One September Morning (3 page)

“Yeah, I’m going to need it for all those wild parties I throw…for three-year-olds.” She slides the patio door open. “Listen, I’ve got the sprinkler going out front, so’s we don’t get our own version of a dust bowl. Do me a favor and turn it off in, like, half an hour.”

“Got it.” Abby waves good-bye even as her eyes skim down a page of the textbook.

Talking with Suz has energized her, and she works more efficiently now, organizing the material, writing an outline for her presentation and inputting the presentation into the Power-Point format. When she’s done, she clicks on the Save icon, then notices the time in the corner of the screen.

“Damn! The lawn’s going to be a swamp.” Leaving her sandals on the patio, she clamps a textbook under one arm and races through the house and out the front door to find the sprinkler silently rotating. The lawn isn’t too soaked, though a puddle of excess water is now running over the sidewalk and down toward the street.

She steps off the narrow brick porch, gasping as her feet sink into the wet mulch behind a shrub John planted. Her fingers close over the handle of the spigot and twist toward the right. Right tight, lefty loosey. Out on the lawn, the fountain of water dies down as the sprinkler stops whirling. Straightening up, Abby wipes her hand on her shorts as a dark car rolls slowly up the quiet street. It’s not Suz’s boxy Volvo wagon, and not one of the neighbors’. She takes in the shiny black sedan, which slows and then parks right in front of her house.

Her focus sharpens on the two officers inside the vehicle—a man and a woman who exchange a word, then reach for their hats.

Their
dress
hats, she notes, as they step out in full dress uniforms, pants creased, shirts smooth and starched.

Abby is stung by adrenaline, alarm coursing through her. It’s the casualty notification team, the messengers all the army wives talk about, the sight every military wife dreads seeing outside her door.

Don’t panic,
she tells herself.
Maybe they’re John’s friends. Maybe someone you know on leave here, come to bring one of John’s creative personal greetings.

But she does not recognize their faces, and there’s no joke in the demeanor of this woman who stares down at her well-shined shoes, no animation in the face of this man who stands, jaw clenched, regret embedded in his eyes.

And suddenly, she knows.

She knows they bring her the absolute worst news.

“Are you Mrs. John Stanton?” the man asks.

She nods, feeling like an actress playing out a melodramatic scene. Despite the panic beating like a hummingbird’s wings deep in her breast, she wants to laugh it all off. This can’t be true. They must have the wrong information.

He gives his rank and introduces the female soldier, but it’s drowned out in the deafening roar swirling in her head and her acute awareness of bizarre details. The sergeant must have cut himself shaving this morning, and there’s a pinpoint of tissue stuck to the edge of his jaw. A flock of small birds rises from some nearby laurels. They circle, then return to their spot. The woman wears a ribbon that’s green and red, reminding Abby of Christmas. Home by Christmas, that’s what John keeps writing in his e-mails.

“Mrs. Stanton, it’s my duty to inform you that—”

“No.” The textbook slides from her grip to the wet lawn. She leans down and grabs it quickly, noticing the strangest details. The splatter of mud on her calves. A blade of grass stuck to the side of her foot. Two pairs of shiny dress shoes, facing her dirty bare feet.

It’s all wrong.

“Mrs. Stanton…”

She hugs the book to her chest, turns and lunges toward the door, hoping to find escape and safety in the house.

But he blocks her way. “It’s my job, ma’am,” he says, and, meeting his eyes, she sees that he’s not as old as she originally thought. “Mrs. Stanton, your husband was killed in the line of duty yesterday in Iraq.”

She presses her eyes closed, thinking how wrong it all is. She’s not Mrs. Stanton—that’s John’s mother. And John cannot be dead. Not the John she knows, the man with the charmed life. He’s always the lucky one.

It’s all wrong, but these soldiers are just trying to do their job, fulfill their duty to their country, just as John is doing…
was
doing?

“We’re sorry for your loss, ma’am,” the woman, lieutenant something, says quietly.

Abby lets the woman press the written notice into her hand, unable to stop the small cry that escapes her throat.

Iraq
Emjay

C
orporal Emjay Brown is still in a daze when he steps into the orange light of the bungalow shared by eight soldiers. Despite the darkness outside, sunglasses shield his eyes against the curious gawkers who know that he was there, right beside John when he went down.

Another few inches and it would have been him.

Bam!

The slam of the door behind him sends him jumping out of his skin. His heart thuds in his chest, sweat trickling down his back.

And suddenly he is back in the warehouse, in the rapid hammer of gunfire, the muzzle-flash in the darkness, the alarm of John’s cries, and the blood…so much blood.

“Corporal Brown,” a leaden voice orders, and Emjay whirls, hands gripping his rifle.

“Lieutenant Chenowith, sir.”

“At ease,” the lieutenant says, as if he thought Emjay was moving to salute, which he wasn’t. The lieutenant removes his helmet to reveal a round mop of hair on the top, like a friar. Most guys in combat units shave their heads, best way to escape the vermin and bugs. Chenowith nurtures his grassy knoll, but it’s been a point of speculation among the platoon, some guys figuring he had rows planted in, others figuring he’s got some weird birthmark underneath, an inappropriate shape like a swastika or a dick.

“I’ve asked the others to assemble in quarters,” Chenowith says. “I’ll be addressing the platoon regarding my investigation.”

“Yes, sir,” Emjay says, and he waits for the lieutenant to pass, then follows him into the common room used for their quarters, the tiny bungalow where every inch is taken up with bunks, cots, desks, and small plastic tables and chairs, the kind they sell outside the hardware store back home in summer months for five bucks a piece.

This Forward Operating Base—FOB for short—is officially called Camp Desert Mission, though the men have dubbed it Camp Despair, because once you land in this bombed-out-highway town that is Fallujah, you’ve reached the end of the world. The base, rows of prefab bungalows that formerly served as a government retreat, sits on a desperate stretch of treeless terrain now encircled by sandbags and strung barbed wire. Although the officers were allotted more space, the rest of the platoon was packed into one bungalow—eight men sharing a space smaller than a chicken coop back home.

The Marines who were in here before nailed shelves into the plywood walls, and in the months since Bravo Company arrived, the walls have come to reflect the personalities of the men in the platoon, with pictures of half-clad girls taped to some walls, Christmas lights shaped like chile peppers to remind Lassiter of Texas, a Pacific Northwest calendar over John’s bunk, and a large mirror so Hilliard can check out his pumped muscles.

Emjay doesn’t like living in such close quarters, not at all, but he’s learned that opinions are worth shit in the army.

Doc looks up from the bag of licorice. “At ease!” he calls, as Lt. Chenowith enters the common room.

A card game is on at the table where Lassiter complains he’s got another losing hand. Doc returns to separating strands of cherry licorice, apparently part of a care package Antoine “Hillbilly” Hilliard just received from his wife.

Over in the corner, Spinelli, the greeny, remains prone on his cot, plugged in to his iPod. He must be pissed that his injury didn’t get him out of here, Emjay thinks. Spinelli can’t wait to get the hell back, back home to his mama—that’s what Doc says. But no one knows the kid’s whole story yet. Spinelli just joined the platoon a month ago, after they lost Spec. Willard Roland to a land mine. All they know is that he’s eighteen and lived with his mother, but Emjay knows that, eventually, Spinelli will spill. Everyone does.

The men playing poker pretend that they’re not tiptoeing around John’s brother, Spec. Noah Stanton, who sits on a bench organizing his gear.

Stone-faced and silent, as if sleepwalking, Noah splits his M-16 in two for cleaning. Cracked open like a Chesapeake hard-shell crab, the weapon seems useless, harmless, definitely not powerful enough to take down a big man like John.

Emjay goes to him, the elephant in the room. Trying to ignore the others who are pretending not to stare but watching anyhow, he squats down real close and whispers, “Sorry about John.”

Noah just nods, his dark eyes trained on his disassembled rifle.

Emjay wants to go on, wants to tell Noah that he was right beside John when he got hit, that the shots came out of nowhere because the power was out in the windowless warehouse and Emjay’s night-vision goggles weren’t working. Does Noah know that Emjay did everything he could to stop the bleeding? The blood…Christ, it was everywhere, smeared between his fingers, blossoming over John’s shirt so fast that Emjay knew it was real bad. Emjay wants to lean his head close to Noah’s and talk, really talk, but he doesn’t want Lassiter and Doc and the others listening, and besides that, Chenowith seems to be in the middle of some half-assed speech.

“Bravo Company lost a good man today,” Lieutenant Chenowith says. “Every casualty is a great loss, but I know you’ll all agree John Stanton was a special individual, a man of courage and moral strength, a leader and a fine soldier. He will be missed.”

Silence. Emjay lets his eyes run up to where the cheap plywood walls meet the ceiling. The air is charged with pain and alarm. Even Spinelli reacts, hunching over the side of his bunk wistfully.

“I miss him already, sir.” Gunnar McGee folds his cards, his baby face as earnest as Charlie Brown’s. Beside him, Lassiter gestures to Noah and smacks Gunnar in the arm, as if he’s said the wrong thing. But Gunnar stands firm. “It’s true. John’s the heartbeat of this platoon.
Was,
I mean.”

The men glance nervously at John’s brother, but Noah continues cleaning his rifle, ramming the rod down the barrel methodically, as if there is some therapeutic value in the ritual.

“Sorry, man,” Gunnar says.

Noah nods but doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Specialist Stanton,” the lieutenant begins, then clarifies, “Specialist
Noah
Stanton…you’ll be dispatched stateside just as soon as you’ve been debriefed. Corporal Brown, I’ll want a full report from you, as well.”

“Yes, sir,” Emjay responds, a thorny branch spiraling through his chest at the prospect of recounting the incident to his commanding officers. Part of him wants to let it all come spilling out, even as he is sickened at the prospect of reliving the event.

“And any other personnel who witnessed anything in the warehouse incident that might be helpful to our investigation should report to me. That is all.” Chenowith steps toward Noah. “Sorry for your loss,” he says, and though his voice is brusque, Emjay thinks it’s probably the kindest act of Chenowith’s sorry life.

“Sir,” Noah answers, trancelike.

The day’s events rush through Emjay’s mind like a rip cord, and he cranes his neck, writhing uncomfortably. It was a nightmare day for him, but it had to be a horror show for Noah, who’s the medic for their platoon. Christ, he was already outside the warehouse, stitching up a gash on Spinelli’s leg, when he sees his own brother hauled out of the warehouse, bloody and fading fast. That must have smacked him hard, the moment of realization that the man dying on that stretcher was his own brother. At least Noah wasn’t in the warehouse when John went down, but the sting of seeing his brother carried out, the sudden knowledge that he was unconscious, bleeding out, almost dead, the fact that Noah couldn’t save him even after the guys had carried John out of the warehouse and into the stark sunlight…

It’s all fucked up.

Somebody should have gotten to Noah Stanton first, pulled him aside, got him out of the way so he wouldn’t have to live with that image of his dying brother stuck in his head.

And Noah’s immediate reaction—the curses, growling at the other guys to stay back. The tears in his eyes. So fucking humiliating, in front of the other men. And now Chenowith telling Noah he can’t head home for the funeral until he gets grilled by the higher-ups.

“Unbelievable,” Doc says, bringing Hilliard’s cardboard box of licorice over to Noah, who shakes his head. “You should be in Kuwait already, buddy. On a flight to Frankfurt, out of here. And the COs are going to hold you back for debriefing? That sucks.” Doc, their platoon leader, doesn’t usually talk against the brass that way.

Shows you how out of control it all is, Emjay thinks. Noah’s own brother was killed and they still won’t let him go. As Lassiter always says,
The only way out of Iraq is in a body bag
.

“Here’s a news flash for you.” Lassiter lowers his cards beneath his homely face, those big ears and a nose like a carrot. Emjay has chalked it up to Lassiter’s insistence that everything is bigger in Texas. “The army sucks.”

“Amen to that,” Doc says, extending the licorice toward Spinelli, who peels one out and lies down again with the strand balanced on his chest. Odd bird, that Spinelli.

“Where’re the goddamned peanuts?” Hilliard digs into the care package from home, causing bags of bubble gum and chips to squeeze out and topple to the dusty floor. Hilliard likes his treats, and since Camp Despair is nearly fifty miles away from the small PX in Baghdad, he’s got to rely on packages from home. “She sends me Jelly Bellies, but no peanuts?”

“Are those the jelly beans from the Harry Potter movies?” Gunnar McGee asks. He’s the only guy called by his first name, as the guys in the platoon enjoy the irony of a soldier whose name is Gunnar. “They taste like vomit and snot and poop and shit?”

Lassiter smacks Gunnar’s shoulder with the back of one hand. “Idiot! Shit and poop are the same damned thing.”

“Is that the kind?” Gunnar’s eyes twinkle at the prospect of a taste of home, even if it is a foul taste.

“I don’t know.” Antoine Hilliard tosses a handful of foil packets to Gunnar. “Take ’em. Like I need to be popping jelly beans in the desert. I married the goddamned Easter Bunny.”

Normally the men would laugh over a wisecrack like that, but the airless room is void of humor. Emjay sits on his cot and watches unobtrusively through his dark sunglasses as Noah sets his rifle aside and turns his attention to a pair of combat boots, which he begins to unlace. There’s a dark stain on the side that extends over the toe of the boot. Blood, most likely. John’s blood? It’s possible, though with Noah’s medical assignment, it could be any number of things.

Still…as Noah rubs polish into the black leather, Emjay fights off a sickening chill at the thought of one brother cleaning off the blood of another. It seems to make this war too small and personal, and way too close. Beside the boots Noah has laid out his belongings—ammo, desert fatigues, a few canned rations and books, skivvies, and equipment like his rifle, a gas mask, and an NOD, a night operation device, goggles that clip over your helmet.

“You getting everything in line for the trip back home?” Emjay asks Noah, who nods over one boot.

Emjay shoots a look to the cot behind him, where John used to sleep. The floor beneath the metal frame is bare. John’s gear is gone.

“Hey, what happened to John’s stuff?” Emjay shouts to the room at large.

“Whaddaya think? Chenowith,” Lassiter says, venom on his tongue.

Lieutenant Chenowith, a West Point graduate, views the army differently than these enlisted soldiers, many of whom came to this career by default. Lassiter worked in a shoe store, Gunnar McGee mowed lawns, Hilliard drove a beer truck till he fucked that up by getting a DUI. Most of the guys in the platoon are here because they have no direction and they need to get out of debt, while Chenowith’s direction has always been to rise up the ranks in the U.S. Army, just like his old man, who was some hotshot in another war.

“The lieutenant confiscated all of John’s gear,” Doc explains. “Pending investigation. He wouldn’t even let Noah here go through and take out some personal items for John’s wife.”

“Goddamned army,” Hilliard grumbles over a mouthful of licorice. “They fuckin’ own you, even when you’re dead.”

Unresponsive, Noah briskly swipes a stiff brush over the toe of one boot.

Weary to the bone, Emjay shakes his head and stares at the NOD lined up with Noah’s stuff. What the hell happened to his today? Last time he used the night operation device it was working just fine, but today when he lowered the equipment over his eyes, he saw nothing—just blackness. He’d been complaining about it to John when the first shot rang out in the dark warehouse.

Now he kicks himself for not having working equipment. If the device had worked, he would have seen the shooter. Maybe he would have seen the gunman taking aim, closing in on John. Maybe, he might have saved John’s life.

His heartbeat picks up, thumping in his ears as he pictures the scene. After the two shots, Emjay had grabbed John’s NOD and soaked up everything around them. That was when he saw the soldier—one of them—walking away.

A goddamned soldier.

But John must have seen the guy. That’s why he was yelling that he was a friendly, that he was John Stanton, U.S. Army. John knew who shot him, and it wasn’t some Iraqi insurgent.