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Jake
To: Jake.Lakeland@army.net June 2 /10:12pm
Subject: re: Hi, there!
J-
Nothing’s the matter. I’m just working a lot of hours because I’m driving again, and when I get home I’m too tired to write very much. Why is it that you can be absent for weeks, but if I don’t respond for two days you get hostile? Jesus.
-M
To: msharpe@email.net June 3 /0819
Subject: re: Hi, there!
Mia-
I wasn’t hostile. I was worried. Okay? I thought maybe you were mad about my letter, or something. Why haven’t you said anything about it? I want to know what you think about the things I say. Why do you think I write them? Stop fighting with me. I’m not mad at you.
-j
To: Jake.Lakeland@army.net June 2 /11:22pm
Subject: re: Hi, there!
Jake,
Is you is or is you ain’t my baby? Gokadllad. Decode that.
You really can taste the briskness in Pinot Grigio, once you know to look for it.
Me-a.
To: msharpe@email.net June 3 / 0824
Subject: re: Hi, there!
Hey, M! Your email just came in. I’m at the computer right now. Which means you sent it, your time, at about eleven-something. I’m glad you’re still up!
To: msharpe@email.net June 3 / 0828
Subject: re: Hi, there!
Mia, you there?
To: Jake.Lakeland@army.net June 2 /11:31pm
Subject: re: Hi, there!
I’m here, but just ran out of something and have to go get more.
To: msharpe@email.net June 3 / 0835
Subject: re: Hi, there!
I’m working on the code, but I haven’t gotten it yet. I think I’m close. Don’t go. I want to talk to you. What do you mean, you have to go get more? Right now? Can’t you wait for a little bit? What did you think of my letter? Tell me before I have to give up the computer to someone else. Not too many people here right now, but a lot will be coming in from this 29-ship mission that just got back. Actually, it was a lot bigger than that. I think there were 104 in all from different countries and units, but only 29 were ours. You wouldn’t believe the sound when they flew in. Wish you could have heard it.
To: Jake.Lakeland@army.net June 2 / 11:38pm
Subject: re: Hi, there!
I thought your letter was very well written. A literary joy.
To: msharpe@email.net June 3 / 0840
Subject: re: Hi, there!
You know that’s not what I mean.
To: Jake.Lakeland@army.net June 2 /11:43pm
Subject: re: Hi, there!
Do you mean what you said about staying in the Army?
(There’s not really a code.)
To: msharpe@email.net June 3 / 0844
Subject: re: Hi, there!
Yeah.
(Then why did you say “decode that”??)
To: msharpe@email.net June 3 / 0846
Subject: re: Hi, there!
Mia?
To: Jake.Lakeland@army.net June 2 /11:48pm
Subject: re: Hi, there!
Whatever you want is what I want for you.
(I said “decode that” because…I don’t know! I was playing. Forget it.)
To: msharpe@email.net June 3 / 0849
Subject: re: Hi, there!
Come on, Mia.
To: msharpe@email.net June 3 / 0852
Subject: re: Hi, there!
You there? I have to go in a minute. Where are you?
To: Jake.Lakeland@army.net June 2 /11:53pm
Subject: re: Hi, there!
I’m not feeling well, Jake. Sorry. I hope you have a good night. Take care. Love.
M.
JUNE 9, MONDAY
“Hey, M…What is up with the machine? I thought you said you got a new one. I tried two days ago, but no answer, no machine. At least it’s working now…Uh, anyway, I hope you’re out doing something fun for your birthday…Was hoping I’d catch you, especially today, but I guess…Well, happy birthday, birthday girl…I wish I could try back later, but there’s a mission, so…I love you. Email me, okay? Tell me about your birthday…Bye.”
JUNE 10, TUESDAY
I ride with Safia and Paul to the college. Posters and banners in the back seat spill over onto my lap, and I try to keep them smooth and unwrinkled. Safia sings with the radio, her white-blond hair blowing around her face, and Paul, his elbow resting on the door through the open window, taps the car roof with the drum beat while he circles the lots.
“Look how packed it is. Good sign, huh, Saf?”
He finds a spot near the science building. Safia smiles at him and throws open the door, then comes around to gather the posters from the back seat. With her arms full, she asks which one I want to carry. I choose the one reading, ANYTHING WAR CAN DO, PEACE CAN DO BETTER, because it seems the least inflammatory. The one under it demands an end to a war started by men who would not fight in a war, themselves. “This one is mine,” she says, patting it. “Paul, help me?”
When we get to ‘the bowl,’ a low, circular stone wall in the dip of a vast lawn between buildings, we find a crowd of close to fifty standing in small groups of three or four and holding posters or signs at their sides. Safia and Paul walk ahead of me and stop at one group, shake hands, thank them for coming, and move on to the next. I recognize some of the people from their dinner standing in their own circle, and when Rose and I make eye contact, she looks away as quickly as if she didn’t see me. Maybe she didn’t, and if she did, I’m grateful to her for not wanting to wave me over. I hate small talk.
I move through the clusters and avoid eye contact, pretend I’m headed somewhere, looking for someone I’m meeting. Most of them are younger than I am and wear old sandals and loose-fitting knits that smell of patchouli. “Sorry,” I say when one of them, stepping backward, ends up on my foot. He touches my arm and apologizes and asks if I’m okay, and I tell him yes, fine, fine, and continue through the crowd, stopping when I see Denise and Brian sitting on a far wall. Over, she said. She nudges Brian, who searches until he finds me and then nods. Denise beckons, but I turn around and weave back through the crowd to the other side.
“…have your attention,” I hear Paul shout. The group quiets for his announcement that it is time, and will they please raise their signs. I raise mine, feeling foolish, but—after catching onto what they’re saying—I chant along with them, anyway, feeling more foolish, then, because the chant isn’t inspired, or even original.
“What do we want? Troops out! When do we want it? Now!”
“What do we want? Troops out! When do we want it? Now!”
I look around at others’ posters and find them to be a combination of sentimental (YOU CAN HAVE MY GUN WHEN YOU PRY IT FROM THE FINGERS OF MY COLD, DEAD CHILD), humorous (a leashed dog wears a T-shirt warning that “Bombs kill puppies”), and ironic (WHO WOULD JESUS BOMB?). The crowd skirts the inside edge of the bowl, and on the other side is a scattered crowd of onlookers.
The words keep coming from me, and the more I say them, the more I mean them. I do want the troops out. I do want it now. I do want Jake home, safe, regardless of our future together, and I want it as soon as possible. I want them all safe as soon as possible, because they are all someone’s Jake. Or Jennifer.
I want the troops out. I want it now.
A woman howls from the center, “The military is nothing but a murdering instrument for the government!”
The transformation comes instantaneously; the energy changes form. People shout and shove and signs I hadn’t read, hadn’t seen before—
A.R.M.Y.: AMERICA’S REASON TO MURDER THE YOUNG
and
WE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS WHEN THEY SHOOT THEIR OFFICERS
—fly high over the rest and this is not what I came for, not what I believe, not what I think Paul and Safia had in mind. The din of shouting drowns any one message and all that is clear is that there is no agreeing ab
out anything. The calm gathering has become a rally of screaming, spitting, hatred, and rage. Signs soar and fists jab through the space in front of me and someone yanks my hair. I pull it free and back my way out of the pit, stopping to jump on—and bend over to tear in half—a sign calling to SUPPORT OUR MUTINEERS! I rise just in time to see Brian with an arm around the neck of one of the men who helped carry the banner reading WE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS WHEN THEY SHOOT THEIR OFFICERS. Denise stands by, watching, shouting something with her teeth bared, then swipes at the man’s face and leaves three dark, red lines. He struggles to get free and Brian punches him in the stomach. Denise smacks the man again, smearing the blood from his cheek to his mouth.
The onlookers have changed, too, protesting the protestors, calling us traitors and un-American, jumping into the bowl to fight. I push through them, my sign since dropped so I could use my hands to guard my face, and I see Donny standing just outside the wall, shouting with his fist in the air and his mouth open wide, eyes invisible in his angry face.
I wave, and his arm falls when he sees me. When I move toward him, he steps back and screams something at me I can’t hear. I hold up my hands and move closer, but he takes yet another step back and the way he looks at me makes me want to fall to my knees. He points at a sign raised high above the commotion, rocking side to side in the struggle: AMERICAN MILITARY: PROOF NAZISM IS ALIVE AND WELL IN THE USA.
“I’m not one of them!” I scream. I scream it so loud I cough, but he waves me off and trudges up the hill. I start to run after him, but trip on a sign in the grass. By the time I’m back on my feet, he’s gone.
I crawl to the top of the hill until I’m at a safe distance from what looks like a mosh pit in the bowl, and I wait for a ride home.
A camera crew films the scene from the granite steps of the library. I hope they caught the first peaceful minutes before the fanatics took over.
________
“…anti-war protestors rallying in what the university refers affectionately to as ‘the bowl,’ anger and violence marking their anti-war, anti-military sentiment.” Cut to a young college boy holding out his T-shirt, the picture a dead American soldier, the caption reading, “The only moral soldier is one who’s been stripped of his weapon.” Cut to a still of a crumpled banner: VICTORY TO THE ENEMY; DEFEAT TO OCCUPYING SOLDIERS.
A commentator in a red tie says, “Would you look at that, Janie and Tom?” He gestures at the image. “These anti-war types are ruining our country and destroying the morale of our troops. Look at that sign. Disgraceful. They’re anti-America, is what they are. Protestors! They hate our military and they’re enemy sympathizers, every last one of ‘em. We ought to try the lot of ‘em for treason.”
Beside me, the bowl of rubber darts empties steadily.
Load.
Fire!
Load.
Fire!
Load.
Fire!
Chancey’s paws fly at the air.
JUNE 11, WEDNESDAY
Denise’s place is quiet behind the front door. I put my ear to the wood and hear movement, so I knock again. “I saw your car,” I say. “Open up.”
I didn’t see Denise and Brian again before Safia and Paul came up the hill, banner dragging behind them, and told me to get up because they were going home. I studied Safia’s face for a betrayal of amusement or satisfaction—maybe she got exactly what she wanted—but she was crying. “Those assholes ruin it for us all,” she said, more angry than sad. “They want to hate, hate, hate, and they think they have sense, but they are the same as—Paul, where was that? Those people with the funeral?”
“Indiana?” he said, breathless. The walk to the car was more of a slow jog.
“Screaming to the top of their lungs at the funerals because the soldier is gay. I do not like this war, you know. You know this. But I do not like it because of the politics. The people—the people are only doing what they are told, even if they do not agree. They work hard, they die, and you have more assholes—” (I think ‘asshole’ is her favorite English word)—“telling the families at the funeral that they are glad they are dead, only because they are gay! Stupid asshole people and—”
“Shhh, Saf.” Paul rubbed her back and she leaned into him.
I hear the bolt slide and when Denise opens the door—“I don’t have a lot of time,” she says—her eyes are pink and swollen and she’s wearing baggy sweatpants and a man’s stained white T-shirt. “I’m packing.”
She doesn’t wait for me to come in, but leaves the door open and walks around a corner. I close the door and follow her into the living room, filled with boxes packed and taped. A few more are open, their contents obviously haphazardly chosen. Throw pillows and rolls of toilet paper and pens in one, books and coffee mugs and scarves in another. Written on the boxes in black marker is simply, “Stuff.”
“They won’t give you movers?”
She straddles the coffee mug and scarf box and folds down the flaps, drags the tape dispenser along the seam. “Of course I get movers. They couldn’t come until Friday. I have to do something between now and then, so I’m packing it myself.” Her back is to me. The waistband of a pair of boxer shorts rises above the elastic waist of her sweatpants. “Besides,” she says, “you can’t count on them to do it right.”
“So, you got the money.”
She swipes her hair out of her eyes and turns to look at me, one hand still on the box. “What’s up, Mia?”
“I just mean, if you’re able to leave, they must have—”
“What brings you here? Today.”
“I don’t know. The last time I saw you, you and Brian were…lecturing…a guy.”
“And?”
“I’m just making sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.”
“And, I haven’t called since we had dinner. You know. To see how you are.”
“I know.” She smiles, but not really. “Thanks for making up for it.”
“Do you want help packing?”
“No, thanks. It keeps me busy.” She stretches and laces her fingers over her head. “A break would be nice, though. Wine?”
(She follows this with asking me to take the rest. “Will you please take the rest? It’s too nice to waste, Brian hates white, the movers won’t take it, and there is no room for it in my car. I bought the case last week when I didn’t know just how soon I’d be leaving.”)
“The money isn’t here, yet,” she says. “My parents are helping out.”
“That’s nice of them.”
“I’m giving most of it to his family.”
I say nothing.
“I thought that would make you happy.”
“It’s none of my business.”
“I know it isn’t.” She circles her hand around the base of the bottle and rotates it little by little on the table.
“Why did you decide—”
“They—those people at the bowl—turned him into some kind of villain. You know that? William, a bad guy.” She laughs. “How ridiculous is that?” She looks outside when a gust of wind punches the window. “I was only there to watch, you know. I’m one hundred percent for the war.” She looks at me. For a reaction, I think. “Anyway. I have to get out of here.”
“I wasn’t one of them,” I say.
“I know, I know.” She clears her throat and concentrates on her glass. “Do you mind coffee, instead? I don’t feel like wine.”
“Have whatever you want.”
“Do you want coffee, or not?”
“Yes, please.”
She carries our drinks to the counter and sets them in the sink, then fills the carafe and pours it in the coffee maker. “Brian asked me to marry him.”
“Oh,” I say. I have no feeling about this, have no emotion whatsoever. I wonder if I’ve run out. Ordinarily, I think this would affect me.
“I thought it was a little more interesting than ‘Oh’ when he asked.”
“Did you say yes?”
“Of
course,” she says. “Actually, the entire conversation you and I just had—about me moving, making a change—was contrived to lead to this shocking surprise. Are you shockingly surprised?”
“Yes.”
“For crying out loud, Mia.” She gets a cigarette from the hutch and tosses one at me.
“I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
But I’m not ready. I light it.
She points hers at me. “Why aren’t at work today? You said you started again.”
“Day off,” I lie. I called in sick. Shellie said she hoped I would feel better tomorrow and that I should get plenty of rest and chew on some garlic.
“I suppose I’ll have to get a job, now,” Denise says. “Do you know how long it’s been since I worked?” When I don’t answer, she says, “A long time.”
I put out my cigarette half-smoked. “What did you say? To Brian.”
She turns away to check the coffee’s progress, using it for avoidance the same way I do. No wonder we love our coffee. “I told him to go home,” she says. The pot’s filled a quarter of the way, so she pulls it out and fills our cups, then slides it back onto the burner and sits across from me. She rests her chin in her hand and says again, eyes filling, “I told him to go home.” Her mouth quivers and she groans and uses a rough hand to wipe at the tears on her cheek. “I am sick to death of crying. I don’t know how you handle everything so well.”