A Promise of Forever

by Marilyn Pappano

  Calvin rubbed his hands over his face. It was ten o’clock on a Saturday night, and his wandering around Tacoma had just begun. It would be near dawn before he’d be able to sleep, and then he’d be lucky if he managed two hours. The Department of Defense had classified systematic sleep deprivation as torture. He knew that better than most. He wasn’t sure of the last time he’d gotten a good night’s rest. Maybe back in 2007?

  He’d tried booze, hypnosis, guided meditation, and none of it had helped. Neither had warm milk, melatonin, or prayer. Sleeping pills had worked for a while, until he’d awakened around three in the morning and didn’t have a clue in hell where he was, how he got there, or what he’d done. He’d flushed the pills down the toilet the next day.

  He sat, back rigid, gaze sweeping the dining room and the street beyond every few moments. He kept his hands flat on the table, his muscles wound so tight that his skin practically vibrated. This skin didn’t fit anymore. It hadn’t for a long time. Some days he thought he would get lost inside it; others he was sure it was going to split right open, unable to contain all the sorrow that was him.

  Most days he wished that today would be the day. That everything inside him would swell and grow until his shell of a body could no longer hold him, that he would explode into a thousand little pieces, and that when the dust had settled, he would be gone.

  No more Captain Calvin Sweet, United States Army, veteran of the unholy war on terror, the best thing Justice and Elizabeth Sweet claimed they’d ever produced, and a sorry son of a bitch. His epitaph could say He came home but not really.

  The waitress brought him coffee, black and steaming, its pungent aroma familiar enough to wake his taste buds. He poured a little cup of cream into it, added a packet of sugar, and stirred it long enough to lessen the potential for scalding before taking a sip.

  He hadn’t expected a grimy little diner in the middle of a hopeless neighborhood to have the best coffee he’d ever tasted. So much for expectations.

  He’d had a lot of them when he was young. He’d expected that he and J’Myel Ford would be best friends forever. He’d expected that he would make the most of his time in the Army—would live up to their motto and be all that he could be. He’d expected to fall in love and get married, to have kids who would be overjoyed when he returned home from a deployment. To retire and buy a house in Tallgrass just down the street from his parents’. To start a second career, to coach his kids’ soccer and little league teams, to celebrate regularly with J’Myel for big reasons and little reasons and for none at all. Just because they were the best friends ever.

  But his friendship with J’Myel had ended, for causes he’d never really understood. J’Myel had passed not long after, and Calvin…he had no reason to celebrate. He had no reason to live.

  He just didn’t know how to die.

  * * *

  When Avi awoke Sunday morning, it took her a moment to remember where she was. A glimpse of the stack of Post-its on the nightstand reminded her, though, and made her smile. The first had been attached to the bathroom mirror: Don’t let Sundance sleep in your bed. The next had been on the bedroom door: She has a bed of her own. And the last, on the lampshade beside the bed: I mean it, Avery. I didn’t pay $40 for a bed for her so she could not use it.

  Rolling onto her side, she gave the still-snoozing puppy an ear rub. “You don’t know how good you have it, pretty girl.”

  The dog opened one eye to look at her, closed it again, and gave the kind of nose-to-tail joint-popping stretch that Avi envied. After that, she sat up, hopped off the bed, and trotted to the door with a whine.

  Avi stretched out her own kinks before opening the door, then following Sundance down the stairs. She let her out into the backyard, padded to the refrigerator, and found nothing to tempt her. In the pantry she located a stash of granola bars neatly arranged in a cream-and-green enameled pan with a rusty and holey bottom that GrandMir had used for storage for as long as Avi could remember. It brought a rush of warmth, of sweet memories and old times.

  According to the clock on the microwave, she had a half hour to feed Sundance, get dressed, and pick up Ben for breakfast. If she were a girly sort of girl, she would need every minute of that time, but even before joining the Army, she’d been nothing of the sort. Sure, she liked to look good. She did her hair, chose clothes that flattered, and counted Bobbi Brown cosmetics as necessities of life, but getting ready and out the door was, like everything else, a streamlined process for her.

  She tore open the foil wrapper on the granola bar, and Sundance let out a demanding bark. Avi let her in, broke off a piece of granola bar for her, then took a big bite for herself while getting out the chow. Don’t feed Sundance people food, the note on the storage bin read. Avi pulled it off and found a second one underneath: Seriously. It’ll just make her fat.

  “I bet she sneaks bites to you all the time,” Avi said with a laugh as she scooped out the proper amount into a decorated dish. After giving the dog fresh water, she grabbed the rest of the granola bar and jogged down the hall and upstairs.

  She showered, brushed her teeth, blow-dried her hair, did her makeup, and dressed in shorts, shirt, and sandals in seventeen minutes. Good time. Maybe even record-setting. She even had time to spray on perfume, make a stab at straightening the bed, and grab her cell phone.

  Sundance was waiting when she reached the front hall, her big eyes hopefully shifting between the closet, where her leash and toys were kept, and Avi. “No walk this morning,” Avi said, but all the dog understood was walk. She bounced, jumped, and did everything but claw at the door. It required careful maneuvering for Avi to slip outside without the dog, who howled mournfully when the door closed in her face.

  It wasn’t even nine o’clock, and it was hot and humid and promising more of both. Dew glistened on grass that somehow managed to look wet and parched at the same time. Avi empathized. There’d been times in the desert when she’d wondered how the hell she could sweat so much at the same time her throat was so bone dry that cold water seemed a distant memory.

  But she was out of the desert, now and, supposedly, for good. The President had promised the withdrawal of troops, and sometimes she believed him. Now her next duty assignment was Fort Gordon, Georgia, home of Dwight D. Eisenhower Army Medical Center and Signal Corps, where she would teach younger, newer soldiers all about the cool gear they would be using for Army communications. Augusta had been her first stop back in the States, where she’d rented an apartment and accepted delivery of her household goods before coming to Oklahoma.

  It took only a few minutes to drive to Patricia’s house. This was the house where George and Patricia had intended to retire—close to Patricia’s hometown of Tulsa, within fifteen minutes of the post, where they would get medical care and take advantage of the commissary and exchange. They’d taken extra care choosing the house, and instead of simply living there until his next orders came down, they’d made it a home.

  Where she would now live alone.

  Avi’s heart ached as she pulled into the driveway. Patricia’s car was parked ahead of her; in the detached garage beyond that, George’s pride and joy, a ’65 Mustang, was likely stored. He’d loved that car and had joked that Avi could have it when he died. She’d joked right back about what a great inheritance that would be, but she’d meant in thirty years or more, when the car was better suited to her child or grandchild.

  Life was so damned unfair.

  She shut off the engine and got out of the rental, but before she’d gone farther than the front bumper, Ben came out of the house. He wore denim shorts and a T-shirt advertising a 5K run and walk to benefit arthritis research. Neither garment clung snugly, but damn, her libido hadn’t been playing tricks on her. He was still as handsome as the night before.

  “Are you a runner?” she asked instead of saying hello.

  His brows narrowed, then he looked down at the shirt. “Oh. Hell, no. Our practice was one of the sponsors, so we all took part. I
walked. My sister ran it twice in the same time just to prove she could.”

  “I think I’d like her.”

  “I bet you would. She’s nice. They both are.” He opened the passenger door, scooted the seat back to make room for his long legs, then slid in. Their doors closed about the same time with equally solid thuds.

  “If you don’t run,” she asked as she restarted the engine, “what do you do to stay in shape?”

  “I work twelve to fourteen hours a day and eat out of vending machines.”

  She shuddered. “Do you know how much sugar, sodium, and saturated fats are in processed snack foods?”

  “Nope. Ignorance is bliss.” He waited until she’d backed into the street, then gestured straight ahead. “Go east to First Street, then turn right. So when we get to Serena’s, are you going to order an egg-white omelet and turkey sausage?”

  “Are you going to order biscuits and gravy and bacon and ham and fried eggs?” she countered. All of which sounded really good to her at the moment. Along with blueberry pancakes, pecan waffles, scrambled eggs, and maybe even toast with jam.

  “Whatever I order, don’t expect me to share. You can’t get an egg-white omelet, then eat my biscuits and gravy.”

  She laughed, easing the car to a stop at Tallgrass’s main north–south street, the one she’d come into town on yesterday. “Don’t worry. I’ll get enough food for you and me both, and I don’t mind sharing.”

  She took the right turn he advised, then turned left on Main. Spotting the sign for Serena’s, she grabbed the first parking space, across the street and in front of a small junk store. Junking had been one of GrandMir’s favorite pastimes. Avi had tagged along on a hundred trips, not always of her own free will, but she’d gotten some cool vintage toys out of the treks.

  There wasn’t much traffic at this time on a Sunday morning. They strolled across the street to Serena’s, Avi stealing glances all the way, the romantic inside her sighing when he held the restaurant door for her.

  Avi was a firm believer that she could judge the quality of a restaurant with nothing more than a deep breath, and Serena’s definitely got two thumbs up. On top of the usual breakfast scents, she identified some of her favorite smells in the world: sticky buns, cakes, and pies. Apple and cherry and peach and pecan. Oh, yum.

  They took a booth at the front with a lazy view of the street. Avi gave the breakfast menu a quick skim, doctored the coffee the waitress delivered, then settled her gaze outside. The courthouse was across the street, and shops and businesses lined both sides of the block. Nothing was open today, at least not yet. Tallgrass was one of those lovely small towns with a still-vital downtown district. No doubt, the Army post contributed to that, but the town was probably lively enough on its own.

  “What can I get you, hon?”

  She looked from the courthouse flag rippling in the breeze to the waitress. “Two eggs over easy, toast, hash browns, a pecan waffle, and orange juice.”

  Ben stared at her. “Do you know how much sugar, sodium, and fat of every kind are in that order?”

  “I do,” she replied. “I’m just choosing to ignore it this morning.”

  Shaking his head, he ordered the same thing, minus the juice. In response to her look, he said, “I eat out of vending machines. You think I’m going to opt for healthy?”

  Silence fell between them, letting snippets of other diners’ conversations reach them: talk about church, the weather, the chances for the high school football team, putting gardens to bed until next spring, planting fall flowers or crops. No talk about war or death or dying.

  It was a small but very sweet pleasure.

  The silence went on long enough to become uncomfortable, then even longer, morphing into something worthy of laughter. “Okay,” she said, surrendering first. “I’ll start the conversation. Cowboy or Sooner?”

  “I went to OSU, though I root for the Sooners if they’re playing anyone besides OSU.”

  She gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Did you go to OU’s medical school?”

  “No. OSU-Tulsa. You?”

  “I joined the Army right out of high school, but I root for the Cowboys and every team that plays against OU.”

  “Aw, where’s your state loyalty?”

  “I’ve got tons of state loyalty. I have defended Oklahoma from unknowing and ignorant fools on more than a few occasions, but OU is not my state. They just happen to be located here, and nothing makes me happier than when they lose a football game.” She managed a superior sniff. “It doesn’t surprise me at all that OU chose to name their teams after the Sooners.”

  There had been Boomers and Sooners in the Oklahoma land run: those who followed the law and waited for the boom of the cannons to open the run and those who cheated and sneaked in early, trying to claim the best properties before the law-abiding citizens had a chance.

  “They probably thought it sounded better than ‘gate-crashing cheats.’”

  “I don’t know. It might be hard to fit on a uniform, but I kind of like the sound of it.” Avi smiled, thinking of other things she liked: the sound of his voice, the dry humor in it, the intense look in his eyes. She liked that she was sitting in a restaurant with no more to worry her mind than clogging her arteries, and she especially liked that he was sitting across from her. It made her remember that once upon a time, she’d shared meals with men, gone to movies and clubs and parties and to bed with them. Once upon a time when life was normal.

  It was a lovely, lovely feeling.

  * * *

  “How long have you been in the Army?” Ben asked as the waitress, arms loaded with plates, headed their way.

  “Twelve years.”

  Which made her twenty-nine, maybe thirty, years old. A nice age, given that he was approaching thirty-six. He liked women close enough to his age to have the same sorts of memories and experiences to draw on, who got the same cultural and historical references he did.

  Not that he and Avi were going to have a lot of time to bond.

  “Are you planning to retire?”

  She nodded. “Eight more years, and I’ll have decent money and excellent benefits, as long as Congress keeps their hands off of our retirement.”

  “What kind of benefits?”

  Avi waited until the waitress laid out their plates—two each—and refilled their coffees, then returned with another orange juice. Unwrapping her silverware from the napkin, she took a bite of waffle first, then sighed happily.

  “Medical benefits are the big ones. Retirees can also use the services on post—buy groceries at the commissary, shop for everything else at the exchange, use the Morale Welfare Recreation stuff, like the golf course, the pools, the picnic areas and boat rentals at Tall Grass Lake. They can fly Space A—the A stands for available—when a military plane has seats open and go just about anywhere in the world. The different services have motels or lodges where we can stay cheap, in cool places like San Diego, Key West, or Hawaii. Some people spend their retirement traveling the world at bargain rates and seeing incredible things.”

  “Is that what you want to do?”

  A little of the animation disappeared from her expression. “I’ve seen a lot of the world. I might want to travel sometime, but I’m really looking forward to living in Tallgrass, seeing my parents more often, and not moving every few years. I’ll have to get tired of that before I start hitting the Space A road.”

  Ben watched her delicate hands wield knife and fork to arrange her eggs on the hash browns, butter the toast, and slice the waffle into bite-size pieces. She drizzled them with syrup—not maple, blueberry, or any of the other specialty syrups on the table but good ol’ Griffin’s made-in-Oklahoma syrup. He’d done pretty much the same thing to his meal before taking a bite.

  “I’ve never really known any soldiers,” he commented after eating a little. “The two women who started the margarita club—the widows’ club—one got married again in June, and the other’s wedding is scheduled for after Christmas
. Anyway, I met Dane and Logan at their Fourth of July cookout, and I had a patient who broke his ankle while home on leave, but other than that, you’re pretty much the first.”

  “Since George.”

  He looked up to see her brows raised, her wide eyes encouraging him to say, Oh, yeah, George. Of course. He couldn’t do it. “I never really knew George.”

  “Why not?” Again, her expression was so clear he could read it: A person stayed in touch with people who mattered, whether they lived in the same city or state or even on the same continent, and a mother and her adored husband mattered.

  When he’d first visited Tallgrass back in May, when Lucy had coerced him into coming to be with Patricia in the days following George’s death, he’d had no problem talking about how she had abandoned him, his sisters, and his father, how his dad’s broken heart had led to his early death. Everything bad between them had been her fault; she’d admitted it readily; he’d never blurred the details to protect her.

  Now, faced with Avi’s simple question, he didn’t want to talk about abandonment and betrayal or how the thousands of miles of physical distance separating Patricia from her family had been nothing compared to the emotional distance.

  So instead he shrugged, and knew it came off as lame. “They were stationed so far away.”

  “Yeah, but no place you couldn’t have easily reached for a visit.”

  He shrugged again. “How’s your food?”

  She took a bite and thoroughly chewed it while watching him. After swallowing and taking a drink of juice, she politely dabbed her mouth. “It’s living up to Mom’s praise.” She forked up another bit of egg and potatoes and held it in midair. “George was a great guy. I’d never seen two people better suited to each other than him and Patricia. Well, except for my mom and dad. And GrandMir and Popi.”

  This time he couldn’t keep the words from popping out. “Funny. I always thought the same thing about my dad and Patricia.”