In Plain Sight

By Celia Crotteau

In the late 1970s, idealistic college grad Charlotte met Amish bad boy Uri Stoltzfus while visiting relatives in small-town Pennsylvania. Her encounters with Uri changed her life. Seven years have now passed. Char, who joined the Navy, is a bored press officer serving on a remote island base. She hears rumors that a Special Operations sniper nicknamed the Amish Assassin is coming there to hide from his pursuers. Could this be Uri? Char’s career has stalled, she is having an affair, and her life seems to have reached a dead end. So, who better to keep company with than another lost soul? Forced to face her regrets and disappointments, Char wonders if life ever offers second chances, even to a misfit like her. Surprises await…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781669874324

Celia Crotteau

A Biblical scholar and educator, Celia Crotteau's fascination with women's roles in ancient civilizations has inspired her to imagine how certain Old Testament heroines might have told their own stories. In earlier novels she gave voices to the prophet Hosea's wife Gomer and Ruth's sister Orpah. Now, in her sixth book of historical fiction, she does so with Jephthah's daughter. Celia has also published award winning essays, poetry, short stories, and textbooks and has taught literature, history, and writing to students from sixth grade through college level.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

A lackluster poetry reading conceived in desperation; Nowhere Atoll, or Nowhere at All, depending on the speaker’s mood; lastly, rumors that had circulated over the past near decade.

A near decade, because ten years loomed just beyond the current seven. The 1970s had passed into the 1980s, and, as her mother often reminded Char, who had celebrated the big 3-0, the days when she could consider herself young were flying by.

So – an event, a location, and half-truths which Char had discarded as pure nonsense. Working together, this trio brought him back into her life when she least expected it. Or needed it, she told herself. No, not the nonspecific it. The very specific him. Uri Stoltzfus.

Over the years she had heard references to him, usually at Friday Happy Hours in whatever Officers Club she was in. Because going to an O-Club after leaving the office at her current duty station was how Char always started her weekends. Didn’t every officer? At least, shouldn’t every officer? Showing up and drinking with the group, and being seen by one’s superiors, benefited a military career. Led to promotions, and so on. Or so Char had been told.

Looking back, she doubted that her regular attendance had benefited her career. Or else she wouldn’t have been plopped down where she now found herself, on this God-forsaken island in the middle of a body of water with a ridiculously long Polynesian name she couldn’t remember, let alone pronounce after a few drinks. That she couldn’t didn’t matter. Because her assignment was top secret.

Well, not her assignment, but the duty station where she was wasting her time and her mind. The island’s location she couldn’t disclose, not even to her parents. Why, Char didn’t know. She was too ashamed of her lack of knowledge to ask. But perhaps no one else knew either, which was how absolute secrecy was ensured. And it was.

Apathetic enlisted personnel who didn’t bother to disguise their heavy breathing monitored all phone calls, incoming and outgoing, and all incoming and outgoing mail was carefully read, and the outgoing censored, by the office to which Char herself was attached. She didn’t get to read any mail, however. Tyrone did that himself. He had assigned her to writing and editing the weekly base newspaper, this on a base where nothing ever happened. She had to scramble to find material to publish and was therefore considering adding an advice column. She secretly congratulated herself on her initiative and imagination but wondered how to peddle the idea to Tyrone, her departmental commander.

Shoveling salted peanuts into her mouth as she waited for him at their usual table in the O-Club, Char pondered. It would be best to approach him first thing on a Monday morning, when he sat down to a fresh stack of letters piled high on his desk. Engrossed, he would raise an eyebrow before giving a lackadaisical wave which she could interpret as permission. Tyrone resented being interrupted at his letter reading. The knowledge he gained, and the censorship he exercised, allowed him tremendous power over any and every person on this island. Tyrone shrugged it off. He didn’t agree with her assessment. Yes, he had power, but just until the next bozo relieved him of this job, he retorted. He threw her a searching look and added unnecessarily that everyone on the island had secrets. Char had stifled a smirk and turned back to her typewriter. Even you, sir, she thought.

Two weeks after her arrival, after a few too many drinks at the O-Club, she had staggered back to her room in the Bachelor Officers Quarters, a three-story cinder-block edifice which boasted the distinction of being the island’s tallest building. Half an hour later Char answered a knock at her door to find Tyrone standing there. She let him in, relieved to have someone to talk to besides the drooping plant the room’s previous occupant had left behind, which Char had christened Doris.

Tyrone quickly made it clear that he didn’t want to just talk. Why not, Char decided. She excused herself to go into the bathroom and insert her diaphragm. Doris drooped even further when Char emerged, as if disappointed in her new caregiver. Char ignored Doris and gave Tyrone a tight-lipped smile. Unlike Doris, he didn’t droop. He had pulled the sheet over his lower body and folded his arms under his pillowed head. Stretching so that she couldn’t help but notice how the sheet tented at his groin, he awaited the admiring comment that was not forthcoming. But his momentary confusion disappeared when Char whipped off the sheet and kneed him to the center of the bed.

They got down to business and, finished, lay side by side staring up at the dark ceiling.

In the middle of the night Char woke up, startled, before she remembered who snored beside her. She relaxed. In the morning he was gone, not to be seen or heard from until he nodded politely when she pushed open the office door Monday morning.

Since then, five months ago, their Friday nights had followed that exact routine. Except for his two weeks of off-island leave, planned with Bernice long before Char arrived. Bernice, Tyrone’s wife, was waiting patiently for him back in D.C. while he completed this unaccompanied tour.

Always Tyrone and Char used her room, never his. Char suspected that a framed photograph of a smiling Bernice sat on Tyrone’s bedside table and that he didn’t want to be reminded he was cheating while engaged in the actual act. Sort of an out of sight, out of mind kind of a situation. Even if she guessed wrong, Tyrone had never invited her to his room. They had yet to discuss their dicey relationship. Did they even have one? Privately Char thought of what they did as convenient copulation. Or comfort copulation. Like comfort food, only better, because it used up calories.

Char huffed at her little joke and reached for more peanuts. She would work them off later, if Tyrone ever showed up...

At the office they behaved coolly, even formally, toward each other. Char doubted that anyone who witnessed their professional interactions suspected anything. They were careful. Had to be. Chain of command and all that shit, she acknowledged, and sighed. The military would never accept loneliness and boredom as excuses for behaving as she and Tyrone did. Yet who on this desolate rock wasn’t lonely and bored?

Every sailor, married or single, came here on bachelor status, which made for interesting pairings during the one-year stints on the atoll. Hers and Tyrone’s was risky because commanding and commanded didn’t screw one another. Supposedly, anyway, though she had known plenty who did during her seven years in the Navy. The trick was not to get caught.

And, while Tyrone might get in trouble, she wouldn’t escape. He was her boss, yes, but his molasses-dark skin profited both Tyrone and the Navy at a time when all service branches wanted to improve the image of how minorities were treated. Tyrone was aware of his worth, though Char thought his perception was as inflated as his physical self-image. He might have been looking in a funhouse mirror when he shaved every morning. She imagined that he saw a fierce Maasai warrior staring back at him when, in truth, he more resembled a chubby gingerbread man lolling around waiting to be baked. He did have the Maasai’s high cheekbones and sculpted lips, but the rest of him was rounded softness, slack muscle oozing into jiggly fat, that of an aging athlete surrendering early.

Petty Officer Runningdeer, one of the two yeomen in their four-person office, said that Tyrone had played football in college. Char had nodded and filed away that nugget of information. She knew nothing about football. She knew about Maasai warriors only because Tyrone had described in detail the African safari from which he had just returned.

Looks aside, she had to admit that Tyrone’s mind was razor sharp. He also knew influential people in the Pentagon, and back home Bernice was the daughter of – Char couldn’t recall the politician’s name, but he was influential enough that his son-in-law wouldn’t be the sacrificial lamb if he and she were found out. No, she, Char, would be. Char couldn’t deceive herself into believing otherwise. They should talk, she and Tyrone. Right now, however, he was phoning Bernice, as he did a couple of times a week.

Meanwhile, Char sat alone at the corner table she and Tyrone customarily claimed as theirs. She took a sip of beer and half-heartedly eavesdropped on the conversation at the next table.

The table’s khaki-clad occupants, all men, had already been drinking when she first arrived an hour ago. They had emptied several pitchers since then. She didn’t recognize them as regulars at the O-Club. But ships were always docking for a day or two at this dot in the middle of nowhere, and they would soon be gone, and others would replace them. No need to get acquainted. Meanwhile, they partied. Beer had loosened their tongues, and their discretion. They bragged about themselves and their accomplishments on the job and off, and expressed their appreciation for Australian women, which meant they were either coming from or going to where those women were. Either was possible, Char thought enviously.

Tyrone was taking longer than usual to extricate himself from his phone conversation. What did they have to say to one another, Tyrone and this Bernice whose photo Char had yet to see? Had they developed a private code before Tyrone arrived? Agreed to see and even have sex with others during this time apart? An open marriage, some called it. Worse, on the African safari, had they discussed and laughed at their current, and temporary, lovers’ antics? You should see/hear what he/she does when blah-blah-blah. Char frowned at the thought and turned to look out the plate glass window at the setting sun, just as a white-coated waiter deftly lowered the bamboo screen that served as a curtain and plunged the room into shadows. He ignored Char’s resentful stare and glided away to fetch another pitcher for the next table.

They were growing louder and rowdier by the second. She felt eyes on her, appraising and rating her on that familiar numerical scale of one to ten. Unless Tyrone showed up in the next five minutes, she would retreat to her BOQ room. Meanwhile, she made a show of studying the logo on the cocktail napkin her sweating mug sat on. Drunk as they were, her would-be judges quickly lost interest and returned to their friendly banter.

It wasn’t until one of the sailors leaned forward and hissed a name which Char hadn’t heard on the island until this instant that she sat up and focused on what they were saying.

The delivery was nothing she hadn’t heard in any other O-Club over the past five years. It had taken him that long to gain this reputation and for the tall tales to begin circulating. Army, Navy, Air Force, whatever, the different military forces overlapped and acted as a surprisingly tight community.

Still, curious, she listened, though she tried to pretend that she wasn’t doing just that.

It was always the same: quips meant to sound light-hearted instead emerged as reverent. They spoke as if he were a modern-day Achilles, a hero, a man on his way to being mythologized, a warrior.

He served with Special Forces, she had learned, though what that meant for the Army she hadn’t bothered herself about. She had interreacted with the Navy equivalent, the SEALS, who were either too quiet and composed and eternally watchful, or so wild-eyed and frenzied that she was afraid one would pull out a Bowie knife and carve up anybody who cut in line in front of him at the commissary. Char avoided both types. Time and again, she had wondered to which extreme Uri gravitated.

The junior officers who held Uri in such unadulterated awe were always males no more than twenty-three or -four, fresh-faced striplings who swaggered with a false idea of their own self-importance. The few women present, though today there were none, would roll their eyes and look bored. Whether wives of military men or officers themselves, and sometimes they juggled both roles, they were women in a man’s world who knew better than to believe every story they heard. Exaggerated bullshit, they muttered to one another, and turned to more interesting topics, either where they were headed on their next leave, or how terrible the food in the dining room downstairs had been last week, or simple office gossip. Except that office gossip was never truly simple. It was very political, and the wives who were not officers themselves kept abreast of it as befitted military spouses advancing their husbands’ careers. Sometimes they knew more than Char and the other female officers did.

No wives were present here and now, of course.

Always before, however, in other O-Clubs in other parts of the world, Char had followed their lead and assumed a blank expression. It wasn’t him, it couldn’t be, she assured herself, and tried to look as unimpressed as the other women. Eventually she accepted that the soldier they spoke of just might be Uri, even while her pulse raced and her mind slipped back into the past.

She remembered the confused boy-man she had rejected and, worse, what had followed that leaving. Just as cold made a fractured bone ache long after it had healed and returned to functioning, so the reverent talk of the Amish Whatever-He-Was awakened emotions she would sooner not reexamine.

That chapter of her life was done. Finished. Completed. Or so she had thought.

And what was it they called him? The Amish Sniper or the Amish Assassin: she had heard both used interchangeably.

A faraway memory stirred, of Uri’s voice: They called me their Amish sharpshooter. Who had called him that? Char couldn’t remember, but she clearly remembered Uri’s tone: tentative yet proud. Tentative, yes, because to the Amish pride was a cardinal sin.

But Uri was no longer Amish. He had left before he ever made the decision to be baptized and join the church. Instead, he joined the military, the Army, to be precise. Char had joined the Navy, but only after…

Sorry for taking so long. Balancing two full mugs, Tyrone eased himself into the chair next to her. He set one mug down in front of her. The other he raised in an informal toast to the sailors at the next table before throwing back his head and quaffing half its contents. Ahhh! That hits the spot. His eyes watered, and a dazed grin split his face.

Char turned and stared at him. Tyrone didn’t guzzle. He took long, slow swallows, even of beer, and swilled it around in his mouth before swallowing.

What’s wrong? she asked.

He shrugged and pulled the bowl of peanuts within easy reach, scooped up a handful, looked at the nuts as if wondering where they had come from, and let them fall between his fingers back into the bowl. Nothing you need to worry over. I was about to ask you the same. You were looking right at me when I came in the door, but you might as well have been looking through me. Didn’t you see me signaling to ask if you wanted a refill? He squinted up at the strategically placed ceiling lights. I know it’s dark in here, but my skin ain’t that black, is it? Tyrone had never tried this running joke on her, though she had seen him use it on their yeomen when he felt they didn’t respond fast enough to his hovering presence beside their desks. With them it worked, usually because he delivered it with a derisive smile. Now his expression was one of distant petulance. His mind was elsewhere, not on her.

Not that hers had been on him. Tyrone was right. But she had never told him or anyone else in the military about Uri’s and her friendship. Should she now? Might she gain Tyrone’s grudging respect if she admitted to hanging out with the Amish Sniper/Assassin? She considered for a nanosecond and decided that, no, her confession would win her nothing.

However, Tyrone seemed not to expect an answer to his question, which usually elicited mumbled apologies and quick action from the yeomen when he used it on them. With her he meant it to be rhetorical. His gaze had shifted to the next table, and, as she had done earlier, he was listening to the earnest discussion. The awed voices had dropped to near whispers, forcing Tyrone to tilt his head and put a hand to his ear. Unlike Char, he didn’t try to disguise his interest in what was being said. Which continued to be about Uri.

– some wacky Middle Eastern potentate wants ’im gone.

Nah, it was that crazy in South America. Or was it Central? Geography wasn’t my best subject in school –

Ya mean you went to school! I never woulda guessed – Ouch! I was just joshing!– this in response to an elbow jab prompting throaty guffaws and cackles aimed at both the teased and the teaser. Char had never heard men cackle, but these did.

Could’ve been that Russian, the one that looks like a dead fish. Those bulging eyes –

Some say the Queen of England –

Are you loony? Why would the Queen of England want to have anyone killed?

Well, not the Queen exactly, but some of the weak-chinned weirdos who work for her. They’re afraid of losing their power, what with the world changing like it is –

Best guess is that it wasn’t just one hit put out on him. It was a bunch. Why else would the military decide to hide him –

"But where are they hiding him?"

Leavenworth, he’s stuck in a prison even though he’s an American patriot and a hero –

The Pentagon! It’s like a labyrinth –

Overseas somewhere. The Army has lots of bases in Germany –

Nah, they’d put him somewhere in the States. A base in the sticks, say, in the Dakotas –

There are Army bases in Hawaii. Ever heard that the best hiding places are the obvious ones? Aloha and all that crap –

And it’s not that far from Australia! Japan too! Now there are some fine women for you –

Voices rose as the young men debated. Having exhausted possible places of concealment for the Amish Sniper/Assassin, they turned to a more pleasurable topic and deliberated the merits of Australian versus Japanese women.

Tyrone smiled grimly and shook his head.

Char wished they would quiet down again.

She leaned over and said sotto voce, I’m so tired of hearing women’s breasts compared to different melons –

Tyrone chuckled. Gotta have some way to size ’em. Let those boys alone. They work hard. Need something to look forward to in their off time when there aren’t any women around.

Which there weren’t, Char had to acquiesce. Except for her, and no way was she going to engage in more than one casual fling at a time.

Now about your breasts… Tyrone purred, watching the absorbed sailors like an indulgent father. All attention was on one who cupped both hands in front of his own flat chest and said something about cantaloupes.

Tyrone’s comment startled Char. This titillating talk wasn’t like him. He was an unimaginative though accommodating lover, willing to try whatever she suggested. Still, she appreciated this unexpected show of vigor. Did a few more beers make all the difference? Or had Bernice said something over the phone? No matter: Bernice wasn’t here. She was. And these unexpected comments about Uri frightened her into a recklessness that also seemed to have infected Tyrone. Emotions were catching. Mass hysteria and all that stuff you read about…

What about my breasts? Char encouraged.

She looked straight ahead. She and Tyrone didn’t touch and made no eye contact. They might have been discussing one of the yeomen’s fit reps, so proper did they appear. At least she hoped they did. The risk they were taking, the guise they worked under, did intensify the otherwise casual sex. Tyrone wasn’t the best lover she had ever had, but he would do, he would do – especially tonight, when she needed to banish Uri’s specter.

He was being hunted down like an animal…

Your breasts, sweet thing, oh, they put me in mind of watermelons, large and firm and bouncy. And, babe, they bounce, oh, they do when you ride me! You close your eyes and throw back your head and twist and turn till you get what you’re searching for. You aiming to search tonight?

Char’s chest tightened. Her breath caught in her throat. I’m going to my room right now, she managed and, getting to her feet, walked with what she hoped was a not too unsteady dignity past the bar area, nodded to the stone-faced bartender, and wobbled down the stairs and across the dirt road to the BOQ. Not for the first time, she wished that she hadn’t worn her uniform heels. But they did lengthen her legs, and she wasn’t unaware of the hungry eyes that turned from the suddenly silent rowdies’ table to observe her exit.

Eat your heart out, boys, she smirked to herself.

Tyrone would follow, of that she had no doubt. What did concern her was that she was running low on her supply of spermicidal gel. When she came to the atoll she hadn’t planned on these regular Friday night acrobatic sessions. Perhaps Tyrone should start using condoms –

A suggestion that made him recoil when she proposed it twenty minutes later.

Nah, none of that! Dulls the sensation. And what good is sex then? Use the gel you got. When it’s gone, we’ll figure out something.

He was preoccupied, and the act wasn’t what she had hoped it might be. She felt oddly cheated.

She rolled over on her side, propped herself up on her elbow, and studied Tyrone.

As was their habit, they had been lying faceup, sweaty bodies in contact only because the bed was so narrow. Shoulders, hips, and knees brushed, but no more. There was no post-coital cuddling. Never had been. Now Tyrone rested a forearm over his face as if he wanted to shut out not just the light but the world.

What’s the matter? Char asked. Surprised, Tyrone removed his arm and blinked at her.

Clearing his throat, he said that he had something he wanted, no, needed to tell her. Two things, actually.

The first was personal. Bernice was pregnant. That African safari had fertilized more than just their knowledge of the continent from which slavers had ripped their ancestors, Tyrone joked.

But Char could tell that the news had stunned him, and he hadn’t yet decided how he felt about his impending fatherhood.

When’s she due?

Tyrone wrinkled his forehead. Seven months from now, she said.

Char nodded. That would be when she departed. But Tyrone would leave a month before her.

Maybe you’ll make it back in time for the birth, she offered.

He grimaced. Babies take a long time to ripen. Like they were pieces of fruit.

When he laid out the second piece of news, work-related, so information he could tell her more calmly, Char understood Tyrone’s ambivalence. She herself couldn’t decide how she felt.

Because the Amish Sniper/Assassin, that is, Uri, was going into hiding, that much of the gossip overheard in the O-Club was true enough. What wasn’t true was where he was headed. Not to Leavenworth, a military prison; not to the Pentagon, the Department of Defensive’s infamous maze of administrative offices in D.C.; not to any Army base overseas or in the U.S.

Here Tyrone hesitated, as if uncertain about how much to divulge. The key word is ‘Army.’ The man’s Army, yeah, but the powers-that-be decided to hand him over to another service to confuse his pursuers. And they chose the Navy, and a trusted source told me that – he gave a rueful chuckle and shook his head in disbelief – he’s coming here. To this itty-bitty rock. Where no one would think to look for him. He’ll be safe enough. For a while anyway, till they figure out what to do next. He looked over at Char and said sternly, This is confidential, of course. Don’t mention it in ‘The Reef.’ That’s an order.

The Reef was the title of the weekly newspaper Char compiled.

No, sir! she mocked. Surely Tyrone could see how ridiculous it was for him to issue an order when he was sprawled naked beside her, having just indulged in an illegal act for which he could be court-martialed. And did he really think her judgment that poor? She felt safe enough to ask him that question, bold though it seemed.

Tyrone waved a hand dismissively. Nah, nah! Just making sure! She could tell his mind had already wandered elsewhere. Probably to D.C. and Bernice.

And her mind had also wandered. But not before she asked casually, Where will this Amish guy stay? In the BOQ?

Tyrone’s reply was brusque and immediate. No, ma’am. He’s enlisted. So, in the barracks, that I can tell ya for sure.

Of course. Uri had enlisted, while she had gone in as an officer, thanks to the college degree her well-off parents’ money had entitled her to. Char exhaled and cursed under her breath. The military had a strict caste system. So far she had obeyed it, dated only officers, though Tyrone wasn’t the first married one she had dallied with. He was the first whose skin was a darker shade than hers, however.

She lay down next to him and joined him in staring up at the ceiling.

My life’s gonna change, he mumbled. I just hope it’s for the better.

Char nodded. Her life too might be about to change, though how Uri’s reappearance would affect it she couldn’t predict. It would, but first they would have to find one another. Let him be the one to seek her out, she thought. She would simply provide ample opportunities – to be found.

She shocked Tyrone when she put her hand on his thigh and announced that, first, she wanted to put an advice column in The Reef and, second, that she wanted their office to sponsor a poetry reading in the base’s Quonset hut library.

Frowning, Tyrone nodded. She could do as she pleased, he said.

And damn the consequences, Char smiled to herself. Feeling downright giddy, she brushed her hand against Tyrone’s limp penis and heard his sharp intake of breath. Usually once was enough for them both. Not tonight, though –

She leaned over to nibble his earlobe but instead bit the tip of his nose when he suddenly turned his head.

Ow! Char, what the –

Lie back, she breathed, and I’ll show you how my watermelon breasts bounce when I’m, how did you put it, twisting and turning till I get what I’m searching for. Interested?

Ohhh yeah! His words sounded like a prayer to Char. She straddled him and began the slow gyrations she had perfected over the years. It didn’t take long to satisfy Tyrone. It never took long to satisfy any man she had been with, yet she had never found, to borrow Tyrone’s words, what she twisted and turned and searched for. Physical release she had achieved, or she had learned to fake it, but no emotional connection had developed into a long-lasting relationship.

Not with any man, though she had tried with a willing few, this while making her career as a United States Navy Public Affairs Officer her priority. Eventually all of the men – and she could count their number on the fingers of one hand – had drifted away, into the arms of women who prioritized them over getting press releases out on time. Now, as a senior lieutenant, she wondered: should she have behaved differently? Even here, in the privacy of her quarters half a world away, her mother’s warnings screeched at her: You’re pushing middle age, honey! Those ovaries are atrophying! Find yourself a good man before they’re all taken and give me and your father some grandchildren!

Char thought she might be able to manage a cat.

But just this morning she had spotted a gray hair at her temple. Perhaps her mother was right, she mused now, some twelve hours after that discovery, rubbing where she had plucked out the telltale hair. It could be time – to do what? She couldn’t say, beyond that she sought a satisfaction that currently eluded her. She was a complete bafflement to her own self.

Beside her, Tyrone snorted and turned on his side. Awake in the warm blackness – her air conditioner was on the fritz again – Char mulled over her emotions about reconnecting with Uri. Apprehension was compounded with curiosity and, yes, eagerness. But she had long ago worked through any regrets for what she had chosen and done, and she had never felt guilty, only sad. She hoped that seeing Uri wouldn’t trigger a resurgence of that melancholy. Some called women who aborted their babies cold-hearted killers, monsters. She might be. She and Uri both. Maybe they deserved each other.

CHAPTER TWO

Char decided to set up the advice column first. Easy enough, she assured herself, before realizing that she lacked a critical component: advice seekers. She needed them to launch the column.

Though she toyed with the idea of inventing some would-be- pleaders-for-her-counsel, she soon abandoned that possibility. First, she questioned its journalistic integrity, although Tyrone huffed his disagreement during their Monday morning briefing.

You’re writing for ‘The Reef,’ not ‘Navy Times’ or even ‘The Stars and Stripes,’ he said shortly, then hesitated. I understand that you wish you were. He added a quick Lieutenant, which meant that at least one of the yeomen was within earshot and Tyrone wanted to emphasize the professional distance he and Char so carefully maintained.

She swiveled in her desk chair. Petty Officer Johansen had paused in whatever work task he was currently engaged to pick his nose.

Petty Officer Runningdeer was nowhere to be seen. Half an hour earlier Tyrone had sent him to the supply department on the other side of the admin building to requisition the office staples they always seemed to be short on.

The admin building smelled of mildew.

It was a rambling one-story edifice with a colonnaded open-air passageway built around a square brick courtyard. The interior high ceilings with their intricately carved molding hinted at the building’s intended use as part of a colonial planter’s estate circa 1910. The planter’s identity and what crop he would have cultivated had never been established, perhaps because he had never moved in. He died in Europe, or so the story went. His heirs sold the faraway atoll to the American military, which quickly swept in and relocated the few islanders elsewhere before realizing that they needed native workers. They rehired some, who were canny enough to sign on as well-paid government employees. The workers and their families lived in a small huddle of Quonset huts on the leeward side of the island, in the exact locale where their razed village had stood.

They did well for themselves against the cheating whites, those brown people did, Tyrone had once declared to Char in what she supposed was their version of pillow talk. She had neither agreed nor disagreed.

What mattered right now was not which skin color had prevailed, but that sending yeomen on errands meant they would be gone longer than a superior assumed. Predictably the yeomen would run into others crossing the courtyard on similar duties or would themselves have to travel outside the admin building proper, to the Quonset huts that housed departments not squeezed inside the main building, and they would stop to exchange greetings and the latest news.

This was the most relaxed duty station at which Char had ever been stationed, an inevitability in the sweltering humidity. A languor developed in even the most energetic individuals during their stay.

Anyway, Petty Officer Runningdeer would not return within the next few minutes.

With a horrified fascination Char observed Petty Officer Johansen’s nasal excavation. Extracting a booger the size and color of a singed rice kernel, he balanced it on the tip of a forefinger and studied it with an intensity that refuted his eavesdropping. Johansen was a slack-jawed white youth from one of the Dakotas. His attention usually extended no further than the mysterious workings of his own gangly body. Char didn’t worry about him figuring out what was going on between her and Tyrone.

Runningdeer, on the other hand, she did worry about. She had mistaken Petty Officer Runningdeer’s bronzed skin tone for a sun worshiper’s tan until he told her that he was born and raised on a reservation. He had joined the Navy because he got tired of waiting, as he put it. For what he had waited he hadn’t explained, and Char would have felt inappropriately nosy asking. Runningdeer was reticent and soft-spoken and bore watching precisely because of those qualities.

Johansen carefully wiped the booger off on a desk corner. Char made a mental note to avoid that side of his desk when she dropped off any papers for him to collate and staple.

So, what’s your second concern, Lieutenant? Tyrone’s impatient voice recalled her to their discussion. Today he was especially observant of Navy office protocol. Idly she speculated that over the weekend he might have come to terms with Bernice’s pregnancy and was trying to wiggle out of their Friday night assignations.

Not that she would mind, she decided. Her nonchalance surprised her. Her ego wasn’t in the least affected. Disengaging might be a welcome relief.

She shrugged and felt herself blushing. If Johansen only knew! My second concern, Commander, is that, well, no one on the island has any problems they would write in and, uh, ask for help with. Do you agree, sir? She gave a sheepish grin.

She had just imagined a daring example: Dear Aunt Adi, I’m sleeping with my married boss –

Aunt Adi, that could be her pseudonym. Adi was an anagram of a late great-aunt’s name. Ida would have been tickled pink to have an advice column that honored her in a roundabout way while still allowing her to retain her maidenly decorum. Outward appearances mattered as much as inner to the Amish and Mennonites. Ida had been a Mennonite.

Tyrone glowered at her.

No, Lieutenant, I do not agree. You need to show some initiative and, and – He sputtered, unsure about how to proceed. His wary gaze slid across to Johansen, who, the booger properly disposed of, looked up with uncharacteristic interest.

Sir, ma’am, you need problems? I got problems.

That’s for sure, Char was tempted to say. She didn’t.

Petty Officer Johansen’s guileless blue eyes met hers. That he had interrupted his departmental commander, a definite violation of military protocol in an office or any other setting, had apparently not occurred to him.

Me and Runningdeer got problems we could write you about. And other sailors, after they see your column in print, they’ll write in too. Everyone on this island has problems they’d like to unload. He sniffed self-righteously.

Indeed…Dear Aunt Adi, my married lover has learned that his wife is pregnant –

But Bernice’s pregnancy meant nothing to her, because she had no expectations beyond surviving the next seven months till she rotated out. Only one month until she was halfway through this tour. Char heaved a sigh of relief, which Tyrone took for her agreement with Johansen’s proposal. And Tyrone himself looked less like he needed to swallow a few antacids.

A fine suggestion, Johansen. Compose a few sample letters to run by me. And spread the word among your buddies. For good measure, put up some signs in the enlisted barracks, and on the bulletin boards outside the mess hall and other public areas. Tyrone thought for a moment. Not on the chapel bulletin board, though. The chaplain might take offense. He gets riled when he feels that his territory’s been invaded.

Char hadn’t visited the chapel since she arrived. Sundays she slept in, finished any laundry not done on Saturdays, talked to and tended Doris, and otherwise lolled around. She didn’t think that she had ever encountered the chaplain, unless they had bumped shopping baskets while negotiating the convenience store-sized exchange’s narrow aisles. They could have been out of uniform then. No, she hadn’t been to church in a while. Uri might want to go. Easter had recently passed, but she might be willing to attend a Christmas Eve service with him –

Tyrone’s pronouncement broke into her daydreaming: It’s settled then.

Both he and Petty Officer Johansen were looking at her expectantly. Char nodded. She immediately stood and smoothed her skirt.

Now that we’ve decided that, I’ll begin organizing the poetry reading, she threw over her shoulder as she shot out the office door. I’m off to the library. Toodle-loo!

That was one of the expressions her mother used when she made a hasty exit. Definitely not military protocol. Char didn’t look back but sensed the stunned faces of the two men in her office. If Johansen qualifies as a man. He’s so young.

Uri had been about the same age when he joined the Army. Yes, so young.

From the other end of the passageway Runningdeer approached, staggering under the weight of a cardboard box half his size. His supply run had been successful. Once again, they were adequately stocked – until an enterprising yeoman in a neighboring office slipped in after hours and made off with whatever hadn’t been locked up or bolted down.

That very morning, in the briefing out of which she had just scuttled, Tyrone had claimed that someone shipped stolen office supplies, even equipment, off the island and made a killing peddling the illegal wares on the black market.

Made a killing, that’s funny…No, not really.

She emerged into the morning’s wet heat. It felt like entering a steam bath without having the swirling white mists to soothe the transition from dimness into sudden brightness.

Is this what being born is like? That baby never knew…

Squinting up at the blinding sun, Char dismissed that random thought which had sprung unbidden into her consciousness. She fumbled in the uniform purse swinging off her shoulder for her sunglasses and put them on. The purse bumped against her hip as she hurried down the road to the library. It stood just beyond the enlisted barracks where Tyrone said Uri would be housed.

Uri read a lot. He’ll like having the library so close.

She was dwelling too much on the certainty of his coming. In the Navy, orders were often changed. She assumed the Army operated similarly.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement. She glanced sideways but saw nothing. Nevertheless, Char shivered. Spirits, including that of a Word War II Japanese soldier, were said to roam the atoll, though only at night. Any bold apparition which ventured out by day risked the sun’s shriveling it into whimpering extinction. So claimed the poker-faced natives. Maybe she had just witnessed such a destruction.

Or maybe the ingenious specter had retreated into the library.

When she pushed open the door, row upon row of floor-to-ceiling shelves greeted Char. Hardbacks, paperbacks, and magazines were stacked