One September Morning (30 page)

Fort Lewis
Sharice

T
he young soldier carving the roast, his necktie tucked into his shirt, has won Sharice’s heart. Watching him serve, Sharice would swear there’s a halo emanating from his cordial, confident smile. Sometimes, when you’re feeling overwhelmed and cannot see a clear way out, fate intervenes with a ray of sunshine, a godsend like Dr. Charles Jump.

Or Captain Jump. The man has earned so many titles, she’s not sure what to call him, though he has suggested Doc, since he’ll be treating the family in therapy. Sharice takes a deep breath, the air thick with smells of roast beef, garlic, baked potatoes, and vanilla from the glorious centerpiece of white candles at the center of Abby and John’s table…

Abby’s table now.

“Can you cut hers into small pieces?” Abby’s friend Suz asks.

Down by Dr. Jump’s hip, Sofia stands with a china plate pressed to her tiny face. “Roast beast, please.”

“Hold the plate flat, sweetie,” Abby instructs, helping the little girl lower the plate.

“I’ll make special Sofia-sized bites.” Jump smiles down at her as he drops small squares of beef onto her plate. “How’s that?”

“Thank you, Dr. Jump!” She hops in the air as she says his name—almost tossing the meat.

“Okay, okay, we know you like his name, pumpkin,” Suz says, guiding her to a chair at the table.

Madison sits opposite Sofia, scraping tracks into a mound of mashed potatoes with her fork.

“Madison.” Sharice projects her annoyance as her daughter eases the fork into her mouth. “Please, wait for the rest of us to be seated. Where are your manners?”

“Whatever,” Madison says over a mouthful as she rests the fork on the edge of the plate.

“Everything okay?” Jim comes up behind Sharice.

His hand on her shoulder reassures her, so warm and solid. Where has he been these past few years when she needed him? Where has her head been? Distance encouraged by routine wedged them further and further apart, but now that chasm seems to be closing. By necessity, they are finding each other again, a touch here, a few words of support there.

They have reached across the vast space that opened up with the loss of their son and found a tight if tenuous handhold.

“We’re fine,” she says, handing him a white china plate, then taking one for herself. “Everything looks lovely, Abby. And Suz, you must give me the recipe for that crab dip.”

“It’s so easy,” Suz says, tucking a Velcro bib around Sofia’s neck to cover her red velvet dress. “Once you get it down, you’ll make it all the time.”

“Who else needs roast beef?” Jump asks. “Sharice? Rare or medium well?”

“Somewhere in between,” Sharice says, holding out her plate. The white candles ablaze in their silver candelabra are so bright her eyes glaze with tears. “Thanks so much. You know, looking at this fabulous feast, I realize we have so much to be thankful for.”

“Ma, wrong holiday,” Madison mutters. “This isn’t Thanksgiving.”

“Still…” Sharice carries her plate to the table and sits down beside Abby. “I’m grateful that we’re all here together.”

Abby squeezes her wrist warmly. “Me, too. I’m glad we’re all here together tonight.”

She puts her hand over Abby’s momentarily, thinking of the list of therapists Abby gave her. A great help for Sharice, who freezes at the proposition of calling health care professionals and setting up interviews. Sharice and Abby had their differences, but at her core Abby was a good person with the best of intentions.

This Christmas will be the most difficult of her lifetime, and yet she expels a sigh of relief that there’s hope for the remainder of her family. She and Jim will get Madison into therapy with Dr. Jump. Maybe Jim will even agree to family therapy, having confided to her that he relates to Dr. Jump, feeling a unique kinship because this man, like Jim, has experienced the pain and grit of combat.

And maybe Sharice will even find a modicum of relief through therapy. Not that she puts any stock in it. God knows, she has friends she can talk to. Of late, she’s taken to having tea with Eva and Britt, who feel compelled to voice their opinions about the need to pull our troops out of Iraq. Sharice is not sure she agrees, wondering if it’s fair to let that country implode after our boys have invested so much in trying to infuse structure there. What about the Iraqi police departments they’re trying to train? And the bridges and schools our troops are building? It would be such a shame to just leave, and abandon the entire mission. But mostly, when she’s with Eva and Britt, it’s all just conversation, now that John and Noah are no longer deployed there. She’s happy to listen while the ladies vent, knowing that they do not judge her for Noah’s actions. Besides, Britt makes the best cranberry scones.

“I’d like to make a toast,” Dr. Jump says, raising a glass of ruby-red wine. “To the men and women who serve our country: past—” he nods to Jim, “present, and future. That we might keep America safe for our families. That we might protect our freedom to enjoy times like this.” He raises his glass.

“I’ll second that, sir.” Jim lifts his glass, a glaze of unshed tears in his dark eyes.

Emotion forms a knot in Sharice’s throat as glasses are raised. Her eagle eye double-checks Madison—just sparkling cider. Sharice sips a Diet Coke, her new drink of choice so that Madison can see you don’t need alcohol to have a good time. Reinforcing behavior by example, not by lecture. She’s determined not to screw this up, not to let her last child slip through her fingers.

“And Merry Christmas, one and all!” Dr. Jump adds, beaming a grin from the head of the table. Now that his hair is growing in he looks younger, more like one of John’s contemporaries, though Sharice still cannot place him from her memories of John’s years at Rutgers. As soon as the holidays are over, she’s going to dig in the attic for John’s yearbooks and sneak a peak at the younger version of Dr. Jump.

For her part, Sharice is reassured just knowing that this man was a friend of John’s, that Charles Jump stood by her eldest boy on the football field as well as the open desert battlefield. Basking in this knowledge, she feels that her son would approve of their embarking on the very personal, very trusting therapeutic relationship with Dr. Jump.

John, honey, wherever you are, thanks for sending us this savior.

Fort Lewis
Suz

T
his was not the way she planned to spend Christmas Eve—building a tricycle while Abby and her friend sat back and sipped wine. In fact, she didn’t even know Abby was friends with Charles Jump, the company field therapist, until he appeared at dinner tonight with a box of chocolates and a look of lust in his eyes.

Or was she imagining that? Maybe it was the mutual “I got your back” deal she had going with Abby that made her so protective of her friend. Over dishes in the kitchen, Abby whispered that he was just a lonely soldier at Christmastime, but if that were the case, why didn’t he stay for dinner and then get the hell out to a bar or the Officers’ Club or his couch, where all the other lonely soldiers were spending their Christmas Eves. Not to be selfish or anything, but Jump was going to go home and sleep in while her kid was going to wake up in six hours fully anticipating toys and presents under the tree. Toys with “some assembly required.” And it’s nearly midnight and Suz has just removed the metal rivets from the box housing the ninety-nine pieces of Sofia’s tricycle.

Sucking on the finger that got scraped while opening the box, Suz settles on the floor in a yoga child’s pose and spreads the nuts and bolts out on the rug. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” she says, squinting at the diagram.

“Oh, wow. Let me help you.” Abby sets her wineglass on a table and slides to the floor beside her. “I’m pretty good at this stuff. As a kid I always loved puzzles.”

“Well, good, because Scott was the assembly-line foreman of our family. I was Director of Purchasing and Acquisitions.” Suz starts lining up nuts and bolts by size, while Abby unfolds the directions.

“Last time I was here, your living room was full of boxes,” Jump says, leaning back and folding his long legs. “What did you do with them?”

“They’re stashed in the attic now. My friend Flint and I went through them, but the army confiscated most of the things I really valued, like John’s journals. I was so eager to read them. I guess I thought they might reveal who killed him.”

“Really?” Jump seems surprised. “Do you think he knew the insurgent?”

“I think the sniper was someone in your platoon. In fact, I know it was. The question is, who?” Abby rises and, stepping over loose screws, tiptoes toward the kitchen. “We’re going to need the tool kit.”

“
Really?
Well, that’s scary,” Jump says thoughtfully.

“Two, four, six, eight…” Suz counts the bolts. “Oh, good. At least we’ve got all the pieces we’re supposed to have. Let’s see if they fit together.” She reaches into the box, lifts out the shiny silver handlebars with pink streamers hanging from the handgrips, and pretends to drive. “So cute!”

“Excuse me, ma’am, but do you a license to drive that?” Abby teases Suz, kneeling beside her with a red toolbox. “You know, Jump, I realize you didn’t see anything in that warehouse, but you must have had a sense of the dynamics at play in that platoon.”

“I did my best. It was a big part of my job.”

“So if you were profiling John’s killer, what would you say?” Abby presses him as she finds two pink metal pieces and starts to attach them.

“Well…” Jump clears his throat, and Suz glances up at him as he recrosses his legs. “I can’t reveal anything the troops shared with me in confidence.”

“Of course.” Abby spins a nut. “I wouldn’t expect that. My question is why? Why would someone want to kill John?”

He sucks in a deep breath. “Hmm. Jealousy? Not to name names, but John was quite the celebrity when he joined our little platoon. When the media was around, the journalists wanted to shadow John—anyone else in the platoon was second-rate. Some of the guys may have resented that.”

“Resentment is one thing,” Suz says, handing Abby a bolt. “But motive enough to kill a guy?”

“Not to mention the fact that John’s celebrity status put extra pressure on our commanding officers to do the right thing. And, I’m sure you noticed that our esteemed lieutenant is fairly cocky. A West Point graduate with a Napoleon complex.”

“Honestly, Chenowith does give me a very bad vibe,” Abby says. “If it was a matter of trusting my instincts, I’d pursue him as the prime suspect.”

Suz hands Abby a screwdriver. “That would be so awful if he was the one.”

“All this assumes that your theory is correct, Abby,” Jump says. “And to be honest, I’m not convinced you’re right.”

“But I—”

He holds up his hands to stop her. “Please, save me the details. Professionally, I’ve moved into another area and I’m trying to leave that last assignment behind me. Iraq took its toll on me, too, and it’s difficult for me to revisit. You forget, I lost my best friend there.”

“I’m so sorry,” Abby says. “Of course, you suffered firsthand.”

“It’s okay to ask. You know I want to help.” He leans forward on the sofa, his hands pressed together in prayer position. “Maybe it’s good for me to vent. I’m going to get going. But while we’re on this subject, there was another unusual dynamic in that platoon.”

Abby and Suz both stop what they’re doing and gaze up at him.

“There was also an extreme case of sibling rivalry. The younger brother seemed to think that his older brother led a charmed life. Their relationship was a constant competition. Not unusual for siblings so close in age, but rife with possibility.”

“Noah would never hurt John,” Abby says, her hands twisting the screwdriver. “I think his love for John was what sent him off the deep end after John died. I’ll never forget that day he ran from us at Arlington Cemetery. Just ran like the wind. He was so distraught.”

“They enlisted together, right?” Suz takes the large wheel from the box. “That sounds pretty close to me.”

“Statistically, most homicides are committed by someone who knows the victim well.” Jump’s eyes are cool as ice—his intellectual persona? Suz hands Abby a wheel, her eyes riveted on the shrink. “Husbands kill wives, gangs take out one of their members, lovers kill their exes. I’m not saying this is the case with the Stanton brothers but you can’t ignore statistics.” He stands. “And on that note…”

“Merry Christmas,” Suz says, rolling back on her heels and turning toward the clock in the dining area.. “I guess it’s officially Christmas Day.”

Abby stands up, leaving the screwdriver on the rug. “I’m glad you joined us,” she says, walking him to the door.

Suz grabs the screwdriver and grits her teeth as she tightens the screws. Abby’s almost got this thing waxed! She reaches under the seat to tighten a bolt and scrapes her hand in the process.

“Dammit.” Tears sting her eyes, not so much from the cut as from the sting of not having Scott here to assemble his daughter’s first tricycle. A line of blood drips down the back of her hand. She’d better wash up before she turns the pink trike red.

While Abby and Jump chat on the threshold, she ducks into the bathroom. When she returns, Jump is gone, and Abby is on the floor finishing off the assembly job.

“I thought he would never leave,” Suz says quietly as she tiptoes down the hall, passing Abby’s prized family photos. She gazes past a photo of John in uniform, then does a double take. Beneath the glass frame, fat dots of liquid cling to the photograph under John’s eyes, like tears on his cheeks.

“This is weird.” Suz stares. “Did someone try to do 3-D art here?”

“What?” Abby joins Suz, leaning into the portrait. “What is that?” She removes it from the wall and holds it under the lamp for a better view. “Oh, God, it’s like he’s crying.”

Suz nods. “Tears on his cheeks.”

Abby shivers. “Very creepy.” She drops to the floor and pries off the clamps on the back of the frame to get inside. “How do you think it happened?”

“I don’t know, but none of the other photos have moisture under the frame. It’s very strange.”

Gently, Abby presses a tissue to the drops of moisture on the portrait. Fortunately, it absorbs the drops without affecting the surface of the photo. “I’ve never seen that happen before. Maybe it’s from the steam of the radiator.”

“Or maybe it’s a supernatural occurrence,” Suz says. “Crazy as that sounds, I gotta admit.” This one she feels deep in her gut. Drops of moisture did not randomly appear on the cheeks of dead men in photos.

“The thing that really creeps me out is that I just had to extract myself from Jump at the door,” Abby says, wincing. “He was trying to kiss me goodnight. I don’t know whether it was too much wine or just the spirit of the season but…I told him it’s way too soon.” She shivers. “And now this…”

“It’s a message from the next world, Abby.” Suz rubs her arms, warding off goose bumps. “He’s trying to tell you something. Wherever he is, John is crying.”