Kathy Altman - The Other Soldier

Money was the kinder option. Before he took off in the morning, he’d leave a check with Gallahan.

He finally recognized a far-too-cheerful chirping as his cell phone. The screen displayed an unfamiliar number and for a second or two his lungs went AWOL. Had Harris Briggs managed the impossible?

“That you, Corporal?”

“Mr. Briggs.”

A pause. “I’d tell you to call me Harris but I doubt we’ll be usin’ each other’s names much.”

Right. “She said no.”

“That’s puttin’ it mildly.” Reid snorted softly. Harris Briggs cleared his throat. “Was a pleasure to meet you, son. We appreciate what you boys are doin’ over there.”

Reid thanked him and ended the call. So that was that.

Son. He sat back and mentally sifted through years of memories, scrambled to single out the one where his father had last called him “son.” Couldn’t find it. And suddenly, desperately, he needed it.

A quick, disgusted shake of his head. Enough with the self-pity.

He should be relieved. Should be grateful he didn’t have to spend his leave trying to fix something destined to remain forever broken. He’d tried. And failed. He’d write that check, and when the loan came through he’d write a bigger one. One that would require years of monthly payments.

So why did he feel like he was getting off easy?

No doubt Parker Dean would agree. His mouth relaxed as he pictured her. She’d looked like she’d been digging an underground tunnel to Canada. She’d worn a sweat-soaked T under an oversize pair of mud-streaked overalls. Dirt marked both cheeks and flecked the cinnamon hair gathered at the back of her head. But despite all that mud he’d registered creamy skin, a curvy figure and eyes that promised sincerity and humor.

And once she’d found out who he was, she hadn’t hesitated to tell him to go pound sand.

Tim Dean had been a lucky man. Too bad Reid had no business thinking of Parker Dean as anything other than someone he owed a hellacious obligation to.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted movement. The stealthy, scampering, wall-hugging movement of a mouse. Squatters. Terrific. They’d have to go. He hadn’t signed on for roommates. Not even for one night.

He stood and reached for the phone, intent on petitioning Gallahan for a few traps. A glance at the corner where the mouse had disappeared and he hesitated, let his hand slide off the receiver.

For fifteen months he and thirty other guys had tolerated a family of sand rats in their tent. Certainly he could handle a mouse or two.

Live and let live, and all that.

He collapsed onto the bed, and threw an arm across his face so he wouldn’t see the room start to blur.

* * *

PARKER CREPT DOWN THE hallway past her daughter’s bedroom. Thank goodness for the night-lights Nat had insisted on when they’d moved in. Their eerie green glow helped her reach the attic without breaking a toe. She eased the seldom-used door open, flipped on the light switch and pulled the door shut behind her.

She shivered and hesitated on the bottom step. A short-sleeved T and flannel pajama bottoms were no match for the attic chill. Why hadn’t she thought to grab a sweater? She grunted. Forget the sweater. It was the middle of the night. Why hadn’t she stayed in bed, instead of baking muffins and playing safari in her own attic?

She wrapped her arms around her waist and peered up the worn, narrow flight of stairs. But it wasn’t the cold or the cobwebs draped along the walls that rooted her in place. She hadn’t ventured up there since she’d tucked Tim’s things away a year ago.

Don’t be such a baby.

She took in a breath, then another, and started to climb. The air smelled thickly of dust, faintly of machine oil and faded roses. But the way her stomach was rebelling, anyone would think a family of skunks had moved in.

Five steps up she snagged a sock on a nail head. She yanked her foot free and kept going. She’d have to come back with a hammer.

If only all of her problems could be solved so easily.

Half an hour later, sitting cross-legged on a comforter she’d scavenged from a cardboard box, she thumbed through the last of the seven photo albums stacked at her hip. She’d had the sudden urge to look through them all—the pictures of her college days in Blacksburg, Virginia, where she’d met Tim; their wedding photos; their first home on post at Fort Bragg in North Carolina; Nat’s birth and progression from toddler to second-grader.

Parker closed the album. So many blank pages.

Nat was now in third grade. They’d stopped taking pictures after Tim died.

Guilt settled in. The final picture in the album was one Tim had taken of Nat. She stood beside their car in sneakers and a pink-and-purple-striped bathing suit, her hair in pigtails, her face tearstained and tragic. In her left hand she held what was left of Tim’s favorite fishing pole. She’d slammed the car door on it, shearing off the tip. Tim had spent thirty seconds raging, five minutes mourning, and three days laughing. Since Nat already had her swimsuit on he’d taken her to the water park, to show there were no hard feelings.

Her husband had been a forgiving person. Unlike his family.

Parker’s parents had been in their late forties when she was born, and neither her mother nor her father had lived past seventy-five. Which meant that Tim’s mother and brother were the only other family Nat had. But they were family in name only. They hadn’t spoken to Parker since the falling-out at Tim’s funeral. No one would ever describe them as forbearing.

She should be grateful. If not for that she might have backed out of buying this property. She and Nat would never have moved to Castle Creek. Would never have realized Tim’s dream.

And anyway, who was Parker to judge? She hadn’t contacted Tim’s family, either. Of course, she had no illusions about herself. Forgiveness was beyond her.

Her eyes filled. She hugged herself and began to rock. I can’t do it, Tim. I can’t forgive him for taking you away.

The door at the bottom of the stairs squeaked a warning. Parker barely managed to dry her face with the hem of her T before her daughter’s head poked up out of the stairwell. Her hair was flat on one side and tousled on the other and she was knuckling the sleep from her left eye. A series of thumps and some heavy breathing signaled Chance was close behind her.

“Mom?” Nat yawned. “Something’s burning.”

Oh, God. “The muffins!”

The album slid to the floor with a muffled whump as Parker scrambled to her feet. That’s what she got for indulging in a one-woman pity party. She hustled down the stairs behind Chance, whose tail wagged with delight at this new game. Parker’s foot caught the nail again and this time she left her sock behind. When she hit the first floor the smell of scorched batter was unmistakable. By the time Nat reached the kitchen Parker had pulled the pans out of the oven and both she and Chance were staring at the shriveled, blackened remnants.

All those ingredients, wasted. She sighed and dropped the potholders onto the counter. “Not even Chance would go for these.” He barked once, and plopped down onto the braided rug. Parker made a face. “Didn’t think so.”

Nat peered over her shoulder. “Isn’t charcoal supposed to make you hurl?”

“If you can get past the smell long enough to actually take a bite, then yes, I think it’s a given you’ll puke. And speaking of smell…” Parker heaved open the kitchen window. When she turned back around Nat sat hunched over the kitchen table, chin propped in both hands.

“Hot chocolate?”

Nat nodded, then bit her lower lip. “He made you sad, didn’t he?”

“Chance?”