Operation Oleander (9780547534213) (4 page)

Mom sinks into the recliner.

“Turn it on, Jess.”

I grip the remote. I hold it toward the television.

“Do it!”

I hit the button, and the screen jolts into view. This time there aren't any immediate reruns of the bomb going off. I'm glad Mom doesn't have to see that first thing.

I click through the channels, looking for another station. One of Clementine's newscasters has broken into local programming to announce the offensive and that casualties have been reported. A camera shot displays the main gate at Fort Spencer, flags flying and guards checking identification as people drive onto the post. Military ID checks are routine, but seeing them on television makes them seem ominous, as if the guards expect an attack on post the way the soldiers overseas do.

“What happened?” Mom asks.

“A bombing,” I say.

“Near that orphanage,” Mrs. Johnson says as she comes into the living room.

Mrs. Johnson can't wait to tell Mom it's about the orphanage. She never liked the idea of what we're doing.
No good will come of it.
Those had been her words exactly.

The local channel doesn't have any names either. Or they aren't saying. They don't even show the footage of the bomb going off.

“Put on CNN,” Mrs. Johnson says.

I speed through the channels. There the view's familiar. The reporter standing on the street, unaware of what's about to happen. It's worse this time because I know what's coming. People walk back and forth in the background. A stray dog digs through garbage.

The calm before the bomb.

My fingers ache to hit the off button.

“Turn it up,” Mom says, her voice stronger.

“You don't—”

“Jess!”

I spike the volume. The reporter talking to the camera, the palms waving in the breeze. Let me turn the scene off before it explodes, I plead silently like a prayer. Let me freeze the moment in time so that it never happens.

But it's too late.

W
E SIT
in front of the television like a family in a hospital waiting room. Mom in Dad's recliner. Mrs. Johnson and me on opposite ends of the sofa. We are numb, mute. No one moves. We breathe too softly to hear ourselves. If we inhale too hard, we will take in smoke and fire. That's how close we are to the explosion.

Mom reacts first. She yanks the remote control out of my hand and clicks it off. The screen goes dark. Then Mom drops the remote, as if it's an improvised explosive device, an IED that might go off in her hand. It clatters onto the coffee table.

We sit and stare.

“Frank called me,” Mrs. Johnson says after a long time.

I frown at Mrs. Johnson. Her husband's already called? From the war zone? During a surge? Isn't that a violation of orders?

And if he called, why not Dad?

“We've taken casualties,” Mrs. Johnson says.

“Who?” Mom asks.

“It's not clear yet. Not entirely. But Frank says some of the unit had stopped by the orphanage. To deliver supplies.”

The red numbers on the clock burn my eyes.

“W-Warren?” Mom asks.

“He went in the Humvee.”

The Humvee smoldering in the background, too far away for the camera to get a close-up.

Mom fumbles for the remote and turns on the television again.

We watch the replay. We can't help it. Maybe this time something different will happen. Perhaps this time I'll see a clue about who was there.

“What else did Frank say?” Mom's voice sounds flat as water.

Mrs. Johnson closes her eyes, and then opens them. “Maybe we shouldn't talk about this . . .” Her gaze flickers to me. “Jess, why don't you check on your sister?”

“I'm not leaving. I want to hear.”

Mom starts to cross her arms, and then her shoulders sag. “Go ahead.”

“They had half an hour,” Mrs. Johnson says. “Before they headed out.”

From down the hall, Cara's three-year-old happy morning voice is singing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” In a minute she'll be calling for me to read her favorite book, a worn-edged copy, about a caribou that gets lost and then found in the cold northern winter. No matter how many times I've read it to her, she sits there wide-eyed all the way through, as if the ending might change. As if the caribou might be lost forever. But, on the very last page, she'll touch the caribou's antlers to prove to herself it's safe. Then she'll want cartoons while Mom makes breakfast.

Mom jumps up. She wipes her eyes, even though they're dry.

“Turn that off, Jess.”

Closest to the television, I hit the power button.

She goes into the kitchen. Mrs. Johnson pushes herself off the sofa and grabs their coffee cups.

I sit in the living room. Down the street a lawn mower sputters to life. I hear every noise, as if I have super hearing.

“Why don't they tell us something?” Mom's voice carries.

“No news is good news.”

“Do you believe that?” Mom asks.

“Yes. But it's too soon to know anything. Really.” For once Mrs. Johnson's voice doesn't sound happy fake. She says it out plain.

“Or they just can't tell. Maybe they can't identify him.” Mom's voice catches. “And I thought that orphanage project was a good thing. Good for Warren. Good for Jess. To give them something to do together. Helping other orphans.” Mom's voice sounds ragged. Holding-back-tears ragged.
Other
orphans. Like me.
“He's so far away.”

Mrs. Johnson murmurs something. I can't tell what.

Down the hall, a voice. “Jess-ie?” Cara calls me that. Jess-E.

I am caught there. Any minute now Cara will call my name again, and then she'll lumber down the hallway dragging her book. Her clothes will be inside out or unmatched. Her funny cowlick will make her hair stick up in back, just like Dad's.

I shiver in the sudden cold of the air-conditioned room.

Dad and others at the orphanage. Delivering goods from Operation Oleander. Supplies we sent.

I spring into the kitchen. Mom's eyes are red-rimmed. Her hands clutch her coffee cup as if it can warm her.

“Why don't you say it?”

“Jess, now . . .” Mrs. Johnson starts. She's sitting at the kitchen table, her arms propping up her head.

I won't look at her. I only see Mom.

“Say what?” Mom asks.

“You think Dad's dead.”

“Jess, stop it,” Mom says, shaking her head. “We don't know anything. Remember what your dad said?”

I remember everything he said. How to turn off the main water into the house. How to add gas to the lawn mower. To always wear shoes, not flip-flops, if I mow the lawn. To be a good soldier.
Be steadfast.

The coffeepot gurgles, and a last puff of bitter aroma leaks into the room.

“Jess-E.” The voice is coming down the hall.

Everything swirls together. The scent of Mom's coffee. Cara's singsong voice. I can't breathe.

Suddenly, a fierce cramp hits my middle.
Take care of Cara.
Dad's last words to me before he boarded the silver transport plane and I watched the plane fly away until it was just a tiny sparkle like one of the jewels in Cara's caribou book.

The air in the kitchen is too thick.

Cara is marching down the hallway. Closer. I have to get out. Maybe Sam will know something.

I bolt out the kitchen door, onto the driveway.

“Jess!” Mom's voice tails me, but I shake it.

 

The commander lives in the largest house on post. Most of the other houses sit in rows and have tiny, square backyards inside chainlink fences. Here, a long sweeping driveway leads up to the two-story white house on an unfenced green lawn that stands out alone near the water like a lighthouse. Boats on the bay use the house as a landmark, Sam says. On my walks down to the point and back, I look at the house from the shore. Up close, I see that the front porch is bigger than our living room. Tall white columns support the roof.

I catch my breath and ring the doorbell under the shade of the porch. Sam's mother opens the door before the ding-dong sound fades to nothing.

“Jess,” she says. “Oh, dear, come in.”

By her face, I know she's heard something.

“Sam's upstairs,” she says. “Have a seat. Do you want some tea?”

“No, thanks.” I slide into a wing chair in the living room. The golden fabric envelops me as I sink into it.

Mrs. Butler walks upstairs. Then she comes back down and disappears into the kitchen.

I want to close my eyes. Just for a minute. But when I do, bursts of light flash against my eyelids.

Sam thunders down the stairs.

“Jess,” he says.

“What do you know?”

Sam stands in the living room doorway, as if bracing for an earthquake. Maybe he thinks the solid door frame will keep him safe.

He shifts his weight.

“Sam—”

“Dad's waiting for word now. He said he'll call when he can.”

I stare at Sam's face, trying to tell if he's lying. He's not looking me in the eye. He focuses past me on a lampshade, on the edge of the wing chair. Anywhere but my face.

Isn't that a sign?

Mrs. Butler carries a tray in from the kitchen. Fluted glasses of orange juice sit on it, and a basket of scones. “Have you had breakfast, Jess?”

Breakfast? I don't remember. I shake my head.

“Please eat something. Even if you think you're not hungry.” Mrs. Butler speaks softly, but she won't give up. I know that about her. Sam's dad might be the commander of troops on Fort Spencer, but his mom's in charge of everything else, including Commander Butler.

“Thank you, ma'am.” I lift a glass of juice off the tray. Mrs. Butler sets the tray down on the glass coffee table and wraps a scone in a napkin and hands it to me. The warmth of it seeps through the napkin, and I smell the blueberries and melted sugar.

“Nothing better than a hot scone.” She passes one to Sam, too, before returning to the kitchen, and he gulps it down. I think how nice Mrs. Butler is and how she always makes Meriwether and me feel welcome. Even though our parents aren't officers.

Meriwether.
I need to call her again.

I nibble the edge of the scone. I chew. It doesn't taste like anything, despite how good it smells. I swallow, though, like Mrs. Butler told me to.

“What if he's dead?” I ask Sam.

He frowns. “Don't say that. We don't know yet.” He sounds calm and practical like Commander Butler. Not twisted and raw inside the way I am.

“But they targeted them, right? When they went to the orphanage?”

Sam wads his napkin into a ball. “Maybe the Taliban were after the girls' orphanage. Maybe it was bad luck, the soldiers being there then.”

Why would they target an orphanage?

Because . . .

The juice sours on my tongue.

Because the soldiers were delivering supplies.

A phone rings in another room. Mrs. Butler answers it in her calm way. I watch her through the open door into the kitchen.

“Yes, she's here.” Mrs. Butler doesn't whisper. She speaks matter-of-factly.

We look at each other, Sam and me. It's Mom. She'd have known I'd come here to Sam's. If I wasn't at Meriwether's.

“No, she's fine. I'm trying to get her to eat a little breakfast.” She pauses. “That's okay. No problem at all. I'll drive her home in a few minutes. Please, don't you worry. It's not a bother.” Mrs. Butler has her back to us. Phone to her ear, she's staring out the window toward the water. As if it steadies her the same way it does me.

I tiptoe into the kitchen and, with both hands, place the thin glass on the marble counter next to the sink. Afraid to drop it and have it shatter on the tile floor.

“Did Mom hear anything?” I ask.

Mrs. Butler places her hand over the receiver. “What is it, Jess?”

“Did she hear anything?”

Mrs. Butler shakes her head and then speaks into the phone again. “I know this must be difficult. If there's anything I can do . . .”

Sam's followed me into the room, and he stands in front of the bay window. Beyond him, whitecaps dot the bay, and a single sailboat tacks with the wind.

Mrs. Butler hangs up.

She doesn't say my dad is injured.

But she doesn't say he isn't.

I'm glad, though, for what she does. Her strength comes through her hand and onto my shoulder the way my dad's does. She treats me like I am old enough for whatever the truth is. For whatever comes.

“Let's get you home,” Mrs. Butler says.

“I call back seat.” Sam dashes for the car before I can get out the door. He's trying to make me smile.

It works. Sort of.

I settle into the passenger seat and buckle up. Cinching the strap tighter, I feel it like the presence of Mrs. Butler's hand on my shoulder a few minutes ago.

As we drive by the PX, I crane my neck. A crowd has gathered. A security car, lights flashing, parks near the entrance. Word must be getting out.

I turn away. I don't want to think about the paper oleander flowers in the dark closet at the PX. Or the larger-than-life photo of Warda on the poster.

Mrs. Butler's cell phone rings, and she answers. “Yes,” she says. And then, “No.” A pause.
“
I see. I'll stop by.” Neutral words.

After she says goodbye and cradles the phone in her lap, Mrs. Butler turns onto Monroe Street, the back way into the main housing area. In front of her a black car with government plates slows at the corner of Monroe and Madrid and flashes its turn signal.

My street.

It keeps going straight, though, as if changing its mind.

Pressure lifts off my chest.

“I should go see Meriwether.”

Mrs. Butler turns at Madrid. “Home first,” she says. “Your mother's worried about you.”