Home Front

“Yours is in the fridge. It needs about three minutes in the microwave,” Mila said, drying the last plate, setting it on the counter. “How was training today?”

Jolene drew back. “Great. I couldn’t be more ready to handle myself over there. ”

Mila turned, looked up at her. “Pretend with Betsy and Lulu and even my son, if you must, but not with me, Jo. I don’t need your strength. You need mine. ”

“So I can tell you I’m a little afraid?”

“You forget, Jo, I have lived through a war before. In Greece. The soldiers saved our lives. I am proud of what you are doing, and I will make sure your daughters are proud, too. ”

It meant so much to hear those few simple words. “And your son?” Jolene asked at last.

“He is a man, and he is afraid. This is not a good combination. He loves you, though. This I know. And you love him. ”

“Is that enough?”

“Love? It is always enough, kardia mou. ”

Love. Jolene turned the word around in her mind, wondering if Mila was right, if love was enough at a time like this.

“We will be waiting for you to come home, safe and sound. Do not worry about us. ”

Jolene knew that she had no choice in this matter. She had to let go of the people she loved back here. She could miss her family, but the emotion—the longing—would have to be buried deep. “I can do it,” she said quietly. She’d been compartmentalizing her emotions all her life. She knew how to put fear and longing in a box and hide it away. “I have to. ”

“My son will rise to the occasion,” Mila said. “He is like his father in that way. Michael would never shirk his duty. He will not let you down. ”

“How do you know?”

Mila smiled. “I know. ”

Eight

During the first week of May, Michael handled the Keller arraignment, put in a not guilty plea to the charge of murder in the first degree, and set about discovery on the case. He needed to find all the facts he could—and his client still wasn’t talking. Keith had said “I’m guilty” that day in the jailhouse interview and then pretty much gone silent again, responding to each of Michael’s questions with a glazed look. Now and then he mumbled, “I killed her,” but that was it. And hardly helpful.

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.