One September Morning

by Rosalind Noonan

  “So what happened with the teacher?” Janet asks as she pulls the thread taut. “Is he changing the curriculum?”

  “Please! We really got into it after that. He started this antiwar crap, and I told him our president was right to send our soldiers over there.” Despite her ire, Jenn works steadily, methodically, which Sharice finds a little unsettling. She can taste the metallic sheath of repression, cold and sharp in the back of her throat.

  “And did he argue with you?” asks Britt.

  “He started to. He went off on the president for a minute, then he did a tirade on free speech. So predictable.”

  Predictable? Sharice thinks. Well, thank God for that. She rues the day when free speech is no longer part of our Constitutional rights.

  “But he backed down?” Janet puts an arm on Jenn’s shoulder. “You know he did. No one crosses Jenn Hausner and lives to tell the tale.”

  “I just played my ace in the hole. Told him that my husband is deployed to Iraq. That shut him up pretty fast.”

  It’s the younger wives’ turn to snicker now, and Sharice wonders if she and Eva and Chessie sounded that offensive. She stands beside the sink in the corner, thinking that it’s time to leave.

  “In your face, Mr. Liberal Schoolteacher,” Janet says.

  “But before I left, I made my point.” Jenn nods. “People can talk, and everyone is quick to criticize, but when you’re in something as deep as we are, you just know what’s right. You and I know we’re doing the right thing over there.”

  Do we? Sharice wonders. She is beginning to doubt the usefulness of American troops in Iraq, but she can’t say that aloud. The woman who’s lost one son to violence and the other to cowardice is in no position to question the mission of the other deployed soldiers. Bad enough that people know of her shame. She can’t go anywhere on base—not to the PX or the commissary—without generating stares and muffled whispers. Why do they bother to whisper, when she knows what they’re saying: There’s the woman who had two sons, one a hero, the other a deserter.

  Those who are better-informed know that her son’s hero status may soon be in question, but Abby’s quest for an investigation hasn’t spread as rapidly as the white-hot news that Noah did not return to duty when his bereavement leave ended.

  How did this happen; this total reversal in role, from conservative military wife to controversial victim?

  She remembers how she used to feel when people would criticize the presence of the military in a place where her sons or husband were deployed. She would bristle and sometimes snap back a rebuttal. “How can you speculate from your living room couch when our men are over there in the thick of it?” Ooh, that used to fire her up.

  And now…she’s questioning in her heart, but she can’t step out and play that role in public. Not yet, maybe not ever.

  “Our guys belong over there,” Jenn says, “and anyone who questions that doesn’t have the right to call themselves an American.”

  “Easy there, Jenn.” Chessie arches one brow. “Let’s keep politics out of this quilt. Nobody wants to be sleeping with a blanket of controversy over their head.”

  Head down like a bull ready to charge, Jenn defends herself. “It’s not about politics, Chessie. It’s about our men putting their lives on the line for this country, and they need our support. If you don’t support the president, you’re stabbing our own guys in the back. You gotta support the leadership or you’re just plain unpatriotic.”

  “Seems to me our country was founded on the expectation of freedom,” Chessie says, “and that would include the freedom to disagree with our president. Freedom to hold opinions. Freedom to argue and debate. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Come on, Chessie. Are you really going to sit here and say that you don’t support our guys over in Iraq and Afghanistan?”

  “See? You’re putting words in my mouth,” Chessie said. “I knew we should’ve dropped this.”

  Jenn shakes her head. “I don’t see why. Our guys are all soldiers. If we don’t support them, who will?”

  There were a few murmurs of agreement, but Britt stops sewing. “But what if you just don’t feel that way?” she asks in a plaintive voice as she rubs her fingers over a gold star on the quilt. “I love my husband and my country, but I really don’t see the merit in this war, if that’s what they’re still calling it. I mean, I’m all for ending terrorism, but I think our guys really don’t belong in Iraq right now.”

  “I hear you,” Chessie chimes in.

  Sharice grips the sink behind her, trying to tamp down the arguments swelling within. “It’s a complex issue,” she says aloud, as if realizing it for the first time. “And Britt makes a good point. Sometimes your gut feeling doesn’t match the things you want to believe in.”

  “Well, I don’t rely much on feelings,” Jenn says. “Sometimes I don’t feel like getting out of bed in the morning, but I don’t give in to that, do I? You can’t put stock in feelings. You just need to do what’s right.”

  Is that a shot at me? Sharice wonders as she sucks in a breath. Or is Jenn so smug that she doesn’t see the different circumstances and beliefs of the women in this room?

  “Must be nice to have all the answers, to know what’s right,” Eva says in a voice so low it’s almost a snarl. “To be so darned sure of yourself.”

  “I have always had a strong moral compass,” Jenn says. “I just know.”

  “Well I hope that damned moral compass will help you find your way if you get lost in the woods.” Repressed fury quavers through Eva’s voice as she lifts her needle and rips the thread off with her hand. “Because that’s about all it’s good for.” She grabs her purse and cuts toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Janet asks. “We’re supposed to finish today. The auction is this weekend.”

  “You’ll be fine without me,” Eva calls as she flies out the door.

  Seeing the clear line of escape, Sharice follows her.

  “And where are you going?” someone calls after her.

  She does not answer, does not look back. Right now she needs to put distance between herself and Jenn Hausner.

  Outside the community center Eva is weeping into a laurel hedge, her head tipped into her hands.

  “Oh, Eva…let me get you a tissue.” Sharice rubs her friend between the shoulder blades and finds that Eva’s soft red jacket is padded, like a cozy sleeping bag.

  “I’m sorry.” Eva swipes at her eyes with the back of one hand. “I don’t know what came over me, except that when Jenn Hausner sinks her teeth in like a bulldog, I can’t stand it!” She laughs through her tears.

  “She’s just young and stupid.” Generally Sharice tries not to be so judgmental, but there it is.

  “Stupid and insensitive. I usually don’t let her get to me, but we just heard, Kevin…he’s going back to Iraq. His unit in One Hundred Palms is being deployed again.” Kevin, Eva’s youngest son, always seemed to be the softest of the three. As a child, he was always crying over skinned knees and bruises.

  But they grow up to be marines, Sharice thinks, and they march off to battle.

  “I don’t know why it upsets me so much,” Eva says apologetically. “I guess I thought it would be over by now, everything in Iraq. I mean, he made it through the invasion of Baghdad in one piece. He leaves in January. He’ll be fine, right?”

  Somehow, the question make Sharice want to cry. Should she answer honestly or give the pat answer to give Eva some comfort?

  Eva adds, “I don’t know why, but I’ve never been this worried. Not even when Tony was deployed for Desert Storm.”

  Sharice rubs her friend’s shoulder. On the other side of the laurel hedge is the community center flagpole, which isn’t battened down correctly. Both women stare blankly as the rope flaps in the wind, making pinging noises on the pole.

  “You tell Kevin to be careful over there,” Sharice says quietly. “He’s to wear his flak jacket and helmet. And we’ll pray for him. Once he’
s over there, we’ll get the girls to send him a care package.” She gestures toward the women inside the community center.

  “I’ll send my own care packages. Anything to avoid Jenn Hausner.”

  “Are you quitting the FRG?” Sharice asks.

  “At the moment I’m not sure whether I’ll go back to a meeting next week or next year. Right now it’s not worth the aggravation.” She points inside. “Did you hear them?”

  “Loud and clear.” Sharice heard more than the words that were spoken; reading between the lines, it’s clear that Jenn and her friends want to limit the group to their own definition of patriots. “You know, the FRG meetings have always left me with a sense of usefulness and well-being, a sense that I was engaged in a charitable, philanthropic act, but today…today was a disaster.”

  “I’m so sorry!” Eva squeezes her upper arm. “With everything you’ve gone through, John and now Noah…and here I’m crying because one of my sons is being deployed.”

  “It’s okay to cry.” This is something Sharice has been learning the hard way, something she wishes she could share with her husband.

  “Oh! You’re so sweet.” In one quick move Eva throws her arms around Sharice and envelops her in an embrace.

  At first Sharice is taken by surprise, but she lets herself lean into Eva’s padded shoulder, lets herself relax in the circle of compassion.

  Eva takes a deep breath, easing her grip. “And I almost forgot to tell you the most important thing! Some of the wives are organizing a support group for people who don’t support the war.” She steps back, standing taller. “The idea came up by accident. I was working with some gals on the Toys for Tots drive and we got to talking. We’re thinking of calling ourselves WAW, for Women Against War. Right now the group is in the planning stages, but you’re welcome to join.”

  “An antiwar group?” Sharice presses a hand to one cheek. “Jim would have a heart attack.”

  “I think Jim would be fine about you meeting with people of like mind and discussing peaceful solutions,” Eva says. “Right to free assembly does apply to military wives, you know. And it’s not like we’re talking anarchy or free love or any of that stuff that pitted society against the military back in the sixties. We just want a chance to discuss our concern over our government’s military actions with other concerned, informed people.”

  Although Eva makes it sound harmless, Sharice senses that this thing has teeth.

  Besides, her husband would be appalled, and right now, the last thing she wants to do is burden him with controversial political behavior. Although he’s retired, he still works in a military organization in a world that values security, restraint, respect.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to pass on WAW,” Sharice says. “With everything that’s gone on lately…I’m still overwhelmed.”

  “Promise me you’ll think about it. It would be good for you.”

  It’s out of the question, but Sharice can’t reject it flatly, not when her friend is feeling so vulnerable. “But I don’t have any medallions or love beads,” she says.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Eva says. “But I like the sound of the love beads.”

  Chapter 41

  Fort Lewis

  Abby

  This was the last thing she wanted to do on a Saturday afternoon.

  There was college football, Christmas shopping at the mall, cookies to bake and send back east. Right now even laundry would be preferable to coming face-to-face with the men her husband had spent the last months of his life with.

  The invitation specified that the event was open to all families, friends, and neighbors of the soldiers in the 32nd Infantry Division, and since that encompassed a large group of people, event organizers decided to use the gym of Lewis High School for the afternoon event that promised a visit from Santa for the kids. With a mixture of dread and optimism, Abby heads toward the gymnasium, passing tables offering hot cider, cocoa, soda pop, and refreshments. Why does this feel like her first school dance?

  She crosses under a string of blinking colored lights into the party scene of fat round tables surrounded by chairs and people. Children skirt around the edges, chasing each other and rolling on some gym mats that have been left against the wall. More lights are strung over doorways, 3-D snowmen sculptures decorate the stage. The music is loud, the conversations louder, and everywhere, everywhere you look, are men in uniform.

  Her purse buzzes, and she extracts her cell phone. Suz.

  “Okay, I’m swimming in hot cider, and I’ve just learned that my husband was the best shot in his platoon. Which is pretty scary, because I don’t think Scott could hit a target unless the bull’s-eye was the size of a lunar crater. Where the hell are you?”

  “I just walked into the gym. Where are you?”

  “By the Christmas tree decked with miniature cannons and guns, but stay there—I see you now.”

  As Abby slides her cell phone back into her bag, Suz emerges from the landscape of tables. She is wearing a fawn-brown suit that matches her hair. The jacket’s leopard-print collar and cuffs add a touch of playfulness—very Suz.

  Abby nods in approval. “Don’t you look professional.”

  “This, my dear—” Suz gestures down the lines of the suit like a model on The Price Is Right—“is the uniform of an event planner.”

  “Sweet. You decided not to bring Sofia?”

  “She’s on a play date. She would have liked seeing Santa again, but all the soldiers here would have been overwhelming for her. Every time she sees a man in uniform, she’s sure it’s her daddy for the first few seconds. I won’t put her through an afternoon of disappointment.”

  “She would probably be bored here, anyway.” Abby nervously pushes her hair over one shoulder as a wave of stress splashes in her face. “It seems wrong to come to a party like this when you’re not feeling at all festive.”

  “Don’t forget what Flint said. This might be your only chance to talk with the guys in John’s platoon,” Suz points out. “And see what I brought? I printed it out just before I left the house. It’s the names of all the guys that were in Bravo Company with Scott and John. Let’s see if we can connect with them and find out what happened that day.”

  “Okay.” Abby squeezes her friend’s arm in thanks, then takes the list as they head over to the door together. “Thank God you’re here to keep me on track.” She scans the names of the nine original members of the platoon John and Scott were assigned to: Brown, Hilliard, Jump, Lassiter, McGee, Roland. Two Stantons and Scott Wollenberg. “Brown is the one Flint wants me to meet. Emjay Brown. He was with John when he was shot.”

  Suz nods. “Got it.”

  The woman at the reception table shakes her head. “Specialist Brown isn’t here, though he is on the list. That means we expect him, but he hasn’t checked in.”

  When Suz asks her about some of the other guys in the platoon, the woman, whose name tag reads CHER SAWICKI, scans the faces beyond them. “Doc Jump was the platoon leader, but I don’t see him around anymore. Hold on…there’s Ty Lassiter.”

  Cher hurries around the table and catches the attention of a tall, gangly soldier who strikes Abby as being way out of proportion. Ears too big for his head, eyes too close together, torso too short, legs too long. Maybe that’s why his belt seems to be up to his armpits, although that’s more an optical illusion than a reality.

  “Ty, these ladies have been looking for members of your platoon,” Cher explains, motioning to Abby and Suz.

  “Hey—” He gets an eyeful of Suz and grins, but as he swings further and sees Abby, he freezes. “Uh…hi. I know your face. John had a photo, but you were in the news at his funeral. You’re the king’s wife, right?”

  Abby starts to nod, then lets out a snort. “The king? Wow, I haven’t heard that since John was in college.”

  “Yeah, well, John’s rep was huge. I’m sure you know your husband was a legend. We’ve got a lot of John stories.”

 
Abby gestures to Suz. “And this is Suz Wollenberg. Scott’s widow.”

  He sucks in a deep breath. “Wow. I didn’t recognize you. I really liked Scott. That guy could make you laugh. He had some great stories. A total crackup.”

  “Yup,” Suz agrees. “That was Scott.”

  Lassiter taps the arm of a short but solid man in desert khaki, who turns toward them to reveal a round baby face. “About-face, McGee. Say hello to your buddies’ wives.” When McGee’s face puckers in confusion, Lassiter adds: “Or widows, I guess. I’m sorry, ladies. This part is new to me.”

  “That’s okay. We’re not big on protocol,” Suz assures him as she shakes Gunnar McGee’s hand.

  “I’m sorry about your husbands,” Gunnar says, his eyes flashing with pain. “They were good guys. Great men. I’m sorry for your loss. That Scott, he would be so quiet a lot of the time, but when he said something he cracked everyone up. And John was a natural leader. He kept us sane. Kept us focused.” His blue eyes go hollow and cold. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about Iraq, but it’s not a good place to be right now. I hope I never go back.”

  Lassiter smacks his shoulder. “You got three more years of enlistment. Of course you’re going back.”

  “I sure don’t want to.”

  “Well, you’re here now, and that’s a good thing. Welcome home,” says Abby. “I’m glad you guys made it back in time for the holidays.”

  “I wish all of us could have made it back.” Lassiter crosses his lanky arms against his chest. “We lost four men during this deployment. That’s a huge loss for a platoon our size. Roland was the first, then your husbands. And I don’t know if you heard, but Antoine Hilliard was taken out by a suicide bomber, just after John was killed.”

  Abby nods sympathetically. “It must be hard on guys like you, losing people you lived and worked with.”

  “Yeah, it ain’t easy,” Lassiter agrees.

  They chat for a while, sticking to mundane topics to keep the conversation going: the unusual inch of snow they had the previous week, the traffic that chokes the greater Seattle area, the foods the men missed most while deployed in Iraq. Once the ice is broken, Suz digs in.