A Soldier Comes Home. Cindi Myers

admired the new television, a forty-inch LCD flat panel. Sweet. “You want to watch TV?” he asked, reaching for the remote.

      T.J. shrugged. “I guess.”

      Ray punched the remote and flipped through the channels until he found a cartoon. “This okay?” he asked.

      T.J. nodded, gaze fixed on the screen.

      “Okay, you stay here while I unload the car.” There wasn’t much, just T.J.’s clothes, a bag of toys and his own overnight bag.

      As he unpacked the trunk, he glanced over at the house next door. It was a neat brick ranch, much like his own, with green shutters and trim. Empty planters flanked the front steps and wind chimes hung from the eaves at the end of the porch.

      “That’s where Chrissie lives.”

      The small voice startled him. He looked down and found T.J. standing beside him. “I thought I told you to stay inside,” Ray said.

      “I wanted to see what you were doing.”

      “Okay, well let’s go in now. Can you carry this for me?” He offered the boy his overnight bag.

      T.J. nodded and grabbed hold of the bag with both hands. Ray grinned and they started up the walk.

      “That’s where Chrissie lives,” T.J. repeated, and stopped to point toward the house next door.

      Ray’s grin vanished. “How do you know Chrissie?” he asked.

      “Sometimes I stay with her when Mama goes out.”

      According to Tammy’s e-mails, Chrissie had been her partner in crime on her nights on the town. Of course, after she met her soldier boy, she’d have wanted the freedom to see him alone. Chrissie had obviously done her part to help out.

      Once inside, T.J. wandered through the house while Ray put their things away. He’d left the heat on and now it was too hot inside, so he opened a couple of windows. Maybe later he’d get one of those programmable thermostats and install it. The new bed had been delivered and set up; later he’d put the sheets on. He was still fighting jet lag and looked forward to a good night’s sleep.

      When he returned to the living room, T.J. was on the couch again, the cartoon now a nature program showing chimpanzees climbing a tree. “Where’s Mama?” T.J. asked, looking at Ray.

      Ray had spent long stretches of the drive home trying to come up with an answer to this question. He sat on the sofa beside the boy and muted the television. “Your mama went away,” he said, trying not to sound as grim as the words made him feel.

      T.J.’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. “When is she coming back?”

      Ray patted T.J.’s leg. “She’s not coming back.” At least, she’d expressed no intention to do so. Better for them both if she didn’t. They didn’t need her disrupting their lives any further. “I—I know that makes you sad,” he added. “I know you miss her. I miss her, too.” Maybe not what she’d become, but what she’d been—or the ideal of what she’d been. The loving wife, waiting to welcome him home. The loving mother, taking care of their son.

      “I want M-Mama!” T.J.’s face crumpled and he began to sniffle, then sob.

      Ray gathered his son into his lap and patted his back. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.” The words were as much for himself as for the boy.

      T.J.’s sobs turned to wails, his whole body shaking, the decibel level rising. Ray rose with the boy still in his arms, and began to pace. “It’s okay,” he said. “Stop that. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

      The wails went on and on. He’d never heard a more pitiful sound in his life. All the grief and fear and sadness he had ever known was condensed into those cries. As he paced and patted and murmured words of comfort that T.J. did not seem to hear, Ray felt whatever optimism he’d mustered on the drive from Omaha slipping away. He wanted to open his mouth and join right in.

      CHRISSIE HEARD THE CRYING from her house—a child’s pitiful wails. They went on and on and on. What was happening over there? T.J. was going to make himself sick carrying on like that. Why wasn’t his father doing something to comfort him?

      She paced and spoke out loud to Rudy and Sapphire, who sat at either end of the sofa and watched her, whiskers twitching, tails flicking. “I know he doesn’t like me,” she said. “If I go over there, he’ll say I’m butting into something that’s none of my business.”

      She snatched up the remote and turned on the television, then turned the volume up, drowning out the sounds of crying. But though she could no longer hear T.J., she knew he was hurting, and felt a corresponding pain in the pit of her stomach.

      She debated leaving the house. She could go to the bookstore or the mall, do something to distract herself. But all she could think of was that sweet little boy, crying his heart out.

      She couldn’t stand it anymore. “I have to go over there,” she told the cats, who blinked in what might have been agreement.

      She grabbed her coat and marched next door, sidestepping patches of mud formed by melting snow. She punched the doorbell hard and tried to prepare herself for Ray’s anger.

      When he opened the door, she didn’t give him time to argue or turn her away. “I could hear T.J. crying all the way over at my place,” she said. “You’ve got to let me help.”

      He glanced over his shoulder and she followed his gaze. T.J. sat in the middle of a brown leather sofa, his mouth wide open, harsh sobs shaking his shoulders. “What can you do?” Ray asked, raising his voice to be heard above his son’s keening.

      “He knows me.” As if to confirm this, T.J. opened his eyes and saw her.

      “Chrissie!” he wailed, reaching his arms toward her.

      She pushed past Ray and scooped the boy into her arms. “It’s all right, honey,” she soothed. “Chrissie’s here. Tell me what’s the matter.”

      “I want my mama!” he sobbed.

      “I know you do, hon. But she’s not here right now. But your daddy is here. And I’m here.” His eyes were red and snot dripped from his nose. She looked around for a tissue but seeing none, carried him into the bathroom and tore off a strip of toilet paper and held it to his nose. “Blow,” she commanded.

      He obliged, then let her wash his face with a cool rag. “Doesn’t that feel better?” she cooed.

      Ray stood in the doorway, watching them. “I could have done that,” he said.

      Then why didn’t you? she wanted to say, but didn’t. The man wasn’t used to dealing with small children. “You’ll learn,” she said.

      She smiled at T.J. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “How about some supper?”

      He nodded, his face still solemn and sad.

      “I was going to order pizza,” Ray said.

      Of course he was. “Pizza is fine, but a time like this calls for comfort food.” She set T.J. down long enough to remove her coat, then carried him to the kitchen, where she began searching through cabinets.

      “What are you doing?” Ray asked.

      “I’m going to make this boy some macaroni and cheese.” She pulled out a familiar blue box and turned to him. “Do you want some?”

      He stared at her with the same lost expression as his son, but his gaze was devoid of all childlike innocence. His eyes held a wariness. And beyond that was grief and exhaustion and another sharper emotion—a hard masculinity that touched the most feminine part of her, and sent a warm flush over her cheeks.

      Then he blinked, breaking the spell. “Better make two boxes,” he said. “I’m hungry.”

      She