One September Morning (21 page)

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She touches his back, and the angular shoulder blade under her fingers seems so foreign. This man, her son. “I’m just so rattled by the things Abby told me. After all this, she’s going to demand some sort of investigation, and I just want to know if it’s a wild goose chase. Honestly, I wish she’d just keep it to herself.”

“Leave Abby alone,” he says quietly. “She’s trying to do the right thing.”

“But as you said, none of this is going to bring John back. And in the worst-case scenario, it will diminish your brother’s reputation.”

“Not for me. Whether he died in combat or by accident, he’ll still be John. His reasons for being in Iraq were altruistic and pure.” He turns back to face her. “But in the past few months, that all changed. John realized it was a huge mistake: the invasion, the killing, our being there at all.”

“No…he was so gung ho.”

“He wanted to be part of the solution, not the problem.” Noah sighs. “John felt disenfranchised, alienated from the mission. A lot of the guys over there feel that way now. There’s no clear course, no reason to be there.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Nobody forced you boys to sign up. You did it willingly, with a desire to serve. And now you want to give up because you’ve hit some obstacles? Think again. I know it’s not easy, but Stantons don’t take the easy path. You’d better work on that attitude before you return to Iraq.”

“I signed up because I followed my older brother everywhere, like a lost puppy. And don’t worry about me going back to my unit with a bad attitude, because that’s not going to happen. I’m not going back, Ma. I’m not going back to Iraq.”

Pain pierces her heart. Closing her eyes, Sharice can see it, long and shiny as a bayonet.

“Don’t freak out,” he says. “God, I thought you’d be happy. You already lost one son.”

“Are you being reassigned?” she asks, trying not to transmit her utter disappointment as she opens her eyes.

“No. I’m leaving the army. Going to Canada.”

No! Noah, you can’t!
She can’t help the gasp that leaves her throat, but before she can recover and form new words, a commotion by the doors draws their attention.

“Are you going to put music with this?” Madison’s voice projects from inside, where she is talking to a reporter behind a videocam. She walks backward, her heels clomping heavily on the wood floor as she heads their way. From the way she teeters with each step, Sharice can tell she’s had too much to drink. “If you do, make it something cool and not that old army oompah band stuff. Maybe something from Green Day. Oh, I know, I know. ‘When September Ends’! I loved that song when it first came out. Or is that too obvious? You know, it’s not really ’bout September eleventh…”

Sharice’s despair deepens. Her daughter is giving an interview? No doubt Madison has already broadcasted her antiwar slogans. With any luck, the interview is not live.

Madison trips on the door saddle and starts to fall onto the patio.

Noah rushes over and grabs her by the shoulders. “Maddy…you okay?”

“It’s the other brother!” she says cheerily, leaning against him for a moment. “Noah, Noah-Balboa, banana-fana foefoah…”

“Hi, Noah.” The reporter, a petite man who looks too young to be out on a school day, has the fake smile of a bully in on a huge joke.

Behind his camera, the photographer grins.

“And here we have John’s mother, Mrs. Retired-Captain Shir-fleece Stanton.” Madison hiccups and covers her mother. “Shir-lease. Shir-please.” She hiccups again, her face contorting.

“Maddy…that’s enough.” Sharice steps forward in an attempt to intervene.

Madison meets her eyes, holding up a finger as if to say, give me a minute. The girl turns toward the garden, as if she’s just spotted something in the shrubs, and vomits.

“Okay.” The reporter calls, in resignation. “Thanks, Madison.” The camera lights cut off, and the two men step inside, interview over.

“Oh, Maddy.” Sharice pulls off her shoes and drops them on the patio. Then, standing at her daughter’s side, she pulls Madison’s hair back, a humbled witness as, after so many years spent weaving values and characters into her children, the fabric of her family is disintegrating.

Union Station, Washington, D.C.
Noah

T
he blue jeans feel surprisingly comfortable for new clothes, already washed and distressed so that they fold like a flag over his limbs as he moves through the station and pauses under the giant board listing departing Amtrak trains. Noah Stanton is traveling light, having left his dress uniform standing on a hanger in Beaver’s closet like a ghost of the man he used to be. Beaver, a friend from nursing school who relocated to northern Virginia, didn’t mind him leaving his gear behind.

“Just shove it into the back of the closet under the stairs,” Beaver said when Noah was on his way out this morning. “No one ever looks in there. But don’t you want to take some of the stuff along? Like, socks, and shit? It gets cold up in Canada.”

“I’m good,” Noah insisted, and for the first time in a long time, he wondered if that might be true.

He’s grateful to Beaver, and he feels lighter without his army gear, lighter now that he’s passed John’s letters on.

When he logged on to Beaver’s computer that morning, he hesitated. Only one document was clearly marked: In the event of my death, please forward this to Abby Fitzgerald. That one definitely had to go, but what about the others? He’d anguished over the decision since that night he’d first read those files on the computer in Fallujah. John’s writing contained personal observations and bitter ruminations, uncensored material. What had John intended to do with these documents? Was it just a way to vent, or did he want to share his observations with the world? In the end, Noah decided to let Abby decide. She was John’s partner and best friend; she would be a conscientious caretaker of his intellectual properties.

After Noah sent Abby the e-mail with John’s attachments, the relief came as a surprise. It was as if he were shedding layers, unburdening himself of old skins.

Moving down the aisle of a newsstand, he adjusts the large knapsack strapped to his back and wonders if she’ll come. He doesn’t blame her if she doesn’t.

The knapsack makes him feel like a mountain man, which is probably how he’ll look in six months—bearded and thin, sporting flannel shirts, boots, and a down parka. Hell, he might even break down and buy a hat. He pauses in the wide entrance to a sports store, eyeing the wool caps with “Redskins” woven into the brim. The fabric looks thick and warm, but he doesn’t want anything that shouts USA. For now, he’s on the run.

“Now announcing the arrival of the Acela Express to New York on track eleven…” The man’s voice is so bold and theatrical, it reminds him of a ringmaster at the circus. “The Acela Express on track eleven. All aboard!”

That’s his train. Less than three hours to New York, then just ten hours and fifteen minutes to Montreal. Half a day, and you could be in another country. It’s a miracle of sorts.

Fourteen hours to freedom. His heart soars at the prospect.

Pausing at the archway, Noah scans the vast waiting room. No familiar faces. He reaches into his jacket to check his ticket for the fifth time, as if it might have vanished into desert sand in his pocket. The train to Canada is called the Adirondack #69. Adirondack makes Noah think of those laid-back resort chairs made of wood, and, of course, there’s sixty-nine, which he hasn’t ever had the good fortune to try. Well, maybe someday.

Someday sounds good. The future holds a promise of hope, now that he won’t have to live with scars on his soul, the bad karma of having killed someone. In his mind, it’s better to be a fugitive, AWOL from the army, than to live with the blood of another human being on his conscience.

As he locates the sign for Track 11 and joins the end of the queue, he soaks up the atmosphere: the bored faces of commuters, the forced cool of college kids. This may be one of his last glimpses of America, and he wants to remember its diversity, its beauty, its flaws. He is watching a young mother chase her toddler past a bench when he sees her rush past a coffee kiosk, nearly toppling a man stirring his drink. His mother has always struck him as a woman of poise and social aplomb, but now, watching her try to run in sandals with both hands gripping her big purse, he is reminded that she’s human.

He waves, catching her attention.

Relieved, she waves back and hurries over to join him.

Up close, she averts her gaze, unable to really look him in the eye. “The Metro took longer than I thought. I was afraid I missed you.”

“I’m glad you made it.”

She is bent over her purse, where she is digging for something. “Here.” She pulls out a fistful of twenties and presses it into his palm. “It’s all I could get from the ATM.”

Noah pushes the money into his pocket. It will help pay for food and a place to stay until he can find work. “Thank you,” he says, knowing how difficult this is for her to accept, how embarrassing it will prove in her everyday life when word gets out around the base that her second son is a deserter.

He doesn’t tell her that Madison already gave him every cent she could get her hands on. In fact, his little sister took him shopping yesterday and outfitted him in this shirt and these prewashed jeans. He had to rein her in when she tried to dress him in cashmere sweaters and white shirts that reminded him of Prince, but Madison was determined to get him started with a civilian wardrobe, all paid for with their parents’ credit cards. Somehow, he knows she will not appreciate Madison’s collusion.

“What will you do up there? How will you survive?” his mother asks.

“I’ll get a job.”

“You can’t work as a nurse up there, can you?”

“Nah. My license is no good up there, but I’d like to try something different for a change. Something with less stress.” He would like to find somewhere to work out in the open spaces, somewhere he could get his hands in the soil. Maybe grow something. As a kid, he’d loved to plant seeds and pull weeds in the garden, but somewhere along the way he’d given it up, given up on himself. “I’ll be fine,” he assures her.

She frowns. “You don’t sound worried, but I am.”

Looking down at her, he notices that the frown lines around her mouth don’t disappear anymore; they’re a permanent part of her face, a historical road map. “I won’t be the first soldier to cross the border. There’s a whole resistance movement going on, and it’s pretty well organized. Personal statements from the AWOL soldiers are listed on their Web site. It’s not clear whether the Canadian government will grant them asylum, but I figure I’ve got a few years before I have to make a move. I’ve e-mailed a few of the guys. When I get there, I’ll connect.”

“I’ll still be worried.”

“Okay, you can worry. That’s your job, but I really will be fine.”

The stationmaster announces the last call for Noah’s train to New York. “That’s me.” He leans down to place a kiss on her cheek, and she throws her arms around him and envelops him in a hug.

When she pulls back, tears sparkle in her eyes. “Don’t ever tell your father I was in on this,” she says. “He’d never forgive me.”

He squeezes her shoulder, which seems so small in his hand. Suddenly, he feels like the parent consoling the child. “No worries,” he says. “I can keep a secret.”

Union Station
Jim

J
im Stanton watches them from behind a rack of paperbacks at the opening to one of those gift shops that sell everything from the morning paper to candy bars and earplugs for your trip.

He didn’t have to follow Sharice here, dogging her from a block back like a detective in a TV show. When he saw the departure time written beside the words
UNION STATION
on the hotel notepad next to the bed, he knew.

He just knew.

When you live with someone for thirty years, when you share the same bed and toothpaste, split the yard chores, and rub her feet when they’re sore, you begin to know these things. Sharice complains about lack of communication, about the walls he constructs to hide behind. But he sees and feels far too much. No one should have to suffer from his personal shit.

For Jim, the world would be a better place if more walls were erected, if people could deal with their own discontent instead of taking it out on others, if the touchy-feely types weren’t always trying to extricate people’s feelings and broadcast them like loud, painful, red captions. Whoever said feelings were rational or worth anything at all? For God’s sake, whatever happened to sucking it up?

And right now, Jim is relieved that Sharice doesn’t know he’s come to the train station; she’ll never have to know, thank God. If he told her, she would want to discuss Noah’s decision. She would probe and prod Jim for his
feelings
about their son going AWOL, pulling Jim through a grinder over the monumental crisis of his life.

Leaning to the side of the rack of paperbacks, Jim assesses his second son, the follower. Birth order always seemed to be Noah’s curse, especially growing up in the shadow of a strong-willed boy like John. “If your brother jumps off a cliff, are you going to follow?” Jim would ask Noah, and the boy would nod, proud of his allegiance to his older brother. It seems like Jim has devoted his entire relationship with Noah to trying to teach that boy to have a mind of his own. And now…this is his decision? His son has finally made a choice of his own, and this is it…to run from military service?

AWOL? A deserter.

With a grunt of pain, Jim turns away from the sight of his wife and son caught in a farewell embrace. “Sounds like an ulcer,” the doctor said when Jim told him of the pain in his gut. “But you’d better come in and we’ll run some tests.” An ulcer—sign of a worrier. Jim had never considered himself to be such a weak link, and now, after surviving combat wounds and two tours in Vietnam, his body was betraying him with an ulcer.

He purchases a packet of antacids from the uninterested clerk at the register and returns to his vantage point behind the book rack. Sharice is patting Noah’s back, but she seems so small in his arms. The boy swallows her up, though Jim remembers a time when he could hold Noah in one arm. When they’re babies, when they need everything from you, you lull yourself into thinking it will be that way forever.

There’s an announcement—all aboard for a train—and people say their last good-byes at the track entrance while a late passenger bolts the length of the waiting room.

Jim steps out from behind the rack of books and drinks in the sight of Noah, the square Stanton jaw, shoulders that seem impossibly wide in the gray T-shirt. This will be his last moment with his son, a view from thirty yards away, and that realization intensifies the burning in his gut. To lose two sons in the course of a week…

Bitterness curdles in his stomach at the unfairness of it, though he chastises himself for expecting anything to be fair. He’s seen life and death spin in random circles long enough to know that the arrow that misses you now will veer closer on its return orbit.

Noah hugs his mother one last time, then turns and walks to the track entrance with a hiker’s swagger, a large pack on his back. At the threshold he turns back to his mother and almost smiles. Almost. Then, he disappears into the future.

Jim screws his mouth to one side, swallowing back the spit that wants to rise to his eyes. His son is deserting. It seems ludicrous, impossible that any son of his would run from his military duty.

At the same time, part of Jim knows that it’s the only rational thing to do. Not that he approves. Not that he’ll ever be able to acknowledge his second son again.

But somewhere, beyond the border, his son will be alive, with a chance at having a full, healthy life, and despite his code of honor and allegiances, Jim recognizes the good in that choice.

Canada is Noah’s saving grace. Maybe he can find a safe haven, a niche where he can live without ever thinking of Weapons of Mass Destruction and Nuclear Armaments.

Wouldn’t that be nice.

“Go, son,” Jim says under his breath. “Run hard. Run fast.”