by Nick Petrie
But the guys still walking around, the guys still in the fight—it wasn’t easy for them, either. Some of them had trouble falling asleep, or had nightmares when they did. Overwhelming emotion, fits of tears or fury. A few guys really went off their nut, wanted to kill everyone. Peter had his ups and downs, but stayed pretty steady. His captain called him a natural war fighter. He spent eight years at it, two tours with very little time between deployments. The unit had essential skills, that’s what the brass had said.
So, the war aside, he was fine until he got off the plane at Camp Pendleton for the last time.
Approaching the officers’ quarters, that was when he first felt it. A fine-grained fizzing sensation as he jogged up the barracks steps. A vague feeling of unease somewhere in the bottom of his brain.
As he walked down the hall, opened the door to his quarters, and stepped inside, it flared into a jittery feeling, a quadruple espresso on an empty stomach. Unpacking his ruck, he felt the muscles in his shoulders and back begin to cramp up. He thought he might be getting the flu.
He showered and changed his clothes, sat at the little desk to do paperwork, but the sparks in his head were rising with a panicky feeling that was impossible to ignore. He couldn’t stay in the chair, and he couldn’t focus on the pages in front of him. His shirt felt too close at the neck.
Then his chest began to tighten. He had trouble catching his breath. The walls got closer, the ceiling lower. His heart a sledgehammer in his chest.
He didn’t even bother to put on his socks and boots, just carried them down the hall and out the main door into the open air, where he could begin to breathe. He told himself he needed some exercise, and walked around the base for a few hours. It helped.
When he went to the mess for supper, it happened again. The mess hall was too loud, too crowded, and the fluorescent lights flickered like those in a horror movie. He cut in line, grabbed a burger, and fled. He ate outside, walking around, wondering what was wrong with him.
When he went back to his quarters, the pressure in his head grew faster than ever. He knew after five minutes he’d never manage to sleep in there. So he pulled a blanket from the bed and found an empty hilltop out in the scrubland that made up most of the base.
How he survived through the final days of mustering out he didn’t know. Drinking helped, but it wasn’t a long-term solution.
He called it the white static. His very own war souvenir.
Which was why he came up with the experiment.
The hypothesis was simple. If the white static came when he went inside a building or in a crowd of people, Peter would spend a year outside, alone. Living out of a backpack, up above the tree line when possible, with only the mountains for company.
Maybe give the static a chance to get used to civilian life and fade out completely.
The first days were fine, hiking steeply up through the ancient evergreen forest. As he got tired of listening to nothing but his own thoughts, it got harder. He had no phone, no music player. But after two weeks, his head felt transparent to the world, his thoughts blown from his mind. The static was replaced by the sound of the wind. It occurred to him that he might never go down to the so-called civilized world.
After what he’d seen, he wasn’t that impressed with humanity, anyway.
Up in the high country, he lived mostly on lentils and rice, wild greens, and trout caught with his fly rod. Gourmet living. Coffee and hot chocolate were his luxuries. He started with several big caches of food hung from trees in bear-proof cans. He thrived up in the granite and heather for four months without needing to resupply. He walked a vast loop through the North Cascades, keeping off the marked trails. Usually off any trail at all. It made him feel wild and pure and clean. He thought it might cure him.
He made those first supplies last as long as he could before going back to the populated world. Roads and houses. Commerce and government. He hitched a ride on the tailgate of a logger’s pickup and, at the outskirts of town, found a small grocery store.
It was the first test of his hypothesis.
But walking through the parking lot, he already knew. The closer he got to the door, the louder the static sounded in his head. He still needed supplies, so he clenched his teeth in the narrow, crowded aisles under the fluorescent lights, trying to get what he needed and into the open air before the white static turned to sparks and began to rise up inside him.
He climbed up into the empty mountains again, where the wind washed him clean. South for the winter, north for the summer. Every time he came down for supplies, the static was still there. After a year, he extended the experiment. Give it another four months. Or forever.
Then Jimmy killed himself.
Peter was deep in the backcountry of the Klamath Mountains in northern California when Manny Martinez heard about Jimmy’s suicide and got on the horn. The informal sergeants’ network had a long reach. Four days later, an off-duty fireman from Klamath Falls walked up to Peter’s campsite with a sorrowful look on his face, and that was the end of that.
—
From his perch on Dinah’s back steps, he saw headlights in the alley, then heard her garage door rolling up. So he was prepared when he saw her. He stood as she walked the cracked concrete path from the garage. The motion light came on, brightening the yard only a little.
“Oh,” she said, slowing. She looked him up and down, seeing a lean, rangy man in worn carpenter’s jeans and combat boots. The big restless hands at the end of long bony wrists that stuck out past the sleeves of his brown canvas work coat. Her eyes lingered on his angular face, wolfish and unshaven.
Her expression was neutral. It occurred to Peter that maybe he wasn’t quite what she expected in a Marine officer.
She said, “You must be Lieutenant Ash.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I appreciate your letting me get started without meeting in person. You said that the front porch was your most pressing repair, and you were correct.” He tried a smile. He wasn’t used to people yet. “Please,” he said. “Call me Peter. Jimmy talked about you so much I feel like I know you.”
She didn’t answer. She was tall, almost as tall as Peter, and wrapped in a long wool coat that went past her knees. She carried her keys spiked out from her fist, something Jimmy would have taught her for self-defense. It looked natural.
She measured him with cool eyes, reserving judgment. But polite.
“Please, come in,” she said. “You must be hungry. I’m making supper, if you’d care to stay.”
“I’ll wait outside,” he said. “It’s a nice night.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “It’s cold. Please, come in.”
Peter pointed at the back door, the bottom panel covered with a piece of bare plywood. “Something happen here?” he asked. It looked like a quick repair after someone had kicked in the door.
“We had a break-in,” she said. “Not long after James.” She blinked. “Died.”
“I’m sorry,” said Peter. “I can replace that when I’m done with your porch.”
She turned her key in the lock. “Come inside,” she said. “Get out of the cold.”
He hesitated, but picked up the suitcase and followed her inside.
He had questions.
4
She sat him down at the big kitchen table, where the static prickled at the base of his brain. Peter took long, slow breaths. His knee bounced to the time of his internal metronome. In a few minutes his shoulders would start to get tight.
Dinah set her large canvas handbag on a wooden chair, then went deeper into the house to hang up her coat and check on her boys. The bag was big enough to carry a complete change of clothes, including shoes. Maybe two or three pairs of shoes.
He heard the front door open, then her sharp intake of air. And the growl of the ugly dog at the far end of its rope.
S
he came back into the kitchen. “Lieutenant Ash.” She raised her eyebrows in an expression that was half surprise and half reproach. “You’re doing more than a few repairs. My porch is gone.”
She didn’t comment on the dog.
“Please, call me Peter,” he said. “And yes, I took some liberties. But once I started to take it apart, I could tell it wasn’t safe. Don’t worry, I’ll have it together again tomorrow or the day after. And it’s all on the U.S. Marine Corps.”
Peter had seen her picture in Iraq, Dinah with the two boys. Jimmy carried it in his shirt pocket on every mission. Said they were his good-luck charm.
He’d clutched it tight waiting for the medevac, eyes locked on the faces of his family while the corpsman was putting the tourniquet on his leg. “I’m such a lucky bastard,” he said, his grin widening as the morphine kicked in. “You got to come visit when you get stateside.”
Peter had gone to the mountains instead.
—
In the picture with her kids, Dinah had seemed fragile, like fine china kept high on a shelf.
In person, she was anything but.
He knew she was an ER nurse, so he was expecting the air of calm competence. But he wasn’t prepared for how the green hospital scrubs showed her shape, or the way she carried herself, fluid, capable motion with her head held high, her back straight as an iron rod.
And the picture definitely hadn’t captured her eyes.
They were the pale blue of deep glacier ice, and filled with knowledge and sadness. And no small amount of concern.
Dinah Johnson clearly hadn’t made up her mind about him quite yet.
Jimmy came home damaged in body and soul. Peter hadn’t done a very good job taking care of Jimmy over there, and he’d never come to visit when he got stateside. Jimmy had recovered from his physical injuries, after multiple surgeries and months of physical therapy. But his other injuries, the ones not visible to the eye, must have been beyond healing.
Less than a month ago, Jimmy had killed himself.
The least Peter could do was fix the porch on Jimmy’s house.
Even if he had to lie to Jimmy’s widow to do it.
—
He’d called her from Manny’s house, less than a week after he’d heard the news. He wanted to help.
If he was honest with himself, he’d say he needed to help.
So he invented a Marine Corps program that provided free home repairs for the families of veterans. Dinah was the only client, and funding came from Peter’s back pay.
From Jimmy’s description of the house, there would be no shortage of projects.
And from Jimmy’s description of his wife, Peter knew Dinah wouldn’t take the help unless he showed up at her doorstep and got to work.
Peter had known women like her all his life. Women who worked long, hard days. Women for whom, even when there was no extra money, even with bills left unpaid, charity was what you did for others.
For yourself, you worked harder. You made do.
But maybe he was wrong. There were new facts to be considered.
A suitcase full of money, for example.
He wouldn’t mention the four pale plastic-wrapped rectangles. For the moment, he’d tucked them under the seat of his truck.
Peter hadn’t quite made up his mind about Dinah Johnson, either.
—
When she returned to the kitchen and began to rummage in the cabinets, Peter picked up the little suitcase and set it on the table. The static was rising, and he could feel the muscles starting to clamp up in his shoulders. He didn’t know how much time he had before he’d need to go back outside.
“I found this under the porch,” he said. “It might have some use left, if you want it. Or maybe you know someone who wants it.”
She swiveled the suitcase this way and that, half smiling. “I can scrub that mildew right off.” She turned to Peter, her face open and curious. “How is it on the inside?”
Nobody could be that good a liar.
She’d never seen that suitcase before in her life.
“You’ll never believe it,” said Peter.
Dinah popped the latch and her eyes grew wide. The hundred-dollar bills were crisp and new. She covered her mouth with her hand. Then reached out and slammed the lid shut. Glaring at Peter, she said, “You take that out of here right now.”
That wasn’t what Peter had expected.
“You’re telling me this isn’t your money?” he said.
Hands on her hips, she glared at him. “Lieutenant, do you think my home would be in this condition if it was? You think I’d keep that in a suitcase under my porch?”
“Maybe you’re holding it for somebody,” said Peter.
She shook her head, those clear blue eyes locked on his face. “No.”
“You know whose it is?”
“No,” she said again, but her eyes went sliding off to the side. “I haven’t the slightest idea.” Abruptly she stood up and began to take things out of the refrigerator. “I really haven’t.”
She hadn’t been lying before, about not having seen the suitcase.
But she was definitely lying now.
—
She stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled wonderful. Peter’s shoulders were clamping up in the small kitchen, sweat beginning to pop on the back of his neck. The fact that three dark doorways opened to unseen parts of the house didn’t help. The static turning into sparks. His breath felt trapped in his chest.
This was Jimmy’s house, he told himself, breathing deep. Jimmy’s kitchen. The long, slow breaths helped stall the static as he watched Dinah’s graceful dance from fridge to sink to stove, and it calmed him. Bought him a few minutes, anyway.
He said, “You could do a lot of good with that money, ma’am.”
She wore her dark hair short and simple. No makeup that he could see. But there was something formal about her, a guarded perimeter that did not invite intimacy. Maybe it was her grief. Maybe it was something else. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to call her Dinah.
She didn’t call him Peter, either.
“Lieutenant Ash, I don’t want that money. And I don’t wish to talk about it. Have you eaten supper?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Please let me feed you before you go,” she said. “I don’t keep alcohol in the house, but would you care for a glass of milk?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
He didn’t mention the four plastic-wrapped rectangles under the seat of his truck.
She set down a tall glass of milk and a big china plate loaded with eggs scrambled with onions and peppers and cheese, buttered wheat toast and spicy refried beans on the side, then carried out two more loaded plates to the bedroom for Charlie and Miles. The smell of the food was like a drug. The static subsided, just a little.
She served herself and sat at the table.
“This was James’s favorite meal. I hope you like it. I made it every Sunday night when we first got married. When he was home on leave, he wanted it every day for a week. That man surely could eat.”
Peter took a bite of the eggs. They were rich and spicy. He took another bite, with some of the beans on the fork, too. It was easy to see why this would be anybody’s favorite meal. “It’s delicious,” he said. “Thank you.”
But Dinah hadn’t taken a bite yet. She said, “Tell me something I don’t know about my husband.”
Peter set down his fork and thought for a minute. “He was good at his job—”
“You mean killing people.” Her stare was bleak.
“No, ma’am,” said Peter softly.
The static crackled and climbed, distracting him. He cleared his throat.
“Jimmy was a very good Marine. When there was fighting, you were glad he was there. But for
Jimmy, that wasn’t a sergeant’s real job. His real job was to understand the men he commanded. To protect them. To keep everybody alive while they did their job. He was my second in command for two long deployments. I only knew him for a few years, but he was my best friend in the Corps.” He blinked. “In the world.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “James and I didn’t talk about the war after he came home. Maybe he was afraid of what I would think of him. He joined up after Nine-Eleven, to fight the Taliban. He wanted to defend our country. But he ended up in Iraq, fighting the wrong war.”
She looked at Peter. “Maybe you don’t agree with that,” she said. “But he loved the men he worked with. He talked about returning to school so he could get a job at the VA. He wanted to help his men after they got home, too.”
“He would have been good at it,” said Peter. “He was smart. And Jimmy—well, you know what a big guy he was, and with body armor, a helmet and an M4, he was huge. He was intimidating as hell, is what he was.”
Peter stared into the darkness, remembering.
“Until he smiled. When he cracked that wide, goofy smile at a checkpoint or a neighborhood meeting, everybody else would smile, too. The civilians, the soldiers. Hell, the whole Mahdi Army. That smile was contagious. You just knew, seeing it, that he would be a good friend if you let him. Everybody liked him. Which made all of us safer. The platoon. The civilians. The women and children down the street.”
Peter looked over at Dinah Johnson. She sat very still in her green hospital scrubs, her back straight and proud, her untouched plate steaming on the table, while the tears slid slowly down her cheeks.
After a moment she stood and went to fill the coffeemaker.
Peter finished his meal while the static rose and the room got smaller and his chest felt like it was wrapped in steel bands.
—
She came over with two white china mugs and the coffeepot. “Do you take cream or sugar?”
Then she looked at him. Her eyes on his face, his posture. The way he twitched in his chair.
“Did I say something?”