Soldier Mom Read online

  “What’s the hurry? Hold on while I make my bed,” she says.

  Danielle is such a neatnik. She wears outfits. Stuff that matches. She even has an “Alcatraz” hat to match the tank top that I borrowed.

  “Don’t do that now,” I say. “Stop, okay? I have to tell you something good and something terrible.”

  “Well, you can tell me better with the sheets pulled up.”

  “No, I can’t. Danielle, listen. Here’s the good part. Shawn came by this morning. And last night he was at our tryouts.”

  “Really? He must like you. I was right! I told you so, remember? Okay, the sheets will stay messy if it makes you happy.”

  Danielle picks up her hairbrush and looks in the mirror. She tries to brush her wildly curly hair into shape. She opens her sock drawer and takes out dark purple nail polish, which she hides from Stevie. I snatch it from her, put it back in the drawer, and close it. She thinks this is a normal day, but it isn’t.

  “No nail polish. Now I have to tell you something truly terrible. Have you been watching the news?”

  “The news? No way. What for?”

  “Okay. There’s this tiny little country called Kuwait. It’s like a desert, only underground, under the sand, there’s oil—oil for gasoline.”

  “Oh. Cars.” She nods.

  Her dad sells hardware and auto parts. Ken’s Hardware and Handy. Route 1. Danielle works there on Sundays. I wish I could work there, too. She gets to measure out the nails on a scale and cut lengths of chain and weigh birdseed and everything. I love shoving my arms deep into the huge bags of birdseed. Danielle likes to bop around the store and talk to customers. She can sell them anything. People come in looking for U bolts and walk out with a pack of morning glory seeds and a doggie dish.

  “Anyway, there’s a war there. Iraq invaded Kuwait and won’t leave.”

  “A war? You’re kidding. The United States is at war?”

  “No. Not us. Kuwait. It’s this place near Saudi Arabia. Last night my mom got called to go by the army, and she went to work this morning to tell them she wants to stay home. But I heard her boss talking. I picked up the phone last night and listened in . . .”

  “You did? Did you get caught?”

  “No. But this guy, her boss, said family problems were not the army’s concern, or something like that. He used a lot of weird words.”

  “What?” Now Danielle’s listening hard. She stares at me, I guess thinking, trying to figure this out. The news is starting to sink in.

  “Wait a second. Your mom would leave for war? You mean now? Your grandfather is sick, right? Who’s going to stay with you guys?”

  “Mom says Jake will.”

  “This is so, so terrible.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I whisper.

  Again I feel a lump in my throat. Tears sting my eyes. I try hard to blink them away. I hate crying. My nose turns big and red and swollen like a clown’s, and my eyes turn into puffy slits. I sniff back my tears. “When the going gets tough . . .” The phrase pops into my mind.

  “Maybe it will only be for a few weeks. But my mom won’t tell me anything.”

  “If it’s only a couple of weeks, you can stay with us. Of course you can. My mother won’t mind.”

  “I don’t think so, Danielle. Maybe I could, but what about Andrew? Where would he go? What about Stevie? Your mom’s already worn out. She’s about ready to pop a gusset as it is.”

  “Yeah. But I know she’d let you. And somebody else could take Andrew . . .”

  “No! Nobody’s going to split us up!” I shout. “Okay?”

  “Okay, Jas. Jeez, I’m sorry. I was just trying to think this through. Wait. Come on down to the basement. We can check the war thing out. Maybe you’ve got it all wrong.”

  I feel better already. I know I can always count on Danielle.

  In the family room, Danielle turns on the set, and we flop onto an old sofa to watch.

  “Flip to the news channel,” I say. “It’s on all the time. You’d think this desert stuff was World War III or something.” I laugh nervously.

  Danielle glances at me, then at the map, now in a little corner of the screen.

  Despite warnings from the United States and the world community, Saddam Hussein continues his policy of belligerence and aggression. He has taken hundreds of hostages, British, American, and other nationalities, and is holding them in the American embassy in Kuwait, while he waits for the United States to stop its so-called aggression against the Arab peoples.

  A videotape of Saddam Hussein appears on the screen. He’s sitting in a big armchair, wearing army clothes and a beret, and he has a thick black mustache that looks glued on. An Iraqi flag is placed next to his chair, and standing on either side of him is a line of British hostages.

  Saddam is smiling broadly. He reaches out his hand, and suddenly a little boy is pushed forward by the soldiers in the background. The boy has his hands clasped in front of him. He is wearing a white shirt and pale blue shorts. His hair is blond and very neatly combed. He stares to the side at a big plant. He won’t look straight ahead.

  The television voice says, “This is Stuart, a five-year-old British subject in captivity. Saddam is ordering the boy to tell the cameras how well he is being cared for as a guest. They are giving him Corn Flakes, his favorite food.”

  Danielle gasps. “Oh my God, what’s happening to him? He looks terrified.”

  I’m clenching my hands so tightly that my fingernails are digging into my palms. “He’s a hostage.” What if Mom goes there and gets taken hostage? I never even thought of that last night. Where’s Stuart’s mother? Only soldiers and Saddam are near him.

  Saddam tries to turn the boy to face the cameras more directly. Stuart won’t budge. He stiffens his little body. And if Saddam tries to force him in front of international television, it will be clear, even more clear, that something is terribly, terribly wrong. I feel a flash of pride that one little boy could be so brave.

  Again the news station flashes a statement from President Bush.

  The capture and holding of civilians is a clear violation of international law. It will be met with as much force as necessary, even lethal force, if diplomacy fails.

  “Lethal force?” Danielle asks.

  “He means our army can kill those soldiers. Here. Turn it off.” I grab the remote and click it.

  “That poor little kid. Do you think the Iraqi soldiers will kill him?” Danielle asks in a small voice.

  “I don’t know.” Neither one of us knows what to say.

  “We should go out and start practicing layups before it gets too hot,” Danielle finally says, always practical.

  “It’s already too hot.”

  “Well, then what do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. I have no clue.”

  “At noon, I have to go volunteer at the stables. Want to come?”

  “Yeah. Sure. With Stevie, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Part of Stevie’s summer program is lessons at a therapeutic riding program. The lessons are expensive, so Danielle’s whole family pitches in alongside Stevie to do work around the stables. I’ve been along a couple of times. It’s fun.

  “You really think working with the horses is helping him?”

  “I don’t know. A little. He does great while he’s there, but then when he comes home, he’s the same. Yelling and screaming, doing whatever he feels like.”

  “But he’s good there because he knows the horses won’t like it if he’s noisy?”

  “Yeah,” says Danielle. “He likes the horses better than us, I swear to God. He finds them calming.”

  “Well, animals are sort of better than people.”

  Upstairs we can hear a high-pitched shriek and the sound of Stevie’s running feet.

  “Stevie, we’re leaving for the stable now!” Danielle’s mother speaks loudly and firmly. “No food. Put the crackers back.”

  Stevie gives a stiff laugh and runs into his
bedroom. Danielle and I go upstairs and head for the car so he won’t have an audience other than his mother.

  Soon Mrs. Roberge comes out to join us girls. Danielle’s mother is short and has curly brown hair. Her favorite color is red. Today she’s wearing red pants and a red T-shirt, with red sandals and red toenail polish. Not exactly camouflage colors.

  “Whoof! It’s hot and muggy,” she says as she opens the car door to air out the interior. They have a brandnew Honda and it has New Car Smell. She turns on the engine and starts the air conditioning full blast. Mainers don’t like to be too warm even for a few minutes. “Jas, you were great last night, I hear.”

  “Mom,” Danielle says, “you won’t believe what happened. You know how Jas’s mom is in the army reserves? Well, last night she got called up!”

  “To go to Saudi Arabia? My gosh!” Mrs. Roberge stares at me. “When will she have to leave, Jasmyn?”

  “Saturday morning.”

  “You mean tomorrow?”

  I nod. “She’s going to be among the first to go.”

  “My God. She must be going out of her mind. What’s she going to do?”

  “She has to go. You can’t say no to the army. And I guess Jake will take care of me and Andrew.”

  “Well, you tell your mother that anytime I can I’ll—”

  At that moment Stevie blasts through the front door and Mrs. Roberge is sucked back into watching out for him, getting him into the car, buckling his seat belt—all those details—and she never gets to finish what she was saying.

  After Stevie’s lesson, as we pull back into the Roberges’ driveway, Danielle shouts, “Phone! The phone’s ringing! I’ll get it!” She dashes into the house.

  She leans out the front door. “It’s Bridget and Amy. They’re going to meet us at your hoop so we can. practice for today, okay?”

  No. It’s not okay. But I nod. I can’t handle even the thought of dealing with Bridget today. I just don’t have the energy.

  The four of us play for nearly three quarters of an hour. Muffy barks nonstop. Because of our height, it’s me vs. Bridget as forwards, and Danielle vs. Amy as guards. So I have to shoot past Bridget. And today I can’t jump. I feel nailed to the ground.

  Every time Bridget scores, she sings “Can’t Touch This.” Once, she tells us, “The whole time I was at Red Star camp, we sang that. It was so awesome.”

  She elbows Danielle in the arm, trying to snatch the ball away.

  “Foul!” Danielle yells.

  “No way!” Bridget snatches the ball now that play has stopped. She dribbles once and shoots.

  “It was too a foul. You jammed her with your elbow,” I say. “I saw you.”

  “Amy, did you see me do that?” Bridget asks.

  “No.”

  Finally we all stop, hot and winded, hands on our knees to catch our breath.

  “Phew, it’s hot. I’m going in for a glass of water,” Bridget says.

  “Oh, sure. I should have offered.”

  The rest of us flop down in the grass to wait. But Bridget doesn’t come out right away. I figure she’s using the bathroom.

  Suddenly the back door bursts open. She’s got something in her hand. “Look at this!” She’s waving my card from Shawn. “Two cows. Can you believe it? Cows. That is so completely country! It’s so hick. It says, ‘I find you udderly delightful.’ And it’s signed ‘Love, Shawn.’ ”

  Amy shrieks with laughter and runs to the door, yelling, “Let me see. Let me see.”

  I lay my head on my drawn-up knees and decide to sleep. Danielle snatches the card from Amy and brings it to me. Without even looking, I tear it to shreds, and when I get to my feet, I toss the little pieces of paper down the storm drain.

  “It was only a joke, Bridget. He gave it to me as a joke,” I say, pulling the elastic band in my ponytail tighter.

  “Yeah? I don’t know, Jas. We all know how much Shawn loves cows. Doesn’t look like a joke to me. Udderly delightful. Come on, Amy. We’re going back-to-school shopping later on.”

  “You are? Where?” Danielle asks, suddenly interested. She and her mom are shop-till-you-drop types. You have to be if you want to wear things that match. “The mall?”

  “Yeah. You want to come?”

  “Sure,” Danielle says. “You want to, Jas?”

  I shouldn’t, because Mom is leaving tomorrow; I should stay here. And suddenly I hate them. I hate their bikes. I hate their trip to the mall.

  I shake my head. “Nah.”

  “Oh, how udderly too bad,” Bridget says, swinging her leg across her bike and pedaling up the street with Amy. “See you later, Jas.”

  “Wait up!” Danielle is right behind them. “See ya, Jas.”

  I walk down to the O’Neills’ yard to see Alfonse. The hot silence of an early August afternoon settles into my ears. High above the cove, seagulls float in circles. Crickets chirp in the dry grass. There, where no one can hear me, I burst into tears. How could I go to the mall, when all that’s in my head are the words “Don’t go, Mom, don’t go.”

  7

  Later, while I’m pulling the homemade pizza out of the refrigerator and hunting around for the carrots and applesauce, Mom turns in the driveway with Andrew in the back seat.

  I run to the window, trying to see if Mom looks happy or sad. Maybe everything’s okay.

  I burst out the back door and meet them at the car.

  “Hi, Mom! What happened?”

  Mom gives a tired smile as she lifts Andrew from the back seat. Andrew buries his face in her neck and looks at me sideways. He holds his blanket straight out, giving it to me.

  “Oh, thank you, Andrew.”

  I take it. Now he wants it back. I give it back. Little kids think that’s playing, the same way they think throwing their toys out of the crib is hilarious because then you have to pick them up.

  “Mom? What happened?” I repeat.

  “Well, basically nothing happened. I talked to two different supervising officers. Neither one said anything new. Then I met my replacement and worked with him for a few hours, and that was it.”

  “They showed a little boy on TV today,” I say slowly. “I think he’s a hostage maybe.”

  “Listen. Let’s sit down and eat and have a nice supper. We’ll watch the news later.”

  “Okay.” I would like it better if we never watched the news again.

  We hear the toot of a horn. Jake is making the turn off Main Street. He pulls into the driveway and jumps out of the car. This is amazing. He must have left work early! So he can be on time if he wants to.

  “Hey, how’d it go?” He lifts Andrew from her.

  “All right, I guess. I mean, I did what I could. The army doesn’t tell you anything. I asked how long the assignment would be. They don’t answer questions. They listen. So.” She shrugs.

  “Didn’t they tell you how long you’d be gone? Two weeks? Six months?”

  “They give out information on a ‘need to know’ basis only.”

  “Need to know. I like that. What the heck does that mean?” Jake says angrily. “That’s exactly the point. We need to know.”

  She leans her head against his shoulder.

  “Not your need, Jake. Their need, silly. In the army, you follow orders; you don’t give them. I bet Jas has dinner ready for us. She’s such a good kid.”

  We go up the back steps and file into the house in a strange silence. Jake gets the window fan from Mom’s bedroom because the kitchen is hot, and Mom puts Andrew in his high chair with a plastic bib tied around his neck. She hands him a tiny slice of warm pizza, while she stirs a pitcher of lemonade.

  She gives Andrew one of those baby cups of milk with the spout top and two handles. It’s got a roly-poly bottom so it won’t tip over. He carefully pulls gooey mozzarella cheese off the top of his pizza and puts it in his mouth. The cheese is oily and turns his chin shiny.

  The pizza tastes really good, at least the first few bites do, but I’m having a hard time no
ticing. I don’t even know how many slices I’ve eaten. Then, at one minute before six, the telephone rings.

  Jake snatches it. “Yes, hello?”

  Without another word, he hands the phone to my mom. She jumps up and stretches the cord out of the kitchen into the living room, so it’s hard for us to hear. Jake and I sit frozen in position.

  “Yes, sir. I understand that. . . . No. There is no problem. . . . Yes, sir. Six-thirty a.m.”

  She doesn’t come back to the table, so we have to get up. She’s standing in the living room, staring out the front window so that she’s looking at the Parnells’, and beyond their house the tip of Moorhead Island and the flat stripe of blue ocean, holding the phone at her side, down by her thigh, the cord twirled and knotted around her other finger. And she’s crying.

  Gently Jake takes the receiver from her hand and hangs it up. He makes her sit in the armchair, and he kneels in front of her. “What did he say, Paula?”

  “Just confirming my deployment. It’s going to be a large-scale mobilization. I’ll be in Saudi Arabia by Tuesday. I leave at six-thirty tomorrow morning. I can’t do this to my kids. I’m a good soldier. But I can’t do this, Jake,” she whispers. “I can’t. And I have to.”

  She closes her eyes. She sways as if she’s going to faint. My heart is pounding. Is she okay? I stare at her. Suddenly her eyes open again, focusing on Jake.

  “You’ve got to help me, Jake. Please. You’ve got to come through for me. There’s no one else.”

  “All right, now. All right. We can think this through.”

  Mom shakes her head. “No. We can’t. I thought all day. There’s nothing left to think.”

  “What about like we said last night? I take the baby. I take Andrew, and Jas goes to her real dad’s.”

  “You mean you called to send me there? Japan?” I yell. “No! I don’t even know my ‘real’ dad.”

  “No. I called him,” Mom says. “There’s no way, Jake.”

  At that moment I hate Jake. I turn and glare at him, ready to spit and kick and fight. “And you—you—you’re not taking my baby brother away from me. Ever!”

  And then we’re all quiet for a minute, letting things sink in. In a shrunken voice, I ask, “Mommy, are you going to be in a war?”