That was my cue to relocate.
There was also a sofa next to the recliner, and between them, a small table complete with a lamp and coasters. Both ends of the sofa had built-in recliners, and the end closest to Dad’s Recliner was Lauren’s Seat. When Dad got home from work, after dinner, the two of them would watch some stupid reality show, usually involving people singing or dancing or both, and I would sit at the kitchen table, both parents within my line of sight, and read while they sat in Their Seats.
Sometimes I would take a break from my story and watch them. They smiled a lot, told jokes, made fun of each other, and occasionally Lauren would swat my father on the arm and rub the place she had hit, a sensuous gleam in her eyes. I always looked away when that happened, knowing I had at least an uncomfortable half-hour of stifled moans and creaking bedsprings to look forward to when the lights went out.
But that night, in the struggling luminescence of the small fire, the twitch in my father’s hand, the hesitation, was something entirely new. Instinctively, I understood it for what it was.
He wanted to reach out and put his hand on Lauren’s arm. He wanted to intertwine his fingers in hers as he had done a thousand times, but knew the gesture would not be welcome. So he resisted, and kept his eyes down, and did nothing to provoke my stepmother. I didn’t blame him. In those days, it did not take much to set her off. When she became argumentative for no apparent reason, or cried without explanation, or stormed off from normal conversation as if someone had said something horrifically offensive, part of me wanted to scream at her. But another, bigger part of me wanted to hold her, and cry, and beg her to snap out of it.
All men are little boys at their core. There is an enduring place for a mother and father—or at the very least a protector—in each of our hearts. We cling to whoever fills that void, and when the tenuous balance of family, in whatever form it takes, is disrupted, all we want is for everything to be set right again. But sometimes, in the jagged arena of the heart, children fall by the wayside. Especially the grown variety.
*****
Earlier in the day, I had spotted a camping trailer in the driveway of an abandoned house that appeared to be in good working order. The propane and fresh water tanks were both full, the chemical toilet had been emptied recently, and the treads on the tires had plenty of life left in them. Figuring it beat the hell out of sleeping on the ground, I hitched it up to Mike’s truck and brought it along.
It had enough room to fit four people comfortably, so Lauren, Dad, Sophia and I agreed to share it. Mike said he preferred to sleep outdoors, and Blake, ever the lady’s man, had caught the attention of a rather attractive female soldier and invited her to sleep in a tent he scrounged somewhere along to the way. She accepted.
After dinner, Tyrel and Lola went off somewhere to be alone, and Lance wandered over to the other side of camp. There was a forty-something widow he had taken an interest in among the people from the RV encampment. He advised us not to expect him back that night.
“So I guess you’re off for the night as well?” I asked Blake when his soldier friend, Tran according to her nametag, showed up at our camp and politely introduced herself. Her first name was Alice, she had grown up in Bakersfield California, first generation American, family originally from Vietnam, five years in the Army, and was a mechanic of some sort. When I shook her hand, it was strong, firm, and calloused from years of hard work. And she had very nice eyes.
“Yeah, I’ll see y’all in the morning.” Blake gave me a little wink as he stood up and put an arm around Alice Tran’s shoulders. As they walked away into the night, I shook my head and shared a knowing glance with my father.
Shortly thereafter, an aging warrant officer stopped by our camp. In his right hand, he held a large metal clipboard. “Name’s Grohl,” he said, not bothering with military formalities. “I was wondering if you folks might be willing to help out with a few things around camp tonight.”
We shared a round of looks, then Dad said, “What did you have in mind?”
He looked at the clipboard. “We’re short a few people for the patrols, the supply folks could use a few extra hands doing inventory, and … let’s see …” He flipped couple of pages before pointing at Mike. “I understand you were a sniper in the Marines. That correct?”
Mike nodded. “Trained at Quantico.”
“Heard that’s a tough one.”
“It is.”
“Mind taking a shift on overwatch tonight? It’d only be for three hours.”
“Which post?”
Grohl pointed at a telescoping tower rising up from the back of a HEMTT. “Northwest. Shift starts at 2200 hours.”
Mike glanced at his watch. “That gives me forty-five minutes to get ready. Yeah, I’ll help you out.”
“Much appreciated.”
Sophia raised a hand. “I might be able to help your supply people.”
“You have any experience managing inventory?”
“I do, actually. I was an assistant manager at a pharmacy before all this happened. Can’t imagine it’s all that different.”
Grohl wrote something on his clipboard. “Fair enough. Gotta head that way myself here in a minute, so I’ll walk you to ‘em. What about you two,” he wiggled a finger between Dad and me. “Think you can take one of the patrols? I know you’ve had a long day, but even just a couple of hours would be a big help.”
“What do you think?” Dad said, shifting his attention to me. “Ten to midnight be okay?”
I shrugged. “Works for me.”
Grohl made another notation. “Excellent. Come see me at the command tent fifteen minutes prior and I’ll show you where to go.”
“Will do,” Dad replied.
Grohl then glanced at Lauren, eyes flicking up and down, taking in her general state, and said, “Well that should about do it. I really appreciate it, folks.” He turned to Sophia. “If you’ll follow me, ma’am?”
“Sure thing.” She gave me a quick peck on the cheek as she got up. “See you later tonight.”
“Be careful,” I said. “Keep your gun handy.”
She patted the Smith and Wesson on her hip. “I’ll be fine. Worry about yourself.”
“Thanks again,” Grohl said as he turned to leave.
“Glad to be of service,” Dad replied, and watched the two of them walk away.
“Are you going to be okay here by yourself until we get back?” I asked Lauren.
She nodded slowly, eyes never leaving the fire. “I’ll be fine.”
“Come on, son,” my father patted me on the shoulder as he stood up. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up and get ready for watch.”
I cast one last worried look at Lauren and said, “Yeah, sure.”
*****
According to the satellite feed on Grohl’s ruggedized tablet, the area of Oklahoma we were in was a massive, near-perfect grid of interconnected farm land. Many of the squares on the grid were filled with perfect geometric circles that touched the gridlines, but left curving triangles of excess land at the corners. They looked like round pegs in square holes. When I asked Grohl what the circles were, he explained they were from pivot irrigation systems—machines that run on electricity, roll on massive wheels, and spread water from a central point in the field.
Our camp was located in one such field, much larger than the square inch or so it represented on the tablet. The problem Grohl and his troops faced was they had a large area of terrain to keep watch over and not enough people to cover it all while still allowing everyone to get at least a few hours’ sleep.
“I need you to set up here in this area on the southern end of the perimeter,” Grohl said, “patrol between these two points here and here. It’s a lot of ground to cover, so you’ll have to stay sharp.”
“Nothing we can’t handle,” Dad said.
“Do you need radios?”
“Got our own.”
“You good on weapons and ammo?”