Читать книгу A Soldier Comes Home - Cindi Myers - Страница 8

RAY TOOK A LONG SWIG of coffee and stared out the windshield of the rental car, fighting the fatigue that dragged at him. He was still on Baghdad time, where it was 2:00 a.m. At 4:00 p.m. in Lincoln, southwest of Omaha, the sun sat low in a gunmetal sky. He had the heater in the car turned up full blast but he could still feel the cold radiating through the windshield glass.

He’d rented the car this morning at the Colorado Springs airport and set out for Omaha. While he’d waited for his turn at the counter, he’d thumbed through the phone book and found a furniture store and asked them to deliver a sofa, a television and a king-size bed.

“Don’t you want to come down and pick something out?” the woman on the phone had asked, incredulous.

“No. I want a brown leather sofa, a big-screen TV, and I don’t care what the bed looks like as long as the mattress is good and not too soft.” He’d given them his credit card information, told them where to find the house key, and they’d promised to deliver everything that afternoon.

Later, he’d find a car lot and buy a new truck. The fact that before shipping out he had paid off the one Tammy had stolen galled him. He’d been looking forward to having no vehicle payments.

That didn’t matter now. What mattered was that he was going to get his son, and he’d bring him home to a house that didn’t look like thieves had swept through it.

He gripped the steering wheel at the top and slid his hands down to rest at nine and three o’clock. Going to his parents’ place always tied his stomach in knots, but never more than now. Would T.J. remember him? Would he cry for his mother?

Ray didn’t want to think about Tammy, but every time he’d closed his eyes last night, she’d been there. He’d slept—or tried to sleep—in the recliner, a blanket he’d found in the closet thrown over him. But memories of his marriage played in his head like movie trailers highlighting all the best and worst scenes.

They’d met at a bar. Did single people meet anywhere else these days? The bars around Fort Carson were packed every night with men and women eyeing each other across the pool tables and dance floor.

She had been bent over a pool table when he’d walked in with a group of friends. Her dark brown hair fell like a silk shawl over her shoulders, past her waist. She’d worn a short skirt that showed off her legs, and black leather boots that ended just above her ankles. She’d glanced back and caught him staring and smiled at him, and he’d felt as if she’d landed a hook in his heart and tugged.

She’d hooked him all right. And reeled him in. He’d gone willingly, and when he’d gotten the Dear John letter he’d felt the hook rip right out. The news had hit him as hard as an enemy bullet.

She’d said she was lonely. She was tired of waiting. She was young and deserved to be out having fun. Only later had he heard from a buddy still stationed in the Springs that she’d moved in with another man.

Another soldier.

She wouldn’t have done it by herself. She’d have been fine if she’d stayed home.

At first he’d been happy she’d made a new friend. Her e-mails had been full of talk of Chrissie. Me and Chrissie went out last night to a club near the base. Me and Chrissie had a girls’night out. Me and Chrissie had a lot of fun.

But Chrissie was single and Tammy was not. Seeing her friend flirt and go out with guys probably made Tammy want those things, too. She wouldn’t have left him otherwise.

He leaned forward and snapped off the heater, warmed by a renewed surge of anger. Chrissie had fooled him at first, too. Last night, when he’d opened the door and seen her standing there, a bottle of wine in one hand, a plate of food in the other, a cloud of red curls framing her face, he’d thought for a moment he was hallucinating.

That she had reached out to him that way had touched him so much he could hardly speak. Watching her, feeling the wine slide down his throat and warm his stomach, he’d allowed himself a small flare of hope. Maybe his life wasn’t completely in the toilet.

And then he’d realized who he was talking to and that little flame was doused.

He shifted in his seat and forced his mind away from last night, to the future. He was going to see his son again. He didn’t know anything about raising a kid, but he’d figure it out. They’d do all right together. Just the two of them.

AS SOON AS the office mail was delivered and parceled out, Rita retreated to the shelf in the corner she used for charting and opened the envelope addressed to her in familiar handwriting. Paul sent his letters to her here so she’d get them earlier in the day. He started that after she told him how antsy she got when she was expecting to hear from him—how she couldn’t concentrate on her work, wondering if there was a letter waiting at home for her.

He’d told her his friends gave him a hard time about the letters. Why didn’t he just e-mail like everyone else? But he said he thought better with a piece of paper in front of him and a pen in his hand. Even as a boy, he’d kept a journal, and his grandmother had predicted he would be a great writer. For now, his letters home were his best work.

She unfolded the two sheets of paper and smoothed them out. Paul had beautiful handwriting. His third-grade teacher was also his aunt, Wilma Blue Legs, and she had made the children practice their cursive letters in an old copperplate style no one cared much about anymore.

Rita knew because she’d been in Wilma’s class, a year behind Paul. Even then she had admired the slim boy who sometimes made faces at her in the lunch room.

We have a new medic here who is from Boston. A real city boy. He found out I was Indian and he was like a little kid following me around, asking all these questions. You know the ones, all about what was life like on the reservation and all that. I told him life on the rez wasn’t that different from life in Baghdad, except that here it’s a lot hotter and they don’t have as many tourists.

She smiled. That was Paul. He always tried to put something amusing or lighthearted in his letters. He never talked about the dangerous stuff, except in offhand ways.

You might have seen something on the news about a bombing near the base. It was a bad scene but we are all okay.

By we he meant his unit. His buddies. The Special Forces group who lived and worked together. His tribe he called them sometimes. He’d moved into Special Forces after Chrissie’s husband, Matt, was killed. Paul said losing one of his buddies made him want to do something to have a bigger impact on the war. He’d thought Special Forces was the answer. She was proud of him and scared for him all at the same time, but mostly tried to keep the fear to herself, though she knew he sensed it.

I was sitting outside the barracks, watching the sunset just now. The sunsets can be pretty spectacular here. I think it’s all the dust in the air that reflects all the colors. I wish you could have seen it. It reminded me of when we used to sit behind by Mom and Dad’s house and watch the sun go down. I’m looking forward to doing that again with you soon. You know I love you. You’re what keeps me going.

She folded the letter and held it to her chest, imagining she was holding him instead.

Chrissie passed and saw her smiling. “A letter from Paul?” she asked.

Rita laughed. “How did you know?”

“Insurance explanations of benefits don’t make you smile that way.”

Rita shook her head and tucked the letter into the pocket of her smock.

“How’s he doing?” Chrissie asked.

“He sounds good. Of course, he wouldn’t tell me anything else. He doesn’t want me to worry. It’s the whole stoic-warrior thing.” She waved her hand. Truth be told, a sensitive, new age guy who bared all his emotions would have freaked her out. She’d been raised by people who had suffered hardship for generations. Lakota didn’t emote—they endured.

She checked her watch; she didn’t have another cleaning for twenty minutes. Her supplies were in order, so she had time to visit. She followed Chrissie up front, where she was pulling double duty as receptionist in Allison’s absence. The little blonde had the rest of the week off to welcome her husband home.

“That was fun last night,” Rita said. The movie had been silly, but silly was exactly what she needed. Seeing Allison so excited about Dan’s return had brought home how many months it would be before she could expect to see Paul again.

“Yeah, it was.” Chrissie glanced at her, a pensive look in her eyes. “Something strange happened after I got home, though.”

“Oh? What was that?” Rita pulled up a chair and sat.

Chrissie leaned forward and slid shut the frosted glass partition that separated the reception desk from the waiting room. “You remember Tammy Hughes?” she asked. “The neighbor girl I used to babysit for sometimes?”

“The one who was cheating on her husband.” Rita frowned. As far as she was concerned, there was a special place in hell for a woman who’d run around on a man while he was halfway around the world fighting in a war.

“Yeah.” Chrissie sighed. “Her husband came home last night.”

“He came home from Iraq?” Rita clarified.

Chrissie nodded. “I saw the light on next door and all I could think of was him sitting over there by himself. To be gone so long and then to come home to…to no one.”

Rita nodded. The idea lay heavy in her stomach like a wad of uncooked dough. Paul’s first homecoming, there’d been a couple of guys in his unit who didn’t have anyone waiting for them at the welcome ceremony. They’d kept it together and acted all happy anyway, but everyone else tried not to look at them too hard. It hurt too much to think about that kind of loneliness.

“So what did you do?” Rita asked. Chrissie would have done something. The woman had the softest heart.

Chrissie fiddled with the appointment book, turning up one corner of the pages. “I couldn’t stand thinking about him just sitting there, so I took over some food and a bottle of wine. I thought someone should welcome him home.”

“Uh-huh. So what’s the strange part?”

Chrissie’s eyes clouded and she blinked rapidly. “It was awful. The house was cold—he hadn’t even turned up the heat yet. I guess he’d been too shocked or upset to care.” She swallowed and continued. “Tammy had really cleaned the place out. The only thing left in the living room was a recliner and a coffee table. The dining room was empty. No telling what else she took. It was just…sad.”

“I guess he was pretty broken up, then.”

“I guess…mostly he was angry. When he figured out I was the Chrissie Tammy had written to him about, he went a little crazy. He told me it was my fault for taking her out and introducing her to single men.”

“He blamed you?”

“I guess…he had to blame someone. I was there.” She shrugged.

“What did you do?”

“I left. I ran home and locked my door.”

Rita leaned forward and put a hand on Chrissie’s arm. “You don’t think he’d try to hurt you, do you? Some of these guys come home and they’re…well, they’re a little crazy. They do crazy things.” Not a month went by when the news didn’t carry a story of a local man who’d hurt his wife or shot himself or someone else. Coming home intensified every emotion, good and bad, and some men, and women, too, didn’t handle it well.

Chrissie shook her head. “No. I’m sure he wouldn’t.”

“You know to call someone if you have any doubts. Promise me.”

“I promise.” She turned back to her desk and checked the schedule. “Your two o’clock is late.”

“Mrs. Mendoza. She’s got two toddlers. Hard to get anywhere on time, I imagine. Meanwhile, you’ve got time to tell me about Tammy’s ex. Or soon-to-be ex. What’s Mr. Hughes like?”

“Captain Hughes. He’s…good-looking.”

Rita didn’t miss the way the corners of Chrissie’s mouth tried to turn up in a smile. “How good-looking?” she asked.

Chrissie gave up and let the smile burst forth. “Really good-looking. Tall, dark and handsome. I predict he won’t be living alone for long.”

“You ought to have an advantage, living right next door.”

The smile vanished. “I told you, he hates me. He blames me for Tammy leaving him.”

“That was just hurt talking. He’ll come to his senses sooner or later. He was married to the woman. He had to know what she was like.”

Chrissie looked doubtful. “I don’t know about that. He was really furious. Besides, I’m not crazy about getting involved with another soldier.”

“Woman, you are living in a town full of single men—ninety-nine percent of them soldiers. You are never going to find someone if you don’t give one of them a chance.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t think Ray Hughes is going to give me a chance.”

A tapping on the window interrupted them.

“Sorry I’m late,” Mrs. Mendoza said when Chrissie slid open the window. “Michael was fussy and took forever to get dressed.” She looked back at the two little boys with her. The youngest, Michael, was about three. He rubbed his eyes and stuck out his lower lip. The older boy, Anthony, grinned at them. Both boys’cheeks were red from the cold.

“Hello, boys.” Chrissie leaned over and smiled at them.

“Hello,” Anthony said. Michael sniffed and said nothing.

“I’m ready for you to come on back, Mrs. Mendoza,” Rita said. She picked up the woman’s chart and held open the door leading to the procedure rooms.

“All right.” Mrs. Mendoza turned to her sons. “You boys behave yourselves while I’m gone.”

Chrissie motioned to them. “Why don’t you two come back here and play with me while your mom’s getting her teeth cleaned.”

When Rita and Mrs. Mendoza walked past the little office area, Chrissie had Michael on her lap and was showing him how to punch holes in colored paper with her hole punch, while Anthony stapled papers together.

Rita shook her head. If anyone was meant to be a mother, it was Chrissie. She hoped Captain Hughes would get over his temper tantrum and take a second look at the woman next door. After the rotten way Tammy had treated him, he’d be in heaven with a woman like Chrissie to care for him.

As for Chrissie, she definitely needed someone to care for. Soldier or not, Rita couldn’t keep from hoping Ray fit the bill.

RAY PARKED THE CAR in the drive of his parents’ townhome and started up the walk. The townhome was in one of those upscale developments that catered to older adults with money. His mom and dad had sold their house and moved here three years ago. His dad liked not having a yard to maintain and his mother enjoyed all the social activities. A year ago his dad had sold his hardware store and officially retired, at age fifty-five. Now he and Mom spent their time golfing, traveling and playing poker with friends.

At least, that’s how they’d spent their time until last month, when Tammy had brought T.J. to them. From what Ray could tell from brief phone conversations and e-mails with his mom, T.J. had been seriously cramping their style.

He rang the doorbell and waited, fidgeting. After months in fatigues and uniforms, his blue jeans and sweatshirt felt both familiar and odd. The clothes were comfortable, but they weren’t what his body had grown used to.

His mother opened the door and stood on tiptoe to hug him. “Welcome home, Ray. How are you doing?” She was a petite woman with short, frosted hair and smooth, unlined skin. Ray suspected she’d had a little surgical help fighting off the wrinkles, but he wouldn’t have dared ask.

“I’m okay,” he said. He looked past her, searching for his son.

“T.J.’s in the den with your father,” his mother said.

Ray followed her into the house. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. “A soda or a beer?”

He shook his head. “I just want to see T.J.”

“All right, dear.” She led the way through the formal living room, down the stairs to the den in the finished basement. Ray heard the television and when he stepped into the room found his father on the sofa, a little boy next to him. They were watching a game show.

Charlie Hughes glanced over his shoulder when they entered, frowning. “Hello, Ray,” he said, his voice even. The polite voice of a man who refused to make a fuss with his enemy in public.

Maybe enemy was too harsh a term, Ray thought as he walked over to stand behind the sofa. His dad didn’t hate him or even wish him ill. But he had never approved of Ray’s decision to join the military, and was a vocal opponent of the war. Ray had met other war protesters who nevertheless welcomed soldiers and did whatever they could to support them. But when his dad looked at Ray, he seemed to only see the government and the military his uniform represented, and not the man inside the clothes.

Ray looked at the little boy, who was staring up at him, one hand in his mouth. “Hey, T.J.,” he said. “Remember me?” It hurt to breathe while he waited for an answer.

“T.J., it’s your father.” His mother rushed forward, not giving the boy time to answer on his own. “He’s come to take you home with him.”

“Daddy?” The toddler looked doubtful.

Ray came around and dropped to one knee in front of the sofa. “Hey, buddy,” he said softly. “How’s it going?”

T.J. took his hand out of his mouth. His brown eyes looked huge in his little face. His mother’s eyes, Ray thought. He wanted to pick the boy up and hug him close, but told himself to take things slow. The child had had a lot of upheaval in his life lately.

He looked up at his mother instead. “Thanks for looking after him,” he said. “It helped, knowing he was here with you.”

His mother pressed her lips into a tight line. “I don’t know what that woman was thinking,” she said.

Obviously, Ray had been clueless about what was going on in his wife’s mind. He’d been hurt and stunned when she’d announced she was leaving him, but when he’d learned she’d left behind their son, too, he’d realized he hadn’t known her that well at all. What kind of mother walked out on her child?

“You know we never liked her,” his mother said. “If only you had waited—”

He gave her a warning look, then glanced at T.J. and shook his head. He wasn’t going to discuss this in front of the boy.

“Come into the kitchen and I’ll fix you something to eat,” she said. Without waiting for an answer, she turned and headed back upstairs.

Ray followed. He was suddenly hungry, not having eaten all day. He also knew he needed to talk to his mother, though it was a conversation he wasn’t looking forward to.

He sat at the breakfast bar and watched while she prepared a meat-loaf sandwich. “How’s he doing?” he asked after a moment.

“T.J.? He’s upset, of course. He misses his mother, doesn’t understand what’s happened. Frankly, I don’t either.” She gave him a pointed look, one that said she expected an answer. An explanation.

“Her letter said she couldn’t live this way anymore. That she wanted a divorce.”

She spread mustard on a thick slice of rye bread. “She’d met someone else?”

He nodded. “I found out that part later. Another soldier.” A civilian would have been bad enough, but a fellow soldier? She didn’t think that guy wouldn’t get sent off to Iraq or Afghanistan or East Podunk and she’d be alone again? Or was loneliness merely a cover for the real reason—that she didn’t love Ray anymore?

His mother set the sandwich in front of him. “Frankly, I don’t see how you’re going to raise that boy by yourself. A child needs his mother.”

“Obviously his mother didn’t need him.” He picked up the sandwich with both hands. The rich aroma of meat loaf and mustard made his stomach growl. When was the last time he’d had something this good? A year, at least. Maybe more. “He and I will do fine together,” he said. “Men raise children all the time.” He took a bite of the sandwich and closed his eyes, as much to savor the flavor as to avoid the doubt in her eyes.

“You are not the nurturing type,” she said.

He opened his eyes and glared at her. When he’d finished chewing and swallowed, he said, “I don’t hear you volunteering to help.”

“And you won’t hear it either,” she said. “Your father and I raised you and now we’re enjoying our freedom.”

Freedom. A word people threw around a lot. He’d been fighting for freedom. Tammy had wanted her freedom. “I certainly wouldn’t want to interfere with that,” he said.

Her expression softened. “I’m happy to offer advice by telephone, and you’re welcome to visit anytime. But your son is your responsibility.”

“I never said he wasn’t.”

He ate the rest of his sandwich in silence, while she cleaned the counters and put on a pot of coffee. “You’ll need to find day care for him while you’re on duty at the base,” she said after a while.

“I’ll find out who Tammy used. And there are plenty of day-care centers in the Springs, and soldiers’wives who take care of children.”

“What will you do if you have another tour of duty?”

He’d been home less than twenty-four hours, he wanted to protest. Couldn’t he get used to that idea before contemplating another tour? “I’ll figure out something,” he said.

She took his empty plate from him. “We leave for our cruise day after tomorrow.”

“I’m going back to the Springs in the morning.” He slid off the stool. “Thanks for the sandwich.” That was the trouble coming to visit his folks. This place wasn’t his home; he always felt like an intruder here. Visits were marked by a studied politeness, and everyone involved felt better as soon as he left.

He returned to the den. The television had been switched to a news show. T.J., thumb back in his mouth, looked around when Ray entered. Ray smiled, but the boy stared back solemnly.

Charles’s gaze remained firmly on the TV. A young blonde was describing an explosion in Tikrit that had killed four U.S. servicemen and two Iraqis. Ray’s stomach tightened as a picture of the crumpled remains of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle flashed on the screen.

“It’s a crime,” his father said. “We have no business being over there.”

It was an old argument, one Ray would not be drawn into. Instead, he looked at T.J. again. The boy offered a shy smile. Ray held out his hand. “Could you maybe come over here by me?” he asked.

T.J. hesitated, considering the idea, then, thumb still firmly in his mouth, slid off the sofa and walked over to Ray. Ray patted his lap and the boy climbed up and settled against his chest, as if he did this all the time.

Ray pretended to focus on the television, but all his attention was on the boy in his lap. He smelled like peanut butter and baby shampoo. The stuff Tammy used when she used to bathe him. He weighed more than Ray had expected, a good solid weight against his thighs.

Tentatively, he slipped one arm around the boy, across his chest. T.J. didn’t seem to mind and, in fact, settled more firmly against him.

Ray’s eyes stung and his throat ached. He stared at the television, at the blurred image of a weather map, and tried to swallow past the tightness in his throat and chest. He was bone tired, nerves rubbed raw, anger at Tammy and life in general a slow simmer in his gut, another kind of annoyance at his parents a dull throbbing in his head. He had no idea what further tortures the future had in store for him, but if his record so far proved anything, he couldn’t expect much good ahead.

But all of that was overtaken by this sense of grief and happiness and…love that swamped him now. He tightened his grip on T.J. and bent his head to plant a soft kiss on the boy’s silky brown hair. “It’s going to be all right, son,” he whispered. He would make it all right. If not for himself, then most certainly for his boy.