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by Bart Hopkins

  “Well…”

  “Come on! It’ll be fun.”

  “Okay. But if I go into cardiac arrest, promise me you’ll call an ambulance. I’m no spring chicken.”

  “I promise,” Jennifer replied and extended a hand. “I’m Jennifer.”

  “Rose. Nice to meet you.”

  They stretched out, and then joined the aerobics class, which turned out to be pretty vigorous, even for Jennifer. She checked on her new friend frequently, and was happy to see Rose powering through it with a positive attitude, despite her setbacks. They chatted here and there, and got water together during breaks. Before it was over, they were workout pals.

  They chatted more as they packed up. Jennifer couldn’t peg the exact reason, but she felt drawn to Rose. Her mother had passed away some years before, and though she’d never vocalized it, there was a longing in her heart for the mother figure she no longer had.

  Outside, it came as no surprise to either of them when they encountered the midday sun, brandishing both fists at them—it seemed to be the dominant theme lately.

  “Well, Rose, it was great meeting you. See you next week?”

  “I must enjoy the abuse or something,” Rose said with a smile. “I’ll be here, if I don’t forget—I have senior moments.”

  “Are you on Facebook?” Jennifer asked.

  “I am. I think I was probably the last person to join. I’ve got a whopping six friends!”

  “If you tell me your last name, I’ll look you up, remind you about aerobics and make it seven.”

  “Okay, sure … it’s Murray. Rose Murray.”

  “Great.”

  “Oh, or you might want to try Rockin’ Rose.” When she saw Jennifer’s quizzical look, she added, “it’s a long story.”

  “Awesome. And I want to hear that story, but I gotta run … I see my boyfriend waiting. Bye, Rocking Rose.”

  “Bye, Jennifer.”

  Rose walked toward the rooftop parking and laughed. Her six friends on Facebook were Mary Beth and Tom, her neighbors, and her work Amigas. That was her Facebook universe. While she watched, her new friend jumped into a little two-seater Mercedes. She caught a brief glimpse of the driver when the door opened. She had the impression that he was both young and good looking, though that could be the whole Picasso effect, playing a trick on her … beautiful from a distance, but disturbing and crazy up close.

  <<>>

  “Hey, babe,” Paul said.

  “Hey.”

  Once she was inside, Paul stepped on the gas, and the Mercedes C63 launched into the road as if it had been waiting to do that one, single thing its entire existence. And, really, that was pretty accurate, he figured. It was a monster—zero to sixty in four and a half seconds—and Paul felt powerful behind the wheel. Invincible.

  “How was your workout?”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re not still mad about the other night, are you?”

  “No,” she said, but she wasn’t sure if she was telling the truth. Involuntarily, her hand went to the bruise on her cheek and she shivered.

  “Good,” he said, not noticing.

  They’d bar-hopped their way down 6th Street, moved in and out of different places, and enjoyed an eclectic variety of sounds from all of the bands. People called Austin the “Live Music Capital of the World”; it was one of the reasons a younger Jennifer had loved it there.

  As she got older, and started teaching, she cut way down on the nighttime charades. She still caught the occasional band, but was usually in bed by midnight. Sometimes she played the designated driver role for some of the other teachers. Some of them made jokes about the kids driving them to liquor. As a teacher herself, Jennifer knew they were only half kidding; the other half was sort of in the neighborhood of truth.

  Paul and Jennie had been carousing, in and out of pubs, trying out nearly all of the mixed drinks she’d ever heard of or known about. The last one she remembered—really remembered—was a Long Island Iced Tea, a forgotten companion from her college days. Time got fuzzy after that, and her memory resembled a roll of 8mm tape rescued from a fire. Entire periods of time were missing and others were warped and burned.

  She remembered nearly falling down in the street, but Paul was quick to catch her. They came to the threshold of a dance club and looked inside. Lights were flashing in time with the bass signature of some song she didn’t know—thump, thump, thump—and they could see sweaty bodies packed tightly against one another on the dance floor.

  Paul led her straight down to join the writhing mass. They mixed in with the crowd and moved against each other to the beat of the music. She pushed her backside against him and could feel the bulge there, pressing hard against her, saying hello.

  She’d gone through a dance club phase in college. The common end to a situation like this would have been a one-night stand; of course, she had already slept with Paul a dozen times. They broke away from the floor and lucked into two seats at the bar, just as another couple departed.

  “What can I get you guys,” the bartender hollered. Drunk Jennie noticed the girl behind the bar had a number two pencil tucked behind her ear.

  “Two Buttery Nipples,” Paul told her with a wink, and then to Jennifer said, “be back in a sec. Gotta break the seal.”

  The bartender brought the shots and set them down. Jennifer looked for Paul, but he wasn’t there. Thank God she had the bar to lean against, or she might have fallen over. The world was starting to spin and wobble. She propped her head up by placing her chin on her hands in front of her.

  “Jennifer? Jennifer Newman?”

  “Yes?” She turned and looked at the guy standing next to her. She mentally noted he was good looking, but didn’t recognize him.

  “Hey, it’s Barry Webster. We had some classes together in college. You don’t remember me?”

  “Mmm,” she squinted her eyes, looked him over. He was handsome in a plain, L.L. Bean catalog cover sort of way … tall with brown shaggy hair and brown shaggy eyes. Red button-up shirt that looked like it was conspiring with his Dockers to go grab some more firewood. “I dunno, Larry.”

  “Barry,” he laughed. “Freshman Chemistry. There were, like, two hundred people, but we sat near each other in the back. We both failed that first test and got tutoring together. You told me one day I needed a haircut.”

  “Right, Barry!” Recognition simmered below the surface for a minute, then finally came to a boil, and she reached out and put a hand on his forearm. “Chemishtry. I r’member it now. You had long hair…”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh,” she scrunched her brows together. “And you always had those sunglasses on. Inside.”

  “Yeah, I—”

  “Inside, Barry,” she cut in, “there’s no sun inside.”

  “I know. I guess, back then, I thought it was cool—”

  “It’s not cool,” she cut him off again and shook her head from side to side for emphasis, but smiled to let him know she was messing with him.

  “Yeah. Took me a while to figure that out,” he said with a grin. “So, what are you up to? It’s been, wow, a long time … more than a decade.”

  “I’m a teach … teacher.” She was at the stage in drunkenness when she applied a little extra concentration to the formation of every word and sentence in an effort to prevent slurring.

  “Hey, cool. You don’t teach Chemistry do you?” He laughed. “You were always staying after for the tutoring sessions.”

  “No, not Chemistry,” she said adamantly. “I hated Chemistry. I teach English to high school kids.” She struggled to enunciate each word fully. There was a lot of alcohol in her body, and it chose that moment to catch up with her.

  “That’s awesome, do you like it?”

  “I love it.”

  “Married with kids and all that, right?”

  “No … always the bridesmaid, never the bride,” she laughed.

  She hiccuped, laughed some more, and put her hand on his arm again.


  <<>>

  After waiting through a ridiculous line packed with drunks, Paul finally made it into the men’s restroom, and was rewarded with the rare option of choosing a stall or squeezing in at the piss trough.

  It wasn’t the trough that bothered him—that staple of life for most twenty-something guys—it was the fucking idiots that used it. The splatter of piss on his shoes or the back of his hands from some swaying drunk was a no-go.

  I make six figures a year and I drive a Mercedes. Some dude isn’t pissing on my $400 shoes.

  He opted for the stall.

  The music was muffled, but he could still feel the beat vibrating through the walls. The steady thump of bass, and the relentless hum of indecipherable words, made it hard to think. He unzipped and wondered, for the hundredth time, what he was doing going to places like this.

  It was a rhetorical question, which he asked himself frequently, even though he knew exactly why he ended up in these dumps. It began with the letter ‘w’ and ended in ‘omen.’ Women.

  He loved chasing tail. Trolling for skank. Seeking out new trim.

  Of course, he usually didn’t take women to clubs. Spock would say it was illogical; Paul agreed. You didn’t bring tacos with you to a Mexican restaurant. He zipped up as the sound of retching began in the stall next to him.

  He stopped for a second to check himself out in the mirror. Hair was perfect. Suit with open-collared shirt. Teeth meticulously whitened. He noticed his tan was fading and made a mental note to schedule an appointment at the beds.

  The cooler air outside of the restroom felt good on Paul’s skin. He stopped at the edge of the dance floor, which was throbbing and pulsing, bodies twisted and pressed against one another. It would be an orgy except everyone was clothed.

  He nodded at someone he recognized, then looked right, toward the bar.

  Jennifer. Sitting over there. Talking to some pinhead. He watched her lips move, some unknown words spoken, and she smiled. Then she put her hand on his arm and laughed. She was stunning. Most women had a neck that connected their head with their body, but Jennifer’s neck seemed to bring heaven to Earth.

  Paul’s pulse increased slightly. Eyes narrowed. His jaws clinched involuntarily. She was making a fool of herself and embarrassing him. A measure of allowance could be made for being inebriated; however, a full pardon was out of the question. He walked over to the two of them.

  “Hi Paul!” she gushed, eyes glassy, and moved her hand from pinhead’s arm to Paul’s lower back.

  “Hey, looks like you’ve made a friend, Jen. Why don’t you introduce us?”

  “Oh, yeah, this is, um…” Jennifer paused, looked upwards, and furrowed her eyebrows. She struggled fruitlessly to remember his name, then laughed.

  “Barry Webster,” he said, plugging the gap.

  Paul shook the hand that was offered to him. He looked Barry Webster up and down and found himself profoundly unimpressed. He applied a little extra pressure to Barry’s hand, just to let him know what was what. He decided right away that he didn’t care for Barry … would enjoy seeing him in pain.

  “Paul.” He reached out, took one of the two shots on the bar, and slid the other to Jennifer. “Here you go, babe. To us.”

  “To us,” she replied, and tossed back her drink. “Mmm. Isss good.” While Paul and Barry watched, she closed her eyes and smiled to herself.

  “We went to college together,” Barry said. Paul just stared at him. “You need some help with her?” Barry offered.

  “Take a fucking hike, pal.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me just fine, Barry boy.” Paul pushed himself in close to Barry. “She doesn’t want a little boy … Jennifer needs a few more inches than you can give her. So why don’t you … go. The fuck. Away.”

  Barry thought about saying something, but when he looked into Paul’s eyes all he saw were two cold and lifeless orbs, emotionless, like that of a shark. Fear brought the hair up on his neck; his instincts told him to back down.

  “Fine, man. Fine.” He lifted his hands in the air in surrender, glanced at Jennifer, then turned and entered the crowd. Paul watched Barry’s retreat until he could no longer distinguish him from anyone else. A few seconds later, Barry was gone, almost as if he were never there.

  I’ll definitely be paying you a visit, buddy.

  Paul nodded to himself. He knew how to handle these situations. He had to support Jennie while they walked to his car. Even though she was stumbling, too drunk to consent to anything, Paul smiled as images of what the night had in store flashed through his mind.

  Sometimes the teacher needs a lesson, too.

  Chapter 24

  Susan, Danny, Jason

  “Ma’am, please, if you could calm down for just a moment—”

  “I will not calm down!” Susan shouted into her phone. “Get me someone I can talk to … or next time it’s going to be my congressman calling. Or one of those television news anchors.”

  There were several seconds of silence as the Marine public affairs officer on the other end of the line processed the information. He’d already gotten quite an earful as he tried to placate Susan Donahue.

  “Please stand by, ma’am,” Major Lim answered with a weary sigh, and placed her on hold before she could reply. He decided to go straight up the chain with this one, due to the sensitive nature of information having moved outside the wire without approval. That a distraught spouse was the recipient of the information, and was now on the phone, did not bode well at all.

  General Shapland will know what to do, he told himself.

  When Susan had read the Facebook message from Steve Butler two days earlier saying Jason had been injured, she had gone into what might be diagnosed as clinical shock. Danny found her sitting in front of the computer, eyes open, yet completely unresponsive.

  Only nine years old, Danny didn’t understand what was wrong. Why was mommy staring at the computer like that?

  Please, mommy, please wake up, I love you. Please, God, please, help my mommy…

  He hugged her. When she didn’t respond, he got scared, and shook her, but it didn’t help. Then he noticed her phone lying on the table. Sometimes she let him play games on it, or she told him to call his dad and ask what he wanted for dinner and his dad always said barbecue. So, he knew how to get into the contacts list and make phone calls.

  Eyes filling up slightly, bewildered, but with renewed purpose, he randomly chose the first name he recognized: Elizabeth. She was one of mom’s friends, and she was always nice to Danny. Elizabeth listened to him describe Susan’s thousand-yard stare and told him to hold tight, she’d be there soon.

  Danny pulled a chair up next to his mother, hugged her tight, and waited for his mother’s friend. When Susan hugged him back, he was overwhelmed with relief and wouldn’t leave her side.

  Elizabeth arrived twenty minutes later and found an emotionally raw, but coherent Susan, repeatedly refreshing her Facebook page for new messages with one hand, while rubbing Danny’s head with the other.

  Danny had gone to sleep once he knew his mom was okay.

  What she couldn’t know is that all Internet and telephone communications in and out of Afghanistan had been locked down since she received that message. It was a standard measure when they had an incident, designed to prevent the unauthorized release of information.

  It didn’t always work.

  How long was she out? She might never know. In the end, Elizabeth agreed to watch Danny for a couple of days while she sorted things out. That’s when she started making phone calls.

  First she tried her husband’s Reserve unit. Jason’s recall roster was under a magnet on the refrigerator, same as it was at their old apartment, and she snatched it down and started dialing numbers. After several fruitless efforts—voice mail systems or endless ringing—she reached someone from his orderly room.

  “This is Lieutenant Leo, how can I help you?”

  “Is this 1st Battalion?
”

  “Yes. Who am I speaking with?”

  “This is Susan Donahue. I’m looking for someone who can tell me what’s happened to my husband.”

  “Um, I’m sorry. Who is your husband again?”

  “Staff Sergeant Jason Donahue.”

  “And you said he was where?”

  “Camp Leatherneck, with everyone else? Where else would he be? You did say you were in 1st Battalion?”

  “Well, um, yes ma’am, but I’m new.”

  “New?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me speak to whoever is in charge then!”

  “Well … that’s me. I’m the rear detachment officer in charge.”

  She got quiet for a moment. Even in her frustration, the different clues came together, and she thought about how her husband and his friends enjoyed messing with new lieutenants. While well-intentioned, they were mostly early twenties, fresh out of college, and wet behind the ears.

  After a year or two, most of them transitioned into the young leaders the Corps needed. That, or they went peacefully on their way.

  A new lieutenant would not be able to help her. She changed her tone to one which she thought he would understand. She gave him a direct order: “All right lieutenant. Give me the number to the person above you.”

  Next she spoke to a lieutenant colonel. Like the lieutenant, he was new to the unit, but unlike the lieutenant, he seemed to have a clue. He was subbing for a colonel who was deployed to Afghanistan and unavailable. After some harrumphing, he acquiesced and made some phone calls.

  Her husband’s battalion was aligned under the 2nd Marine Regiment which was based out of Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. From the lieutenant colonel, she was transferred to a sergeant in the Camp Lejeune public affairs office. Naturally, he couldn’t help her.

  She was passed off to a junior public affairs officer, then on to Major Lim.

  “Hello, Mrs. Donahue?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “This is Brigadier General James R. Shapland. I’m the commanding officer at Camp Lejeune—”