Going Overboard (4 page)

“You guys are so uncouth,” Courtney clucked. “I swear!”

Jody looked at me and I shrugged.

The meeting was just getting started when the three of us walked through the front door. Kate had already cleared everyone's plates and was dishing up cheesecake for dessert.

“Here, let me help you,” Courtney said, coming into the kitchen. She dropped her purse on the floor and went to Kate's side like a magnet. While she made herself useful distributing plates and forks, Jody and I went to the back of the room, carefully stepping between wineglasses sitting on the floor beside the women's laps. When I settled into a spot, I looked up and saw Melanie watching me. She smiled and I instantly regretted ditching my carpool buddy. It was guilt I vaguely recognized, like spotting your parents at a high school football game but being too embarrassed to sit with them. Melanie looked lost and small, and I felt a pang of sadness for her. But I just smiled apologetically, then looked away.

Kate made her way to the front of the room while Courtney finished serving the dessert. As the Spouse Club president, Kate had to officially begin the meeting. Years ago, groups might have rapped a gavel on a table to get everyone's attention, but seeing as
how these meetings were now purely . . . I mean, somewhat . . . social, many formalities had fallen by the wayside.

Kate clapped her hands. “OK, ladies,” she said, “can I have your attention up here please?” Everyone's eyes turned toward her in front of the thick white mantel of the fireplace. It was safe to address us as “ladies” because there was only one female pilot in the squadron and her husband had opted not to be a part of the Spouse Club. He'd said he wasn't interested in glossy magazines and gossip, but we hardly noticed the insult—we were all too busy lamenting the fact he was a professional cook and should have been making us dinner.

“As you all know,” Kate said, “the men will begin the workup phase of their deployment next month, and of course, the six-month assignment will officially begin in April.”

Moans rippled across the room. Some women—including Courtney—took tissues from their purses. A wife I didn't recognize, who looked all of nineteen years old and ninety pounds, raised her hand. “Um, what are workups?” she said. “I thought my husband was only going to be away for, like, six months? How come no one told us about this workup stuff?”

Kate nodded to Margo, the Commanding Officer's wife. Generally, technical questions about the squadron's schedule are best handled by the person married to, shall we say, the horse's mouth.

Margo stepped down from her place on a bar stool near the kitchen. Because of her husband's position of authority over ours, the CO's wife is an honorary member of the Spouse Club and only serves as the group's adviser. In this way, the CO's wife is an exception to “spouses carrying no rank,” and we all moved our feet and glasses to the side as she passed through to the front of the room.

Margo was a petite woman with short, tousled hair. She was wearing a skort and a necklace with a tennis racket pendant. I leaned over and whispered in Jody's ear, “Gosh, she looks great for
her age.” Honestly, I didn't know what “her age” was. It just seemed like a good thing to say—like something my mom would have said at a Spouse Club meeting.

Looking sincerely—almost maternally—at the group, Margo began her spiel: “Workups are a necessary part of training,” she said. “Before the crew leaves for the official deployment, they need these workups to prepare. The squadron will be going on several detachments, of two or three weeks, with maybe a week in between. However, it will feel like these separations are back-to-back, so you might as well keep your husband's seabag packed.”

Margo laughed at herself, but no one took her lead, so she cleared her throat and said, “Anyway!” Then she took a deep breath and surveyed the room. She seemed to be choosing her words carefully now. “We've gotten word that the first workup will happen earlier than originally planned. The squadron will be leaving one week from tomorrow. They will be gone for two weeks.”

The room was so quiet, you could hear Jody's fork noisily scraping her dessert plate. Courtney sniffled. If it weren't for the warm, soothing sensation the beer had made in my stomach, I might have started crying, too.

The fact that the men were leaving for a workup wasn't the alarming part; we all knew workups would begin sometime before the deployment. Rather, it was the suddenness of it, coupled with recent reports of tension rising in the Middle East. In the back of our minds, we all knew Margo's announcement was far from “routine,” even though she tried her darnedest to make it appear that way.

“I know this is upsetting news,” Margo said. “We all thought we had at least another month before it all began. But things like this happen sometimes. We, as spouses and our husbands' support system, need to remember to be flexible and patient.”

Leslie, who was eight months pregnant, raised her hand. “I
don't understand!” Her voice was shaking but determined, almost angry. “What about my baby? I'm due in a few weeks! How can they just change the schedule like that?”

“I know. I know.” Margo put her hands up defensively in front of her. “Keep in mind that neither your spouse nor mine has control over the Navy's schedule. Nobody could have seen this coming.”

“I don't mean to sound selfish here,” Leslie said. “It's just that, well . . . a baby! What will I do? Will they send my husband home?”

Margo shook her head slowly, yet seemed afraid or unwilling to say the word no aloud.

All at once women talked out of turn, speaking louder and faster than the person next to them. Margo, looking resigned, put her hands in the pockets of her denim skort. Her sculpted brown arms were set off by her maple hair, and although her cheeks were flushing with frustration—fear? anger? embarrassment?—she nodded sympathetically at everyone who was trying to ask questions. Her style was one of casual elegance, very East Coast. I imagined her, like myself, growing up on the Chesapeake Bay. But the first time I met Margo's husband (Dustin's boss), I was shocked by his coarse Texas accent and his tendency to say things like, “Well, Say-rah, your Dustin is a fine lad, Ah tell you.” He and Margo were a complete mismatch and just then, as the room lost control and Margo struggled to speak, I found myself wondering what their sex life must be like.

“Wait a minute! Everyone calm down,” Margo said. “Let me say one more thing.” The room quieted to a few murmurs here and there and Margo continued, straining her feathery voice to be heard.

“I know many of you saw the news coverage of a helicopter crash last night. I got a lot of calls from anxious wives, so I want to reiterate here tonight that if, God forbid, there is an accident
with one of our men, you all will be officially notified before you hear it on the news. I cannot stress this enough. If a plane goes down and it's one of ours, the wife of the downed pilot will be notified in person, and the rest of the Spouse Club will be notified via the phone tree. On that note, raise your hand if you need to update your emergency information.”

We glanced around the room at one another, but no one raised a hand. We were too busy swallowing the words “downed pilot.”

“Emergency forms” are a grim part of Spouse Club life. They go along with the general theme of so many aspects of the military: Necessary Evil. The questions seem nonthreatening enough—“Emergency contact not related to you,” “Who has a key to your home?” “Who has permission to pick up your kids at school?”—but it is the obvious implication of the form that makes you want to go back out to the van for another beer.

“Anyway,” Margo said, “I'm going to pass this sheet around and I want everyone to list their current information—address, phone number, e-mail—anything we might need to get in touch with you during an emergency. And if you need to update your emergency form, please pick one up before leaving tonight.”

Kate stepped forward again, visibly shaken, with splotches of red creeping up the fair skin of her neck. Obviously Margo hadn't forewarned her about the news.

“For those of you who, like me, are feeling a little anxious about this upcoming deployment,” she said, “I've invited Brenda Crawford from Fleet and Family Support to talk to us about what to expect. Mrs. Crawford will be able to answer your questions about dealing with stress and the different emotions we're all feeling.”

Kate turned and nodded at a heavyset woman with short salt-and-pepper hair. There was a flutter of light applause as the woman rose from a chair and made her way through the maze of
laps and wineglasses. Her polyester skirt and panty hose brushed against each other and made a terrible scratching sound.

At the fireplace, the two women shook hands; then Kate sat down on the arm of an overstuffed leather chair. There was an awkward moment as the woman riffled through a stack of handouts, her breath audible and strained; then she cleared her throat and began.

“First, I want to thank you for having me here tonight. I'm sure you all have questions, but before we get to that, I want to pass out a brochure with important phone numbers and information about Fleet and Family Support's counseling services—”

I couldn't help it—my mind began to wander. I thought about how weird it was to be sitting there in the role of “wife.” Growing up I had gone to countless Wives Club meetings with my mom. Each Club has its own set of rules, and Mom always lobbied that children be allowed at meetings. She was pretty adamant about that, mostly because of my unhealthy, yet unwavering, attachment to her. While the other kids ransacked the hostess's playroom and snuck forbidden sweets past the meeting room, snickering and giggling as they went, I stayed next to Mom, hiding my face behind her arm.

“Keep this information in a safe place,” Mrs. Crawford was saying when Jody handed me a stack of papers. I took one and passed the rest to my right. When I looked up, I saw Courtney sitting at Kate's feet, a pen and a notebook poised in her hand. Her back was erect and she was nodding enthusiastically at the speaker. I was dying to see what she would write in that notebook.

Next to Courtney, sitting cross-legged on the floor, was Sasha. Although Sasha was much older than most of the group (who averaged approximately twenty-eight), she dressed like a teenager. Her flat chest and waiflike figure lent themselves nicely to the spaghetti-strap-shirt-and-capri-pants outfit that was her signature style. Her pixie haircut was usually disheveled or spiked, and
she carried a backpack instead of a purse. The thing that irritated me most about Sasha though was that she always walked into a room talking and didn't shut up until she left. Her silence at the meeting that night was like something “off” that everyone probably felt but couldn't put their finger on.

“Are you listening to this?” Jody whispered at me.

I looked back at Mrs. Crawford. She had her hands clasped in a triangle in front of her heavy bosom, reminding me of my old college professor who held his hands together like a tepee and pressed his lips to the tips of his fingers when he was thinking.

“Many of you are in stage one, or predeployment,” Mrs. Crawford said. “This might explain your increased nerves and agitation. You are on the cusp of a typical emotional cycle, which mirrors patterns of grief. Right now you might feel distant from your spouse. You might even be fighting more than usual. This is all part of the process of separation. Subconsciously you know it will be easier for your spouse to leave if you are mad at him.”

Hmmpf!

Mrs. Crawford clearly had it all wrong. I wondered if she was ever even in the military, because obviously she was missing a critical point: I wasn't mad at Dustin to protect myself emotionally. This wasn't some sort of psychological game. Oh, no, it was much worse than that. I was truly so mad I could spit! He was about to abandon me again—this time with
two
small children—and I worried I might never get over it. I knew when Dustin left, I would only have two options: either fall apart or grow up . . . possibly without him.

2
THAT'S ILLEGAL OR SOMETHING, ISN'T IT?

A
few nights later, Dustin and I invited Jody and Steve and Courtney and her husband, Derek, over for dinner. It would be our last hurrah together before we separated into our individual families, like bears hibernating before the first winter storm. Typically, just before the squadron leaves, husbands and wives become somewhat reclusive as they try to “make the most” of the time they have left. It's not unusual for military wives to take leave from work, stop taking phone calls, and put every other aspect of their normal lives on hold while they wait for the big good-bye. For instance, someone might use this time as an excuse to quit doing laundry or making dinner . . . not that I would know much about that or anything.

Usually, though, this sort of behavior comes right before the deployment, not a detachment, and the fact that we were already falling into predeployment mode further intensified everyone's fears that something was different this time.

We had arranged for a babysitter at Jody's house and left all the children there. Then the six of us gathered for fondue and
game night in my small living room, which seemed claustrophobic with more than two people in it. The three men, with their broad shoulders and long feet, awkwardly filled up the space and made me feel guilty for not having more furniture for everyone to sit on. Tanner skittered among the laps filled with plates of cheese fondue, sniffing at the air and whimpering. She begged not for pats on the head (she was never an overaffectionate dog), but for a scrap of pita bread or a bit of apple.

We were playing our favorite group game, which has no name because we totally made it up. Basically, someone asks another person a question, and once they answer, the asker must decide whether it is a “truth” or “lie.” The person who detects the most lies wins.

It's a great game, but it should be played with caution, because without mentioning any names (Courtney), I know some people use it as an opportunity to find answers to their most bothersome queries: Which of my friends does my husband think is the most attractive? If I died, who would he date? Which part of my body does my husband like the least?

Why do women ask these questions? We want to know the answer about as badly as we want a nail through the eyeball. But more troublesome than that, why do our husbands actually answer them?

Courtney opened the first Pandora's box and threw it squarely at her husband: “Derek, if you could pick anyone besides me to be your wife, who would it be?”

Derek was too far into the gin and tonics to be tactful. He raised his eyebrows, wrinkling the pinkish skin just below his receding hairline, and said without hesitation, “Carmen Electra. Dude, she's hot!”

Courtney's mouth flew open. “But I don't look anything like Carmen Electra,” she cried. She was sitting on the floor with her legs tucked beneath her.

Derek looked at Dustin and Steve and smiled. “Exactly!”

“So it's a truth then,” Courtney said.

“Heck, yeah, absolutely,” Derek said.

Like winged fairy godmothers, Jody and I fluttered to Courtney's aid: “He doesn't mean it,” I said. And Jody added, “It wouldn't be a fantasy if it was someone just like you.”

But Courtney recovered quickly and simply said with a wave of her hand, “You don't even understand the game, Derek!”

“What do you mean?” He smiled again at Dustin and Steve for backup. “You asked me a question, and I answered and then you guessed it was a truth.”

“That
is
how we play the game,” Dustin agreed, smirking at us women.

Courtney groaned. “Mental Lilliputians, I swear!”

Jody and I looked at each other; her eyebrows were creased and questioning. “It must mean something like cavemen,” I said, shrugging.

Next it was Derek's turn to ask the question. He cleared his throat and puffed up his chest, drawing attention to the yellow-orange hair visible through the open top button of his Hawaiian-print shirt. “This one's for Sarah,” he said.

He was grinning, and that made me nervous, so I grabbed a handful of pretzels from the plastic snack tray in front of me and stuffed them in my mouth.

“If you weren't married to Dustin, who would you be hot for?” Derek asked.

“You mean, ‘in love with,' ” Courtney corrected him.

Derek scratched at the bald spot on the back of his head. “Yeah, that's what I said: Who would she be hot for?”

Courtney rolled her eyes.

I thoroughly chewed and swallowed the mouthful of pretzels, trying to delay.

Gulp!

“Oh, come on,” Derek shouted. “We don't have all night!”

I laughed anxiously. I was never good at bluffing in this game. The others could always tell by the smirk on my face or the way the corners of my mouth quivered that I was telling a lie, not a truth.

“But there's no one except Dustin,” I said sheepishly.

“Answer the question,” they all yelled.

I sighed. “OK, well, I guess it would be my . . . gynecologist.”

Steve and Derek nearly fell over with laughter. “No way,” Derek cried. “That's the best thing I've ever heard!”

But Dustin just stared at me. His honey-colored eyes never blinked.

“Now wait a minute,” I said. “No one has guessed whether mine is a lie or a truth.”

“Oh, that's got to be a truth,” Steve said.

“Well, yeah, kind of.” I put more pretzels in my mouth.

“Dr. Ashley?” Dustin said. “The one I know?”

I talked with my mouth full: “Yeah, he's really cute . . . and nice . . . and sensitive.”

“That's because he's your doctor!” Derek said. “He's
supposed
to be nice and sensitive.”

“It's like waitresses,” Steve said. “They're always nice—even the hot ones—because they want a big tip. It's their job.”

Jody put out a hand to hush everyone. “Hey, we didn't pick apart anyone else's answer. Remember the rules: no questions asked.”

“But her doctor?” Derek said again. “I mean, that's like illegal or something, isn't it?”

“She didn't say she was having an affair with him,” Courtney said. “She said he's cute, that's all. Trust me, we've all heard about Cute Doctor. Sarah's always had this, shall I say,
improvident
sort of crush on him.”

I looked at Jody and said, “It means irresponsible. An irresponsible crush.”

Dustin was still staring at me and not smiling or blinking. His
bottom jaw was thrust outward, the way it always is when he's thinking, which made the square shape of his head seem even more rugged and hard. The lines that usually frame his mouth like parentheses were smoothed out and invisible.

I shrugged and tried not to look at him. “It's not a big deal.”

Jody got up for another beer and called over her shoulder, “OK, Sarah's turn to ask now.”

Steve had been quiet, and I don't know who elected me conversation police, but I always find myself worrying about anyone who isn't talking in a group.

“All right,” I said, “this one's for Steve.”

I felt pleased and somehow responsible for the way Steve unfolded his legs and leaned back on his wide hands. Generally, the men dreaded our questions because ours were more thought-provoking and potentially dangerous than theirs.

“Go for it,” Steve said.

“OK, if Jody could be in any profession, what do you guess it would be?”

Steve rubbed his prickly chin, and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. In this game, though, you can't stall too long or everyone will know you're constructing a lie, so very quickly afterward he said, “She's always wanted to be a policewoman, actually.”

“Really?” Courtney and I said together. “Like with an actual gun?” Courtney added.

“That's got to be a lie,” I said, then looking at Jody: “Isn't it?”

She was blushing and pulled at her taut ponytail. “No, he's telling a truth,” she said. “It's something I've always thought about, once the kids are older, maybe.”

Derek slapped his knee. “Dude, I think that's like the coolest thing I've ever heard . . . next to Sarah having the hots for her doctor.”

Courtney threw a balled-up cocktail napkin at him and it hit him in the forehead.

Frankly, however, all this talk of Jody having a desire to carry a gun made me uncomfortable. It was as unsettling as looking at my mom's high school yearbook, or hearing stories about my dad's childhood girlfriend. These things simply aren't supposed to happen. Well, they can happen, of course, but I'm not supposed to know about them. Jody was always just—Well, she was just “Jody.” The idea of her having a life outside of what I knew about her was shocking.

I stuffed more pretzels in my mouth.

“All right, Dustin,” Steve said. “Your turn to answer: Did you know that your wife has the hots for her doctor?”

“Yes,” Dustin said without hesitation, and Derek yelled, “No way, man! That's such a lie! Did you see the look on his face when she said it? There's no way he knew!”

“Yep, got to be a lie,” they all said.

I didn't guess.

“Dude, I hope it's a lie,” Derek said. “Or else, why do you let her go to him?”

“So is it true or not?” Steve said to Dustin. “Did you really know?”

Dustin looked straight at me. “No, it's a lie.”

The next few days passed quickly, like the last days of summer vacation when you're a kid. Dustin and I had recovered from the fight about the checkbook and “the laundry incident” (as we were calling it now), but everything seemed raw and unstable, as if we could slip and begin fighting again at any minute. He never mentioned Dr. Ashley. And I didn't either.

It was as if we were in a slow march to the inevitable: the day he would leave. True, he was only leaving for two weeks at this point, but once the workup phase begins, it's a fast unraveling to deployment: The squadron is home two weeks, gone for three; home one weekend, gone for two.

In some ways, this home-again-gone-again schedule is even worse than the actual deployment. Just when you get into a routine and are comfortable with the idea of your husband being away, he comes back. But only for the week. The day when the ship leaves for good, not to return for at least six months, is awful, but the process beforehand—the training and workups—feels like pulling off a Band-Aid one agonizing millimeter at a time. Wives begin to think, “I wish he would just leave and get it over with.” They're eager to rip the Band-Aid off in one daring pull. But these thoughts inevitably turn into guilt, in that ominous becareful-what-you-wish-for sort of way.

Dustin and I had been avoiding the D word (deployment) all week. I guess our reasoning was “If we don't talk about it, it doesn't exist.” Or maybe that was just Dustin's reasoning, because the real reason I never brought it up was simply that I expected Dustin to read my mind and bring it up first. This dangerous mental game of chicken is the only sport I play and excel at, which irritates Dustin endlessly. “You always beat me to the punch,” he'll say. “First you tell me what you want for your birthday, and then you're sad I didn't buy something else. Why don't you just trust me to pick out something on my own?”

The day I finally spilled the D word, we were waiting in the lobby at the base legal clinic. Drawing up wills was something that needed to be done, and Dustin, being the responsible person he is, wanted to take care of it now, rather than later . . . just in case.

The waiting room was like most military facilities—fluorescent lights overhead (some functioning, some merely flickering greenish-yellow light), metal chairs covered with plastic that was cracking, and a large triangular sign glued to the beige cement that read
FALLOUT SHELTER
.

I was flipping through an outdated issue of
AARP
magazine while Dustin watched the news on a boxy television set hanging from the ceiling. Words like “Iraq” and “war” and “troops” echoed
from the news anchor's tiresome voice and filled up the room like a fog. Owen was asleep in the baby carrier on the floor, and I was rocking him with my foot. Ford played with a red-and-yellow plastic toy kitchen, which, by the looks of its white-turned-gray pots and pans, seemed like it had been around since the Gulf War. Every child on base had probably played with that kitchen while their parents waited to make wills.