“Oh well.” I try to sound like I don’t give a rip. I don’t pull it off.
Isaac deftly taps the menus into a neat stack. “Last night’s break helped? That little siesta you took in the ladies’ room?”
I try to remember. “Kind of.”
“Disappear for a while.” Isaac flicks his fingers at me. “Go on. Scoot. Scat.”
I scurry back to the bathroom. I find my special stall and lock myself inside. I perch on the toilet. For the heck of it, I pull out my pen and graffiti a tiny killdeer flying over the toilet-paper holder, and then a nest beneath the bird, and me and David sitting inside. The killdeer will watch over us, if only here in a bathroom stall. This makes me feel a little better for a moment. Then I realize that when Linda gets a load of my little doodle, she’ll really have my hide.
I bury my head in my arms.
Minutes later my black apron rings brightly. I nearly fall to the stall floor. I scrounge through my apron pocket with my left hand and pull my cell from the rumpled pages of my check pad. It rings again. Clumsily, I flip it open.
“Penna?”
My heart thuds in my throat. There is the little nest I drew and us inside. Here we are.
“David?”
He laughs. He still sounds tense, but he also sounds giddy with relief. It’s him again. It’s me again.
“You can hear me better this time?”
“Yes!” There’s no static. He’s coming through loud and clear. I close my eyes so I can focus on the sound of his voice.
“It’s noisy here, though. Talk as loud as you can, okay?”
I wait, eyes closed, but now David is silent.
Finally he says, “Where are you?”
“Oh, I’m at this wild party.” I laugh. “This guy’s parents are out of town and—”
“Which guy?” His tone has turned hard and unfamiliar.
I open my eyes. “Kidding!” There is that little nest I drew. It’s still there. “I’m at Red Earth, waiting tables like I wrote you. Didn’t you get my emails yet? I thought they’d be waiting for you. I’ve written letters too. Lots of them. Guess they haven’t arrived yet either, huh? Stupid army.”
“Hey. I’m in that stupid army.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.” I swallow hard. Why does this feel like a first date—one I’ve had with other guys, but never with David, because from the beginning David and I were completely comfortable together? “I’ll be waitressing for the rest of the summer and for the school year too, I guess. Linda’s idea.”
“Oh.”
I wait for more. The silence gets long. This is the guy who draws hearts in the dust, I remind myself. This is the guy who tends a garden. Maybe he just needs to remember that the world is bigger than where he is. He just needs to remember our plan.
“I’m saving the money for college,” I say. “With you.”
David clears his throat. “Okay.” And then, less warily, “I can’t believe I got this connection. I’m standing on a rooftop.”
Seems like he’s back on track. I laugh, giddy with relief. “Any cool buildings? Mosques or minarets or whatever?” My words come out in a rush.
“Not exactly.” There’s a moment of garbled noise like David’s lowered the phone to look around.
So that’s what the wind sounds like in Iraq. Not so different from the wind in Oklahoma when you get right down to it.
I hear a rubbing sound—as if the phone has brushed against David’s cheek. Lucky phone.
“Unless you count the interesting patterns from all the mortar holes in the walls,” he says.
“Mortar holes? Recent mortar holes?”
He doesn’t seem to hear my question. “It’s supposed to be a hundred and fourteen degrees today. They told me that I’ll start patrolling soon. Mostly right now I’m sitting around. We’re stationed just outside town.” His voice brightens. “Did you get my emails?”
“I loved them! The photograph, the drawing—they were great. What did you plant?” I’m so afraid we’re going to be cut off again that my words come out in a rush.
“Tomatoes. Mom and Dad were happy about that. I just got off the phone with them.”
“Oh good. About the tomatoes. And about your parents.” I’m biting my nails, I realize. I never bite my nails. I stop. “Will that be okay? The patrolling, I mean?”
“It’s my assignment.”
I can almost see David shrugging, careless, relatively carefree, considering his situation. I don’t get it. I don’t say so. I say, “Keep sending me drawings, then. Or plant some…I don’t know…some zucchini.”
“I’ll try.” His voice sounds fainter, as if he’s looking away from the phone, distracted by mortar holes or something else I can’t imagine.
“How are your tattoos?” I practically shout this into the phone.
“Great.” He’s back again, loud and clear.
“Mine too!”
We share this. No matter what Linda thinks, no matter how they look when I’m older, the tattoos were definitely worth it. I glance at mine. More and more, I love the delicate braid, the statement it makes. It makes me feel pretty. Unique. It’s a part of me.
“Do you like yours?” I ask.
“They make me think of you.”
My heart lifts. I start telling David everything I can. I tell him about Caitlin and Tom and Isaac. I tell him my tips suck right now, but they should improve as I get better at my job. I tell him I’ll put everything in the bank and save for the future.
“I miss you,” he says. “I miss you so much, Penna.”
“Ditto,” I say. “Double, triple, quadruple ditto.”
I tell him I’d give anything if he’d be able to phone every day.
“I’ll try,” David says. And then, “Listen, I’ve got good news.”
In the far distance I hear a voice come over a loudspeaker. Maybe it’s an imam. But I don’t ask if this is so. I want to hear David’s good news, and only that.
“They say I can schedule a Skype session with you. I want to set a time to make sure you’re home.”
“Yes! When?”
“Soon. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning, actually, your time. I won’t have very long—maybe ten minutes—because I want to Skype Mom and Dad too while I can. They say sometimes you can Skype, sometimes you can’t. That’s how it goes here. Like everything else.”
Static fills my ear.
“David? I can’t hear you.”
His voice crackles in and out—dislocated consonants and vowels.
“David!” I practically shout his name.
His voice comes clear as a bell then. “Losing you.”
He’s gone.
My ear aches with the pressure from my cell. I drop my phone back into my apron pocket. I take a deep breath.
Tomorrow I’ll see his face.
I get up off the toilet and go back out to do my job. Anything to make this night go faster.
•••
I do a little better at my job. Just a little, but enough to win a nod from Isaac, a smile from Caitlin, a pat on the back from Linda. When the last customers finally leave, the tables are cleaned and reset, and I have scrubbed the graffiti from the bathroom stalls (everything but my nest), Caitlin and I sit down at what I now think of as “our table.” We have to settle up before we can go home. We match checks to credit-card receipts. We count out tips.
We don’t say much, which is nice, since I’m doing another kind of math in my head at the same time. If it’s twelve o’clock here, then it’s eight o’clock in Baghdad. I hope David’s eaten a great bagel by now. I hope he’s eaten two.
When Caitlin has smoothed out her last wad of singles, she stuffs them in her wallet, gives me a long look, and says, “I heard you talking in the john.”
I’ve been lost in thoughts of tomorrow, 9 a.m. I fumble with my money. “Oh?”
She tucks a lock of pink-streaked hair behind her ear. “Property of the U.S. Army, huh?”
I frown.
“Not exactly.”
Caitlin shrugs. “My friend wears a T-shirt with that on it. Her boyfriend’s over there. In Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever.”
“Oh.” I sit up a little straighter. “My boyfriend is in Iraq. But I’m nobody’s property.”
“You sure sounded tight.” Caitlin stuffs her wallet in her purse. “ Must be hard, huh? Being apart?”
I glance at Tom, who’s listening in on Caitlin and me. How much do I really want to get into this?
“I deal with it.”
“‘It’s not a job! It’s an adventure!’ Isn’t that the way it goes?” Caitlin gives me a second look. “Geez, Penna. End of conversation. Except…” Caitlin shrugs. “If I were you, I’d think twice.”
“About?”
Caitlin shrugs. “Staying with a guy who could be dead tomorrow. Or worse. That’s what I tell my friend with the shirt.”
I can’t say anything to this. I just stare at Caitlin until she puts her hand on my shoulder. She gives me a sympathetic smile, and now she’s asking me to come out with her tonight. She’s telling me that she knows some great guys. I’ll have a blast.
Everything has gone into sharp focus, like I’m suddenly seeing Caitlin, the room, the world through the right pair of glasses. I ease my way out from under her hand. I haven’t finished counting all my tips yet, but now I’m not going to bother.
“You know what? I really owe you for all your help, the way you kind of jump-started me here at Red Earth. So take this. It’s yours, all of it.” I push the bills and change across the table toward Caitlin. I don’t even feel angry. I feel…clear. “Some other night we can hang out. But no guys. I’ve got a boyfriend. He just happens to be in Iraq.”
Caitlin shakes her head. “That’s exactly what my friend Jules says—Miss Property of the U.S. Army. At least let me set the two of you up. You and Jules’ll have a lot to talk about.”
“Fine,” I surprise myself by saying. “Whatever,” I add, dialing it down a bit.
Caitlin’s eyes brighten. “Tomorrow then? You, me, Jules?”
“Maybe.”
Right now tomorrow is only about David. I can’t think beyond 9:00 a.m. In my new clearheaded way, I realize all I want right now is to get out of here. I grab my bag, say my see-you-laters, and go.
Justine survived this already—the unknown, the waiting. For better or worse, she came through to the other side. I take some comfort in that as I walk out into the night.
•••
It would be one thing if home were only a few blocks away. But it’s over three miles. About one mile in, I wish I’d hung out a little longer, gotten a ride from Linda, or borrowed the car and let her get a ride from whomever. But no. I had to escape. And now as I trudge along the familiar route, each footfall feels heavier than the last.
David, Skype, 9:00 a.m., I repeat with every step.
About twenty long, dusty minutes closer to the house, my phone rings.
Is it possible twice in one night?
I grab for my phone. I don’t recognize the number. Maybe his phone went dead. (He always forgets to charge it.) Maybe he’s borrowing a phone from some other guy.
It’s some other guy, all right. I recognize him as soon as he says hello.
“Hi, Ravi.” I start walking again. I hadn’t even realized I’d stopped. My feet really ache now. “What’s up?”
Ravi clears his throat. “Not much. I was just…I don’t know. I’m on my break at work. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”
Now he sounds shy as well as sweet.
“What?”
“It’s about school.”
“Yeah?”
“How do you like it over there?”
I shrug. “It’s okay. I mean, I like the art classes. It is what it is, you know?”
“Oh.”
Ahead of me are the park and the playground. A branch stirs in the wind just above the slide, and for a moment I think Ravi is perched there on his skateboard and about to sail toward me. Then I remember he’s calling from work.
“Why are you asking about school?”
I hear something tapping through the receiver, like a pen being drummed nervously against a table. “I’m thinking about going back,” Ravi says.
“You are? That’s great!”
“I’m glad you think so.”
I feel my face go hot with sudden, startling guilt. I shake my head, shake away the feeling. I’ve got nothing to feel bad about. Ravi is about David for me. He’s David’s friend.
David, Skype, 9:00 a.m., I remind myself.
“I’ve been talking with the guidance counselor,” Ravi says. “She’s been great. Because I’ve taken some classes online, I can come in as a senior. I can even take AP classes if I want.”
“I’m in AP Art,” I say. “That’s about all the AP I can handle, though.”
“I’m going to take AP History and English.”
“Cool.”
“Yeah. If only my dad—”
“Hey. Ravi. Break’s over.” The man who interrupts Ravi clearly has no patience for slackers.
I hear Ravi apologize. Then he tells me he has to go. Maybe we can talk again soon. He has other things he wants to ask me about school.
“Later,” he says.
Not good-bye.
I’m past the park now. I can’t keep up this pace when I’ve got no one to talk to. I slow down. Way down. Way, way down.
Just when I think I might stop walking altogether, a car swings over to the side of the road. Linda’s VW. The door pops open.
Linda leans across the front seat. “Going my way?”
I get in. We’ve only got a mile or so to go, but I slump in the seat and close my eyes.
•••
“Home again, home again.”
That’s the next thing I hear. I open my eyes to Linda’s smile. David, Skype, 9:00 a.m.! I sit up straight. “What time is it?”
“Like, five minutes past when you climbed in. You fell fast asleep.” She brushes my hair from my eyes.
I wipe drool from my cheek. “I was totally out.”
Linda nods. “The restaurant biz will do that to you. And walking home. And a phone call from Iraq.”
I look at her.
“Tom told me. He told me what Caitlin said too, about ditching David. Guess you’re getting it from all sides.”
“People can say whatever they want. I don’t care.”
Inside, Linda fries us some eggs. I make toast and chamomile tea. We sit at the kitchen table, eating in silence.
“You think there’s some ice cream crystallizing in here?” Linda goes for the freezer, opens the door.
She shrieks at the sight of the four frozen honey hands.
I laugh. “Incoming. Low-flying art project.”
Linda stares. Then she shuts the freezer door. She turns to me. She has to clear her throat before she can speak.
“You know him better than I’ve known any guy.”
I sit very still, taking this in.
Linda and I say good night then. No hugs. No kisses. Just good night like everything is okay, because in that moment, with the Skype call only a few hours away, everything is.
I take a shower, wash off the long day, check for messages that aren’t there, set my alarm for 8:30 a.m., and slip under Plum Tumble.
Eleven
Linda shakes me awake, saying, “Penelope! Your alarm has been going off for forever!”
Forever?
Pushing Linda aside, I leap from my bed. I grab my clock and stare at the numbers: 8:55. I let out a yelp. Then I whirl around and face Linda. She’s still wearing her pink nightgown. She must have overslept too. She’s usually dressed and ready to go by this time.
“Are you okay? Your cheeks are so red.” She puts her hand to my head. “Do you have a fever?”
“I need privacy.” I say this as calmly as I can, which is to say, not so much. “David,” I say. “Now. Please.”
Linda gets it
. She slips swiftly from my room, closing the door behind her. I lunge for my computer and log on to Skype.
Wait for him. Wait for him.
And suddenly there he is, breathtakingly recognizable but different too, flattened across my computer screen. And paler than he’s ever been, than he ever could be, like the harsh Iraqi sun has bleached out his skin. I know probably the reverse has happened, of course. It must be my monitor, ghosting him up like this. He’s beautiful and spooky, all at the same time.
He leans closer to his computer, as if this will bring him closer to me, and in the little box in the bottom corner that shows me, I glimpse my look of surprise. David’s movements aren’t fluid, as I know they would be if I were sitting right in front of him, because David is always graceful. His body stutters and freezes and skips. The video transmission is out of synch.
But still, there are his features that I’ve been trying so hard to draw. His straight eyebrows, his brown eyes, full lips, strong jaw.
“It’s so good to see you,” I say.
There’s a beat, two beats, three, and still his expression hasn’t changed. Then that crazy, crooked grin breaks across his face as he finally hears what I just said.
“That’s a major understatement,” he says.
I laugh. “Can you do better?”
Again that weird delay. But now he laughs too. “I don’t think so. Not in words. But watch this. Just watch.”
He lifts his hand, the one with the ring tattoo, which looks to have healed nicely. He puts his fingers to his computer screen, nearly blocking my view of him. I start to tell him this when I realize what he’s doing. He’s tracing my face with his fingers—my cheeks, nose, lips, chin, neck. He’s touching me the only way he can, slowly, tenderly, until I feel my skin tingling where his hand has just been.
With a weird, stuttering motion, he lowers his hand. “There. Did you see what I said?”
I lick my lips, which have gone dry. I nod. “A picture is worth a thousand words.”
When he hears this, he moves his head in a Skypey nod. “Exactly.”
So I trace him too, hoping my hands remember every angle and curve of his features when I sit down the next time to draw his portrait.
“So tell me,” David says then.
While He Was Away Page 10
