Marine Returns From Okinawa to Find Her Bungalow Already Sold
“Staff Sergeant?” the driver asked, reaching for my green military seabag as it slid down the metal ramp.
“That is me,” I said, but my attention was already locked on my phone screen.
There were three missed calls from an eight-fifty-four area code, a local Pensacola exchange I did not recognize.
I tried to call my father back twice, but the line went straight to his generic voicemail greeting. He had stopped answering my questions entirely, ignoring every query about the bungalow.
I stared at the blank screen of my phone, wondering why my father’s messages had suddenly turned so cold.
The taxi driver drove out of the airport grounds, heading south toward the bay. The vinyl seat of the old sedan was hot against my uniform trousers. I tried my father’s number again, listening to the hollow ring before the line cut to the automated message. I hung up without leaving another voicemail. It was the fourth time in three hours he had ignored my call.
