They watched without expression. Tom struggled a little for control because the irony of his words was bringing him close to laughter. He was basically stealing Caren Angland’s house hustle for his own. He waited a few more beats and continued.
“By the time I’d totally fixed up a place I’d have the trial-and-error experience to do another one. And I would have a reasonable fallback line of work for a freelance THE BIG LAW/185
writer. I could tell people I’m a recovering alcoholic. That way I don’t have to be meticulous about job history. And-if I attended some AA meetings, I could pick up part-time work as a painter-I did some stories on AA once. It’s full of painters. And, I could be working on writing a novel half the time.”
“You know, Tom,” said Norman, “at the back of any book, there’s the writer’s photograph.”
Sarah shook her head. “If it comes to that. Something can be arranged. So what’s your book going to be about? The Witness Protection Program?” Sarah asked.
Tom grimaced. “You think I’m not serious.”
“Just kidding. No, what would you write about?” she asked, sincerely this time.
“Ah, I thought, genre mystery. Create a private investigator who’d been a reporter, who maybe had some law enforcement training in the military. There are formulas for writing that kind of stuff.”
“Okay, Tom, I think we get the idea,” said Norman. He and Sarah stood up in unison. “We’re going to have a talk with our supervisor. Sit tight.”
Twenty minutes later the door opened, and Sarah came in with two cans of Diet Pepsi and a paper plate of holiday sugar cookies. She handed a Pepsi to Tom.
“Merry Christmas. You’re in. The fact is, you were never in doubt, with all the kilowatts Tony Sporta is generating in Chicago. A toast,” she proposed, “to your new career.”
32
Broker jockeyed in the chilly holiday bustle at a gate in the Duluth airport. “Frosty the Snowman” tinkled from the public address system in between arrival and departure announcements. He hoisted Kit in his arms to see Nina’s plane land.
Broker had done his army time in the first half of the 1970s, when airports were hostile to military green. More to the point, then he’d been the one traveling in uniform, not waiting at the gate with a baby and a diaper bag slung over his arm.
“There’s Mommy, there’s Mom.” He coached Kit when he saw Nina Pryce’s lanky athletic stride swing up the gangway.
Mommy wore army camo fatigues, boots and a soft cap. She carried a light travel bag on a strap over her shoulder.
His carrot-headed Athena-she of the glancing brow and steady gray eyes-now sparky with an iron grind of fatigue.
When she saw them, Nina smiled.
She owned one good black dress, like his dad owned one good black suit. She wore the dress to weddings and funerals.
She despised the army’s Class A skirt and avoided it whenever possible.
Broker had a feeling skirts weren’t in Kit’s future, either.
Her field uniform was clean and faded. Her leather shiny but not showy. A black oak-leaf patch was centered on her cap. The black stitched Combat Infantryman’s Badge she’d earned in Desert Storm was worn defiantly above the black jump wings over her left pocket. Late in coming. The first awarded to a female in the history of the army.
But the prize she coveted, the crossed rifles of the infantry branch for her collar, still evaded her. She wore military police insignia.
She carried herself with a wary reserve. Nimble and strong, she walked a tightrope in heavy armor. As an ambitious female officer, she had to coolly mask any outward show of femininity, which could be perceived as weakness.
But she had to avoid being too cold, because she could be seen as robotic or mannish. She had to look to the care of her troops, but without any outward shows of affection that could be interpreted as “Mommish.”
Nina carried a lot of weight. Broker’s job, despite all his misgivings about her career, was to give her a safe place to lay it down for a few days.
They bumped together. They shared the trait of grace in action and being awkward in polite society. She reached for Kit with the happy growl and nuzzle of a cougar for her cub.
But Kit drew back and cried. Her teared eyes reached out to
“Daa-dee.”
Nina bit her lip, stumped. Withdrew back into her armor.
Kit scrambled into Broker’s arms. “Patience,” he said gently.
They kissed chastely. As they always had in public. The chill of the Yugoslavian mountains lingered on her lips.
On the one-and-a-half-hour drive home, by unspoken agreement, they avoided subjects with dead people in them.
They would not talk about Bosnia or Caren until after Christmas. She scanned the diary Broker had brought for her, a list of Kit’s vocabulary, menus, sleeping schedules, sickness. She read seriously, cramming for a test.
When they arrived, Nina entered a house that was hardly ready for inspection.
When she’d left to go back in the service, the big living room was half done, rolls of insulation spilling from the naked studs. Broker had painstakingly completed the finish work himself; sometimes working with Kit slung in a back-pack harness, up on the roof, putting in the skylights. Now the room was snug with maple siding, trestle beams, a chandelier.
“This is very nice, but is it us,” said Nina.
Broker narrowed his eyes: army brat. She had lived her life in base housing, dorm rooms, barracks and officer billets.
“I know what you mean. Why don’t I knock out that corner over there; we could have a party, fill some sandbags, teach Kit how to build a bunker, rig a shelter half.”
“Asshole.” She lifted a plate of her armor, jabbed, explored a weary smile.
“Ah, we don’t swear in the house, elephant ears is listening,” cautioned Broker.
“
While Kit watched, Broker knelt, unlaced her boots and eased them off. Gently, he removed her tunic, trousers and socks.
Her lidded eyes clouded, then glazed. She sighed, “That’s the nicest thing anyone ever did for me in my whole life.”
Tawny and sleekly muscled in her olive drab underwear, she wantonly molded herself to the cushions.
“There’s a king-size bed in…”
Too late. She was ten fathoms down, sinking to the bottom locker of sleep.
