Caught in a clash of love and war

By MARIA SCHOTT
© St. Petersburg Times,
published November 25, 2001

The white letters skewed across our car's windows are impossible to make out from this ninth floor hotel balcony, but I know what they say: "JUST MARRIED . . . He's Off to War." And in the top right-hand corner of the rear window: "War Bride." The words supplant the message I had placed there when our country went to war after Sept. 11. Printed on a sheet of white paper and taped to the bottom corner of the rear window, it had been easy to tear away, this one, promissory word: "PEACE."

We are both home when the Fed-Ex man arrives. Ed asks if I am expecting a package, and I joke that if it isn't bigger than a bread box, I am not interested. But I know something is terribly wrong when I hear his softly mumbled cuss from the other room. (I am the brash New Yorker, the street tough with the wise mouth given to "colorful" behavior and quick judgment; he is the gentle one who does not swear, the patient, even one, whose constant ministrations coax vegetables so full of life from our garden that when I cut them for dinner, they drip as though bleeding.)

I come into the living room where he holds an ordinary-looking sheet of paper typed in capitals. He hands it to me, and I read, "PURSUANT TO PRESIDENTIAL EXECUTIVE ORDER OF 14 SEP 2001, YOU ARE RELIEVED FROM YOUR PRESENT RESERVE COMPONENT STATUS AND ARE ORDERED TO ACTIVE DUTY." He was an army sergeant, inactive now for eight years. We have been allotted 13 days to redefine our lives.

In one bewildering moment, any normality we have salvaged after Sept. 11 has been wrenched away. "We can leave right now," I say. My voice breaks as I gesture around the room. "I don't care about the house or any of this damned stuff." I am crying now, though whether from anger or fear I cannot say. Of course, he will not do this.

Catching my frenzied gaze with his clear brown eyes, he tells me that he has made commitments he cannot shirk. "Once you start lying, it's hard to stop." I am amazed by his courage but dismayed by my task of living up to it. It is my tough luck, I tell him, to love an honorable man.

We are very thorough. Our wedding takes place after the mandatory three-day waiting period and consists of a phone call to our friend Joan, a minister, who drives over and signs the license. I file it with the documents that are generated from yesterday's visit to our new lawyer: Last Will and Testament, Durable Power of Attorney, Health Care Surrogate.

Before we leave for our brief honeymoon on St. Pete Beach, I stop at the drugstore to buy white shoe polish. Something in me needs public acknowledgement, a communal notarization of our harried union that will mark it with tradition, stability, convention.

I call our neighbor Elizabeth, and she saves me from the indignity of having to write it myself. "JUST MARRIED," she writes, squeezing in "War Bride" as I half-heartedly joke that I will have to start listening to the Andrew Sisters, draw lines up the backs of my bare legs, plant a Victory Garden, organic of course.

I want to be overwhelmed by the romance of our exceptional marriage, shadows of 1940s black-and-white war movies flashing across my mind. I yearn for a whirlwind adventure, imminent dangers adding spice to our passion. But it is not like this. We have spent three days in our beachfront aerie attempting to defer the everyday, yet despite our best efforts apprehension belies every kiss. We discuss it. We ignore it. In the end we simply sit on this hotel porch listening to the ancient rhythms of the ocean compete with the cacophony of street noise below.

When we come home he mows the lawn, fixes a broken pane of glass. He waters his garden and picks plump cherry tomatoes and shiny, bright-red jalapenos that have ripened in the three days since we left. He says his goodbyes to our stunned family and friends.

On his last day home he changes a light bulb in the bathroom and shows me again how to use Quicken to balance his checking account. He washes the writing off of our car. As he packs his bags, he consults a list the Army has provided. Then, just like that, he is gone.

It is uncharitably early the next morning. In this brave new world I am not allowed access to the airport security checkpoint and must say goodbye in front of the Starbucks counter in the main terminal. I crush my face into his shoulder to hide my weakness, the smell of coffee seasoning my salty tears. "There, there," he whispers, patting my back in circular motions. It only makes me cry harder. He leaves me, then looks back, once.

The next day I stop at several stores, searching for a new sign for my car, but I am too far ahead of the season. I am forced to hand-letter my message with the now familiar white shoe polish. In what inadvertently mimics the innocent scrawl of a child's first letter to Santa, I repeat the words over and over, trying to give them wing. "Peace on Earth," I write. "Peace on Earth. Goodwill Towards All Men."

Maria Schott is a performance artist who lives in Gulfport.

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