“The past is prologue,” she muttered as she dropped the last polished lemon into the fruit bin.
When dinner was finished, Betsy helped clear the table while Ellie shook out the place mats and put them away. Then both children sat down with their crayons and paper. “Remember now,” Kate said, “when the big hand is on the three, you have to finish Daddy’s picture and get ready for your bath.”
It was a ritual the children performed every evening after dinner. On Fridays, Kate folded their drawings and mailed them off to Patrick in a separate envelope.
“Mommy, what should I draw tonight?” Betsy asked.
Kate pretended to think. “Draw all of us sitting on your bed. Put a letter in my hand.”
“Are you smiling or are you sad?” Betsy asked, her face puckered in a frown.
“I’m smiling. Everyone is smiling.”
“What’s Ellie doing?”
“Hugging Roseann.”
“Can I put a puppy on the bed even if we don’t have a puppy? If I put a puppy, will it be a lie?” Betsy asked anxiously.
“No, Betsy, it won’t be a lie. It will be a wish. I’ll show you how to print the word wish on the picture. Daddy will know what it means. A puppy is a good idea.”
“Will we ever get a puppy?” Ellie asked wistfully. “If we do, can he sleep on the bed with me? What will we call it, Mommy?”
Kate fought her tears. “That’s something for us to think about. Let’s all think about a name, and tomorrow after dinner we’ll tell each other. The best name gets a lollipop.”
“I want a red one. My name will win,” Ellie said confidently.
“No sir, I’m the oldest. I know better than you do,” Betsy said, petulant.
In order to avoid a squabble she wasn’t prepared to deal with at the moment, Kate switched the conversation to the park and the games they would play the following day.
When the girls had finished drawing, Kate beamed her approval at the two pictures and listened patiently as Ellie explained each squiggly line and round circle. She was always amazed at Betsy’s drawings. The child had inherited whatever small talent she herself had. She had no difficulty figuring out Betsy’s picture. The puppy looked like a puppy, the bed looked like a bed, and even the figures were more than stick lines, rounded out with faces and hair.
“Bath time. Last one in is a smelly fish!”
“Oh, Mommy!” Both girls giggled as they trotted off to the bathroom.
When the girls were in clean pajamas and tucked into bed, Betsy asked the question she’d been dreading all evening. “Who was that man, Mommy?”
“An Air Force major, honey.”
“Does he know Daddy?”
“Not really. He knows about him, but he doesn’t know him personally.”
Satisfied with the answer, Betsy snuggled beneath the covers. “Did we get a letter today?”
“No, sweetie, we didn’t, but tonight we’re going to read the last two instead of our usual one. I’ll read you your last letter and then I’ll read you mine, okay?”
“Goody, goody,” Ellie said, her eyes closing wearily. A second later she was sound asleep.
“Read mine first, Mommy.”
“Okay,” Kate said, unfolding the wrinkled letter the little girl handled several times a day.
“ ‘Dear Betsy and Ellie—’ ”
“Daddy always puts me first. Does that mean he likes me the best, or is it because I’m the oldest?”
“What do you think?”
“I’m the oldest,” Betsy said, wrinkling her pug nose. Her dark eyes glowed as she waited for her mother to read the letter she already knew by heart, just the way she knew some of the nursery rhymes.
“ ‘I miss you two little rascals. I hope you’re being good for Mommy and doing your chores. I love all the pictures you’ve been sending me. I have some of them in my plane. I show them to the other guys in my squadron and they say you girls are going to be artists someday.
“ ‘It’s going to be Christmas pretty soon. Be sure to make a present for Mommy. Mommies like presents. When I was little like you, I used to make a present for my mother and she would always give me a big hug and a cookie. I think the hug was better than the cookie.
“ ‘I love both of you very much. I think about you every day and wonder what you’re doing. Be good girls and I will be home soon. Remember now, you have to be extra good or Santa won’t leave presents in our house. I heard, and maybe this is a secret, but I’m going to tell you anyway. Santa comes all the way over here to Thailand and leaves us fliers a special present. Isn’t that wonderful?
“ ‘Remember to say your prayers every night. You, Ellie, and Mommy are mine to have and to hold, forever and ever. I send you all my love and kisses. Daddy.’ ”
“Isn’t it a wonderful letter, Mommy?” Betsy said sleepily.
“The best letter in the whole world,” Kate said. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll get a new one.” She looked at the date on the envelope: September 23. She could feel herself start to tremble. “I’ll read you my letter tomorrow. Sleep now, honey,” she said, bending over to kiss both her daughters.
“Okay, Mommy,” Betsy said, drifting off to sleep.
She was alone now, more alone than she’d ever been in her life. She knew what came next on her schedule, what she was supposed to do to fill up the hours until it was time to go to bed. If she deviated now, she would be lost. If she called the chaplain now, she could still do everything and only be off by a few minutes. She wasn’t going to sleep anyway, so what difference would it make?
She dialed the number he’d left with her and cleared her throat when the chaplain picked up the phone on the third ring. “Chaplain Rollins, this is ... Kate Starr. Please, tell me what you know and accept my apologies for . . . this afternoon. I’m sorry if I offended you. . . . I didn’t mean to.”
“I understand, my dear. Major Collier has all the information, but I’ll be glad to tell you what I know. I can come over, if you like.”
“No. No, I would rather . . . it’s better if I’m alone right now. Talking on the phone isn’t . . . it doesn’t sound so . . . so final.”
“I understand, my dear. . . .”
Kate listened carefully for ten full minutes, hating the sound of the man’s voice, hating what he was saying.
“Captain Starr was in a right pull-up when his engine stalled on him. He was already on afterburner. As far as we can tell, he had no options. He ejected behind cloud cover. His wingman didn’t actually see him eject. We think he’s somewhere in enemy territory, Mrs. Starr.”
Enemy territory. In a voice she barely recognized, she asked, “Chaplain, is Patrick . . . what I mean is, would it have been better for him to die than be taken prisoner?”
“We don’t know that Captain Starr is a prisoner, nor do we know he’s dead. He could be hiding in the jungle. Unlikely, but it is a possibility. We just don’t know.”
“When will we know, Chaplain?” Kate asked in the same small voice.
“I can’t answer that, Mrs. Starr. We’re doing everything possible to update the situation. As soon as we know, you’ll know. Search-and-rescue efforts are under way. You must have faith and you must believe. Put your trust in the Almighty and He won’t let you down.”
Kate’s stomach lurched. She wished she’d practiced her religion more faithfully. She went to church on Easter and Christmas and sent the girls to Bible study, but that was it. Praying was something she rarely did, even though the girls prayed every night before going to bed. “Isn’t it a little after the fact now?” she muttered.
“Dear girl, it’s never after the fact. God doesn’t view it like that. Prayer is never frowned on. I don’t say you have to go to church to pray. You can pray anywhere, anytime.”
Anytime, anywhere. She knew that. “Thank you for talking to me, Chaplain,” she said softly, and cradled the receiver.
A moment later she reached for her knitting. Knit one, purl two, Holy Father . . . She stuck wit
h it, knitting and praying for the forty minutes she allotted for knitting on her schedule.
Then Kate threw caution to the winds and repacked her knitting and sketch pad. The hell with the schedule. She was dying inside, so what would knitting and sketching do for her? With that thought, she burst into tears, burying her face in the sofa cushion so as not to wake the girls. Missing in action. Killed in action. Prisoner of war. When would she know Patrick’s fate? Oh, Patrick, where are you, are you safe?
It was almost one in the morning when Kate crept off the sofa and walked down the hall to her bedroom. She turned on the light and stared at hers and Patrick’s room, seeing it through her husband’s eyes. Her face full of misery, she walked around the clutter—and that’s what it was, clutter. Her crafts, her busywork. Wooden hearts edged in lace, duck plant holders, geese lined up in a row, picture frames with painted hearts with bows and buttons. Every wall, every corner, was filled with something. Panic rushed through her when she tried to see something of Patrick’s. Yet she’d left everything just as it had been when he’d left.
She lurched, tripping over the lined-up geese, to Patrick’s dresser, yanking open the drawers, knowing what she would find, Victorian lace bags filled with cedar shavings. God, even the tassels on the venetian blinds had hearts and ducks on them. She gagged. How many times had Patrick said, “Honey, do we really need all of this?” How many times had he tripped over the parade of geese the way she just had?
She ran to the bathroom, knowing what she would find. The same homey theme of hearts, ducks, and chickens. She’d appliquéd hearts on the shower curtain with the same trailing ribbons, ending in a bouquet of baby ducklings nestled in a wicker basket. The same patterned decals were stuck to the four corners of the bathroom mirror. The bathroom carpet was oversize, latch-hooked three winters ago. She stared at the huge rooster in the center of the carpet and cried anew.
God, why was this bothering her now? Because you know Patrick hated all this stuff, but he put up with it because he loved you.
In the blink of an eye she was back in the bedroom, pulling and tugging at her dresser drawer. Beneath her slips, bras, and panties was the Frederick’s nightgown, wrapped in tissue paper. It was so trashy, so ... slutty, a direct contrast to everything else in the house. She opened a second drawer and withdrew a dimity ankle-length nightgown, neatly ironed and smelling of lemon and vanilla. The neckline was high with a prim satin bow she’d added after she bought it. She had three, pale yellow, pale pink, and pale blue. Demure. Old-fashioned. Ridiculous. She folded the Frederick’s nightgown and placed it in the drawer, her eyes filled with tears as she left the bedroom.
In the small living room she looked around. If anything, it was even worse. Every inch of available space was filled with something. She could fill the back of a pickup truck with all the junk in the house. Once, in a fit of anger, Patrick had called her crafts “junk” and then later apologized. He was right, it was junk. God, where was the picture of him standing next to his plane with Zack? Her hands were feverish, frenzied, as she yanked at one drawer and then another until she found it. The frame didn’t fit the Federal blue of all her crafts, so she’d shoved the picture in a drawer. She’d promised to find a place to hang it. Patrick had looked crushed, but he’d never mentioned it again. Oh, Patrick, I’m sorry.
Now when it was too late she was ... What was she doing? Assuming guilt for her husband’s situation? Blaming herself for not being more like the wife he wanted? Blaming herself for being selfish, not caring about what he wanted? All she’d tried to do was make a cozy, warm, happy home. What she really had was a cluttered, stifling, sort-of happy home.
Kate sank onto the sofa and reached for one of the pillows to hug against her breast. Dear God, had she done anything right all these years? “Our sex life was good,” she whimpered. But was it? Patrick liked to experiment, but she didn’t. Straight missionary position. She was always satisfied, but was Patrick satisfied? He said he was.
“What’s so wrong about going down on me?” he’d asked on his last birthday, when she’d promised to do whatever he wanted and then had reneged on the promise. “Then get on top of me,” he’d begged. She hadn’t done that either, because she didn’t like the way her breasts flopped about and Patrick had wanted to leave the light on. He’d stomped into the bathroom, buck naked, and not only slammed the door, but locked it as well. When he’d come out a while later, his penis dripping semen, he’d shouted, “Are you happy now?” She cried all night into her frilly, embroidered pillow after Patrick had set up camp across the room, and fallen asleep singing the birthday song to himself.
Was it too late to do all this soul-searching? Only if he’s dead, she answered herself. But he couldn’t be dead, he was too vital! She would never believe he was dead. Not Patrick. Please God, let him come back. I swear I’ll be the kind of wife he wants. I’ll do whatever he wants. I’ll wear trashy clothes and I’ll have sex swinging from the chandelier with the lights on if that’s what he wants. She paused, then added, I’ll go back to church, too, and take the girls. She half expected to hear a clap of thunder, but nothing happened.
God didn’t make deals, it was that simple.
Armed with a load of brown grocery bags, Kate attacked the bedroom and bathroom, ripping things off the walls, snatching the shower curtain, kicking at the geese. She lost track of the number of bags she used and the trips she made to the little patio outside the apartment. She was stunned when she finished, at four o’clock, to see how spacious the place really was. She could walk anywhere and not have to dodge or weave her way around things. It was going to take her a long time to patch and paint all the holes in the walls.
Yesterday was gone. Today was here, and tomorrow would arrive soon enough.
CHAPTER TWO
At six-thirty when it was a bright new day Kate parted the kitchen curtains. Winter. Her favorite time of the year, but then she said that every year. The truth was, autumn was her favorite time of the year. Autumn back East. She closed her eyes and imagined she could smell burning leaves.
A new day. How was she to think of it? Day one after the news? Day one without Patrick? Day one as head of household? Widow? Alone, with little hope for the future?
Kate clutched the edge of the sink with both hands until her knuckles turned white. How could she go on without Patrick? I don’t know how to do anything, she thought. I never worked outside my home. “All I know how to do is keep house, and I botched that up,” she said to the sound of the percolator. Her eyes strayed to the clock on the stove. She had an hour before the girls woke. Thank God it was Saturday and she didn’t have to take Betsy to school.
Patrick was smart; everyone said so. A graduate of Texas A&M. Not too many pilots had a Master of Science degree in aerospace engineering. Would that get him through whatever was happening to him now? He was equipped for an emergency: he had his Geneva card, his emergency radio pilot stored under his right arm in a survival vest pocket, and he was in top physical condition. At his last physical he weighed in at 190, the perfect weight for his six-foot-two frame. He had wonderful stamina and endurance. Patrick would survive, but would she be able to say the same? She was already falling apart, unraveling like the yarn on a knitted sleeve.
Maybe she shouldn’t tell the girls, at least not yet. Maybe it would be better to wait until she wasn’t so raw inside, until she wouldn’t burst into tears and frighten them. For now, she was all they had, and she had to be their rock. Patrick, she thought, would want it that way. Just pick up the pieces and go on. But on to what?
She ruminated about her situation for a while, and after pouring her third cup of coffee, reached for her Betty Crocker cookbook. She kept her checkbook and passbook to the savings account in the manila pocket in back. Their savings were meager, less than six hundred dollars in the savings account and one hundred in the checking account. If Patrick didn’t return relatively soon, she was going to have some serious problems. Military paperwork constantly got snafue
d. The voluntary move off the base she was contemplating so she could get a job would cost more, and she’d have to have money for security and utilities deposits. It was unlikely that she could get by without getting a job. And if she did get a job, who would look after the girls? Sitters cost money and she wouldn’t be making much to start—providing she even found a job without experience. She knew in her gut Patrick’s pay and benefits status was going to be a problem.
“Enough,” she muttered, slamming the bankbooks back into the cookbook.
“Help your sister get dressed, Betsy,” Kate said an hour later. “I have to take the trash out.” It took four trips to the Dumpster behind the apartment building to get rid of all the crafts from her rampage the night before. She wasn’t sure how she felt when she entered the kitchen. Exposed, the way the apartment now looked.
“Take my socks off!” Betsy screeched.
“Will not. Mine have the pink bows,” Ellie shrilled.
Kate’s head throbbed. This was new. The girls rarely squabbled, and if they did, it was usually over in seconds. “Just a minute, let me see the socks,” she said, and took a look. “Ellie, these are Betsy’s. Here, these are yours,” she said, pulling a pair of rolled-up socks from the little girl’s drawer.
To Have and to Hold Page 3
