Married to the Sea

By Halle Mosser

I am a Naval Officer’s spouse. But enough about me.

My least flattering quality is I see their rank before I validate them as a person. My summer job at the on-base coffee shop has me serving espresso and homemade pastries to the overworked enlisted and officer students at the Navy’s nuclear power school. I always get nervous when officers come to the coffee shop – Krakens in a sea full of enlisted students.

“Cortado?” I asked, assuming his order.

“Caramel Apple’Cinno.” He responded, stone-cold.

Staring back at him I remembered that he is not the same Lieutenant Commander who orders a cortado. I feel ashamed behind my Naval Academy hat – the security blanket I wear daily so customers know I’m not incompetent and that despite my underemployment, I got a Nuclear Surface Warfare Officer, a 2020 graduate of the United States Naval Academy to marry me.

“Got it.” I flashed a highly-caffeinated smile back at him, my eyes still fixated on his insignia.

I layer the ingredients of his seasonal drink into a blender – two shots of espresso, a four-count of caramel, five pumps of apple syrup, ice, and 2% milk. I slam the top shut harder than I should. Blades cut through the ice, a coworker steams milk behind me, a top 40 song plays on the radio and I shut my eyes, overstimulated, wondering when I will use my college and advanced degrees to help support my household. I pour the drink into a plastic cup. My coworker offers the advice, “Put more ice in that. He doesn’t like it runny.” I repeat the process at my place of underemployment. All summer long.

I see a regular enter – a young, unemployed chief’s wife – and begin making her drink of choice while I anticipate her daily unsolicited opinion as to why officers are the scum of the Navy. I smile and nod, never volunteering the information that my husband is an officer. The only context clue is my hat. I never bothered to ask her name because she doesn’t want to be known as anything other than a stay-at-home chief’s wife. I feel sad for her - wondering if that is how she determines her worth because she is part of the 30% of military spouses that have a four-year degree for a career that may never start. I fear that could be me. Another order for a vanilla latte is called out.

“Oat – not 2%” A customer barks from the other side of the station. I peek out from under my hat, looking at his chest for his rank. I don’t know what the rank is – only that it’s not part of officer insignia, therefore, his direction is unmerited. I point to the recipe on the cup that states his order.

I point at the writing on the cup. “I can read.” I grapple with the reality that my English degree is being used to serve coffee correctly. My tone is jarring and I realize I’m rude – that I am not conducting myself like an officer’s spouse.

“May I watch?” A new voice is hardly audible behind me. I turn to match the face to the new voice. She is a new hire that my boss promised I’d like because, “she’s a military spouse, like you!”

“Ya, of course.” I step aside and hand her the cup and espresso handle. “Follow these measurements.” I analyze my new co-worker. Her hair is flat, the ends dead and dry from too many at-home bleach baths. Her shirt is thin and she’s either wearing a flimsy bra underneath her fast-fashion t-shirt or nothing at all. She finishes the drink leaving a puddle of milk on the counter and chocolate sauce up her arm. “Good job.” I force myself to say. “I heard your husbands in the Navy?”

“Yes, he is.” She rinsed the chocolate off her arm and told me what I’d already assumed. She is 19 and married to an E-1 and they have a daughter – hoping for another one soon. I pull my ponytail tighter around my hat, shamefully thankful that she isn’t married to an Academy grad and that her husband must salute mine!

“Well, it’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Halle.” I smile and keep my hands to myself.

“Lily.” She responds.

At home, I tell my husband about my day, the new co-worker, and the daily jab from the chief’s wife, and he listens intently, never making me feel belittled like what I do isn’t important.

“Maybe your co-worker can be a new friend!” He offers a resolution for my qualms with this new, unkempt partner.

“I don’t want to be friends with her.” I offer no other explanation and he doesn’t push. I retreat to my office and sit at my corner desk underneath two framed degrees collecting dust. I mark in red pen my upcoming schedule on the wall calendar and head to bed to dread my 0400 alarm.

This is my third week working with her. I don’t hide my annoyance – she’s cumbersome and interacts uncomfortably with our customers. I noticed her cheeks were flushed and that she’d been avoiding eye contact with me - navigating herself awkwardly around our kiosk to stay distant from me. Did she find out who my husband is? Does she feel intimidated to be around me now?

“Is everything ok?”

“I got written up today.” Her voice was loud, shaking. “Ken came in and said employees and customers were complaining about me.”

Her outburst didn’t sound like an accusation – even though I did speak to our owner, Ken, about our incompatibility when it comes to job duties, customer service, and product knowledge. It all feels so high school and I almost believe that unemployment would be better than this underemployment.

“I can't lose this job.” She hides her wet eyes in her hands.

Before I can consider offering solace, the bells chime, and the chief’s wife walks through the door swinging her car keys and smacking a piece of gum. Her only responsibility for the day is to spend eight dollars on an espresso drink paid for out of her joint Navy Federal account that is funded solely by her husband's income.

Lily takes to the cash register – her attempt to gather herself is admirable. The write-up must have worked. The wife peacocks up and gives her daily example of why her husband is superior. I realize I’m not wearing my hat and I feel exposed and vulnerable. The wife is interrogating Lily, probing about her own husband's position and Lily avoids answering, desperately trying to take an order. The wife mutters something I can’t hear over the coffee brewing but I see the dam break in Lily. Tears falling. Gasping for breath.

“Ma’am. I need you to please order or kindly remove yourself and come back when you’re ready to play nice.” I feel Lily cowering – seeking safety behind me. The wife and I exchange stern glances and furrowed brows – both of us too stubborn to break first. I search for anything on her person that indicates she has her hobbies, accomplishments, or goals but instead, she’s covered in Navy memorabilia. For a second I thought I saw a dark flash in her eyes - one that apologized for who she had become. Complacency overcame her in the form of gray tattered personal training gear worn by her husband years ago.

“Cold brew.” Her voice was low, almost sad.

I handed her the drink without charging her. Her presence upset Lily in a way that wasn’t worth waiting for her to pay $3.25. Once the door chimes rang and the sound of the wife’s flip flops click-clacked out of the lobby, Lily let out the longest exhale.

“Why did you say you couldn’t lose this job?” I prompted.

“It’s the only thing that I have that’s my own.” She hung her head in shame.

I stumbled over a few words but couldn’t complete my thought. It left me jarred, awakening a realization in me that everything about my husband I’d made my own. Lily had begun wearing her issued t-shirt and following the protocols. She was proud to make coffee for the tired enlisted, the cocky officers, and the complacent wives. I was simply gritting my teeth, putting my worth in my husband's value, becoming the most shallow, unflattering version of myself at my and my co-worker's expense. Words failed me and instead, I reached out to grab her hand. She squeezed tightly back.

“I made something for you.” Lily shook her hand free and pulled a small ziplock bag out of her purse.

“Made?” I never bothered to invest in Lily and what she enjoys, who she is outside of her marriage and employment.

“Ya!” She proudly pulled out a pair of earrings in two different shapes. One was an open book, the other was a graduation cap. She explained to me her homemade process and how they were made from wood, not metal. She pointed to her ears at her pair - a baby and a cup of coffee. “You said once how you like reading and that you just graduated with your master’s.”

I used the silver of the espresso machine to see my distorted reflection enough to put in my newest prized possession.

“They’re perfect.”

Lily beamed with pride. “I really like arts and crafts”. She shrugged her shoulders “I know it sounds silly.”

“Thank you for sharing your gift with me.”

For the rest of the summer, I wore my hair pulled back from my face and left my hat at home.

****

Halle Mosser is an educator, writer, and Navy spouse. She began her academic career at Millersville University in Lancaster, Pennsylvania where she graduated with a degree in English and a minor in African American Studies. After spending time in Annapolis, the cobblestone roads, still waters, and surrounding history inspired her to pursue an MFA at Salve Regina University. In October, her family will relocate to Norfolk, Virginia where her husband will begin his career as a Nuclear Surface Warfare Officer on the USS Harry S. Truman. She plans to continue teaching and writing within the Norfolk/Portsmouth school district. She has previously been published in the Millersville annual literary journal.