CHAPTER ONE:
THE QUEENS
Dad has a surprise for the Queen family tonight.
It’s been a normal evening. Harley Jr. is dividing his attention between homework and Facebook. Mrs. Queen is sorting recyclables in the kitchen and feeding baby Willy. When Dad comes in with an Anthony’s Pizza it’s almost disconcerting: Pizza on a school night!
“Eat up, everybody,” Harley Queen says. “We don’t want to miss the movie.”
Obviously they are having a crazy, impulsive treat, and neither Harley Jr. nor his mother is about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Mrs. Queen—Judy—merely asks, “How was your day?”
To which her husband shrugs affably, says, “Little change of pace.”
Their pizza quickly demolished, the Queens pile excitedly into the car. It’s cool out, October, the gorgeously clear sunset imbuing the suburban scene with hues of Saturday Evening Post Americana: Anytown, U.S.A. Nobody says much during the drive, as if afraid to jinx it. Dad could still change his mind.
Navigating around bicyclists, joggers, dog-walkers, and playing children, they finally leave the residential neighborhood, following Fairchild to the mini-mall, where they turn left at the Burger King and head up Douglas to the Keystone Theater. There is a small crowd gathered for the movie.
“Line’s not bad,” Mr. Queen says as they park.
“No, but then it’s a weeknight,” his wife teases.
They buy tickets, load up with popcorn, soda, and Sno-Caps, and find seats in their preferred region of the theater: seventh row, central. Judy had been worried the baby wouldn’t cooperate, but he is already asleep in her arms.
“Mom, this is so fun,” Harley Jr. whispers as the lights dim.
Automatically the audience stands in anticipation of the national anthem. A second later the music kicks in, the movie screen lighting up with a montage of stock images: flag, farm, fighter jets. At last everyone sits down and the previews begin, then the movie itself.
It’s a silly comedy—something about a ditsy blond girl running for president—not usually the kind of thing that Mr. Queen would ever see, and Judy keeps glancing over to make sure her husband is not miserable. They have spent so much time apart throughout their marriage that she is just grateful to have him around. To be a family.
About twenty minutes in, something happens.
First, several cell phones go off in the theater, including Mr. Queen’s. Then a pair of large light-boxes bracketing the movie screen are illuminated. Each one reads, ALERT FORCE RECALL.
Amid the murmuring, someone says, “Oh my God,” and a number of people in the audience—Mr. Queen among them—rise to leave.
“Dad!” Harley Jr. protests.
“Lee!” Mrs. Queen grabs her husband’s arm. “What are you doing?”
“Sorry, honey. You know I have to go.” He lovingly squeezes her hand as he removes it, giving her and the baby a kiss. He ruffles his older son’s hair. “You da man. Be good for your mother.”
Judy is not finished: “Is it an exercise?”
“No. Come on, you guys are missing the show, sit down. We’ll talk later.” He blows them a kiss and hurries up the aisle. Then he’s gone.
Things hang frozen for a few minutes, the movie unspooling with idiotic persistence. Weeping can be heard, and dire whispers. Soon a portion of the remaining audience begins trickling away, unable to suspend disbelief.
Judy steps outside into the breeze off the Pacific. For now the sky over Kadena Air Base is peaceful, luminous clouds scudding through a pool of stars, a distant flicker of lightning. It is so beautiful in Okinawa this time of year…but there’s a catch. Always a catch, no matter where they move. Mrs. Queen hugs her baby close and listens to the engines of the first scrambled jets, their turbines chiseling a cruel inscription across the dusk: three letters dreaded by every military wife since the dawn of time.
“What is it, Mom?” her older boy asks.
Surreptitiously wiping tears, Judy Queen says, “War, I guess.”