Frosting on the Cake

by Karin Kallmaker

  * * *

  That night I had the nightmare that had plagued me since Bosnia, but I came out of it differently. Every other time I woke up feeling the weight of the rifle in my hands, but tonight I sat up with my hands over my ears, trying to shut out the sound of my own gunfire. For the first time since I’d been home I hadn’t woken my mother. Maybe it was getting better. I could certainly see how getting on with my future, having some plans, could make those images fade. My ears were ringing from the memory of the screaming and the noise. I drank some water and thought about Cinny and—also for the first time—I went back to sleep.

  The sale of the house went smoothly. I saw Cinny again when she met my folks and me so they could see the place. My dad was as enthused as I was about the renovations, and my mom and Cinny were having a jolly conversation about carpets and wallpaper. My mom would remember everything Cinny said; I’d pick her brain later. When my mom looked at me speculatively, I smiled and shrugged. She looked back at Cinny with appraising eyes, then gave me a little wink. Apparently Cinny was no longer classified as fire. She would be an acceptable daughter-in-law, even with her notorious divorce on the horizon.

  I wasn’t able to come up with anything other than a flatout request for a date to see her again, so we didn’t meet up until the closing. She gave me a bottle of Champagne when the title officer gave me the keys.

  “I can’t drink it by myself. We could pick up some dinner and share a toast at the house,” I suggested. It was not exactly a request for a date, and I congratulated myself on sounding friendly and not too eager. All my instincts said she was not ready for anything more.

  She was amenable and insisted on picking up the dinner. We agreed on burgers and I then had the solitary joy of driving to my new home and unlocking my own door.

  First item on the to-do list: oil the lock. I had a lot of work ahead, but work has never daunted me.

  I went outside when I heard the Mustang pull into the driveway, and there she was, wearing a turquoise sweater set that outlined curves I’d committed to memory “There’s nowhere to sit,” I admitted as I relieved her of the sodas she was juggling in addition to the fast food bag.

  She laughed, unfazed. “I forgot about that. The carpet will do.”

  Her legs seem to stretch out in front of her for miles. I thought about the long journey from ankle to thigh and tried to swallow my burger. After choking down another bite, I drained my soda and wondered how on earth I’d managed to go without sex for so long.

  It occurred to me after the last curly fry that there was no reason for her to visit me again. I had failed to establish a routine with her that would continue to bring us into contact without it seeming like a date.

  “So what are you going to tackle first?”

  She offered me the rest of her fries, but I waved them away. “The office, I think. I can sleep anywhere, though I prefer something soft instead of the floor and a bedroll. Been there, done that.”

  She laughed and I liked the sound of it. She had always been vivacious and high-spirited, but I honestly did not remember her laughing as much as she seemed to now. “My bones don’t appreciate sleeping on the floor anymore, either.”

  “Forty is a bitch,” I acknowledged. “But I can cope for a while. I want to get the office up so I can go online and take up the two contract offers I have pending. The companies are ready to use me if I can sign on to their networks to do my thing.”

  She asked about my specialty, data encryption and network security. The sun set while I was explaining it—she seemed genuinely interested—and I got up to turn on the weak but functional overhead lights. “So I think I’ll start with a full court press tomorrow,” I finished, pointing at the bedroom I was going to turn into an office. “Rip up that carpet and put down durable flooring. I need a boatload of bookshelves. I’ll do everything but paint and paper because next year the roof comes off.”

  “What kind of flooring?”

  I already knew her preferences. Wonderfully, they matched mine. “The new tongue-and-groove synthetic for the office because of the chair. I like it because it warms easily, for one thing.”

  “Easy on the toes in the wintertime.”

  “You got that right. I like carpet in bedrooms for just that reason, but I won’t do anything beyond the floor in the office so I can get the heavy furniture down and put in the bookshelves. After that I guess I’ll start tearing up kitchen counters and cabinets. The contractor will start the installs next month after the first inspection. I save a lot doing the demolition work myself”

  “Do you need any help? I’ve done some renovating in my time. It’s great therapy, tearing stuff down.”

  I hid my gulp of enthusiasm. “You bet. If you want to slave on my behalf, I won’t stop you. My mama didn’t raise no fools.”

  “How about tomorrow? I’m already experiencing the fall and winter slowdown at work. It started a little early this year. I can only guess why.” She was trying not to sound bitter, but I heard the edge.

  “It’ll get better,” I promised, as if I could change people’s minds. “Hold your head up.”

  “I try.” She gave me a sideways look that held a measure of affection that I never dreamed I’d see. “If I forget how, I’ll just think of how you do it. You and Rett —good role models for me. I just took too long to notice.” I offered a hand as she got to her feet. I forced myself not to watch her smooth her skirt. “I’m an early riser, so whenever you feel like it, just stop in. I’ll have places to sit tomorrow— my mom has scrounged the county for card tables and folding chairs, spare dishes. She even located a coffee maker, as if I couldn’t afford to buy one.”

  “If you’re promising coffee, I’ll be human by ten.” She walked toward the door, then turned suddenly. “We forgot all about the Champagne!”

  Yeep. “I bet we really need it tomorrow, ’long about three o’clock.”

  “You’re probably right. Let’s save it—don’t forget to ice it, though. Warm champagne is disgusting.” She lightheartedly waved good-bye, and the house seemed dark and lonely without her.

  I gave myself a stern talking to. By no means was any future with Cinny certain. I would have to make this place my own, but leave the door wide open.

  We tore up carpet, we carted home boxes of hardwood tile, we bruised our hands spreading paste and cutting odd shapes, and we drained the Champagne when we were too weary to do more. She was methodical and painstaking in every detail and promised to spend her next free day doing what she called therapy.

  That was how the fall went. She dropped by about once a week and we’d work companionably, always talking. I prefer Pepsi, but always kept a supply of her preferred Diet Coke chilled. My office looked great, for the moment, and I was also hard at work downloading files and writing encryption routines for two different Web hosting companies. The hourly pay was fabulous and often called for twenty-hour workdays. But I got to pick and choose what I did and could give myself decent breaks along the way.

  Cinny shopped for appliances with me, and was there when I picked the countertops and cabinets for the kitchen. She liked those awful pink snowball things as a snack but they’re hard to find. I surprised her one day with a large supply because I’d seen them on sale. She was there when I plotted out the garden with the landscaper and approved the designs for the second story so we could get a permit going. There was only so much that could be done while the weather was wet and cold, but we did what we could. She was as organized as I was and as the weeks went by, she seemed to always know what I was thinking. My nightmares eased, which was also a wonderful thing.

  I had been lazy about getting my hair cut and unexpectedly, she said she liked it just a little bit longer, with just a hint of curl at the ends. I decided to leave it for a while and see if I could stand it. There was a day when she had been in a hurry and not put on her makeup. The crow’s feet and slight imperfections of her skin that makeup usually covered were exquisite to me. I loved the pale pinkness of
her bare lips. All I said was that she didn’t have to gild the lily on my account. After that she was more often au naturel than not. I considered that a major step forward in our friendship. I hoped she understood that I loved her beauty, but my definition of beauty extended deeper than Avon could reach.

  She helped me hang Christmas lights all around the house right after Thanksgiving and stayed late enough to see me light them. I didn’t realize until then that she always left before dark, even after the time change. The only exceptions were when we went shopping and stopped for dinner. She always left as soon as we got back to the house, though.

  I came down the ladder from changing out a dead bulb. It wasn’t all that easy to do wearing full winter regalia. The wind chill was ten degrees, and snow was promised overnight. Cinny was huddled on the hood of her car, but when I flipped the lights back on, she applauded and clambered down.

  “They look great.”

  They did. “I’m freezing.”

  We tromped inside and started the process of shedding

  coats, boots, hats, gloves, wrappers and earmuffs. My zipper had jammed when I put my coat on, so I tried to take it off over my head. After a minute of struggling, I had to say from the depths of the coat, “I’m stuck.”

  She tried to get the zipper to cooperate, then yanked on the jacket. “That’s my ear,” I yelped.

  She apparently found it all very funny, because she was laughing quite hard. Her next approach was to try to free my arms from the sleeves so we could work on getting my head through the collar. It seemed to work, but as I got one arm free I realized my shirt had stayed with the coat. I tried to get my shirt back on just as she yanked on the coat. The next thing I knew I was waist-up naked and she had my clothes.

  I don’t need a bra. Wished real hard right then that I wore one anyway. Even a sports bra.

  She stopped laughing for just a moment, then plunked down on the floor, nearly hysterical. I lunged for my coat, but she stuffed it under her and we had quite a tussle—which did nothing for my composure. I ended up with my shirt back on in less than thirty seconds while she just lay there laughing at me.

  “You brat,” I scolded. “I’m freezing.” I wrapped my arms over my rock-hard breasts—cold and her nearness were both culprits—and didn’t have to fake shivers.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, not looking in the least bit contrite. “It was too much fun to see you less than poised for once, Lieutenant.”

  I rolled my eyes and headed for the kitchen.

  “I just want to check the news before I take off,” she said, flipping on the portable TV that sat on the card table. It was the only TV I had so far and it was plenty for me. She was a real news hound and never liked to be out of touch for more than half a day.

  What happened next was completely unexpected. The volume was very low and she punched the remote. She muttered, “What’s wrong with this thing?” Suddenly the volume was way too loud.

  I didn’t register that it was a news story about continued bloodshed in the Middle East. I heard the gunfire. I head a woman screaming. I was back in Bosnia. We were moving into a new zone and I was along to secure and investigate some enemy computers that had been abandoned so quickly they hadn’t been destroyed. I wasn’t supposed to be on my own, but I’d heard the screaming. All the reports I’d encoded about what they were doing to the women made me run, made me pull my weapon around for use. I heard my C.O. bawling at me to get my ass back with the unit, but I went through the dark doorway without regard to my own or anyone else’s safety. The three lifeless bodies, clothing and bodies mutilated, the woman-girl on the ground screaming, the huddle of men over her, the other three women screaming too, knowing their turns were coming—judge, jury, executioner. It was over in ten seconds. Not even that. Over. Gunshots. Blood. The screaming didn’t stop.

  “Natalie—”

  My C.O. was livid at my recklessness and I was in shock. The women escaped into the warren of abandoned buildings, taking with them the barely alive, barely pubescent girl who had been on the floor. They ran. Maybe they didn’t know I was a woman, that I wasn’t trying to take them for myself. The C.O. looked down at all the dead bodies—three women, five men—drew his sidearm, and shot each man once in the head. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. I was being sick while he searched the women’s bodies for some way to identify them. His report didn’t mention my failure to obey orders or the danger I had placed my unit and myself in by running off. Instead, he recorded what we had interrupted and that he had carried out summary justice. He made no mention of my bullets in those bodies, sparing me a nightmare of inquiries.

  I was on my feet, being sick in the sink. Someone strong, warm, soothing was holding me, trying to help. I panted for breath and used the brick imagery the therapist had suggested to block the images out. One by one.

  The roaring in my ears stopped abruptly and I knew I was safe. I’d saved lives and taken lives and had never wanted any of that responsibility.

  Cinny was rinsing the sink while she kept one arm around me. My face was a mess. I’d only hinted about not sleeping well sometimes, and that I had some bad memories from overseas, but I hadn’t wanted her to know much more than that. I had certainly never wanted her to see me like this.

  “Better?” She offered me some water after I scrubbed my face.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  There was a long silence, which she finally ended by saying, “You don’t have to tell me—I don’t think I want to know.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t.” No one wanted to know. The list of war atrocities hardly hinted at what had been routinely done to captured women.“That’s the first time that’s happened since I’ve been home.” I was hoping it was a final catharsis. I didn’t want to stop caring about what had happened, I just didn’t want my horror and regrets to incapacitate me. I drained the water and started a second glass.

  “I have to go,” she said quietly. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I’m here,” I answered firmly, feeling stronger by the minute. “I’m not there. I’m not going back there. That situation doesn’t even exist anymore. And I’ll be fine.”

  I followed her to the doorway. Maybe she didn’t expect me to be so close behind her, because she turned quickly and was almost in my arms.

  “Oh—” She looked startled, then stunned, then I knew she was deeply aware of me. Her breath seemed to quicken, her mouth opened slightly.

  We leaned toward each other, the slightest inclination of our heads, and then she backed away. “I can’t,” she stammered. “I can’t.”

  Rett Jamison had never told me any specifics, but putting two and two together from what both she and Cinny had let slip, Cinny had always been the one to back out of their high-school encounters, only to come back for more. I was too emotional to stop my mouth. “I won’t play games. I’m not Rett.”

  “No, you’re not,” she agreed. I had no idea if that was an indictment or a compliment, or just a simple statement of truth. She slung on her coat and was out the door before I could think of another thing to do or say. Her footsteps crunched over the hard ground, then the car door slammed.

  She was gone, and at high speed.

  Christmas and New Year’s came and went and I didn’t see her. I knew that for two of those lonely weeks she was in Florida with her parents. She and her husband had made those plans back in the early summer. She’d said it seemed ages ago, but she was keeping the promise she’d made. I knew she was probably not having a wonderful time, given her parents’ continued reservations about her “sudden” change of lifestyle.

  But there were a good ten days when she was most likely home and she didn’t come near me. I should have picked up the phone. I should have made an effort, but I didn’t know what the problem was and didn’t want to fall into the same yes-no scenario Rett had endured. I was old enough to know better.

  What bothered me, though, was I knew I hadn’t misread her. She accepted who she was now, and I really d
idn’t think she wanted to play the tease anymore.

  Except for the situation with Cinny, the holidays were otherwise good to me. I had only two nightmares in nearly three weeks, and the family gathering Christmas Day was the most congenial I could ever remember. Grammie Jean made gingersnaps and I had no problem sitting down with all the littler to have my own snaps and hot cocoa after dinner. The oldest little was seven, and then there was me. It felt great to be a kid again, if only for a half an hour. I didn’t know that kids these days are card sharks. I lost nine gingersnaps in a vicious game of Crazy Eights.

  I also got a ton of work done—consulting work. With Cinny’s help, and the preliminary work by the kitchen cabinet maker, the house had reached a stasis until warmer weather. So I had lots of time to give and raked in a shocking amount of money. Extras I had put on hold for the renovation— remodeling the downstairs bathroom was one—were starting to look doable this year, not next.

  The first Friday after New Year’s it snowed late in the afternoon, so I was surprised to hear a car in the driveway. I didn’t let myself think it was Cinny, but it was definitely her Mustang, with chains on.

  She looked bedraggled and miserable in the wan porch light. Of course I let her in.

  She peeled off the winter layers without saying anything beyond, “I hate putting on chains.”

  My office and the kitchen were the only livable rooms— the bedroom was beyond sparse—so I headed for the kitchen as she kicked off her snow boots. “Do you want some coffee?”

  “I came to show you this.”

  I turned from the cupboard to see her holding out a thick sheaf of papers. “What is it? Something related to the house?”

  “I went down to the county courthouse this afternoon to get my copy. It was issued today at two p.m.” She continued holding them out to me.