Soldier Mom

by Alice Mead

  “That’s weird. I don’t know. Maybe they’ve got the flu. Maybe their underwear is too tight. I find that accounts for a lot of the weirdness typical of grown-ups. Half of ’em have wedgies.”

  I glare at him.

  “Come on. Laugh, Williams. You know you want to.”

  I’m hot and thirsty, and he’s directly in my path to the water fountain. He’s intentionally blocking my way.

  “Move! I want a drink, you idiot!”

  I jog over to the water fountain. Coach is already calling us back to center circle, but everyone’s milling around, not paying attention.

  Coach gives a shrill blast on his whistle. All the girls run over. Since there are only ten of us here, it doesn’t look as if anyone will get cut tonight.

  “All right. Listen up. No cuts. During Pre-season I’m gonna be using everybody to see who will play the most in November. Everybody plays for now—the good and the bad. That means bench time for some of you hot-shots. You got that, ladies?” He looks at Bridget, and she blushes a little.

  “I don’t want anybody’s parents showing up here, telling me how to coach the team. You miss a practice, you sit out at least half the next game. We have one full week of practice, every afternoon from three till five. The following week, games start: Tuesdays and Thurs-days. Three weeks. Don’t forget to pick up two jerseys on your way out—one maroon and one white. And I’ll see you Monday.”

  “What a jerk he is,” Bridget mutters to Amy. “I told you he hates me. Did you see the way he said that about parents? Next thing you know, he’ll make Jas team captain, when I’m the one who went to Red Star, not her.”

  As we pull our jerseys from the box, Coach yells out. “Oh, and one more thing. Jasmyn Williams is team captain for Pre-season.”

  “You see?” Bridget says, loud enough for everyone to hear. “What did I tell you?”

  3

  As soon as we get in the car, I ask, “So what was that huddle all about? Did it have anything to do with a tiny country with camels?”

  “Yes, Jas.” Mom sighs. “I’ll tell you about it when we get home.”

  That won’t take long. Stroudwater is small. Our street is a little over a mile north of the junior high parking lot, a short bike ride. And Andrew’s day care is a bit farther down Main, south of the school.

  The town center is a crossroads with an old cemetery dating from the Revolutionary War and a Congregational church. Then there’s a gas station, a day-care center, post office, two tacky tourist shops, Golly Polly’s ice cream, and Ken’s Hardware and Handy store. And the schools, of course.

  Stroudwater is half on the ocean. Route 1 runs north-south up the middle, and that cuts the whole town in half. Route 1 is for the tourists. The inland half has a smelly paper factory, where Jake works, and a couple of huge sand and gravel pits. And the northern edge still has a few old dairy farms left. That’s where Shawn Doucette lives.

  I run up the back steps and fling open the screen door. I pull off my sneakers and hot, sweaty gym socks, which I leave in the middle of the living-room floor on my way to my bedroom. The socks are a test for Mom.

  I stand in the hall watching, but Mom doesn’t even see them. She steps right over them and turns on the TV. That cable news channel again.

  “Hey, Mom, there’s a movie on tonight. A comedy. Can we watch it after we eat?”

  She doesn’t answer. All she’s done is give Andrew a teething biscuit, which he’s already turned to brown mush. He’s playing with the boingy phone cord at the same time.

  “Mom! Gross! Andrew’s eating the phone cord and getting it all gooey.”

  She doesn’t turn her head. I look at the TV, too. It shows a map of a country called Saudi Arabia, then some camels walking next to a flat highway. Camels are the weirdest-looking animals. They’re so colorless. With their long, slow legs shimmering in the heat waves, they look as if they’re walking on the moon.

  “Camels,” I say out loud. Then the map returns to the screen.

  “Right. See Iraq? Kuwait is below Iraq.”

  “Yeah. The little teeny place? That’s where the camels and oil are?”

  “That’s it.”

  Suddenly she clicks off the TV. “Let’s eat,” she says, and scoops Andrew up for dinner. He squawks in protest, trying to cling to the phone cord, and kicks his little bare feet.

  “Come on, buster,” she says.

  “Where’s Jake?” I ask.

  Andrew’s dad works until six at the smelly paper factory. He’s usually here by eight so he can play with Andrew. I figured tonight, because we’re eating late, he’d actually have dinner with us for once.

  Andrew is howling and making grabbing motions for the phone cord. Mom was pretty mean, scooping him up like that while he was busy.

  “I don’t know.” Mom’s voice sounds muddled and shadowy, coming from the kitchen. “Jas, can you clean that up for me?”

  Personally, I think Jake should clean off the cord. Andrew’s his kid, right? But by the time I get out the sponge and spray cleaner, I decide that thought’s unfair. Whose kid is whose. Andrew and I are brother and sister, and that’s that.

  Jake’s probably “out with the guys,” which means stopping for a beer on the way home. And one beer means two. But to be fair, usually that’s it. He doesn’t get drunk. He just likes to socialize. Still, his going out with the guys is one reason Mom won’t marry him. They fight about it sometimes.

  Dinner is leftover spaghetti warmed in the microwave. But it’s delicious. My mom is a great cook. And right after we eat, Andrew has to go to bed. Mom hasn’t said another word about camels or Kuwait.

  I see headlights. A car is turning off Main Street and coming down the road. Has to be Jake. I can hear the rattle of his VW Golf’s loose tailpipe.

  The car door bangs. I lean out the back door and wave hi. Jake is thin as a pole. He almost always wears the same clothes—blue jeans and plaid shirt, tucked in. He has a droopy, fox-brown mustache that drives me nuts. An old guy trying to be cool. He’s got to be thirty.

  “Hey, Jas. How’d it go tonight?”

  So he didn’t forget my tryout. He just didn’t come. Didn’t make it.

  “Okay,” I say, nice and short.

  “Yeah? Did you make the team?”

  “Yeah.” I don’t tell him that everybody did.

  “My man,” he says.

  As he comes nearer, I can smell the leftover cigarette and alcohol smell. I am not “his man.” He slaps me a high five and I slap back to be polite.

  “Mom’s putting Andrew to bed. He might be asleep by now,” I say quickly. I want him to hear it first from me, to know in advance. He can yell at me, not her.

  Jake looks like he’s carrying a load of overdue library books, and he can’t handle the fine. “What for?”

  I shrug. “It’s late, I guess. For a baby.”

  “How am I going to see my son if he’s asleep?”

  That’s not my problem. I want to say to him, Stop by earlier. Andrew’s the baby, not you. Come to my tryout. And what I really want to say is, Okay, Andrew’s your kid. But what about me? Will I ever be your daughter? Have you ever once thought about that?

  He bangs the door closed and brings his smoky smell inside, calling out, “Paula?”

  I’m glad Mom hasn’t married him. I’m glad her feet are cold.

  Now they’re arguing about it in a kind of halfhearted way. We’re standing in the kitchen.

  “I told you not to put him down until I get here. I’ll do it, Paula. I’ll put him to bed.”

  “Jake, it’s nine o’clock, for heaven’s sake. I work all day, do the meals, the laundry. I’m tired, and Andrew’s tired. If you want to see him, change your priorities a little. What’s so hard about that?”

  He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a plate of spaghetti and salad. He takes a piece of garlicky Italian bread that was great-tasting while it was hot. He knocks the refrigerator door closed with his butt, and all the bottles in the do
or rattle.

  But Mom’s not paying any attention. She’s back in front of the news channel. She turns up the volume. Jake takes his plate and sits beside her. A close-up of an announcer. World news.

  At this hour, we can confirm that the fourth-largest army in the world has just completed its invasion of the tiny country called Kuwait, located at the northern tip of the Persian Gulf. President Bush has responded with a stern warning to the Iraqi dictator, Saddam Hussein, that this type of naked aggression will not be tolerated.

  “Whoa! What’s this?” Jake asks. “Who invaded who?”

  “Iraq invaded Kuwait.”

  “Yeah, well, so what? That’s a long way from here, isn’t it?”

  “Oil, Jake. A big piece of the world’s oil. Right there. The richest oil reserves in the world. His next move would be Saudi Arabia.”

  “What’s ‘naked aggression’?” I ask.

  “Naked aggression.” Jake laughs. “Good question. I like that. Naked aggression. Could be a name for a rock group, don’t you think?” He pops the top to a beer.

  But Mom doesn’t hear him. From his crib, Andrew lets out a holler. I know he’s standing up, clinging to the top railing, feeling left out.

  “Can you get him, Jas?” Mom says. Her eyes never leave the screen.

  I don’t want to. Jake should get him. But now they’re talking together in those low voices and mysterious half-sentences grown-ups use when they don’t want you to figure out what they’re saying. By now I know Iraq is the problem. Saddam and his tanks and now our army, this is what’s bothering my mother and all the other grown-ups.

  “Yeah. But no one’s called you. Get real, Paula.”

  “But on the five o’clock news I heard this army general talking about an immediate all-out response. A four-star general, General Schwarzkopf, and he has a special plan to deal with Iraq.”

  I can hear sobs hidden behind her voice. The sound freezes me to the core. She never acts like this. Never.

  I go into Andrew’s room. The whole room smells of that soft, little, spicy baby smell he has on the top of his head. And it smells of baby powder. His teddy bear night-light glows. There he is, clinging to the railing, in his cotton snap-up pj’s, spiky reddish-brown hair every which way. Jake’s hair.

  “Andrew,” I say. “Pumpkin man.”

  “Ja-ja.”

  He reaches out his arms.

  “Okay, here we go. But you gotta go over the top because I can’t work the railing right, all right?”

  He’s willing. Anything to get out of the crib. I hoist him up and over the railing, bumping his knees a little, but he doesn’t complain. Then I settle him on my hip and go to the refrigerator for a four-ounce bottle of apple juice. I take him to the living room.

  Jake and Mom aren’t talking now. They’re staring at a bunch of army guys with pointers and maps. I’m feeling pretty spooked. “Do we have to watch this?”

  “Yes.” They both speak at once.

  Fine. They can, but I’m not. I hand Andrew to Jake, go to my bedroom, and close the door partway. I’m hunting under my pillow for my pajamas when the phone rings. What did Jake mean when he said no one had called Mom?

  I hear my mom pick up the receiver. And then I do something I’ve never done before. The whole day has been so weird. I have to know why. I quietly pick up the receiver by my bed, and, with my hand over the speaker, I listen in.

  “Sergeant Paula Williams? This is Captain Orville down at Fort Devens, Massachusetts. This call is to formally notify you that as of tonight at twenty-one hundred hours you are on active deployment. As an equipment and supply battalion officer, you may be one of the first to go to Saudi in advance of the ground troops.”

  Mom doesn’t answer.

  “Sergeant Williams?” the captain asks.

  “Deployment to Saudi? Is this just a precaution, sir?”

  “We want you on our advance supply mission, to arrive in Saudi ahead of the troops. Be ready for mobilization at oh six thirty Saturday morning.”

  “On Saturday? Wait a minute. Captain, please! I can’t go anywhere right now. I know it’s the wrong thing to say, but I can’t go overseas. I’m a single parent with two children. One’s a ten-month-old baby.”

  “Family arrangements are not the concern of the armed forces. You knew that when you enlisted.”

  “Yes, sir. But—”

  “A refusal to serve means you face a $10,000 fine plus a dishonorable discharge. Your orders are to remain on alert.”

  “Yes, sir, but could you reconsider? I mean, is there someone I could talk to . . . ?”

  The officer has already hung up. My mom is talking to nobody.

  I lay down the receiver so, so gently that no one could possibly hear my sneaky click. Then I lie on my bed for a minute. I can’t think.

  I look along the length of my chest. As I breathe, my ribs rise and fall like a boat bottom rocking over waves. And the ocean roars in my ears.

  I have just found out my mother might have to do whatever some army captain tells her. I mean, I sort of knew the army was like that. But whenever I visit her at her office, I usually hang around the gumball machine in the lobby or stare at the big wooden eagle hanging on the wall, clutching arrows in his claws, and read the posters about how the army helps you pay for college. I never once thought about the real army, being in a place with bombs and weapons. I don’t want any part of this, this officer, this war that just happens one day when you turn on your TV set.

  Will she really leave us, me and Andrew, just because that captain guy said so? How can Andrew ever, ever understand this? How can I?

  And on Saturday? Leave on Saturday! I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.

  If I squeeze my eyes tight, then I can freeze everything and make it stand still. I can make the phone call go away if I want.

  But . . . but no, I can’t. I open my eyes and sit up. Outside my window, night cascades down the tree trunks, spilling into the grass. I march out of my room and down the hall.

  4

  I have to act casual. I want Mom to tell me herself about the call. I don’t want her to know I listened in.

  I can hear Mom crying. I feel panicky. Saturday is the day after tomorrow. What do they want her to do, go to the desert? How do you live in a desert? I thought deserts were boiling hot and had no water to drink. Maybe this is all nothing. Maybe she’ll be gone for only a week. Bring the regular army guys their supplies, set up some tents and food boxes, and then come home. That’s not so bad.

  “Hey, it’s okay, Paula. It’s okay,” Jake is saying.

  I decide it’s time for my flashlight walk. When I come back in, I bet she’ll be a lot calmer. She’s tough. She’ll stop crying in a minute.

  I hurry through the living room. Jake is holding her in his arms, stroking her head. A minute ago they were arguing about Andrew, now they’re acting like lovers. They don’t even see me go by.

  I get the flashlight from the drawer by the sink and test the battery. Still working. I lay my hand over the top and look at the thin red glow of my blood showing through. Why is our skin so very, very thin? Why isn’t our skin harder, stronger, like tree bark maybe, or a clamshell, so we could be safer? Wouldn’t that make a ton of sense?

  I shiver as I cross the yard, feeling the cool dew bouncing off the stiff grass that brushes against my bare feet. I shine the flashlight up and down my sunflowers. The stalks are bigger than broom handles and furry with a spiky green fuzz. The flowers have been out for nearly two weeks. All day they’re covered with crawling bees.

  Out by the shed, I’m growing pumpkins for the county fair in September. We got a big load of cow manure from the Parnells, the apple-faced people next door. His brother still keeps some cows, a small herd of Jerseys the color of deer. Cow manure is the key to big pumpkins.

  I go around to the side of the shed. The pumpkin vines are still alive, grabbing everything, pulling their way through the grass, across the yard. I squat down and poke the
flashlight under some of the big leaves where the pumpkins hide. I hope some will make it until fair time.

  With the flat circle of light, I catch the flicker of bat wings in the darkness. Then I bring the flashlight along the grass back to my bare feet, standing side by side in the prickly wet grass. They’re long, pale, and narrow, with knobby anklebones. I’m very interested in my feet. At ten months, Andrew’s are short and stubby. He can’t even stand up on them yet. They look like two lumps of Silly Putty.

  Time to go in.

  The lights are glaringly bright in the living room. I flop into an armchair. “Hey, Mom, who was that on the phone?”

  The TV is off. Andrew has gone back to chewing the phone cord. Jake and Mom are sitting very still on the sofa. Mom’s holding a Kleenex, pulling at it, stretching it like it’s pizza dough. But it isn’t and it rips, it shreds, leaving big holes. Jake still has his arm around her.

  “We’re going to find a way around this,” he says. “Don’t worry, all right?”

  “Mom?” I have to ask as though I don’t know. “Who was on the phone?”

  “Nobody. Nobody you know.”

  “What’s going on, then?”

  She lifts her head up; her face is wet with tears. My stomach flops. I feel fear tingle up my back from the base of my spine.

  “Jake, honey, would you put Andrew to bed? Come here, Jas.”

  Mom kisses Andrew and Jake carries him, wailing, to his room. I sit beside Mom. When she doesn’t say anything, I finally ask, “What?”

  She turns to me. “That phone call was from one of my supervisors at Fort Devens. You know I’m in the army reserves, right?”

  I nod.

  “Well, we have a volunteer army right now. During the Vietnam War, we had a draft, meaning people were chosen to go into the army whether they wanted to or not.”

  “But that’s not fair.”

  “A lot of people agreed with you. So now, for many reasons, but mostly to save millions of dollars, we have a volunteer army with lots of people like me, who are on reserve.”

  “Except all you have to do besides go to your office every day is go to Massachusetts sometimes for training.”