A Trip to The Drug Store

Fort Bragg is shaped like a muscular forearm jabbing east from Southern Pines to the chin of Fayetteville. I live close enough to this mammoth facility that a few days a month I can hear the distant thunder of artillery as soldiers practice for warfare.

When I first moved to Whispering Pines all those soldiers had to do was practice, but of course all of that has now changed. When I go shopping in Fayetteville I no longer see scores of men in combat fatigues shopping with their wives. What I see are mothers shopping alone, dividing their attention between rock bottom specials and errant children. Husbands and fathers once involved in the routine of ordinary life are now in Iraq.

Here in Moore County homes in every community are decorated by trees that have sprouted yellow ribbons. Virtually every one of those ribbons is a sign that someone inside is missing, and an indication that others inside that home are praying for a soldier’s safe return. Standing in line at the grocery store I’ll see mothers wearing lapel pins with a star that stands for a child in combat and the terrible burden of persistent anxiety.

Where ever the relatives of soldiers meet the first topic of conversation is always the same - their last phone call with whomever is serving. They live for these calls even though they come infrequently, unannounced, and at any time of the day or night. Loved ones will say, "He called at 5 a.m. and he said it’s hot. He misses fishing… has no idea exactly when he’s coming home. Promised he’d be careful… said he isn’t seeing much action."

Recently I was standing at a camera counter next to a woman who carried a foot locker masquerading as a purse. While we waited for a clerk to find our names among scores of white envelopes a ring sounded from the depths of her purse. She threw open the flap and reached inside desperately trying to find her cell phone. Her right hand stirred among packages of gum, paper back books, brushes, and sundries of all kinds… but all without success.

That effort cost her three rings.

In a panic she turned her purse upside down and emptied its contents on the counter. Coins went rolling, an atomizer spun like a top, a tin of aspirin popped open and her cell phone hid beneath a red scarf.

Now it rang for a fourth time.

Seeing the silk vibrate she reached for it, but the phone squeezed out of her grip like an icicle. It flew in an arc over the counter and landed on the floor just as the phone sounded its fifth and final ring.

The look on the woman’s face was a mixture of self indictment and desolation. Her shoulders sagged and her appearance assumed the weight of ten additional years.

I asked, "Is he in Iraq?"

"Yes," she replied.

"It probably wasn’t him," I reassured her.

The young woman made no attempt to answer me. The reassurance of a stranger was probably not worth much to her right then. She looked away and started stuffing the scattered debris back into her purse. Before she had finished she paused and called out an expletive to no one in particular. She was angry, but her tears implied that she was feeling something more than that.