Operator B

one they make!”

Joyce Wentz half-smiled, leaning against the counter. Statuesque, long chestnut hair and noon-blue eyes. “I hope he got you a helmet to go with it.”

“Of course I did,” Wentz assured. “And knee and elbow pads. I also told him he could pull wheelie’s in the back yard. That’s okay with you, right, honey?”

“Funny guy.”

Wentz kissed his wife on the cheek.

“Oh—jeeze,” Joyce blurted. “No offense, but you guys smell like low tide and—”

“Cat food, right, Mom?” Pete answered.

Joyce paused through a queer expression. “Well, yeah—”

Wentz slapped his son on the back. “Like I was telling you, Pete. Your old man’s not as dumb as he looks. It’s a little trick I picked up when I did TDY at Whidbey Island. Puncture a can of cat food with an ice-pick and put it in the trap. On the west coast, the watermen all use cat food as crab bait instead of chicken necks.”

“Well,” Joyce remarked, “I guess cat food smells better than chicken necks… So just how many crabs did you catch? Last time you guys went out, you brought home two crabs.”

“Check it out.”

Wentz smiled when Pete opened up the styrofoam box. Joyce nearly shrieked when she looked inside.

“They’re huge,” she commented.

“Half a bushel,” Wentz added. “We’d have caught more but we didn’t have a bigger box.”

“I have to admit, I’m impressed,” Joyce said.

“You’ll be even more impressed when we’re cracking these suckers open,” Wentz guaranteed. “Pete, put an inch of water in the pot and pour in a cup of vinegar. Then lay in the steamer tray.”

“Okay, Dad.”

Joyce curled her finger at Wentz. “We’ll be right back, Pete.”

She took Wentz by the hand into the dining room. Wentz paused to look at her, and thought, Jesus, what a beautiful woman. What did I do to get this lucky?

Last night, they’d made love for the first time in a year. It was wonderful… probably more for Wentz than for her; he hadn’t exactly been the Man of the Hour, more like the Man of the Minute. They’d fallen asleep wrapped up in each other; Wentz slept dreamlessly. The only dream he wanted was in his arms.

He was about to kiss her, tell her he loved her, when she pressed a hand against his chest. Suddenly, she didn’t look pleased.

“So what’s with this dirt bike?” she sternly asked.

Wentz stood duped. “It’s something he wanted so I bought it for him. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is you can’t buy your son.”

Wentz’s gazed thinned. “I’m not trying to buy him. He worked hard and got his math grades up, so I gave him a dirt bike. What, a father can’t give his kid a present?”

“Not an absentee father,” Joyce countered.

Careful, Jack warned himself. Look at it from her side. “The absentee part ends on Monday when I retire.”

“Don’t you get it? Giving your son presents whenever you decide to come around isn’t being a father.”

Bust my chops a little more, why don’t you? But, still, Wentz remained silent, like a scolded child.

“It gives him the wrong impression about things, Jack.”

“I thought he deserved it, that’s all,” Wentz said very slowly. “For getting a B in algebra.”

“That’s not how it works in a family. Don’t you think you should’ve talked to me about it first?”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“Don’t you think we should’ve given him the bike, Jack?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

Everything she said made sense, of course. It always did. Wentz had no idea how to be a real father because he’d never been around to assume the role. He was just a guy who stopped by every now and then, bringing presents.

She faced him, her lips pursed, her arms crossed under her bosom. “If you really are going to make a go of this, Jack, you’re going to have to do better than this.”

As hard as Wentz wanted to keep it all in check…he couldn’t. Suddenly he felt attacked, and the instinct to defend himself shattered his better judgment.

“Fine, great. I’m an asshole, I’m a prick. I’m an absentee father who buys his kid presents to cover up his guilt. But contrary to what you obviously believe, I really am going to try to make this work. It would really be nice if just once you could give me a break.”

“I won’t even respond to that,” she said.

He couldn’t help it now, he couldn’t reel it back in. “And you know, it really fucks me up when you trash me to him.”

“What are you talking about?”

Wentz nodded cockily. “The other day when we went to the baseball game, he asked me if I was bluffing about my retirement. He says you told him that.”

Joyce’s cold eyes didn’t blink. “Considering your track record? What else am I supposed to think? And yesterday someone named First Sergeant Something-or-other called and said you were promoted to brigadier general.”

Wentz stalled. “Oh, yeah, Top. They gave it to me after I made my last flight. I forgot to tell you because it honestly slipped my mind.”

“You get promoted to general and it slips your mind?”

“It slipped my mind because it’s not important to me. It’s no big deal. It’s just typical Air Force ploy; they give you a big promo as bait to get you to sign up for one more hitch.”

Joyce smirked. “But General Wentz isn’t taking the bait, huh?”

“No, General Wentz is not. And at noon tomorrow, General Wentz will be retired.”

Her rancor seemed to drift off. “I just wish I could believe that. I believed it in the past and look what happened. How many times?”

Bottle it up! he commanded himself. Keep your mouth shut!

But he couldn’t. The arrogant fighter-jock wouldn’t allow it.

“Well, honey, I’m really sorry about that little thing we had called the Gulf War, and I’m really sorry about the classified orders I got reassigning me to Nellis and Tonopah, but there’s not much you can do about it when you’re on active duty.”

“You could’ve gotten that waiver you were telling us about,” Joyce reminded him.

“Certain kinds of classified orders prohibit early-out waivers—”

“It broke Pete’s heart.”

That’s all she needed to say. It was like a guillotine falling. It ended the argument before it ever really got started. Wentz wanted to kick the wall, knock things over, bellow out loud, but then he realized why. Because he couldn’t hack the truth; he was too selfish to admit it. Oh, yes, Joyce had every right to treat him like pondscum… because that’s what he was until he proved otherwise.

And I will prove it, he swore to himself. Damn it, I WILL. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, pushed his selfish angst aside.

He looked at Joyce.

“I’ll make it up to you—” He raised a quick finger. “I know you’ve heard that one before, and I know I’ve let you and Pete down a bunch of times in the past. Just the fact that you’re giving me one more chance makes me the luckiest man in the world. I won’t screw it up this time—I swear to God. You gotta believe me.”

“I know you mean it, Jack,” she said, “but I also know you’re a career pilot. You’re