I’m still looking at the bay later that night, but this time it’s at the faded picture on the wall across from my bed that was a gift from some painter or other who’d taken a shine to Grandma, or so the story went. Scrolling along the bottom are the words: Penobscot Bay, where the water is pure and the living’s easy.
I never did understand that sentiment and long ago concluded that only an Awayer could have written it. Lobstering is one of the hardest trades, and even the water in the bay is increasingly polluted these days.
Those are my thoughts as I tiptoe out of the house early the next morning, hard on the heels of my father, who’s on his way to the boat. It’s the hour before sunrise, and there’s a thick mist. I wait on the porch for Dad to cross the dew-soaked field and enter the woods, and then I make my way down myself, ducking into the overgrown path that winds between the pine and spruce trees and passing the three silver birches that Dad had planted when Andy, Annie, and I were born. I stop by the broken-down cliffside shack that overlooks the bay, and watch him unlock the wooden gate to the dock and then the door to the shed where he stores the lobster traps. He works quickly, efficiently, the habits of years ingrained into his movements, but he appears tired, and I wonder how well he slept last night. He loads the traps into the boat, sorts out the orange buoys, and, with a tug of the motor, he’s off into the bay.
I want to call out to him to tell him to circle back and take me along, but I don’t. Instead, I climb down the ladder to the dock and sit by the water’s edge while the boat’s wake washes up around me. I can’t see it anymore, though I can hear the motor chugging through the dark. A faint dark line through the mist hints at the hills on the other side of the bay, but everything else is a milky haze, with a few black-backed gulls gliding in and out. I breathe the salt air, the mist settling damply on my shoulders, but after a while, I get up and make my way back to the house. Maybe I’ll spend the morning mowing the lawn …
Lieutenant Ellison …
I look down from the Hesco. Whalen’s standing there, shading his eyes against the sun. It’s hotter than hell. I run my tongue over my chapped lips. Dried-up saliva crusts around the corners of my mouth.
What is it, First Sarn’t?
It’s time for your relief, Lieutenant.
I look down at my watch, confused. What time is it? I ask.
It’s time, he says as Sergeant Schott walks up; then: Uh-oh.
What is it?
Looks like she’s coming back.
I turn to look out at the field. My vision blurs in the glare. A white band of heat straddles the ground. It’s so hot I’m almost dizzy. I shade my eyes and wait for a moment for my vision to clear. Whalen’s right. The cart’s trundling back. There can be no mistaking it.
Whalen climbs up beside me.
I hear Schott shout to the men as he signals an M-240B machine gun team into place to cover the slopes. With the M-240B’s maximum effective range of eleven hundred meters for area targets, they can lacerate the slopes. As they settle into position, a second combat team takes up firing positions with M-4s and a .50-caliber machine gun. They let Schott know that they have her in their sights.
Whalen watches the cart with me until it lurches to a stop near the seventy-five-meter marker. Gusts of wind sweep the field, blowing dust into tight little spirals.
I shake my head in disbelief. This is crazy. What does she want from us?
Whalen says matter-of-factly: Her brother’s body.
Then he turns to me and says: Would you have acted any differently in her situation?
For an instant, Annie’s face flashes before my eyes. I shudder momentarily before dismissing it. I hardly think it’s the same thing, First Sarn’t, I say tersely.
Why not? he asks.
I’m saved from having to respond by Connolly’s arrival.
He marches down to the ECP and comes to a halt with his arms akimbo. I jump down from the Hesco and walk over to him. He barely glances at me before turning to glare at the cart again.
What the hell is going on, Lieutenant?
She’s done burying the men, Sir, I reply calmly.
You shoulda let me know the moment he finished.
He, Sir?
Well, of course. Do you seriously expect me to believe that a woman—and one apparently crippled, at that—just buried three large men in graves she dug out of the bare ground? With a frickin’ spade? And in this heat?
It did take her a while …
Connolly swivels around and sizes me up.
Just how gullible do you think I am?
Sir?
If that’s a fucking woman, then I’m a fucking camel.
The women around here are pretty tough, Sir.
You’re not married, are you, Lieutenant?
No, I’m not, I answer, and stiffen.
You seem very well informed about the local gals.
Well, on the evidence of it before our eyes …
He checks his watch. It’s too late now, but if he’s still around tomorrow, then we’ll settle this once and for all, d’you follow me?
I do, Sir. Absolutely. Then I pause and cough discreetly: But how?
How what?
How are we going to settle it?
We’ll come up with something. In the meantime, keep me posted, all right?
Yes, Sir, I answer with composure, while inwardly seething at being expected to serve as his gofer. I want to remind him that I’m a lieutenant, not a fucking messenger, but I manage to restrain myself.
Who’s on watch next, First Sarn’t? Connolly asks Whalen.
Schott steps up. I am, Sir.
Keep your eyes skinned. I’ve a feeling it’s gonna be a long night.
Connolly leaves, and I pick up my things from the Hesco and nod at Whalen and Schott as I walk away. Whalen lights a cigarette and watches me go with a sympathetic look.
I return to my hut and slowly take off my boots and socks. My feet are white and wrinkled: they look as if they’ve been poached, and strips of skin peel off with the socks. I collapse on the bunk in exhaustion. My hands and face burn with the daylong exposure to the sun, and there’s a tight knot in my stomach that’s threatening to turn into a cramp. I realize I haven’t eaten the entire day. I lie there willing myself to get up and walk over to the mess tent.
They’ve been feeding you well, Tommy, Mom says. You’ve filled out.
Annie feels my biceps. She says: No way!
You happy ’bout your son, Ma’am? I ask.
Ma’am! Mom punches me playfully on the arm. Don’t you Ma’am me, young man. I’m Mom to you. None of your southern airs here.
Okay, okay, but what do you think of me in this uniform?
Mom glances at Dad, and then at me again. She looks sad. Do you really think you’re going to make a difference, Tommy?
I do, I reply. Do you remember what you said when we were sitting in front of the TV watching those towers go down?
You’re obsessed with those towers! It isn’t healthy. No, I don’t remember. What did I say?
You turned to us and said everyone was going to have to pull together, do their bit. So I’m doing my bit, that’s all.
She gives me a wan smile. I guess I’m going to have to watch what I say around you. If I’d known how it was going to turn out, I’d have said something else altogether.
The three of them have come down from Maine for my graduation. To save money, they took a red-eye out of Bangor to Boston’s Logan Airport, caught a connection via Philadelphia to Atlanta, then drove down to Fort Benning.
That’s a hell of a lot of connections, I remark.
Your father was planning to drive us down, but the round trip would have taken three days, Mom says with a laugh.
Dad says: So Annie went online and found us these cheap tickets on some travel website. It cost less than half as much as it would’ve to drive. He shakes his head in disbelief.
It’ll be better on the way back, Mom says. We just have one changeov
er in Illadelph, and bigger planes on both legs, not those tiny turboprops.
Illadelph? I ask. Where’s that?
That’s Philadelphia to you, white boy, Dad replies.
I do a double-take and stare at them: Mom? Dad?
Mom laughs. The Roots crew are in the house, she says. What’s yo izm, homeboy?
I jerk my eyes open and lie still for a moment, bewildered.
Then I realize I can hear Wonk Gaines talking a mile a minute on the other side of the plywood partition that separates my hooch from theirs. I must have fallen asleep the moment I lay down on the cot. I grimace and search for my earplugs, but I can’t find them in the darkness and continue to lie there half-asleep, with snatches of conversation filtering through the partition.
Wonk says: So I’m in this basement in North Philly, maybe ten feet by ten feet square, and there’s forty of us inside, and everyone’s doped out of their minds, and ?uestlove, man, he sets down this beat on a shoebox, and the whole crowd’s swayin’, you know what I’m sayin’, and a brother begins to rap. It’s Black Thought. He says: Hip-hop, you’re the love of my life …
The high-pitched voice of Brad Everheart, the company’s Christianist, cuts in: Who moved my fucking boots?
Pfc. Serrano says: They’re right there, bro …
No, they’re not! I’d placed them like this … at an angle to the cot, see? … and now they’re here, which is not the same thing …
Pfc. Lawson says: What the fuck are you talking about?
They gotta be at this angle, see? It’s very precise. What’s so difficult to understand?
Why the fuck do they have to be at that angle? Matt Lawson asks. Does it say so in your Bible?
Everheart says: Come on, Matt! That was a cheap shot.
Lawson replies: You’re losing it, Brad. I’m worried about you.
No, I’m not losing it. I’m saving lives.
There’s a growl from Serrano. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
Everheart continues: Listen up, you guys. The night before the firefight, I was too tired to place them at this angle, see, and all hell broke loose shortly after. And the time before that, four weeks ago, I’d chucked them under my cot any old how, and Lieutenant Hendricks and Sergeant Castro got hosed the next day. So now I gotta be extra careful, okay? I’m not taking any more chances. This is for all of us.
No shit! Wonk says nervously. Guys, he’s got a point.
Lawson drawls: Brad Everheart. Dude. You need to go home and get laid.
Laid?
Yup. Big-time.
Is sex all you can think about?
What else is there to life? Ejaculation, procreation, extinction.
Bro, you need, like, a dozen Valium chased with a shot of chastity.
Not a chance, Lawson counters. Matter of fact, I could use some nymphetamine right about now.
You missing the litter back home, Matt?
Fuck off, douche bag!
God bless, shitface, Everheart says magnanimously. You’re just like fucking SpongeBob, d’you know why?
No, why?
Because you live at the bottom of a fucking bikini, that’s why.
That’s all right by me, dipshit, Lawson says, laughing. I’d go for a bikini over your holy book any time.
Serrano cuts in: Speaking of boots and shit, guys, I smell like a pig. I’m tired of cleaning up with fuckin’ baby wipes. I can’t hardly wait till the next rotation through Battalion for a shower and a call home.
What the fuck for? Wonk asks, his voice laced with sarcasm. Don’t you like washing with wipes and water bottles left to warm in the sun?
I’m not from Killadelphia, brutha, Serrano says suavely. I like working showers and laundromats … he draws the word out.
Suddenly Lawson says: What’s that noise?
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
WHEN 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 cri
sp 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?
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