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by Kristen Tsetsi

  I don’t know that I do.

  ________

  Shellie pets her Chihuahua and coos “Aw, Puddin’” when he stretches his black and gold neck for a treat she holds in front of his nose. “I don’t see why not,” she says to my returning to work. “Lionel ain’t hired no one else, and Charlie sure would like to lose the extra days you left him.”

  I tell her I didn’t mean to do that to Charlie. That I just had to leave. Hard times, all that.

  “I know, sugar. I know. It’s all right.” She sets her dog on the floor, says, “Lionel won’t like it, though, if you do like you did, callin’ in all those times, so be careful.” She pulls out a traced calendar where she writes the schedules. “Same days okay?”

  “Same days are perfect.” I look at the cheerless walls, the grimy windows. I had thought she might say no. Better that she said yes—I’m respectable, now. Not a disappointment to Ja—to myself. Not someone different, or worse, from who I was.

  I slide the chair out. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Where you goin’, girl? Cab’s right there.” She nods her head at the wide blue car parked outside the window. “Charlie took today off to run his errands.”

  Before it’s time to for me to go home, ten people slide in and out of my cab. One asks if I’ll buy his food stamps, because some diapers he needs for his little boy aren’t covered by the program. “Eighty dollars oughta do it,” he says. I look at the red marks on his arms and neck and tell him that I’m sorry, I don’t carry that kind of cash.

  Another, a woman dressed up to go nowhere, tells me I should take more care with my looks. “No excuse, a lady goin’ out without a little makeup. Always try to look pretty.” She says my hair is okay, but that my face looks like “some zombie” she saw on cable TV. “Now is when you got to be takin’ care of yourself, child,” she says.

  No tips. After eight hours, I leave with thirty-five dollars. I stop for a coffee on the way home and avoid the coffee boy’s eyes. He looks good today.

  MAY 27, TUESDAY

  To: msharpe@email.net 27 May / 1632

  Subject: re: Hi, there!

  Mia,

  Let me start with I love you.

  Sorry I didn’t write sooner, but I’ve been unbelievably busy. And, yeah, I also wanted to think a little. I don’t know. I read all your emails. I try to understand what you’re going through, and I do understand as much as I can without going through it myself. I know it’s tough. I just hope that when you sound like you don’t like me it’s because you’re upset and having a hard time. Not that I want you to have a hard time. You know what I mean.

  It’s really starting to suck over here, if that makes you feel any better. Misery loves company, right? The only time I feel like I might not go nuts is when I’m either planning or flying a mission. Every day is the same thing and my eyes feel like sandpaper. We change it up every now and then, play volleyball or have a cookout, and it’s great for morale, but it only lasts so long. Then the days get back to normal. A week takes a month to go by, and I feel like I’ll never really come home. Do I even live there, anymore? I don’t, you know. This is where I live. Everyone says they’re deployed here because it makes the stay seem shorter, but I’ve lived places for less time than I’ll be here.

  Are you real? I wonder if you’re real. The words I get from you are black and white with no hair or lips or hands. I wish I could see you for five minutes just to know for sure.

  Speaking of seeing you, we had a meeting today. No chance, it looks like, of us getting out of here in under a year. I know. I probably shouldn’t tell you. I don’t want to know, either, but if I know, you should know. It’s selfish, but I want to go through the shit of it with you.

  On a more positive note, I’m getting lots of flight time and having a blast flying. You know about William, by now. Thanks for not asking about it in emails and for not pushing. It was hard, and I miss having him around and flying with him. But I don’t want to talk about it much, if you don’t mind. The last thing I’ll say about it is that he didn’t die for nothing. He was doing something he believed in.

  I have a lot of time to write, today. Not much to do and no one’s around. I don’t know where they are, but they’re not here, so I’m sitting in my foldout chair on the deck I built and writing this on my laptop. I’ll paste it into an email later. It feels so good to talk to you that I could spend all day writing. I would call, but—honestly, M, I don’t want to. I don’t know what we would say. Maybe, for now, one-way talking is best.

  I thought a lot about us and about you when I got your emails and because you asked, I wondered too if we only stay together because we’ve been together so long. This distance makes it easy to look at things like that. How I go on without you and how you go on without me. I guess neither of us can ignore our my changing thoughts about the war. I’d like to think we can agree to disagree about that.

  Being here, getting shot at (not to be too dramatic, but it happens), knowing I might not come home, it makes me think about my life. I have no control over my life, here. I don’t get to come home until they tell me, and between now and then, I fly the missions I’m told to fly and while I’m not scared while I fly, I am more than vaguely aware that flying can get me shot down.

  I can’t use the phone when I want or without someone standing behind me, and I can’t usually send an email without having to wait in line, and even then I might only get off a couple of sentences before someone behind me starts coughing and grumbling.

  I don’t know if I’m making sense.

  Thing is, M, I know that when I come home, I’ll be somewhere I can make certain choices. Life is too short, they say, and they’re right. You learn that kind of thing in a way you never really understood before when someone close to you dies doing the same thing you do a few times a week. You learn that you want to make your life mean something while you’re living it instead of after, and that there’s no excuse for settling into a life you’re not sure is the one you want. Nothing but the best, if you can do it. Which I can. Which you can. Do you understand?

  I want to be happy. I want to stay in the Army and keep flying. What do you think about that? What would you think if I stayed in for life? It sounds crazy after everything I wrote up there about not having control over my own life, but part of the control I want is deciding what I want, and though much of my day-to-day control is in the hands of the Army, I have to remember I gave them that control when I signed up, and I did it for a reason.

  I know we talked about me getting out when my time’s up, but the longer I’m here and the longer I’m in, the more right this feels. I felt a little of this before I left but was afraid to tell you because I thought you would leave. Now, though, I kind of think I have to do what’s right for me, and you’ll either understand and stay with me, or you won’t. It’s not that I don’t care. Please don’t think that. I love you and you know I do. But we have to do what’s right for ourselves whether or not the other agrees with it. And, M, I don’t want you to stay with me if you don’t want to. Guys talk a lot of shit about ‘supportive’ wives and girlfriends, and a lot of times that means the women give up their own lives to be nothing but support systems or appendages. I wouldn’t want you to do that. Never give up something that’s important to you just to follow me around. My life, my job, isn’t any more important than what you would do, if you found something that meant something to you. What I hope is that I can do my thing and you can do your thing and somehow our things will work together.

  And now I’m thinking about sex. Great. But that reminds me that I wanted to ask if you’d send some KY.

  Anyway, as for the very hard to read email you wrote after a whole lot of drinking (you wrote about “well to wall” carpeting and a “babay” – funny), tat’s the kind of thing I don’t want you to do. You never wanted a brand new house, and you were never too on-board with the baby thing. Don’t give in just because of my life choices, okay? One of the things I love mos
t about you is that you know exactly what you want and you don’t buckle to anyone. My being here is no reason for you to change who you are. My choices are mine alone.

  On a similar note, you also asked me to marry you in a letter you sent early on. I haven’t mentioned it because I figured you would say you didn’t remember writing it. Anyway, remember or not, I have it. Proof. It’s taped to the lid of my tuff box so I can take it from the envelope whenever I want to read it. Sometimes I read it before going to sleep. I also look at the picture I brought with me of you on the fence and say ‘good morning’ to it. Weird? I can’t help it, though. The sun is behind you and your hair is all over the place and your face is so beautiful. You are so beautiful, Mia.

  No one has ever asked me to marry them before. You talked about it often enough before I left, but it seemed like you were waiting for me to ask. Well, even if it was just the result of an emotional outburst, thanks for asking. You know, until just now, I hadn’t thought about what I would say if you actually meant it. The idea of marriage is one thing; being asked is something completely different. If you were serious, I’m really sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. Now I’m scared you feel rejected or something. I swear, M, I didn’t think you meant it. Tell me if you did, and I’ll give you a better response. And don’t feel bad if anything I’ve written (about my plans) has made you change your mind, either. I would understand. I’d be destroyed, but I’d understand.

  I wonder how you are. I think about it a lot. What you’re doing, how work is, if you’re going out with Denise at all. I hope she’s doing okay. Some of her letters were left behind and I kept a couple so I could send them back to her. Hold on—I’m going to get one so you can read something she wrote. Tell me what you think she might be talking about.

  Here it is: “You are right in what you wrote. You are so often always right, William and that is one of the things I like about you. No one knows me like you and, I don’t know if someone ever will.”

  After that, she just goes into some crap about the weather. It’s warm there, I guess. Boo hoo. Anyway, did you notice anything suspicious? It sounds like she’s saying something nice, but he didn’t like it at all. He muttered that part a couple of times out loud while reading it, then threw it on his cot and stomped out of the tent. You know anything? It’s the last letter he read from her. Another one came about two days after the accident. I read it. I shouldn’t have, I know. It didn’t say anything. Just that she was putting together a package for him and that she hoped he was doing well. His package isn’t here, yet. I don’t know what to do with it when it gets here. Maybe give it to someone who doesn’t have anyone at home to mail them stuff.

  I might not be able to write for a few days. We have to make a trip. Nice change from the everyday platoon meetings, mission briefings, workouts (you should see me now), etc. I can’t tell you where I’m going, obviously, until I get back, but it shouldn’t be bad. I just don’t want you to worry if you don’t hear from me. I hope what happened to William hasn’t made you worry more. If it helps at all, it was really a freak accident, and it’s encouraged me to be even more careful. I want to come back. To you. No. I don’t want to. I have to. A few nights ago I was in my cot and everyone else was sleeping. I lay there in the quiet staring at the dark, and suddenly I was afraid something would happen to you. Not that I think something will, but I thought, “What if?” What if you broke up with me? What if you got hurt? What if you died? My chest constricted and I felt like I could cry. I can’t lose you, M.

  Don’t worry, though. I don’t think about things like that very often. I couldn’t. It would cripple me. When I fly, I don’t think about you at all. All I think about is flying. Sometimes, it’s impossible to think of anything else, even if I want to. You get so overwhelmed by the fun of the flying itself. Last week I made a quick trip and ended up doing a hundred knots at fifty feet over a river in this narrow valley between the mountains. I loved it!

  People are starting to come back, so I think I’ll end this and get it to you. It’s a long walk to the email tent, and it’s damn hot out. Oh! Sometimes you’ll see these huge, scary-as-all-fuck-looking spiders, called camel spiders, running across the sand. Yesterday, there was one in my boot! You have to check your boots every morning before putting them on. Have you ever seen a picture of a camel spider, or heard anything about them? You wouldn’t want to find one in your shoe. Sometimes some of the guys will take a camel spider and put it under a bowl with a scorpion. They call it “The Arena of Death.” I don’t condone it, but I really hate those fucking spiders, so I’m not too sad when they lose.

  Hope to hear from you soon,

  Jake

  P.S. If you could, M, would you put something together for me? Just the regular. Chips and cookies and jerky, things like that. I loved the coffee cake you sent. And those mimi donuts. I appreciate it. Just take whatever you need from my card. Hey, did you quit driving? I went to check my accounts a few days ago and (I’m not accusing you or complaining, because we had an agreement) I noticed I’m not saving as much as I thought. No big deal, I just wondered. Again, take what you need, but just do me a favor and don’t go crazy.

  P.P.S. Um, I did tell you about Shelbi, you psycho, in the beginning. And I tried to call again, too, but no one answered and the machine didn’t pick up.

  JUNE 2, MONDAY—JUNE 3, TUESDAY

  Shellie calls for me over the radio and I take another hit from the joint I bought from Lenny during this morning’s shift change. “At least this time you’re payin’ for it,” he said.

  “Miss Mia. Where you at, girl?”

  I pick up the radio and push the button and say, “Pshhchk,” and set it back on its base.

  The sun is out, the sky cloudless, and smoking has eased the upset stomach I had this morning. The tree I park under bursts with fat, shady leaves and cools the breeze coming through the window. A man on the radio sings a promise to his love that someday she will die, but that he’ll be close behind, he’ll follow her into the dark. I turn it off and look for whatever it is I hear jumping around in the tall grass outside. Grasshopper. I found two in the kitchen yesterday, but Chancey had found them first. One was missing a leg, the other a head, which I found stuck to the bottom of my foot.

  When half the joint’s been smoked, I wet the tip and close it in the ashtray and go over what I’ve written, so far.

  I’m glad you decided what you want to do.

  I’m glad you decided what you want to do.

  Thank you for telling me

  Thank you for telling me

  I toss the tablet and pen onto the passenger seat, then recline my chair and look out over the green field. It brings to mind movie portrayals of Vietnam, and I imagine bent-over soldiers plodding through the wheat with damp cigarettes held tight in their lips, weapons ready. I see them cross in front of me—almost hear dried stalks crunching under their boots—and then, one by one, they disappear over the horizon and into what is, to me, a mystery. I wonder if the women left waiting during the Vietnam war knew it was really a war, or if they thought they couldn’t possibly be hanging on the fringes of what they’d only read about in school texts, if they thought war was an abstract, or at the very least, something meant for the older generations. When I was ten and first learning world history, I pictured war in black and white, explosions rocking my front lawn and tall, shadowy men coming to kill me, everything happening fast, battles continuous and simultaneous. Not this slow-paced and random series of attacks in a country painted green on my world map.

  If this were history, Jake would have been one of those men pounding through the grass or sitting hot and scared under a wide cluster of jungle leaves, listening for footfalls and fighting to see through sweat.

  Just over a week until the protest, and I think I might paint my name on my shirt in red. Maybe the President’s people will watch the media coverage, and maybe they’ll tell him my name. I wonder what Jake would think. I wonder if they’re able to watch the news
.

  Where are you, he wrote in an email I opened this morning. When I came back, you hadn’t written, and now I’ve been back for two days and still haven’t heard from you. I tried to call yesterday, but there was no answer and the machine didn’t pick up. Let me know you’re alive. Love you, M. –J.

  I’ve left his long letter open on the screen since the day he sent it. In the same number of nights I have emptied a bottle and a half of vodka, hoping the alcohol would free the right words to tell him I can’t. I can’t do this again. And again. And again. Even one more time will kill me. If you stay in, I will leave you.

  Or maybe he’s already left me.

  I grab the paper and pen.

  I am broken.

  I am broken.

  The flame in William’s lighter is getting low, but there’s enough there to set the tablet on fire before I toss it out the window. Black smoke curls up through bowed, green blades.

  Shellie says, “Mia, you hear me, yet?”

  I slouch down and close my eyes for a short nap, but I know I won’t sleep.

  ________

  To: Jake.Lakeland@army.net June 2 / 6:36pm

  Subject: re: Hi, there!

  Jake,

  I’m alive. I’m glad you’re back from your mission, and I’m happy you wrote because I like knowing you’re safe. Got a new answering machine, fyi.

  Mia

  p.s. As for Denise’s letter, besides her punctuation, no, I don’t see anything ‘suspicious’ and I don’t know what she might have been talking about. I’m sorry I’m not much help. Sleep well daily.

  To: msharpe@email.net June 3 / 0709

  Subject: re: Hi, there!

  Mia,

  What’s the matter with you? Your email was weird.