Carly (15 page)

Carly’s eyes widened. “Are you telling me that that was why my mother . . . ?”

“I’m trying to show you that it isn’t just about you and the man who is your birth father. There is so much grief wrapped
around the year 1972 in your mother’s heart that she has trouble looking back.”

“Well, it’s been taken out of her hands.” Carly’s tone had stiffened. “My father has written to me and I’m sure I will meet
him soon, with or without my mother’s permission.”

“We have allies, yes, thirty-two to be exact,” Frank replied. “But America is now the world’s leader, the only superpower
left. And our president wants to make sure that we win this war.”

“But war hasn’t been declared yet.”

“It’s just a matter of time. And I’m almost positive that both our girls will be heading to the Middle East soon.”

Nate stared at Frank, then looked across the room and met Carly’s eyes, a deep uncertainty growling to life inside him.

November 29, 1990

C
arly stood with her platoon gathered in silence around the radio in the garage. The announcer was summarizing that day’s UN
ultimatum to Saddam Hussein. The Iraqi dictator had been ordered to withdraw before January 15, 1991, or face retaliation.
Chilled inside, Carly listened stone-faced as the male members of her platoon jeered Hussein.

“It won’t be long till we show him what’s what!” whooped Mr. Smarty Sparkplug, who was really Joe from Indianapolis.

“We leave in six days,” Sergeant Haskell announced unexpectedly, looking the happiest Carly had ever seen him.

There was a stunned silence, and then all the males broke into large grins. Carly wondered if her own very different state,
one of numbness, was just plain fear or if it was the result of sleepless nights and her loss of Aunt Kitty just weeks before.
Was their contrasting eagerness for battle just a male thing?

She forced a slight smile, trying to act as if she shared her male counterparts’ enthusiasm for deployment.
So we’ve got our orders. We’re going to Saudi
. The words filled her with nauseating dread.

“You guys, get back to work, get all your assignments done, and start cleaning up. We need our vehicles in top shape to leave
the training area ready for another platoon.”

Hiding her true feelings, Carly followed Bowie back to the engine they were just about finished overhauling. Though she still
had much to master, she was amazed at how much she’d learned in just four months of training. By now she could drive every
vehicle they’d worked on and had been thoroughly trained in the basics of auto maintenance. Much of her success was due to
Bowie’s knowledge and help.

“Hey,” Sam, an African-American from Kansas City called, “Carly, can you help us a minute?”

She nodded to Bowie and then jogged over to Sam. “What do you need?”

“Can you reconnect this to the wires and secure it in the dash?” Sam handed her a shortwave radio.

“Sure.” Carly climbed up into the mammoth boxy truck, an HEMMT, and crawled up under the dash. On her back, she pulled out
the dash wires and connected them to the radio’s. Then, with a screwdriver from her pocket, she secured the radio and its
metal harness back into place. She slid out of the vehicle. “Done.”

Sam nodded his thanks.

By now, the platoon had discovered that Carly’s thinner, lithesome body could do jobs in tight places easier and her smaller
hands and slender fingers worked better for some of the more intricate tasks. Carly looked down at her hands, covered in grease
and her nails clipped as far down as possible except for the thumb and index finger of her right hand. Sometimes her fingernails
could grasp tiny things in a way no pliers could.

Usually she and Bowie worked on their own as a team, with supervision since they were still in training. But the other members
of the platoon regularly called on Carly for her specialized skills. For a moment, she felt satisfaction over this progress.
Haskell still wasn’t thrilled to have her, but he’d ceased dogging her more than anyone else.
But now we’re going to be deployed to a combat area
.

Carly rejoined Bowie, and the two of them worked side by side doing last-minute chores before putting the engine back together.
She concentrated on what her hands were doing, letting the therapy of the routine job lull her fears. The end of the day came,
and Bowie and Carly had not gotten as far as they needed to. The two stopped at Haskell’s door. “We’re going to come back
after mess and finish,” Bowie said.

Haskell nodded.

After mess, Bowie walked beside Carly back to the garage in the chill twilight. It felt as cold as Alabama in January to him,
but it wasn’t even Christmas yet. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and glanced at the pretty woman beside him. Something
was wrong. Carly had barely lifted her eyes all through mess and now she was looking down as they walked. He knew he wasn’t
all that good around women. Just ask his three sisters. But it had become obvious even to him that Carly wasn’t recovering
from her trip home, or maybe something else had upset her. Was she worried about Saudi Arabia? But should he risk asking her
or just let it ride?

Inside the garage, the engine block had been lifted back into place. Bowie and Carly started working silently together, reconnecting
everything and then checking the electrical wiring with an ohmmeter to make sure the connections were unobstructed. It was
tedious and time-consuming labor. The evening chill came on stronger and Bowie closed the massive doors. They were alone in
the low light of the vast warehouse of a garage, crowded with vehicles and parts. He glanced over at Carly. Tears were dripping
down her face.

He couldn’t ignore tears even if acknowledging them might take him into dangerous territory. “Carly, hey, what’s wrong?”

She swiped at her face with the back of her hand, smearing a little grease on her cheek. “Sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” He tightened a connection, put down the pliers, and wiped his hands on a nearby rag. He pulled out a clean
handkerchief and dabbed the grease from her cheek.

When he was done, Carly turned away from him. “Nothing.”

He hated when women did that. Something was obviously very wrong. “You’ve been upset since you got back from your family.
Are you still grievin’?” He could tell she was still crying from the way her shoulders kind of shook. He reached out and took
them in his big grimy paws. She was so delicate and yet so strong. All he wanted to do was steady her, let her know he was
concerned—though in all honesty, he’d wanted to touch her since the first time he saw her.

Without warning, she rotated within his loose grasp, drawing nearer. She looked up at him.

Close contact with her jolted him. She was just as sleek and soft as he’d imagined.
But we’re just friends
. Holding her loosely, cautiously, he waited. When she didn’t speak, he asked, “Do you want to talk about it?” He’d overheard
his sisters use this line more than once when a distraught girlfriend had come by.

Instead of speaking, Carly leaned forward and rested her head on his chest.

This launched a response inside him as big as Desert Shield. From the very first, he’d thought Carly one of the most dainty
and attractive girls he’d ever met. But they were soldiers in the army together. And he’d known from the little she’d told
him about her family that she was way out of his league. After all, her stepfather was a police detective and her mom wrote
articles for magazines and her family had a house with a name, Ivy Manor. He’d known a down-home boy like him didn’t have
a chance with someone like Carly.

But none of that mattered now as she pressed her face against him. His arms went around her but gently, so he wasn’t putting
her under any pressure. After all, she could just be using his chest as a place to cry, to let out whatever her sadness was
about. The desire to stroke her glossy blue-black hair taunted him.

“I’m frightened, Bowie,” she murmured.

“Of what?” He couldn’t resist now: he stroked her hair, shining in the low light.

“I’ve been frightened all my life.”

This sounded serious and baffling at the same time. Carly was in his platoon and his friend. He didn’t want to cross any line
with her, but the temptation to lean down and find her lips with his nearly overcame his good sense. “What are you afraid
of?” he forced himself to ask.

She gave a little shudder that was somehow sexy. “It’s hard to put into words. I . . . keep having these . . . nightmares.”

“What kind of nightmares?”

She shook her head. “They don’t make sense. There are just some things I can never forget. I just know that none of them will
make any sense until I have all the pieces.”

This made no sense to Bowie at all. But that wasn’t unusual. He never understood his sisters. Still, holding Carly like this
made him want to comfort her, to help her through this sadness. “You can trust me, Carly. I’d never tell anyone a word you
told me not to.”

“I know that.”

He stroked her head again and the roughness of his calluses caught in her hair. He felt so clumsy and big around her. But
when she moved her head as if asking him to stroke her hair again, he obliged.
So soft, like silk
. “Go da> and tell me then.”

She shook her head against his chest. “It’s too long a story.”

Then, before he knew what was happening, she had turned up her face and was looking at his lips. He was mesmerized by the
way she ran her dainty tongue over her bottom lip. And then she was on tiptoe just inches from his mouth, poised in a silent
appeal.

Where this request had come from he didn’t have a clue. But he couldn’t say no to save his life. He lifted her off her tiptoes
and pressed his mouth to hers. She reached up, wrapped her arms around his neck, and returned his kiss. A groan of satisfaction
sounded deep in his throat.

“Nice,” Sergeant Haskell said. “Very nice.”

Bowie released Carly and stumbled back from her. “It’s not what you think,” he stammered.

Haskell barked a laugh. “That’s funny. I thought you two were kissing. If you weren’t, what were you doing?”

December 1, 1990

Leigh didn’t believe her eyes. She read the brief note from her daughter again. “Mom, by the time you get this, I’ll be leaving
for Saudi. Our orders are to be airlifted in three days. Our battalion will be supplying troops and repairing vehicles. Don’t
worry. I’ll be fine.” Then Carly gave Leigh her APO address. Only a few times in her life had Leigh felt this magnitude of
shock. She recalled a time years earlier, when she had to identify a friend of a friend at a morgue. Now that same horror
drove jagged shards through her.

Without stopping to think, Leigh dialed Frank Dawson’s work number. She tapped the phone as she waited for Frank to answer.
He came on line with a brisk greeting.

“Frank, it’s me, Leigh,” she said abruptly. “Carly leaves for Saudi tomorrow. I don’t want her to go.”

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

“Frank,” Leigh repeated, “I don’t want her to go.”

“I know what you mean. Lorelle should be arriving in Saudi today.”

Leigh gasped. “Frank, no.”

“I thought Cherise had written to tell you.”

“Her letter came today.” Leigh slid down to sit beside the table. The mail was scattered there. Cherise’s distinctive lavender
stationary peeked out from underneath the electric bill. Leigh picked it up. “I hadn’t opened it. I opened Carly’s first.”

“Cherise has taken it pretty hard. It reminds her all too much of my tours in Vietnam.”

Leigh’s mind churned with images from the past: hippies burning draft cards, Chicago policemen clubbing yuppies—and her. “I
can’t believe,” she whispered, “this is happening.”

“I don’t think either of us thought our girls would enlist just in time for the next war.” Frank’s voice was harsh with emotion,
too.

“My daughter must not go to Saudi.” Shaking with resolution, Leigh spoke low in her throat, rasping almost. “I won’t have
it.”

“There isn’t much you or I can do about it. The U.S. is going to have over four hundred thousand troops in Saudi in time for
the January fifteenth deadline.”

“There must be something you can do. You can’t want Lorelle over in that awful place. They still make the women cover themselves
from head to foot. They cut off thieves’ hands!” Leigh felt her voice thinning, spiraling out of control. “They behead murderers!”

“Leigh, we didn’t choose the site for this war. Saddam Hussein did. The Saudis have allowed us, whom they view as infidels,
to set up posts in their country.”

“That’s what I mean,” Leigh declared. “I don’t want my daughter in such an awful place. It was bad enough that she enlisted,
but this. . . .” She closed her eyes.

“There’s nothing we can do but pray for their safety.” Frank’s voice blended understanding with uncompromising determination.

“I can’t accept that,” Leigh snapped. “There must be something you can do.”

“Even if I could do something, which I can’t, I wouldn’t try. Part of growing up is taking the consequences of one’s actions.
Carly and Lorelle enlisted and now war has come, and they must face it. Just like we faced ’Nam in the 1960s.”

“I don’t want my daughter in the middle of a war,” Leigh said, desperately searching for a way out, any way.

“I don’t either, but what choice do we have?” Frank’s tone was dismissive.

At last she understood the heart-stopping truth.
He isn’t going to help me
. She drew up what was left of her self-control and said a polite good-bye. She hung up the phone. And sat. She couldn’t move,
breathe. She stared at Carly’s brief note on the kitchen table. It was as if someone had settled a heavy boulder over her
lungs. She strained for each breath. Was it all going to happen again?

Her mind drifted back to 1972, to her grandfather’s funeral at Ivy Manor and then to the joint funeral for Dane and Ted that
same spring. Now this November, Kitty had passed away and had been buried near her brother, Leigh’s grandfather. Long ago,
at her stepfather and fiancé’s funeral, people had said over and over, “Deaths come in threes.” She didn’t believe in superstition,
but unbidden fear blossomed cold and dark inside her. Kitty was gone. Would Carly and Lorelle follow her in death just as
Dane and Ted had followed her grandfather? “Oh, Kitty, I need you now.”