The Right Side

by Spencer Quinn

  “Oh, dear, are you all right?” Nasrallah said. The woman hurried out from behind the counter with a bottle of water. They fussed over her for a minute or two until she felt more like herself, not her old, real self, but this new version, damaged and inferior. Hands reached out to help her up. She ignored them and rose on her own.

  “I’m fine,” LeAnne said. “Don’t ask.”

  Then came an awkward moment or two, the three of them just standing around. LeAnne wasn’t sure about the cause of their awkwardness; hers was all about finding the best way to make Nasrallah give her the job.

  “Uh, did you have a good relationship with Bernice?” Nasrallah said.

  “And with Mr. Adelson. He was my high school track coach.”

  “What a character!” said Nasrallah. The door opened and in strode some hikers, sweaty and happy; seven of them, by LeAnne’s count. Nasrallah gave them a quick wave, turned back to LeAnne. “Thanks for dropping by.”

  LeAnne tried to think of some way to get this interview back on the right track, or at least prolong it, but failed. She made her way through the hikers, like some sort of fish going the wrong way, and out to the Honda. LeAnne got in, closed the door, and finally came up with something. She tried it out. “Is it the patch, Mr. Nasrallah? Don’t let it scare you.” She sat for a bit, listening to the internal echo of that, and added, “Even though it scares me. It scares the shit out of me, Mr. Nasrallah.” Was that better? Worse? At least worth a shot? LeAnne approached the question from all possible angles, and then, at the top of her lungs, screamed, “Give me my fucking job!”

  LeAnne drove for a while, took her mind off things. She considered serenading herself again Marci-style with some country music, but the energy wasn’t there. When had she ever wanted for energy? Plus she was suddenly thirsty, not just a little thirsty but desperate for water. Somehow the desert air—which she’d always loved—had changed its relationship with her, was no longer on her side; more like that other desert air, so distant now but with her every single goddamn day. On a fancy street in one of those West Valley towns, where she was driving en route to who knows where, she spotted a sidewalk café bound to sell bottled water. LeAnne parked in one of those diagonal slots, got out, stepped up onto the sidewalk, and—

  But no. In fact, she hadn’t seen the small dog leashed to a bike rack down there on her lower right. Of course, the lower right—wasn’t that how things worked, from now on until she finally found the nerve to . . . whoa! She was getting ahead of herself. At the moment she was tripping over the leash, losing her balance, and falling hard on the sidewalk.

  She blurted some sort of loud and guttural noise on impact, a noise followed by the clatter of her sunglasses across the poured concrete and the furious yipping of the dog. LeAnne rolled over, her mind in two places, one about recovering the sunglasses with all possible speed, the other about kicking the dog, good and hard. Then, as she picked herself up, a man appeared in front of her, holding out the sunglasses.

  “Ma’am?”

  LeAnne grabbed them out of his hand and jammed them onto her face, real fast, maybe before he had a chance to notice all the defects. “When is it fucking enough?” she said.

  “Uh, excuse me,” said this do-gooder, a man slightly taller than her, well-dressed, well-groomed, possibly handsome. “I mean no, uh . . .” His eyebrows rose. “LeAnne?”

  LeAnne stepped back, tried to bring his face into some sort of clear view. The lips were beautiful.

  “It’s me,” said the man. “Ryan. Ryan Fraser.”

  Before she could even start dealing with that, a little boy jumped up from a seat at a sidewalk café, ran by, and scooped up the yipping dog.

  “Daddy! Daddy! She stepped on Lew!”

  “Oh, I’m sure it was an accident, Caleb. Besides this is an old friend. So good to see you, LeAnne—this is my son, Caleb. Caleb say hi to Ms. Hogan—if it’s still Ms. Hogan—you’ll have to bring me up to speed.” Ryan flashed her a big smile. Meanwhile, Caleb was glaring up at her and stroking Lew, which seemed to have no effect on the yipping. In short, a kind of madhouse, a madhouse closing in on her in every dimension.

  LeAnne glared right back at the boy, forgetting that no glare could be seen through the sunglasses. “I did not step on your stupid dog.”

  That shocked him—LeAnne could see it on his innocent little kid face: no kid gloves when real life comes knocking, little man.

  Ryan laughed a bit uncertainly, as if some joke had misfired. Then his hand was on her shoulder, and he was moving her toward one of the outside tables of the sidewalk café. “No harm done,” he said. “Come on over here, LeAnne, and meet the rest of my family.”

  Now she was standing by a corner table, white-clothed with heavy-looking silverware, nice china, flowers in a vase.

  “Everybody, please say hi to LeAnne Hogan. LeAnne, my wife, Dana. And these are my other kids . . .” A boy and a girl, who Ryan named, names LeAnne missed. But did she give a shit? No. The point was how beautiful, happy, and rich they all were, just livin’ the dream—a dream made possible, it hit her at that moment, by others toiling in a nightmare down below.

  Dana smiled, an unforced genuine smile, impossible to dislike. “So nice to meet you, LeAnne. Even though I’ve always been a bit jealous.”

  “Jealous?” LeAnne peered down at her. Was this some track meet rival? LeAnne didn’t recognize her.

  “On account of you were Ry’s first love. But all is forgiven! Won’t you join us?” Dana pushed a chair toward her.

  “Great idea,” Ry said. “Something to drink? Dessert? The sorbets here are homemade—the kids are addicted.”

  LeAnne stood by the empty chair. Silver bowls were at every place, bearing little sorbet balls, green, orange, white. There was also a basket of brownies and cookies. The smells were powerful and good, and LeAnne couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten, but she couldn’t imagine sitting down. She couldn’t even imagine standing there, with these people and in this place, although she was actually doing just that.

  Ryan patted the empty chair. “So what are you up to these days? Are you back here full time? I think my mom ran into your mom a few years ago, but I don’t remember much in the way of details.”

  In the center of the madhouse, LeAnne thought of something funny to say, and said it: “Me neither.”

  Ryan laughed, and Dana, too.

  Leave ’em laughing: wasn’t that a show business cliché? Maybe you could live your life taking all cues from show business clichés. She’d have to make a list, tape it to the dashboard. For now, she grabbed a handful of brownies and cookies and walked away.

  “LeAnne?”

  There was more laughter, increasingly uncertain as the odds on this being some sort of humor grew longer, but still audible until she got in the car and drove off, one hand on the wheel, the other fumbling desserts into her mouth. They turned bone dry right away and she spat them out.

  Back at 2241 Lost Hills Road, she found someone there, meaning on her property. Or at least someone’s car: a small black sedan with a bar code strip on the rear window, meaning it was a rental—one of those practical little things LeAnne had learned from her charter boat captain boyfriend in Islamorada who had a headful of information like that. A funny guy, and he’d begged her—“I’m begging you, baby”—to leave the army and marry him.

  LeAnne got off that what-if detour before it started. She parked beside the black sedan and stepped out of her car. At the same time, the flap of her tent opened and out came a soft-faced man in army blues, two silver bars on his lapels.

  “What the hell are you doing in my home?” she said.

  “Hello, LeAnne,” he said. “No offense. I was just seeing if you were in.”

  He moved aside, left to right, making him hard to track. An army captain who somehow knew her name, also knew how to find her. Plus there was something familiar about him.

  “Are you all right?” he said. “Looks like you’ve lost some weight.”
<
br />   She gazed at him, her left eye just not getting it done on its lonesome.

  “Stallings, G-2,” he said. “We met at Walter Reed, but I wouldn’t blame you for not remembering, what with the recent trau—what with the medication, and all.”

  “I remember,” she said, mental fragments reassembling just in time. “Why are you here? And how did you find me?”

  “That second part’s not too interesting,” Stallings said. “Just routine.” Which was when the meaning of G-2—intel—came to her. “But as for why I’m here,” Stallings went on, “two reasons. Well, three actually, including checking on your welfare. How are you doing?”

  “Fine.”

  “Glad to hear that. Dr. Machado was somewhat concerned when he tried to return your call and had a confusing—had no success. He asks that you please try again, with whatever you wanted to discuss.”

  LeAnne waved all that aside with the back of her hand. There was nothing she wanted to discuss with Dr. Machado, now, then, forever.

  “He’s also concerned, bringing us to point two—in fact, the medical staff as a whole is concerned that you seem to have left all your pills behind.”

  “Tell them to worry about something else.”

  Stallings nodded. “I’ve put some medications in the tent, together with dosage info and VA contact numbers in the Phoenix area, and some things you left behind.”

  LeAnne shrugged.

  “As for the tent itself—and this whole setup, very resourceful, by the way—I was wondering how long you planned to stay here.”

  “Why is it any business of yours? Am I on active duty?”

  “Pending a final determination, technically yes, I suppose. The thing is—coming to the final point—I’d like to be able to reach you. I gather you don’t currently have a phone.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe,” he said, pulling a red phone from his pocket, “you’d consider accepting this. I’ll only call when it’s important.”

  LeAnne made no move to take the red phone. The lid twister or metal shearer or whatever the hell was in her head suddenly awoke and started making up for lost time. She thought about the medications waiting in the tent.

  “And when I say important, I’m not just referring to me, or G-2, or the army in general,” Stallings said. “I’m meaning important to you, too.”

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Then why don’t I take you to dinner—name the place, anywhere you want—and I’ll try to explain.”

  LeAnne tried to picture a restaurant dinner with this or any other man and could not. Actually, that was not quite true—her mind was all set to drift down to Islamorada. But hadn’t the charter boat captain gotten married sometime in the past few years? And if not, what was she bringing to the table, his or any man’s?

  “I’m not hungry,” she said.

  “Fair enough,” said Stallings. “I’ll take a rain check. But before I go, I’d like to pick your brain a bit on the subject of your terp.”

  “Katie?” She wouldn’t have minded seeing Katie at that moment. Katie could always crack her up with that sarcastic BBC-style English commentary, flowing from behind her veil while all the meatheaded men were fucking things up. Oh, indubitably, good sir.

  Stallings smiled, which was the only time that soft face of his seemed to harden.

  “Something funny?”

  What the hell? He was some kind of mind reader? “Katie,” LeAnne said. “Katie can be pretty funny.”

  “Oh?” he said. “How?”

  “Hard to explain,” LeAnne said.

  “Try.”

  Stallings was starting to bother her. He was maybe an inch or so taller than she was, but narrow-shouldered and thin-chested, at least compared to many men she knew.

  “Please,” he said. “I’m just asking you to help me do my duty.”

  “Your duty is to find out how Katie’s funny?”

  “It can be a strange job sometimes.”

  Was there a slight catch in his voice when he said that? Some person was inside those army blues, maybe struggling with the fit? LeAnne had seen plenty of that in her military career, but she couldn’t relate personally.

  “I don’t know if other Afghan women are like Katie,” LeAnne said. “In fact, I doubt it. She had this Brit accent she could do, and a whole Brit kind of sarcasm.”

  “What was she sarcastic about?”

  “You know—all the bullshit.”

  “Such as?”

  “The way the men are.”

  “The Afghan men?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you don’t think she respected them?”

  “I know she didn’t.”

  “But on every level?” Stallings said.

  “Huh? What are you getting at?”

  “The possibility that she wanted you to think she didn’t respect them.”

  “Why would she want me to think that? And it’s not even her to begin with.”

  “What’s not even her?”

  “That kind of twisted shit. Katie’s straight up.”

  “Making fun of people in a language they don’t understand doesn’t sound straight up to me,” Stallings said.

  A wind rose, coming out of the west and rippling the tent fabric, in a strange sort of way, like . . . like someone was moving around in there. At that moment, she knew one thing for sure: Stallings couldn’t be trusted. LeAnne brushed past him—actually knocking him off balance, worth it right there—and barged into her tent, ready to do harm and do it . . . TO THE MAX.

  But there was no one in the tent. Nothing had changed, except for the addition of a shopping bag lying by her backpack. She picked it up, looked inside, saw pill bottles, an envelope or two, and a small leather case. LeAnne opened the case. Her Bronze Star was inside. She’d forgotten all about it.

  “Just the meds and some things you left behind,” Stallings called from the other side of the entrance flap. “In case you wanted them.”

  LeAnne went outside. He turned out to be standing very close to the entrance flap, so she almost bumped into him. She didn’t back away.

  “What do you want from me?” she said.

  Stallings took her right hand in both of his, his movements slow and gentle, as though dealing with a wild animal. LeAnne liked that label, resolved to make it a keeper in her heart.

  “Don’t you want to understand what happened?” he said.

  “There’s nothing to understand,” she said, withdrawing her hand. “I fucked up.”

  Stallings shook his head. “If you did, that would be fine with me—make a tidy parcel. But I’ve found out enough already to doubt this can be hung on you.”

  “You’re hanging it on Katie?”

  “I haven’t ruled that out. Can you?”

  “How would I do that?”

  “Explain her whereabouts when that grenade detonated. She was supposed to be by your side for the duration of every mission. That’s straight from the job description.”

  “You’re asking me to think back?”

  He nodded, just a slight, soft-faced nod.

  In her mind, she started down that road, caught dark and bloody glimpses, and shut it down. “Nope,” she said. “I don’t remember a thing.”

  Stallings gazed at her. In disbelief? The opposite? LeAnne didn’t give a shit. Now was the time for him to go. First, of course, he’d hand her his card, or some other professional move like that, all about sticking her in his web.

  Instead, he said, “I won’t bother you again.” And headed for his little black sedan.

  LeAnne went into the tent and lay down. A car door opened and closed. Then it opened and closed again, sounding different the second time, a lower sort of thump, so maybe not the same car. That didn’t make much sense, but the point was she’d never heard so acutely in her life—checkmark on the plus side, but all on its lonesome; the negative checkmarks went on for pages. After the thumps came the sound of an engine firi
ng and Stallings driving off. The wind blew against the tent, causing all kinds of movement, like the tent was a life form. An image rose up through all the dark and bloody glimpses in her mind: the fringed hems of a pair of jeans, and two feet in woven slippers. She began to shake and couldn’t stop. After way too much of that, she finally remembered the meds in the shopping bag. LeAnne fumbled around with the pill bottles, took some of this and a little of that.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Next morning, LeAnne felt for a few minutes like pretty much nothing at all, and then she graduated to not so good, fairly bad, and finally worse than before, meaning before her pill mini-binge or maxi-binge, or whatever it had been. She opened the tent, let in some light—a terrible glare she endured while getting her patch and sunglasses in place—and rummaged around until she’d gathered up all the pill bottles. Suicide was on the table, for sure, but not that way. She was—correction: she had been—a warrior, and no one was taking that away from her.

  LeAnne went outside, walked to a brambly strip at the rear of the property, opened the bottles, and tossed them all away, the pills bright tiny projectiles in the sky and then gone. After that she turned on her outdoor shower, first just standing there with her mouth turned up, drinking the cold water, and then letting it drum down on her head and body. The blood started flowing. An idea came to her, all about warriors needing weapons. She remembered the Little Protector. What had happened to it?

  LeAnne was in the tent, almost dressed, when she heard a car approaching. “Stallings, you shithead,” she said, and stepped outside, buckling her belt, now loose even in the last hole.

  It wasn’t Stallings. Instead this was a woman in a shiny new Range Rover. She drove up the hard-packed driveway, maneuvered carefully around a small pothole, and came to a stop near the Honda. The woman climbed out, a middle-aged woman dressed in cream-colored slacks and a yellow blouse, fat pearls around her neck, tastefully applied makeup, short light blond hair in that sort of boyish cut that turns out to be very feminine on the right sort of woman. And this was definitely the right sort of woman. It wasn’t until she’d advanced a few steps that LeAnne recognized her own mother.