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by Kristen Tsetsi

  March 18

  Hey, you. We moved again. Looks the same, though. Brown. I got to take a shower three days ago – that was good. The water ran dirty. Have I mentioned we’re all a little anxious? No one knows what’s going on or if this thing will even start. I hope it doesn’t, but I think it will. Something needs to happen one way or another, though.

  March 21

  Ask and ye shall receive.

  So, we still don’t know much, and we weren’t part of it, but there’s been a ton of movement and we’ve moved again, too. Supposedly, the next place (up north is all I can say right now) is where we’ll be for the long haul. How long of a haul? Don’t know. Wish I could tell you.

  As you know by the time you get this, the war is on and…the war is on.

  We got here yesterday. It’s not bad, geographically. Nice scenery. Big sky. All the textbook components of a desert environment.

  Ah, Mia. I could write pages about where I am, what I’ll be eating, what I have in my tent, when I think my tuff box will get here, how long I think it’ll be before we go on a mission, but even thinking about sharing all that feels like a waste of time. I don’t know if wasting time is what I want to do.

  I love you, M. I love you like I’ve never loved anyone or anything else, and it feels like I’ve been without you for months, already. What’s it been, three weeks? Every day at mail call I hope for something from you, but I don’t count on it. I don’t even know if they know where we are, yet (only because we just got here), so they’re probably holding onto mail for a while longer. If you’ve mailed anything, that is. But I don’t think you have. I hope you know I understand. I hope you know a lot of things, like…like, I know you lie to me. It was hard not to laugh when you said you didn’t mind my mom coming to the hangar. I know you hated it, but you have to understand I just couldn’t say no. I hope you’re not still mad at me personally. And M, I’m sorry she got the last hug. I didn’t think she’d come back in. She just kind of ran at me, and what could I do? I guess maybe she shouldn’t have come. No. You’re right. I know she shouldn’t have. But you know how she can be.

  It’s hard not to think of you at night. It’s so flat you can see…well, as far as your eyes’ll let you… and the sun goes down over this ocean of brown, the edges kind of melting out onto the sand, and it makes me think of you because I know you’d want to see it. I got a shot last night with William’s camera (Denise made him take along about three disposables to last until they buy a digital), and when he sends the roll home he said he’ll add a note to make sure you get it. He’s already taken a ton of pictures, so it should be done soon, and he writes Denise all the time (he was even writing her in the hangar while we were sitting around waiting to go), so who knows? You might see the picture before you even get my letter. He took a couple of me, too, so make sure you get those. Nothing special, just me standing around. Smoking. (Thought I’d tell you before you saw it…I started again, but only because of where I am. It makes no sense not to smoke. I’ll quit when I get home. Don’t think you can use this as an excuse to smoke, though—I’m at war and you’re not, you stealer of reasons to smoke.)

  Ah, but you have started smoking again, haven’t you? I know it.

  Have to go—meeting. More later. Oh, yeah—could you put together a package? We have good meals, but I’d like some snacks. Thanks! (You don’t have to include a letter, but maybe a short note?)

  March 22

  —0445— Oh, yes. It is. And do you know why I’m writing you at o-friggin-dark-forty-five on this…actually, pretty comfortable…morning? Because. As I’m learning happens every morning, there is a noise. A thundering, ear shattering noise that William somehow always manages to sleep through. Now, I’ve only been here for a couple of days, but the first morning it was a convoy. The second morning it was Blackhawks. This morning, a convoy again. Rumble rumble rumble right through camp. Right by my tent, and the Blackhawks flew not near my tent, but, right over it. In fact, I think the pilots just decided to hover on my head for no reason. You know, Mia, the one thing that passes time faster than anything else is sleep. Word is, if you take away sleeping time, we’re only gone for six months instead of twelve. Or however long. Just cut the full length in half. How am I supposed to sleep this deployment away with these pesky morning noises?

  March 24

  So, it’s day three here, and it may as well be day one. If these past few days are any indication of what’s to come, then I can look forward to tomorrow being just like today. And the day after tomorrow being just like yesterday. Routi

  March 26

  An interesting thing happened yesterday.

  So, I was taking a shower and heard this ZIP right by my ear. We have these windows in the shower stalls, so to speak, so I looked outside to see what was going on, then realized, “Hey. That actually kind of sounded like a bullet…” I ducked and crawled out on my hands and knees (after grabbing a towel, of course) to get everyone down and find out what the hell was going on. Never found out, though. It just stopped. People think it might have been a weapons cache exploding. No worries, though! It was more funny than it was scary. Besides, those guys have shitty aim. Their mortars are constantly being shot way over our heads and exploding on the other side of camp. (Um, I don’t really mean constantly. I just mean that any time they do fire a mortar, they miss by a mile. That’s a good thing.)

  I guess I’ll tell you why I had to leave so abruptly before. No big deal—just a mission. Came on all of a sudden-like. It was actually pretty cool, because we left early the next morning (when I stopped writing it was to plan), and the mornings here, much as I hate to say it, can be pretty outstanding. Anyway, that morning, two days ago (it’s really late at night, now, and I’m so tired I might have to end this pretty soon), I stepped out of the tent and stood on this porch we built with scrap wood. The clouds in the distance were really thin and low, cutting the mountains in half, and the temperature was perfect…cool, but warm, if that makes any sense. The sun was just coming up over the mountaintop, but the sky directly above me was still dark enough so that I could see the stars. I wish you could have been there.

  Have to go to sleep, now.

  (Next day…)

  Feeling kind of sad, so having this chance to write tonight is just what I needed. No reason for the sadness. I mean, no reason that’s really unusual or bad. Just miss you. So much. You’re everything to me, M, and though I know I’m here for a good reason (my guys) and wouldn’t come back early if I could, I dream about coming back just to see you. The days are so long, and I think about you more than you know. That it’s been a month since I last saw you is unbelievable for two reasons. In a way, time here has gone so fast that I can’t believe four weeks are already in the past, but in another way, time has dragged so slow and I miss your face so much that I can’t believe this foreverness only just started. If I were going to be gone three or four months, this would be nothing. But it’s different when one month is only the first step on a much longer journey. (I still don’t know anything for sure, but six months is looking less and less likely.)

  March 27

  Sorry it’s taking me so long to get this to you, but we’ve been really busy (nothing much to talk about—going here and there, nothing really dangerous, so don’t worry). This probably won’t be long, because I have to go somewhere again and I’d like to get this out to you so you don’t think I’m not writing. You hear a lot of guys out here saying that they get letters from their wives and girlfriends who complain that they don’t get enough mail. I don’t know what it is they think we’re doing out here, but I can say from experience that if we’re not writing, it’s probably because we’re damn busy. Not to be a dick, but we have more important things to do than write letters. (You know what I mean. But, while we’re on the subject, I hope you know I write whenever I can.)

  I don’t know why, but I thought today about the earrings I gave you for Christmas. Did you really like them? I never saw them on you again after
New Year’s. I was afraid you’d be disappointed because I know you wanted something else. We’ve talked about it so much I almost don’t want to bring it up again because that horse has been pulverized, but it’s so important that you understand. M, It just didn’t seem right. Before we found out about the deployment, we weren’t even talking about it. Remember? Because we knew it felt too soon. And then after we found out, it would have been like we were getting married because of the deployment. And that’s just not a good reason. I only want to get married when it’s because it’s what we want. You have to try to believe me. Okay?

  I’m not looking forward to this next mission. Not because it’s more risky than any of the others (which it’s not), but be

  Mia. This is William. Jake asked me to write that he’s okay and he loves you. He had to go on a mission and he wanted me to get this mailed for him. Tell Denise hi for me.

  -William

  APRIL 9, WEDNESDAY

  He fell. Right in the middle of everything, he fell. Torn down, toppled and dragged by a rope. The same scene plays over, over, over, and my cheeks hurt and I’m wearing the earrings, and I’m dizzy-drunk from celebrating and waiting for my phone call.

  APRIL 14, MONDAY

  “…much of the city taken. Meanwhile, the administration applying pressure to stop supporting enemy…”

  Major operations over, they say, but still no phone call.

  Cleanup and advancing might be all that’s left. Air Force planes have been sent off, away, home, and someone, somewhere, was captured. Someone big and important, they said. Or was the someone killed?

  I wonder if Jake has killed anyone. Killed anyone, Jake, killed, and wonder if I would think it sexy or sad.

  I pull up the blankets and try to sleep.

  ________

  Chancey, snoring, wakes me and I’m strangled by sheets. I try to return to a dream I feel more than remember—swinging, gliding, and there was water below.

  The floor is cold on my feet when I get out of bed.

  Chancey follows me to the kitchen.

  ________

  Shellie sounds less than happy to hear from me and reminds me that this is the third day I’ve called in. One more and Lionel will fire me. “It’s been busy,” she says.

  I tighten my throat to sound sick and promise her I’ll be there in the morning.

  Probably another hour, or so, before the sun comes up. Another eight hours until the mail comes. Three in the afternoon, Jake’s time. I dump the rest of my coffee in the sink and go to the bedroom and climb under the blankets, watch the shadows on the wall misshape and dissolve as the sun comes up.

  ________

  “Denise. It’s Mia.”

  “Mia?”

  “I—I wanted to ask about the party.”

  “Are you excited?”

  “I am. And, I just wanted—It’s on the…When is it, again?”

  “It’s at the end of April.”

  “End of April. The last weekend?”

  “Yes. We tried for Wednesday, but no one was going for it.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll write it down.”

  “Mia, I was joking.”

  “What?”

  “About Wednesday.”

  “Oh.”

  Denise is quiet, then says, “Was that all?”

  “M-hm. And, you know, I just wanted to see how you are. See how William is.”

  “I’m fine. Mia, are you okay?”

  “You’ve heard from him, then?”

  “From William?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not recently, no.”

  “Oh.”

  “‘Oh’ what?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Mia, it’s something. You don’t call me.”

  “I call you.”

  “You have never once called me.”

  “Haven’t I?”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s just—it’s been two weeks since some, I don’t know, mission or something, and—I don’t know.”

  “They’re probably very busy.”

  “No, I know. I know.”

  “Please tell me you’re not sitting around and thinking.”

  “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to make sure, you know, just see if you heard from William.”

  “I’m sorry. I haven’t.”

  “Okay, then. All right. Thanks.”

  “Oh, Mia—before you go, what are you doing tonight?”

  “I think—what day is today?—I think his mother is supposed to call,” I lie. “We have this once-a-week update thing we do.”

  “You’re a better woman than I.”

  “Thanks again, Denise. I’m off to work, so…”

  ________

  The popcorn bubbles on the ceiling are uncountable.

  I reach two thousand and lose my spot, start over.

  ________

  The downstairs door slams and I run to the window, watch the blue sack wedged between the door and the frame until it and mailman squeeze out and round the lilac bushes. Downstairs, I tug open the sticking metal door to nothing, no word.

  Olivia would have called if he were dead.

  The phone lies buttons-up on the couch and its light is red. I run over to pick it up. “Hello?” Air. After pushing the on/off button twice, I get a dial tone. “Chancey!”

  ________

  Dead.

  Dead, dead, dead.

  So final, the word, but at the same time, meaningless. Incomprehensible, even.

  Dead. Deceased. Passed away.

  “Dead” is best. Less clinical than “deceased,” less voluntary than “passed away.”

  How is Jake, Mia?

  Jake’s dead.

  Oh, I’m sorry to hear he passed away.

  No. He didn’t pass away. He’s dead.

  ________

  Would his casket be open or closed? Olivia would decide, because Jake never wrote a will, never specified, and his mother is his next of kin. “But you get all the money,” he said and smiled. “The death benefits.”

  “Oh, goodie,” I said.

  Benefits.

  Some thousands of dollars, more than I’ve ever had. What does someone do with thousands and thousands of dollars all at once?

  Open or closed will also depend on how he died. There’s only so much reconstruction anyone, even the best, can do. How would Olivia have it, given the choice?

  Open. Jake’s blind eyes staring at thread-sewn lids.

  I’ve never been to a funeral, but I’ve heard it said that the people in caskets end up looking like doll-painted wax: pink cheeks, red lips, a “lifelike” skin tone. I must tell Olivia they can’t do that to Jake, can’t give his light lips a dark pink finish, can’t blush his cheeks because he doesn’t blush.

  And what then, afterward? After the wake, after Arlington, because that’s where he wants to be buried. Heroes are buried there, and non-heroes, too, flat under headstones as identical as their uniforms and lined up in perfect formation. What then, after “Taps,” after Olivia takes the flag and Jake is lowered into a hole? An empty apartment, a fatherless cat, Jake’s clothes in the closet and his car parked out front and his files on the computer. I’ll wonder if it was a mistake, if the man in the casket was a stranger, one who just happened to look like Jake. And I’ll wait for him to come through the door, wait for weeks, months, because I won’t believe he won’t be back to eat his breakfast bars in the cupboard next to the cereal, or the nuts he hides behind the flour so he doesn’t have to share.

  ________

  He looks out from the shelves, smiling in a T-shirt and shorts, holding a liter beer from a German Hofbräuhaus. I get up and flip each picture facedown. Bad luck, badluckbadluck to imagine him alive and three-dimensional because that means he could also not be.

  ________

  The alarm is going off or there’s a siren or—

  —the phone. I crawl to the desk and pick up the receiver. “Hello! Hello!”

  Olivi
a says, “How are you, hon,” and I can’t answer because I can’t breathe because mucus stuffs my sinuses and I’m gulping and tears adhere my lips like wet glue. I gasp that it wasn’t worth it, or something that sounds like it, anyway, that nothing is worth it, that I loved him and thank you, thank you for having him so I had the chance to love him—

  “Mia, what on earth…? Are you okay, sweetheart?”

  I say, “Jake.”

  “That’s why I’m calling you, hon. I just got off the phone with him. He’s doing very well. And you have some mail coming. Isn’t that exciting?”

  I wipe my nose and my mouth on my sleeve. “He called you?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll—well, Mia, you have to—I am his mother. I’m positive he’ll call you soon.”

  APRIL 16, WEDNESDAY

  Forty-eight Maple. Rainwater pours from a gutter onto a slant of driveway that funnels it into a flooding patch of soil. Donny jogs to the cab with a newspaper held over his head and climbs in. Glinting raindrops cling to the ends of his hair.

  “Where’ve you been?” He drops the paper on the floor, sets his muddy feet on top.

  “Sick,” I say. “Same place?”

  “It is if you’re talkin’ about the construction site.”

  I pull away from his house and see him staring. “What.”

  “Nothin’. ‘What.’ I can’t look? Damn, girl, you’re in a bad mood again? It’s been almost a week since I saw you. You said you was sick, and I was just seein’ if you looked sick.”