While He Was Away (15 page)

Wait for him.
Wait
for
him.

And suddenly there he is, breathtakingly recognizable but different too, flattened across my computer screen. And paler than he’s ever been, than he ever could be, like the harsh Iraqi sun has bleached out his skin. I know probably the reverse has happened, of course. It must be my monitor, ghosting him up like this. He’s beautiful and spooky, all at the same time.

He leans closer to his computer, as if this will bring him closer to me, and in the little box in the bottom corner that shows me, I glimpse my look of surprise. David’s movements aren’t fluid, as I know they would be if I were sitting right in front of him, because David is always graceful. His body stutters and freezes and skips. The video transmission is out of synch.

But still, there are his features that I’ve been trying so hard to draw. His straight eyebrows, his brown eyes, full lips, strong jaw.

“It’s so good to
see
you,” I say.

There’s a beat, two beats, three, and still his expression hasn’t changed. Then that crazy, crooked grin breaks across his face as he finally hears what I just said.

“That’s a major understatement,” he says.

I laugh. “Can you do better?”

Again that weird delay. But now he laughs too. “I don’t think so. Not in words. But watch this. Just watch.”

He lifts his hand, the one with the ring tattoo, which looks to have healed nicely. He puts his fingers to his computer screen, nearly blocking my view of him. I start to tell him this when I realize what he’s doing. He’s tracing my face with his fingers—my cheeks, nose, lips, chin, neck. He’s touching me the only way he can, slowly, tenderly, until I feel my skin tingling where his hand has just been.

With a weird, stuttering motion, he lowers his hand. “There. Did you see what I said?”

I lick my lips, which have gone dry. I nod. “A picture is worth a thousand words.”

When he hears this, he moves his head in a Skypey nod. “Exactly.”

So I trace him too, hoping my hands remember every angle and curve of his features when I sit down the next time to draw his portrait.

“So tell me,” David says then.

“What?”

“Anything.”

I tell him about the frozen honey hands waiting for his return. I fill him in on Red Earth. The letters I sent out to Justine. Late-night eggs and chamomile tea with Linda. The birds outside my window in the honey locust this morning.

I don’t tell him about Ravi. There’s no time for Ravi.

As I talk, guys pass back and forth behind David. Moving in the background like that, their figures break apart and blur. I catch the flash of a muscled arm, the butt of a rifle. Some of the guys call out to David. “O’Dell. Hurry it up. You see the line back here?”

There is a line. I see it snaking darkly in the farthest corner of the room. Maybe they’re standing at such a distance to give David some privacy. To be honest, I can’t tell how much privacy David has. He keeps glancing up to his left. He appears to be making eye contact with someone there. An officer, maybe? A censor?

“Where are you?” I ask.

David isn’t listening to me. He’s listening to whoever is standing up to his left. He nods at that person, whoever it is, then turns back to me. His mouth is set in a hard, firm line, but his eyes look troubled.

“We only have about five more minutes left, Penna. Then I’ve got to log off. It’s someone else’s turn.”

My heart drops. “Did you get to Skype your mom and dad?” I manage to keep my voice steady.

“Just got off with them. Good talk. When Mom wasn’t crying and Dad wasn’t making stupid jokes in an effort to keep her from crying. Maybe you could give them a call?”

“I will. I promise.” Desperate, I grip the edge of my desk. “It’s your turn now, David. Tell me something.”

“‘Something,’” he says.

I stare at his face on the screen.

He blinks, waits, looks surprised when I still don’t respond. “Don’t you remember? Our last night, riding on the scooter? I said that exact thing.
Something.
It made you laugh.”

“Did it?” I remember kissing his neck, that’s all. “I need to go back to the viaduct with you,” I say.

“Do it. Don’t wait for me.”

David swallows hard; I watch the muscles in his throat moving. His beautiful throat.

“Take a picture and send it to me, okay?”

“Okay.”
Breathe
in. Breathe out.
“Now, could you
please
tell me how you’re doing? Have you been drawing much?”

“Not really. Let’s see.” He furrows his brow. “We managed to get enough guys together to play a decent game of baseball. And oh yeah, the most important thing. We’ve been doing a lot of target practice. Guess I’m pretty good. Sniper good, the other bums here say. Oh! And one other thing—the
most
, most important thing.” He turns his head in that herky-jerky way, and his eyes widen in surprise. “Hey, no way. A-holes!”

Again that little picture of me looks surprised. I’ve never heard David say that word before. Usually he’s less predictable when he’s laying into someone. More creative.

That’s what I’m thinking when two big guys appear from the edges of the screen and jump on David. One grabs him in a headlock. The other rubs his knuckles hard across David’s scalp.

“Hey! Stop! I’m talking to my girlfriend here!” David yells.

From above, in that corner that held his attention before, I hear someone yelling, “Get lost!” And then there’s a scuffle of bodies I can’t make out—shadows and shapes all gathered around David, who’s completely hidden from me now. There’s pushing and pulling, shoving and kicking. There’s yelling, cursing—David’s voice again, swearing a blue streak—and laughter.

As quickly as they appeared, the shadows and shapes dissipate. Someone shouts from the background, “She’s got you pussy-whipped, O’Dell.” Someone else shouts, “Leave him alone, why don’t you?” And someone else shouts on top of this, “
All
of you! Shut up! I can’t hear myself think!” And then from the left corner, loud and clear: “You’ve all lost your Skype privileges for today. All of you. Get ready for inspection.
Now
.”

David looks at me, and I can’t read his expression at all.

“Gotta go.” He touches the screen again, where my lips must be. “Smile.”

I try.

“Love you,” David says.

“Love you too.” I reach for him, touch the screen. “But you didn’t get to tell me the
most
, most important thing!”

David shakes his head. “Can’t now. Gotta hustle. I’ll write you.”

He logs off.

I log off too.

I sit there for a moment, feeling all mixed up. Happy. Sad. Scared. I look up at the photo of Justine.

I go into the kitchen then and dial the phone number that I found listed for Justine Delmore in Yellow Rock, South Dakota. The phone rings. And rings. Five rings. Maybe she sleeps late too. Maybe she’s moved on yet again.

But then there’s the click of a phone being lifted from its cradle.

“Hello?”

The woman’s voice is high and reedy. The word hangs in the air between us, suspended on a line that stretches like those train tracks from this little gray house to those jagged yellow cliffs.

“Justine?” I say breathlessly. “Is this Justine Delmore?”

The woman tells me that no, Justine Delmore doesn’t live here anymore. Justine moved back to her hometown a little while ago. Maybe a month. Maybe two. Maybe more. The woman’s not sure. “Time isn’t the same when you’re my age,” she says.

I sit down hard on the kitchen chair.

Justine lives in Killdeer now too.

“Who is this?” the woman asks then, suddenly suspicious. “Is this a scam? You aren’t one of those identity-theft people, are you?”

I shake my head no. It takes a few moments for me to actually say the word. And then I tell the woman thank you. Thank you so much. I can’t tell her how grateful I am.

I go into the kitchen, take out the local phone book, and look up Justine Delmore. She’s not listed.

But she’s here.

•••

I’m still sitting at the kitchen table when Linda strides in, freshly showered and toweling her hair. She’s wearing her favorite robe. It’s white terry cloth. Even feeling so mixed up inside, I realize that it’s a relief to see Linda in something other than that black uniform. Something other than boss clothes.

“Lawd have mercy,” Linda says, using her poor excuse for a drawl. She steadies herself against the counter, making a show of surprise. “She’s emerged from her den.” Linda grins. “Doing some schoolwork? Portfolio stuff? Hope so.” She looks over my shoulder.

She frowns.

For the last half hour or so, ever since the phone call to Yellow Rock, and my failed effort to locate Justine’s address and phone number, I’ve been drawing David and Justine. One after another, I draw them. I have five Davids now, and I’m working on my fifth Justine. I’m working quickly, spontaneously, drawing David here and in Iraq, Justine here and in Yellow Rock.

Some of the drawings are as realistic as I can make them. (David sprinting toward the viaduct wall and riding on his scooter; Justine brushing her hair and standing on the porch of this very house.) Others are the best I can imagine. (David in camouflage playing baseball with his buddies; Justine and someone I’ll call Owen sitting in the cockpit of a plaster airplane.) They’re rough sketches, sure, but still these are the best things I’ve drawn all summer.

“You’re obsessed,” Linda says.

“I got them right,” I say. “You’ve got to admit that.”

The coffeemaker spews out its last drips and fills the pot. Linda flings herself at it and pours a cupful.

“We have just over a year before you go away to college. We have time for just you and me. We could have a better time than we’ve ever had before.” She takes a steamy glug of coffee.

“Now that David’s gone. And as long as I keep Justine out of the picture.” I flatten the eraser ball against the table. It’s a little pancake now.

“I’m not talking about David here, Penelope. I understand about David. Don’t give me that look. I
do
.” Linda gives me her own version of my look back. “I
am
talking about
her
, though. I don’t want to even think about her, let alone see her—pictures of her, just lying around in plain sight.” Linda shudders, sloshing coffee onto the floor.

“You’re living in her house,” I say.

Linda swipes her foot across the spilled coffee, mopping it up with her sock, and then takes another sip. “It doesn’t
matter
whose house it was. I will
not
be haunted by your imagination.”

“You’re haunted by your mother. Who lives right here. In Killdeer.”

I didn’t expect to tell Linda so soon. But there. I have. It’s a rush, the relief I feel. So why not say this too?

“I’m going to see her,” I say.

Linda is shaking her head so hard that the coffee is sloshing all over the place now. On her hand. Her favorite robe. The counter and, of course, the floor. But she doesn’t seem to notice. Fiercely she says, “That woman would never come back here.”

“But she has.” And I tell Linda how I tracked Justine down, how I learned of Justine’s return. “I’d think you’d be a little happy,” I say. “I mean, now we’re not the only family we’ve got.”

“With family like her, who needs enemies?” Linda slams her dripping coffee cup on the counter and walks purposefully past me. At the kitchen door, though, she hesitates. She grips the door for support as she looks back at me, wrinkles furrowing her brow.

“I don’t want to have anything to do with this, Penelope. Keep me out of it. And you’d better be ready for work this afternoon when I come to pick you up.”

Then she walks down the hall past all the pictures of just the two of us. She goes into her bedroom and closes the door. No doubt she’s putting on her black uniform now, like every other morning, like nothing will ever change.

I want another mother. I want another home—a place as familiar as the life and love lines in my palms and David’s. I want David.

I’ll settle for his house.

And Bonnie.

I get dressed and get on my bike.

When I bank into David’s driveway, I screech on the brakes so fast that I nearly go headfirst over my handlebars. The pink impatiens I helped him plant last spring need weeding. The bird feeder he always kept filled stands empty now. Our names, scratched into the sidewalk last fall when the concrete was just poured, are caked with red clay.

For some reason, all this makes me want to turn right around and bolt. But before I can, Bonnie appears at the front door. I can see her mouth moving behind the glass—“Penna!” Then she opens the door and her arms, and comes toward me, her spiky blond hair shining in the sun.