by Sarah Smiley
“I thought you went to one a few nights ago,” Brent said. “How often do you gals meet?”
Brent was a car salesman, and he and Danielle had no concept of military life, so I guess I was their token connection to all things Navy.
“Usually we meet once a month,” I said, “but there’s, ah . . . stuff . . . going on.”
Brent put down the lights, and he and Danielle walked across the yard. “Yeah, we’ve been watching the news. Have you heard from Dustin yet?”
“Their e-mail won’t be up for a few more days,” I said. “It takes a while. But he probably couldn’t tell me anything anyway.”
Danielle ducked her head into the car and waved at Ford. As a nurse and mother, she took particular interest—and possibly pity—in the fact I was raising two children virtually by myself.
“Say, do you want Brent to watch the boys while you’re out tonight?” she said. “I’ll be working late, but Brent and Blake will be home. Blake just got a new train table that I bet Ford would love.”
“Ford does love trains,” I said absently, reviewing Brent in my mind. Brent-the-Neighbor was someone I could call at two o’clock in the morning to kill a spider when Dustin was gone. (He would likely show up in his pajamas and mismatched shoes and wouldn’t care that he forgot to take out the retainer in his mouth.) Brent-the-Dad encouraged his four-year-old son to watch professional wrestling. And Brent-the-Man pretended to leave the cul-de-sac for a “jog,” but stopped and walked the rest of the way as soon as he was around the corner and out of Danielle’s view.
I looked at him now, standing there next to Danielle in a gray sweat suit and a backward FSU hat, and smiled. Brent had a wonderful way with children and Ford loved the fact he let him ride Blake’s go-kart (even though it was clearly marked for ages four and up), but for some reason I felt compelled to keep the boys with me. Maybe they were even a comfort to me.
“I really appreciate that,” I said. “But I think I’ll take them with me tonight.”
“All right then,” Danielle said. “I’ve got to go get ready for work, but you just let us know if you ever need anything, OK?”
“I will.”
They waved and turned to walk away. Then at the grass, Brent stopped and turned around again. “Hey, you want me to fix that squeak in your garage door while you’re gone?” he said.
Brent had been my resident handyman for some time. He mowed my lawn when Dustin was away. He chopped wood. He trimmed bushes. He killed fire ants on the sidewalk and treated my plants for fungus. He also once touched Ford’s infant hand after setting a rodent trap in the garage, and I nearly fell to the concrete in horror before rushing inside for the disinfectant. I had never met anyone like Brent, and I had no point of reference for his character. Yet his presence next door gave me an odd sense of security.
“I do need to get that door fixed, don’t I?” I said, turning to look at it. “How about this weekend though? I really should get going now.”
I opened the car door and hoisted myself inside.
“All righty then,” Brent said, waving. “You have a good time tonight.”
I shut the door and put the key in the ignition. Brent was still waving on the driveway. I smiled and turned the key, but the engine wouldn’t start. I turned the key again. Nothing. Brent looked concerned. I waved and smiled. “Engine must be cold,” I said through the window, but he couldn’t hear. I turned the key one more time. Still nothing.
Brent motioned for me to open the door.
“Looks like you’ve got a dead battery,” he said. “Pop the hood.”
I pulled a lever beneath the steering wheel, and when Ford heard it pop, he wiggled in his seat and whined, “Momma? What wrong? Let’s go.”
“The car won’t start, honey. But it’s going to be all right. Brent will fix it.”
I looked at him in his car seat in the rearview mirror and saw Jody’s purple minivan coming around the corner. “Oh, thank God,” I said, reaching for the door handle.
Jody circled the cul-de-sac and pulled up to the end of my driveway, kicking up rocks and gravel with her worn tires.
“I thought you were coming to pick me up,” she yelled out her window.
“I was, but my car won’t start. It did this little whining thing and died.”
“A whining thing? Dead batteries don’t ‘whine,’ Sarah.”
I threw my hands up in the air. “Well, how the hell should I know? Why do these things always happen when Dustin is gone?”
Brent came up beside me, wiping grease from his hands onto his sweatpants. “Hey there, Jody,” he said. “Looks like Sarah has a dead battery.”
“It isn’t a loose hose or anything?” she said as she got out of the van.
“No, definitely a dead battery,” Brent said. “I’ll go get some cables.” He turned to leave and Jody and I watched as he made his way across the grass again. Once he was out of sight, I stomped my foot and said, “I can’t believe this!”
“Well, it’s nothing to cry about,” Jody said. “Get in your car. Where are your jumper cables?”
I looked at her and shrugged.
“You don’t know where Dustin keeps the jumper cables? Do you even know what jumper cables are?”
I rolled my eyes.
“Oh, never mind,” she said. “I have my own!”
She opened the back door of her van and rummaged through a pile of backpacks and softballs, then pulled out copper clamps attached to red and black wires. After pulling her car next to mine, she fixed the wires to each of our batteries. Or, whatever. Really, I had no earthly idea what she was doing.
“Go ahead and start the engine,” she yelled.
“I’m afraid,” I called back. “What if it blows up or something?”
Jody pulled her head out from under the hood. “Please tell me you aren’t really this helpless.”
“I mean, seriously, Jody! What if you have those things attached wrong and the car blows up!”
She shooed me out of the driver’s seat, saying, “Give me a break,” under her breath, and then started the car.
By the time Brent came back, with a toolbox in one hand and a beer in the other, Jody had both cars idling.
“Now that’s what I like to see,” Brent said. “A woman with jumper cables.”
Thankfully, Jody didn’t give him the finger.
I went straight to a mechanic for a new battery, and Jody went on to the meeting at Kate’s house. I wasn’t all that disappointed about not going. In some way I felt I had delayed my fate, and I knew Jody would update me later. But as I pulled into the gas station parking lot, her words (“Please tell me you aren’t really this helpless”) rang in my head.
The greasy lobby had a half dozen green plastic lawn chairs set out for customers, and I sat down to unload the diaper bag. I was prepared for a long wait and had crayons and coloring paper for Ford and a binkie for Owen. Things were popping out of the vinyl bag like fried rice from a Chinese take-out box.
A teenage girl with long burgundy hair sitting across from me put down her People magazine and chuckled.
“How old is the baby?” she asked, nodding at Owen asleep on my shoulder.
“Almost six weeks,” I said, and suddenly I felt aware of my postpartum body and the loose pooch of skin hanging over the band of my elastic-waisted “transition” clothes. The teenager was wearing wind pants with a stripe down the leg. She had on a hooded sweatshirt, which was unzipped, exposing an intact navel and a tight white halter top. I couldn’t remember the last time my belly button saw the light of day when I wasn’t breastfeeding.
“I can’t wait to have kids someday,” she said, staring at Owen.
I laughed. “Oh, well, they’re a lot of work, too, so don’t rush.”
I thought about the fact that I wasn’t much older than a teenager when I had Ford. Because I got married at twenty-two and had Ford thirteen months later, I often felt I went straight from Daddy to sorority to Dustin without any time in b
etween. While other friends had lived in apartments with groups of girlfriends, I was buying diapers and learning to make pot roast. When my friend Amy rented her first apartment in New York City and was going out for cosmopolitans with a slew of single men, I was waiting for the mailman and hoping desperately for a postcard from Dustin overseas.
At times it seemed I had grown up too fast. Or was it that I hadn’t grown up at all?
“Your husband must be so proud,” the girl said. “I can’t wait to have a husband.” She blew a bubble with her gum and the smell of strawberry momentarily masked the new-tire and popcorn odor of the lobby.
“My husband’s in the Navy,” I said, “so he’s not around much.”
The girl shook her head with pity, but I laughed and said, “Actually, sometimes it’s the best kind of husband to have.” Although I knew I didn’t really believe it. Especially not then.
I noticed the girl watching Ford with interest. “What’s your name, hon?” she asked him, and he giggled.
“Me Ford.”
She misunderstood him—it was easy to do. “You’re four years old?” she said. “What a big boy you are!”
“No, me Ford,” he said again, and then he put a car-parts catalog with greasy fingerprints on it in her lap. “Read book?” he said.
“Oh, well, this isn’t really a book,” the girl said. “But I can tell you a story if you want. Do you like superheroes?”
Ford stared at her with eyes like saucers. He was mesmerized and nodding his head enthusiastically as he crawled into the teenager’s lap.
By the time the mechanic called our name over the loudspeaker, the girl must have told Ford a dozen stories about Wonder Woman and Superman and Flash.
“Well, that’s us,” I said, gathering my belongings with one hand. The girl helped me with the diaper bag; then she followed us to the service counter.
“I’m just wondering,” she said. “You mentioned your husband is in the Navy. By any chance, do you know a lady named Melanie?”
I stopped and turned to look at her. “You mean Melanie Davis?”
“Yeah, I think that’s her name. She has a little daughter about four years old?”
“Yes, that’s Melanie. Her husband flies with mine. Do you know her?”
“She goes to my church,” the girl said. “I babysit her daughter, Hannah, in the nursery on Sunday mornings.”
I thought this over. “You babysit at the church?” I said it mostly to myself, and then before she could answer: “Maybe this is strange because we just met here at the gas station, but I’m looking for someone to help me out while my husband is gone. Would you be interested in babysitting outside the church?”
“Oh, my gosh! I would so love to babysit!” she said. She was clapping her hands and jumping up and down so that her perky breasts bounced in her halter top and made me feel old and fat. “That would be totally cool!” she said. “Your boys are precious!”
She gave me her name—Lauren—and phone number on the back of a Victoria’s Secret receipt from her purse, which was the size of a small wallet.
It occurred to me that Amy was probably exchanging business cards with an acquaintance at a hip restaurant at that very second . . . and I was picking up a babysitter at the gas station.
When I got home, the only light in the house was the red glow of the answering machine.
“You have ten messages,” the computerized voice said.
Ten messages? Holy cow! But what were the chances one of them would be Dustin? Military wives hate missing calls from their husbands overseas.
I put the boys in bed, changed into flannel pajamas, and sat down in the kitchen to listen to my messages.
Message #1: “Sarah, it’s Mom. We’re worried about you. But Dad says not to worry about the news yet. Call us when you get home.”
This was, at its core, a hysterical message from Mom, covered up with an overcheery tone that said, “I’m your mother and I say not to worry!” Her choice of “we” and “us” tickled me most of all: Dad hadn’t picked up the phone in probably twenty years. In fact, I’m not sure I had ever spoken to him over the phone.
Message #2: “Sarah? . . . Sarah? . . . Pick up the phone, Sarah. . . . Well, I guess you’re not there. . . . Sarah? . . . Are you there? . . . It’s Doris. . . . Bye.”
Message interpretation: Mom, in a state of panic, called her mother and enlisted my grandmother’s help so she herself wouldn’t look so neurotic. Her choice of ally was interesting, though, because Doris is just as irrational at times. This is the woman who, on the night I was born, believed Charles Manson was sitting on the back patio spying on her. And basically, that’s all she recalls of the event.
Message #3: “Hi, it’s Jody. Just want to update you on the meeting. Call me when you can.”
Message #4: “It’s just Mom again. Dad still says not to worry. Everything will be fine. Call us.”
Her voice was noticeably more shaken than before.
Message #5: “Sarah! It’s Doris. . . . Are you there? I’ve got your momma callin’ me all in an uproar. Pick up the phone . . . Sarah? . . .” (Her voice trailed off into a mumble as she struggled to get the phone back on the hook, but I’m pretty sure she said, “These cotton-pickin’ machines. Who ever heard of such a thing, talking to a box!”)
Message #6: “Hi, Sarah, it’s Dustin’s mom. Just wondering if you’ve heard from Dustin yet. His dad and I haven’t gotten anything. Do you think it’s too soon for e-mail? I thought he would have sent a postcard by now. Anyway, just call us when you can.”
Message #7: “It’s Mom again. Where are you? Well, I guess you could be at a Spouse Club meeting or something. Anyway, I’ll let you know when Dad seems concerned about the media coverage. Call us.”
Message #8: “It’s Dustin’s mom again. Our phone just rang, but when I picked it up, no one was there. Just wondering if it was you trying to call . . . or do you think it could have been Dustin calling? Do you think he’ll call back? Oh, dear!”
Message #9: “It’s Courtney calling. Just wanted to check on you. Jody told me about the car. Only you, girl, only you. Anyway, has Jody called you about the news yet?”
I wondered what news everyone was talking about. I’d better call Jody back, I thought, or turn on the news. But then the last message started to play.
Message #10: There was static and a beeping sound. Then it was Dustin, his voice sounding like it was coming from a box. “Sarah, are you there? It’s me. I was hoping to catch you at home. I guess you know there’s stuff going on. I hope the Club is giving you updates. Are you there? I waited in line to talk to you. Everything’s kinda crazy here. Well, I wanted to hear your voice. Maybe you could change the outgoing message on the machine to your voice? That way I can hear you even if you don’t answer. OK . . . well, someone else needs the phone now. You’re really not there? Guess not. OK, I love you. Bye.”
I ran to the machine and hit rewind. Dustin’s voice echoed off the kitchen walls again. I played the tape over and over until Dustin’s voice sounded strange, like a word you repeat until it no longer seems like a word. Then I crumpled into a sitting position on the floor, and hugged the phone to my chest.
My eyes were heavy and I felt like I could drift to sleep as I tipped my head backward against the wall. Until I’d sat down—until I stopped moving—I didn’t realize how tired I was.
The phone rang in my hand and I jumped. “Dustin?” I said. “Is it you?”
“Sorry, Sarah. It’s me, Jody. You weren’t asleep, were you?”
I held up my head with my hand. “No, I’m awake. What’s up? How was the meeting?”
She paused a long time. Then finally she said, “They’re not coming home, Sarah. Margo said they probably won’t be home for another year.”
5
I THINK PSYCHOLOGISTS CALL THAT TRANSFERENCE
“Mommy, wake up. Someone’s at the door.” I opened one eye and saw Ford’s cheeky face barely an inch away from my nose. He was tugging
on my arm.
“Why’d you sleep on the couch, Mommy?” he said and crinkled his pink button nose.
I pulled myself up and looked down at my lap. I was still dressed in my clothes from the day before. I thought about my conversation with Jody and my stomach cramped.
“Oh, my gosh,” I said, jumping to my feet. “What time is it? Where’s Owen? Did you say someone’s at the door?”
I ran to the boys’ bedroom with Ford toddling behind. Their room glowed white, mostly from the whitewashed crib and toddler bed my mom had bought for us, but also because sidewise winter-morning light was already beginning to seep through the slats of the blinds. What time is it anyway? I wondered. Had I overslept, or did Ford wake up early?
Owen was asleep on his back in the middle of the crib, with his arms stretched above his head. The doorbell rang and I turned to leave the room, nearly falling over Ford. I ran through the carpeted living room, past Tanner still asleep next to the sofa (her hearing was so bad these days), and looked at the clock on the television. Seven o’clock. Who rings someone’s door at seven in the morning?
My socked feet slid across the wood floor of the foyer as I clambered to the door and peeked out the side window. A bearded man in faded jeans and a flannel shirt stood on the stoop with a young girl, who looked to be about eight years old and had straight brownish-blond bangs hanging in her eyes.
“Can I help you?” I said, cracking open the door.
“Yes, ma’am,” the man said. “My name is Trevor and I’m with Community Church up the road. This here is Rachel.” He put his hand on the girl’s shoulder and she looked up at me through her bangs. She wasn’t smiling.
“We’ve noticed you’re living alone most of the time,” the man said, “and so on behalf of our church and its congregation, we’d like to invite you and your boys to come worship with us.”
