The sergeant major entered the room. They immediately stood, slapped their hands to their sides, and saluted. Sergeant Major held a stack of papers in his hands. He called out one name after another, then said, “Men, it’s almost time for you to show what you’re made of. In three weeks, you’re all going to Saudi Arabia. I’m approving a one-week leave so each of you can go home and say good-bye to your families.”
The way he’d said good-bye sounded permanent. In many ways, Lincoln’s leaving Selma after graduation was his good-bye.
A year had already ticked away. This would be his second deployment. Glancing at his orders, he read six months. Being in Saudi Arabia would be new and hopefully more fun than when he was in Okinawa. With the exception of confiding in his friend, Randy Thomas, Lincoln kept his personal life private. He’d hit it off with Randy during BT because they both played football in high school and they were the only two shooters in their unit who ranked above the marksmen and the sharpshooters.
“You going home, Lincoln?” Randy asked, then started singing “Sweet Home Alabama.”
Where was home for William Lincoln?
Chicago, where his I-don’t-give-a-damn-about-that-boy parents lived? Or Selma where his know-it-all grandfather was born and raised. All his life, someone told him what to do or what not to do. Being in the military gave Lincoln a solid foundation and a new group of dictators.
“Nah, man. I’m good. I’ma stay here,” Lincoln said.
“Man, this here entire section on base is going to be a ghost town. Why don’t you call your grandparents? Go to Selma. See those two females you keep talking about all the time. Get your spill on, you feel me. Drop some seeds. Fertilize those fields,” Randy said, bobbing his head. “And take some pictures, dude, because Randy don’t believe you telling the truth about having fam in Alabama.”
Sometimes, Randy called him William or Lincoln, but most of the time he called him Alabama. That was cool. Long as he never called him Bama.
There were lots of truths that Lincoln had shared with Randy. But he’d never said, “Man, the longer it takes me to call or write Mona Lisa and Katherine, the easier it gets not to.”
He wanted to know if Katherine had had his baby, but at the same time he didn’t. What good would it do for him to be away from his child for years? Holding pictures instead of holding his kid and the woman who should be his wife? His mind wouldn’t be on destroying the enemy. He’d be consumed with the enemy annihilating him. Worse, what if he died and his family became a gold star family before he ever laid eyes on his baby?
“I’ll go home when I get out.” Maybe.
“Then in the meantime and in between time, Alabama, you’re going home with me. Ever been to New Orleans, my brother?” Randy asked. Not waiting for an answer, he continued, “You’re in for a real treat.”
Lincoln laughed. “There’s a first time for everything.”
CHAPTER 4
Mona
July 2001
“Why can’t I go to New York and hang with my college friends?” Mona stood at the island, picked an egg from the paper carton, held it in her hand. After tapping the shell on the edge, she plopped the yolk and egg white into a bowl, then picked up another egg. She’d cracked two more eggs before her mother responded.
“I’ll give you three good reasons why. Because you don’t have a job, your father won’t supplement it, and I can’t afford it.”
She watched her mom sit at the kitchen table thumbing through the Saturday morning paper. “Can you believe those pro-choice activists are planning to rally next weekend in favor of a woman’s right to have an abortion? If these little fast girls weren’t so quick to open their legs and mouths at the same time, they’d have a husband to take care of the baby instead of mutilating their bodies by having an abortion.”
Her mother believed a woman’s job was to procreate. Maybe her mom was right, but Mona was a free spirit and didn’t want anything or anyone holding her down.
This might be the perfect time to confess. Detaching the tiny white embryo from the yolk, Mona reflected on the day she’d aborted Lincoln’s baby. His leaving and not calling within two weeks made her decision easier. She didn’t want kids, she wasn’t prepared to be a mother, and she refused to be a single mom.
“Ma, times have changed. Women have the right to choose when they want to start a family. And if no one can make a man be a dad, then no one has the right to force a woman to be a mom.”
Slapping the newspaper shut, her mother scolded, “Don’t speak crazy in my house. Only God reserves that right. We’re Christians. And true Christians don’t kill. The Bible says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”
True Christians? Mona was convinced she’d take her secret to her grave. Being away from Selma for a year was great. Gave her time to mature. Discover what she liked most about herself. Spontaneity. Spunk. Suspense intrigued her.
Studying a little. Partying a lot. Getting drunk. Having tons of sex. The independence she had at Clark Atlanta was awesome. Selma was still her home base, but Mona wanted to booze it up in the Big Apple.
“Mama, I have to see Times Square, go to plays on Broadway, tour Brooklyn, get—”
“Brooklyn?”
“Yes, Mama. It can’t be bad to visit a place where people live. I know you can afford it. Come on.” Mona poured grits into the boiling water, layered bacon into a pan, beat the eggs, then poured them into a hot cast-iron skillet.
Her mother married at twenty, worked ten years, gave birth to her at the age of thirty, and never spent a penny of her money for anything. Mona’s mom told her that story enough times for Mona to know that neither her dad nor her mother was broke. Her mom was what her dad referred to as penny-wise and dollar-smart.
“Little girl, who do you think has to pay your tuition for the next three years? And your dorm fees? And for your meals? Your clothes? And who puts money in your pocket and gas in your car? Money does not grow on trees.”
Mona mumbled, “You do.” But a couple of hundred dollars wasn’t much.
Digging her cell phone from inside her bra, Mona answered, “Hi, Steven. What you doin’ tonight?” She’d broken up with him right before leaving for college. No need in lying to herself. She had zero intentions on being faithful.
Steven called every day during her summer break. She wished he’d gone to college instead of bumming around town. Mona wasn’t sure what he did to earn money, but Steven was never broke.
“Whatever you want. Where you wanna go? I can pick you up whatever time you say.”
A wide smile crossed Mona’s face. “I wanna go to New York!”
“Then let’s go. Pack your bags. You can stay at my house tonight and we can head out first thing in the morning.”
Mona flipped the bacon, put grits and eggs on her mama’s plate, then hers. “Mama, Steven is taking me to the Big Apple.” Her smile disappeared. “Oh, wait, Steven. I forgot to tell you I don’t have any money.”
In his country accent, he said, “That’s what you’ve got me for. I’ve got you covered.”
“Mona, hang up the phone. You’re not going anywhere with him. I said no, and that’s final.”
Final was relative. “Steven, let me call you back. Bye.”
She stared at her mother, placed her mom’s breakfast on the table, then said, “I see this has nothing to do with money. Be grateful, Mama. I’m not pregnant. I’m in college. I have good grades. I’m grown, and like it or not, I am going to New York. You don’t tell Daddy where not to go and you’re not going to tell me.”
Mona had lost her appetite. She went into her bedroom, slammed the door. She’d made up her mind. What was her mother going to do?
She couldn’t stop her from leaving.
CHAPTER 5
Katherine
August 2001
A blessing and a curse.
Bouncing her baby in one arm and holding a book in her hand wasn’t fun. Her attention was continuously divided. A social life was virtually
nonexistent. Not being invited to go to UFL games, Greek shows, parties, and movies, and not being able to readily accept offers to go out on dates made Katherine feel her college experience was passing her by. Loving her son was easy. Being a single teenage mother should not have been her destiny. But it was her reality.
Her baby was already six months old, twenty-two pounds, twenty-eight inches long, and still breast-feeding. Placing the book on the end table, she moved from the sofa to the rocking chair and lifted her blouse. His small hands held her breast on both sides, then he latched onto her areola with his eyes closed.
Seated on the sofa, her mother surfed through television channels while keeping watch over a toddler in the playpen in front of her. “It’s time to stop letting that baby drain you dry, Katherine. Feeding him five times a day is too much. I don’t know if he’s nursing or nestling. We can squeeze a few extra cans of formula out of the budget.”
“Mama, Jeremiah is not out of the woods yet. We don’t know if the formula, the diet, the vaccines, immunizations, or a combination of it all causes autism, but I’m not taking any chances. I’ll feed my baby until I dry up. That’s the way nature intended.”
The modest two-bedroom unit was cozy. Her mother earned a few extra dollars by keeping other students’ kids throughout the week and occasionally on weekends. The kitchen table doubled as Katherine’s desk when she studied for midterms and finals.
“There’s no proof of what causes autism, but I’m sure sticking your tittie in that boy’s mouth all day isn’t preventative,” her mother said. She picked up the little girl from the playpen and fed her a bottle of water.
Maybe her mother was right. Katherine asked, “What about the fact that feeding honey to infants and toddlers can cause irreversible nerve damage or even death? All I’m saying is, breast-feeding can’t hurt him.”
If Katherine would have secretly aborted her baby when she first found out she was expecting, would her life undoubtedly be easier? And she wouldn’t be having this conversation or living on campus with her mother and son. Katherine wasn’t sure that the guilt of killing her unborn wouldn’t have haunted her forever.
She couldn’t ignore what her mom told her. “God doesn’t make mistakes. People do.”
Getting pregnant was a huge mistake, but why was it that Lincoln could go on with life? Had he made a mistake? He could have another girlfriend or girlfriends if he wanted. Have sex whenever he wanted to be pleased. The simple joy of being alone was a decision he could easily make. He could freely do all the things that she had to make arrangements for.
“Mama, it’s time for us to go home to Selma. I’m not ashamed of my baby or my situation. I like being in Florida, but I miss home. I want my friends to see my son.”
Friends. Her friends who were at the hospital when she’d had her baby had moved on with their lives. She couldn’t blame them. What college student wanted to be trapped in an apartment playing auntie to an infant? Katherine was anxious for Lincoln’s grandparents to see their great-grandson. Hopefully when she saw them they’d give her an address or phone number for Lincoln.
She erased all of her thoughts about having intercourse when hearing the doctor say, “No sex for six weeks.” Six weeks had snowballed into six months of celibacy. Not intentionally. With the horror stories of condoms slipping, breaking, or being no guarantee she wouldn’t get pregnant again, she was afraid to disappoint her mother again. Becoming a born-again virgin wasn’t the solution. She had to be wiser about what man she opened her legs for and under what circumstances.
Trumping not having sex was her nonstop expenses when she had no job and no independent source of income. Diapers. Clothes. Baby wash, shampoo, and lotion. Medical expenses for her follow-up visits. Payments for her son’s shots and checkups. And she prayed neither of them got sick and needed medication. Baby food. Blankets. Baby bed. Stroller. Car seat. Diaper bag. Wipes for his butt. Ointment. Baby powder. Wipes for his face. Teething rings. Pacifiers. And the older he’d become, the more expensive he’d get.
“I know you want to go home, baby. Me too. But timing is important. My grandson has to build up his immune system. You know all my friends will want to kiss him, hold him, and feed him food he shouldn’t eat. I don’t want him getting sick, and I don’t want you traveling right now. We’ll go home for Christmas. That way both of you will get lots of gifts.”
At times she felt depressed. Everything was about and for her son. It would be nice for someone to give her something. Even her educational expenses were a financial burden on her mom.
There wasn’t extra time for her to join a group or support any campus organizations or causes. No discretionary money for her to do anything for herself or with her friends. Going to the matinee had become a sacrifice or a treat from someone. Having her hair, nails, or feet professionally done was out of the question. The things she’d taken for granted were no longer an option.
She was a dependent with a dependent. That wasn’t fair to her mother, but thank God her mom was willing and able to help watch Jeremiah and financially provide for them.
“Mama, you can’t protect us from everything. He’s a baby. He has to build up his immune system and he’s not going to do that staying inside.”
Christmas might not be bad. Gifts would be nice. Gift cards for her to buy clothes would be great.
No one warned Katherine her homecoming queen figure—thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six—would drastically change during her pregnancy. Her breasts were two sizes larger, her butt five pounds bigger, and her waist was four inches wider. Thanks to her mother telling her to saturate her stomach and buttocks with cocoa butter oil twice a day, she didn’t get a single stretch mark.
The upside of having her baby young, Katherine had lots of energy to play with him. The downside was Jeremiah wanted to play at two in the afternoon and two in the morning.
A jewelry commercial came on. Her mother looked at her and Jeremiah with what Katherine thought was love until she said, “When are you going to stop wearing that so-called engagement ring? Take that thing off.”
“No, Mama. I keep telling you, I’m not. One day Lincoln will come home, and when he does, he’s going to marry me just like he promised.
“Remember, Mama. You were the one who said, ‘Never give up on your dream.’ ”
CHAPTER 6
Lincoln
September 2001
From Saudi Arabia to Afghanistan in less than ninety days, 9 / 11 changed his life overnight.
“Get down! Hit the ground!” Lincoln shouted.
The enemy troop charged toward them. Bullets flew over his head.
Crawling on his elbows and belly, Lincoln fired back with expert precision. One down. Two down. Three down. Four. Like a pack of wolves with the determination to devour its prey, the more enemies Lincoln and Randy killed, the more the madness multiplied. The opposition relentlessly charged at them. Combat was no life for a twenty-year-old. He didn’t know what to expect when he joined the military, but shooting every day to kill the enemy or risk dying wasn’t it.
“Ahhh!!!! I’ve been hit!”
He wanted to cry out for his mother, but that would make him the next target and probably not be worth the effort. Would his mother ever hear his cry? Did it matter?
Yes, it did.
He was tired of seeing and smelling death. Like an oxygen mask permanently strapped over his nose and mouth, the stench of corroded and burning flesh was lodged in his nostrils. The scent of the fresh air at Grist State Park, where he used to hang out with Katherine, was a memory exhaled over a year ago.
He was man enough to kill but wasn’t man enough to care if he had a kid. God bless America, he thought, firing another round.
Lincoln looked to his left. Another one of his friends was injured. Blood spilled from her head; her body went limp. She was a wife and mother of a two-year-old boy. All she ever prayed for was to hold her husband and her son in her arms again. She was his age. Lincoln often wondered if he t
oo had a baby living in America. If so, was it a girl? A boy? A daughter would make him more compassionate. A son would force him to be a man.
He pulled out a grenade, pulled the plug, then hurled it as far as he could. Fifty feet away . . . boom! He prayed he’d taken out enough enemies for them to cease firing.
Lincoln crawled to her, pulled her body into their hideout. “Do not die on me,” he told her, then shouted, “Hurry! I need help! She’s still alive. We’ve got to get her to the hospital.”
The enemy retreated, but his work wasn’t done. He ripped his sleeve, wrapped the material around her head to stop the bleeding. He never wanted to see another bleeding heart or zip another body bag. The closest military hospital was twenty miles away. They’d hike the distance, praying not to get shot at again before arriving at the infirmary. Then they’d hike back, for what? To fight another day? Or wait for an American plane or helicopter to fly over their heads, drop their food, water, and mail, then fly away or risk getting shot down from the sky.
The words his football coach shouted at him, “Don’t you set down on the steps ’cause you finds it’s kinder hard,” when they were down by six in the championship game, were those of Langston Hughes. Coach’s encouragement led them to the big W. War was a bigger W. The battlefield was no playground. Kill or be killed. The difference between sports and war was, at least in the game, he knew what he was fighting for.
The stretcher wasn’t nearly as heavy as carrying the guilt of having taken so many lives. All in the name of Operation Enduring Freedom? I’m actually over here sacrificing my life every day for selfish-ass Americans who don’t give a damn about me. My parents included.
The Eternal Engagement Page 3
