Fractured Fairy Tales: A SaSS Anthology

by Amy Marie

  The only problem? I really did need to work to cover his ballooning alcohol consumption.

  Fall term passed. When I didn’t enroll for spring, I lost another chunk of my scholarships. I did get a Christmas card from my parents. As the spring term sped by, I grew resigned to losing the last of my scholarship.

  Jason and I had reached some kind of détente. He either left dishes in the sink or didn’t come home, but he never came home in time for dinner and screamed anymore. I knew better than to trust the uneasy peace, but I was grateful for it.

  Chapter 5

  Roxie

  Spring Break around 30 years ago

  One sunny Thursday morning, the anchor on the news mentioned spring break was starting next week.

  Was it only two years ago that I met that handsome, charming soldier?

  I looked at a calendar and was shocked to find it was actually two years ago tonight that we met. Nostalgia—and a fair dose of rewriting history with rose-colored glasses—kicked in.

  I decided to make Jason’s favorites for dinner. Poppy Seed Chicken from his mother’s recipe, served over the rice pilaf with almond slivers his aunt made for Thanksgiving. The fancy salad with mandarin oranges and a homemade vinaigrette he loved so much at the restaurant that I asked for the recipe.

  A fresh batch of sweet tea, far too sweet for my taste, but just the way he liked it. The peach cobbler like our neighbor gave us as a housewarming present. He raved about it so much, I asked the sweet little old lady to teach me how to make it for him.

  I even splurged and bought a bottle of his squad leader’s bourbon, the pricier Blanton’s Single Barrel that Jason didsn’t usually buy. I thought about the Michter’s, but that was almost twice the price of Blanton’s, and more than twice the price of Four Roses. As much as I didn’t care for bourbon, I knew he’d love that with the peaches.

  The salad was in the refrigerator with the salad dressing mixed and chilling, and the rice and the casserole had five minutes left on the timer. The peach cobbler was ready to go in the oven when the casserole came out.

  I reached for plates and silverware to set the table. Even when he didn’t show, I liked to set the table as if he would. Then, after I ate, I would fix his plate and put it in the oven on warm.

  As I was putting ice in my glass, I heard a key in the door.

  I flinched.

  “Hey, Doll. What smells so good?”

  I froze.

  His face peeked in from the living room, grease smudges on his strong jaw...and a smile on his lips. “I’m going to wash up and change. Ten minutes okay?”

  I nodded silently. Maybe those rose-colored glasses worked, after all.

  He returned to the table, smiling and in a good mood. He walked over to the stove where I was serving our plates and gave me a quick kiss on the lips. He poured tea in the glasses, and it felt like we were a team, working in sync. “Looks like you made all my favorites, Doll. What’s the special occasion?”

  “It’s the anniversary of the night we met. I just put a peach cobbler in the oven, too. I didn’t see any bourbon in your cabinet, so I got another bottle. Thought you might enjoy those together.”

  He smiled, and I felt all that tension start to melt away.

  Dinner was quiet. I was on edge, expecting Jason to lose his temper at any moment, but he seemed relaxed. Pleasant, even. He barely batted an eye when I got up to sprinkle sugar on the top of the cobbler and pop it back in the oven to caramelize. He even smiled and joked as we ate the peach cobbler—mine with ice cream, his with bourbon.

  Copious amounts of bourbon.

  I leaned close to Jason as I stood, enjoying the caramel, brown sugar, and vanilla notes mixing with the peach, cinnamon, and the sweet cobbler topping, soaking them in so these scents would always bring me back to this very moment. I pressed a quick kiss to his lips before covering the leftovers and putting them away, returning with the pitcher of sweet tea and the bottle of bourbon to pour refills.

  “Thank you, Doll. This all tastes amazing.” He wiped his mouth and reached in his back pocket, spreading some papers on the table and smoothing out the creases.

  “Actually, I’ve got something for you, too. I didn’t want to tell you about this until all the approvals came through and it was a done deal.”

  I glance at the military jargon and acronyms, then look back up at Jason. My confusion was evident, so he explained, “I’m career Army. Even if I left the Army, I have the skills to get a good job. If I set my sights really high, I might take a business course or two at a community college so I could handle the business side and open my own place. But like I said, that’s not something I’d ever need to do since I’m staying in.

  “But I have these benefits anyway, thanks to the GI Bill. And I can transfer them to you so we don’t have to pay through the nose for your education like before.”

  I stifle a snort at his level of delusion, since this won’t cover anything my scholarships and the military spouse benefits didn’t—although this would pay for those things longer. He seemed to be trying, so I let it go.

  “Thank you, Jason. With this and the program for military spouses here, I can definitely finish my bachelor’s and probably my master’s as well! This puts me back on track to be a family therapist, which means a career instead of just a series of jobs. And since every base has military families under stress, I can work near any base we go to.”

  A strange look drifted across his face for a moment, but he took my hands and smiled, so I dismissed it.

  He patted my hands, letting his eyes sweep my body like they used to. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and husky. Desire shot through me like a flaming arrow, setting every part of me ablaze. “Leave the dishes for the morning. We’ve got better things to do tonight.” He yanked me up and against his body—a little softer around the middle from all the bourbon, but still muscular from all the PT and demands of his MOS.

  I reached my hands up to his face and kissed him. My husband.

  Just like that, in one evening, my entire life was back on track. My education and career path spread before me like the yellow brick road. My one hesitation in going into family therapy—the state of my own—was now swept away in this fire raging between us.

  Fabric tore and buttons went flying. He seemed as desperate for me as I was for him. I couldn’t get enough of the taste of his mouth—sweet from the tea and cobbler, the savory hints from dinner drowned in peaches and bourbon.

  The next morning, what seemed to be a laser beam of early morning sun hit my eyes. I smiled as I saw Jason in my mind’s eye, peeking out the window to check for rain before his early morning PT. He must have accidentally left the curtains slightly open.

  I stretched like a satisfied cat—a very satisfied cat—enjoying the twinges and slight soreness of muscles all over my body. Evidence of our passion-fueled evening.

  My arms flung wide, one lands on Jason’s cold pillow. I grasp it, dragging it across my face to shield it from the light that seems to be drilling into my brain. As it covers my face, I gag. He must have sweated a gallon of stale bourbon from his pores, and all the classy notes he extols in his favorite bourbon are missing from this cheap stench of eau de alcoholic.

  I swiped away the pillow—and that disturbing thought—as I climbed out of bed and got ready. After a quick shower, I pulled on a comfy oversized shirt and sweatpants and swept my hair up in a loose braid to get it off my neck. I don’t bother with a bra, instead adding a robe for extra cover.

  I made my way to the kitchen, sighing at the dirty dishes everywhere, including cigarette butts floating in Jason’s coffee cup from this morning. I quickly gathered all the dishes, running soapy water in the sink and washing them.

  Rather than make a big breakfast, I poured myself a cup of cold coffee and heated it in the microwave. I popped an English muffin in the toaster, grabbing butter from the refrigerator and fixing my coffee while I wait. I tidied up my dishes, wiped down the counters and stove, th
en decided to strip the bed and wash the bourbon-soaked sheets.

  A couple of hours later, I felt better about the state of the house. The kitchen was clean, the laundry was done, and the bathrooms sparkled. I’d just found one of my old textbooks about therapy and decided to take a break and read for a bit when I heard a knock at the door.

  As I walked through the living room, I noticed a large manila envelope on the coffee table, and the things that normally sat there were moved to the floor. I frown—I thought the place was clean. Making a note to straighten the living room before settling down to read, I open the door to someone from base housing holding a clipboard, glancing at it as if to confirm information as he speaks.

  “Morning, ma’am. I’m Captain Philip Cole from base housing. It looks like Specialist Vanzandt is turning in his equipment and doing all his last-minute shi—stuff, I mean. Sorry, ma’am. As I was saying, it looks like he has everything covered except for housing. Once I sign off on this inspection, he can sign out for his PCS.”

  I gave him a blank look, not able to process what he just told me.

  Apparently he thought I was unfamiliar with the acronym. “PCS. Permanent change of station? Don’t worry—it says he’s leaving on a military transport at 1200, but you don’t have to be packed up by then. As long as you’re headed out by the end of the day.”

  My eyes started stinging, but I blinked rapidly, willing the tears away. I looked over his shoulder, up at the doorframe, anywhere but at the pity I was sure I would see on his face. I realized words wouldn’t come, so I waved him in and stumbled to the couch. I reached for a tissue, covering my face and surrendering to panic for a moment.

  No one who grew up in Laurel Oaks had the luxury of wallowing in emotions when life dealt a shit hand—because it always seemed to deal a shit hand to those of us from Laurel Oaks. Drawing on my lifetime of experience, I took a deep breath, blew my nose, and squared my shoulders. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, taking stock.

  Good thing I had a cleaning jag this morning.

  Another deep breath. I have to pack up and move. And Jason is taking military transport.

  What’s next? I’ll have to drive our Monte Carlo to the new base, praying it makes it. Hopefully it’s not too far, and it’s not somewhere that gets lots of ice and snow.

  My mind began churning, creating multiple to-do lists so I could be packed and out of here today. I glance at the items on the coffee table as I look for something to write on. A letter size manila envelope with my name in Jason’s messy handwriting—the back of that might work, but not if it holds a sweet note or something about the GI Bill benefits he’s transferring to me. I’m sentimental enough to want to save them without attaching memories of this frantic move. I open the envelope, removing the unfolded papers.

  Something small falls out, catching the light as it does. My hands hover over the stack of papers as I remove them, my mind only registering that they aren’t the blank paper I need for lists.

  Then the word “final” draws my eye.

  My stomach knots. God, don’t let it be a bill going to collections that Jason has hidden from me.

  But that’s not what it is.

  It’s worse. Far worse.

  FINAL JUDGMENT AND DECREE OF DIVORCE

  I see my name. Jason’s.

  I see a mention of a settlement.

  The GI Bill benefits.

  In lieu of any type of spousal support or housing.

  I feel like I’ve been gut-punched. I struggle to draw in a ragged breath, my eyes stinging and my sinuses burning as I desperately, desperately try to hold in the tsunami of emotions ripping through me. I drop my head into my hands, pressing my fingers into my eyes and praying the pressure helps hold the tears in.

  The pounding in my ears is probably my heart rate and blood pressure raging out of control. I fight to control my breathing, knowing it’s my best way to settle my body. I try every technique in the book—deep breathing, focusing on a happy place, purposefully tensing groups of muscles so I can relax them,...and eventually I force the panic and anger and hurt deep down.

  I spread my fingers and open my eyes, staring at my feet. The small shiny object? Jason’s ring sits beside my toes, chipped polish and all.

  I need to figure out what the hell is going on. With that thought, I flipped through the papers. The decree. The settlement, spelled out. Another copy of all the GI Bill paperwork. Various other forms and documents.

  Some of them have my signature. My actual signature.

  My hand flies to my mouth as I frantically search my memory. A few moments over the last few months flash through my mind.

  Dammit, Roxie, enough with the questions. You know how the Army loves to update their policies and forms.

  It’s just more bullshit about dependents.

  I told you, they added new forms. I have to get them signed or I can’t get promoted.

  Would you sign the damn thing already?

  And there’s a short note in his horrible handwriting at the end—not even on a blank piece of paper, but on the back of a crumpled flyer for a band playing at a crappy bar near the base.

  Roxie,

  Last night was fun, but I thought a clean break would be easiest. I’d never use the GI Bill benefits, so they’re worth more to you than to me. Besides, this way I won’t have to pay anything out of pocket, so it’s a win for everyone.

  In addition to what’s in the settlement, I’m leaving my Monte Carlo for you. It only seems fair since you’ll need something to drive after we sold that monstrosity your dad got you. I signed the title over to you. It’s in the glovebox.

  I’m also leaving you my ring—I sure don’t need it. Besides, it might sell for a little more as part of a set with your rings.

  I don’t see any reason you’d ever need to contact me, but if you do, my lawyer will be able to track me down wherever I’m stationed. Her card is attached.

  Jason

  I see the attached business card, with a perfect red lipstick kiss on the back and her private line. Even with my nose stuffy from crying (and trying not to cry), I smell expensive perfume on it. It pisses me off that I feel a bit of solidarity with her, since this card was obviously intended for his use and not mine.

  Asshole.

  All my bravado left me, and my head dropped as tears streamed silently down my face.

  “Ma’am? Are you okay?” I never heard the guy from housing return, but I see his boots in front of my bare feet. His quiet concern is my undoing, and three wrenching sobs escape me before I rein it in enough to take a deep shuddering breath and meet his eyes.

  Pointing at the clipboard, I ask, “Does it say where he’s going?”

  Confusion is clear on his face as he stands perfectly still. “Ummm. Where he’s going? I don’t know exactly what stops he has today other than turning in equipment, but his flight leaves from the airfield. It’s all SOP for a PCS.”

  “I mean the PCS. Where is he going?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Please tell me where my husband’s new station is, Captain.”

  He shifts uncomfortably, realizing something is very wrong. His voice is clear, but quiet when he responds. “Fort Wainwright, Fairbanks, Alaska. Ma’am, are you saying you’re unaware of this?”

  I wave my hand over the papers now spread across the coffee table. “Captain, I’m saying last night, he told me he’d gotten approval to sign over his GI Bill benefits to me. That surprised me because I hadn’t asked for them, although he knew I wanted to finish school.”

  I blow out a breath, pondering how much to say. What the hell—I have nothing to lose.

  “He was kind last night, like the man I married two years ago. I thought our marriage was on the mend.

  But while I was trying to figure out how to tell you that you must be mistaken—that we couldn’t possibly be PCSing without my knowledge—I found these divorce papers and my husband’s wedding ring on my coffee table. Divorce papers that are
final as of...” I glance at the decree, “Monday. So I’ve been divorced all week and didn’t even realize we had filed.”

  I huff a humorless laugh. “So I was wrong about the PCS—apparently not the only thing happening without my knowledge. My husband—excuse me, my ex-husband—is hopping a transport to leave me in...,” I pause to glance at my watch, “...two hours. And I don’t have any idea how I’m going to get everything packed and loaded into the car in time to leave today, or where I’m going once I leave the base. I have no one to call, nowhere to go.”

  He looks confused. “Your divorce is final, and you didn’t know you had even filed? I’m not sure if that’s legal, ma’am.”

  I wave my hand dismissively. “In hindsight, I signed quite a bit of paperwork over the last couple of months without paying much attention. Updated forms about dependents, things he needed to get in order to qualify for a promotion, that sort of explanation. Always in a hurry, as he was running out the door, so I didn’t get a good chance to look them over.” I stiffen my spine. “I can assure you that won’t happen again.”

  He nods, then moves to the next topic. “Can I use your phone to make a couple of calls? I’ll see if I can’t get you some help packing up. It’s not much, but at least I can make that a little easier.” His face lit up as an idea struck. “Are you saying you want to stay local?”

  I nodded.

  “I might be able to help you with a place to stay—it’s really small, but it’s clean and in good condition. In a safe neighborhood, too.”

  Shock hit me first. Almost against my will, hope started to bloom. I was overwhelmed with gratitude for this stranger—this man, who, if anything, should identify with my husband rather than his crying wife.

  Within a few minutes, he had worked some kind of magic. He contacted a few friends who were coming by this evening to help. He also made arrangements for me to move into a garage apartment—one that would give me a little distance from the base and its gossip grapevine. Not too far away, but not right outside the entrance.