By Angie Chatman
Every morning, after dropping Tyler off at school for his half-day kindergarten class, Carmen took her power walk. For this pregnancy she’d read a variety baby books; all of them stated that healthy exercise could induce labor. They also warned not to start an exercise regimen before consulting a doctor. At nine months, Carmen was dying to start labor, and her doctor had encouraged short strolls for her mental and physical health. When she’d been pregnant with Tyler, she’d been so busy learning to be an army wife, moving with Gabe to their first post in Missouri and satisfying her cravings for pickles and orange juice. Now, that they were back home in North Carolina, Carmen was a lot less stressed. Still, she felt as if she had swallowed the moon, sometimes light and warm; other times it was as if a jumble of rocks had collected in her belly and pressed on her legs and feet.
She drove to her favorite section of town where a small, well-tended park was circled with well-kept houses built in the late ‘50s. After swinging her bulk out of the car Carmen took a deep breath, and tried to clear her mind of worry and instead focus her attention on specific sights and sounds. As she walked, she spotted two hummingbirds flitting around the birdbath. A car slowed down for the speed bump then thumped twice, and an airplane from the nearby military base roared in the sky. Beyond a white picket fence, white petals from a rose bush collected in the grass; Carmen breathed in the scent.
Her mind wandered to her husband. She checked her phone to see what time it was there knowing that wherever he was in Afghanistan, Gabe wouldn’t be able to sleep, especially at night. The baby shifted, and Carmen paused until the mound adjusted, then took a deep breath and continued her journey.
She completed the ½ mile circle twice, then sat on the park bench in front of an old oak tree to cool down in the light breeze. Its branches swayed as if beckoning her to explore its skin. She closed her eyes and when she opened them, she was high in those branches, rocking in a cradle of soft leaves. A gray pigeon flew overhead; its blue neck plumage shimmered like a jewel in the sun, and it cooed a soft lullaby. She reached for the bird. It flew to a higher branch, then began its song again. Carmen slept.
When she woke, she was seated on that bench; only moments had passed. Instead of running errands for the two hours that remained before she had to pick up Tyler, she drove home to take a real nap.
A black Chevy Malibu was parked in front of her house. It had government plates.
Her first reaction was to drive away and take care of those errands, but somehow her brain registered that not only would not stop the news, it was also rude. Carmen would never disrespect a soldier. Instead, she opened her car door, swung herself out again, and waited as two men in dress uniforms got out of their car.
“Mrs. Lewis?”
At first, she didn’t recognize the name. Gabe’s mother was Mrs. Lewis. She was Gabe’s wife and Tyler’s mom. Although they’d been married for six years, she still didn’t think of herself as Mrs. Lewis except for the mail, and on formal documents.
“M’am?”
She nodded.
“May we speak with you?”
Her whole body shook. She felt dizzy. She reached out to one of the men, then withdrew her hand, and placed it on her belly, swaying slightly.
“Come in.” Once inside, she walked to the sofa, sat, and waited for them to tell her Gabe was dead. Though she knew that they were talking, she couldn’t hear them clearly. It was as if she’d been pushed into a pool and was now underwater. “Wait.,” she heard from another part of her brain. They didn’t say dead. It was killed. Killed in Action.
She asked when.
“The details aren’t available yet, Mrs. Lewis.”
“Please don’t call me that.” Her voice screeched. She hugged her chest, took a deep breath, and counted to three. “My name is Carmen.”
“May I sit, Carmen?”
She looked at the two men; she couldn’t tell them apart. Tall, white, clean shaven. One of them handed her a handkerchief and the blur cleared; the one who asked her the question was older. There were wrinkles on his face: grooves around his lips, crow’s feet marked his dim brown eyes. This must be hard for them too, she thought. How did they get assigned to do this? Did they request the duty to provide this horrible service to military families? Who would request this duty?
“Carmen?”
“Is it all right if I sit?”
She pulled one of Tyler’s toys out from under the sofa cushion and squeezed. It sounded like a balloon leaking the last of its air.
“Carmen?”
“Yes. Yes, please sit. Can I get you anything? Some water?”
He sat. “No, thank you.” He went on to explain that the military was still investigating the…Carmen tuned out. His voice was in the baritone range. She wondered if he sang like that guy whose hit was “Sweet Caroline”. The song was named for JFK’s daughter. Who had told little Caroline and John-John the news about their father? Both parents were in Dallas. Did Caroline see it on television with the rest of the world? Or, worse was there a staffer who had to break the news to that five-year-old child?
“I don’t care about any investigation,” her voice rose. Breathe. “When will Gabe be home? Gabe and his effects.” Would there be effects? She would get his name tag? How else did they know it was Gabe?
She nodded as the baritone explained that an office would notify and assist her with arrangements. She then thanked the men and told them they could leave.
“Do you have anyone you can call to stay with you?” The younger man spoke.
She stood. “Yes, I’ll call. After you leave. Please, go.”
The younger man was going to say something, but the older man cut him off. “We’ll wait outside until someone else comes, Carmen.”
“Fine,” she nodded and shut the door behind them.
She shivered from the cold that came with shock and went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Her hands continued shaking. As she was filling it, the tea kettle fell into the sink, and she slid to the floor, howled, and went back under the blanket of grief which threatened to swallow her.
She crawled to the sofa. There she dumped her purse on the coffee table and grabbed her phone. Gabe’s mother was #9; she’d wait to call her until she could deal with her. Now, she needed to have someone pick up Tyler; she couldn’t risk driving in this state.
Amber was #3 on the speed dial. The tears returned, but Carmen was able to choke out a few words, “It’s Gabe,” she moaned. “They came.”
She didn’t need to explain to her best friend who ‘they’ were.
*
Carmen didn’t know how much time had passed but she heard Amber’s car – it needed a new muffler – pull up to the curb. She’d had to move off the couch a couple of times to pee and drink more water, after each trip she’d sit or lie down, stroke her belly, and weep some more.
Tyler burst into the house with all the energy of his 5-year-old self. Amber followed, wearing her smock, which was splotched with flecks of clay the color of dried blood.
Tyler came to a stop, his sneakers squeaking on the hard wood floor. “Mom, what’s wrong? Auntie Amber said it was ok if I had ice cream for lunch…”
Carmen wiped her eyes and laughed. “Come here, Ty.” She hugged him tight taking in his musty little boy smell. “If Auntie Amber said it was ok, then it was ok. How was school?”
“Great! We did drawings. Miss Nolan said mine was the best.” He took off his backpack and removed a roll of brown paper, scraped off the masking tape and unrolled it on top of the coffee table. Through blurry eyes, Carmen saw a gray bird, its neck was colored blue.
“It’s a pigeon! I saw one outside the window and I wanted to make you a drawing. Miss Nolan said pigeons are messenger birds and that I might have a message when I got home. Do you have a message for me Mommy?”
* * *
Born and raised on Chicago’s southside, Angie Chatman is a freelance writer and storyteller. Her short stories and essays can be found in Iron Horse Literary Review, Taint,Taint,Taint Magazine, Brevity, Literary Landscapes, The Rumpus, Pangyrus, Hippocampus Magazine, Blood Orange Review, fwriction:review, and elsewhere.
She has told on The Moth Radio Hour’s episode “Help Me” and won a WEBBY award for telling on GBH/World Channel’s Stories from the Stage episode, “Growing Up Black”.