Julia Spencer-Fleming - One Was a Soldier

“Thanks, Drago.” Tally punched him in the shoulder. Clare downed half the contents in one swallow. “Whoa. Easy there, Major.”

She squeezed her fingers around the drink until she could feel the cut edges of the crystal digging into her skin. She swallowed the rest of the whisky.

“Hell, lady, take the other one.” Drago tugged the empty glass out of her grip and placed the second drink in her hand.

“I don’t want to…” Clare’s voice trailed off. Her ring, her engagement ring, glittered and winked in the light of the torches.

Is that really as high as you can aim? To be the consolation prize for someone who can’t have what he really wants?

She held the glass close to her nose and inhaled the golden oaken smell of the whisky, closing her eyes. She could hear Tally and the big man whispering, and then Tally said, “How long you been back, Major?”

“Nine weeks.” Clare took a long drink. “Isn’t that funny. I counted every day I was in-country. I didn’t realize I was still counting here.”

“Sandbox messes up your head.” Tally ruffled her dark brown hair as if shaking bad thoughts out. “Running that soup kitchen probably doesn’t help. There are some weird people there.”

“I don’t-” Clare began.

“She doesn’t work for BWI?” Drago asked.

“Hell, Drago, does she look like a riveter or something to you? She’s ex-army. Like me.”

The big man’s face creased. “I was just gonna tell her the company’s got a doctor you can talk to for free. If she didn’t know. I dunno about the army. Can you see a VA shrink for free?” He looked down at Clare, worried.

Even shaken and slightly sloshed, Drago’s misplaced concern made her smile a little. He had clearly figured a soup kitchen employee didn’t have deep pockets.

“The problem with VA isn’t the cost. It’s getting in in the first place.” Tally unsnapped her purse and dug inside. “Look. Here’s something you should think about. No pressure, and the lady, when I called? Said they didn’t report anything to anybody if you didn’t want them to.” She handed Clare a photocopied brochure showing an American flag, an earnest and multiracial group talking, and a soldier silhouetted in the glow of a desert sunset. It was the same brochure she had tried to press on Will Ellis.

Clare let out a barking laugh. “The community center veterans group.” She handed the brochure back.

“You heard about it? Yeah, they’re starting up next week. I, um, I’m thinking of trying it out.”

“Why?”

“Jesus, Dragojesich.” Tally slugged him. “Try and show a little sensitivity here.”

“Clare?”

Over Dragojesich’s backhoe-sized shoulder, she saw Russ striding across the flagstones. Even in the flickering light, she could see his worried frown.

“Here,” she called.

He crossed to her. Took her by her upper arms and shook her slightly. “I thought you were going to stay put.”

“I’m sorry, I… I wanted a drink. Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, just a couple assholes who didn’t learn how to use their words in preschool.” He spotted Tally. “Pardon my French.” He did a double take. “Ms. McNabb?”

Tally was looking from Clare to Russ and back to Clare. A knowing smile spread over her broad face. “That’s why you told me to drop your name with him.”

Russ wrapped his arm around Clare. “What?”

There was a swirl of bodies near the bar. Clare caught a glimpse of an expensive suit. “I’ll tell you later,” she said. “Are you done? Can we go now?”

“Sure. A couple uniforms from Lake George showed up. It’s their problem now.”

“Tally, thank you.”

“No prob. We even about that soup kitchen thing?”

Clare waved her free hand. “It never happened.”

“Good enough.” Tally leaned forward and snapped Clare’s clutch open. She stuffed the brochure inside. “Think about what I said, huh?”

“I will.” Clare handed the empty glass to Dragojesich. “Thank you for the drink.”

He shrugged, a movement akin to the uplift of mountains in quick time. “No thanks necessary. Those of us who been over there gotta stick together, right?”

The expensive suit seemed to be moving. Coming their way. “Right,” Clare said. “Thanks. ’Bye.” She headed off toward the porch stairs at such a clip it took Russ three or four seconds to catch up with her.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You were awfully chummy with McNabb. Considering she’s the reason you sprained your ankle. You were complaining about not running just a couple days ago.”

“She apologized. I forgave her. Can we go now?”

“Are you-” He looked around them at the dancers as they passed. “Are you mad I left you alone to go stop that fight?”

She nearly tripped over her own feet. He steadied her. “Are you kidding? Of course not. That’s your job. It doesn’t end when you take the uniform off. That’s one of the things we have in common.” The booze was hitting her system, warming her from the inside out, calming her down. She smiled. “You ought to know that by now.”

He looked down at the steps as they climbed to the wide, winged porch. “I guess… Linda would’ve been. Upset, I mean.”

She caught his arm. He turned to her. The light spilling from the resort’s open doors washed him golden, picking out his crow’s-feet and smile lines and frown lines. He was the most attractive man she had ever met. He was fifty-two. He had been married twenty-five years. Someone who can’t have what he really wants .

“I’m not Linda,” she said.

“I know.” He took her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. “I’m not trying to compare you two. It’s just that I have this whole set of reflexes that come from being Linda’s husband. They’re gonna come out now and again. I figure the best way to deal with that is to be up-front about it, and ask you what’s going on instead of just assuming I know.”

A laugh that was very close to a sob bubbled out of her chest.

“What?”

“That’s my entire third marital counseling session condensed to one sentence.”

He looked at her closely, a sliver of a smile on his face. He carefully rubbed one thumb along her cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay, love?”

She could feel Opperman out there, gliding through the press of bodies like a malignant presence just under the surface of the water.

“Just… overtired. Overwhelmed.”

“Yeah, I have that effect on women.”

She laughed.

He tugged her toward the door. “C’mon, tired girl. Let’s get you home to bed.” He shook his head when she opened her mouth. “Alone.”

In her dream, Clare was flying. The radio crackled and spat with an endless flow of chatter, air-to-air, ground-to-air, reports from the AWACs flying miles above them.

Clare checked the airspeed, yawed the rooters another ten degrees so that they were looking at the ground through the windscreen. Drying fields. Irrigation pumps. And there, the narrow Nile green river that led to the town. She picked up speed. “Target coordinates in. Unlocking missiles.”

“Confirmed. Range five hundred,” her copilot said.

Clare tapped her mic. “Alpha Tango, this is Bravo Flight five two five, ranged three hundred meters from one-three Company Foxtrot. Do we have a confirm to go hot?”

Her helmet’s headset blared. “Bravo Flight five two five, you are confirmed to go hot.”

“Roger, Alpha Tango.” She flicked the switches. “Missiles on.”

The radio cracked again. “Bravo five two five, this is the one-three Foxtrot. Not to rush you or anything, but where the hell are you?”