Home Front (12 page)

And then there was Michael.

In this short time they had left together, he had pulled away even further, spent even more time at the office. She rarely caught him looking at her, and when she did she saw resentment in his eyes and he looked away quickly. She had tried to talk to him about all of it, the deployment, her feelings, his feelings, her fear, but every volley had been met with retreat until finally, exhausted, she’d given up.

It seemed he’d told her the truth: he didn’t love her anymore.

Sometimes, late at night, when she lay in bed beside him, unable to sleep, afraid to touch him and aching for him to touch her, she wondered if she even cared anymore. She wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, interpret his coldness as fear and concern, but in the end her innate optimism failed her. She needed him now, maybe for the first time, and he had let her down. Just like her parents.

Tonight, after a long day at the post, hours spent getting ready to leave, she pulled her SUV up into the garage and parked, sitting in the darkness for the minutes it took to find strength. When she felt sure she could be herself, she got out of the car and went inside.

The house was filled with golden light and the scent of lamb stewing in tomato and spices. A hint of cinnamon sweetened the air. She could hear the girls talking somewhere, but their voices were muted. No one seemed to have much to say these days. They were all holding their breath for the last good-bye. Betsy had taken it particularly hard; she’d begun acting out, throwing tantrums, slamming doors. Supposedly someone in class had made fun of her for having a mom who was going off to fight “in that stupid war,” and Betsy had had a near breakdown. She’d come home begging Jolene to quit the military.

Jolene hung her coat on a hook in the mudroom and went into the kitchen, where she found Mila at the sink, washing up the dinner dishes. Michael was still at work—lately, he rarely got home before ten o’clock.

At 8:10, the sun was beginning to set; the view through the window looked like a Monet painting, all bronze and gold and lavender pieces juxtaposed together.

Jolene came up behind Mila, getting a waft of the woman’s rose-scented shampoo as she touched her shoulder. “Hey, Mila. Moussaka?”

“Of course. It is your favorite.”

That was all it took these days for Jolene to feel melancholy. She squeezed her mother-in-law’s upper arm. “Thanks for coming over tonight.”

“Yours is in the fridge. It needs about three minutes in the microwave,” Mila said, drying the last plate, setting it on the counter. “How was training today?”

Jolene drew back. “Great. I couldn’t be more ready to handle myself over there.”

Mila turned, looked up at her. “Pretend with Betsy and Lulu and even my son, if you must, but not with me, Jo. I don’t need your strength. You need mine.”

“So I can tell you I’m a little afraid?”

“You forget, Jo, I have lived through a war before. In Greece. The soldiers saved our lives. I am proud of what you are doing, and I will make sure your daughters are proud, too.”

It meant so much to hear those few simple words. “And your son?” Jolene asked at last.

“He is a man, and he is afraid. This is not a good combination. He loves you, though. This I know. And you love him.”

“Is that enough?”

“Love? It is always enough,
kardia mou.
”

Love.
Jolene turned the word around in her mind, wondering if Mila was right, if love was enough at a time like this.

“We will be waiting for you to come home, safe and sound. Do not worry about us.”

Jolene knew that she had no choice in this matter. She had to let go of the people she loved back here. She could miss her family, but the emotion—the longing—would have to be buried deep. “I can do it,” she said quietly. She’d been compartmentalizing her emotions all her life. She knew how to put fear and longing in a box and hide it away. “I have to.”

“My son will rise to the occasion,” Mila said. “He is like his father in that way. Michael would never shirk his duty. He will not let you down.”

“How do you know?”

Mila smiled. “I know.”

Eight

During the first week of May, Michael handled the Keller arraignment, put in a not guilty plea to the charge of murder in the first degree, and set about discovery on the case. He needed to find all the facts he could—and his client still wasn’t talking. Keith had said “I’m guilty” that day in the jailhouse interview and then pretty much gone silent again, responding to each of Michael’s questions with a glazed look. Now and then he mumbled, “I killed her,” but that was it. And hardly helpful.

Meanwhile, at home, Jolene kept handing him to-do lists. Every time she caught his eye, she rapid-fired some chore at him: don’t forget to wrap the pipes in November … to fertilize the plants … to clean the barbecue grates. This was how she filled their evenings together. During the day she was at the post, preparing to go off to war. He could tell that she was starting to get itchy to leave. Last night she’d told him she wanted to
go, do this thing so it could be over, and I can come back
.

Soon she’d have her wish.

In two days he would say good-bye to his wife, watch her walk onto a military bus and disappear.

He wanted to be stoic and sturdy and true. But he’d learned something about himself in the last month: he was selfish. He was also worried and scared and pissed off. Truth be told, he was pissed off most of all. He was angry that she had chosen the military over their family, angry that she hadn’t quit years ago, angry that he had no choice in any of this.

He’d gone to the ridiculous family-readiness group meeting that Jolene had recommended. What a debacle
that
had been. He’d been running late all day, and getting to the meeting was no exception. He’d been breathless when he finally arrived, a little harried, going through the papers in his briefcase, looking for the contact name when he walked into the room.

Women. That was what he saw. There had to be at least fifty women in the room; most were busy wrangling screaming, crying children. On an easel, a big poster board read:
Support Your Soldier.
Below it was a bullet-pointed list.
Care Packages. Phone Calls. Loneliness. Sex. Financial Help.
As if he were going to talk to these strangers about the problems he encountered with his wife’s deployment.

At his entrance, every woman in the room looked up. The place fell silent.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “wrong place,” and left.

He’d had no intention of sitting in that room, hearing those women talk about how to be good wives while their soldiers were gone.

Everywhere he went, it seemed the news preceded him. He hated the way people looked at him when they heard Jolene was going to Iraq.
Your wife is going off to war?
He could see them frowning, picturing him in an apron, mixing cake batter in a silver bowl. His liberal, intellectual friends didn’t know what to make of it. They quickly turned the conversation to George W. and the politics behind the war, concluding that she was risking her life for nothing. And just what in the hell was Michael supposed to say about any of it?

He knew he could support the warriors and not the war. That was the position he was supposed to take, the honorable position, but he couldn’t do it with regard to his wife. He couldn’t make himself support her decision.

She knew it, too, recognized his anger and his resentment. They knew each other too well to hide such contaminated emotions. Without love to protect them, they were both as raw as burn victims; every touch hurt.

So he didn’t look at her, never touched her, and buried himself in work. That was how he’d survived the last two weeks. Absence. He left for work early and stayed as late as possible. At night, he and Jolene lay on separate sides of the bed, breathing into the darkness, saying nothing, not reaching out. Neither of them was sleeping much, but both pretended to find solace there. Jolene had reached out for him just once, wanting to make love, saying quietly,
I’m leaving, Michael.
He’d turned away, too angry with her to attempt intimacy. The next morning, he’d seen the pain and humiliation in her eyes, and it shamed him, but he couldn’t change the way he felt.

On his desk, the intercom buzzed. It was his secretary telling him that the King County prosecuting attorney was here, on time, for their appointment.

“Send him in,” Michael said, straightening in his chair.

Brad Hilderbrand, the prosecuting attorney, strode into the office. Michael knew Brad well: beneath the politician’s slick veneer beat the heart of a zealot. Brad had been elected to be hard on crime and harder on criminals, and he did his job well because he believed in the party line. “Michael,” he said, smiling, his hand outstretched.

They shook hands. Michael could tell from Brad’s smile that there was trouble coming.

“I want to let you know that a witness has come forward in the Keller case,” Brad said. “In the interest of full disclosure—”

“And a possible plea bargain.”

“We wanted you to have the information as soon as possible. Keller confessed. That’s why I brought it down myself.”

“Really?”

He tossed a manila file folder on the desk. “That’s Terry Weiner’s statement. He is Keller’s cell mate.”

The courthouse snitch. Ever popular with prosecutors and police. “So let me get this straight. You’re suggesting that Keith Keller, who in the past few weeks of his incarceration has not spoken to his father, his lawyer, or the court-appointed psychiatrist, suddenly opened up to his cell mate.”

“He said—and I quote: ‘The bitch wouldn’t shut up, so I smoked her.’”

“Short, to the point, and easy to remember. I see. And let me guess, the so-called witness has been let go.”

“He was only in for possession.”

“A drug addict. Perfect.” Michael picked up the manila folder and opened it, skimming the statement. “I’ll need a copy of the wit’s arrest record.”

“I’ll have it sent over.”

“Is this little bit of fiction all you have?”

“It’s plenty, Michael, and we both know it.” Brad paused meaningfully, looked at him. “I heard about your wife. Going off to war, huh? I didn’t know you were a military family.”

“A military family? I wouldn’t call us that.”

“Really? That seems odd. Anyway, I guess you’re going to have your hands full with the kids.”

Was there a smirk in Brad’s voice? “Don’t worry about me, Brad. I can drive carpool, make dinner, and still kick your ass across the courtroom.”

*   *   *

After dinner, Jolene stood at the kitchen sink with her hands deep in the hot, soapy water, staring out at the view from her own backyard. It was impossibly beautiful tonight—a star-spangled sky, waves dipped in moonlight, fence rails that seemed to glow from within. She knew that if she closed her eyes, she would recall a thousand memories played out across this very view, hear her daughters’ laughter, feel a small hand pulling at hers.

Good-bye.
She’d said it in her mind so many times in the past two weeks. To views, memories, moments, pictures, people. She had spent hours trying to memorize all of it so that she could take it with her, a scrapbook in her mind of the life she’d left behind … the life that was waiting for her.

She pulled her hands out of the water, dried them off, and let the water out of the sink. Then, slowly, she left the empty kitchen.

The family room was brightly lit—every light was on and a fire danced in the grate—and the television played a sitcom that no one was watching. She turned off the TV and hated the sudden silence, so she turned it back on again. Walking up the stairs, she noticed the creaking sound of the risers and kept going. Betsy was in her room, doing homework, and Lulu was asleep already. She paused at Betsy’s door, let her fingertips brush the oak door. She had the idea to go in, to sit with her older daughter and try again to make her understand this deployment. But there was something else to do tonight—something she’d already put off as long as she could.

She went into her bedroom, turned on the light, and closed the door. As she stood there, looking at the room she shared with her husband, memories came to her.
That’s the bed, Michael, let’s get it … look how sturdy it is, we can make babies in that bed …
And the dresser they’d found at a garage sale in the old days, and the oriental rug that had been their first major purchase.

With a sigh, she went to the dresser and fished the video camera out of her sock drawer. Setting it up on the tripod she’d bought, she aimed the lens at the big king-sized bed, then hit the Record button. Climbing into bed, puffing the pillows up around her, she forced a smile, as if this were an ordinary bedtime story. “Hey, Lulu.” Her voice snagged. She drew in a deep breath, and tried again. “I’m making this tape for you.” She held up Lulu’s favorite book,
Professor Wormbog in Search for the Zipperump-a-Zoo
. Opening the big colorful book, she began to read the story out loud, using all the voices and drama at her command. When she was done, she closed the book and looked into the camera, tears stinging her eyes. “Lucy Louida, I love you to the moon and back. Sleep tight, baby girl. I’ll be home before you know it.”

She climbed out of the bed and snapped the camera off. She removed that tape and put in another one. This time, she sat at the end of the bed and looked directly into the camera. “Betsy,” she said softly, “I don’t even know how to say good-bye to you. I know how much you need me right now. You’re dealing with so much stuff at school, and I want to give you all the advice you’ll ever need to get through life, but we don’t have time for that, do we? How can we not have time?” She sighed. “I know you’re mad at me, Lil Bit, and I’m so so sorry for that. I only hope that someday you’ll understand. Maybe you’ll even be proud of me, as I am proud of you. So proud of you. You’re strong and beautiful and smart and loyal. You will have a lot of hills to climb while I’m gone, and it will be hard. I know it will be hard. But you’ll be okay.” Jolene closed her eyes for just a moment, thinking that there was so much more she wanted to say. For the next ten minutes, she gave her daughter the best advice she could, about boys and girls and classes and starting your period and wearing makeup. When she came to the end of it all, she was drained. There was so much more … and no time. “I love you, Betsy, to the moon and back. And I know you love me. I know,” she said simply, and she smiled.