Home Front (4 page)

Time,
she thought.
It will be okay next week or next month
. He was still grieving over the loss of his father. She just needed to be understanding.

“Happy birthday,” he said.

“Thanks.” She hung up the phone and sat down at the kitchen table. In the shadowy room, decorated with her family photos and mementos and the furniture she had salvaged and restored herself, she felt alone suddenly. All dressed up, sitting in this darkened room. Lonely.

Then there was a knock at the door. Before Jolene even stood up, the kitchen door opened. Tami walked into the house, holding a bottle of champagne. “You’re alone,” she said quietly.

“He got caught up at work,” Jolene said.

“I was afraid of that.” Sadness passed through Tami’s eyes, and Jolene hated how it made her feel. Then Tami smiled. “Well. It’s no good to turn forty-one without an audience,” she said, kicking the door shut behind her. “Besides, I’m dying to know if you’ll start wrinkling up right in front of me, like Gary Oldman in
Dracula.
”

“I am not going to start wrinkling up.”

“You never know.”

“Champagne?” Jolene said, arching one eyebrow.

“That’s for me.
I
don’t have alcoholic parents. You can guzzle soda water, as usual.”

Tami popped the champagne bottle effortlessly, poured herself a glass and headed into the family room, where she plopped down on the overstuffed sofa and raised a glass. “To you, my rapidly aging best friend.”

Jolene followed Tami into the family room. “You’re only a few months younger than I am.”

“We Native Americans don’t age. It’s a scientific fact. Look at my mom. She still gets carded.”

Jolene sat down in an overstuffed chair and curled her bare feet up underneath her.

They looked at each other. What swirled between them then, floating like champagne bubbles, were memories of other nights like this, meals Michael had missed, events he’d been too busy to attend. Jolene often told people, especially Tami, how proud she was of her brilliant, successful husband, and it was all true, but lately he seemed unhappy. His father’s death had capsized him. She knew how unhappy he was, she just didn’t know how to help.

“It must hurt your feelings,” Tami said.

“It hurts,” Jolene said quietly.

“You should talk to him about it, tell him how you feel.”

“What’s the point? Why make him feel worse than he already does? Shit happens, Tami. You know Michael’s work ethic. It’s one of the things I love about him. He never walks away from responsibility.”

“Unless it’s a family obligation,” Tami said softly.

“He’s just really busy right now. Since his father’s death…”

“I know,” Tami said, “and you two don’t talk about that, either. In fact, you don’t talk.”

“We talk.”

Tami gave her an assessing look. “Marriages go through hard times. Sometimes you have to get in there and fight for your love. That’s the only way for it to get better.”

Jolene couldn’t help thinking of her parents, and the way her mother had fought for a man’s love … and never gotten it. “Look, Tami. Michael and I are fine. We love each other. Now, can we please,
please
talk about something else?”

Tami lifted her half-full glass. “To you, my friend. You look fabulous for being so freakishly old.”

“I look fabulous, period.”

Tami laughed at that and launched into a funny story about her family.

It was ten forty before they knew it, and Tami put her empty glass down on the table. “I have to get home. I told Carl I’d be home for
Letterman
.”

Jolene got to her feet. “Thanks for coming, Tam. I needed it.”

Tami hugged her fiercely. Together, they walked to the back door.

Jolene watched her friend cut across the driveway and head toward the adjoining property. At last, she closed the door.

In the quiet, she was alone with her thoughts, and she didn’t like their company.

*   *   *

It was midnight when Michael pulled into the garage and parked next to Jolene’s SUV. On the seat beside him lay a dozen pink roses bound in cellophane. He’d been on the ferry, already on his way home, when he remembered that Jolene preferred red roses. Of course. Soft and girly wasn’t her style, never had been, not even on that first, sad day when she walked into his life.

She’d been seventeen. A kid, dressed in thrift-store clothes, with her long blond hair a mess and her beautiful green eyes puffy from crying, and yet, with all of that, she’d walked into the legal-aid office with her back straight, clutching a ratty vinyl purse. He’d been an intern then, in his first year of law school.

She had seemed impossibly brave to him, a girl refusing help even in the worst days of her life. He’d fallen a little in love with her right then, enough to ask her to come back and see him when she was older. It had been her boldness that spoke to him from the beginning, the courage she’d worn as easily as that cheap acrylic sweater.

Six years later she’d walked back into his life, an army helicopter pilot, of all things. He’d been young enough to still believe in love at first sight and old enough to know it didn’t happen every day. He’d told himself it didn’t matter that he was blue state and she was military, that they had nothing in common. He’d felt so loved by her, so adored, that he couldn’t breathe. And their lovemaking had been amazing. In sex, as in everything, Jo had been all in.

He picked up the roses and the small Tiffany’s box beside it, wondering if the expensive gift would redeem him. She would see that he’d bought it before—that he’d remembered her birthday in time to have her gift engraved—but would that be enough? He’d missed her birthday dinner—forgotten.

It exhausted him, just thinking of the scene that was coming. He would use his charm to make her smile, beg for her forgiveness, and she would grant it with a grace and ease that would make short work of the whole thing, but he would see the hurt in her green eyes, in the way her smile wouldn’t quite bloom, and he would know that he’d disappointed her again. He was the bad guy here; there was no doubt about that, and she would remind him of it in a million tiny ways until he could hardly look at her, until he rolled away from her in bed and stared at the wall and imagined a different life.

He got out of the car and went into the house. In the shadowy kitchen, he found a vase and put the roses in it, then carried them up the stairs.

The master bedroom lights were off except for a small, decorative lamp on the desk by the window. He set the flowers on the antique dresser and went into the bathroom, where he undressed and got ready for bed. Climbing in, he pulled the heavy down comforter up to his chest and lay there in the dark.

It used to soothe him, listening to his wife’s breathing, but now every sound she made kept him awake.

He closed his eyes and hoped for the best, knowing before he even tried that it would be hours before he fell asleep and that, once found, his slumber would be haphazard at best, plagued by dreams of a life unlived, a path unchosen.

When he woke, hours later, he felt as if he hadn’t slept at all. Watery light came through the windowpanes, making the sage-colored walls look gray as driftwood. The dark wood floors swallowed whatever sunlight came their way.

He pushed up to his elbows, felt the coverlet fall away from his chest.

Jolene lay awake beside him, her blond hair tangled to one side, her pale face turned slightly toward him.

The hurt was already in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Jo.” He leaned down and kissed her quickly, then drew back. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“I know. It’s just a birthday. Maybe I made too much of it.”

He got out of bed and got the Tiffany’s box off the dresser and brought it back to her.

It occurred to him that she’d asked for something for her birthday, something special. Not a gift, either; that wasn’t Jolene’s way. She wanted … something. He couldn’t remember what it was, but he saw the slight frown dart across her face as she saw the box; then it was gone, and she smiled up at him.

“Tiffany, huh?” She sat up in bed, positioned her pillows behind her, and then opened the box. Inside, a sparkling platinum and gold watch was curled around a white leather bed. A single small diamond took the place of the number twelve.

“It’s beautiful.” She turned it over, to the back, on which
Jolene, happy 41st
was engraved. “Forty-one,” she said. “Wow. Time is going fast. Betsy will be in high school in no time.”

He wished she hadn’t said that. Time wasn’t his friend lately. He was forty-five—middle-aged by any standard. Soon he’d be fifty, and whatever chance he’d had to become another version of himself would be gone. And he still had no idea what that other version would look like; he just knew that the color had gone out of who he was.

He sat down on the bed beside Jolene. He looked at her, needing her suddenly, wanting to feel about her the way he used to. “How did you get through … their deaths? I mean, really get through it? You had to change your life in an instant.”

He saw her flinch, turn slightly away. The question was like a blow that glanced off her shoulder, bruised her. When she looked at him again, she was smiling. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I chose happiness, I guess.”

He sighed. More platitudes. Suddenly he was tired again. “I’ll make you breakfast in bed, and then maybe we can all go for a bike ride.”

She set the watch, still in its box, on the nightstand. “Tonight’s my birthday party at Captain Lomand’s house. You said you might come.”

And there it was: the thing she’d asked for. No wonder he’d forgotten. “I have nothing in common with those people. You know that.” He stood up and walked over to the dresser, opening his top drawer.

“I am those people,” she said, and just like that they stumbled onto the familiar and rocky terrain. “It’s a party for me. You could come just this once.”

He turned to face her. “We’ll go out to dinner tomorrow night. How’s that? All four of us. We’ll go to that Italian place you like.”

Jolene sighed. He knew she was considering another volley across the net of this old argument. She wanted him to be a part of her military life—she’d always wanted it, but he couldn’t do it, couldn’t stand that rigid world of one for all and all for one. “Okay,” she finally said. “Thanks for the watch. It’s beautiful.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stared at each other. Silence gathered in the air, as bitter and rich as the scent of coffee. There were things to be said, he knew, words that had been withheld too long, hoarded in the dark and spoiled. Once he gave them voice, said what he really felt, there would be no going back.

*   *   *

Later that afternoon, carrying a foil-covered casserole dish, Tami walked into Jolene’s kitchen. “Well?” she asked, kicking the door shut behind her.

Jolene glanced back into the family room, making sure her kids weren’t around. “He’s really sorry,” she said. “He brought me roses and a beautiful watch.”

“He’s the one that needs the watch,” Tami said. At Jolene’s look, she shrugged. “Just sayin’.”

“Yeah,” Jolene said. “I asked him to come to the party. He doesn’t want to.”

“I’m sorry,” Tami said.

Jolene managed a smile. She couldn’t help thinking how different life was for Tami. Although Carl wasn’t in the military, he supported Tami fully, came to every event, and often told her how proud he was of her service. Tami’s military pictures decorated the walls of their house, were hung alongside Seth’s school pictures and shots from their family gatherings. All the pictures of Jolene in uniform were hidden away in drawers somewhere.

She turned away from the disappointed look in Tami’s eyes and walked to the bottom of the stairs. “Girls!” she yelled up. “Come on down. It’s time for the party.”

Lulu came down the stairs, grinning, dragging her blanket. She was dressed for the party in a pink princess dress, complete with a tiara. Betsy appeared at the top of the stairs with her arms crossed.

“Pleeease don’t make me go,” Betsy pleaded.

“Ticktock, ticktock.”

“Dad doesn’t have to go.”

“He’s working,” Jolene said. “You’re not.”

Betsy stomped her foot and spun around. “Fine,” she said, marching back to her room.

“I remember how much I wanted a daughter,” Tami said, coming up beside Jolene. “Lately I’m not so sure.”

“Nothing I do or say is right. Honestly, she breaks a little piece of my heart every day. She swears she’ll skip school if I go to career day. Apparently a mother in the military is only slightly less humiliating than one in prison.”

Tami leaned against her. “You were raised by wolves, so you don’t know this: it’s normal. My mom swore she tried to sell me to gypsies at twelve. No takers.”

“Is Seth coming today?”

“Of course. He’s a boy. They’re like puppies; girls are like cats. He just wants to make me happy and play video games. Drama has not yet made an appearance at our house. Although, he does miss Betsy.”

Jolene glanced up the stairs. “I hope she’s nicer to him.”

Tami nodded. “My son is a fashion disaster. He’s a geek boy who gets excited to answer a question in biology. Betsy wants to hang with the popular girls. I get it. I do. He’s social suicide, and the fact that they used to be best friends does not help her any. Still,
he
doesn’t get it. He wonders why she quit skateboarding and doesn’t like to look for sand crabs anymore. He still has the birthday poster she made him tacked up on his wall.”

Jolene didn’t know what to say to that. Before she’d thought of anything, Lulu came to the last step and hurled herself forward. Jolene scooped up her youngest daughter and settled her on her hip, carrying her out to the SUV. After Jolene strapped Lulu into her car seat, she went back into the house. “Come on, Betsy!”

Betsy stomped down the stairs, looking mutinous, with her iPod’s earbuds firmly in place. The message was clear:
I’m coming, but I won’t like it.
Jolene let the little defiance pass, and followed her daughter to the SUV.