Fighter's Return

“Calling all dreamers, and optimistic fools…”1

That’s me, an optimistic fool. I keep hoping, believing, that things will get better. I miss my husband; there’s an empty, achy place where he should be. He’s not dead, I don’ think. They haven’t come for me, anyway. No men in dress uniform, all spit and polish, somber expressions and sympathy plastered on their faces, hating the necessity of their own presence, gritting their teeth in anticipation of hysterics. No chaplain ready to comfort me with godly words and a pat on the shoulder. I am lucky in that, I suppose.2

“Don’t let go of your dream…make it now, make it all come true…”3

I am singing at the top of my lungs, holding tight to the hope I may see him soon. The war can’t go on forever, can it? Not forever, only a lifetime of moments. Some days, I even have an hour or two that are free from fear. Then I’ll see the sympathy squad, and my guts tighten. Are they coming for me? I almost weep when they pass by, turn into a neighbor’s house. We have base housing, Riley and I. It seemed easier, at the time, to take to offered place rather than go through the nightmare of real estate. Now, I am not so certain. I have to see those damned cars every day. Every day, someone nearby is finding out that they’ve lost a husband. In towns all over the country, these tight faced men of honor, men of god, find families and shatter them.
“Mr. Smith, I’m so sorry, but your son…”
“Mrs. Wilson, I am so sorry, your husband…”
Followed by screams, tears, denial. Sometimes violence. I shouldn’t hate these men. It’s not their fault. It’s an honor, usually; a grim honor. I wonder how they feel, knowing they strike fear into the hearts of so many; not for their weapons, or prowess in battle, but for the news they bear.4

“If you believe in a brighter day…I know we can find our way…”5

I do believe. I do. I do. I do. It’s a mantra. I believe in a brighter tomorrow. When I married Riley, I believed that we would have a life together. I believed in a bright future. How he shone in his uniform, beret perched jaunty on his head. Goddess bless me, but my heart nearly stopped when I saw him, waiting there beneath the arbor. His smile, his tears, they have never left me; even after six years and two kids, I love him so strong, it almost hurts. Some nights, I dream he’s next to me, holding me. When I wake up alone, it’s a surprise. A few nights ago, I dreamed he was fishing with his grandfather. I was a bass beneath the water, watching this little boy/soldier hold his pole, and I wished he’d catch me. He never cast, though, and then he was gone. His grandfather looked right at me, gave me a sad little smile and shook his head. I woke up cold.6

“To this island…in the starry ocean…poetry in motion…this island Earth…”7

I am cleaning the house, top to bottom. Riley used to tease me about that. I don’t clean often, but when I do…I am thorough. I put on my iPod, turn up the volume, and go. The kids are at my mother’s for the day. She has a pool. To five year old kids, that trumps housekeeping any day. I think about this war, when I am alone. How can I help it? I wonder if there is any life untouched. I don’t think about the politics. My thoughts concern something nearer to me, something more visceral than politics, religion, anger. I think about my husband, off in the desert, a target fighting for something ephemeral. In the end, for we two, it isn’t oil. It isn’t religion or politics. It isn’t anything so easy to pin down. It’s honor. It’s freedom. It’s…why am I thinking about it, anyway? He’s a soldier. I’m his wife. We share this planet with our fellow humans and hope for a peaceful tomorrow. After all, it’s the only island we have in the sea of stars. I am missing him more, today, and I wonder why.8

“…if you’re looking for a miracle, open your eyes…there was one this morning, just about sunrise…dawn came breaking like a wave on the sea…it’s there for you and me…”9

I am all sweaty, and I itch. I should dust more often. I hear someone at the door. Maybe Mel. Her husband is in the same unit as Riley. We drink tea and commiserate. Her daughter is the same age as our twins, and they tumble about in the grass while we chat. When I see the sedans cruising the street, looking for the next target for devastation, I fear for her almost as much as myself. I am smiling as I answer the door, but it isn’t Mel.10

I shut the door before the soldier can open his mouth to speak. I turn and lean against it. I am shaking, suddenly cold. Blessed mother, no, no, no… I reach down, turn off the music, remove the earphones. My hands shake. No, no, no. Uh-uh. If I don’t open the door, they can’t say it, and Riley is alive. I close my eyes. Goddess, please, please, no, no, no. There’s a queer sort of rushing, pounding noise in my head, and my sight is focused to a pinpoint. I breathe. In. Out. In. I unclench my body. The pounding noise resolves itself into a knocking on the door. They are persistent. They have to be; they can’t leave until they fulfill their duty. I have a thought. If I never answer the door, will they stand there until they grow old? No. More likely, they’ll send for a doctor, sneak him in through the back, offer tranquilizers. I turn and open the door again.11

The soldier stands straight and tall. I look behind him, for the chaplain, but there’s no one. Only one? I hear a shriek from next door. Mel. I turn and see her, standing in her door, clinging to the man on her stoop. She is shaking, crying, smiling. Smiling? I turn back to my own unwelcome guest, step aside, gesture for him to come in. It’s summertime – he must be hot. He tries to say something, but I hold up my hand. Not yet. First, iced tea. I pour it with a steady hand, garnish it with a lemon slice. It’s sweet tea, southern style. Riley always sips and sighs when he drinks it. I learned to make it for him; we never had it when I was a child in the north.12

I hand the man the glass. He is smart enough to take it, to sip and smile politely. Hostess ritual over, I nod. Now.13

“Ma’am, Mrs. Collins…” He pauses. Goddess, give me strength. “Ma’am, I regret to inform you that your husband, Lieutenant Riley Collins, was injured when his convoy was attacked during a routine patrol. He was seriously injured, but he will recover. Ma’am, your husband is coming home. His injuries, while not fatal, were serious….” He goes on, but I am not listening. Riley was injured, and he’s coming home. Something inside of me is singing. Injured, but alive, and returning to me. The man is saying something about transportation, an escort to the hospital when Riley comes home, rehabilitation. I nod, inattentive. I need to see Mel. I need to hold her, comfort her, find out if Dan is coming home, too. I need to call my mother, see if she can keep the boys for the night. I don’t want to tell them, want time to settle my nerves, to think. There is no future beyond this moment, nothing beyond this truth; Riley is coming home.14

I walk the man to the door. I never even caught his name, although I am sure he gave it. I thank him, my voice distant, and walk over to Mel’s. She is sitting on her top step, still crying, still smiling.
“Dan’s coming home. Riley?”
“Yes. How’s Dan?”
”They didn’t say anything but injured, but I guess it’s something pretty big, to bring him back here.”
“Mmm. We’ll go together.”
“Thank you.” I sit next to her, and we hold hands and watch the day drift into dusk, suspended in our surreal moment. 15

Somewhere in a foreign land, where shifting sand defies maps, defies footing, defies reason, our husbands bled and nearly died. Somewhere in that dry, hot, sandy place, strangers saved our two while others slipped from life nearby. We feel the heat ease around us, watch fireflies dance in the gloaming, and weep softly for sorrow, for joy. It is a ritual as old as war. Men fight; women weep and wait, rejoice or mourn, become a part of the timeless hope and fear. Our men are returning.16

“Calling all dreamers, and optimistic fools…”17

That’s me, an optimistic fool. Things will be better. They will. Riley is coming home.
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