by Ana Good
The butler stopped dead in her tracks.
“What?” asked Birge. “Don’t tell me we’re out of Scotch. We can’t be out of Scotch.”
The butler raised her eyebrows at Nan as she nodded toward the bare liquor cabinet in the corner.
Birge faced Nan, her eyes narrow with suspicion. “What? What did you do to my Scotch?”
Kicking off her loafers and leaning back on the sofa, Nan sighed. “I got rid of all the booze. I’m an alcoholic. Remember?”
“Well, yes, but that was my booze. And I’m not an alcoholic.”
“Look at this way, dear, you really do drink too much. I’ve probably just saved you from turning into one.”
Birge glanced at the butler, who stood waiting at the door with Nan’s tray of dirty dishes in her hands. “Do we have anything else to drink?”
“Soft drinks. Coffee. Tea. Seltzer. Everything else, ma’am.”
“Fine, bring me some coffee. Really strong.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As soon as the butler was gone, Birge got up and threw two more birch logs onto the already blazing fire. Flames leaped in the blackened hearth. The fireplace in the library enjoyed a granite hearth six feet long, more than four feet high. It had been built to warm the shingle-style mansion back at the turn of the century, when central heat had not been an option. Birge and Nan had restored the mansion while keeping the fireplace just as it had been installed. Both preferred the raw smell of wood burning and crackling over the faint odor emitted by a modern propane apparatus.
Nan stretched her stocking feet toward the fire, enjoying the warmth. Out the French windows on either side of the fireplace she could see the moon dancing across the black, glassy Atlantic Ocean. It made her sad to remember all the times she and Birge had stretched naked in front of this very fire, enjoying each other as much as the view. “You’ve been unhappy in our relationship for a long time?” Nan asked her partner quietly.
“No.” Birge shook her head. “I’d not say that. Mostly I’ve been very happy. I thought you knew that.”
“I’m not sure what I know anymore.” Nan yanked a cashmere afghan off the back of the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders. “I think maybe I owe you an apology.”
Birge sat silent, studying her hands, which she had clasped together in her lap.
“Yes, I owe you an apology. You tried to tell me my drinking was out of control. I kept sidestepping the issue. I was in denial. I didn’t listen to you. I didn’t listen to anyone.”
Birge looked up. “You knew you were an alcoholic?”
“I think so.” Nan wrinkled her forehead. “But you know everyone we know drinks heavily.” Nan rubbed a spot on her forehead. “My father drank heavily. And everything fell apart so fast on me, honey. I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t admit I was failing. That I’d lost all that money for so many people, so fast.” Tears came to Nan’s eyes.
Birge scooted across the couch and took Nan in her arms. When Nan resisted, Birge fought back, winning, at last, the upper hand. “Get over yourself already, woman. We’re in this together. Me and you. I’m here. I strayed for a few days, but I’m back. Rock solid. You don’t have to do this alone, Nan. I’m here. Right here, next to you. I’m sorry, so sorry I hurt you, hurt us. Forgive me?”
Nan felt the resistance melt from her body. It felt good, so natural, to be back in Birge’s strong arms. “You know,” she said, looking up at Birge through teary eyes, “I’ve tried really hard to hate you.”
“I noticed.”
“But truth is, I love you. God help me, I just fucking love you.” Nan reclined fully into Birge’s warm, stout body.
The two women lay together in the flickering darkness, warmed by the fire, and thirty years of hard-won history.
76. You’re in the Army Now
Poppy was relieved when the plane finally skidded to a landing outside Baghdad and the staff sergeant escorted her and Wee Gee to the USO tents. “You ladies bunk in here!” barked the sergeant, who had introduced herself as Rico. By the time the women arrived at the service tents, Rico was shouldering Wee Gee’s duffel bag. Much to Poppy’s dismay, the two older women were flirting like Southern weasels in heat.
“You gonna dance some more for me, sugar?” Sergeant Rico asked as she flung Wee Gee’s duffel onto a squeaky cot. “I mean, I’ve seen girls dance back in the States, but we don’t get many professionals. The boys get the better entertainment. We ladies don’t often get a real treat like you two coming into our tents.”
Wee Gee smiled. “Maybe you’d like a private dance? Just me and you?”
The sergeant beamed. “That would be really great, sugar. Got my own tent. Lots of privacy.”
The sergeant had flipped off her duty cap and Poppy could see that her dark hair, which was buzz cut, was shot through with gray. Poppy had never seen two old ladies flirt outright like this. She feared she might gag.
“Excuse us, love,” Poppy said as she muscled her way between Wee Gee and the soldier, “but we were wondering if you could tell us who is in charge of press relations.”
“Yeah, sure. That would be Wilson. General Wilson. Doesn’t have a tent. Has her own trailer. Over behind the communications building.” Rico hitched a thumb over her broad shoulder.
“Take us?” asked Poppy.
“I could.” Rico nodded. “But if I did, I might get my ass chewed.”
Wee Gee laid a hand on Rico’s bare forearm. “I could make it worth your while. Girl Scout’s honor.”
The sergeant’s smile was so wide it could easily have spanned her home state of Texas.
This time Poppy did gag.
“Sure. Why not?” quipped Rico. “You gals store your gear. Be back in a wink. Walk you over. But I can’t promise she’ll see you. Entertainment don’t normally fraternize with the intelligence side of things, but seeing how you asked me nice” — Rico smiled at Poppy — “I guess I can introduce you and your little cocoa goddess sidekick to the general.”
Poppy was relieved when Rico parted the flap on the tent and disappeared back into the darkness of the desert. She shivered, surprised how cold it was in a place she’d imagined as hot as Hades. “You always flirt like that with women in uniform?” she asked Wee Gee, who was busy unpacking her toothbrush and lingerie.
“Who was flirting?” asked Wee Gee. “I was just making polite Southern conversation.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s kinda cool, flirting at your advanced age and all, but could you turn the tart factor down just a smidgen? We need to find Storm.”
“Girl, you think that handsome old bull dyke is going to break the rules for your skinny cracker ass? I’m doing my best to help Storm here. I’m right here with you, ready to lay down my life.”
“Oh, something’s going to get laid all right.”
Wee Gee tossed her toothbrush at Poppy’s head.
Poppy dodged the throw and the toothbrush struck Rico instead, who’d just ducked back in under the tent flap. “Whoa! Ladies! A little order here! Behave yourselves! Both of you!”
“Guess you’ll have to discipline us, sergeant,” said Wee Gee.
Rico sidled up to Wee Gee. “You’re one horny chocolate toad, aren’t you, sugar?”
“I wouldn’t be if you’d do your job.”
Rico roared with laughter. “Come on, you two. Let’s get you to the general before I forget myself and go hog wild.”
77. Jane Wayne Rides Again
Despite the late hour, General Wilson was awake, tapping in command lines on a computer keyboard at her desk, when Rico escorted Poppy and Wee Gee into the communications command trailer. The general was a tall, stout woman in her mid-sixties who wore gold-rimmed reading glasses with visible bifocal lines. Her dyed ash-blonde hair was pulled back in a bun.
She stood and offered her hand as the women entered her office. “Pleased to meet you gals,” she said. “You in particular,” she added with a nod toward Poppy. “Huge fan. Huge. Humongous.”
“Y
ou know me?” asked Poppy, somewhat shocked.
“Know you?” cried the general. “Honey, you’re the number one pinup girl in the ladies’ locker room. Every time you come on TV in the rec room, we have to do a hand check on the ladies, make sure they keep their hands above their waistbands, at least until lights-out.”
Poppy actually blushed.
The general offered the women some beer, which they declined. Wee Gee asked for diet ginger ale instead. A foot soldier promptly delivered a chilled six-pack to the communications trailer.
“What brings you ladies to the desert?” asked General Wilson, as Rico poured the drinks.
Poppy mulled this over. “Two things, really. First, we want to entertain you women. Second, we were hoping you could help us find a friend.”
“Enlisted gal?”
“No,” said Poppy, “American war correspondent. Storm Waters.”
The general nodded. “That’s the gal they took hostage a few days ago, down south. Yes?”
“Unfortunately,” said Poppy.
The general circled the desk to come out and stand by a wall projection screen. “She your gal?” asked the general as she snapped on the projection system and began flipping through maps.
“I want her to be,” said Poppy, her voice meek for a change.
The general stopped what she was doing and stared at Poppy. “You came all the way over here to help this woman, and she isn’t even promised to you?”
“I guess that’s about the size of it.”
The general rolled her eyes. “You two have some balls.”
Wee Gee spoke now. “General, we really love Storm —”
“Wait.” The general held up one hand. “This isn’t one of those kinky ménage à trois things, is it? ’Cause if it is, I have to tell you gals I’ve got a little woman and a piddle of grandkids back home, but I’m Baptist. Don’t go for none of that kinky Orange Is the New Black stuff.”
Wee Gee shook her head. “Nothing kinky here, ma’am, I assure you. Poppy and Storm met in rehab. They fell in love. Storm had to leave to come back here after a story. Poppy just wants a chance to connect with her again. I’m along for moral support. I didn’t want my baby girl here to get into trouble.”
The general studied both women. “So happens we know where your gal is.”
“What!” cried Poppy, who was on her feet in a flash. “Let’s go! Get us a tank or a camel or something!”
“Whoa!” called the general as she reached out and snagged the prancing Poppy by the collar of her shirt. “Sit your cute little ass down.” The general yanked Poppy back into her seat. “Let’s talk about this thing like ladies. Can’t just order tanks and roll on behind enemy lines. Who do you think we are? A bunch of wild Jane Waynes?”
Poppy puffed up. “Don’t bloody tell us we have to do paperwork!” she cried. “There isn’t time for that. Just show us where she is. We’ll find her.”
The general guffawed. “What are you going to do, honey? Take a taxi?”
Wee Gee jumped in. “Those maps.” She nodded to the projection screen. “You can show us Storm’s location on those maps?”
“Yes, I can.” The general walked around and tapped a spot with a leather pointer. “Square there. Not far inside enemy lines.”
Poppy narrowed her eyes. “How can you be sure?”
“Easy,” said the general. “Communications. We fit every war camera with a GPS tracking device. The camera Storm is toting has a homing device. That way we can locate all our equipment via GPS. We lose a lot of these things. With night-vision gear these babies cost us upward of ten thousand a pop. With the GPS we can locate any cameras issued for use on the battlefield, get them back safely even after our cameramen have been blown to Toledo.”
“We can go in after Storm?” Poppy stood again.
“Hold your wild horses, honey. We can go. I’ve already got a couple of Hummers ordered to leave with a supply convoy in about two hours.”
“Why the hesitation?”
“Not hesitating. We need our paperwork in order. We’ll have to cross three checkpoint zones. If we don’t have papers in order, we’ll be blood-and-gut confetti in no time.”
Poppy twisted her lips. “As soon as we have the paperwork we can go after Storm?”
“Actually,” said the general as she rubbed her cheek, “technically, we can’t go after your gal. She’s civilian. But we can go after that camera. That camera is valuable property of the U.S. military. If your gal just happens to be attached to that camera, well, we can lay claim to her, also.”
Poppy was on her feet, out the door instantly. She grabbed Sergeant Rico by the arm, dragging her along. “Where do you keep your tanks?” she asked. “Show me which one to climb into.”
The general and Wee Gee brought up the rear.
Wee Gee apologized to the general. “Sorry about that girl. She’s in love. Young. Mighty impatient.”
The general chuckled. “That lady is a real spitfire. Got to admire that. Hell, I can’t get my gal to walk across the kitchen and fetch me a bologna sandwich. Great to see young love in action again.”
78. Lesbian Poker: All Hearts Wild
Wee Gee sprawled on top of a mountain of sandbags, playing poker with Sergeant Rico and a gang of enlisted ladies as they waited for General Wilson and her convoy to arrive in the lot. By consensus, the women were playing lesbian poker: all hearts wild.
“Full house!” cried Wee Gee triumphantly as she cast down her hand and raked in a mess of pennies.
Poppy was sitting on her haunches not far away, squinting at the pixilated satellite TV screen that hung on the outer wall of the mess hall. The commentator had not said a word about ISIS for almost an hour. The news was about domestic issues: some guy in a parka claimed his pet poodle was eaten by a pack of coyotes on a hike into Alaska. Poppy was not paying much attention until a picture flashed across the screen that jogged a memory.
“It’s Thumper!” cried Poppy as a clip of the snowboarder and her sister competing at the last Olympics flashed onto the screen. “She made it onto the World Cup team!”
“Hallelujah!” cried Wee Gee, who’d just won another hand, this time on a bluff. She looked up to see a ticker stream across the bottom of the screen announcing that Thumper was in a hospital in upstate New York: “Olympic snowboarder injured in accident at Lake Placid. May never walk again, fears coach and family.”
Wee Gee threw her cards down as she read the ticker. “God, no! Don’t do that to that sweet little girl. Don’t you dare do that to her!”
Sergeant Rico looked up at the screen. “You know that girl?”
“Sure do. She was in rehab with me and Poppy and Storm.”
Rico whistled. “As soon as I get stateside, I’m gonna throw away my beer and give rehab a go. They got any more hot dark hens like you stashed there?”
Before Wee Gee could respond, four convoy trucks and two Hummers roared into the yard. General Wilson was seated high up in the lead Hummer on the passenger side. “Hop in, gals,” she said with a wave of her hand toward Poppy and Wee Gee. “Time to get this show on the road.”
Poppy wasted no time jumping up on the running board and hopping into the elevated back seat. She had to reach out and give Wee Gee a hand up as the Hummer kicked up sand, the motor revving to get out on the open road.
As Wee Gee kicked to get into the Hummer, she felt a pair of hands press suggestively against her posterior, giving her the lift-off power she needed to scramble safely into the back seat. She literally flew into the Hummer.
“I felt that, missy!” she called over her shoulder at Rico as the grinning sergeant slammed shut the vehicle door.
“You ain’t felt nothing yet, sugar,” promised the sergeant with a wink as the rescue convoy rolled out of the encampment into the utter darkness of the desert.
79. What Men Fear Most
Storm was running out of questions. She’d asked Hasi Ahmad every question she could imagine, beginning with important
issues, like his religious beliefs, and ending with inane things, such as his favorite pizza (goat pepperoni). The camera had run out of memory half an hour ago, but luckily Hasi was so engrossed in his own stories he failed to notice when the red light clicked off.
“Does your wife support your work?” asked Storm, who’d broken into a sweat as soon as she’d noticed the dimmed light. Her time was running out. She was at the end of the digital memory, which meant she was also almost to the end of her life.
“What wife? I told you: no wife.”
“Right. Sorry. Okay, if you and your men kill me, what good will this do your cause?”
“It will show Americans we are not afraid.”
“But I have no weapons. I am not a soldier. I am a woman. A reporter.”
“Yes, and what you report are lies. For this we will kill you.”
“Hold on,” objected Storm, stepping outside her professional role. “Have you ever seen me report?”
“No.”
“Then for all you know, I tell no lies.”
“Maybe, but why are we talking about you?” Hasi frowned. “This interview, it is about me. Yes?”
Storm leaned back on her cot. Hasi had unchained her leg so she was free to walk about the room, but anytime she tried to walk more than a single step, one of his soldiers raised a bayonet toward her. She felt frustrated. Stuck. At the end of her wits. “Can I go to the bathroom?” she whined. “The toilet? Please? Where is the toilet?”
“Outside,” said Hasi, “in the sand.”
“I’m fine with that,” said Storm, who’d peed au naturel a good many times. Her chosen profession demanded a lack of prissiness in this particular arena.
“Okay, but one of my men must go with you.”
“Fine,” said Storm. “Whatever.”
As Storm sprang off the cot, she felt something jiggle in the inner zipper pocket of her fatigues. She raked one hand over the pocket and felt the rounded vial of drugs that Hunter had foisted onto her. Next to that was a small metal case that held her tampons.
Seeing her hand pressed to her thigh, Hasi demanded to know what she was doing.