Home Front(45)

“Ha.”

Downstairs, the phone rang.

A moment later, Lulu shrieked: “It’s Mommy!”

Betsy pushed past Michael and ran downstairs.

Reluctantly, he followed. This was not good timing for a call.

“Mom,” Betsy said, holding the phone to her ear, looking furious. “Dad wasn’t here when I got home today. He forgot me. If you were here this wouldn’t happen.”

Lulu threw herself at Betsy. “Give it back! I was talking to her—”

Betsy pushed her away. Lulu plopped onto her butt and screamed. “I wanna talk!”

“Betsy,” he said, “let Lulu talk, too.”

Betsy made a face, but let Lulu into the conversation. The two girls sat down together at the table, talking over each other.

Sighing, Michael went into the kitchen and poured himself a drink. Within ten minutes, Betsy was handing him the phone. “She wants to talk to you, Dad. She doesn’t have much time for us. Like always.”

He took the phone and went into the family room, sitting down. “Hey, Jo.”

“Really, Michael? You forgot her?”

“If you want to bitch me out, don’t bother, Jolene. I feel bad enough.”

There was a pause, then, “You scared her, Michael.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Another pause. “We’re leaving tomorrow,” she said. “For Iraq.”

“Has it been a month already?”

“Yes, Michael.”

In the insanity of the last four weeks, he’d forgotten this date, almost forgotten that she was going to war. He hadn’t really forgotten, of course; the knowledge had been a shadow, rarely glimpsed in the hectic mess of his days. Up until now she’d been safe, so it had been easier to think about himself.

“I don’t know what communication will be like at Balad, or how long we’ll be there. I’ll keep in touch as best I can.” She paused. “Michael, it would be really nice if the girls could send me letters or e-mails if we have Internet.”

He thought about her days over there, how empty a part of her would be without her girls. It was kind of shameful that she’d had to ask this. Especially since he knew how hard it was for her to ask for favors from him or anyone. “I’ll make sure,” he said.

“Thanks. Well. I gotta go now, the natives are getting restless.”

“Jo?”

“Yeah?”

“Be safe,” he said. “Take care of yourself.”

She sighed. “Good-bye, Michael.”

“Good-bye.”

All he wanted to do was go to the counter, retrieve his drink, and finish it. He even thought fondly of getting drunk.

Instead, he dialed the local pizza shop, ordered dinner, and went upstairs.

Betsy’s bedroom door was open. He peeked in, saw that she wasn’t there, and walked down the hall to the bathroom.

She was peering into the mirror, messing with her face.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to squeeze those things,” he said.

She pivoted, screamed, “GET OUT,” and slammed the door shut in his face.

He stood there a long time, waiting for her to change her mind and apologize.

Nothing.

Finally, he went back downstairs and found Lulu watching Jolene’s good-bye video again.

He groaned.

The pizza arrived, and he paid the kid and slapped the pie on the table, yelling, “Dinner.”

“Pizza is for birthdays, Daddy. Not dinner,” Lulu said with a sigh. She walked past him and climbed up to the table just as his mother walked into the house, looking irritated.

“Don’t you ever hang up on me again, young man. Is Betsy okay?”

“She’s here,” he said. “I don’t know how okay she is.”

“Thank God. From now on—”

“Please, Ma. Yell at me tomorrow. It’s been a hell of a day.”

His mother stared up at him. “You need to do better, Michael,” she said evenly.

“Yeah. I’m aware.”

Before she could say anything to make him feel worse, he left the kitchen and walked into his office, where, thankfully, it was quiet. He closed the door behind him and sank into the chair by his desk.

He didn’t think he could do this. And this was taking care of his children.

What in the hell was wrong with him? How could he be such a success in the courtroom and in his office and with his clients but fail so completely with his own family?

He sighed. His wife had been gone less than a month, and already he was tired of feeling like a failure in his own home.





Eleven



The next morning, Betsy still wasn’t talking to him. Michael awoke early, started breakfast, and got the girls to school on time. When he finally got to his desk—late—he was already tired. But at least he felt competent here.

At eleven o’clock, the call he’d been waiting for came in.

Keith had requested an interview. Finally.

Michael grabbed his notes and left the office. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the King County jail and took a seat in a dingy interview room.

Keith came into the room, wearing the orange jail jumpsuit, his wrists shackled in front of him, leg chains scraping and jangling across the stone-tiled floor.