Going Overboard

by Sarah Smiley

  “It’s like waitresses,” Steve said. “They’re always nice—even the hot ones—because they want a big tip. It’s their job.”

  Jody put out a hand to hush everyone. “Hey, we didn’t pick apart anyone else’s answer. Remember the rules: no questions asked.”

  “But her doctor?” Derek said again. “I mean, that’s like illegal or something, isn’t it?”

  “She didn’t say she was having an affair with him,” Courtney said. “She said he’s cute, that’s all. Trust me, we’ve all heard about Cute Doctor. Sarah’s always had this, shall I say, improvident sort of crush on him.”

  I looked at Jody and said, “It means irresponsible. An irresponsible crush.”

  Dustin was still staring at me and not smiling or blinking. His bottom jaw was thrust outward, the way it always is when he’s thinking, which made the square shape of his head seem even more rugged and hard. The lines that usually frame his mouth like parentheses were smoothed out and invisible.

  I shrugged and tried not to look at him. “It’s not a big deal.”

  Jody got up for another beer and called over her shoulder, “OK, Sarah’s turn to ask now.”

  Steve had been quiet, and I don’t know who elected me conversation police, but I always find myself worrying about anyone who isn’t talking in a group.

  “All right,” I said, “this one’s for Steve.”

  I felt pleased and somehow responsible for the way Steve unfolded his legs and leaned back on his wide hands. Generally, the men dreaded our questions because ours were more thought-provoking and potentially dangerous than theirs.

  “Go for it,” Steve said.

  “OK, if Jody could be in any profession, what do you guess it would be?”

  Steve rubbed his prickly chin, and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. In this game, though, you can’t stall too long or everyone will know you’re constructing a lie, so very quickly afterward he said, “She’s always wanted to be a policewoman, actually.”

  “Really?” Courtney and I said together. “Like with an actual gun?” Courtney added.

  “That’s got to be a lie,” I said, then looking at Jody: “Isn’t it?”

  She was blushing and pulled at her taut ponytail. “No, he’s telling a truth,” she said. “It’s something I’ve always thought about, once the kids are older, maybe.”

  Derek slapped his knee. “Dude, I think that’s like the coolest thing I’ve ever heard . . . next to Sarah having the hots for her doctor.”

  Courtney threw a balled-up cocktail napkin at him and it hit him in the forehead.

  Frankly, however, all this talk of Jody having a desire to carry a gun made me uncomfortable. It was as unsettling as looking at my mom’s high school yearbook, or hearing stories about my dad’s childhood girlfriend. These things simply aren’t supposed to happen. Well, they can happen, of course, but I’m not supposed to know about them. Jody was always just—Well, she was just “Jody.” The idea of her having a life outside of what I knew about her was shocking.

  I stuffed more pretzels in my mouth.

  “All right, Dustin,” Steve said. “Your turn to answer: Did you know that your wife has the hots for her doctor?”

  “Yes,” Dustin said without hesitation, and Derek yelled, “No way, man! That’s such a lie! Did you see the look on his face when she said it? There’s no way he knew!”

  “Yep, got to be a lie,” they all said.

  I didn’t guess.

  “Dude, I hope it’s a lie,” Derek said. “Or else, why do you let her go to him?”

  “So is it true or not?” Steve said to Dustin. “Did you really know?”

  Dustin looked straight at me. “No, it’s a lie.”

  The next few days passed quickly, like the last days of summer vacation when you’re a kid. Dustin and I had recovered from the fight about the checkbook and “the laundry incident” (as we were calling it now), but everything seemed raw and unstable, as if we could slip and begin fighting again at any minute. He never mentioned Dr. Ashley. And I didn’t either.

  It was as if we were in a slow march to the inevitable: the day he would leave. True, he was only leaving for two weeks at this point, but once the workup phase begins, it’s a fast unraveling to deployment: The squadron is home two weeks, gone for three; home one weekend, gone for two.

  In some ways, this home-again-gone-again schedule is even worse than the actual deployment. Just when you get into a routine and are comfortable with the idea of your husband being away, he comes back. But only for the week. The day when the ship leaves for good, not to return for at least six months, is awful, but the process beforehand—the training and workups—feels like pulling off a Band-Aid one agonizing millimeter at a time. Wives begin to think, “I wish he would just leave and get it over with.” They’re eager to rip the Band-Aid off in one daring pull. But these thoughts inevitably turn into guilt, in that ominous becareful-what-you-wish-for sort of way.

  Dustin and I had been avoiding the D word (deployment) all week. I guess our reasoning was “If we don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist.” Or maybe that was just Dustin’s reasoning, because the real reason I never brought it up was simply that I expected Dustin to read my mind and bring it up first. This dangerous mental game of chicken is the only sport I play and excel at, which irritates Dustin endlessly. “You always beat me to the punch,” he’ll say. “First you tell me what you want for your birthday, and then you’re sad I didn’t buy something else. Why don’t you just trust me to pick out something on my own?”

  The day I finally spilled the D word, we were waiting in the lobby at the base legal clinic. Drawing up wills was something that needed to be done, and Dustin, being the responsible person he is, wanted to take care of it now, rather than later . . . just in case.

  The waiting room was like most military facilities—fluorescent lights overhead (some functioning, some merely flickering greenish-yellow light), metal chairs covered with plastic that was cracking, and a large triangular sign glued to the beige cement that read FALLOUT SHELTER.

  I was flipping through an outdated issue of AARP magazine while Dustin watched the news on a boxy television set hanging from the ceiling. Words like “Iraq” and “war” and “troops” echoed from the news anchor’s tiresome voice and filled up the room like a fog. Owen was asleep in the baby carrier on the floor, and I was rocking him with my foot. Ford played with a red-and-yellow plastic toy kitchen, which, by the looks of its white-turned-gray pots and pans, seemed like it had been around since the Gulf War. Every child on base had probably played with that kitchen while their parents waited to make wills.

  I looked up from my magazine, suddenly struck by our surroundings, and said, “Can you believe we’re here doing this?”

  “Huh?” Dustin’s eyes were fixed on the television. A muscle in his jaw flinched as he leaned his ear closer to me.

  “I mean, can you believe you’re leaving for deployment so soon?” And just like that, the D word was out of my mouth and floating through the air like a hovering blanket of insects. I instantly regretted bringing it up first. How long would it have taken Dustin to address the situation without my prompting? I would never know.

  “We’ve still got a few months,” he said without looking at me.

  “Well, not really. Now that the workups are starting, time will go by fast. You’ll be leaving for the deployment before we know it.”

  Dustin turned in his seat and stared at me. “You’re really worrying about this, aren’t you?” His five o’clock shadow, which always seems to appear midmorning instead of late afternoon, was just beginning to soften the sharp lines of his jaw.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say I’m worried, really.” My voice became unnaturally breezy; I was aware of Ford listening to us as he pretended to cook a plastic hot dog in the toy microwave.

  “Then what is it?” Dustin said, looking back at the television.

  “I guess—I guess I just don’t know what to expect.”

>   “But you’ve grown up with this stuff, Sarah. It’s nothing new.”

  At first I thought he was being sarcastic. I watched his profile, waiting for him to smirk and say, “I’m just kidding. What’s on your mind, hon?” But he stared up at the television.

  Nothing new? Apparently Dustin had failed to notice the demanding infant and toddler who had taken up residence in our house. I was indignant.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I said. “Nothing new? I’m going to be the sole person responsible for two little children while you’re away. We have no family nearby to help me, and you won’t spend the money to hire a full-time babysitter!”

  I paused for effect and Dustin turned to meet my stare. His face was blank and I realized he might not have heard anything I had said. I didn’t want to fight—not today, not again, not here—but blood burned in the tips of my ears.

  I laughed bitterly. “Oh, but that’s right, honey. You don’t even know what it’s like to be responsible for a family. You’re too busy packing your seabag every other month.” This was an exaggeration, but, in fact, he had only been home for six months out of the two years since Ford was born.

  Dustin glanced at me. His eyes seemed to be scanning my face for clues. I wondered if he felt just as angry but was too sad to start an argument.

  “Well, you know,” he said, looking up at the television again, “you might feel a little more confident if you’d let me teach you how to balance the checkbook—”

  I rolled my eyes and groaned. “That’s the least of my concerns, Dustin! I can learn how to balance the checkbook online! Geez!” I shook open the coffee-stained magazine again. “Why don’t you just get over the whole bank account thing or take the damn checkbook with you, for all I care?”

  Dustin sat back in his seat and put a bent arm behind his head. “OK, tell me what you’re worrying about, then.”

  The fact that he wasn’t looking at me made me anxious. I was reminded of a time when I was eleven and tried to start a conversation with my dad. We were standing on the back patio and Dad had just fired up the grill for hamburgers. He was whistling and standing with one hand in the pocket of his faded corduroy pants, a posture I always thought exaggerated his broad, rounded shoulders. A bird swooped down and landed several feet away from us on a bird feeder. “What kind of bird is that?” I asked. Dad turned over patties with a spatula and said distractedly, “Hmm?” I didn’t repeat my question and he didn’t seem to notice.

  Conversations with my dad always went that way. He blamed it on “compartmentalization,” which is a skill the military teaches people—to focus on one thing at a time, or to compartmentalize their emotions away from their intellect. It’s an important skill for keeping pilots and soldiers safe in combat, but unfortunately, compartmentalizing sometimes rears its ugly head at home, too.

  Now, as I sat next to Dustin, who was engrossed in the television, I had a familiar lump of emotion in my throat and my eyes stung.

  “Well,” I said, tossing the magazine onto a faux-wood coffee table, “I’m worried that I won’t be able to handle the boys, that I won’t be able to keep up with the grass and the home repairs, and that”—I paused and bit my lip—“and that, well—that you won’t come home this time.”

  Dustin reached over and patted my knee. “That’s my Sarah! Always borrowing trouble! I’ll be gone less than a month and you’ll be on to worrying about something else. Promise.” He smiled and turned toward the television again.

  I swallowed hard and stared at the side of his face. He had the same blank look as my dad, like their minds are elsewhere.

  Then without looking at me, Dustin grinned and said, “Just promise me this: If you find a roach in the kitchen while I’m gone . . . don’t sell the house.”

  “I’m trying to be serious, Dustin.”

  “So am I!” He crossed his arms over his chest. End of discussion.

  I picked up another tattered magazine and flipped deliberately through the pages. I read nothing. Ford asked me to open a pretend milk jug for him and Owen sucked on his pacifier so hard it made a wet, squeaking sound. I pulled the plaid flannel blanket up under his chin.

  A few moments later, the door opened and a man I didn’t recognize walked in. He and Dustin looked like twins: same olive green flight suit, same red-and-black patches Velcroed to the chest, same clunky black boots. He was obviously from Dustin’s squadron, but I didn’t recognize the last name embroidered on his name badge. Must be a bachelor, I thought.

  Dustin turned to look when he heard boots clomping on the cement floor. When he saw who it was, he stood up, stretching out his right hand. “Sean, man! What’s up?” he said. The two of them shook hands and patted each other’s backs. “This is my wife, Sarah. I don’t think you’ve ever met.”

  I lifted from my seat only halfway and shook Sean’s hand. We made some small talk about the circumstances (“Depressing place, huh?” “I know you must be getting lots of things ready for Dustin’s deployment.”). Then he sat down across from Dustin.

  “Doing your will?” Dustin asked him.

  “Yeah, man,” he said. “Not much to leave anyone though—just my Corvette, I guess. I’m packing up all my stuff and putting it in storage while we’re gone.”

  Sean’s voice surprised me. He was so muscular, he had no neck to speak of, but when he talked, his voice was soft and almost feminine.

  “Who’s going to handle your mail? Your bills?” Dustin asked, sitting forward now, with his elbows on his knees and looking directly at Sean.

  “My parents, I guess. I’ll have everything forwarded to them.” Sean paused to watch Ford stir imaginary pudding on the stove. “You sure are lucky, man. I know it must be hard to leave these guys, but you’ll have a family to come home to. Nothing compares to that.”

  Dustin looked down at Owen in his carrier. He smiled thoughtfully and said, “Yeah, this one probably won’t even know who I am when it’s all over.”

  I reached down to fix Owen’s blanket again. Not that it really needed fixing—Owen was too young to kick it off or pull it down—but I felt compelled to tuck it in at his sides, bundling him in like a sausage.

  A man in a khaki uniform with several lines of red and green and gold ribbons on the breast stepped into the waiting room. “Smiley!” he called out. “Is there a Smiley here?” and I resented the sound of our cheerful name.

  “That’s us,” Dustin said and stood up.

  “You here to do your will?” the man asked.

  “Yes, sir. I leave to begin workups in a few days.”

  The man motioned for Dustin to follow, so I gathered up our belongings. But Dustin turned around and said, “Why don’t you wait here, Sarah? I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Then he turned to Sean and said, “See you on the boat,” and the two of them shook hands.

  I was too stunned—not to mention embarrassed and indignant—to say anything, so I sat back down in the hard metal chair with my mouth open. The man in khaki led Dustin through a swinging door that squeaked and thumped as it came to a close. Sean opened a copy of Woman’s Day and pretended to be interested. I wondered if he knew it was upside down.

  “Momma?” Ford said from beside my chair. He peered at me with big, round eyes the color of licorice. “Read book?” he said and handed me The Three Little Pigs. I pulled him into my lap for a story and was grateful for the distraction—or, the excuse not to talk to Sean.

  By the time Sean was called back for his own appointment, he hadn’t said much more to me than “Wow, kids, huh? They must keep you busy.” I felt the muscles in my cheeks suddenly relax once he was gone. Small talk is always so painful.

  Once I had the waiting room to myself again, I rummaged through my purse for the cell phone. Courtney’s number was on speed dial.

  “How did I know it would be you?” she said when she answered the phone. And then, “Where are you anyway?”

  “We’re on base at the legal clinic, making Dustin’s will.”

 
“Oh,” she said sympathetically.

  Then I corrected myself. “Actually, I guess I should say Dustin is making the will. I’m sitting in the lobby.”

  “You probably don’t want to be back there anyway,” she said. “Maybe if y’all had done this earlier, but not this close to the deploy—er, detachment. It’s too hard to hear it all.”

  “I met Sean from the squadron,” I said, changing the subject. “Do you know him? He’s a bachelor.”

  I was surprised when Courtney said yes. “I know his girlfriend,” she said. “She lives down the street from us. She wants to join the Spouse Club, but I’m not sure Margo will go for it since she isn’t technically married to Sean yet.”

  We were both quiet for a moment, and then Courtney said, “Hey, I’m really sorry I said that about the doctor the other night.”

  “What do you mean? I’m the one who answered the question.”

  “Yeah, but I said you’ve always had a crush on him, and Dustin looked a little shocked.”

  “He’ll get over it,” I said. “What’s the harm in a little crush?”

  “So do you know what you’re going to wear to the air terminal?” Courtney asked.

  “I really haven’t thought about it.”

  “Haven’t thought about it?” she screamed. “Sarah! See, I knew something was wrong with you! What’s going on?”

  The swinging door squeaked and thumped. I looked up and saw Dustin walking toward me with quick, purposeful steps.

  “Gotta go,” I whispered into the receiver and threw the phone into my purse.

  Dustin tried to smile as he came closer, but it looked more like a frown. He knelt down beside Owen and smoothed his fuzzy duck hair.

  “So did you leave everything to me?” I said jokingly, but Dustin didn’t laugh. He took my hand and covered it with his own and said, “That was possibly the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I’m glad you didn’t come in.”

  He had made a will before his previous deployment and I didn’t remember it being so traumatic. What was the matter with all of us? I wondered.

  “Well, is there anything I should know about the decisions you’ve made?” I said. “Can I look at the will?”