“What’s in there, Mommy, what’s in there?” they said over and over, skipping along the sidewalk beside her.
She couldn’t bring herself to say, “Daddy.”
The service had been small but painfully long. A few members of Gomer’s platoon sat in the first few pews just behind Rita and the two little girls. Angel, Rita’s hairdresser and best friend, was there. There was an organist. Some desultory flowers on either side of the urn. A few sputtering candles that expired halfway through the service.
Gomer’s best friend, Chief Petty Officer Sparky Rollins, made a brave attempt to eulogize Gomer, saying that he had been a man who had “died the way he lived, on the edge, living life to the fullest.”
It was about as kind a description of her husband’s death as anyone was going to come up with, Rita thought, shifting uncomfortably on the wooden seat. She was fanning herself with a church bulletin. Gomer would have leaned over and whispered that it was hot as Hades in here.
Father Menendez, who’d been counseling Gomer without any obvious success these last few months, gave a lengthy benediction and sermon, none of which Rita could remember. Something about a troubled soul now at peace. Not all warriors die a hero’s death, he said, some are lost in a battle for the soul.
Anyway it was over, but somehow she couldn’t stop crying. The handsome young sailor was gone. There’d been so much hope in her heart that rainy day inside the little chapel in Miami. He seemed like such a fine young man, standing so straight beside her in his brand-new uniform.
And then when they’d had their kids, she’d felt like all of her dreams were coming true. But something went wrong. It wasn’t just the drinking, although that was certainly part of it. It started back when Gomer’s mom first got sick in Havana. When he couldn’t get any medicine for her, and heard her screams on the phone. Finally watching her die in such pain. That’s when it started going seriously downhill. That’s when he started to—the front doorbell rang again.
“Sorry,” Rita called out, hurrying through the tiny living room. “I’m coming.”
She wiped away her tears on her apron and pulled the door open.
It was the commanding officer’s wife, Ginny Nettles, standing there with a big casserole dish in her hands.
“I’m so sorry about your husband, Rita,” Ginny said. “It’s just awful. May I come in?”
“Oh. Of course,” Rita said, standing aside for her and then following her inside. She was slightly stunned at having the base commander’s wife appear at her door. She had been to the Nettleses’ house for a birthday party and to play bridge a few times, of course, and said hello to Ginny at the Exchange or the beauty parlor, but still.
“I made this for you last night,” Ginny said, placing the casserole on the kitchen counter. “Shepherd’s pie. Now, of course, it looks like you won’t be needing it.”
“What do you mean?” Rita said, thoroughly confused now.
“You mean you don’t know?” Ginny said. “Oh—that’s right. You’ve been at St. Mary’s all morning. Well, it’s the most amazing thing. We’re all being evacuated.”
“What?” Rita said. “I don’t understand. We’re being—”
Ginny had walked into the living room and was bending over the TV, looking for a button. The kids had been watching Josie and the Pussycats before going out to play in the back. Josie was still on.
“Do you mind if I put on CNN?” Ginny asked. “I’ve been glued to it all morning. We’re all over the news.”
“No, of course not,” Rita said, feeling completely disoriented. She dug the remote out from under a cushion and switched channels to CNN. There was that big blue banner running across the screen that said “Special Report.” In Rita’s experience that always meant “Especially Bad News.” Both women sat down on the worn sofa and saw images of Guantánamo that seemed completely alien.
Men in bright yellow environmental suits were pouring from the rear of C-130s out at Leeward Point field. There were strange vehicles manned by similarly dressed men patrolling the streets, and bomb squad teams who looked like Martians. Somehow, life at Gitmo had turned upside down in the last two hours and Rita Gomez had missed the whole thing.
One of the famous old CNN guys from the Gulf War was standing under a palm tree outside the Gitmo HQ building with a microphone. Rita tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but she kept glancing over her shoulder at Gomer sitting up there on top of the fridge.
“In many cases,” the reporter was saying, “bacon was frying on the stove and the Monday wash was on the line when the order came to evacuate dependent women and children. Already, security guards protect empty houses and patrol now-quiet neighborhoods only yesterday filled with children’s noisy play.”
“What is—what in the world is going on, Ginny?” Rita asked, feeling suddenly frightened.
“Shhh, just listen.”
“The plans for the evacuation were announced and effected immediately. The base was divided into areas, and responsibility for notification and transportation to the awaiting ships and aircraft was given to the various commands.”
“Why are they wearing those suits?” Rita asked, but Ginny ignored her, intent upon the broadcast.
“The Navy Exchange is still open,” the CNN guy continued, “but it stands deserted. A battalion of Marines arrived during the early-morning hours, and their general attitude is one of calm watchfulness. Guantánamo is a changed place this morning. The base golf course is dotted with the temporary tents pitched by Marines who now bivouac on the fairways and greens.”
“Oh, my God,” Rita said.
“Along with the Marines, bomb squads, scientists, and doctors from the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, all in their protective clothing, find no relief from the hot Cuban sun. No one will officially confirm why they’re here, but rumors are rampant.”
Ginny hit the mute button and turned to Rita. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you’ve always seemed one of the few base wives who were nice because of who I was, not because of who my husband was.”
“Tell me, Ginny. The girls and I’ve been over at church since seven. We’ve missed the whole thing. Why in the world are we being evacuated?”
“There’s some kind of bomb hidden on the base. Joe says it’s either a nuclear or a biological weapon. Some kind of new laboratory-created bacteria, they’re guessing most likely. The ‘poor man’s atomic bomb,’ he called it. They haven’t been able to find it to defuse it or whatever they do. So, we’re all clearing out. Women and children, I mean. And civil servants, of course.”
“My God,” Rita said. “Who would do such a thing?”
“The new Cuban government,” Ginny said. “They’re nuts, Joe says. Certifiable looney-toons. Listen, I’ve got to run. We’ve only got a couple of hours before we have to be at the boarding stations. You’re only allowed to pack one suitcase for each family member.”
“Okay,” Rita said, her mind racing. She glanced back at the top of the fridge. There was a family member up there. Did Gomer still count for a suitcase?
“If you’ve got a dog, you’re supposed to tie him up in the backyard. And leave the keys to the house on the dining table.”
“We don’t have a dog.”
“Right. I’m sorry. This is a terrible time for you,” Ginny said. “Listen, you get the kids packed and ready to go. Then drive over to my house and we’ll go—”
“We don’t have a car. The MPs have it impounded.”
“Oh. Yes, that’s right. I forgot. Well, listen, Rita, I’ll pick you and the girls up here then. If you could be out front with your luggage?”
“Okay,” Rita said, looking around at the bravely decorated little rooms she and Gomer and the girls had called home for so long. She couldn’t stop herself from noticing just how dry the dried flowers looked. God, how she’d tried to make this house a home.