The highway was mostly empty except for trucks. Kate rolled the windows down and turned the radio up, singing along to bad pop music rather than thinking.
It was close to nine in the morning when she pulled up in front of Barbara’s house, hours earlier than expected. She killed the engine and put her forehead on the steering wheel, wondering if just driving away was an option. It wasn’t.
Walking up the sidewalk through the carefully tended lawn to the modest brick home, Kate saw the gold star flag in the window and shuddered, wondering bitterly how many of Barbara’s neighbors knew what it meant without being told. She tried to push those thoughts away before ringing the bell.
“Kate! You’re so early!” Barbara engulfed her in a hug. “Do you want coffee?” She led Kate through the immaculate living room to the kitchen and busied herself fixing coffees, chatting incessantly as if they wouldn’t have to discuss Paul’s death if she never stopped talking about other things. “Milk and sugar, right? I just got this Keurig thing; you know, you can get so many different flavors. Not just coffee, tea or hot chocolate too. Makes more sense since I live alone. Don’t have to make a whole pot. Did you drive all night? Was that safe? All those big trucks on the road. And you probably still have jet lag! You must be exhausted.” Finally she sat down at the table, set down their mugs, and looked straight at Kate. “I’m not sleeping much, either.”
Neither of them could hold eye contact for long. Kate looked away first, sipped her coffee. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Barbara.”
“Oh, honey!” Barbara’s voice thickened and she swallowed hard, then took Kate’s hands between her own, looking out the window and blinking fast. Kate stared down at the wood table, feeling the cool papery skin of her mother-in-law’s hands. Ex-mother-in-law? What’s our relationship now?
They spent a couple of days sharing memories, looking at old photo albums, and telling funny stories, conversations that might have approached his death suddenly veering off in other directions. The women were together, yet apart, each still feeling the outlines of her grief.
The last morning of her stay, Kate stood alone in the living room, looking at the photos on the mantel: Paul as a chubby, diapered baby, a swim-suited toddler running through the sprinkler, a kid in a soccer uniform, a teenager in graduation robes, a young man in DCUs. He transformed in the series, body going from lanky to muscular, brown hair first growing shaggy and then cropped to military regulations, shoulders and jaw broadening—but in all of them he bore the same confident and exuberant smile that had first drawn her to him, so self-assured and fearless, unreserved. She touched the glass of the most recent picture, the two of them with Barbara at their wedding four years earlier. If only Paul were here, he would know how to comfort us. Kate shook her head at the absurdity of the thought and stared up at the ceiling. She wasn’t ready to share her sorrow, and didn’t want to add to his mother’s burden.
Barbara joined her. “That’s my favorite,” she said, pointing at one of Paul climbing a tree. He was probably twelve or thirteen, all gangly legs and arms, looking up for the next branch to grab while sunlight broke just so through the leaves to halo his head. “I don’t know why. Maybe . . . he looks like an angel, with the light—” Her voice caught in her throat and she turned away, choking off a sob. After a shuddery breath, she turned back to Kate. “Here, I thought you should have this.” Barbara was holding out a folded American flag. “They would have given it to you at the funeral if you could’ve been there.”
Kate was shaking her head. “No, no.” She closed Barbara’s fingers back around it. “No. I have all his other things. Put it there on the mantel with the photos.” She stepped back. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come. We had a service for him over there too.” The memory flooded back: boots, helmet atop rifle, roll call with his name unanswered. Their fellow soldiers surrounding her, squeezing her shoulder. His men crying openly, unashamedly. “I mean, I could’ve come back, but I couldn’t. They tried to send me back, but I had to stay.” Kate was talking fast, trying to explain it in a way Paul’s mother would understand, remembering the controlled urgency with which she had needed to convince her first sergeant not to make her take emergency leave. “I couldn’t leave my guys. Not then. And I had to help catch the bad guys. For Paul.” Working was the only time she’d felt calm, going out on missions and piecing together scattered bits of intelligence. Alone at night in the CHU they’d shared had been terrible; busyness was all that helped. Kate felt suddenly wobbly and grabbed the mantel to steady herself.
“Did you?” There was an unusual fierceness in Barbara’s voice.
“What?” Kate felt disconcerted, torn between the past and present.
“Did you catch the guys who did it?”
“No,” Kate said flatly. “We killed them.” Not that there had been forensics or a trial, but she was confident the intel was good. When a team had gone to roll them up, they’d fought back. None of them survived. Kate wasn’t sorry. Between corrupt judges and guards taking bribes, who knew if any of them would have really been punished in the Afghan system. Rule of law was a joke. This way she had closure.
“Good.” Barbara, normally gentle, sounded cold.
Kate cringed inside. The war didn’t belong here. Barbara shouldn’t relish anyone’s death; it upset the order. She nodded toward her suitcase, waiting by the front door. “I need to go—see my mom, pick up Bear.”
Barbara tried to smile. “Oh, he’s such a good dog. Bring him by to see me sometime, will you?” The smile slipped away. “Since Paul’s father passed a few years ago, you two are all that I have left, now that . . .” Inadvertently, her hand reached out and touched Kate’s belly as she blurted out, “I just wish you and Paul had had a baby!” She turned away and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Me too.” Kate reached out and touched her mother-in-law’s shoulder, then stepped forward and hugged her. Barbara turned around and they clung to one another for a moment before breaking apart. “We’ll come visit soon,” she promised on her way out.
A few blocks away Kate pulled over and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes while scrunching her face up, willing herself not to cry. This isn’t the time or place, she told herself. When is, then? Where? another part asked back. Shaking her head fiercely, she pulled back on to the road.
Midafternoon, she pulled up in front of her childhood home and sighed. For a moment she let herself envy Chloe’s relationship with her mom, then pushed the thought away, trying to relinquish any expectations of comfort. Kate and her mother had a fraught history—this visit, too, was a duty and not a relief. Don’t expect it to suck, either—that just guarantees disaster.
Remembering that the doorbell was broken, she knocked hard and then waited. And waited. Knocked again. Her mother looked frazzled when she finally opened the door, brushing sweaty tendrils of hair out of her eyes. “Sorry, Kate! I was cleaning out the guest room for you. It’s impossible to keep on top of everything! Come in, come in!”
The breeze from the door shutting behind her set a tumbleweed of dog and cat hair adrift across the floor, settling under the table Kate set her purse on. They hugged awkwardly as Kate craned her head around, looking. “Where’s Bear?”
“He’s out back. You go see him; I’ll make coffee.”
Kate moved as quickly as she could to the back door without actually running, and flung it open. Bear must’ve heard her car or voice, because he was waiting, tail wagging furiously, forcing his way through as soon as the door opened a crack. “Hey, boy!” He circled Kate, bumping against her, nuzzling her hand, panting, wagging, half-jumping, and finally settling to sit on her feet and lean back against her legs while gazing up at her, his tongue lolling out. “There’s a good dog,” she murmured, leaning down to scratch both sides of his chin with her hands.
The black-and-brown Rottweiler mix stayed close as she walked into the kitchen and leaned against her again when she sat down.
Her mom was opening and closing cabinets
, shoving things around. “I know there’s coffee here somewhere. Your uncle Jim gave me some in a gift basket for Christmas. I know how much you like it . . .”
“Ma, it’s okay,” Kate tried to break in.
No luck. “Did you know, Jim’s wife Cathy has breast cancer? And their good-for-nothing son, your cousin Jeff, he still doesn’t have a job. Lives in their basement. Can you believe it? Twenty-five years old and still at home. Cathy thinks he smokes the pot.”
“Mother.”
The search, and the litany, went on. “I told him he should join the Army like you did, I mean, if you can do it, surely he can.”
“Mom!” Sharply this time. “Tea is fine. Okay? Tea would be great.”
“You didn’t have to snap at me.”
Kate stifled a sharp retort. “Sorry, Ma.”
Her mother boiled water in silence, then set steeping cups of tea on the table before sitting down.
“How’s Barbara holding up?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“How are you?”
Kate quirked her mouth and blew on the scalding tea before taking a tiny sip. “As well as can be expected.”
“Well,” her mother sighed. “At least you didn’t have any children.”
Setting the tea down hard enough that it sloshed out of the cup, Kate stood abruptly. Bear jumped up, wagging his tail. She stared down at her mother, whose face had gone pale and anxious, opened her mouth to speak, then clenched it closed again. She turned stiffly and walked to the front door, picked up her purse, and walked out.
Her mother trailed after her.
“Honey?” she said.
Back home a few hours later, Bear ran from one room to another, tail wagging excitedly. He circled back to Kate, head cocked to one side, tail wagging more slowly. Finally finished searching the entire house, he sat at her feet and stared up at her, looked questioningly at the front door, then gave one short bark. Kate shook her head, tears welling up. Bear tilted his head, looking as if he were trying to understand, then raised a paw and scratched at her leg.
She knelt down and grabbed the thick fur on either side of his big square head, then shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry, Bear.” The control finally collapsed, and she wrapped her arms around the dog and buried her face in his coat, sobbing. Bear whined and thumped his tail. Kate wept mindlessly, fingers clutching at Bear’s fur. At some point her crying turned to keening, and Bear started howling. That startled her back to reality, and she went to wash her face and blow her nose.
“Come on,” she said, patting the bed. “Hop up.” The dog looked around. “Yeah, you. Just come on.”
After one final hesitation, Bear bounded easily onto the bed and circled around before settling against her.
They were inseparable for the remainder of Kate’s leave, going for long hikes in pleasant weather, watching Law & Order marathons while it rained, sleeping back-to-back at night. Kate hardly spent any time with people. She went out with friends a few times, but no one seemed to know how to act around her. Some of them wanted to hold hands over cocoa and talk about her feelings, which made her uncomfortable. They urged her to grieve, to process her emotions, to do yoga. “I know they mean well, but have they even met me?” she vented to Chloe. “I don’t want to sit around singing Kumbaya and talking about my grief journey! I’d rather be back in Afghanistan than here ‘engaging in self-care.’ I want to do something, work, have a purpose. Not all this touchy-feely bullshit.”
Others seemed to think she should already be over Paul’s death and that going clubbing would be good for her, which was worse. Seeing couples made her sad. Watching single people hooking up made her sick.
“Do you want help getting rid of his things?” one of her girlfriends asked over coffee. She just shook her head, eyebrows drawn together, but then thought about it the whole drive home. Standing in their walk-in closet, she trailed her hands along his uniforms and handful of dress shirts and slacks—he was more a jeans and t-shirts guy. Kate didn’t need them; maybe someone else could use them. But the thought of erasing his presence from her home—their home?—seemed wrong. She leaned into the clothes, breathing deeply but smelling only Tide, resenting his tidiness: there was nothing left that smelled of him.
Kate’s father drove up to take her out to dinner one night when he stopped in Nashville on a business trip. She kept waiting for him to bring Paul up, waffling between resentment and relief that he hadn’t. After hugging her goodbye, he pressed an envelope into her hand. “I’m here if you want to talk,” he said, kissing her forehead, “And if there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.” Safely in her living room, she opened it. Inside was a card acknowledging a donation to TAPS in Paul’s memory. She sniffled and texted her thanks, telling herself she would check out their website soon. The card sat on top of her growing pile of things to take care of until newer paperwork buried it. Bills, legal documents, junk mail, and letters from her mother sat unopened. She felt paralyzed by the prospect of managing everything alone, overwhelmed by all the choices that had once been joint decisions. Everything seemed too complicated. Can’t it just be someone else’s problem?
It was a relief when block leave was over and she had to go back to work. They had to unload and clean and inventory equipment, get back into a regular training schedule. Bitching about busywork with her fellow troops was better than wallowing in her sorrow with Bear.
A couple weeks back into the routine, their First Sergeant was making announcements during morning formation. “Listen up, listen up: 2nd Brigade is getting ready to deploy, and they’re short on personnel. They need volunteers. So if you didn’t get enough of the suck, here’s your chance.”
“Are you fucking kidding, Top?” someone yelled out. Everyone laughed.
“I’ll do it,” Kate called. Every head in the formation turned to stare at her. Her head felt fuzzy, her chest light.
First Sergeant McKenna shook his head. “There’s always one. See me after, Stevens.”
She knocked on his office door after formation. “Enter,” he called.
Kate stepped in and stood at parade rest. “First Sergeant, I’d like to volunteer to redeploy with 2nd Brigade.”
He sighed and capped his pen. “Sit down, Sergeant Stevens.” A long pause. “Do you need to be put on suicide watch?”
“Excuse me, First Sergeant?”
“Are you trying to get yourself killed? Is that why you want to go back?”
“No, First Sergeant.” She took a deep breath. “You can ask my platoon sergeant. I didn’t take any extra risks or anything after Paul—after Staff Sergeant Stevens was killed.”
“Tell me what’s going on, then.”
“Nothing feels right here. Everything I see reminds me of him. I don’t want to be in our house without him, but I don’t want to move. There’s too much to think about—too many things to keep track of. It was better when we were downrange. I was always busy, didn’t have any time to sit around feeling sorry for myself. And what I did mattered: if I was good at my job, I could help keep our guys safe and destroy the enemy. I want back on mission. I was happier.” She swallowed and licked her dry lips, feeling self-conscious. It was the most she’d said all at once since coming home.
The Sergeant had watched Kate’s face intently during her little speech, and he stared searchingly into her eyes. He looked away first. “Staff Sergeant Stevens was a good soldier. I hope you find what you’re looking for over there. I’ll start the paperwork.”
SMALL KILL TEAM
by Alex Horton
Our tour was almost over and I was the only one without a clean kill. The whole platoon knew it. Most of the company did too. The Sir lost count of all the firefights we were in, but we know how much ammunition we dumped into walls, bodies, and the occasional chicken coop caught in between our barrels and theirs. Our supply sergeant counted seven crates of rifle rounds expended, about 56,000 in all, and those rounds got kills for everyone in the platoon.
Except for me. The notoriety was like a scarlet letter in reverse—the absence of a sin pinned to my uniform underneath my combat infantryman badge. You got the badge for taking fire and returning it. You didn’t get anything for killing someone, except respect.
I thought I finally got one after we took contact during a patrol, when two insurgents were setting up a machine gun on the top of a gutted milk factory. They got a burst off before I put my sight on one of their silhouettes and pulled the trigger until my magazine was empty and the cordite streaming from Gibson’s M240 machine gun burned my nostrils.
We cleared the factory and found them laid out on the rooftop. They wore black man-dresses and tennis shoes and shocked looks on their faces, mouths agape, as if they were told a terrible secret as they died. Gibson claimed the holes in their chests and necks were too big for a rifle to make. You could stick your goddamn thumb through one exit wound and not touch the sides, he said, so they must have been from his 240. “Another wicked day in the office,” he said, his New England accent swirling with the heat. He took this one from me too. Gibson already had his share, drawing hash marks into his helmet band with a Sharpie after each one. He had five with a diagonal slash and faint traces of two more. He ripped a cloth ammo bandoleer off one of the fighters and held it up. Sunlight shimmered through a grouping of bullet holes. The blood had already dried in the sun, turning a faint red-orange. “Aw fuck,” he said. “I can’t get this past customs. Dipshit leaked all over it.” Gibson flattened the vest onto the concrete floor and, with his Sharpie, traced the shape of a veiny, flaccid dick that extended from the bloodied holes now resembling testicles. “I’d love to see the face of who finds this, bro,” Gibson said. “Let’s bounce.”
The Road Ahead Page 3