by Sarah Smiley
We drove in silence to the Navy base. The boys were both sleeping in their car seats and Dustin and I were too cold and hunched over in our jackets to speak. I tried to remind myself, “It’s only for two weeks,” and repeated the words in my mind like a mantra. But I still felt distressed, and I wondered if this was how defendants feel when they are shackled and shuffling into the courtroom to hear a verdict.
At the terminal, Dustin parked in the farthest spot and removed the keys from the ignition. It was a familiar routine: kissing me in front of his peers is Dustin’s idea of total humiliation. His training at the United States Naval Academy, where mid-shipmen are instructed not to show public displays of affection, only increased Dustin’s natural inclination toward modesty. Most times, I was lucky to get a peck on the cheek when we were on base and he was in uniform.
Dustin unfastened his seat belt and turned to face me. He took my hand from my lap and placed it between his. “Sarah, I hope this is only for two weeks,” he said. “But you know there’s a chance—”
“I know. Don’t say it aloud. Not right now.” I stared at my lap and swallowed back tears.
Dustin looked down at our hands clasped together on the armrest. “You know I love you?” he asked. I nodded. “Promise me you’ll show the boys my picture and talk about me often?”
I looked up. “Dustin! Don’t talk like that. You’ll be home in a few weeks.”
“I know . . . I mean, I hope. But, Sarah, I need you to understand that we might be sent overseas without coming back first. Are you prepared for that?”
Tears spilled over my eyelids and onto my cheeks. The crying came so fast and with such force, it felt like my ribs were squeezing my lungs. Dustin put his hand behind my head and drew me to his chest. I sobbed into the olive green material of his flight suit and soaked his patches with tears.
“I don’t want you to go,” I cried. “Please don’t go! I can’t take this anymore. I just want you home . . . home all the time.”
Dustin ran his hand through my hair and rubbed my back. “I know, Sarah. But you’ve done this before. You—”
“No!” I cried. “Please don’t leave me. Not again. I can’t take it anymore.” I was beginning to feel tired and heavy.
“You’re going to be fine,” he said. “You’ve got Jody and Courtney and all the other wives to support you.”
I sat up and looked at him. “That’s the thing, Dustin. I shouldn’t need other people to support me. Why can’t I get it together myself? Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Maybe you should have married someone else.” I buried my face in my hands.
“Hey,” he said, touching my leg, “this is only temporary. Soon you’ll have me home again to help you. Promise.”
I cried harder. “I’m not cut out for this. Oh, my gosh, I’m not cut out for this.”
Dustin pulled my hands away from my face. “This hurts me, too, Sarah. I realize you married me thinking I would be home to take care of you and our family. It kills me to know I can’t do that right now. But I’ll be home soon. And you’re going to be fine.” He put a hand to my cheek and grinned. “But seriously, Sarah, don’t sell the house if you find a roach, OK? And try not to burn down the garage or anything.”
I tilted my head back on the headrest and sighed in spite of myself. “Ha! Very funny,” I said, drying my nose with the sleeve of my jacket. “But, Dustin—”
“I know,” he said and squeezed my hand. “I know.”
I flipped down the visor to look at myself in the mirror. My brown eyes were circled with red, and mascara was running down my drawn, pale cheeks. The tip of my nose was moist and red, and little blue veins (inherited from my mom) were beginning to appear between my eyes.
I flipped the visor shut with a thud. “I look like a wreck!”
“Nah, no one’s going to look great in there,” Dustin said, and then he turned to look at the boys sleeping in the backseat. “Are you sure you even want to come in, though? You could just go home if you want.”
I thought about that. Avoiding a long, drawn-out good-bye seemed like a good idea. Besides, when Dustin leaves for a short detachment—and this was scheduled to be a short detachment—I simply drop him off at the curb, lean over the console, and surprise him with a peck on the cheek, then smile and wave as I drive away.
But no, somehow this felt different and I couldn’t just turn and go.
“I think I need to come in,” I said.
Dustin patted my knee. “OK.”
We walked through the automatic sliding doors and the air terminal’s greasy smell comforted me. It is an oddly familiar scent that can take me back to my youth in an instant, like the musty hooked rugs in my childhood bathroom. Was this how other children—children whose dads had offices and secretaries and never left home for weeks at a time—felt when they smelled coffee brewing or the odor of new office-grade carpeting?
The terminal’s bare concrete walls were yellow—a desperate attempt at cheerfulness, I’ve always thought—but even paint could not mask garish plastic signs on the wall: HIGH VOLTAGE, FALLOUT SHELTER, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
On the floor there were a few scattered pieces of red, white, and blue confetti left over from another squadron’s recent homecoming. The bits of paper were stepped on and mashed into the stained gray carpet, like the dead pine needles from our Christmas tree at home.
Metal straight-back chairs were arranged in rows, and families sat in clusters, huddled together and not speaking to anyone outside their circle.
Dustin carried Owen in his portable seat, and Ford was asleep slumped across my shoulder. His head bumped and wobbled as we walked, and I could feel his breath on my neck. We went past the rows of families, and solemn faces looked up at us with wet eyes. Friends and squadron mates nodded ever so slightly but said nothing—the most sorrowful of hellos, like a congregation acknowledging a grieving widow as she walks up the aisle after her husband’s funeral.
No, this definitely didn’t feel a like a typical good-bye.
Dustin found a spot for us near the vending machines and a metal trash can. He set Owen’s carrier on the floor, and I handed him Ford to hold in his lap. Dustin nestled him like an infant, cradling him close to his chest, and Ford sighed in his sleep.
I fell back into a metal chair. From across the room, I saw Courtney and Derek. Courtney was crying on his shoulder with a handkerchief pressed to her nose. Who besides Courtney actually carries a handkerchief? I wondered.
A few rows over, Jody and Steve and their two boys were huddled together. Steve was bouncing Michael on his knee and though the delighted three-year-old was giggling and smiling, Steve was not. Melanie and Paul were sitting quietly in another corner. Hannah was crying in her dad’s lap and Melanie reached over to pat her back.
Dustin put his free arm around the back of my chair. “Sarah, try not to dwell on it,” he said. “Remember what your mom always says: ‘Plan for the worst and wait for the best.’ Or is it: ‘Wait for the worst and plan for the best?’ Anyway . . .” He grew quiet and looked down at Ford. “I know that doesn’t help, but . . .”
Near the double doors, I saw Kate, dressed in black slacks and a red boatneck sweater, kiss her husband and then walk out to the parking lot without looking back. I wondered if she had the right idea, to leave before the scene got worse.
Dustin glanced at his watch. “They’ll be boarding soon. Take care of the boys for me, you hear? And remember that e-mail takes a while to get set up on board. You may not hear from me for a while.”
I nodded, but stared straight ahead.
A man in a flight suit and heavy black boots walked briskly between the families. “One more minute, folks,” he called out. “Say your good-byes and wrap it up!”
Dustin stood up with Ford still cradled in his arm. “I’ve got to go,” he said and took my hand to help me stand.
“Just a few more minutes,” I begged.
“Sarah, I can’t. You know that. When it’s time to go, it’s ti
me to go.” He drew me close and kissed my forehead. “I love you,” he whispered.
I heard Courtney break down across the room. Her sobbing was like a wounded animal: “Don’t go! Please don’t go,” she cried.
Tears started running down my cheeks again. My eyes were beginning to sting. How many times had I done this—as a child and now as an adult? I wondered, growing more weary. How many times had I witnessed this same dramatic scene?
“It’s only two weeks,” Dustin whispered.
“Let’s go, folks!” the man with the boots shouted again. “Time to get on the plane!”
Dustin hugged me with one arm, squishing Ford between us. “I’ve got to go now. Hopefully, I’ll see you in a few weeks, OK?”
He transferred Ford still sleeping into my arms and kissed both of our heads before leaning down to kiss Owen. He lifted the bulky green seabag and threw it over his shoulder like a sack of flour, then straightened and gave me a thumbs-up sign, before smiling and turning to leave. I waved halfheartedly and smiled. He turned around and fell in line with the other men.
When a set of double doors opened, allowing the men to spill out onto the runway, the whistle of a waiting transport jet filled the lobby. I picked up the boys and moved closer to the door. Jody and Courtney came to stand next to me, but no one said anything.
Outside the large-paned window I saw clusters of men in green making their way across the tarmac to the jet. One figure turned around, stared back at the building, and waved. Was it Dustin? They all looked the same. But I raised my free hand and waved anyway. “Good-bye,” I whispered.
The man turned back around and boarded the airplane.
And just like that my husband was gone.
4
A WOMAN WITH JUMPER CABLES
The first day was easy. It always is. I could almost imagine Dustin was simply at work . . . then late for dinner . . . and then doing a night flight.
It wasn’t until I woke up alone the next morning that things began to seem real. It wasn’t until I rolled over in bed and snuggled up to a pile of clean laundry instead of my husband. It wasn’t until then that the situation was undeniably not like those routine late-night shifts, when Dustin was required to fly by the light of a full moon with night-vision goggles and didn’t come home until after I was asleep. All those times, I woke up with him next to me, despite going to bed alone.
So it was the second day—specifically the second morning—when I started to freak out.
Had it really happened? The day before seemed like a dream. I tried to remind myself that Dustin would be back “in two weeks.” (So why was my stomach churning?)
Courtney called that afternoon to check on me.
“Do you want to come over for lunch?” she said.
“No, I think I’ll just stay here.” I didn’t feel like getting out of my pajamas.
“How was your last night?”
“Terrible. We took down the Christmas decorations—don’t ask me why—and then just when we were getting into bed, Dustin decided to call his parents.”
“His parents?”
“Yeah, well, you know how he worries about whether or not he’s doing enough for them and all that. Everything has to be fair, right?”
“But still!” Courtney said. “On the last night? Well, that was just churlish, now, wasn’t it?”
What-ish?
“I make Derek call his parents after dinner,” she continued. “Then we take the phone off the hook.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” I said. And then, “Hey, Courtney, do you think I talk through Tanner? You know, use her to express my feelings?”
She laughed. “Well, sometimes, yes. Why?”
“Yesterday morning, before we went to the terminal, Dustin accused me of talking through ‘the damn dog.’ ”
“Oh no,” she cried. “He actually said that? He called Tanner ‘the damn dog’?”
“Yep.”
“I can only imagine your face. I mean, I know how you are about Tanner.”
“I know. It ripped my heart out.”
“Well, I’m sure he didn’t mean it,” she said. “It was probably just stress.”
“Sure, stress.”
That night, after Ford went to sleep, I settled into the living room to feed Owen. The warmth of his tiny pink body bundled in blue footed pajamas, plus the sound of his delicate sucking, made me feel almost drunk with tiredness. I sank farther into the couch, hugging him against my chest and smoothing his unruly fuzzy hair.
Babies have it so easy, I thought. They don’t know enough to feel alone or afraid, and they always have someone taking care of them. Oh, to be that oblivious!
Once Owen was asleep and soft purring noises came from his open mouth, I turned on the television and flipped through channels mindlessly. I was enjoying the way each blurb faded into the next, making funny sentences (Colgate toothpaste for—fresher kitty litter—during tomorrow’s storms), until I came across the news.
Admittedly, I’m someone who should never watch the news—especially the evening news—because then I might contract all the terrible afflictions mentioned in the health segment. Yet while Dustin is away I feel more vigilant if I keep abreast of world events.
So I was half listening and softly patting Owen’s back, when a reporter with a solemn face and dark suit came on the screen. He looked important, so I turned an ear to hear. There was a lot of political jargon and other nonsense, but what caught my attention was this: Representative Charles Rangel, a Democrat from New York, had introduced a bill in Congress to reinstate the draft.
And all at once . . . I knew.
I knew by the way my hands turned cold and my body froze. I knew by the way my cheeks tingled and my mouth became dry. I was breathing too fast or too slow (I wasn’t sure).
I knew I should be worried about the greater implications of the news—about world peace and a war with Iraq—but in that moment . . . well, I just wasn’t. I couldn’t see beyond myself or beyond my family.
And then a few days later, CNN reported that the United States had begun “psychological warfare” against Iraq. E-mail messages were sent to Iraqi servers with information about how to defect and appeals to the Iraqi people to turn over biological weapons.
Jody was the first one to call. “Did you see the latest?” she asked.
“Yeah, what do you make of it?”
Jody paused. “I’m finding it harder to believe they’ll send our guys home.”
“Have you gotten an e-mail from Steve yet?”
“No, nothing,” she said, then quickly changed the subject: “Did you see our crazy neighbor has a pink flamingo in her yard now?”
It was as if we were treating the idea of war as “innocent until proven guilty.” Until we had definitive information, we were going to believe the detachment was a short one.
Increasingly, however, all evidence indicated otherwise, and like a losing defense team, our spirits sank. We held our breath for the verdict.
It came soon after.
“Sarah? Are you busy?” Kate’s voice came over the phone with a flatness that made my heart race.
I looked up from my spot at the kitchen table and watched Ford dump a box of sixty-four crayons on the vinyl floor. “No, not at all,” I said, snapping my fingers and glaring at Ford. “What’s up?”
“Well, it’s nothing to get excited about yet,” Kate said, “but there’s been some—how should I say this?—there’s been some . . . developments.”
She said “developments” in a slow, deliberate way, and I smelled a cover-up.
“Developments, Kate? Are we talking new-Super-Target-going-up-on-Tenth-Street developments, or our-husbands-aren’t-coming-home developments?”
She laughed. “I can’t say for sure just yet, but I’m hosting an emergency meeting at my house tonight. Can you make it?”
“What about the kids? Can I bring them? I don’t have a regular babysitter.”
Kate didn’t have kids of he
r own, and her house was filled with beautiful, delicate things, so she hesitated, if only for a second, but her pleasant voice never faltered. “Oh, sure! Yes, bring them,” she said. “We’ll figure something out.”
So at four o’clock, I bundled Ford in his jacket and Owen under a blanket in his baby carrier. The car was parked on the driveway instead of in the garage because the day before I’d found a frog sitting atop the lawn mower, and because frogs make me think of snakes, I was afraid to go back inside.
I shuttled the boys to the car one at a time in the cold, all the while cursing Dustin for not letting me spend money to hire a babysitter.
Across the driveway my neighbors Brent and Danielle pretended not to watch me. It’s a typical civilian reaction; people don’t know what to say, but they are curious, so they wind up making you feel like a spectacle.
Danielle, in blue jeans and a white cable-knit sweater, was kneeling in the flower bed pulling weeds. Brent wound red Christmas lights around his arm. When I looked up, they both quickly looked away. I glanced back down and felt their stare. I knew I’d have to be the one to speak up first.
“Hi, guys,” I shouted across the yard. “How are you?”
Brent looked up from the tangled mess of lights and said, “Oh! Hi, Sarah. Didn’t see you there.”
“Where ya headed?” Danielle called out.
I snapped Owen’s car seat into place and talked over my shoulder. “To a Spouse Club meeting across the river.”
