One September Morning (13 page)

A journalistic spark bursts inside Flint at the knowledge that this is a story—a huge piece with significant implications. Of course, he doesn’t have clearance to embed in this unit, but what the hell. He’s always subscribed to asking forgiveness, not permission.

But whoa, boy. Remember your goal here—to help out a friend, to be Abby’s eyes and ears here.

Hell, he doesn’t know what to do.

Emjay Brown swings his rifle across his chest and cradles it like a baby. “They bury the truth just as easily as they bury the dead. The army is good at that, you know, glazing over the truth. From the day the recruiter tells you you’re serving to defend America and preserve freedom, you step into a shitload of lies, a big con.”

“You think they’ll cover it up?” Flint asks.

“I guarantee, they’ve already made up some story about who killed John, too. They’ll blame it on Iraqis to cover their asses. But I was there and I saw what I saw. It was another soldier. One of our own killed John.”

“Another soldier…” The enormity of the accusation makes it difficult for Flint to wrap his brain around the evolving truth.

“Someone in our platoon,” Emjay says solemnly, fingering the strap of his rifle. “And I wish to God I could tell you who it was.”

New York City Abby

W
hile waiting at New York City’s JFK airport for her final connection to Washington, D.C., Abby hears John’s name mentioned on one of those canned soundtracks and freezes in her vinyl seat. Is that John’s college football photo illuminated on the television set hanging from the ceiling of the waiting area?

In the video, shot before he left for Iraq, his dark eyes are impossibly round, his brown hair gleaming in the lights set up for a press conference. God, he was so handsome in his scarlet jersey. Number nineteen.

Funny how a person can come alive on a television screen, their face animated and full of mirth, and that image doesn’t fade with death.

As a childhood photo of John flashes on the screen, Abby leans forward in the chair. How did the media get that picture?

Sharice…

Snatching her purse, she digs for her cell phone and rehearses the scolding she’ll give her mother-in-law.
I asked you to keep a low profile! A low-key obituary…something short and dignified, but instead I’m seeing my husband’s baby pictures broadcast on national television!

She speed-dials her in-laws but a busy signal blares back at her. Damn. Ending the call, she glances back at the television screen, where the on-air personality continues to detail John’s life.

“…however, John Stanton was no ordinary soldier. Friends and family were astounded when the rising young star left a promising career as a running back for the Seattle Seahawks to join the U.S. Army. At the time, John Stanton, who enlisted with younger brother, Noah, said that it was his duty to serve his country.”

And there is John, dark eyes locked on the camera, handsome and earnest. “This war on terrorism, I believe, stands to be one of the most significant battles of our generation. I can’t justify sitting idly by while our freedom is at stake.”

When John spoke he commanded attention, imparting immediacy.
As if he’s talking to me.
From the many travelers who now tip their heads up to the television to watch, Abby sees that John’s appeal stretched far and wide.

“And now that he’s been killed in the line of duty,” the journalist continues, “Americans are ready to embrace Stanton as one of the great heroes of our time. Senator Phil Woodsmith of Washington calls him a model American. ‘Here’s a young man who sacrificed everything for his country. He left a career in the NFL—every boy’s dream—to serve in Iraq because he believed in this war.’”

No!
Abby wants to shout. John didn’t want the war…not really.

A Republican senator speaking from the steps of the Capitol remarks on the country’s “huge loss of an American patriot, a true freedom fighter,” and a spokesperson for the president says: “The United States Armed Forces will honor John Stanton by proving that his efforts in Iraq were not in vain.”

They’re all linking his name with the war, Abby realizes. She’s tempted to climb atop the row of airport seats and pull the plug on the television, but that would be like plucking one weed from an acre of crabgrass.

The word is out: John Stanton is named a martyr of the Iraq War.

Politicians crown him a hero.

And it’s all so wrong.

Not wanting all the travelers in the terminal to see her cry, Abby clutches her bag to her chest and cuts around a bank of chairs to stand at the floor-to-ceiling window, facing out at the tarmac. Part of her does not want to share John with the world at all. She wants the peace and privacy in which to nurture his memory and say her own good-bye. On the other hand, since she cannot have that peace, she feels it’s her duty to protect John’s image, guard his memory from politicians and spin doctors who twist things around to suit their cause.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is our preboarding announcement for flight three-oh-two to Washington’s Dulles International Airport…” The airline representative announced Abby’s flight. Since John’s remains wouldn’t arrive in Dover for another day or so, she was going back to the home of her childhood, and while she welcomed the comfort of her dad’s arms and her mother’s cinnamon-walnut buns in the morning, it wasn’t truly her home anymore.

Home was at Fort Lewis with John.

And soon that home would be gone, too.

She presses a hand to her mouth to suppress a sob, and when she closes her eyes, Abby feels a slight pressure at the base of her throat, right in the nook John used to massage with his thumb.

It’s almost as if he is here, haunting her, unwilling to move on to the next world. She takes a deep, calming breath, and suddenly he is with her, the scent of his aftershave filling her nostrils, sweet and lemony….

John.

She can almost hear strains of his laughter, his rumbling voice, gregarious and flippant.
Don’t let those stuffed shirts get you down. They’re just wordsmiths, and I’m a man of action. They can try to sum me up with a trite label, but you know the truth, Abs. I’m just a man. Not an ideal, but a person.

“I know,” Abby whispers. “I know.” She presses a hand to her throat but there is nothing there—the moment has vanished, and she is simply a woman in an airport waiting to board a flight.

As she joins the line, a young couple sprawled on the carpet in one corner catches her eye. They are sharing a slice of pizza, bite for bite, and passing a bottle of Vitamin Water, talking quietly. They remind Abby of the way she and John were in their first years—college students with no responsibilities beyond getting to class on time and making decent grades. Of course, Abby worked her collection of on-campus jobs to offset tuition, and John pumped iron and hit the turf, leading the Rutgers team to victory. At the time, Abby felt she was stretched thin, but looking back now she realizes those were golden days. College offered all the freedom of adult life without the responsibility.

Looking past the young couple, down the corridor of the terminal, Abby realizes that she and John had met for the first time right here at JFK. That was six years ago, and the airport was packed with holiday travelers, with flights delayed and cancelled due to the icy snow that had been falling continually since noon. John was waiting for a flight back to Seattle, and Abby was trying to get home to Virginia for Christmas.

Certain things about that Christmas are still pinpoints of memory in Abby’s mind: the scarlet red of John’s football jersey, the voice of Karen Carpenter singing “Merry Christmas, Darling,” the curl of jealousy she felt over her roommate’s relationship with her boyfriend. “He’s the love of my life,” Fanteen said with the crisp British accent that lent grave authority to such pronouncements. Fanteen was so into Hitch that she had moved all her possessions into his dorm room and would take up full-time residence there after the holidays. Which really burned Abby, who had never really connected with a guy—never!—despite the fact that she was a sophomore in college.

Everywhere Abby went that season, she heard the Carpenters song playing. “The lights on my tree, I wish you could see…” Karen sang, and it burned Abby. She didn’t have a damned tree, at least not till she got home, and there was no one to share it with. Right around finals week it became hopelessly stuck in her head, an anthem that kept her awake nights, guided her footsteps as she trudged up the hill to the Student Union. “I’ve just one wish on this Christmas Eve…” she would sing in the shower when her suitemates were out. Her wish was for a boyfriend, someone she could really connect with.

In the back of her mind, she thought it might be Flint. They’d become good friends in freshman year, and they hung out together sometimes, listening to music and watching
Friends
and lingering over coffee in the dining hall on sundae night. It was okay for a while that Flint had never made a move, never kissed her. She told herself that they were building a friendship first.

Then she heard about the sorority girl. Flint was taking some girl named Talia to the Alpha Delta Harvest Ball. How could he, after all that he and Abby had shared? Fanteen told her to confront him, give him a chance to explain, but Abby hated confrontations. Instead, she made a choice to keep her friendship with Flint just that—a friendship. Which probably saved their relationship in the long run, considering Abby’s pattern of getting bored with a guy once she had him hooked.

Enter one extra-large, extra-loud scarlet football jersey, its white number “19” stretched across one very buff chest. Abby tried not to notice him as he sat down across from her in one of the few empty seats in the crowded terminal but, come on! First, how could you miss that loud red shirt? Plus he was cute, the tall, dark, and handsome type with killer eyes. But not her type. No jacket, but a jersey in twenty-degree temperatures—definitely a jock, and maybe a poser. Maybe he didn’t play ball at all, but wanted to nurture the jock thing.

She opened up the Arts & Leisure section of Sunday’s
Times
and tried to block him out.

“Hey, do you mind if I borrow a section?”

Abby froze. He couldn’t be talking to her.

“Hey,
New York Times
Girl! Can I take a look? I’ll give it back.”

She lowered the paper to find his wide brown eyes disarming her. “I guess.” She handed over the sports section, but he shook his head, stood up, and chose The Week in Review. Surprising.

“You sure about that?” she said. “It’s not
TV Guide
.”

“That’s cool. I don’t have a TV.”

“Really? So how do you watch the Super Bowl? And the Hula Bowl, and all those other…bowls?”

“Other people’s televisions.” He unfolded the newspaper and started reading.

The ensuing quiet closed around them, and Abby felt oddly disappointed. Okay, the guy could read. So why did she feel compelled to keep talking when the last thing she wanted was to strike up a tedious conversation when she had plenty to read? Shifting in her seat, she picked up the sports section, deciding that if he could go against type, so would she.

And there, on the front page, under the fold, was a splash of red—a color photo of number “19” in his scarlet jersey, all smiles and broad chest, and brown eyes so warm they could melt a Popsicle. She glanced up at him, then back at the photo in the newspaper, as if her eyes were playing a trick on her. The headline read:
THE KNIGHT WHO WOULD BE KING
, and the article mentioned that “19”—whose name was John Stanton—had been a Heisman contender this year. She tried to read on without letting him know she was reading. The writer thought “19” had a good shot at winning the award next year, as a senior, if he kept up the “incredible momentum” he’d stirred up on the Rutgers University Scarlet Knights.

When she glanced up from reading, he was watching her. “No wonder you didn’t want to read this,” she said, tossing it over at him. “I bet you have it framed on your bedroom wall.”

“Not true. But my mom probably does.”

His smile was apologetic, but she noticed that he caught the newspaper section without wrinkling it. “Nice catch, nineteen.”

“My friends call me John,” he said. “And you seem to have some anger management issues regarding football.”

“I don’t care one way or another,” she insisted, glancing up as an airline representative called for her flight to board. “That’s me.” She rose, tucking the rest of the newspaper into her backpack.

“So why don’t you come see a game, see if I can make you care?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on,
Times
Girl. What have you got to lose?”

Not much, Abby admitted to herself. The possibility of making a “love connection” at the airport seemed highly unlikely, but then he
was
cute, and it
was
Christmas, and wouldn’t it be great to go back to school in January with a boyfriend?

She wrote down her cell number, asking, “Where are you headed, anyway?”

“Washington.”

“D.C.?” she asked, sensing true synchronicity.

“Seattle.”

“I gotta go.” She handed him her information and hurried over to the gate, allowing herself one last sliver of a look at him, yummy as the last slice of pumpkin pie the morning after.

“Have a nice flight,” he called, tucking the slip of paper into a pocket, where it would probably shrivel and fade in the wash. She was sure that she would never hear from him again.

Fortunately, her instincts were wrong.

Two hours later, the pilot announced that the flight was “not going to make it out tonight, folks,” and Abby bit her lip as she headed through the jetway, trying not to hope that “19” would still be there, that he’d still smile at her as if she held the treasures of the ancient world.

Her spirits sank when she didn’t spot him, and she chastised herself for being so foolish. What a stupid thing to get all excited about; he was just a guy.