The Watch (20 page)

Serrano says: Sounds like someone playing a guitar …

Dude, that’s no guitar, Lawson replies. And it’s coming from somewhere outside the base. Listen …

Everheart says: Grab your guns and let’s go check it out …

I hear boots tramping out of their hooch and sit up on my bunk, straining to listen. Moments later, I find myself outside as well, my hand resting on my 9 mm as I join a steady stream of grunts in various states of undress, all heading in the direction of the music. I make out a row of men ranged along the Hesco wall, their silhouetted forms black against a backdrop of stars. Except for those on guard duty, practically the entire company’s here—and everyone’s silent, quiet for once. The only sound in that surreal gathering is an unearthly plucking of strings filtering through the night air.

I walk past Staff Sergeant Tribe leaning against a pile of sandbags.

We should just fuckin’ whack her, he says sourly. Just as I was fallin’ asleep …

Bradford makes room for me on top of the Hescos. Whalen’s next to him, gazing out at the dark field. I make out Doc, Tanner, Petrak, Ashworth, Flint, Masood. Glowing cigarette ends flicker in the darkness like fireflies.

The air smells of the mountains.

FIRST SERGEANT

W
HEN you’re young, you’re sleeping.

I swim to the end of the small pool, then turn around and swim back. It’s my twentieth lap, and the pink dawn stipples the water. I feel like laughing out loud with pleasure—and maybe I did earlier on—but am content to simply enjoy the sense of well-being that suffuses me. It’s good to feel the water stream down my face while its buoyancy cradles my body. The dawn clouds are out of a dream: they turn vermilion, then orange, before the red orb of the sun soars over the horizon. The night’s long shadow lifts from the pool. A cool, pale radiance filters through the overhanging branches. The magnolias emerge from the half-light into the mirroring water. Their reflections surround me as I climb out of the pool.

Aunt Thelma’s knitting on the back porch. She smiles at me and tells me that my grandfather is up. I can’t think of too many moments when I’ve seen her without those needles and a ball of wool on her
lap. Thelma brought me up with the help of my grandparents when my father died. I was twelve. They told us there’d been an accident in an air show in Germany. Dad was one of the spectators. He’d driven there with his buddies from the nearby base at Landstuhl. I remember Mother’s strange response to the telephone call—she went ashen-faced, then smiled. She attempted to cover it up by biting her lip. But I’d already noticed, and lying in bed that night, I couldn’t figure out what was worse, Dad’s death or her reaction.

A week later, she was gone: she’d taken off with runty little Alvin Jones, one of the mechanics at the auto repairs place where Dad serviced his car whenever he was in town. It was left to my grandparents to receive the men from Dad’s unit when they came by with his personal effects. As for Mother, we heard that she and Al ended up in Abilene, where he opened an auto shop of his own. I never saw her after that. Rumor went she’d had a kid who didn’t survive.

Now my grandfather is sitting at the kitchen table like he does every morning, getting in Grandma’s way while she makes breakfast. As I pass them on the way to my room, he asks me to bring my uniform out with me when I return for breakfast.

Not again, James! Grandma protests. Leave the boy alone.

You leave
us
alone! You don’t understand.

Oh, I understand all right, Jimmy Whalen. I was an army wife for thirty-nine years, and if I don’t understand I don’t know who will.

Thirty-nine years? You must mean
fifty
-nine years! I can see you’re ready to go plant me in my grave afore my time comes.

You retired twenty years ago, may I remind you?

I can do that math! he barks. They retired me before I was ready to quit. I’d never have left on my own, you know that.

I know, I know, I hear Grandma say patiently as I reach my room. I almost trip when my foot catches on a rip in the carpet, but manage to keep from falling and carry on.

My grandfather’s in the study by the time I return. I’m dressed
casually, but my uniform on its hanger is crisp from the dry cleaner’s. It smells of the plastic wrapper I unspool before handing it to him.

Louise, he calls out, where are my glasses?

She brings them to him and pulls me behind her as she goes back to the kitchen. I catch a glimpse of my grandfather running his hands over my combat ribbons and SFC stripes. He’s sitting ramrod straight, but there’s a faraway look in his eyes. I know that look well: he’s dreaming about his glory days again.

Grandma makes me promise to attend Sunday service at her new church, the Greater King David Baptist, where she’s been going ever since the one closer to home burned down.

They have the best gospel music, she says. Just listenin’ to that sugar-sweet sound brings you closer to the Lord, though I’ve yet to be able to persuade your grandfather, that stubborn old man, to come with me. I’m planning to talk to the pastor about setting up your wedding date for when your tour’s done. So bring Camille with you: she’s going to need to get to know him and all.

Grandma …

No, no, Marcus, not a word. I’m not getting any younger, and you can see what your grandfather’s like. I want to see you settled before I go. You’re thirty-seven. It’s time.

She clasps my hands and looks into my eyes. You hear me?

Yes, Ma’am.

Good. Now sit down and tuck into your pancakes and eggs. I’ve made them just the way you like them. You see, I don’t forget, regardless of what your grandfather may tell you about my failing memory and nonsense like that.

Yes, Ma’am.

When I finish eating, I sit with her for a while and talk about Afghanistan and the general direction of the war. She asks me about Tarsândan, and tells me about the book she’s taken out from the public library about a woman her own age in Kabul. It’s my turn to be
interested, and it’s no surprise that by the time I leave the house it’s nine o’clock, and I’m already running late for my errands.

On my way out, my grandfather asks me how long I’ll be gone.

Let’s see, today’s Sunday, so I’d say Friday or thereabouts.

You takin’ your father’s car or what?

Yes, Sir, I was planning to.

Your grandma had it serviced last week—or, at least, that’s what she says she did, in anticipation of your comin’—so you should be fine. Drive carefully all the same, you hear me? It’s an old car, and those great big loons in their SUVs are enough to put the fear of the devil into a law-abidin’ man.

Before I can answer, Grandma calls out from the kitchen: James, are you swearing again?

What you talking about, woman? I’m havin’ a conversation with my grandson, that’s all. Can’t a man get any privacy around here?

He shakes his head in disgust.
Women
, you know what I mean?

I repress a smile. Yes, Sir.

Aunt Thelma walks me to the door. Bring Camille home, she says. It’s been a while, Boo. It’ll do me good to see your sweet gaienne again. She has such a beautiful head of hair, and her eyes!—as blue as the morning sky.

Aunt Thelma’s originally from New Orleans, and she still falls into the local patois sometimes, using Boo for child, gaienne for girlfriend, and so on. It used to bother me no end when I was a teenager, but now I find it endearing and give her a hug instead.

She asks me to stand still while she measures the sweater she’s knitting for me against my back. How cold is it there, anyway? she asks.

Afghanistan? It’s cold. I mean, there’s entire parts of the country that close down for six to seven months of the year because there’s so much snow on the ground.

Good thing you’re here, then. No point in getting frostbite. Still and all, I’ll make sure I get this done before you go back. Maybe you can wear it next year.

Aunt Thelma, it’s still going to be winter when I get back, trust me. Where we’re posted, the cold lasts until the end of May.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, I’m glad you told me! I had no idea. I’m turning into a regular vielle fille! I’ll have to buy you warm underwear, child. She looks at me over her glasses. I’ve been using six-ply yarn. Maybe it’s not thick enough. What do you think?

It seems fine to me.

I should probably use single-ply worsted weight yarn and start over.

There’s really no need to do that! It’ll be fine.

I don’t know, p’tit boug. Let me think about it. You run along now.

I slide the tarp off the car in the garage. The Chevelle looks like it was born yesterday: Gauguin Red paintwork, glittering chrome grille, spotless tan interior. I open the door, slide into the front seat, and rest my hands on the leather-covered steering wheel made shiny by my father’s loving use. I turn on the ignition and sit there for a moment, puzzled that nothing’s happening. Then I laugh. I’m so used to the roar of Hummers and Strykers that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be in a real American car.

It slides as smooth as silk out of the garage and down the short driveway onto the street. The sun’s already hot. I’m glad I wore an open-necked cotton shirt and loose slacks. I merge with the traffic headed for Government Street. My first stop is Phil Brady’s, one of the best blues establishments in Baton Rouge, where Camille tends bar four nights a week.

I use the back entrance, pausing before the employees’ bulletin board to check Camille’s schedule for the week. She’s taken off till next weekend, which is when I’m flying out. I feel a rush of anticipation as I rest my eyes on her name: Camille Thibodeaux. Just as I’m turning away, Donnie, the day manager, sees me and hurries over.

Welcome back! he says, pressing my hand. Where you at, podna? Good to see you again! How long you staying this time around?

Seven days. Camille told me to come pick up some things …

We got ’em ready and waiting for you, Big Boy, the whole nine yards, exactly as ordered. That gal of yours don’t stint none, I’ll tell you that much. Come along now.

Donnie, please don’t call me Big Boy.

He turns to look at me and laughs.

That’s big of you, Chief. You’re a hero, naw what I’m talkin’ about? A genuine, twenty-four-carat American hero. Everybody looks up to you round here. I can’t tell you how good it feels to have you back.

Thank you, but I’m no hero. I’m simply doing my job, like you’re doing yours.

He slows down and glances at me uncertainly. Then he winks. C’mon now. I know courage when I see it, you know what I’m saying? He leans close to me and drops his voice. I would’ve joined up too, but I got a family; it makes things difficult. But God, I’d love to be doin’ what ya’ll do, I imagine, goin’ after those terrorists! I saw a report on PBS, and it was sweet, Marcus, sweet. All that action!

He pulls out a couple of giant hampers from the freezer and a carton of booze and motions to one of the busboys.

Careful with those, he says. There’s ice at the bottom to keep ’em cool for the ride.

I eye the hampers in astonishment. Lord, Donnie, what’s in them?

He puts on his reading glasses and scans a piece of paper.

Let me see now: you got red beans and rice, meatballs in tomato sauce, crawfish fettuccine, ersters, our special hot sausages, wings, and po-boys for lunch; Cajun spiced redfish for grilling in the evenings, fresh-picked mirlitons to have with shrimp butter sauce, crawfish and mynez, alligator pears, strawberries, and boursin cheesecake. For the booze you got champagne, wine, port for you, I imagine, beer, Scotch, bourbon … jeez, the gal’s thought of everything …

He glances at me with a wicked grin.

I burst out laughing. We walk out to the car together.

You coming this weekend or what? he asks. We got hot bands playing.

Who you got?

The best, as always. On Thursday, there’s Atlanta Al leading the blues jam, on Friday we got Dexter Lee and the Prophets, and on Saturday there’s Muddy Creek playing all the way through midnight.

Probably Saturday, then, I think—it’s up to Camille.

You lucky man! You got the greatest gal and the greatest job in the world. You’re a lucky son of a gun, if you’ll pardon the allusion.

He thumps me on the back as I slide into the car.

See ya’ll on the weekend, maybe …?

Maybe … I wave at him as I pull out.

I’ve one more errand to run before I cross the river. I drive a few blocks along Government Street past my old high school and then swing around the corner, on Jefferson. I pull up in front of a record store with wide glass windows papered with posters of concerts and bands, and park behind a battered brown van that has “Rawlings, Sons & Daughter” stenciled on one side and “We Buy Used CDs and Records” on the other. The sign above the store reads: “The Old Man and the CD.” I pause before the storefront and look inside. Behind the counter there’s a broad-shouldered bald white man in a Harley-Davidson T-shirt and a bright red bandana. I’m already smiling as I open the door, and I stand there for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the neon-lit interior. Then I say: Sergeant Rawlings, where y’at?

He looks up from the magazine he’s reading and hollers so loudly that all the customers turn around.

First Sergeant Marcus fuckin’ Whalen! he shouts. Well, shoot me down and stand me up against the wall!

He maneuvers himself adroitly on a pair of crutches down the narrow aisles packed with CDs and records. I meet him halfway. He’s grinning from ear to ear. He says: C’mere, ya great big Tahyo, gimme a hug! Wassup wit’cha? You lookin’ good, bro. You finally lost some o’ that baby fat.

I aim a playful punch at him before looking around the place and taking in the changes. I see you expanded, you knocked down the back wall and all … And what’s with the fancy new name? What was wrong with “The CD Store”? Plain and simple, just the way I liked it. Since when did you become the Old Man?

He scrunches up his face in embarrassment. Marketing gimmick, bro, he says wryly. It was my daughter’s idea. I’m introducing my kids to the bizness, see?—and they got new ways of doin’ things.