A Soldier Comes Home. Cindi Myers

in front of the boy.

      “Come into the kitchen and I’ll fix you something to eat,” she said. Without waiting for an answer, she turned and headed back upstairs.

      Ray followed. He was suddenly hungry, not having eaten all day. He also knew he needed to talk to his mother, though it was a conversation he wasn’t looking forward to.

      He sat at the breakfast bar and watched while she prepared a meat-loaf sandwich. “How’s he doing?” he asked after a moment.

      “T.J.? He’s upset, of course. He misses his mother, doesn’t understand what’s happened. Frankly, I don’t either.” She gave him a pointed look, one that said she expected an answer. An explanation.

      “Her letter said she couldn’t live this way anymore. That she wanted a divorce.”

      She spread mustard on a thick slice of rye bread. “She’d met someone else?”

      He nodded. “I found out that part later. Another soldier.” A civilian would have been bad enough, but a fellow soldier? She didn’t think that guy wouldn’t get sent off to Iraq or Afghanistan or East Podunk and she’d be alone again? Or was loneliness merely a cover for the real reason—that she didn’t love Ray anymore?

      His mother set the sandwich in front of him. “Frankly, I don’t see how you’re going to raise that boy by yourself. A child needs his mother.”

      “Obviously his mother didn’t need him.” He picked up the sandwich with both hands. The rich aroma of meat loaf and mustard made his stomach growl. When was the last time he’d had something this good? A year, at least. Maybe more. “He and I will do fine together,” he said. “Men raise children all the time.” He took a bite of the sandwich and closed his eyes, as much to savor the flavor as to avoid the doubt in her eyes.

      “You are not the nurturing type,” she said.

      He opened his eyes and glared at her. When he’d finished chewing and swallowed, he said, “I don’t hear you volunteering to help.”

      “And you won’t hear it either,” she said. “Your father and I raised you and now we’re enjoying our freedom.”

      Freedom. A word people threw around a lot. He’d been fighting for freedom. Tammy had wanted her freedom. “I certainly wouldn’t want to interfere with that,” he said.

      Her expression softened. “I’m happy to offer advice by telephone, and you’re welcome to visit anytime. But your son is your responsibility.”

      “I never said he wasn’t.”

      He ate the rest of his sandwich in silence, while she cleaned the counters and put on a pot of coffee. “You’ll need to find day care for him while you’re on duty at the base,” she said after a while.

      “I’ll find out who Tammy used. And there are plenty of day-care centers in the Springs, and soldiers’wives who take care of children.”

      “What will you do if you have another tour of duty?”

      He’d been home less than twenty-four hours, he wanted to protest. Couldn’t he get used to that idea before contemplating another tour? “I’ll figure out something,” he said.

      She took his empty plate from him. “We leave for our cruise day after tomorrow.”

      “I’m going back to the Springs in the morning.” He slid off the stool. “Thanks for the sandwich.” That was the trouble coming to visit his folks. This place wasn’t his home; he always felt like an intruder here. Visits were marked by a studied politeness, and everyone involved felt better as soon as he left.

      He returned to the den. The television had been switched to a news show. T.J., thumb back in his mouth, looked around when Ray entered. Ray smiled, but the boy stared back solemnly.

      Charles’s gaze remained firmly on the TV. A young blonde was describing an explosion in Tikrit that had killed four U.S. servicemen and two Iraqis. Ray’s stomach tightened as a picture of the crumpled remains of a Bradley Fighting Vehicle flashed on the screen.

      “It’s a crime,” his father said. “We have no business being over there.”

      It was an old argument, one Ray would not be drawn into. Instead, he looked at T.J. again. The boy offered a shy smile. Ray held out his hand. “Could you maybe come over here by me?” he asked.

      T.J. hesitated, considering the idea, then, thumb still firmly in his mouth, slid off the sofa and walked over to Ray. Ray patted his lap and the boy climbed up and settled against his chest, as if he did this all the time.

      Ray pretended to focus on the television, but all his attention was on the boy in his lap. He smelled like peanut butter and baby shampoo. The stuff Tammy used when she used to bathe him. He weighed more than Ray had expected, a good solid weight against his thighs.

      Tentatively, he slipped one arm around the boy, across his chest. T.J. didn’t seem to mind and, in fact, settled more firmly against him.

      Ray’s eyes stung and his throat ached. He stared at the television, at the blurred image of a weather map, and tried to swallow past the tightness in his throat and chest. He was bone tired, nerves rubbed raw, anger at Tammy and life in general a slow simmer in his gut, another kind of annoyance at his parents a dull throbbing in his head. He had no idea what further tortures the future had in store for him, but if his record so far proved anything, he couldn’t expect much good ahead.

      But all of that was overtaken by this sense of grief and happiness and…love that swamped him now. He tightened his grip on T.J. and bent his head to plant a soft kiss on the boy’s silky brown hair. “It’s going to be all right, son,” he whispered. He would make it all right. If not for himself, then most certainly for his boy.

       CHAPTER THREE

      THE DRIVE FROM Omaha to Colorado Springs went well, with T.J. sleeping most of the way. From time to time, Ray glanced in the rearview mirror at the boy. T.J.’s head lolled against his car seat, and from time to time he made soft dream noises. His son. The thought of being responsible for this little life both swelled Ray’s heart with pride and made his stomach tighten with fear. He could assess a dangerous situation in a war zone and direct and care for a group of soldiers in his command, but what did he know about looking after a three-year-old?

      His hands tightened on the steering wheel and he forced his attention to the road. He could learn this job the way he’d learn any other. He’d use the rest of his leave to get T.J. settled, find day care and buy a new truck. And sometime soon he’d find a lawyer and talk to him about the divorce. It wasn’t something he looked forward to, but it had to be done.

      He pulled into the driveway of the house on Kirkham Street in the late afternoon. The snow from the storm had started to melt, bare patches of brown lawn showing through the white in places, rivulets of water running across the blacktop. With luck, they were done with snow for the year and spring could make an appearance. He leaned into the backseat and unfastened T.J.’s seat belt. “Time to wake up,” he said. “We’re home.”

      T.J. rubbed his eyes and stared sleepily up at Ray, then extended his arms in a silent plea to be lifted and carried. Ray picked him up and carried him into the house. Balancing the boy on one hip, he unlocked the front door and stepped inside.

      He had halfway expected to feel the same sense of loss and loneliness that had buffeted him when he’d returned to this house the other night. But now, in the daylight with the comforting warmth and weight of his son in his arms, he felt only relief at finally being in a place he could relax, regroup and figure out the next step in his life.

      “You awake enough to get down now, buddy?” he asked T.J.

      “Yeah.”

      Once on the floor, T.J. looked around. “This isn’t our couch,” he said, rubbing his hand across the brown leather.