Mitzi's Marine

CHAPTER FOUR

“BE WHERE?” Mitzi asked, coming in on the tail end of their conversation. Keith and Heather were already on their way out the door.

“Do I have any DEPers?” Bruce asked.

“Don’t think so.” She twisted the cap off her water bottle. “All your kids were absorbed into other stations when the last recruiter left several months ago.”

He sized up the kids lined up at the minifridge. “Mind if I borrow a couple of yours?”

“Knock yourself out.” Sipping water, Mitzi looked fresh as a flower. Her kids looked a lot more wilted.

“How far did you run them?” He started unbuttoning his uniform shirt. His hands stalled in the process. Was she checking him out?

More likely inventorying his body parts.

“’Bout a mile.”

He looked over at the kids in question.

“A twelve-minute mile,” she said defensively. “I’m not trying to kill them before they get to boot camp.”

Slow. Even for a Navy mile.

The average recruit didn’t have to run much faster than that. And he’d never met anyone who could outrun a bullet.

“How many Navy SEAL recruits?” he asked the kids directly. Two of the boys raised their hands. Both looked reasonably fit. “A ten-or twelve-minute mile isn’t going to cut it. SEALs have a sixty percent attrition rate. Think you could run another couple miles for me today?”

Both boys nodded eagerly.

“Any hospital corpsmen?” he asked, looking to the third guy in the group. These were just a couple Navy rates he knew that were the most likely to see some action with their Marine brethren. The kid avoided eye contact.

The girl raised her hand. Chances were she wasn’t going to be assigned to a Marine Corps combat unit. Then again, she might. The days of G.I. Jane were here.

Both the Army and the Marine Corps were finding ways around the “noncombatant” rules for women.

Case in point, Mitzi. A five-foot-nothing Navy rescue swimmer who could haul his six-foot-plus ass out of the water.

He nodded the girl toward the SEAL twins. She beamed at him as she followed the boys outside.

“What’s your rate? Navy job,” he clarified for the kid, who looked as if he’d sat on the sidelines most of his life.

A gamer? A little chunky. A little nerdy.

The glasses didn’t help. And he’d probably gotten in under a weight waiver—which meant he would have to lose a few pounds before he shipped out anyway. But Bruce wasn’t going to embarrass the kid by saying so. He’d just work it off him.

“Aviation electronics,” the boy answered.

“Get out there with the rest of ’em, brainiac. If you’d said nuclear field I might have given you a pass.”

Not. Every geek and gearhead had to get through boot camp before operating those nuclear-powered ships and subs.

“You coming?” Bruce asked Mitzi as he stripped down to his olive-green T-shirt, hanging his shirt on the back of his chair. Now she wouldn’t even look at him.

“I’ll pass.” She picked up the invitation Keith had left on her desk. “Career Day? Are you going?”

“I’m not invited.”

“I take it the conversation with your brother didn’t end well.”

“I think he’s sneaking around with the brunette behind Heather’s back.” He just didn’t know why. If, as his brother had said, Keith and Heather hadn’t dated since eighth grade, why all the secrecy?

“Kelly,” Mitzi said, remembering the girl’s name when he didn’t. “The one who hides behind her books? She’s one of my Officer Candidate School referrals. The Navy’s going to pay her way through college and med school.”

“The candy striper who wants to be a Navy doctor,” he said, cementing Kelly in his brain as something other than the brunette with the rockin’ seventeen-year-old body.

“She’s a nice girl.”

“It’s the nice ones a guy has to watch out for.”

Mitzi crossed her arms and stepped across the DMZ, their own little no-man’s-land that separated the Navy from the Marines. “I was a nice girl. Are you accusing me of something, Calhoun? Like ruining your nonexistent basketball career?”

Harsh even for a reality check. “Not a chance, Chief.”

“Don’t confuse what you think you wanted at Keith’s age with what you really wanted. I was there when you turned down those basketball scholarships to join the Marine Corps, remember?”

“Fair enough.” In high school he’d been a big fish in a small pond with little chance of reaching his Final Four dreams. He knew it. Even back then. Especially when only the smallest junior colleges had even bothered to look him over. Basketball was never the be-all and end-all for him. For him the Corps was his calling. He didn’t see that in Keith. “I’d just hate for him to give up his dreams so young.”

“You have to let him make his own mistakes.”

“You seen him play?” he asked. He had on rare occasions, in years past when his brother first made the varsity team as a freshman. Mostly he’d heard secondhand accounts from his family.

“A couple times,” she admitted without further comment. Which he assumed meant those couple of times had been since she’d started dating the boy’s basketball coach. “Bruce.” She hesitated. He watched a range of emotions cross her face. “Lock up when you leave, please. I have a…date tonight.”

Ouch.

Your fiancée is dating my coach.

Ex-fiancée.

Bruce felt a surge of jealousy unlike anything he’d experienced since high school. And he’d been jealous plenty since then. One problem.

He no longer had the right to be jealous.

AFTER WORK BRUCE SPENT about an hour and a half at the gym. The PT he’d inflicted on the Navy DEPers was nothing compared to his own physical fitness routine. He worked hard to stay fit. Prosthetics were expensive.

A residual limb could change over the course of a lifetime. It was important for him to maintain his weight to within five pounds. And to stay active to keep his thigh muscles—his stump—from atrophying.

Outside the gym Bruce zipped up his sweat jacket and cut through the parking lot.

He didn’t own a car—he’d sold it predeployment.

Afterward he hadn’t seen the point of owning one until he was back on his feet. Then once he was back on his feet his sole purpose had been to redeploy, so again, what was the point? In San Diego he’d had plenty of buddies when he wanted to hitch a ride, and here he had family and the use of two government vehicles—a nondescript sedan and a pimped-out Hummer.

So even though there was a chill to the night air, he preferred to walk. Because it was good exercise. And because he could. Walking was something he’d never take for granted again.

On his way home he grabbed a sandwich from the Spicy Pickle across from the recruiting station. He’d locked up as instructed. The storefront was dark—not that he’d expected Mitzi to be there at this hour, just that he wondered where she was spending her nights these days.

Had she moved back home with her father? Found a place of her own? There were several new apartment complexes in the vicinity. Was she living in one of them?

Or was she spending her nights with Estrada?

At this very moment Army/Navy could be snuggled up on the couch, fighting over the remote and discussing plans to move in together. Maybe they were already living together.

At the end of the block Bruce cut through the alley. It was darker and suited his mood. Henry was there digging through a trash can behind an Italian restaurant.

“Thought she told you to quit Dumpster diving.”

“A man’s gotta eat.”

“Ever heard of a soup kitchen?”

The old-timer made a sour face. “They make me pray for my supper. Out here I don’t have to pretend to be grateful to nobody. ’Sides—” he dug out a half-eaten piece of crusty garlic bread and took a bite “—food’s better.” He offered Bruce a piece.

Bruce shook his head. Although he’d scavenged for meals out of trash cans in BUD/S training, he’d never had to put that training to the test. And hoped he never would.

“Here,” he said without thinking. He opened his Spicy Pickle bag and dug out his sandwich, offering half of his gobbler panini to Henry along with a napkin.

The old-timer looked at him suspiciously. “You’re not going to make me pray?”

“No,” Bruce said. “Haven’t been doing a lot of that myself lately.”

Henry snorted, but took the offering. Bruce sat on an upturned dented metal trash can and bit into the turkey-and-feta sandwich. “How’d it go at the VA?” he asked.

“Could ask you the same thing,” Henry countered.

It was Bruce’s turn to snort.

“Sounds about right,” Henry said. “What the hell kind of cheese is this?” He spat out his first bite. Then he opened his sandwich and picked off the cheese before taking a second. “Can I get that pickle from you?”

Ol’ Henry sure wasn’t shy about asking for what he wanted. Or, for that matter, making it clear when he didn’t want something. Bruce gave up the pickle and the chips, then finished off his half of the panini.

Feta wasn’t his favorite cheese, either. A little salty for his taste. After brushing off his crumbs, Bruce crumpled the empty sack and tossed it, for a three-point shot, into the Dumpster across the alley.

“Night,” he said. Somehow good night didn’t seem appropriate to the situation. He didn’t ask if Henry had a place to stay. He was afraid he knew the answer, and asking the question would somehow make him responsible. If the old man didn’t have enough sense to get in out of the cold, that was his problem. “You’re going to be all right tonight? Got enough blankets?”

Damn it. He really hadn’t meant to ask.

“Got everything I need,” Henry said, letting him off the hook.

“Good,” Bruce said, then got the hell out of there before Henry could think of something he really needed. Like a roof over his head.

You and me, we ain’t so different.

Henry was right, of course. Bruce didn’t own a car. Or a home. Or have someone to share his life with. He’d pushed her away for this chance to get back to his unit.

His best friend, his half brother and his leg had been taken from him. All his buddies were in and around San Diego, or deployed overseas.

He had a desk job he couldn’t stand after one day. And the recon job he loved was still out of reach. At least until he passed the obstacle course. Soon.

Meanwhile, he did have the one thing Henry didn’t have. Family.

The house was empty when he got there.

He found a sticky note tacked to the refrigerator door—“7:00 p.m.”

That could have meant almost anything. But in the Calhoun household it meant there was a basketball game tonight. Why hadn’t his mother mentioned it at breakfast? Why hadn’t Keith said something this afternoon?

He more or less knew the answer to that one.

It was a quarter to seven now. He didn’t have time to shower or change if he wanted to make the first quarter. He looked down at his sweats. No big deal.

Pocketing the house keys, he walked the few blocks to Englewood High School. The parking lot was near capacity and he was glad he wasn’t trolling for a space. Light spilled from the building. Every time the doors opened he could hear the band pumping up the crowd.

Once inside, he found the sound almost deafening.

The halls outside the gym smelled of buttered popcorn and were lined with tables of blue-and-white team T-shirts with EHS printed on them. Both were being sold to raise money for the team. He bought a bag of the popcorn and entered the gym.

The Englewood Pirates bleachers were full.

He didn’t bother searching for his family. They’d find each other eventually. Instead he made his way to the nearest available seat. Which happened to be fifteen frustrating rows up in the opposing team’s territory—The Alameda Pirates. Both teams were Pirates.

This was the rivalry of the year—the battle for Pirates’ pride.

At least he didn’t stand out as the only Pirates fan sitting on the wrong side. He wore nondescript gray sweats and there was plenty of blue and white filling in around him—both teams’ colors were blue and white.

He caught Keith’s attention from the bench, and they nodded to each other. Home team was wearing white tonight. His brother was wearing his old number—twelve. Keith turned away from him toward the home team bleachers. Bruce looked to see what had captured his brother’s attention and picked out Kelly in her band uniform, second row from the top. She made a cute drummer. Her long dark hair and light-colored eyes reminded him of someone he’d thought was pretty cute back in high school.

Now he knew that someone was smokin’ hot.

Scanning the crowd to the left of the band, about halfway down, he found his mother. Eva and John were going over the program of players, which Bruce had forgotten to grab.

Farther down on the right, Lucky sat holding Chance while leaning over Cait to talk to the boys on the bench. Bruce didn’t see the coach. Or Mitzi. But her father was sitting behind the team, near Bruce’s older brother and sister-in-law. He watched as they exchanged a few words.

Cait spotted him and waved. She nudged Lucky and his brother looked up. Lucky, not to be confused with Luke—though they’d often been confused—was Bruce’s only full blood brother. He made Chance wave a chubby fist even though the baby, now almost one, couldn’t pick his uncle out in the crowd.

Bruce waved back. Yeah, he could count his blessings. Parents who loved him, a younger brother who worshipped him—most of the time. And an older brother he envied.

From his vantage point he could see the JROTC Drill Team forming up outside the double doors, which had been opened wide for the occasion. They wore white ascots, white gloves and black berets with their junior paramilitary uniforms. Wooden rifles painted white with black plated accents added just the right snap to their routine.

Behind them stood the color guard.

And behind that line of flag bearers he caught a glimpse of Mitzi and Estrada in deep discussion. Even though Estrada was an active duty reservist and taught JROTC at the high school, it seemed odd that the coach would be wearing his dress uniform on a game night.

Then Bruce caught a glimpse of the folded jersey in Estrada’s hands. Number fifteen. Zahn.

Realization hit Bruce with the full force of a rocket-propelled grenade.

“Can I see that program?” he asked the couple seated next to him. Sure enough, Freddie’s number was being retired tonight. And no one had bothered to tell him.

Not Mitzi. Not his family.

When the hell had he become the home less guy?

KEITH LAUNCHED a three-point shot at the buzzer and Englewood edged out Alameda 86–85 for the win. In the midst of all the excitement, Mitzi stopped trying so hard not to notice him.

Bruce knew, because he’d spent the entire game watching her. He wasn’t going to make a scene. This was Freddie’s night. He just wanted to know why she felt the need to exclude him. Why Estrada had stood at the podium while he sat on the sidelines.

Only one of them had been Freddie’s friend and teammate. On the court and in combat where it really counted. And it wasn’t the schoolteacher. Of course, only one of them could say he’d let both Freddie and Mitzi down.

Bruce remained seated while the crowd filed out around him. Fred Zahn Sr. caught sight of him and waved on his way out the door, presumably to head off the crowd before they beat him back to the Broadway Bar & Bowl.

“We’ll meet you over at the bowling alley,” his mom called out as she and John passed by his bleachers. “Lucky said they’d give you a ride.”

Lucky and Cait were slower to cross over to his side. They had Chance’s baby stuff to haul, and Cait had to be at least eight months pregnant.

“You just going to sit there?” Lucky stood at the foot of the bleachers.

“I’m wondering why nobody bothered to tell me they were retiring number fifteen tonight.”

Cait tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “I’m so sorry, Bruce,” his beautiful, blue-eyed sister-in-law apologized. That’s all he wanted, an apology. Lucky got an “I told you so” as Cait balanced Chance high on her hip to compensate for her baby bump.

His brother wasted no time in clearing the bleachers two steps at a time against the thinning crowd. “I guess we all just assumed Mitzi would say something.”

“Yeah, well, she didn’t.”

Lucky stopped below him with one foot resting on the step above. “At least Keith—”

“He didn’t.”

Lucky seemed surprised by that. “Well, you made it, that’s what’s important. Cut us some slack. We’re happy to have you home, but a little advance warning would have been nice. Nobody knew you were flying in on that red-eye this morning. Or that you’d even taken the recruiting assignment. Last I’d heard you were hoping for something closer to San Diego. Communication works both ways, little bro.”

Bruce shifted his gaze to center court. Now that the bleachers were cleared, players headed to their respective locker rooms. Coaches paused to shake hands. The visiting and assistant coaches followed their teams, while Estrada went back to the bench where Mitzi waited for him.

“Don’t go there,” Lucky said, forcing Bruce’s attention back to him. “She’s moved on.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“So come spend time with the family. We’ll have pizza and beer and maybe even bowl a few frames if the lanes aren’t already too crowded. We can listen to Keith brag about tonight’s three-pointer at the buzzer and you can shut him up with all your state championship wins.”

Lucky had bragging rights of his own. He’d been a point guard in his day.

Bruce shook his head. Any other night he would have. But that half sandwich and half bag of popcorn already felt like lead in his gut.

“Can we at least give you a ride home?”

“I’ll walk.”

Lucky hesitated.

“I’m fine,” Bruce said. “Just tell them I’m tired after a long first day and that early flight.”

It wasn’t far from the truth and at least got his brother moving in the right direction. Lightening Cait’s load by carting the baby and the diaper bag to the exit, Lucky shook his head at something his wife said.

Bruce hated pity more than anything. But coming from a guy who’d traded his motorcycle for a minivan, what an insult.

He knew it wasn’t going to be easy seeing her with another man. He just hadn’t known it was going to be this hard.

The Englewood High School coach had taken off his uniform jacket sometime during the game and looked like the real deal with his loosened tie and rolled-up sleeves, sweating out the win with his team. Bruce refused to look away as the other man put his arms around Mitzi.

A touch here. A brush there. Enough already.

The couple exchanged a few words and a casual kiss, which put the pink in her cheeks. Estrada sent Bruce a look on his way to the locker room, intended to keep Bruce in line.

Finally the crowd dwindled down to two.

The tap of her heels echoed as she crossed the court. She was wearing her service dress blue uniform tonight—a dark navy blue skirt and suit jacket with gold buttons worn over a white blouse with a black neck tab.

The same uniform she’d worn to Freddie’s funeral. After which she’d rushed straight to Bruce’s hospital room. He’d been groggy from surgery and that long flight out of Germany.

It was his hand she’d been holding then.

She’d had such a sad smile.

Now look at her. A spring in her step.

And a promotion.

The gold on her left sleeve identified her as a chief petty officer. He knew she carried her white gloves and black-and-white combination cap in her left hand, keeping the right hand free to salute—even though the Navy and Marine Corps did not salute uncovered. And that the overcoat draped over her arm hid two gold stripes, one for every four years of service.

She wore her dark brown hair braided and pinned.

He liked it when she took those braids down. She couldn’t wear it that way in uniform, and out of uniform a ponytail was her default hairstyle.