Staying Home Is A Killer. Sara Rosett
would be gone in minutes, considering Georgia’s love for coffee. Georgia’s shriek overpowered my words. She turned from her little alcove by the file cabinet and removed a large framed poster that had been propped up out of view. “Very funny, guys.”
The poster, a photo of a man in tight jeans clutching a dozen red roses behind his bare back, focused on the man’s butt. Georgia twisted it around and put it against the wall. “You guys are gonna get me in trouble. Colonel Briman said I had to get it out of here.”
“Then why were you so intent to get it up on the wall in the Hole?” Tommy asked with a wide grin. The Hole was the basement break room. It was adorned with plenty of posters of scantily dressed females holding beer cans.
Georgia rolled her electric-blue eyes. “Briman ordered me to get rid of it.”
Mitch had Livvy in the chair now and was spinning her around. Her giggles had his full attention.
Tommy leaned back even farther in his chair. “I don’t know why you’re so spun up. They’re just a bunch of pictures.”
“They’re smut. Soft-core porn. Why should I have to look at them?” Georgia turned to me, a female ally, and explained, “I wanted to take down everything, but Briman wouldn’t buy that. Tradition! So I figured, fair’s fair. The women in the squad should have something in there to look at, too.”
“I don’t know, George. McClintock doesn’t seem to mind looking at those women a bit.” McClintock, an angular no-nonsense sergeant, worked in Life Support. Rumors said she had a female lover, but no one knew for sure, since no one was asking and she sure wasn’t telling.
Georgia looked at me for support.
I said, “I vote for smut.” I wouldn’t want to work in an office with photos of bikini-clad women on the break room walls. I feel guilty enough about not working out as it is.
The intercom crackled and a voice announced, “Aten-shun!”
As everyone in the office stood, I glanced at Mitch. “DVs,” he muttered. “I forgot.” Livvy made a dash for the door. Great. Distinguished Visitors were in the squadron and I’d brought our high-energy almost-two-year-old. A real career-enhancing move for Mitch. I scooped Livvy into my arms at the office’s threshold and looked back at Mitch. He suppressed a smile as he and everyone else stood at attention. Oh well, if Mitch had remembered DVs were visiting, he would’ve met me at the car. I stood still and hoped my quietness would transition to Livvy. She squirmed, then noticed the stillness of the office and looked around, her eyes wide.
The flight crew I’d seen earlier was caught in the hall and stood against the wall with their posture sharp and gazes fixed in middle distance, except for Rory. He adjusted his round glasses and checked his cell phone. His stance was sloppy.
They made an interesting group with the two shorter men, Rory and Aaron bracketing Zeke, who was over six feet tall. Rory and Aaron both were shorter and had blond hair, but everything about Rory was plump and robust from his barrel chest to his thick, wavy gold hair. Aaron, on the other hand, with his skinny build, beige hair, and narrow face, looked reedy and water-colored as he stood stiffly at attention. Zeke seemed poised to sprint out of there when they gave the all-clear, Rory slouched lazily, and Aaron stood so stiffly he looked like he was carved from marble.
An entourage strode down the hall with an older craggy-faced man in the lead. A group of people, their shoulders liberally sprinkled with eagles and stars, followed him. Lounging against the wall, Rory whispered something to Zeke as the DVs passed and Zeke fought to keep a straight face until the DVs entered the Orderly Room.
Someone barked, “At ease,” over the intercom and everyone came to life.
“Who was that?” I asked Mitch.
“Bedford, the wing commander, giving some generals a tour.”
“How did you know it was him?”
“I’ve seen him before. He flies with our squad sometimes.” Mitch flashed me a quick smile. “Glad I wasn’t on those flights. Come on, let’s get out of here,” he said as he shuffled some papers, cleared his desk, and logged off the computer. Mitch’s philosophy on “face time,” time spent in the presence of superiors, was less is better. He’d rather lie low and draw no attention to himself. “Less chance of screwing up when some colonel or general is watching,” he’d said.
Tommy sat down and went right back to his argument with Georgia. “What about freedom of expression and all that? Don’t photographers have a right to take those pictures? I’ve got a right to look at them if I want, right?”
Georgia didn’t look at him. Tommy winked at me. He argued to irritate Georgia. He was one of those people who thought making someone mad was better entertainment than a movie.
“Sure, in your house,” Georgia retorted as she sat down at her desk and opened a file on her computer. “Doesn’t mean I have to look at them at work.”
“You do here.”
Georgia picked up her phone and punched numbers. “For now.”
After a quick lunch with Mitch, I drove home, pushing the speed limit to reach our house before Livvy went to sleep in the Cherokee. Once she was asleep, even if it was for five minutes, that was it, no more naps for that day. I turned onto our street and crept through the scattering of pickups, vans, and cars in front of the Wilsons’ house. Our neighborhood of arts and crafts bungalows from the twenties and thirties had plenty of charm and character. Gorgeous maple and pine trees towered over the homes, each with its own special touches. But modern conveniences, like dishwashers and garage door openers, were in short supply. The Wilsons had tackled a complete modernization and had a different set of contractors and work crews clogging the street every day. I edged past an oversized shiny pickup, an ancient blue van with a mountain landscape painted on the side, a van labeled BUZZARD ELECTRIC, and a dented Ford Tempo. Finally, I pulled into the driveway in front of our basement garage.
Despite the inconveniences, I loved our house. Its honey-colored brick looked cozy even on this cold day, and the graceful Tudor-inspired lines and the leaded glass gave it a uniqueness that we’d never find in modern tract housing, or in base housing, either. Our house sat on a corner lot. The lot sloped down at the rear of the property and the builder had taken advantage of the drop. He’d burrowed into the slope to create a two-car attached garage on the basement level.
With Livvy’s head tucked under my chin to shelter her from the wind that made my eyes water, I crunched through the snow and ice that rimmed our driveway. Inside, I peeled her out of her snowsuit like I was peeling a banana and changed her diaper.
“Dogs. Woof, woof,” she said, her face serious as I carried her to bed. She held her eyes wide open to keep them from shutting.
“Yes. There were some very loud dogs today at the vet.” I snuggled her in bed, positioned Pink Girl on the nightstand, sang a lullaby, and tiptoed into the hall. I left the answering machine blinking 3 and went to get Rex, our mutt, a mix of lab and rottwieler, out of his kennel in the Cherokee. Since we didn’t have another of suburbia’s staples, a completely fenced backyard, I put him on his long tether in the backyard. He galloped through the powder, dug his nose into the snow, and flung it into the air while I dragged the kennel inside and put it in the kitchen.
I shut the kitchen door and stood still, trying to absorb the warmth of the kitchen. I worked my boots off and padded across the golden oak floorboards to turn up the heat another notch. Then I hit PLAY on the answering machine and scrounged in the pantry for hot chocolate packets.
A languid voice stated, “Hello, Ellie. This is Clarissa Bedford. You said to call you about a consultation. Next week, either Tuesday or Friday morning, works for me.” I heard a trace of an accent on the message that I hadn’t noticed in person. Southern? Or more of a Southwest drawl? I’d have to ask her where she was from. The machine stated the date and time, then beeped.
“Ellie. Jill. Call me. It’s urgent.” I smiled as I pulled out the