August (The Year of The Change Book 2) (34 page)

Chapter Two

The two PFCs (Private First Class) stood stone still. Millam, on the right and half a head shorter than Tanyard, seemed to be this side of a grin. Captain Duran wanted to rip something apart in his frustration with Millam. Even at his best 'At Attention' stance, there was always the ghost of 'At Ease' that hovered about the young man. As Millam's captain, it was Duran's duty to teach his charge how to be a good soldier so he could keep himself alive. And every day the private was under his command, Duran had to remind the happy go lucky Millam that his life wasn't his own. His life was far more important than that.

Duran sighed and shook his head. He knew that Millam had so much potential if he would just get out of his own way. But how to get that through Millam's thick skull had become the captain's project and the bane of his existence.

Tanyard, on the other hand, stood rigid and sweated bullets. The younger man, a good kid who didn't have Millam's quick wit and smarts, showed promise. If only he’d chosen a better friend, he wouldn't keep getting in trouble. He was the kind of kid who flocked to the Corps every year, who learned quickly that home wasn't so bad after all. They would do their hitch with honor, then go home and marry their high school sweethearts. Duran could see Tanyard doing that. Now Millam, on the other hand, he could see in the brig.

Duran paced around them, an angry satellite, obviously too close for their comfort. With each circuit Tanyard flinched. At the end of the third orbit, Duran stood before them, his practiced mask firmly in place.

"This stupid stunt of yours is going to cost you!"

Tanyard cringed, saying nothing.

"But sir -"

"Did I tell you to speak” Duran barked. Millam snapped his mouth shut, the first smart thing he'd done this very early morning. "I can't believe any of my men would pull such an asinine trick as the one you two botched pitifully!" He popped the P for emphasize and a drop of spittle landed on Millam’s shoulder.

Millam opened his mouth and Duran glared at him. Millam shut it with an audible snap.

"It was a waste of resources that you two will pay for with sweat." Duran stomped another elliptical circuit, letting the anger build. "Your aim was so bad that you obviously need extra trajectory drills! When you aren't on duty, sleeping, or eating quick-ly, you will report to the officer on duty for drill time!" Millam twitched, but his captain didn't give Millam a chance to make him angrier. "Your life depends on what you do or don't do! Your actions determine the safety of every person in this unit. It was bad enough Gunnery Sergeant Graves got blindsided with your concoction of leftover oatmeal -- and I don't want to know what else -- but not being aware of your surroundings, you also got the colonel. I will not tolerate pranks of any kind! Do you understand me?"

Colonel Broan chewed Duran’s XO (Executive Officer) apart, and then his XO ripped Duran apart for half an hour, before releasing the captain to deal with his testosterone-filled men. Duran could have passed the verbal assault onto his lieutenant to handle, but preferred to deal with these two personally.

"Yes sir!" Tanyard's quavering voice boomed over Millam's, and Duran felt sorry for the young man.

"Good, because every time the colonel reminds me of oatmeal in his hair, I will remind you with extra work details!"

A quiet groan escaped Tanyard, but Millam, though not really smirking, looked satisfied. The captain would have to wipe that almost-smirk off his face for the next month, longer if he had to, until he got it through Millam's thick skull this was no place to goof off. Millam would just have to wait until he was stateside to be stupid.

"Obviously, I'm not keeping you two busy enough. I will alleviate that oversight. Tanyard!" Tanyard's slim build jerked straighter. "Report to Lieutenant Stover for the first of many trajectory drills." The boy didn't budge, his eyes wide and his skin a sickly shade of yellow. "Move it, Marine!"

Tanyard dashed from the tent, which served as Duran's office here in the middle of nowhere.

Turning back to Millam, Duran heaved an exasperated sigh. He didn't know how to inspire his wayward PFC to pull out the greatness that he knew was inside. Duran leaned against his tiny desk, rubbing his eyes.

"Okay, Millam, why the oatmeal attack?"

Millam went slack as he turned to face his captain. "Well, Skip –"

Duran jumped up and shoved his nose in Millam's shocked face. "Did I tell you At Ease Marine?"

Millam snapped to attention. "No sir!"

"Are you incapable of following orders and answering a simple question?" Duran snapped.

"No sir!"

"Okay, then." Duran leaned back against the desk, eyes locked with the PFC’s. "Tell me, in as few words as possible, what this prank was about."

"Motor T, sir."

"Huh?"

"You said as few words as possible, sir."

Duran glared making Millam gulped.

"Yes, sir." Millam cleared his throat. ""Motor Transport said artillery was lazy and only our trigger fingers were worth anything."

Duran shook his head. These rivalries were going to turn him gray. He didn't care what his XO said about them being good for moral.

"Sir, if the colonel and Gunny hadn't gotten in the way, I would have had them."

"So what? So you get them with oatmeal. It's been done, no, it's been overdone!"

"But that wasn't all, sir."

"There was more?" Duran's stomach dropped.

"Yes, sir, I had a second level attack all ready to go. There's this-"

"NO! I don't want to hear it. I want it dismantled and everything put back or I will loan you to Motor T to do all their cleaning until your rotation is up. Understood?

"Yes, sir." Millam looked at the ground before jerking his head back to attention.

Duran rubbed his temples. "So basically you're telling me I'm stuck here listening to your juvenile explanation instead of being in my rack sleeping because you felt a need to sink to a Junior High mentality?" Millam clinched his teeth "Well, Millam!"

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, sir what?"

Millam puckered his face for a brief moment and cleared his throat. "Yes, sir, you're stuck here listening to my juvenile explanation instead of sleeping, sir." He set his jaw.

Duran hated coming down so hard but this was the only way to keep from having to write a letter to Millam's mother about the death of her son. The captain took seriously the safety of his men. "Millam, you're good at what you do, when you want to be. I've been patient with your antics, but that patience has run out. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"

"Yes sir," he said crisply.

"Report to Stover. Dismissed."

Duran needed to do some serious thinking about how to motivate Millam, because he had the feeling the extra drills and work details weren't going to do the trick.

But first, he needed some sleep.

A Sampling of Kathryn’s second book in the gown series.

Chapter One

First, Cara saw the unnatural raven hair teased into a pile on top with a pink bow. Then the wrinkled fake tan and glowing red lipstick followed. Her stomach twisted.

Maude and Polly, the Boker sisters heavily laden with clothes, bustled down the short basement hall. Cara, coming down the stairs, jumped to the side. She’d learned a long time ago to never get in a Boker’s path. That path was especially dangerous when women’s apparel was involved.

“Out of the way, trailer trash,” Maude demanded as her swaying girth knocked the young woman flat against the cold wall.

Cara rubbed her hip, the point of impact throbbed, as she remained against the hard stair railing. The smell of cheap hairspray filled the enclosed space and she gagged as the two older women passed. Their fat behind struggled up the steep flight of stairs, and was the last thing she saw as they stampeded from the building.

Even if Cara had the guts to do so there was no use saying anything. It would only bring down an avalanche of verbal abuse. The church wasn’t the right place to have a rip-down shouting match. Not that Cara would ever stand up to Maude. She hung her head and sighed.

The outside door slammed shut with a metallic bang and Cara jumped. They were gone, she hoped. She didn’t understand the older Boker sisters, not many people did. The only reason they volunteered to sort donations for the poor at Faith Baptist Church was so they could take the good clothes for themselves. The day to sort had become their self-appointed time to rummage through each bag. It was the only time they were early to anything at church. Getting there before anyone else so they could leave before the cleanup started motivated them. Their usual excuse was a supposed headache or such. Cara ground her teeth.

She wished she’d received the call from Della, Pastor Paulson’s wife, earlier. When the call did come she’d left her part-time job at the ‘Albers Five and Dime’ and ran all the way to the church. Thankfully she had a good boss who knew the Bokers. She always feared the other ladies wouldn’t be here when Pastor Paulson unlocked the church.
Well, one load got past me, but maybe with me adding to the numbers of volunteers we could limit the stealing.
She hadn’t heard voices coming from behind the basement door. It didn’t surprise her since a lot of the ladies were shy. Another reason they needed to face the Bokers in number.

Unfortunately the real guardians of the clothes will be late getting back from the prayer meeting in Fresno
. With a shrug she took off her light coat and opened the door to the great room.

Her shoulders slumped. Torn, discarded bags lay among the strewn clothes that hid every inch of the blue carpet. Her stomach dropped. No one at all had come. The Boker sisters didn’t have to act pious and actually work. With no one to stop them from taking everything they wanted there was no telling how many trips the greedy women made before she arrived.

The wire mesh sorting bins sat empty against the far wall. With a sigh Cara picked up clothes and ripped garbage bags, making a path as she went. Infant male. Infant female. Toddler male. Toddler female. Boys. Girls. Men. Women. The bins were fully marked and even nearsighted Polly, with her pop bottle glasses, could read the signs. Cara could have been earning much needed tuition money, but no, she was here beating back hateful thoughts and cleaning up after ungrateful people. It would take her forever to clear the floor and sort by herself.

As she worked, her empty stomach grumbled in tandem with her own murmurings about the selfish Boker sisters. The thought of making a quick stop for lunch had been nixed and now she regretted that decision. Her fears, that none of the other ladies could prevent the pillaging, over rid her common sense. If only she could have gotten here earlier.

Cara couldn’t fathom how anyone would take clothes meant for the poor. Maude and Polly were far from destitute. She sensed him and looked up at the painting of Jesus. It hung at one end of the room, above the small pulpit for the children‘s Sunday school. His bright face shone. His pierced hands were wide open, welcoming all to come to him. She felt the warmth of his love wash over her as she studied the picture. Her angry thoughts quieted. “How can you smile after watching the Bokers rip off the poor?” His love glowed in her heart. “I guess it‘s a good thing you can forgive.” She sighed. “It‘s a good thing for me, anyway.”

Cara had never taken anything for herself, although many a time she’d boxed up clothes that were far nicer than anything she owned. Her part time job didn’t pay for much more than tuition and books at the community college. She studied accounting, part time, as the money allowed. Full time jobs were hard to find since Castle Air Force Base closed in 1995. The town was holding its own, but part-time jobs that paid well were as scarce as snow banks in this sunny California town. Besides, she liked it at Albers, and couldn’t ask for a better boss.

If she could find a full time job she wouldn’t be able to come on sorting day. Today she wouldn’t have minded that. All her friends had moved away to college or to find jobs. The sorting crew consisted of married and widowed women which left her the lone young and single woman in the group.

She dumped a pile of children’s clothes in the ‘Girls’ bin. She especially missed Phyllis, her best friend since Mr. Nelson’s third grade class at Mitchell Elementary School. She held a ripped bag in one arm and sorted into the bins. Now, when Phyllis calls it’s to beg her to move to Sacramento and live with her and her new husband, Stan.

She stood for a moment imagining what it would be like to sleep on Phyllis’ couch. As much as she would like to go to a larger college, even a university, she just couldn’t see herself crowding her friends.

She grabbed another armful and felt something sticky against her arm. “Ew, a PB&J.” It was too fresh to have come with the clothes. It must’ve been Polly’s snack.
Ew
.

Maybe Phyllis’ couch wouldn’t be so bad. Her friend had promised to introduce her to every single guy they knew. Their conversations always brought her back to the most important question. What about Betty, the most wonderful person in the world?
What would she do without me?

Her grandmother raised Cara when Betty’s only child dropped a pink bundle on her and her new husband, Ralph.   It was supposed to only be until she got on her feet. Sarah never returned. It had been just the three of them until five years ago when Gramps died. It used to bother her that she didn’t have young parents like all the other kids at school. Cara didn’t know who her father was, but had made peace with that part of her life a long time ago. Her grandparents loved her so much she didn’t feel she missed out.

She looked into Jesus’ kind brown eyes. “Really, I didn’t miss out…” Her Savior seemed to look deep into her soul. “Well, not too much.”

Averting her gaze she wadded up another ripped, empty bag and lobbed it across the room. It fell short of the tall metal trash can. While picking up an armful of clothes she found a lone, unopened bag underneath the strewn mess.

Cara smiled broadly at Jesus. “The Bokers actually missed one.”

The clothes in her arms dropped, forgotten for the moment. She knelt beside the large bag and settled on the floor, cross-legged. Careful to untie instead of rip – so it could be used again – she peered inside.  There was the usual assortment of wildly colored blouses.

“Maude would be devastated she missed this.” She glanced at Jesus. “Not that I would tell her.” She shifted her position. “That would be mean.” He didn’t frown. With a sheepish grin she dug through the contents. “All the same I’m glad Maude didn’t get them.” Her thoughts weren’t very Christian, and Cara knew she should have felt bad. But she didn’t.

With a tug she partly lifted a good, solid flannel nightgown from the tangle of clothes. The soft pink material was the kind her grandmother would like for this time of year. Cara really needed new sleeping attire. Her PJs had been mended so often there was little left of the original material.

She sighed.
No, there’s someone out there who needs this more than I do
.

Another tug and the flannel swung free. Leaning back she held the gown high to get a good look and check the size even though she knew she wouldn’t take it. She wasn’t about to become a Boker. A white satin cloth slid out from inside the flannel and puddled on the floor. She gasped. It had to be the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Gently she reached to touch the shimmering material, the flannel forgotten next to her. A minor zap of electricity stung her fingers and she jerked her hand back. The slight shock didn’t deter her, though. Actually, now more determined to touch the cloth, she searched for an edge so she could tell what it was. At first she thought it might be a wedding dress. It turned out to be a vintage nightgown with lace bell sleeves and a modest, lacy V-neck. Without a tag she couldn’t be sure, but she thought it had to be designer, even though she’d never seen such clothes in person.

Rising, she held it to herself. It looked to be the perfect size for her. It wasn’t too long for her five-foot, four-inch frame. She couldn’t possibly take something meant for the poor. Especially something so glorious and special as this luxurious gown. As she stroked the material the urge to put it on tugged at her. She’d never known such opulence.

Female voices floated down the basement stairs. She spun around, hiding the cloth behind her back.

Cara looked at Jesus. “It has to be the Boker sisters back for another load. If they see this they’ll take the gown, too.”

She certainly didn’t want them to get their greedy hands on something so precious. The voices were nearing the door. She frantically scanned the room. There had to be a hiding place. With only one tiny closet, which was locked, the room was just an open space meant for various activities.

No place.

The door rattled. Cara held her breath. She spun in a circle. No place to hide.

The voices got louder.

She didn’t have time to think and stuffed the gown down her jeans.

The door rattled again.

This is wrong
.

Wrong or not she couldn’t stop. The Boker sisters were greedy. They couldn’t be allowed to have the gown. She straightened her baggy blouse over the slight bulges. The door was yanked open before she could calm herself.

“I’m going to ask Pastor Paulson to have a look at that latch.” A round woman with bobbed, brown hair walked in. “I thought for a moment there we weren’t going to get it open.”

The sight of these women should’ve calmed Cara. She couldn’t unfreeze her protective stance.

The round woman spotted her and smiled. “Oh, hi Cara, sorry we‘re so late. I had a flat so we went to lunch while the tire was fixed.” Pastor Paulson’s wife, Della, studied the room. “Oh my, have you been at this all by yourself?” Entering behind Mrs. Paulson was Twyla, a tall, hawk-nosed woman with black hair.

Cara looked around, just now realizing how much she had accomplished. “Maude and Polly were here first.”

“Well that means all the good stuff is gone.” Twyla, the formidable church secretary, scowled from over Della’s shoulder.

“Now Twyla –”

“Don’t ‘Now Twyla’ me. Those two take anything worth having and don’t even wear half of it.”

“Since the Reverend talked to them they’ve brought clothes to donate.”

Twyla snorted. “Yeah, half a grocery sack and they weren’t much more than rags.”

Twyla’s daughter, Latisha, an older girl, scooted around the women to join Cara in the middle of the floor. “No use grousing about it, they’re gone. Let’s get to work.” She turned to wink at Cara. “Hi, girlfriend, how’s it shaking?”  Latisha’s bright smile usually reassured Cara. Cara couldn’t breathe.

“Hi, Latisha.” Her voice was breathy. “It’s shaking really slow.” Cara liked the taller girl, who was a couple of years older and a lot more outgoing than herself, but at this moment she would’ve given anything if they all would just go away. Why did there have to be so many people here to witness her stealing.
I’m not stealing, I’m protecting.
These women are no threat. What’s wrong with me?

Twyla softened her tone. “So, Cara, how much did they get away with?” Her attempt to look nonchalant didn’t fool the younger woman.

Cara looked at Latisha, who laughed. “Well …” She didn’t like tattling. “Their arms were full.” As she thought about it, she felt it really wasn’t tattling. It was passing along facts. “But I don’t know how many loads they took.” She tried to focus on just the facts. Besides, Twilla asked, and she was the secretary who was supposed to keep track of these kinds of things. She still felt guilty. At the moment, she wasn’t sure what she felt the most guilty about.

The gown slipped a couple of inches. She held perfectly still.

Twilla huffed and went to a pile in the far corner where she muttered to herself.

The guilt nudged Cara to tell the others about the beautiful gown. She opened her mouth.

Latisha picked up the forgotten flannel nightgown and held it up to Cara. “Hey, this would fit you nicely, why don’t you take it?”

The other women looked over and Cara’s face reddened as she remembered the satin gown that lay soft and luxurious against one leg where it now rested.
I need to tell them.