Operation Oleander (9780547534213)

by Patterson, Valerie O.

  Opening my eyes, I check the muted television screen again. Smoke curls toward the late-afternoon sky. People behind the announcer run back and forth on streets crowded with honking cars jammed at all angles like Cara’s toy trucks. A man dodges through the chaos, a child limp in his arms.

  “Sam. Tell me. Who?” Was that why he came to the PX? Because he knew then but he couldn’t tell me? And he still can’t tell me?

  “I don’t know.” He evades me like Cara does when she’s taken one of my gel pens without asking.

  “You do know. Who’s injured? Tell me.” I can’t ask if anyone’s dead. I can’t get those words out. I won’t think them.

  “I’d better go.”

  “Is it my dad?” I rush to get the words in before he hangs up.

  “I’m not sure. I wasn’t supposed to hear anything. I was standing outside the living room when the colonel came to talk to my dad. Dad barely had time to get dressed, and then he ran out.”

  “You don’t know about my dad? Really?”

  “I don’t.”

  “What about our orphanage?”

  “What do you mean, ‘ours’?”

  “Yes, ours,” I say. We sent pencils and paper. Contributed toward food. “Even you.”

  “I helped. I got us the space, didn’t I?” he asks, his voice rising.

  He did.

  “Yes, but you haven’t been around much,” I tell him. Not ever since Mrs. Johnson complained that the operation is unsupportive of our troops and we shouldn’t spend that kind of effort on the orphanage.

  “I said I was sorry about that.”

  Behind me, I hear stirring from Mom’s bedroom.

  “I have to go. Mom’s up. Sam, what about Warda?”

  “I don’t know. Really.” His voice pleads for me to believe him.

  I hang up and turn off the television, the screen narrowing to blackness, then prop myself up on the couch, my back to the wall. Mom’s coming down the hallway. Her slippers sound like palm fronds rustling in the breeze.

  What will I say?

  Mom stops at the doorway to the living room. Her hair’s not brushed. She squints as if half-asleep. She says that with Dad gone she stays up too late at night. She turns on her headphones and listens to music until she falls asleep.

  “Jess? Who was that?”

  No one, I almost say. That way, maybe Mom won’t have to know something’s happened. Maybe in a few hours the news will be clearer. Dad will call.

  “Jess!”

  “Sam. It was Sam.”

  “This early? What time is it, anyway?” Mom fumbles for the light switch.

  “It’s not that early.” I don’t bother to tell her I’ve been to the PX already. She knows that’s where I go. She doesn’t really like me going so early, before so I try to keep quiet. To fly under the radar.

  A knock sounds on the door.

  I freeze. I didn’t hear a car door slam, like in one of those old World War II movies Dad used to watch. The car is always black. It creeps down the street, stopping in front of some unlucky family’s house. Someone inside pulls back a curtain. The camera pans so that you see the military officer walk slowly up to the front door and knock. They never use the doorbell. They always knock.

  “What’s going on around here?” Mom’s voice sounds sharp, more awake.

  I stay still. If I don’t move, this might pass.

  “I swear, Jess.” Mom runs her fingers through her hair and straightens her sleep T-shirt so it covers her thighs. She cracks open the door, and we both squint against the sudden light.

  “I came as soon as I heard.” Mrs. Johnson pushes inside, carrying a box of glazed doughnuts. The sweet scent makes me dizzy.

  “I went down to the gas station,” she says. “I got us some snacks and tried to get the latest news from Pops. He knows everything.”

  So that’s where Mrs. Johnson was—getting the gossip. I should have known.

  “Heard what?” Mom asks.

  Mrs. Johnson stops midstride from where she was going to plant herself in Dad’s recliner. “You don’t know? Really?”

  “Know what?” Mom makes an exasperated sound. “People sneaking around at all hours of the morning. Yet no one says anything.” She frowns at me.

  I hug myself.

  “Turn on the television, Jess,” Mrs. Johnson says. She turns to my mom. “You got coffee brewing?”

  Mom starts to say “No.”

  “It brewed at eight this morning,” I said. “I programmed the coffee maker.” I wanted Mom to know I could help out—that’s why I started setting the coffee to go on automatically in the mornings. Just lately, since summer started, Mom’s been sleeping in later and later. Until the coffee smell turns bitter. Sometimes I toast waffles for Cara’s breakfast.

  “Well, that’ll be strong enough to walk to Cuba,” Mrs. Johnson says. “I’ll brew fresh. You stay here.” Mrs. Johnson steers Mom to Dad’s recliner and stalks into the kitchen. I hear her turn on the water and pour all the coffee I already made down the drain. The new canister of the ground coffee hisses when she opens the lid. Mrs. Johnson knows our kitchen so well, she doesn’t have to ask anymore where to find things.

  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.

  Five

  WE 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? Wh
en 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.