by Laila Lalami
One day the lieutenant announced we had to check on a safe house outside Ramadi. It turned out to be a farm, the land around it nearly barren, the only animals three thin goats obstinately grazing on a small patch of yellow grass. Sergeant Fletcher had a lot more experience, so when he suggested going in with the terp and two others to talk to the owner, the lieutenant agreed. The air was still and heavy with heat. The men waited, drinking from their CamelBaks now and then. After idling for thirty minutes, the Humvees grew so hot that it seemed a relief when the lieutenant gave the order to dismount and start the search. I found myself with Perez and Sanger, rounding the farmhouse toward the well. An old tractor sat on its side, wheels in the air, gathering dust. Here and there lay all manner of farm tools.
From a eucalyptus tree nearby came the sudden fluttering of bird wings. Out of instinct, I looked up. Then I felt my foot give in and the next thing I knew I was sliding down a dark hole, dragging dirt and tarp and branches down with me and landing over a body, the weight of my ballistic plate pinning it to the ground. But it wasn’t a body, it was a man, alive and awake. I locked eyes with him, surprised to find my own fear reflected back at me. The smell of our sweat filled my nostrils. Even with Sanger and Perez shouting from above the hole, I heard the distinct click of the man’s gun under me, followed, after a second that stretched into eternity, by the merciful sound of an empty barrel.
Everything else after that happened quickly—Sanger jumped into the hole, helped me put the suspect in cuffs, Perez called for Doc Jones—but all I could think of was that I could have died right then, before I’d turned twenty, before I’d had a chance to hike in the Grand Canyon or see the Empire State Building or ride in one of those glass elevators I’d always wanted to try. I had been in Iraq nineteen days. The thought that this would be my life for the foreseeable future had the brutal force of a revelation. Later, while Doc Jones checked my knee, I watched Sergeant Fletcher pull the lieutenant to the side. “Sir, there was no need to send the men in like that. The farmer was cooperating, he told us about the hideout.”
“No harm done,” the lieutenant said.
“Not this time.”
“Next time, we’ll wait for you to finish your palavers.”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Fletcher said, but the way he said it sounded more like a warning. Don’t make this mistake again, asshole. The lieutenant looked away, fiddled with his headset, said we should be ready to mount up soon. Fletcher came over to where I sat on the dirt with Doc Jones. “How’s that knee, Gorecki?”
“It’s inflamed,” Doc Jones answered. “I’ll give him some Motrin, but he’ll have to stay off it for a day or two.”
“Looks like you earned yourself a little break,” Fletcher said with a smile.
I nodded, though I couldn’t shake the feeling that I owed my life to chance. An empty barrel. Nor could I forget that the lieutenant had put me in that hole. Everything I’d once liked about him irritated me now. His jokes. His games. How he made sure everyone in the platoon knew he’d graduated from Duke. There was no subtlety to his bragging, either. Another thing: the lieutenant loved to have the whole platoon stand in their gear in the sun while he pontificated about the day’s briefs, no matter how straightforward they were. I found myself wishing that Sergeant Fletcher had been in charge. Fletcher was smart, cautious, took care of his men like they were his own children. Sometimes, I still caught myself thinking about him that way.
As a father.
Which made what happened later all the more painful.
We were finally called to lane 8. In my hands, the gun was cold and hard and familiar. More than once I hit the bull’s-eye. I was a good shot, had always been. Back in boot camp, my score on marksmanship had given me the confidence that the grueling physical training had all but taken away. Nothing compared to the rush of adrenaline before the shot, the cool calm in the aftermath, the reliability of the exercise in a world that was so plainly unreliable.
In the car, Fierro said he liked his new Glock so much that maybe he’d get one for his younger brother for Christmas. We were quiet as we listened to the radio. He coughed into his hands a few times, said, Dude, I think I’m coming down with something. Then we were in the driveway, saying goodbye with a handshake and a shoulder bump, telling each other we’d talk again in a few days. When I walked back inside my house, the scent of peonies and chocolate greeted me in the hallway. I put my gun in the safe and went out again.
* * *
—
At the cabin, the porch light was off. But I tried the knob; the door was unlocked. I found Nora asleep on the couch, one of her hands folded under her face. She looked peaceful and fragile all at once, and I had a little argument with myself whether I should wake her. Then I ran my thumb along the arch of her foot. She stirred, looked at me confusedly as I knelt beside her. “You shouldn’t leave the door open like that. It’s not safe.”
“I must’ve fallen asleep,” she said, sitting up in surprise. The strap of her dress slid down, revealing the swell of a breast. I leaned in to kiss her. Pages from her composition, which had been resting on her stomach, fell to the floor. Black pen marks snaked between the lines and along the margins of every page. She picked them up, stacked them on her lap, holding them as lovingly as she might a child. “So,” she said, and by the way she inflected the word I knew what she was going to ask next. “You go shooting guns often?”
“I’m a cop, Nora.”
“I know, but even if you weren’t, you’d have a gun?”
“Probably.”
“Why?”
“For protection.”
“From what?”
“People who come into your house without knocking,” I teased. She waited for me to say more, but I had a feeling that talk of guns might lead to talk of war, which I was trying to avoid, so I handed her the pages of sheet music that had fallen to the floor and changed the subject. “Can I hear this sometime?” I asked.
“You want to?”
I’d found two pieces of hers online, one a classical composition and the other one more jazzy and I’d liked them both, but they were from three years before, and I was curious about what she was working on now. “Yes, of course.”
She hesitated. “It’s not done yet.”
“I don’t mind.”
She stretched and yawned, then went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. I stood in the doorway for a minute, then came to stand beside her. Around the sink the caulking I’d redone the day before was bright against the scuffed pink tiles. She hadn’t wanted me to bother with it, but when I pointed out that bad caulking could damage the wall, she relented. I ran my finger along the lines of grout; they had dried and the sink looked better now. “So can we finish our conversation?” I asked.
“What conversation?”
“What we were talking about before Fierro showed up.”
She looked at me through the mirror and the appraising gaze I’d noticed in her eyes earlier that evening returned. She rinsed her mouth, put her toothbrush in the plastic cup next to the tap, and stood still. Unmoving. Unyielding. I slid a finger under the strap of her dress and moved it off her shoulder. As I pressed my lips against her skin, a wave of sadness hit me; all I would ever get from her was this, nothing more. Already I could see how it would end. I should enjoy this while it lasts, I told myself.
But then she turned to face me. “You really want to hear that piece?” There was a note of challenge in her voice. She was asking me something else: she was asking if I was really prepared for the thing I said I wanted. Outside, the wind chime started clinking, disturbing the silence. The turtledove cooed in response.
“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”
She walked over to her laptop and scrolled through her files until she found the right one. While the music played, I sat on the couch and closed my eyes, moved not just by how beautiful the p
iece sounded, but by how easily Nora had opened her heart to me. She held nothing back, and it terrified me that someday she might expect the same of me.
Anderson
It was an accident. Of course, the daughter tried to make it seem like it was more than that, got some people all riled up about it, but she didn’t live here and didn’t know what it was like. It was just an accident. Unfortunate and unavoidable, like the lawyer said. I wasn’t even going to hire a lawyer, but Helen insisted because she didn’t trust the police, and I guess she was right. I was glad we had Miss Perry in our corner, she looked out for us, even though we could barely afford her fee. What I don’t understand is, what was that guy doing crossing the intersection when it was so dark out? The problem here, what we really should be talking about, is we need signals and lighting on that highway. But it makes no sense accusing people about something that couldn’t’ve been prevented. Accidents happen. Why is that so hard to understand?
After my lawyer told me about the daughter’s crazy accusations, I thought about visiting the restaurant next door and having a word with that young lady, telling her how she was mistaken about the whole thing. Miss Perry talked me out of it, though, said it would only make it seem like I had done something wrong. And I hadn’t. I was trying to do the right thing.
People were different, back in my day. I remember another accident, in ’75 or ’76, a couple of years after Helen and I opened our bowling alley, and it didn’t end up like this. It happened on Family Night. The special ran on Thursday afternoons from three to six p.m., but we still called it Family Night, so it would fit with the other themes Helen posted on the board out front. One day, a family with six kids came in. “You might want to get two lanes,” I said to the father. He had a thick mustache, the kind that was popular in those days, and he looked so young it was hard to believe he had six children. But he wouldn’t hear of paying for two lanes. He and his wife took their little tribe to lane 8. It took them a long while to play their games, especially since the youngest kid looked about three years old, and afterward, their seating area looked like a pigsty. The seats were covered with potato chips, even though the sign at the front clearly said that no food was allowed in the bowling area.
I had two parties waiting in the concourse, so I told my porter Greg to hurry up and clean up after them. He was sweeping the floors when he hit the bumper rail with his broom. It went down and so he kicked it back up with his foot, not thinking much of it, but the bumper fell right back down and sliced through his shoe. Greg is a big, burly guy from Moreno Valley, and yet the pain was so bad he passed out. I ran to his side, helped him up, and Helen got him some ice water. We drove him to the hospital—back then, that was High Desert Memorial in Yucca Valley—and waited with him to see what the doctor would say. They didn’t have the technology they have nowadays, though, and he lost two toes on his left foot. Greg was a champ, he went back to work a couple of weeks later. We put up new signs about keeping food off the bowling area, and we were strict about enforcing safety rules. But we understood when something was an accident. We didn’t go around trying to blame other people for what happened.
This town has changed a lot since then. Hardesty’s Groceries is gone, and so is Steeley’s Sporting Goods. We have a Walmart and an Applebee’s now. We even got a Starbucks. All kinds of people have been coming here. All kinds. I go to the store these days, I don’t recognize anybody. Used to be I always ran into friends or neighbors or even acquaintances from church. Not anymore. And the changes are happening so fast. Ten years ago, you could still have some peace and quiet around here, but now you have lines of tourists, their cars idling, waiting to get into the national park, or getting rowdy in their Airbnbs, doing drugs or God knows what. Some people say I should be grateful for the business that the newcomers are bringing to the town, but the way I see it, they’re changing this place and wanting me to be grateful for it. They didn’t ask if we wanted them here, they just came.
Coleman
When I don’t have all the evidence I need, I trace a story from the few details I have, and see if it holds up. Late one Sunday afternoon, after I found Miles sprawled on the couch again, staring longingly at his Instagram, I told him that he could invite his new friend to dinner. As soon as Brandon texted that he could come, Miles ran off to clean his room—made his bed, picked up his dirty laundry, brought out the trash. Then he took a thirty-minute shower. Of course, Ray didn’t notice anything, his eyes were glued to the TV. The Lakers were playing that evening, and no passion compares to that of a fan who’s switched allegiances. I peeled the potatoes, marinated the chicken, and set the table for four. Miles came back into the living room reeking of Old Spice, and I dropped a fork just to make Ray look up. But no. Lakers at 78, Nuggets at 75, going into the third quarter.
Brandon rang the doorbell promptly at seven. He was in an old T-shirt and frayed khakis, but he’d made some effort to brush his floppy hair into place with gel. His bike was set next to my car on the driveway, and I noticed that the bottle in the holder was covered with a sticker that said REAL MEN RIDE BIKES. “Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Coleman,” he said as he stepped inside.
“My pleasure,” I said.
Ray paused the basketball game and got out of the easy chair to shake hands with our guest. “Hello, young man.”
“This is Brandon,” I said. “He’s in the same grade as Miles.”
“Uh-huh,” Ray said, his eyes darting back to the TV screen.
Miles jostled past me. “Wanna play Battlefield on Xbox?” he asked, and whisked Brandon off to his room. A minute later, the door closed behind them, Ray was back in his chair, and I was alone again.
When I have something on my mind, I try to give my hands something to do, just to keep myself from going crazy, but I had already cleaned the house from top to bottom and was out of ideas. So I sat next to Ray on the couch, biting my nails, a habit I hadn’t been able to break despite his constant nagging about it. When the basketball game was finally over, I dressed the salad and called the boys to the table. The Lakers had won, thankfully, and Ray was in a great mood. He picked up the lemonade pitcher and started filling everyone’s glasses. “So, Brandon. You and Miles are in the same classes?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Coleman. We don’t have any classes together. We’re just in the same grade.”
“Right, right. That’s what I meant.”
The boys started serving themselves from the grilled potato dish. Miles picked up the bottle of ketchup and, without being asked, moved the jar of mustard next to Brandon’s plate.
“Did you grow up here, Brandon?” I asked.
“Yes, but I was born in Torrance. My mom was going to school near there and she only moved back here after she finished.”
“What was she studying?” Ray asked.
“Dental hygiene,” Brandon said, and then he and Miles started laughing at some inside joke. The moment one of them stopped, the other started.
It had been weeks since I’d heard Miles’s laughter, and the sound gave me such pleasure that I chuckled along with them. “What’s so funny?” I asked.
“Nothing, Mom,” Miles said.
Well, at least I was back to being his mom. That was something, even if he was still distant and refused to explain the joke to me. To have been so close to him for thirteen years only to find myself unable to pierce this new shield he’d built around himself was painful to me. I pushed the chicken around on my plate and waited for Ray to say something, but he only shook his head slowly, in a knowing way.
Later that night, when we were getting ready for bed, I asked him what he thought about Brandon. “Well, it takes all kinds,” he said. It was an irritating habit my husband had, resorting to folk wisdom when he didn’t know what to say.
What if I told him that Brandon wasn’t just a friend for Miles? A few years ago, Ray had stopped visiting his cousin in New York after she’d move
d in with her girlfriend, even though he always denied that this was the reason. “She changed after she went to grad school,” he would say, “that’s all it is. Nothing more.” And now he was pretending not to notice what was right in front of him, which was strange, because he was such an attentive father. It was making me doubt myself. Maybe there was nothing to notice. Maybe I was making too much of the little things. Miles was happy, that much I could see. Wasn’t it all that mattered?
I went to work the next day feeling drained from lack of sleep. Sitting in the briefing room, I drank a big cup of coffee and tried to pay attention to the daily reports. Vasco was cheerful—he’d gotten some good press after rescuing an abandoned baby and it seemed the Bowden incident was finally receding from the news. As we walked out of the conference room, he asked me where I was on the hit-and-run case. I told him the truth: I hadn’t been able to find solid evidence of intent, so the murder investigation was pretty much dead. “That’s good,” he said. “Time to move on.”
I went back to my desk, answered some emails, and tried to catch up on paperwork. Down the hall, the espresso machine in Murphy’s office screeched. Had he noticed anything with our boys? If he had, he showed no sign of it. When I’d run into him in the break room earlier that morning, he’d given me a friendly smile, but didn’t talk to me. I was about to drive to the Subway for lunch when I got a call from the front office that someone was here to talk to me about the Guerraoui case. A witness.