Home Front(7)

“Whatever.”

Jolene sighed. She’d seen this movie before; no matter how often she asked, Betsy wouldn’t say anything more. Whatever meant the end. “Okay.” She leaned forward and kissed Betsy’s forehead. “I love you to the moon and back.”

The words were the slogan of this family, their love distilled into a single sentence. Say it back to me, Bets.

Jolene waited a moment longer than she intended and was immediately mad at herself for hoping. Again. Motherhood in the preteen years was a series of paper-cut disappointments. “Okay,” she said at last, standing up.

“How come Dad’s not home yet? It’s your birthday.”

“He’ll be here any minute. You know how busy he is these days.”

“Will he come up to say good night to me?”

“Of course.”

Betsy nodded and went back to reading. When Jolene was to the door, she said, “Happy birthday, Mom.”

Jolene smiled. “Thanks, Bets. And I love the journal you gave me. It’s perfect.”

Betsy actually smiled.

Downstairs, Jolene went into the kitchen and put the last of the dishes away. Her dinner—a rich, savory pot of beef short ribs braised in red wine and garlic and thyme—bubbled softly on the stove, scenting the whole house. The girls hadn’t loved it, but it was Michael’s favorite.

Wrapping a soft pink blanket around her shoulders, she poured herself a glass of soda water and went outside. She sat down in one of the worn bent-twig chairs on the porch and put her bare feet on the weathered coffee table, staring out at the familiar view.

Home.

It had begun with meeting Michael.

She remembered it all so clearly.

For days after her parents’ deaths, she had waited for someone to help her. Police, counselors, teachers. It hadn’t taken long for her to realize that in her parents’ deaths, as in their lives, she was on her own. On a snowy Wednesday morning, she’d wakened early, ignoring the cold that seeped through the thin walls of her bedroom, and dressed in her best clothes—a plaid woolen skirt, Shetland sweater, kneesocks, and penny loafers. A wide blue headband kept the hair out of her eyes.

She took the last of her babysitting money and set off for downtown Seattle. At the legal-aid office, she’d met Michael.

His dark good looks and easy smile had literally taken her breath away. She’d followed him to a shabby little office and told him her problem. “I’m seventeen—eighteen in two months. My parents died this week. Car accident. A social worker came by and said I would have to live with foster parents until I turned eighteen. But I don’t need anyone. Certainly not some fake family. I can live in my own house until June—that’s when the bank is repossessing it—and then I’ll be done with high school and I can do … whatever. Can you make it so I don’t need to go to a foster family?”

Michael had studied her closely, his eyes narrowed. “You’d be alone then.”

“I am alone. It’s a fact, not a choice.”

When he’d finally said, “I’ll help you, Jolene,” she’d wanted to cry.

In the next hour, she’d told him a tidied-up version of her life. He’d said something about attorney-client privilege and how she could tell him anything, but she knew better. She’d learned a long time ago to keep the truth secret. When people knew she’d grown up with alcoholic parents, they invariably felt sorry for her. She hated that, hated to be pitied.

When they were done and the paperwork was filled out, Michael had said, “Come back and see me in a few years, Jolene. I’ll take you out to dinner.”

It had taken her six years to find her way back to him. By then, she’d been a pilot in the army and he’d been a lawyer in partnership with his father, and they’d had almost nothing in common. But she’d seen something in him that first day, an idealism that spoke deeply to her and a sense of morality that matched her own. Like her, Michael was a hard worker and had a keen sense of duty. True to his word, Michael had taken her out to dinner … and that had been the beginning.

She smiled at the memory.

In the distance, lights came on along the shore, golden dots that indicated houses in the darkness. Gauzy clouds wafted across the moon; in their absence, it shone more brightly. It was full night now, and dark. She glanced at her watch. Eight thirty.

She felt a pinch of disappointment and pushed it away. Something important must have come up. Life was like that sometimes. Things were rarely perfect. He would show up.

But …

Lately, it seemed that their differences were more pronounced than the things they shared. Michael had always hated her commitment to the military. She’d left active duty for him and gone into the Guard instead, but that hadn’t been good enough for Michael. He didn’t want to hear about her flying or her drill weekends or her friends who served. He’d always been antimilitary, but since the war in Iraq had started, his opinions had grown stronger, more negative. Their once-companionable silences had become awkward. It was pretty lonely when you couldn’t talk to your husband about the things that mattered to you. Normally, she looked away from these truths, but tonight they were all that occupied the chair beside her.

She got up and went back inside.

8:50.

She opened the heavy yellow pot lid and stared into the meal she’d made. The rich sauce had reduced too far; it looked a little black around the edges. Behind her, the phone rang. She lunged for it. “Hello?”