Stolen September: A Military Romance

We fought this morning because I finally found the credit card bill stuffed under the couch cushion. Not only was it over the limit but it was a week late. I flipped through the pages and found the charges for things like food, movies we never saw together, and home goods. I had wondered how the house spruced itself up. Turns out my wife has a good eye for decorating and an even better one for sales. My stomach knots, wondering how we’ll pay this month’s bill. I know she doesn’t have a job yet.

This new financial burden put a damper on the car I was trying to buy her so she could have more freedom to come and go as she pleased. I figured a car would open up her options for jobs off the base, if that’s what she wants, or the ability to attend classes at the local college. I’d asked her to hold off because the busses don’t run late for evening classes. I worried about her traveling back and forth on her bicycle after dark. Maybe I’m crazy to think that, but my job forces me to see harsher realities of life.

I’d be kidding myself if I thought this transition was easy for either of us. She fakes it well. The only thing she can’t fake is the sex, and both of us are in a rut lately.

“Hey, cheer up.” My CO nudges my shoulder. “You’ll be happy to know your request for this weekend was approved and your sign-on bonus came through.”

I perk up at that knowledge. That money will help payoff the credit card and give me something toward her car.

Sunday is my wife’s birthday.

I get on the phone and call Rhonda. She’s been a godsend since we came on base, and the only person I know who can help me coordinate a surprise party for my wife on short notice.

I have the idea to get a cake FedExed from her favorite bakery back home. Flowers and balloons from the PDX. I don’t think I can get her parents to come down so soon—they’ve been nice to give us some space so we can figure things out, same as mine—but maybe her girlfriends Kate and Hope can come down. I practically run myself in circles until Rhonda calms me down. She tells me that there are a few WAGs who will come to the party and promises to reach out. It’s going to be great. I don’t know how I’ll keep the secret until this weekend.

“Bea, I’m home.” I drop my duffel bag by the door and shrug out of my shoes. She doesn’t like the mess they track inside and I don’t blame her. It’s a good thing I left all the party supplies I picked up in the car; I might be able to sneak them inside and into the hall closet. I know she isn’t with Rhonda because I just spoke to her about the party plans. There’s a stillness in the air I don’t expect. The whole house is eerily quiet.

“Honeybee, baby, where are you?” I pace into the bedroom and everything looks neat as a pin. I turn around and walk to the kitchen. Not a damn thing is out of place, and a chill runs up my spine. I rack my brain. Did she say she was going anywhere? No. Her bike was still here. The bed was made. The living room looks freshly vacuumed and the dishes are clean, stacked neatly by the sink.

I scout the house again.

A note catches my eye on the counter and I pick it up, slipping my finger under the crisp, white paper. I pull out the letter inside and find my own Dear John.

The words are hard to read between blurred vision of emotion. I’m hurt she didn’t trust me. I’m angry she kept this from me, like a secret between us. I’m sad that I wasn’t tuned in enough to see her unhappiness. I'm kicking myself in the ass for not realizing she needed more from me as her husband.

Henry –

This letter is hard to write. We both know how difficult this has been from the start. I don’t know if I can do this the way things are. I don’t know what I want out of life, but being alone and unable to feel independent isn’t what I thought I was signing up for. You know where to find me.

– Bea

9

Bea

“Mom, Dad, I’m home!” I push through the front door but find the house empty—not a soul in site to greet me. I drop my bag in the hallway and go to the kitchen, hoping to find something to eat.

The cookie jar is on the counter and I pop the lid, reaching inside. It’s empty. I paw around inside the ceramic base, but not even a stray crumb reaches my fingertip. I texted my parents that I was coming home. They were oddly subdued and my dad asked if I was all right. I didn’t know how to respond. Am I really leaving Tank or am I visiting my parents for the weekend? I love him. I miss him. I need something from him I don’t know how to explain.

Hungry and tired, I make my way upstairs. Each step and I feel the fatigue of my journey on the bus. I turn right at the top of the stairs and push open the door to my room.

“What the hell?”

The door swings open, but gone are the pale lavender walls, replaced with soft yellow and white lace trim. My twin bed is buried under fabric swatches, and a dress form takes up the corner. My desk is now a sewing table with drafted patterns and thread bundles.

Teenage posters of heartthrob celebrities are gone, as are my shelves of books and swimming trophies. I rub the center of my chest, feeling a pang of sadness. It’s like I never lived here at all.

I hear the jingle of the front door and race to the stairs. My parents are laughing and carrying in groceries.

“Mom?”

“Oh hiya, Bea. Come help your dad get the soda from the car.”

“Mom,” I say, a bit more sternly, to get her attention.

“Seriously, Beatrice, go help your dad.” Her voice brooks no argument and glumly I walk outside, grabbing soda bottles.

I place them on the counter and put my hands on my hips, giving the house a look over. What else is different? “What happened to my bedroom?” I demand. I’m this close to stomping my foot and barely hold back.