The Marine's Baby, Maybe

by Rogenna Brewer

  Free Internet access, commercial phones and televisions were just a few of the perks of modern warfare. He preferred the hardships of an FOB, Forward Operating Base, as a reminder of why he was here.

  But today he didn’t mind the conveniences.

  While in line he read his only other piece of mail.

  Dear Lucky,

  I hear Keith made his high school basketball team. I remember how much you boys loved that game. Do you get the chance to “shoot hoops” in Iraq? Of course, Bruce was a much better player than you were. You were always so big and clumsy, bumping into the other boys, and fouling out so often you spent entire games warming the bench.

  “It’s called defense, Dottie.” Bruce had been an offensive forward, leading scorer—and four years too young for them to ever have competed on the same court. Same with Luke.

  That is, until the three of them wound up in Iraq. He’d have to remember to tell his aunt about their night games under the floodlights. Of course, Bruce was back in California now.

  Anyway, good for Keith. Lucky continued reading….

  I suppose Bruce won’t be playing much basketball after losing his leg, not to mention his fiancée. I heard she took one look at the stump and went running from the hospital room. Well, good riddance is all I can say. Speaking of which, the Navy kicked the widow-bride out of housing. Gave her ninety days to vacate. I would have gone out there to help pack, but my bursitis has been acting up again.

  Flew out with Nora Jean for the funeral. Your father showed up, and naturally they had words. Can’t be civil to each other for more than two minutes, not even for the dearly departed. Good thing your uncle John was there to keep the peace. Keith, too. I can understand why your mother wasn’t, with Bruce being in the hospital and all, but I can’t understand why the Marine Corps wouldn’t give you leave to bury your own brother.

  Nora Jean is beside herself with grief. Hasn’t gotten out of bed since the funeral, and it was such a touching ceremony with all the military formalities. Though I think the widow-bride should hand over the flag to her mother-in-law. It would be a lovely gesture. After all, Little Luke and his bride knew each other only three short months and Nora Jean’s been mother to that boy all his life.

  There’s only one reason for a young couple to rush to the altar like that, but if she’s pregnant she isn’t showing. A shame if she isn’t—and I don’t think she is—because what a comfort that would be. Now that I think about it, ninety days is just about right for the Navy to send the widow-bride packing.

  Maybe I’ll drop her a note and suggest she do just that, about the flag, I mean. Then I’ll send her over to the naval hospital to visit Bruce. You know how much those two boys looked alike. And here they went from being on rival high school basketball teams to being on the same Navy SEAL team. Now wouldn’t it be something if Bruce and the widow-bride found some comfort in each other?

  Love,

  Aunt Dottie

  It’d be something, all right. And not something good.

  Just something else to keep the tongues wagging.

  By the time Lucky finished his aunt’s letter he’d moved to the head of the line and sat down at the bank of computers with the widow-bride on his mind.

  Her real name was Cait or Caitlin, something like that. But in Calhoun family lore she’d forever be known as Little Luke’s widow-bride. He didn’t know much about her, other than she came from old money back east.

  Maryland, maybe? That’s where Luke had met her, any way.

  His advice to the widow would be to surrender the flag. It’d be worth it to get Nora Jean out of her life.

  Getting rid of Aunt Dottie, on the other hand, would be impossible. For a man who’d grown up without any real sense of family, that thought was as comforting as it was disturbing.

  Once online, instead of the form letter the JAG office had prepared and a copy of the death certificate the chaplain had provided, he accessed his bank account and paid the damn jewelry-store bill. No woman should be stuck with the bill for her own engagement ring. Between Nora Jean and Dottie, the widow-bride had enough on her plate.

  That didn’t stop him from wincing as he hit the transaction button that would deplete his savings account by some six thousand dollars. Money was one thing a tightwad didn’t part with easily. Especially when he was saving up for some thing special.

  Tanner really didn’t know him if he didn’t know that much about him, at least. Three hundred and fifty dollars for sperm storage? No, thanks.

  He had ninety days left before he was out of here, and out of the service for good. He’d made it this far; he could keep his balls tucked tight for another three months.

  He was lucky that way.

  After that, he’d chuck his ten-year military career, buy that Harley he’d always wanted and spend a year doing nothing except taking his freedom for granted.

  Chapter Three

  CAITLIN SANK TO THE COOL TILE floor of her tiny apartment bathroom, waiting for the nausea to subside. The crackers she kept on her nightstand helped some, but then she had to put up with crumbs in her bed.

  Crumbs were a poor substitute for a warm body.

  Her decision to stay in California had been rash, but not one she regretted, even though turning the moving van around had created a logistical nightmare. She’d had to find a place fast. Store everything from the three-bedroom row house that didn’t fit into her new one-bedroom apartment. And redirect Luke’s and her mail to the new address. Not to mention how disappointed her father had been when she’d cashed in her ticket and told him she wouldn’t be coming home. At least not now. She might not belong in this state anymore, but Coronado was where she’d buried her heart. And California was where she’d chosen to stay.

  She had a meeting “of a serious nature” with CryoBank director Carol Livingston at eleven, followed by lunch with “the wives” at noon. And right now she could barely pull herself together long enough to get dressed.

  She stretched Luke’s T-shirt across her legs, resting her forehead against her raised knees. The Navy had come knocking 184 days and seven hours ago.

  His scent had faded. So had her memories. Now whenever she wanted to picture his face she had to look at an actual picture of him.

  “I’m not ready.” Not ready to let him go? Or not ready to go it alone?

  Pregnancy was not the joyous event she’d imagined. Not when Luke wasn’t here to share it with her. She felt more alone than she ever would have thought possible. And more afraid. She had yet to tell her friends.

  They weren’t even her friends anymore, not really. But she had to tell somebody before she burst at the seams, literally. She needed them to feel happy for her, since she couldn’t quite allow herself those feelings yet.

  And what if they weren’t happy for her?

  What if, like her father, they thought she’d rushed into things? He wanted her home. But she wanted to at least try to make it on her own first. Before the wedding, he’d been critical of her marrying so young and of her moving so far away—but he’d come around after meeting Luke.

  And he’d come around about the baby. But her mother-in-law? Caitlin was a mess just thinking about it.

  No, her mother-in-law was a mess.

  Since the death of her only child, Nora Jean loved Caitlin one minute and hated her the next. Scratch that. The woman had always hated her and no longer bothered to keep up the pretense. No woman, except maybe one she’d handpicked, would ever have been good enough for her Little Luke. The woman had had much higher aspirations for her son’s naval career. Which was why she’d told everyone Caitlin was from “old money” when she wasn’t.

  Nora Jean had gone ballistic when she’d learned Caitlin was the beneficiary of his stored semen. No telling how she’d react to the news that Caitlin had actually put those sperm to good use. The woman had tried to exert control over Caitlin’s every decision since Luke’s death.

  And then there was Dottie. Luke’s aunt actually had t
he nerve to suggest that Caitlin give up his flag.

  His flag!

  Nora Jean had had her pick of Luke’s personal possessions, but Caitlin drew the line at his flag and his future babies.

  She pushed herself up from the bathroom floor with the uneasy feeling that no one was going to react quite the way she wanted them to.

  She could just imagine what CryoBank wanted.

  While her husband’s initial deposit had been free, she’d found withdrawal and continued storage of his remaining specimen to be quite expensive but necessary if she wanted to give her child a little brother or sister someday.

  She’d opted for the credit card payment plan, which was probably in default by now. Someone had canceled all her credit cards, but the bills just kept coming.

  Removing her rings, Caitlin set them in the soap dish next to the sink. The only time she could remember being that frivolous with money was when it came to her wedding. Even then her father had footed the bill, just as he had for her college education—at least those things not covered by the scholarships she’d earned. And while she wouldn’t call the University of Maryland a frivolous expense, it sure felt like it when she wasn’t putting that education to work for her.

  Caitlin turned on the shower. The responsibilities of single parenthood would be her reality soon enough. Stripping while waiting for the tepid water to heat, she hesitated over the hamper with Luke’s T-shirt in hand and buried her face in it one last time.

  She’d been a widow for almost six months. Pregnant for three. Longer than they’d been married. Longer than she’d even known him.

  Maybe if she just didn’t wear his T-shirt any more she could preserve what was left of him.

  Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, Caitlin put a hand to the slight swell of her belly. She had loved and cherished her husband in life.

  A baby was how she would honor him in death.

  She didn’t need a ratty old rag anymore, and tossed it into the hamper to prove it.

  Chapter Four

  AN HOUR LATER CAITLIN WAS ushered into Carol Livingston’s poinsettia-filled office. In a state where street-corner Santas dressed like surfers, Caitlin had almost forgotten this was the week before Christmas.

  “Come in, Mrs. Calhoun. Caitlin.” The CryoBank director opened yet another door, leading from her paneled office to a windowless boardroom.

  Two men stood as the women entered. Their names escaped Caitlin as soon as they introduced themselves as attorneys with the law firm of such and such.

  “Carol?” she asked with the same mock familiarity the woman had used with her. “What’s going on?”

  Surely these men had better things to do than harass her for past-due storage and withdrawal fees.

  “Perhaps you’d better sit down,” the woman suggested.

  That didn’t sound good. Had her mother-in-law found out and been in touch? Caitlin’s knees buckled at the precise moment one of the lawyers rolled a padded leather chair underneath her. Thankfully, it broke her fall.

  But he may as well have pulled it out from under her when he said, “It’s my duty to inform you, Mrs. Calhoun, that you were impregnated with the semen of a man other than your late husband.”

  Caitlin looked from him to the other two in the room. “What? Would you mind repeating…” He couldn’t possibly have said what she thought he’d said. A minute ago she’d walked through the door, pregnant with Luke’s baby. Now he was telling her…

  “The baby you’re carrying is not your husband’s.”

  The blood drained from Caitlin’s face, leaving her light-headed. She started to hyperventilate and the director called for her secretary to bring a paper bag. The woman rushed in and handed her a crinkled brown bag.

  “Not Luke’s baby?”

  Caitlin doubled over, holding the sack to her face as someone shoved her head between her knees. They were talking to her and at her and around her, but she couldn’t understand a word they were saying.

  The sack smelled like a tuna-fish sandwich. Normally she liked tuna, but under the circumstances she wanted to barf.

  “Breathe!”

  In and out. In and out.

  She breathed in and out several times before forcing herself upright.

  In. The bag emptied.“I read your brochure cover to cover,” she muttered.

  Out. The bag inflated. Removing the smelly sack, she looked from one to the other. “Sperm banks do not make those kinds of mistakes.”

  “This was a clerical error unique to our military deployment project and the processing of thousands of men at one time….” Carol cleared her throat. “Your doctor’s office received the wrong sample. I assure you nothing like this has ever happened before—”

  “But you’re saying it has happened. To me!”

  “Yes, I’m afraid––”

  One of the lawyers cleared his throat. “An argument could be made that this was not an error on the part of Cryobank, Mrs. Calhoun, but specific to your situation. On the bright side, your donor shares at least 25% of his DNA with your late husband.”

  “What are you saying? Who’s...the father?”

  CAITLIN DROVE TO THE Officers Club on autopilot. She was running too late to cancel lunch. Though she wanted to talk to someone, anyone, under the circumstances she couldn’t break the news of her pregnancy to her friends now. She didn’t even know how she was going to make it through an hour of polite conversation.

  As expected, the three women were waiting out front. Pam stood under a decorated palm tree, checking her cell phone messages.

  They didn’t notice Caitlin when she came to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk only a few feet away. They were too busy dissing her.

  “She’s put on weight.” Marilyn, who was rail thin and always on a diet, would notice that. “I think she’s pregnant.”

  Jill rolled her eyes. “She can’t be. Do the math.”

  “Then what was she doing at the ob/gyn last week?” Marilyn looked smug.

  “There could be any number of reasons,” Jill argued. “Her annual physical for one.”

  “A fertility specialist?” Marilyn tsked.

  “Seriously, you two.” Pam looked up from her phone.

  “She could have received one of those letters from CryoBank.” Marilyn persisted.

  Jill’s mouth gaped open. “You don’t think…”

  Marilyn lifted a sculpted brow. “Oh, I think…”

  Caitlin listened as her friends drew their own conclusions.

  Then her cell phone rang.

  Pam looked at her, then at the phone in her hand, unable to comprehend that her thumb had pressed the button that had given Caitlin away. They all stared at Caitlin.

  “I guess you already know my news.” She turned on her heel and headed back to her car.

  “Caitlin,” Pam called after her. “Wait!”

  Back home in her sparsely furnished apartment without a holiday decoration in sight, Caitlin turned off the ringer on her cell phone and ignored her ringing home phone.

  She didn’t want to deal with Pam right now. She needed all her courage to make the next phone call.

  Every military wife knew to keep the number for the American Red Cross by the telephone in case of emergencies. Caitlin punched in that number, before her phone started ringing again. If this wasn’t an emergency, she didn’t know what was.

  “American Red Cross,” the volunteer answered.

  “I’d like to send a health and welfare message to a service member.”

  “And what is his or her name, please?”

  “Luke, Luke Calhoun Junior.” Caitlin said the name out loud for the first time, making it all too real. This really wasn’t happening. Any moment now she’d wake up next to her Luke and he’d tell her it was all a bad dream, then life would go on as it should.

  “Service number?”

  Caitlin rattled off the numbers she had on the piece of paper in hand.

  “Your name and relationship?”
r />   “Caitlin Calhoun. Mrs. Caitlin Calhoun,” she emphasized, skipping over the relationship part, letting the woman make the natural assumption.

  “And your message, Mrs. Calhoun?”

  “I’m pregnant. I’d like to tell him that...but not in a message. I’d like him to call me.”

  “Congratulations.” She could sense the woman smiling over the phone as her fingers flew over the keyboard. “And your husband’s command?”

  “I—I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll need that information to send the message, Mrs. Calhoun. Can you call your ombudsman or another wife and find out? You must have a number around there somewhere. Then call me back, okay? I’ll keep this message for you.”

  Caitlin hung up. She’d thought she was being so clever, but Pam was their ombudsman and Cait couldn’t give her husband’s command. She didn’t know…if this other Luke Calhoun Jr. was somehow connected to the same command.

  Was he?

  Aside from the red cross and the wives’ phone tree, the only other contact number she had was the OOD….She dialed the duty desk for the Officer of the Day. Because of Luke’s strict instructions, she’d never bothered his command once while he was alive.

  “This is Caitlin Calhoun, Luke Calhoun’s wife, er, widow.” Would she ever get used to the idea of being a widow? She’d never even had the chance to get used to the idea of being a wife.

  “Yes, Mrs. Calhoun,” the Officer of the Day said with respect.

  “This is going to sound odd, but is there another Luke Calhoun with the team? Aside from my late husband, I mean.”

  “No, ma’am. We do have a couple Calhouns. But no other Luke Calhoun. Unless you mean Bruce Calhoun?”

  Bruce? Luke had never mentioned a Bruce Calhoun.

  “No,” she said, disappointed. Of course it couldn’t be that easy. Her eyes drifted to the stack of bills on the counter. “I have some mail here that I don’t think belongs to my husband. It’s addressed to a Luke Calhoun Junior.” Well, now that was just a lie. She wished all those bills didn’t belong to her husband. “I was wondering how I might track him down.”