aboard, ma’am.”
“I see you’ve been briefed about me,” she said, indicating his notes from the PAO.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What a surprise. Everyone on this ship has. I swear, the U.S. Navy knows more about me than my own mother. My blood type, shoe size, visual acuity, sophomore-year biology grade—”
“Standard procedure, ma’am.” Even in lipstick and nylon stockings, the media held no appeal to the military. Still, he respected the way she stood her ground, especially while wearing three-inch heels. Civilians were advised on practical shipboard attire, but apparently no one had wanted Francine to change her shoes.
A tremendous whoosh, followed by a loud thump, rocked the ship. She staggered a little, and he put out a hand to steady her.
“Tell me I’ll get used to that,” she said.
“You’d better. We’re launching and recovering planes around the clock, day and night. It’s not going to stop.” He slid open a desk drawer and took out a sealed plastic package. “Take these. I always keep plenty on hand.”
“Earplugs?” She slipped the package into her briefcase. “Thanks.”
He motioned her to a chair and she sat down, setting aside her bag. She took out a palm-size digital recorder, then swept the small space with a glance that shifted like a radar, homing in on the few personal items in evidence. “You have a beautiful family.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I think so.”
“How old are your children?”
“Brian and Emma are twins. They’re seniors this year. Katie’s in ninth grade. And that’s Grace, my wife.” A world of pain and hope underlay his words, but he prayed the reporter wouldn’t notice. Every day he looked at that picture and tried to figure out what would fix this. He’d never deceived his wife before, so he didn’t know how to undo the damage he’d caused. An ordinary husband would go home, take her out to dinner and say, “Look, honey. The truth is…” But Bennett couldn’t do that from the middle of the ocean.
And sometimes he wondered if he even wanted to, damn it. He’d done his best to keep her from being hurt, but she didn’t seem to appreciate that.
In the photo, taken at Mustang Island when they were stationed in Corpus Christi, the four of them were laughing into the camera, sunburned faces glowing.
“This is a great shot,” said Ms. Atwater. “They look like the kind of people nothing bad ever happens to.”
Interesting observation. He would have agreed with her, right up until this deployment. Grace and the kids were part of the all-American family, the kind you saw on minivan commercials or at summer baseball games.
“What’s it like, being away from them for months on end?”
What the hell did she think it was like? A damned fraternity party?
“It’s rough. I’m sure you’ll hear that from a lot of the sailors on board. It’s hard seeing your baby’s first steps on videotape or getting a picture of a winning soccer goal by e-mail.” Steve wished he had prepared himself better for her nosiness. He should have barricaded his private self. He was supposed to be good at that. According to Grace, he was the champ.
Atwater studied another photograph, this one in a slightly warped frame nearly twenty years old. “But the homecomings are sweet,” she murmured, gazing down at the fading image.
He couldn’t recall who had taken that shot, but he remembered the moment with painful clarity. It was the end of his first cruise after they’d married. The gray steel hull of an aircraft carrier reared in the background. Sailors, officers and civilians all crushed together, hugging with the desperate joy only military families understood. At the center, he and Grace held each other in an embrace he could still feel all these years later. He clasped her so close that her feet came off the ground, one of her dainty high heels dangling off a slender foot. He could still remember what she smelled like.
Since that photo was taken there had been dozens of other partings and reunions. He could picture each homecoming in succession—Grace pregnant with the twins, no high heels that time, just sneakers that wouldn’t lace up around her swollen feet. Then Grace pushing a double stroller that wouldn’t fit through doorways. By then, her perfume was more likely to be a blend of baby wipes and cough drops. In later years, the kids kept her busy as she shuffled them between music lessons, sports practices, Brownies and Boy Scouts. But she always came to meet him. She never left him standing like some loser whose wife had given him the shaft while he was at sea, who would sling his seabag over his shoulder and pretend it didn’t matter, whistling under his breath as he headed straight for the nearest bar.
Yesterday had been Grace’s fortieth birthday. He’d phoned and gotten the machine. Lately she was so prickly about her age, anyway. She probably wouldn’t thank him for the reminder.
Atwater asked about his background, his career path in the Navy, his role on the carrier. She listened well, occasionally making notes on a small yellow pad as well as recording him. At one point he glanced at his watch and was surprised to see how much time had passed. She’d talked to him about his family for nearly an hour. He wondered if he’d told her too much. Did the American people really need to know his life was coming undone like a slipknot?
He cleared his throat. “Says on my agenda that I’m your tour guide for nighttime flight ops.” He was surprised that she’d gained authorization to be on the flight deck at night, but apparently her project was important to Higher Authority.
“I’ve been looking forward to this, sir.” She came alive in that special way of people who were in love with flying, the more high-tech and dangerous, the better. And there was no form of flying more dangerous than carrier operations.
He was dog tired, but he put on a smile because, in spite of everything, he shared her enthusiasm.
“I thought about going into the service and learning to fly,” she said, her eyes shining. “Couldn’t make the commitment, though.”
“Lots of people can’t.” He said it without condemnation or pride. It was a plain fact. The U.S. Navy demanded half of your life. It was as simple as that. He’d been in the Navy since his eighteenth birthday. And of his twenty-six years of service, he’d been at sea for half of them. That kind of commitment had its rewards, but it also carried a price. He was finally figuring that out.
As he went to the door, the Inbox on his computer screen blinked, but he didn’t check to see what had come in. If it was personal, he didn’t want a reporter reading over his shoulder.
He led her single file down a narrow passageway tiled in blue, narrating their journey and cautioning her to avoid slamming her shins on the “knee knockers,” structural members at the bottom of each hatch. Lining the P-way were dozens of red cabinets containing fire-control gear and protective clothing. The least little spark could take out half the ship if it happened to ignite in the wrong place.
Steve spoke over his shoulder, but he wasn’t sure how much she was taking in. The constant din of flight ops intruded—roaring engines, the hiss and grind of the power plant and arresting gear, the whistle and screech of aircraft slamming on deck—drowning out normal conversation. In the enlisted men’s mess, they created a small stir. Sailors enjoying MIDRATS—rations
