Sparta

by Roxana Robinson

  Anyway, they wouldn’t be there; it would be only his parents. Conrad had another whole flight, from Bangor to San Diego, to summon his parents’ faces and to think of things he could say. He’d try to talk as if he were the person he’d been four years ago.

  The plane was dropping fast now, through intermittent clouds. The window went suddenly dark, then bright again, the light flickering. The strobing flashes made Conrad uneasy, and his chest felt tight again. He thought of the woman in the car, the sudden bloom of flames against the windshield, and the noise blotting out the world, that silent echo that seemed to go through your body, though these were exactly the things he was trying not to think about. It was like having to watch a movie: the movie was inside his head, and he couldn’t stop it by closing his eyes. He had strategies, but he was never sure they’d work or how long they’d last.

  The plane slid suddenly into a dense layer of cloud, and the sound of the engine turned loud and urgent. The windows were closely sealed with gray. Conrad’s chest tightened further and he began to count backward from ten. He could feel his heart—big, pounding beats. He focused on the numbers, nine, breath, eight, breath, seven, spacing them evenly. With each one he drew a deep, slow breath. By the time he reached six, the plane had passed through the cloud layer and the windows were no longer sealed. Conrad stared out at the drifting wisps of mist, the view below. More green forest, now closer, the texture of the trees becoming sharper and clearer. Everything seemed more dangerous the closer they drew to the ground. The plane’s racing descent seemed full of risk. He listened for gunfire: they shouldn’t be coming down like this, so obviously, so slowly, in broad daylight, with no defensive maneuvers. He drew long, measured breaths, counting slowly until the air was entirely clear of clouds. His heart was still pounding.

  They were approaching the airport, making a long loop over Bangor. The landscape now was semi-urban: roofs, buildings, a grid of roads and highways. Tiny cars moved steadily along like markers in a game.

  When the plane banked hard, heading for final approach, the roar of the engines became deafening. Conrad felt his heart respond, his pulse rising.

  Anderson opened his eyes, closed his mouth, sat up.

  “We landing, sir?”

  Conrad nodded. He didn’t want to risk speaking, didn’t want to let Anderson know what was happening to him.

  Anderson rubbed at his face, his eyes, his pale rabbit’s lashes. Everyone around them was waking up; Marines were starting to talk and laugh, excited. Conrad’s heart thundered.

  The airport runways and buildings stretched out below them, straight axial lines, like a mechanical drawing. The plane dropped rapidly, and the long flat buildings, the dark tarmac, rose up alarmingly to meet it. The engines became louder, the pitch ascending toward some unbearable climax. The plane fell sickeningly toward the earth. There was a pounding inside his skull.

  He could feel it coming: the moment in which you heard the sound. It was before anything had hit, when the air was full of ozone, the moment in which you understood that something was happening but not yet what. It was the moment that you knew in your body before you knew it in your mind, the moment when you felt the sound, like a great silence taking you over, the shock wave rolling through your body, your heart and lungs, time stopping around you. Everything flying apart into fragments. That limitless radiant moment, glittering behind your eyelids, before you knew.

  He was frozen and still, his muscles clenched. His palms were sweating. Inside, he was huge and cavernous, and his heart was doing something monstrous and unnatural. Tears, horribly, brimmed at his eyelids. Some avalanche was poised, ready to break loose. He couldn’t stop it. Something was running riot through him, some cloudburst of panic and confusion, noise and smoke and terror. He was consumed by fear. It was sweeping through him as though he’d been overtaken by fire, as though he were now rippling and radiant with flames. Somewhere he was screaming. Terror was blowing him apart.

  He was counting and breathing, making his chest rise and fall, rise and fall, in, out, silently saying the numbers. Nine, he told himself desperately, breath, eight, spacing them evenly, breathing in, out, and then they were no longer over the runway but on it. The plane came down hard and fast, thundering roughly onto the tarmac, making the miraculous transfer from element to element, from air to earth at a hundred miles an hour. Undecided, the plane bounced twice, up into the air, then settled on earth, transforming itself from something free-floating and weightless into something massive and ponderous, lumbering, ungainly.

  As the plane settled onto the tarmac, the cabin exploded with cheers. Relief flooded through Conrad, a wild wave of gratitude loosened him inside. Tears still threatened, but they were now from relief. It shamed him, but he was helpless before these towering gusts of feeling.

  The plane raced down the runway, roaring and rattling. As they neared the end of the pavement, the engine scream rose further, revving to a wild, unthinkable pitch. The plane braked hard, flinging everyone forward. An empty can ricocheted down the aisle. The plane slowed abruptly, a weird, unnatural deceleration, and came to a sudden rolling stop. Conrad was sweating, his body damp and hot inside his uniform.

  The pilot’s voice came over the intercom. It sounded like God, deep and annunciatory. “Gentlemen, welcome home.”

  The cabin erupted again into shouts and whistles.

  “Oo-rah! Back in the USA!” The Marines stamped and hooted, clapping. Conrad heard them from a great distance, through the louder pounding in his ears. He was actually on fire—was that it? He felt stunned. He turned to Anderson. He was trying to breathe normally and wondered how his face looked. He wondered if this showed.

  “We made it,” Conrad said. He hoped he was grinning.

  Anderson looked at him, his gaze sober. “You okay, sir?”

  Conrad nodded.

  He was shaking. He didn’t dare lift his hand or speak. What he wanted was to lean back against the seat, close his eyes, and let this thing, whatever it was, roll through him, take him over, and close him down.

  2

  Near the barracks, a low temporary grandstand had been set up. The seats were mostly empty, but kids were running up and down the empty risers, chasing one another. The bleachers overlooked the parade deck, a big square field of scuffed dirt, now partly filled with waiting families. When the buses appeared from beyond the barracks, people began gathering. The buses were unmarked, but everyone knew who was in them. People turned to face them, holding balloons, waving tiny American flags. Homemade signs were raised: WELCOME HOME BOBBY. WE LOVE YOU JESUS. Behind the families, towering over the crowd, were inflated balloon figures: a purple castle, rigid pennants fluttering from its turrets; a huge red and yellow smiling bear. They swelled against the sky, weirdly smooth, like giant babies.

  Conrad’s parents were both tall; they stood out among the others. Marshall was lanky and spare, with wide shoulders and a concave chest. He wore an old narrow-striped polo shirt and khaki pants. He stood with his hands jammed into his pockets, his head thrust forward, his fine, colorless hair falling across his forehead. He was oddly awkward, his elbows and wrists always prominent, always at the wrong angle.

  Lydia was nearly his height, also lean and long-boned. She wore dark pants, a loose light jacket. Her hair was short and thick, deep brown, but graying slightly. Her eyes were dark and deep-set, with a mournful slope. She stood next to Marshall, her arms folded against her chest, her dark eyes searching for her son.

  Next to the Farrells stood a young blond mother with two small children, and behind her an older man. They all held pale blue balloons inscribed WELCOME TOMMY. White ribbons hung from the balloons. The mother wore a short-sleeved pink sweater, and a balloon was tied to each of her wrists. She held a small boy against her chest. She kept rising onto her toes, craning to see, then sinking back onto her heels, unbalanced by her son. The balloons followed her movements languidly. The little girl clasped her mother’s thighs, staring resentfully upward. A ball
oon was tied to the center of her plastic headband. Behind them stood a grizzled, stocky man wearing aviator sunglasses, legs spread, arms tightly folded, a balloon tethered to one buried hand.

  The bus doors hissed open. The families held back, anticipatory. When the first Marine stepped down, everyone began to cheer. As the line of them appeared, there were claps and calls, names were shouted out. “Hey, Durell!” “Yo, Jimmy!” Mothers waved and called; children screamed joyfully, whether or not they saw Daddy; wives began weeping; fathers beamed and whistled.

  The blond mother suddenly set down her son. “Tommy!” she called. She raised her hands, clapping, the balloons bobbing around her face. She gave a high-pitched laugh, then started to cry. She called again, “Tommy!” Her voice broke.

  “Mom,” the little girl said accusingly, unable to see.

  The grizzled man cupped his mouth and called, “Hey, Tom!” The balloon floated jerkily over his head.

  The Farrells watched silently, scanning the faces of the men stepping down from the bus. Marshall pushed his hair off his forehead, but at once it fell back.

  It was the end of the day, and the California sky was darkening to a transparent violet. To the west, the palm trees were turning a deep red-black against the liquid glow. Over the crest of the hill, to the east, the sky was still blue, but it was becoming deeper and dimmer. Once everyone was off the bus, the staff sergeant gave the order and the men began to march, three abreast. There were two platoons of infantry grunts, all in clean desert camouflage uniforms, blurred brown and tan. They marched in unison, heads high, arms swinging. His platoon was Dingo Three; Conrad marched alongside. As an officer, he did what his men did, but apart. In the mess hall, officers always ate last. You put your men first.

  The ceremony would be small, there were only two infantry platoons returning, about ninety men. If it had been a whole company coming back, two hundred or more, there’d have been a big ceremony, food and bands. But this would be brief. The big blow-up toys were about all there was, and they were aimed at kids. Most of Conrad’s Marines didn’t have kids, they were too young. Most of them were not even twenty-one—though they were no longer kids.

  As the platoons marched along, children ran daringly out in front of them, then raced back to their families. Wives waved, babies began to cry, fathers called through cupped hands. The Marines kept their eyes front. When you marched, you separated yourself from everything else. You didn’t make eye contact with the crowd, even if it was made up of your own families. You were part of your unit, not part of the people watching. This was how they’d been trained.

  The walls of the purple castle were made of netting. Inside, kids bounced relentlessly on the trampoline floor. The compressors, inflating the castle, made an industrial roar. Beside the castle stood the bear, with staring eyes and manic grin. It seemed to be female, its bottom half a huge brown skirt with a white apron as the doorway. A little boy in desert cammies stood outside it, a miniature Marine. He was holding his hands over his ears, his mouth open. A little girl, her face painted in cat whiskers, came out the door and stood beside him. She saw the marching Marines and lifted her hand in a wave. Over the loudspeaker a brassy march struggled against the thundering bass of the compressors, which were winning.

  The platoons reached the edge of the parade deck and drew up before a balding and stern-faced colonel. He stood frowning and erect, chin high, shoulders back. Beyond him, the long packed clouds of evening were drawing across the lower edge of the sky.

  The Marines stood before him at attention, heads high, eyes straight ahead, arms stiff at their sides. The blue dome of the sky was darkening, becoming deep and endless as the stain of night spread smoothly down its sides. Suddenly the arc lights went on, illuminating the field with a dry white glare. The sky overhead became dark, and all at once it was night. The Marines were irradiated, surrounded by darkness. In the sudden illumination they became mysterious—their mottled uniforms, their smooth, close-cropped heads, their fixed stare. They carried something of the place they’d come from, the life they’d lived there, something of those who had not returned. The field, and the waiting men, illuminated by the lights, seemed clouded by that invisible awareness. Darkness lay beyond them, and the vast nighttime sky lay overhead, the landscape turning shadowy across the continent as the sun dropped away from their side of the earth.

  Lydia leaned toward Marshall and whispered, “Have we missed him?”

  “We must have,” Marshall said. “He must be here.”

  “But how could we?” Lydia murmured. “We’ve been watching. Where is he?”

  They scanned the rows, and Lydia felt a sudden fear: that he was not here after all, that he had been somehow lost. It was irrational—they knew he was here—but familiar. Fear had become part of her consciousness.

  * * *

  Lydia had not grown up in this world. The military had been entirely alien to her. There was no long family connection to it, no swords, no photographs, no war stories. Her father’s only connection to it (two quiet years on a naval air station in Tennessee, long before she was born) was rarely mentioned. It played no part in her family history.

  She had grown up in the aftermath of the Vietnam War, when the military was shadowed by disgrace. As a child she’d seen her parents watching the evening news night after night, their faces grave. They sat before the TV, drinks in their hands, listening in silence to the serious voice of the newscaster. One night her father listened to a general as he blustered and stalled, challenged by hostile questions.

  Her father shook his head, swirling the ice cubes in his glass. “The country will never recover from this.”

  Lydia, who was eight, was alarmed. For years afterward she expected something to happen, dire consequences. It was the military, she understood that. The military was in disgrace. The Vietnam War had been a scandalous mistake, everyone knew it. The advisers had lied to the press, the White House had lied to Congress, the generals had lied to everyone. The military had manufactured evidence, the troops had massacred civilians. The whole thing was a national shame.

  Lydia grew up believing that the military had been permanently dishonored by this. Never again would the public trust it so deeply. The lesson had been a terrible one, harsh and costly, but the nation had learned it. This was how history worked, the way nations formed attitudes and policies. This was the school of experience: never again would America allow such a thing to happen—to undertake war so secretively, so recklessly, so duplicitously.

  By the time Lydia was a teenager, the draft had ended, and no one she knew enlisted. That whole world receded into vague obscurity for her. The military seemed huge and surreal, like a factory out of Kafka, grinding on endlessly, groaning and rumbling as it produced a vast, dangerous, and incomprehensible product. It was outside the rest of the community, unrelated to civilians or peacetime. Lydia had seldom thought of the military until the spring of Conrad’s junior year at Williams, 2001, when he came home to tell them about his plans.

  The Farrells lived in the small town of Katonah, in northern Westchester, in an old farmhouse on a hill that slanted down to a dirt road. The house was set on wide, sloping lawns and shaded by huge rough-barked sugar maples; the fields were bounded by lichened stone walls. Across the lawn from the house was a red two-story barn, with an enormous hayloft above and big box stalls below: it had been converted from a dairy to a horse barn before the Farrells bought it. Behind the house, meadows rose up over the crest of the hill. Beyond them, on the other side, the land sloped down and gave way to woods. The original farm contained several hundred acres, though the Farrells owned only six. They’d bought it during a dip in the market in the late 1970s. After that, prices soared, and they’d never have been able to afford it.

  The house was white clapboard, with three stories and five bedrooms, comfortable but not grand. On a beam in the attic was the signature of the carpenter: Richard Inglesby, 1856. For a hundred and fifty years people had lived their particu
lar lives in those rooms, within those same plaster walls. Prosperous farmers, to judge from the house and its grace notes—high ceilings, elegant moldings, three bay windows, and a back stairs for the help. For all those years people had gotten out of bed each morning in those rooms. They’d set their weight on the slanting wide-board floors. On bone-cold winter mornings they went down the creaking back staircase, put on coats and boots, and went out to the barn to feed the animals. On hot summer nights they slept with the windows open onto the dark lawns, the murmuring sugar maples. During thunderstorms they looked out through the pouring rain toward the barn, revealed in terrifying precision by the flashes. Babies had been born in these rooms, the mother twisting and sweating, holding on to the iron bedstead behind her head, a doctor leaning over her. People had become ill in these quiet rooms. They had died here, their breathing stilled. Someone had watched, her gaze locked on a yellowish face, unable to turn away. All these people, cooking and sleeping and having children and getting ill, having parties and arguments, being confused and happy and grief-stricken, were part of the history of the house. Someone had decided to modernize and put in gas, and they’d had to cut the mysterious pipeline in the wall in order to add the window in the breakfast room. Someone later had put in electricity, plumbing; someone had paved the driveway. The Farrells changed little. They respected the modest nineteenth-century presence of the house. They’d preserved its integrity, protected it from change. They felt responsible for it.

  The Farrell children had grown up there, Conrad, Jenny, and Oliver. Marshall commuted, taking the train every day to New York, where he taught law at NYU. When the children were grown-up enough, Lydia had slowly gotten her M.S.W. When the children were older, she set up a family therapy practice in New York, and she began commuting, too. The trip took over an hour on the train, and it was tiring. By the time you reached Valhalla, it seemed endless. But at the end of the trip you stepped out of your car in your own driveway, drew a breath of sweet country air, heard the soft calls of the mourning doves in the lilacs.