

“Yes.”

The earth’s rotation comes to a crashing halt, its momentum a stone on her chest.

Her oldest, her firstborn. The impact squeezes a squeal from her throat that resembles the cry of a wounded animal.

Mitch squeezes her hand as the other soldier glances away, awkwardly.

Don’t do this to yourself,
Sharice thinks.
Do not lose control; it is not your way.

“And John’s wife has been notified?” she asks.

Mitch Preston assures her that she has, as well as Jim. “Jim was the one who told us where to find you,” he says.

All right, then that part is done.

“I need to go home,” she says, rising.

“Of course.” Mitch slides his arm around her waist, as if he’s escorting an elderly woman when, really, she can walk just fine.

Sharice wants to drive home, but Mitch insists it’s the least they can do.

During the ride, inside the shell of her skull, her mind checks off the to-do list. She’ll have to call the salon and have Mindy cancel her appointments. Though there’s no need for Jim to come home right now if they need him at the academy. She’ll get those boneless pork chops started in the Crock-Pot, and she can make a large portion of rice in the steamer Joyce loaned her. Sharice will call the rest of the family. Madison will be crushed, and Noah…the army will send him home for the funeral.

She needs to touch base with Abby soon to warn her that scads of people will be stopping over to pay their respects. Sharice will stop by the bakery for fresh rolls and bread, and maybe Eva will bring a cold cut platter…

“You know,” Mitch says as he turns toward base housing, “considering John’s popularity and his reputation as a football star, a burial at Arlington Cemetery might be appropriate.”

“Yes.” She nods, visualizing the hills of white gravestones and a dark limousine with U.S. flags flapping in the wind. “I’d like to honor John that way.”

Her heart solidifies, a cold, hard stone in her chest as she proceeds with the details she’s spent her entire adult life learning, married to the military.