Julia Spencer-Fleming - One Was a Soldier

Clare felt something wet and viscous against her bare foot. She looked down. Three broken eggs were oozing across her cheap pressed-vinyl floor.

“Oh, God, I did startle you.” Anne snatched a dishcloth off the rack and turned on the cold water. “I should have-”

“Clare, are you okay? I heard-” Russ came though the swinging doors before Clare could say anything. At least, she thought stupidly, he was wearing a towel slung around his waist. She had discovered that wasn’t always a given.

“-called first.” Anne’s voice was faint.

Outside, birds caroled and chirped in the rustling trees. On the radio, the audience of Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me was laughing. A puff of hot August air rolled into the kitchen. From somewhere deep within her, Clare’s southern upbringing rose to the occasion. “Russ,” she said, “I believe you know Anne Vining-Ellis.”

Russ’s lips twitched. “Clare, why don’t you shut the door.”

She did so, leaving a trail of egg-white droplets across the floor. Anne abruptly twisted the running water off. She squeezed the dishcloth into the sink. “Um.” She waved the cloth toward the egg carton. “Better get that up before it dries.”

Russ looked at Clare. “Is it all right if I go get dressed?” She nodded. “Okay. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He sniffed. “Whatever you’re making, it smells great.”

Clare and Anne both watched in silence as Russ disappeared through the swinging doors. Clare listened to the thump and creak of his footsteps going up the stairs. She turned toward Anne. Chair of the stewardship committee. Important donor to the church. Parishioner. Friend. She hoped. She took a deep breath. “Well…”

Anne shook her head. “Oh. My. God.”

Clare’s heart sank.

“He is totally hot. Even with the bullet scars.”

“What?”

“What is he, fifty? He’s got to be close to my age, right?” She fanned herself. “Let me tell you, my husband sure doesn’t look like that in a towel.”

“What?”

Anne dropped the wet cloth on the counter and crossed to Clare. She hugged her. “Oh, Clare. It’s not exactly a surprise. I mean, yeah, seeing him here half naked was definitely a surprise, but the fact that you’re doing more than meeting for lunch at the diner isn’t.” She released Clare, grinning. “Besides, everyone knows priests and ministers don’t have sex. So I’ll just assume his shower is broken and he was borrowing yours.”

Clare buried her face in her hands. “I think I need another drink.”

“I’ll join you.”

Clare took down a second tall glass and filled it to the brim while Anne mopped up the broken eggs. “So.” She stood and traded the eggy cloth for a Bloody Mary. “Is this a new thing? I mean, since you’ve been away for a year and a half.”

“When I found out I was being deployed, we…” Clare made a vague gesture. “We only had two weeks, though, and everything was crazy, with me trying to take care of all the details at St. Alban’s and get ready to go and all.” She looked into her drink. “This feels very new. I mean, we’ve known each other for how many years now? But we’ve never actually been out on a date.”

“What are you using for birth control?”

“Good Lord.” Clare could feel her cheeks turning red.

Anne pulled out one of the ladder-back chairs and sat at the pine table. “I’m a doctor. I’m concerned.”

Clare swallowed a large gulp of her Bloody Mary. “I’m on the pill.”

“That’s foresighted of you.”

“I’ve been on for years. Erratic periods and army flight schedules don’t mix.” She dropped into another chair and covered her eyes. “I cannot believe I’m discussing this with you.”

“Then make an appointment and go talk about it with your regular doctor. I know you have this thing about medical treatment, but-”

“Anne, what did you come here for?”

Anne paused. “Sorry.” She took the celery stick out of her drink. Tapped it on the rim of the glass. “Sometimes it’s easier to talk about other people’s issues than your own.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

Anne looked up at her, smiling a little. “I just bet you do.” She laid the celery stick on the table. “It’s about Will.”

“What about Will?”

“You… know what happened to him.”

“Yes. I’d heard. I haven’t seen him since I’ve been back, though.”

“Of course you haven’t. No one has. He doesn’t go anywhere. He doesn’t do anything. He lets us drag him to physical therapy and to the orthopedist, but he refuses to go anywhere else. Remember how he loved to play his guitar? We’ve encouraged him to get back together with his old band. We’ve offered to pay for shop classes over at ACC-you know how he was always fooling around with cars.”

Clare nodded.

“Nothing. He won’t do anything.”

“Is he acting depressed?”

“No! I mean, not to my face. If he has to interact with anyone, he behaves as if everything’s fine. He cracks jokes, he carries on a conversation, but it’s all an act. When no one’s around… I can hear him, in his room. Just sitting there. No music. No movement. Like a machine that’s been turned off.”

Clare laid her hand open on the table. Anne took it. “I’ve tried to talk to him about seeing a psychiatrist, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Can you place him in treatment? Without his consent?”

“Only if he’s a danger to himself or to others. And I’m afraid-” Her voice broke. “I’m so afraid that by the time he shows he’s a danger to himself it will be too late.”

“How can I help?”

“Will you come talk to him? Not officially or formally. Just come for dinner and then, you know, casually talk to him.”

“Of course, but Anne, I’m not a trained mental health professional. If you think he’s suicidal-”

Anne shook her head. “I don’t think it’s his mind. I think his soul has been wounded, and souls are your profession.”

Clare held out her other hand, and Anne squeezed both of them, hard. There was a polite throat clearing at the doorway. Russ stood there, barefoot, in jeans and an untucked shirt. “Am I intruding?”

“No.” Anne released Clare’s hands and stood up. “I am.” She smiled at Russ. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your brunch, Chief Van Alstyne.”

“I think you ought to call me Russ, all things considering.”

“You got it. Clare? Tonight? Six o’clock?”

“I’ll be there.”

Anne opened the door, letting in another puff of warm air. “Thanks. Sorry for the eggs and all. As for you”-she pointed to Russ-“if you’re going to eat this woman’s food and run up her water bill, the least you can do is take her out on a date.”

The door clicked shut behind her. In the kitchen, the coffee press whistled faintly and the sausages popped in the skillet. Russ looked at her. “No more sleeping over.”

“Noooo!” She stood up, nearly knocking over the remains of her Bloody Mary.

“Yes. We’ve gotten away with it for eight weeks. That was too damn close for comfort.”

Clare flung an arm toward the door. “Anne’s fine with it! She’s happy for me.”

“Dr. Anne’s fine with it because she’s your friend. What if it had been one of the conservative guys on the vestry, like whatsis-name, with the scarf?”

“Sterling Sumner.”

“How do you think he would have reacted? What if it had been Elizabeth de Groot?”

Clare winced. Her deacon, who was tasked with keeping Clare on the straight and narrow, had a serious thing for clerical reverence and priestly authority. “She’d be on the phone to the bishop right now.”

“Damn right she would-and I don’t think his reaction would be ‘Fine, I’m so happy for you.’” He reached out and pulled her into his arms. “Would it?”