One September Morning (25 page)

Eva takes a deep breath, easing her grip. “And I almost forgot to tell you the most important thing! Some of the wives are organizing a support group for people who don’t support the war.” She steps back, standing taller. “The idea came up by accident. I was working with some gals on the Toys for Tots drive and we got to talking. We’re thinking of calling ourselves WAW, for Women Against War. Right now the group is in the planning stages, but you’re welcome to join.”

“An antiwar group?” Sharice presses a hand to one cheek. “Jim would have a heart attack.”

“I think Jim would be fine about you meeting with people of like mind and discussing peaceful solutions,” Eva says. “Right to free assembly does apply to military wives, you know. And it’s not like we’re talking anarchy or free love or any of that stuff that pitted society against the military back in the sixties. We just want a chance to discuss our concern over our government’s military actions with other concerned, informed people.”

Although Eva makes it sound harmless, Sharice senses that this thing has teeth.

Besides, her husband would be appalled, and right now, the last thing she wants to do is burden him with controversial political behavior. Although he’s retired, he still works in a military organization in a world that values security, restraint, respect.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to pass on WAW,” Sharice says. “With everything that’s gone on lately…I’m still overwhelmed.”

“Promise me you’ll think about it. It would be good for you.”

It’s out of the question, but Sharice can’t reject it flatly, not when her friend is feeling so vulnerable. “But I don’t have any medallions or love beads,” she says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eva says. “But I like the sound of the love beads.”

Fort Lewis
Abby

T
his was the last thing she wanted to do on a Saturday afternoon.

There was college football, Christmas shopping at the mall, cookies to bake and send back east. Right now even laundry would be preferable to coming face-to-face with the men her husband had spent the last months of his life with.

The invitation specified that the event was open to all families, friends, and neighbors of the soldiers in the 32nd Infantry Division, and since that encompassed a large group of people, event organizers decided to use the gym of Lewis High School for the afternoon event that promised a visit from Santa for the kids. With a mixture of dread and optimism, Abby heads toward the gymnasium, passing tables offering hot cider, cocoa, soda pop, and refreshments. Why does this feel like her first school dance?

She crosses under a string of blinking colored lights into the party scene of fat round tables surrounded by chairs and people. Children skirt around the edges, chasing each other and rolling on some gym mats that have been left against the wall. More lights are strung over doorways, 3-D snowmen sculptures decorate the stage. The music is loud, the conversations louder, and everywhere, everywhere you look, are men in uniform.

Her purse buzzes, and she extracts her cell phone. Suz.

“Okay, I’m swimming in hot cider, and I’ve just learned that my husband was the best shot in his platoon. Which is pretty scary, because I don’t think Scott could hit a target unless the bull’s-eye was the size of a lunar crater. Where the hell are you?”

“I just walked into the gym. Where are you?”

“By the Christmas tree decked with miniature cannons and guns, but stay there—I see you now.”

As Abby slides her cell phone back into her bag, Suz emerges from the landscape of tables. She is wearing a fawn-brown suit that matches her hair. The jacket’s leopard-print collar and cuffs add a touch of playfulness—very Suz.

Abby nods in approval. “Don’t you look professional.”

“This, my dear—” Suz gestures down the lines of the suit like a model on
The Price Is Right
—“is the uniform of an event planner.”

“Sweet. You decided not to bring Sofia?”

“She’s on a play date. She would have liked seeing Santa again, but all the soldiers here would have been overwhelming for her. Every time she sees a man in uniform, she’s sure it’s her daddy for the first few seconds. I won’t put her through an afternoon of disappointment.”

“She would probably be bored here, anyway.” Abby nervously pushes her hair over one shoulder as a wave of stress splashes in her face. “It seems wrong to come to a party like this when you’re not feeling at all festive.”

“Don’t forget what Flint said. This might be your only chance to talk with the guys in John’s platoon,” Suz points out. “And see what I brought? I printed it out just before I left the house. It’s the names of all the guys that were in Bravo Company with Scott and John. Let’s see if we can connect with them and find out what happened that day.”

“Okay.” Abby squeezes her friend’s arm in thanks, then takes the list as they head over to the door together. “Thank God you’re here to keep me on track.” She scans the names of the nine original members of the platoon John and Scott were assigned to: Brown, Hilliard, Jump, Lassiter, McGee, Roland. Two Stantons and Scott Wollenberg. “Brown is the one Flint wants me to meet. Emjay Brown. He was with John when he was shot.”

Suz nods. “Got it.”

The woman at the reception table shakes her head. “Specialist Brown isn’t here, though he is on the list. That means we expect him, but he hasn’t checked in.”

When Suz asks her about some of the other guys in the platoon, the woman, whose name tag reads
CHER SAWICKI
, scans the faces beyond them. “Doc Jump was the platoon leader, but I don’t see him around anymore. Hold on…there’s Ty Lassiter.”

Cher hurries around the table and catches the attention of a tall, gangly soldier who strikes Abby as being way out of proportion. Ears too big for his head, eyes too close together, torso too short, legs too long. Maybe that’s why his belt seems to be up to his armpits, although that’s more an optical illusion than a reality.

“Ty, these ladies have been looking for members of your platoon,” Cher explains, motioning to Abby and Suz.

“Hey—” He gets an eyeful of Suz and grins, but as he swings further and sees Abby, he freezes. “Uh…hi. I know your face. John had a photo, but you were in the news at his funeral. You’re the king’s wife, right?”

Abby starts to nod, then lets out a snort. “The king? Wow, I haven’t heard that since John was in college.”

“Yeah, well, John’s rep was huge. I’m sure you know your husband was a legend. We’ve got a lot of John stories.”

Abby gestures to Suz. “And this is Suz Wollenberg. Scott’s widow.”

He sucks in a deep breath. “Wow. I didn’t recognize you. I really liked Scott. That guy could make you laugh. He had some great stories. A total crackup.”

“Yup,” Suz agrees. “That was Scott.”

Lassiter taps the arm of a short but solid man in desert khaki, who turns toward them to reveal a round baby face. “About-face, McGee. Say hello to your buddies’ wives.” When McGee’s face puckers in confusion, Lassiter adds: “Or widows, I guess. I’m sorry, ladies. This part is new to me.”

“That’s okay. We’re not big on protocol,” Suz assures him as she shakes Gunnar McGee’s hand.

“I’m sorry about your husbands,” Gunnar says, his eyes flashing with pain. “They were good guys. Great men. I’m sorry for your loss. That Scott, he would be so quiet a lot of the time, but when he said something he cracked everyone up. And John was a natural leader. He kept us sane. Kept us focused.” His blue eyes go hollow and cold. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about Iraq, but it’s not a good place to be right now. I hope I never go back.”

Lassiter smacks his shoulder. “You got three more years of enlistment. Of course you’re going back.”

“I sure don’t want to.”

“Well, you’re here now, and that’s a good thing. Welcome home,” says Abby. “I’m glad you guys made it back in time for the holidays.”

“I wish all of us could have made it back.” Lassiter crosses his lanky arms against his chest. “We lost four men during this deployment. That’s a huge loss for a platoon our size. Roland was the first, then your husbands. And I don’t know if you heard, but Antoine Hilliard was taken out by a suicide bomber, just after John was killed.”

Abby nods sympathetically. “It must be hard on guys like you, losing people you lived and worked with.”

“Yeah, it ain’t easy,” Lassiter agrees.

They chat for a while, sticking to mundane topics to keep the conversation going: the unusual inch of snow they had the previous week, the traffic that chokes the greater Seattle area, the foods the men missed most while deployed in Iraq. Once the ice is broken, Suz digs in.

“You probably don’t realize it, but Abby here has had a lot of trouble getting answers from the military,” Suz says. “They’ve never been able to tell her what really happened to John that day in the warehouse.”

“I heard about this.” Lassiter nods. “You went on
American Morning
, right?”

Abby sighs. “I did, but it didn’t seem to help. I’m trying to piece things together, get details. I just want to know the truth.”

Gunnar squints at Abby, as if surprised. “Really? It was a sniper. John got shot.”

This she knows, but she doesn’t think it wise to tell these soldiers that she magically copped a classified file. “Did you get a look at the sniper?” Abby asks him.

“Nah. I’m sorry we didn’t take him out, but he gave us the slip,” says Gunnar.

Suz turns to Lassiter. “Did you see the shooter?”

“It was dark. An old warehouse. I didn’t see diddly, but who was partnered up with John that day?” He squints at Gunnar McGee. “Brown, right? Emjay Brown was working with him, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Abby.”

“That’s right,” Gunnar agrees. “You really want to talk to Emjay Brown, but I haven’t seen him here tonight. He’s kept a really low profile since we got back. Sulking, I think, ’cause his girl dumped him.”

“That’s awful!” Suz says.

“Yeah, well, it happens,” Lassiter mutters, suggesting that he’s had some experience in this area.

“I’ll tell you, I was glad to have the wife and kids to come back to.” McGee already has his wallet open, photos of a girl and boy cascading out in clear sleeves. “My wife is inside somewhere, but these guys are off with Grandma today. They make it all worthwhile.”

Abby is admiring the photos when she hears a woman calling her name. Who could that be? She turns and catches Sharice stuffing the belt of a raincoat into her pockets as she crosses the hall to hug Abby.

“Sharice?” She blinks, surprised to see not only her mother-in-law but also Jim Stanton in dress uniform caught in conversation with another group by the door, trailed by Madison, who could only be described as seething beneath her black velveteen tunic with matching nail polish.

“I know.” Sharice frowns, her demeanor lacking its usual vibrance. “You’re wondering why we’re here,” she says in a low voice. “I’d like to know myself, but when the invitation came in the mail, Jim got a bee in his bonnet. He seems to think this will give us all some kind of closure, but honestly, I’ve been dreading it all week.” She lifts her chin and forces a smile for the two soldiers. “Hello. Have we met?”

While Suz introduces Sharice to the men, Abby joins Madison, who paces in front of the refreshment tables like a shark circling its prey.

“Maddy, hey. I almost didn’t recognize you. Going goth tonight?”

“I didn’t want to come, so I decided to dress as the anticonservative. Do you like my nails? I didn’t have time to dye my hair green.”

“You know,” Abby admits, “I really didn’t want to come either. I don’t think I’ll be up for a celebration for a very long time. But…here I am.” Should she tell Madison she’s here to do some digging? She’s always been honest with Madison, but the goth getup is a little alienating.

Madison looks over Abby’s shoulder, frowning. “They’re
selling
beer? I thought it would be free.” She walks past the trophy case, then leans into the nook behind it.

Trying to maintain a conversation, Abby follows, glad when Madison waves her closer.

“Could you hook me up, Abby?” she whispers. “Buy a few for me?”

“Beer?” Abby tries not to reveal her surprise. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.” She gives Madison’s shoulder a friendly shove. “And you need a couple? Ever heard of binge drinking, kiddo?”

“They’re not all for me. My friends are meeting me here.” When Madison smiles, Abby’s eyes are drawn to her black lipstick, stark against the pale powder of her face.

Creepy, but Abby won’t acknowledge that. She doesn’t want to be one of them—the enemy, parental authority—but she would like Madison to keep thinking of her as an ally. “I’d like to help you out,” Abby says, “but I don’t think that’s going to happen right now.”

“No worries.” Madison flicks her golden hair over one shoulder, clearly annoyed.

Abby moves into the nook beside her, trying to think of a way to make amends, or at least find something else to talk about, but Madison doesn’t seem interested in either. On the other side of the trophy case, two people move closer, their figures watery globs through the glass.

“I’m sure they don’t realize how awful they make us all feel,” one of them says. A woman’s voice.

“Who invited them, anyway?” another woman answers.

“I think the invitation went out to every soldier in the division, and every soldier’s family. There must be a list.”

“But how long do you think they keep widows on the list? I mean, a couple of months and they have to move out of base housing.”

Widows. Abby’s back stiffens at the mention of the word. Beside her, Madison doesn’t notice; her gaze cruises down the corridor, searching for escape.

“I don’t think they get it. But really, they should know that it’s a huge downer for people to see widows at an event that should be pure happiness for the men who made it back in one piece.”

Abby presses her eyes closed. Pure happiness…would she ever experience that sensation again?

Instead, she’s left holding anger for these inconsiderate women, and a daunting pain in her chest because they see her as a pariah. Granted, she understands their feeling that it will never happen to them. If you truly believed that he would be killed, you wouldn’t be able to let your husband leave your arms when it was time to deploy. It’s a pattern of denial everyone employs, a coping mechanism that allows people to take calculated risks. No, I’m not going to refrain from driving for fear of dying in a car crash. No, I won’t deny myself this chocolate eclair on the chance that it will clog my arteries.

No, my husband isn’t going to die in a desert on the other side of the world.