Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
I tore the paper open right there by the counter.
The single sheet inside was brief, mentioning the summer heat and the transmission on his Buick, but there was not a single word about my house. He did not say if he had mowed the lawn, or if the storm windows were secured for the season.
“Nothing else for you, Sergeant,” the clerk said, tossing the empty bin aside.
I folded the paper and slipped it into my pocket, the lack of news in the letter feeling heavier than any bad news.
At midnight, the base terminal lounge was dim and smelled of floor wax and jet fuel.
Two Marines from my logistics detachment sat on the vinyl seats opposite me, their heads tilted back against the wall as they slept through the delay.
My phone buzzed in my palm, the screen cutting through the yellow shadows of the terminal.
It was a text message from my father.
He wanted my social security number, sent immediately over the unsecured line.
I typed out a quick reply, asking why he needed the digits and whether the plumber had finished with the bathroom leak.
The screen lit up again three minutes later.
“Everything is fine at the house, just send the numbers I asked for,” the text read.
I stared at the words, my thumb hovering over the keypad as the boarding call for our flight echoed over the speakers. I sent the numbers because he was my father, and because I could not imagine any reason to doubt him.
The humid Gulf Coast air was thick enough to wear when we landed the next afternoon.
I stood by the airport luggage carousel, watching the black bags tumble onto the belt while a shuttle driver in a faded shirt held a sign with my name on it.
