Soldier Mom Read online

  Back in my driveway, I ask, “So what was that all about?”

  “I’m planning ahead. You should be friendlier with people, Jas. You might need their help someday.”

  “Help with what?”

  “I don’t know. What if you get locked out of the house or something? The O’Neills are never home. They’re useless as neighbors.”

  I wish I had Danielle’s confidence, but I don’t. We play for over an hour, but then Danielle gets her bike and heads home so she can talk to her mother before practice. She tells me to bring the stroller when I walk over to meet her. That way her mother can have it if she needs it.

  After Danielle leaves, I feel completely alone. I lie on the prickly grass in the backyard and stare at the sky. Don’t fall. Please, gigantic airplane, stay in the sky. Keep my mom safe.

  11

  At last I’m at practice, and I can’t wait to get started. I grab a ball and go out on the court by myself. Make a basket, leap for the rebound. Then shoot from the new spot. Make it. Leap for the rebound. I don’t even know anyone else is in the gym.

  Just as I go for a rebound, someone cuts in from my right and snatches the ball from under my nose. Bridget.

  “Ball hog,” she says.

  “Go get your own ball,” I tell her. “Give that back.”

  “There aren’t any more good ones, for your information.”

  She shoots, misses. We both run for the rebound. I get it. She snatches it away.

  “What’s your problem?” I ask. “Just take the stupid ball. I don’t care.”

  “You were supposed to bring music for warm-ups. Remember? We asked if we could warm up with music?”

  “Oh yeah.” I dimly remember that. “I guess I assumed Danielle would take care of it for me.”

  “Well, team captains don’t ‘assume’ stuff like that. We always had music at Red Star. It was awesome. I play so much better that way. You are so out of it, Jas. I deserve to be captain, and you know it. Everybody knows it. Coach just let you be captain because he feels sorry for you.”

  Bridget’s crazy. When Coach picked me, he didn’t know anything about Iraq. Neither did I.

  I want to punch her. Kick her. Pound her little spoiled brat pea brain into the ground. But I hear Mom’s voice. “Cool it, Jas. Count to ten or even one hundred if you have to. Don’t let her get to you.”

  Coach Campbell blows his whistle. All balls have to be held immediately so he can have quiet. Or else you have to run suicides, which means sprinting the length of the court so many times in a row.

  Bridget stands near me. Then she drops the ball so that it bounces off my foot and rolls away.

  “Williams,” Coach says without looking up, “ten suicides.”

  Bridget laughs silently. I glare at her. She is such a pain. I trot over to a corner of the gym and get started. I run until my lungs burn, which I think is around eight laps. I bend over, hands on my knees, to take a break.

  Coach sees me. “Okay. Come on back. That’s enough,” he says.

  We practice layups for nearly an hour. Now Danielle is practically in tears. She keeps missing. Then we do dribbling skills. Most of the girls hate it.

  Coach Campbell’s barking out the orders today, that’s for sure. “Drive the ball forward when you run. The ball is pulling you down the court, you’re not following after it. Drive it! Be aggressive. Your offense has to be aggressive.”

  I’m aggressive. Look at me, Coach. You want to see aggressive? I’m running circles around most of the other kids, even Bridget with her $1,000 sports camp training. I’m flying right over the tops of her fingers when I shoot.

  Around four-thirty, from the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Danielle’s mother. She comes in with Andrew and Stevie. She carries Andrew up the bleachers, sits down with him in her lap, and tries to pull Stevie down next to her.

  “Hey! What’s up, Jas? Line up on the paint for foul shots. Let’s go!” Coach yells.

  I guess I didn’t hear him the first time. Stevie is running up and down the bleachers, which rattle noisily under his weight. Danielle’s mother lifts Andrew and tries to intercept Stevie with one hand to calm him down.

  “Hey! You ever hear of a rebound, Jasmyn Williams?” Coach yells at me.

  “Yeah.”

  “Come on, Bigfoot,” Bridget yells.

  “Shut up, Bridget.”

  My eyes fill with tears. Bigfoot’s a silly nickname; I’ve been called it so many times that it doesn’t really hurt anymore. It’s just that since Mom left, I don’t seem to have any control over my tears. They come whenever they want. I look down at the floor, trying to blink them away, trying to ignore everyone, especially Andrew and Stevie.

  I think the other girls are mad at Coach for picking on me. They know Mom is gone, and that Stevie and Andrew are here, and that I’m afraid I won’t be able to make practice for the rest of the summer because it sure is clear to all us girls that Mrs. Roberge has her hands full. Maybe Bridget’s right, Jake too, that I shouldn’t take on the responsibility of being captain right now. She was right about my bringing the music for warm-ups. With so much going on the past few days, I just forgot.

  “Where’s your concentration? What’s wrong with you, anyway?” Coach says.

  “Nothing.” Without Mom, I don’t know anything. I don’t even know why I’m here.

  “All right. Now focus, Williams, focus. Get your head up. You have teammates, you know. So be aware of them. Play as a team member, not a soloist. Bridget, you’re up next. Be ready. Bend your knees, Jas, flex ’em. Loosen up. Eye on the backboard. Loose wrist.”

  Six out of ten. Not bad. Not good. Now Bridget steps to the line. No doubt about it. Hoop camp did wonders for her foul shooting. It shows in how smoothly she bounces the ball as she sets up for her foul shot.

  “Keep shooting, Bridget. Keep shooting till you miss. The rest of you, count ’em out loud. Six. Seven . . .”

  Concentration. I’m not that good at foul shots. I’m not even as good as Danielle at getting my ball out of the Parnells’ asparagus.

  Suddenly there’s a loud scream from the bleachers. Loud crying. My heart thuds in panic, and I look over. Andrew has fallen. Mrs. Roberge is trying to grab hold of Stevie.

  “Oh, Jesus!” I yell, full of guilt and fear, and take off running. “Andrew!”

  Why wasn’t I watching him? I knew Mrs. Roberge had to watch Stevie, but I didn’t care. I wanted to go to basketball, no matter what. Andrew is flat on his face, lying forward over the bleacher seat. Mrs. Roberge scoops him up and tries to scramble after Stevie, who is heading across the gym at top speed for the lobby door. I leap up the steps, take Andrew, and hug him close. He’s howling.

  “It’s okay, Andrew. It’s okay, little pumpkin guy.”

  He’s such a good baby, I can’t bear for him to be hurt. I bury my face in his soft neck.

  “Mama?” he says.

  “No, Andrew. It’s me. Jas.”

  “Oh, Jas. I’m sorry,” Mrs. Roberge is saying. “Stevie wanted to play with Andrew. He tried to pull Andrew out of my arms. I’ve got to go get him.”

  “All set?” a voice calls out.

  I look down at the gym floor. Coach is standing there in his gray sweatshirt and nylon pants, whistle around his neck. The gym lights gleam on his bald head. He’s waiting for me. He’s actually waiting for me. He thinks I can go, on with practice. Is he crazy?

  Carefully I carry Andrew down from the bleachers. “I have to go home, Coach. I’m sorry.”

  Andrew’s stroller is in the corner of the gym by the water fountain. The walk across the shiny yellow floor takes forever. I can hear the loud hum of the ventilator, the whirr of the big ceiling fans. Behind me it’s dead quiet. I know Coach is furious. I carry Andrew over and strap him in. He grabs his Binky to his face and settles quickly into the curve of the canvas seat.

  I kneel in front of him. “We’re going home, Andrew. You won’t have to go play at Stevie’s house anymore. I promise.�
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  I can see a red mark above his eyebrow that will probably turn into a bruise. I wish I had ice to put on it. Ice keeps the swelling down, and that makes bruises smaller.

  Out in the corridor, Mrs. Roberge drags Stevie over to me and makes him apologize for pulling at Andrew. I nod. She hands me a canvas tote bag with a small casserole dish in the bottom, covered with plastic wrap. “This is for supper. But you need to reheat it. Do you know how to use the microwave?”

  I nod.

  “Are you sure? Because if you don’t, I’ll come right over. You leave the plastic wrap on, and reheat it for three or four minutes. But no tinfoil, right?”

  “Yes, I know. Thank you.”

  “Okay. Danielle told me she was hoping I would talk with Jake,” Mrs. Roberge says, still holding Stevie’s hand as he yanks and twists to get away.

  “She thought that would be a good idea. Because, I mean, Jake has never been in charge before. So we were hoping you could give him some pointers.”

  “I’ll be happy to talk to him. Have him call me. I’m sorry, Jas, but I really can’t take Andrew in the late afternoons. Maybe one of the day-care teachers could take him home with her.”

  “Until six?” I gasp. “Oh, no. That wouldn’t be good.”

  “Well, I’ll call and see if we can’t think of something, so don’t worry anymore.”

  “Mrs. Roberge, do you think I should quit being team captain?”

  “Of course not. Now, don’t worry quite so much. I’ll call around eight or so.”

  Feeling a little better, I push the stroller up Main Street. I would like it if I didn’t have to worry so much. But I don’t think that’s going to be the case anytime soon.

  I pass the Mosswood Cemetery, our tiny excuse of a library, the gas station, the ice cream shop, the post office, Ken’s Hardware.

  I want to beat Stevie up for hurting Andrew. At school, he takes medicine to keep him calm, but he’s not allowed to take the medicine at home, and after being calm all day, he goes nuts and has tantrums. Summers he’s mostly off medication and even harder to control. But I don’t care. He should know that you don’t hurt babies.

  Then I wonder how many babies were hurt in Kuwait. I think of that little British boy, Stuart. And how scared he is. There must be babies in Kuwait and other little kids. The Iraqi army hurt and killed so many people. And my mom has gone to help them. For a second, I understand why she went. That’s what I have to remember. When she’s done helping them, she’ll come back.

  12

  I reheat the macaroni for dinner, and Andrew eats like a hungry little piglet, shoveling it in with his fists. Soon there is hardly any more. After eating what’s left, I’m still hungry, so I stand in the middle of the kitchen for about ten minutes, feeling sorry for myself. But you can’t put sorry on a plate.

  I solve my problem by eating instant oatmeal. I open a pack and mix it with hot water. It seems a little gross at first—I know there aren’t any vegetables in it—but it fills my stomach quickly. Then we have chocolate ice cream. Andrew ducks away from the little spoon I try to feed him with and eats the ice cream with his fists.

  The chocolatey mess is unbelievable! I run to turn on the bathwater. Then I lift him out of his high chair and carry him nonstop into the bathroom. I have to get him into the tub before he goops up anything else. But as I take off his clothes, he keeps trying to scoot out the door behind me, laughing his great big laugh. I realize at that moment that I have chocolate ice cream in my hair.

  “Andrew!” I yell. “Stop it! Hold still, will ya?”

  Andrew plunks down on his bottom and looks up at me. He didn’t like me yelling at him. I guess he thought we were playing. His face wrinkles up, and his lower lip starts to quiver. “Mama?” he says. “Mama?” He tries to crawl to the door.

  “No. No Mama. Andrew, let’s throw things in the tub, okay? Come on.”

  He crawls to the tub and stands up, tossing in a cup. I leap up and try to stow his messy clothes in the clothes hamper. When I turn around, before I can stop him, he tosses a big bath towel in the tub, and now he’s got an extra roll of toilet paper that he heaves in. I lunge forward, but in it goes. I pull out a huge pulpy pink mess of dripping paper. I have no idea what to do with it. Finally I toss it and the towel in the sink and lift Andrew into the bath, where he splashes happily, slapping the water over and over again until I am thoroughly soaked. So are the walls.

  How on earth did Mom do this every day? How about Mrs. Roberge with Stevie? He’s been splashing around like this for ten years! I’m ready to scream. It is kind of funny, especially the soggy toilet paper, but I’m too tired and worn out to laugh.

  When Jake gets home at six-thirty, Andrew and I are lying on the living-room floor watching the sports channel.

  “How’s everything?” he asks.

  “Terrible.”

  Unfortunately, Jake heads first for the bathroom, and I remember that I forgot to clean up after Andrew’s bath.

  “Whoa!” Jake hollers. “What happened in here? Did a tornado touch down or what?”

  “I gave Andrew a bath,” I mutter. Then I add, “I’d like to see you do better.”

  Jake comes back into the living room. “What was that?”

  “I said, I’d like to see you do better.”

  “You think I can’t take care of Andrew?”

  “That’s right. That’s what I think.”

  Jake crouches down. “Hey. What’s that bruise on Andrew’s head all about?”

  I give a huge sigh, trying to tell him by sighing not to bother me, because I did my best. “Stevie Roberge knocked him down in the bleachers at basketball practice.”

  “You mean you took Andrew to basketball practice? What are you, crazy? Now, you listen to me . . .” Jake bends over Andrew and pushes back his soft carroty hair to look at the bump. “Didn’t anybody put ice on this, for Christ’s sake?”

  “I’m sorry, okay? I was trying, and don’t tell me what to do, Jake. You’re not my dad. You’re only Andrew’s dad.”

  Why can’t he say I’m sorry your mom’s not here? Or I know how hard you tried to help out today. Or even just plain thanks.

  “That ‘dad’ stuff is garbage, Jas, and you know it. I’m here for both of you. And while I am, you’ll have to listen to me.”

  “Oh yeah? If you were my dad, you would make sure I got to practice. I’m captain. Don’t you understand that? You’d change your work hours so I could go. That’s what Mom would do. And I wouldn’t have to beg her.”

  “Well, I told you this morning, you’re not in a position to be captain.” Jake heads for the refrigerator. “What’s for dinner?”

  Me? He’s asking me that?

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, let me ask this, then. What did you have?”

  “Oatmeal. Chocolate ice cream.”

  “Come on, Jas, couldn’t you do better than that?”

  “Mrs. Roberge sent a macaroni and cheese casserole, but Andrew ate a ton of it. Hey, did you pack him a lunch for day care?”

  Jake looks puzzled. “Lunch?”

  “Yeah, you have to put his lunch in his diaper bag.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  Oh God. Jake is clueless. No wonder Andrew ate so much for dinner.

  Speaking of clueless, before I get kicked out as captain, I want to try to remember the music for practice tomorrow. I crawl across the floor to our tapes and paw through them, looking for break-dancing stuff. Maybe Coach will keep me on. Maybe he’ll feel sorry for me and let me be captain even if I miss some games. I know he didn’t pick me out of pity (we didn’t realize Mom was leaving then), but I wouldn’t mind if he kept me for that reason.

  “Mrs. Roberge is going to call around eight tonight.”

  “Really? And what’s she going to say?” Jake asks sarcastically. He comes in eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, his second of the day.

  Walking to the front window, I look out. The O’Neills are walking up from th
e cove with Alfonse on a long leash. He sniffs happily at the weeds along the street. From her back porch, Muffy yips and yaps.

  “Come here, big guy.” Jake gathers Andrew up and sits him in the high chair with a Popsicle, then hunches down, looking in the refrigerator for something else to eat. He pulls out a floppy slice of leftover pizza and puts it in the microwave. I go back to the sofa, rest my head on my drawn-up knees.

  Jake comes over to the sofa and sits by me for a minute. I don’t look at him.

  “I’m sorry, Jas. Of course I’ll talk to Mrs. Roberge.”

  “I can’t give up being captain,” I whisper.

  He frowns a little. “Do you really think it’s a good idea for your coach and your team to have a captain that can’t give one hundred percent? How does that help your team?”

  I shrug. I don’t want to answer that.

  Suddenly there’s banging at the back door. “Hello?” Then I hear, “Hey, Williams, open up!” It’s Shawn and his mother.

  “Come on in!” I push the screen door open wide.

  “Homemade baked beans,” Mrs. Doucette announces.

  “Praise the Lord. You could not have come at a better time,” Jake says, taking the casserole, and it’s obvious that he means it. “Hope you don’t mind if I help myself.”

  I step out on the back deck with Shawn while the adults talk.

  “I went down to your practice to look for you,” he says, “but you weren’t there.”

  I make a face. “I had to leave early. Andrew fell down and bumped his head. Listen, things here aren’t going that great . . .”

  “Sure. That’s what my mother guessed. That’s why she made you guys some food. Hey, I’ve been watching the news a little. Did your mom fly over there on one of those C-5 transport planes?”

  I nod. “I think so.”

  “Wow. Those planes are unbelievably huge. The size of a football field. I saw one on TV. You can park six buses inside there.”

  I smile at him. “I was really scared to have my mom fly in one of those things.”

  “No wonder.”

  “Thanks for bringing the beans. Andrew ate all of Mrs. Roberge’s casserole, and Jake couldn’t find anything else to eat.”