Home Front(30)

Meanwhile, at home, Jolene kept handing him to-do lists. Every time she caught his eye, she rapid-fired some chore at him: don’t forget to wrap the pipes in November … to fertilize the plants … to clean the barbecue grates. This was how she filled their evenings together. During the day she was at the post, preparing to go off to war. He could tell that she was starting to get itchy to leave. Last night she’d told him she wanted to go, do this thing so it could be over, and I can come back.

Soon she’d have her wish.

In two days he would say good-bye to his wife, watch her walk onto a military bus and disappear.

He wanted to be stoic and sturdy and true. But he’d learned something about himself in the last month: he was selfish. He was also worried and scared and pissed off. Truth be told, he was pissed off most of all. He was angry that she had chosen the military over their family, angry that she hadn’t quit years ago, angry that he had no choice in any of this.

He’d gone to the ridiculous family-readiness group meeting that Jolene had recommended. What a debacle that had been. He’d been running late all day, and getting to the meeting was no exception. He’d been breathless when he finally arrived, a little harried, going through the papers in his briefcase, looking for the contact name when he walked into the room.

Women. That was what he saw. There had to be at least fifty women in the room; most were busy wrangling screaming, crying children. On an easel, a big poster board read: Support Your Soldier. Below it was a bullet-pointed list. Care Packages. Phone Calls. Loneliness. Sex. Financial Help. As if he were going to talk to these strangers about the problems he encountered with his wife’s deployment.

At his entrance, every woman in the room looked up. The place fell silent.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “wrong place,” and left.

He’d had no intention of sitting in that room, hearing those women talk about how to be good wives while their soldiers were gone.

Everywhere he went, it seemed the news preceded him. He hated the way people looked at him when they heard Jolene was going to Iraq. Your wife is going off to war? He could see them frowning, picturing him in an apron, mixing cake batter in a silver bowl. His liberal, intellectual friends didn’t know what to make of it. They quickly turned the conversation to George W. and the politics behind the war, concluding that she was risking her life for nothing. And just what in the hell was Michael supposed to say about any of it?

He knew he could support the warriors and not the war. That was the position he was supposed to take, the honorable position, but he couldn’t do it with regard to his wife. He couldn’t make himself support her decision.

She knew it, too, recognized his anger and his resentment. They knew each other too well to hide such contaminated emotions. Without love to protect them, they were both as raw as burn victims; every touch hurt.

So he didn’t look at her, never touched her, and buried himself in work. That was how he’d survived the last two weeks. Absence. He left for work early and stayed as late as possible. At night, he and Jolene lay on separate sides of the bed, breathing into the darkness, saying nothing, not reaching out. Neither of them was sleeping much, but both pretended to find solace there. Jolene had reached out for him just once, wanting to make love, saying quietly, I’m leaving, Michael. He’d turned away, too angry with her to attempt intimacy. The next morning, he’d seen the pain and humiliation in her eyes, and it shamed him, but he couldn’t change the way he felt.

On his desk, the intercom buzzed. It was his secretary telling him that the King County prosecuting attorney was here, on time, for their appointment.

“Send him in,” Michael said, straightening in his chair.

Brad Hilderbrand, the prosecuting attorney, strode into the office. Michael knew Brad well: beneath the politician’s slick veneer beat the heart of a zealot. Brad had been elected to be hard on crime and harder on criminals, and he did his job well because he believed in the party line. “Michael,” he said, smiling, his hand outstretched.

They shook hands. Michael could tell from Brad’s smile that there was trouble coming.

“I want to let you know that a witness has come forward in the Keller case,” Brad said. “In the interest of full disclosure—”

“And a possible plea bargain.”

“We wanted you to have the information as soon as possible. Keller confessed. That’s why I brought it down myself.”

“Really?”

He tossed a manila file folder on the desk. “That’s Terry Weiner’s statement. He is Keller’s cell mate.”

The courthouse snitch. Ever popular with prosecutors and police. “So let me get this straight. You’re suggesting that Keith Keller, who in the past few weeks of his incarceration has not spoken to his father, his lawyer, or the court-appointed psychiatrist, suddenly opened up to his cell mate.”

“He said—and I quote: ‘The bitch wouldn’t shut up, so I smoked her.’”

“Short, to the point, and easy to remember. I see. And let me guess, the so-called witness has been let go.”

“He was only in for possession.”

“A drug addict. Perfect.” Michael picked up the manila folder and opened it, skimming the statement. “I’ll need a copy of the wit’s arrest record.”

“I’ll have it sent over.”