Carly (13 page)

“Bush will have to do something,” Marla said. “We get too much oil from Kuwait to let it fall into the hands of Iraq.”

Carly looked back at the screen where now some girl was washing her hair in a misty tropical shower. The idea of combat seemed
too impossible to imagine. It overshadowed all the anxiety she’d expended over how to handle Haskell’s intention to rid himself
of her. For some reason, her mind brought up the fact that her grandmother Bette’s first wedding day had been the same day
as the attack on Pearl Harbor. Now Carly had some idea of how Grandma Bette had felt that day almost fifty years before.

With the fall of the Berlin Wall just a few years before, the Cold War had ended. Now the U.S. Congress was busily downsizing
the military, a hot topic of conversation on base at mess and off-duty. Would this invasion mean war? If so, would this war
spark something like Vietnam? Or would war be averted if the UN persuaded this ruthless dictator to leave Kuwait and its oil?
Would Hussein back down, or would the U.S.?

T
he next day, during another steamy afternoon, Carly climbed into the cab of an older version of the camouflaged cargo truck
she’d been working on the day before. Bowie already sat in the passenger’s seat. Both of them wore khaki tank tops with cotton
slacks that matched the truck. After Carly’s admission that she couldn’t drive, Haskell had ordered Bowie to spend the rest
of the afternoon finishing Carly’s driving lessons. Through the open windows, she could hear the voices of the other members
of the platoon who were still overhauling engines and the scrape of tools on metal.

“Okay,” Bowie said, “this truck has a stick shift. Most newer military vehicles have automatic transmissions.”

“But our sergeant thinks I need to know how to drive a stick. And he thinks learning to drive a stick shift will be harder
on me.” Carly gave Bowie a wry smile. Her eyes felt sandy from lack of sleep. The nightmares had begun again the night before.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. There’s always somebody around like him.” Bowie looked at her, as if checking for understanding.
“You know, somebody who wants to make everythin’ harder than it needs to be.”

“You mean like Saddam Hussein?” The heat of the day was pressing in on them, and she wished she could wear her physical training
shorts and tank set all day. But no, the tank top instead of the sleeved shirt was the only concession allowed them in the
heat.

Bowie made a sound of disgust. “Yeah. Now this is the gearshift, and there is the clutch pedal. Put your foot on it and get
the feel of it. You just have to remember to always push down the clutch when you shift gears. Try that.” He watched her.
“What do you think about all that happenin’ in Kuwait?”

Carly had thought of little else since the president’s address to the nation the night before. The speech must have been what
triggered her nightmares. The threat of war could give anyone nightmares, right? “I don’t like it.” Perspiration trickled
between her shoulder blades.

“The Kuwaiti people must sure agree with you.” He slid toward her, almost sticking to the black vinyl bench seat. “Now press
down the clutch pedal a few more times.” He watched her perform this and said, “The question is, will Bush send U.S. troops
in?”

“I don’t think he has any choice if the UN can’t persuade Hussein to withdraw, do you?” Carly pushed down the clutch pedal
and then lifted up and pushed it down again.

“Okay. Start the truck,” Bowie said. “Well, I don’t think Hussein will go along with the UN.”

“Why do you say that?” Carly started the vehicle. It roared to life.

“Because Hussein just marched in and took over his neighbor, didn’t he?” Bowie paused, gave a pronounced shrug, and then wordlessly
showed her how to shift into first. “Hussein wants what he wants, and only force stops that kind of bubba—not right or wrong.”

“Sounds like you know a lot about Hussein.” As the vehicle inched forward, her dog tags jiggled and Carly felt distinctly
uneasy. It was such a big truck and it made her feel so small in comparison. What if she lost control and rammed something?
Wouldn’t Haskell love that?

“Naw, just my opinion.” Bowie raised his voice over the grumbling engine. “He kind of reminds me of an uncle of mine I didn’t
cotton to. He run every pastor out of the local Baptist church for over twenty years until he finally had a coronary and died.”

Carly grinned at the peculiar comparison while following Bowie’s wordless instructions to press the clutch down and shift
from first into second. The vehicle shimmied as it moved forward.

“You think I’m jokin’,” Bowie said. “I’m not. Haven’t you known a body that has to run everythin’ and who’s always right even
when they’re wrong? If you don’t, believe me, you’re lucky.”

Carly thought of her mother then. Not a pleasant thought. And not a completely honest judgment. Her mother didn’t want to
control everything, just Carly and Carly’s contact with her birth father. Thinking of the latest argument with her mother
was like probing a raw wound. Learning that her father had cheated on a wife had ripped deep. Carly pushed away her raw, visceral
response to this. At Bowie’s nod, she shifted into third. Soon, she was traveling fifteen miles per hour down the deserted
street.

Why couldn’t Leigh see that keeping Carly from meeting her birth father was wrong, hurtful? Momentarily, Carly let herself
feel the deep, lingering ache of not knowing her father and the emptiness of wondering why he’d done what he had. “What causes
people to act like that?” she whispered.

Bowie hovered close to her, evidently ready to stomp the brake if he needed to. “I don’t know what causes it. But it’s like
they think they’re God. And they’re not.”

Glad Bowie didn’t know what she really meant, Carly eased the vehicle down the empty base road. “You think this will turn
into a war then?”

“It’s already a war. Those Iraqi soldiers we watched on TV last night weren’t shootin’ water guns. When people start killin’
each other, it’s a war.” In contrast to his words, he gave her an encouraging nod and said to give it more gas.

Carly drew in a shaky breath and obeyed him. She couldn’t argue with Bowie’s assessment. As they sat there on a summer day,
safe and sound, innocent civilians were dying in Kuwait. It just didn’t seem real, seem right.

“Do you think—” She braced herself to ask the question that had been nibbling at the back of her mind since the day before.
“Do you think we’ll go . . . over there?”

“Naw, don’t think we’ll get that lucky.” He nodded with approval. “You’re doing great. Just drive to the end of the street
and then I’ll have you stop and downshift. Anyway, everything in Kuwait will probably be all over but the shouting before
we get half-trained.”

She sincerely hoped Bowie was right. But was that what she should hope? After weathering basic and taking action against harassment,
Carly had thought she’d conquered the fear and uncertainty that were always with her. The nightmares and panic attacks had
seemed to end. But Saddam Hussein had invaded Kuwait, and thousands of miles away, Carly felt it shake her to her depths.
She was back at square one, nightmares and all.

August 24, 1990

In her fatigues, Carly stood at the black pay phone just outside the rec room in her barracks. After the latest startling
news on Operation Desert Shield that evening, everyone seemed to want to call home or friends and that included Carly. It
was nearly ten o’clock and time to turn in before Carly got near the phone. The local nightly news was about to begin. She
plunked in her coins and then dialed the numbers included in a letter she’d received that day. The line connected and a stranger
answered.

“I’m calling for Lorelle Dawson,” Carly told the stranger. “Can she come to the phone?”

Since the reply was yes, Carly waited on the line for Lorelle to be located. No one in Carly’s family would understand the
complex morass of emotions that the president’s recent announcement had triggered. But Lorelle would.

Just after Carly had been asked to slip more coins in, a breathless Lorelle came on. “Who’s this?”

“It’s me, Carly.”

“Carly? Hey. Great. Did you get my letter? How are you?”

Carly had intended to write Lorelle, too, but hadn’t found the time. “Yes, I got your letter. Thanks. I’m getting settled
in. Oh, I have a sergeant who doesn’t like women.”

“Too bad,” Lorelle said cheerfully. “My sergeant’s a woman.”

“You get all the breaks.”

“Just call me Lucky. So what’s up?”

“I just wanted to hear your voice.” Carly suddenly wished that Lorelle were standing beside her. “This thing with the president
calling up the reserves,” Carly put her reason for calling into words, “the first time since Vietnam has got me—”

“Worried? I don’t think you should be. My dad called me this morning and said not to worry. We’re still in training, Carly.
They’ll want seasoned troops in a combat zone and we’re women, remember? We won’t be called up.”

Carly tried to feel reassured. If Lorelle’s dad at the Pentagon didn’t think they’d have to go, they probably wouldn’t, right?
Still, she felt afraid and ashamed of herself for being unenthusiastic about going to a combat zone. Hadn’t she signed up
with the army, knowing that war was always possible? But after the invasion of Kuwait, the recurring nightmares wouldn’t stop,
leaving her tired out every morning.

Carly turned her thoughts back to the phone call. “Do you like training to be an MP?”

“Yeah, I think I’m going to like law enforcement and I might go into that when I get out. That will thrill my parents. They
wanted me to study law, not enforce it. So how’s the military vehicle thing coming along?”

Carly tried to think of something that would make Lorelle grin. “A tall blond hunk is teaching me how to drive each of the
military vehicles.”

Lorelle laughed. “In that case, we’ll call
you
Lucky.”

“He’s just a friend.” Still, Carly had come to value the tall blond Alabaman. He was solid, steady, and possessed an easy
grin.

“Have you heard anything from your father?” Lorelle lowered her voice, “I mean, your birth father?”

Carly gripped the receiver tighter and looked around to see if anyone was close enough to hear her. “He came to our graduation.”

“How’d you know that?”

“My mother saw him.” Carly pictured in her mind’s eye her mother’s unhappy expression as she had scanned the crowd at graduation.

“She did? Wow. What did she say? Did you see him, too?”

Carly didn’t want to tell even Lorelle what her mother had revealed about her father. Surely there were extenuating circumstances
to explain why her father had . . . why he would . . . How did one explain being unfaithful? “Nothing new,” Carly fibbed miserably.

No matter how angry she was at her mother, she didn’t want Lorelle to know what Carly’s mother had done. Or maybe Lorelle’s
parents already knew . . .

Ivy Manor, November 8, 1990

Wearing her dress uniform, Carly got out of a red pickup and looked down the long lane, littered with burnished fall leaves,
leading to Ivy Manor. She glanced back at the driver, a grandson of Rose’s. “Hey, thanks for the lift from the airport.”

“No problem. We’re all hopin’ your great-great-aunt comes through okay. Have a nice visit with your family.” He waved and
drove away.

Carly nodded but couldn’t bring words to her lips. She’d gotten a four-day family leave to visit Aunt Kitty, who was “failing
fast”—her great-grandma Chloe’s words. An unseen hand gripped Carly’s lungs and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Then she
forced in a draught of cool autumn air and started up the drive with her duffel on one shoulder, feeling a million years old.

The last time she’d been at Ivy Manor had been on the occasion of her high-school graduation party. Basic training and three
months of MOS training stood between her and that untried girl. Her mind called up the echoes and tremors of that battle in
the flat over whether she’d be allowed to enlist at seventeen. And then she added the conflict with her mother over Leigh’s
continued refusal to tell Carly who her birth father was. But this trip wasn’t about her. What did “failing fast” mean? Did
it mean that Kitty was dying?
I can’t lose Aunt Kitty. I can’t
.

The brisk wind gusted. Gold and red maple leaves cascaded, showering over Carly as she trudged around to the back door. Without
knocking, she stepped inside and called, “Grandma! Rose! It’s Carly. I made it.”

Only Rose, the longtime housekeeper at Ivy Manor and an older cousin of Lorelle’s, came to greet her. “Honey, you look good!
A little thin, but good.” White-haired Rose wore a flowered apron over a blue dress. “The army must agree with you. Take that
duffel up to your bedroom.” Rose began rapid-fire instructions. “We’ve moved your aunt into the den here on the first floor
so we can take turns caring for her. Miss Bette and Miss Chloe are in with her now. Get your stuff put away. Wash your hands,
and by then I’ll have a snack whipped up for you.”

Carly grinned. Hearing Rose’s orders brought a rush of remembrance of all the long, happy summers she’d spent at Ivy Manor,
usually with Lorelle. A scene popped into mind. Lorelle and she were barefoot, dancing in the cool, green grass with bottles
of soapy water and red plastic wands in hand, blowing bubbles.

“You need anything?” Rose asked, a hand on her hip.

Carly leaned over and kissed Rose’s milk chocolate cheek. “Whatever you’re cooking sure smells good.”

“You better believe it. Now hurry up. Your Aunt Kitty wants to see you.”

Obediently Carly ran upstairs to her room and put her things in the armoire and dresser. Everything was just as she left it,
but she was different. Each memento from childhood tugged at her, many reminding her of Chloe and Kitty and the fun they’d
had together. Carly stroked the sterling silver brush and comb set that had belonged to her great-grandmother Chloe’s mother.
It had been Carly’s graduation present when she’d finished eighth grade.