Sparta (29 page)

He was the last to come back up onto the beach. The others were all there, still damp, sandy, exhilarated by the plunge. Lydia spread out the food, and everyone began to eat lunch. They ate and talked, and then they took their books and lay down, and they stopped talking and turned quiet and somnolent in the sun.

But sitting out on the beach, out of the sheltering presence of the water, Conrad was having trouble. He kept trying to bring the day back into the focus it should have had. He'd remembered the beach as paradise: all that motion and space, all that possibility. The baking dazzle of the sun, the thick, briny air, the seagulls wheeling and calling, the endless insistence of the waves. He'd loved it.

But now he felt exposed, and he couldn't set himself against a wall for protection. Around him people in bathing suits and sunglasses trekked up and down, carrying baskets, towels, trays of food and drinks, hampers, canvas bags. There was no way to keep track of them. The stream was apparently endless. He looked up from his book every few seconds. There was motion all around him; from the corner of his eye he kept catching the quick rush of the waves onto the beach, each one a sliding carpet of foam moving up the sand. All that fucking sand. He'd had enough sand to last the rest of his life. He couldn't believe they'd all trekked out here to sit in the sand.

Ollie and Jenny were stretched out in the sun, Ollie on his stomach, Jenny on her back, eyes shut. Lydia lay beneath the umbrella, arms at her sides, her floppy pale green hat pulled over her face. Marshall sat in a creaky low chair, his hair standing in little wild damp tufts, squinting at
The New York Review of Books
. Conrad sat with his back against the tilting wooden shaft of the umbrella, his book open in front of him. A small gusty wind came off the water, carrying bursts of spray and the strong scent of the sea. He was sweating, though it wasn't really hot. He started the chapter again.

He looked up to see Jenny standing over him. She wore a white bikini, very white against her tanned skin. Her arms and legs gleamed brown, and her glossy hair was being tossed lightly in the wind.

“Come on, Con,” she said. “Let's go for a run.” Ollie stood behind her. He lifted his chin in invitation. Conrad put down his book.

They set off in a row, heading east at a slow jog.

The beach lay along the south shore of the Cape, the long bottom side—the triceps of the upper arm—the muscled arm clenching itself at the North Atlantic. This beach was the northern reach of a sheltered sea basin, protected to the southwest by the drifting mass of Martha's Vineyard, to the southeast by Nantucket, and due east by the long, casual slide of low-lying rocks and reefs that stretch down from the elbow, on the Cape's southeast corner. Here the dunes were low, the beach low and flat, the waves mild.

The three runners held a course along the water's edge. On the left were low, sandy dunes, on the right the flat green Atlantic. The waves flooded up under their bare feet in a long, unrolling surge, then ebbed, seething and hissing. Flat and affectless, the water sank swiftly into the porous sand, whispering into bubbles, then vanishing.

Ahead, the shining strip of beach stretched to the horizon.

Slowly they began to speed up. They always did this, and Conrad always won. Now he wondered: he was fit, but he was heavier, carrying more muscle than he used to. Ollie had been in training all year. Jenny was a distance runner and might outstay them both. Her legs were shortest, but she kept up with their strides.

They pounded through the soft sand.

Conrad liked this: liked breathing in the salt air, liked running beside his brother and sister, feeling his legs work. His chest began to open, and he felt his heart pumping. The beach became emptier; ahead was the gleaming vanishing point, a ribbon of glitter. The small waves curled idly up onto the sand, slid smoothly back, sank into nothing. Overhead, white gulls wheeled through the bright sea air, making high mewing cries.

Ollie lengthened his stride. Conrad could see his shoulders beginning to move, fists pumping. He slid a half stride ahead of Conrad. Jenny lengthened her stride, then Conrad his. They increased the pace, one speeding up, another matching it, faster and faster until they were all sprinting, feet flying, chins raised. For twenty yards they all ran abreast, thundering and in stride.

Ollie began to pull ahead. His back was slick with sweat and muscled like a man's.
Ollie's like a man,
thought Conrad.
He is a man.
The idea elated him. He ran across the choppy sand beside the wide reach of green water, through the salty air. Around him stretched a sense of spaciousness and possibility. The rhythm in his body and the fact that Ollie was growing up. He thought,
This is how it was. I'm back.

He began to push faster, his feet pounding the damp sand, arms pumping, fists clenched. He drew closer to Ollie, who felt him drawing near and went faster still, his tempo rising.

Jenny slowed suddenly, her feet thudding to a stop. She couldn't last at a sprinter's pace.

“I'm done,” she called, but the other two didn't slacken. Now it was just the two of them, and they kept going, Conrad running in a fury to catch his brother.
One more step
, he thought, gritting his teeth, pounding faster and faster, speeding his racing heart, but Ollie felt each of his strides, and with each closing step of Conrad's, Ollie sped faster, his chin high, arms rocketing like pistons.

Conrad was going all out. They were half a step apart, hurtling down the sand.
I can't,
Conrad thought. He couldn't catch his brother. He could feel it in his own body, he could see it in Ollie's lifted chin, his tight, pursed mouth. It was elating. Conrad slowed to a jog, then stopped, breathing hard.

“Okay,” he called to Ollie, “you did it. Yah.”

Conrad turned and jogged back to Jenny. She was watching them, bending her knees, doing sideways stretches. Ollie wheeled in a swift half circle and came loping back.

“You're fast, bro,” Conrad said.

Ollie shook his head, and Conrad jumped him.

He put an elbow around Ollie's head, twisting it down into a headlock; Ollie grabbed him around the waist and tried to lift him, trying to throw Conrad off-balance. Conrad was already off-balance, snorting and choking, laughing. For some reason it killed him, set him off, that Ollie was so strong, so confident, so fucking fast. He slipped an arm over Ollie's head and shoulder, then shoved his hip, hard, into Ollie's side and pulled him over his own hip, pulling him right off his feet. Ollie started to go over, but Conrad caught and steadied him, then stepped away, grinning.

Ollie straightened, panting.

“You killed me,” he said.

“You killed
me
,” Conrad answered, grinning. He raised his hand and Ollie slapped him five.

They set off again, heading back along the waterline. They ran more slowly, not racing. They skirted the people walking toward the waves. There were more of them now. As the three drew nearer to their own encampment, they had to swerve constantly.

“I think we should walk,” shouted Ollie. “Too many people.”

A young boy darted in front of them, shouting at someone in the water. Ollie dodged left and Conrad right, but Jenny had nowhere to go. She shouted as she ran into the boy, her legs flying and pinwheeling, arms flailing, the water splashing up in bright spindrift. They collided in an explosion of foam, going down together in a shallow wave.

Jenny stood, pulling the boy up with her. She leaned over him, steadying his shoulders.

“I'm so sorry. Are you okay?” she asked.

The boy looked at her silently. A man ran toward them, shouting.

“Are you okay?” Jenny asked again. The boy nodded but said nothing. He was eight or nine, blond and skinny. His chest was narrow, his ribs visible.

The man reached them and knelt abruptly in front of the boy. Jenny drew back, and the man grabbed the boy's shoulders.

“Timmy! Timmy, are you okay?” he asked urgently, staring into the boy's eyes.

Timmy nodded slowly, not looking at him.

“You okay? Sure?”

Timmy nodded again, turning away.

The man looked up at Jenny. He was in his forties, stocky, with a wide bullying face and thick dark hair. His mouth was drawn into a small, mean V.

“I'm so sorry—” she began, but the man interrupted.

“I want your name,” he said. “I want all three of your names. You can't run on this beach in the afternoons. Not when it's crowded like this. I can have you arrested. You can't run little kids down. What kind of idiots are you?”

Jenny stared at him, her cheeks turning pink.

“What do you think you're doing?” He looked at Timmy again, who twisted his head to look over his shoulder. “You okay, son?” The man looked up at Jenny. “I want your name. You're going to hear from me about this.”

“I said I was sorry,” said Jenny. “I don't think he's hurt.”

“I want your name,” the man said.

“Excuse me.” Conrad stepped between the man and Jenny. “Let me give you my name. Lieutenant Conrad Farrell, United States Marine Corps.”

The man stood at once, facing Conrad. He was pale and fleshy, his loose belly hanging slightly over his pink bathing trunks. His eyes were small and green.

“Oh, really?” the man said. “Oh, really?” He leaned closer to Conrad so Timmy couldn't hear. “You think that fucking matters to me? I will have my lawyer call you, Mr. Fucking Lieutenant. You give me your card, and we will see what the law has to say about a U.S. Marine running down an eight-year-old boy.”

Conrad stared at him.

*   *   *

The checkpoint was outside Ramadi. It was a flat stretch of land, broken desert and rising hills beyond. The checkpoint was surrounded by HESCOs—big containers filled with sand—and barbed wire. There were big signs telling all vehicles, in English and in Arabic, to stop. But checkpoints were spooky places. When people got rattled, they didn't read the signs; they drove faster.

Conrad was in a small convoy. They were slowed to a crawl, about to go through the check. They could see cars coming from the other direction. He was in the second Humvee in the convoy, and he watched the lead car approach. It was a small white sedan, like almost every other car in Iraq. It wasn't slowing down. It came toward the checkpoint at highway speed, barreling toward them, a cloud of dust swirling behind it. The Marines at the checkpoint stepped into the opening, rifles raised. They shouted in English and in Arabic for the car to stop, but it kept coming, speeding toward the narrow opening of the checkpoint. The Marine fired a first warning shot over the car, then a second. The car kept coming. The next maneuver was supposed to be a bullet into the engine block, but if this was a suicide bomber, the whole thing might go up in flames, and the car was coming too fast for anyone to think, and the Marine fired straight into the windshield. The car skidded and fishtailed, then slowed to a skewed stop. No one spoke or moved. There was no sound from inside it.

Everyone watched what happened next. Four Marines went cautiously toward the car, rifles aimed at it. But almost everyone inside was dead: the father in the front seat and the two children in the back, though for some reason not the mother, who sat motionless in the front. Conrad had gone over to the car afterward, had seen the small bodies slumped in the back.

*   *   *

In Ramadi they'd helped rebuild a school that had been damaged by a mortar barrage. It was part of the Hearts and Minds initiative. The school's teacher was aloof at first, but after a few visits she turned friendly. She smiled when she saw them. Each time Conrad went to look at the construction, he visited the classroom afterward to see the kids. He brought candy, crayons, comics, whatever he could find. When they saw him, they shouted, jumped up, and crowded around him. They called him “Mr. Leftenant.” That was from Ali: he'd learned British English.

One little girl clung to him each time, smiling up at him. She was missing two front teeth and had a wide, gappy smile. She wore a bright tiger-striped head scarf; her name was Leila. “Mr. Leftenant,” she would call, grinning.

Each time he thought of Leila, he thought of the others, the two small bodies in the back seat.

*   *   *

Pink Trunks weighed about a hundred and ninety, and Conrad could have taken him down with one sweep of his arm. The man stood right in front of him, his face tense and outraged. His feet were spread and his hands clenched, as though he was about to start boxing.

Conrad stepped back. He was still here—still here, on the beach, and still there, outside Ramadi. He could feel a pounding in his throat, rising waves inside his head.

But they had, actually, run over this kid. They'd knocked him down in the water. Conrad folded his arms over his chest and said nothing. He gave a little shake of his head, feeling sickened.

“Look,” Jenny said, “we're sorry.”

*   *   *

In the evening they had drinks out on the splintery deck behind the house. The sun was setting behind the pine trees, turning the landscape scarlet. The tall grass glowed and the pine trees were soft and dark, the sun burning behind them.

They sat in a loose circle, Marshall and Conrad in chairs facing the sunset, Lydia and Jenny on a low bench, Ollie on a stool. Their faces gleamed, ruddy from the day at the beach. Marshall sat leaning back, his knees apart. He wore white pants, a striped Greek fisherman's shirt, and thick-strapped leather sandals. Beside him on an old table was a bowl of peanuts. Marshall held his drink in his left hand and ate the peanuts steadily with his right. He picked a little cluster of them, put them one by one into his mouth, then took another little cluster.

Lydia sat beside him. Her hair was still damp. Her face glowed, her dangling earrings catching the light. Jenny was next to her, looking polished and glamorous in a green silky top and white pants. Ollie, hunched on the stool, was barefoot. He wore a faded T-shirt and khaki pants that dragged, fraying, at the heels.