“I know, sir. They were my friends, but I’m not sure what else to tell you. It seems you’ve made your mind up.”
“You leave my mind to me. Mind your own mind.”
I smile, unable to help myself.
“Damn, Durrant.” He shakes his head again. Everyone’s shaking their heads at me today. He takes a breath, lets it out, rubs his eyes. Lord knows what he’s got weighing on his shoulders. If the captain’s right, it goes far beyond my problems.
“What would you like me to tell you, sir?” I ask, surprised to find myself feeling sorrier for him than I do for myself. I don’t, in fact, feel all that bad. I feel something closer to relief, relief that all this shit is coming to a close. That it’s out of my hands. Not the end I would have picked for myself, but a finish all the same. I no longer have a say in the matter, which can sometimes be a comfort. At least to me. Right now.
“How about the truth, Private?”
“You won’t believe me, sir. You haven’t believed me before.”
“Try me,” he says.
So I try him.
I tell him the story again. Beginning to end. Even the parts he’s already heard. Especially the parts he’s already heard. I tell him about Herman. I tell him about Ahmed. I even tell him about the captain. I tell him about taking the box and about the bind the captain put me in. This, it gratifies me to report, makes him frown. The only part I leave out are my problems with Clarissa and my unborn child. The lieutenant nods throughout, watching my eyes, and toward the end, pulls at the hair just behind his ear. He does this rhythmically, as though keeping time with a song in his head. I don’t imagine he has much hair left back there by now. When I finish, we sit in silence for a good mike. I feel emptied out: cleansed, almost. The lieutenant does not. My story’s had the opposite effect on him. He looks up at the ceiling, up through the ceiling. He sees something there. Then he stands up and takes a deep breath. His right hand flits from his mouth to his nose, to that place behind his ear.
“I think I might have been wrong about a few things, but I don’t know there’s a whole lot I can do about this now,” he says finally. “Even if I had a mind to. There are a lot of people involved. Too many to just brush this under the rug. When you and Rankin and the Humvee went missing, I had to radio in a sitrep to HQ in Inmar. Standard operating procedure.”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “I didn’t expect that you could do much. I knew what would happen when I went out there.”
He inspects me carefully. “I guess you did.”
“I know you’ll have to ship me back to HQ, but do you think you could pick up that kid at the factory? I know it’s not reg, but I’m worried Ahmed’s going to kill him. I’d feel a lot better if I knew he was safe.” I beg him with my eyes, with the set of my mouth. “He could work in the—”
“No.” He shakes his head, smiling apologetically. “But I promise you this. I will take care of that fucking factory,” he says to the ceiling.
I attempt a smile. At least I tried to save the kid. He’s lasted this long, maybe he’ll make it on his own. I want to believe it. I try to picture him grown up and living his life, but the image won’t form. His face blurs. None of this will happen.
“I’m not sure if this FOB will be around much longer anyway,” the lieutenant says, but I’m not really listening. He says something about “clear and control.” Something about native police training. But already I’m wondering how long I’ll have to stay in prison. Will the court-martial be in-country or back in the States? I get so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t hear what he says next. He has to repeat it.
“Did you say the captain no longer has the lockbox?”
“He does not, sir. Lopez had it last, but Ahmed got a handful of the papers. I’m not sure how many. But no more than a half dozen, if that.”
This stops him cold. He stares at me for a good while. “Ahmed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you see the pictures, Durrant?”
“Pictures?” I ask, confused.
“Pictures, papers. Whatever they were.” His face is the color of wet newsprint.
“I did not, sir,” I say, relishing the alarm I’ve caused.
Again, the lieutenant pulls at his hair. If anything, he does it twice as hard as before. Then he walks from wall to wall. Toe to heel, as though he’s measuring the length of the cell. He does this four times, and then he takes another long, raggedy breath. I watch him. Finally he stops and opens his mouth to speak. But after a moment, he clamps his lips shut and starts walking again. He measures off the length of the cell two more times. When he stops this time, he’s facing the door.
“I told him. I told the general we should have destroyed that cell phone,” the lieutenant says quietly, staring up at the ceiling again. At times like this, I wonder if he recognizes enlisted men as humans. Who is he talking to? Because it sure as hell isn’t me. “He didn’t believe me, but I told him. Instead, he just confiscates the damn thing. He says we might have a use for it some day. A little insurance. Insurance. Jesus, Mary. Once those pictures are out in the world, you’ll never be able to stuff them back in the box. I told him, but—God, I hope it hasn’t come to—” The lieutenant turns and looks at me as if he only just now realizes I’m in the room.
I don’t understand, and I tell him so.
“You can thank the Lord that you don’t. I wish to God I didn’t.”
Before he leaves, I call out to him one last time. Something bothers me and I want to set it straight, at least in my own mind, especially in my own mind.
“Do you believe me, sir?”
He steps into the hall. “I wish I didn’t,” he says and then shuts the door behind him. The lock turns.
82
Hours pass. I sing to keep myself company. Hank Williams and Kool and the Gang and Donna Summers. I’m working through the final verse of “You Are My Sunshine” when the door shrieks open on its crooked hinges. It’s Sergeant Guzman. An unlit cigar wobbles between his lips. He looks me over grimly.
“You’ve got this whole damn base turned upside down. I bet you’re proud of yourself, too.”
“You overestimate me, Sarge.”
“Want something to eat?”
I hadn’t thought about it until now, but food seems like a very good idea. As if in answer, my stomach growls. I smile at it, give it a pat. I’m astonished by my unnatural cheerfulness. Sergeant Guzman seems mystified as well. The muscles in his face shift from expression to expression, never quite settling. It reminds me of how Rankin looked in the Humvee this morning. Like he didn’t like what he thought or know what he wanted to believe.
“All right,” he says, “well.” He passes the cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “Foss said you like the Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes.”
“That I do.”
“Good, ’cause that’s what you’re getting.” He steps back into the hall and picks up a tray. “I also brought you a Coke.”
“I thought we were out of Coke.”
“There’s one or two still sitting around. Tucked here and there.” He pulls the can from a cargo pocket. “It’s warm as dog piss.”
“Your own private stash?”
The sergeant is known to be a dedicated lover of colas. I’ve even seen him drinking the local brand, which is similar in texture to carbonated pancake syrup. But this is the real thing. Coca-Cola. He cracks the top and sets it by the meal tray.
I raise the can in toast.
“God bless America.”
The sergeant rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Durrant, and eat your food.”
I pick up the plastic fork and eat with an appetite that amazes us both. If he handed me another tray of food, I could down that too, no problem. Sergeant Guzman leans against the doorjamb, arms folded. Watching me eat seems to satisfy him in some way, as though he’d cooked it himself.
“He’s not what you think,” Sergeant Guzman says, after I swallow the last bite of mashed potatoes. F
oss has swamped them in so much gravy, it’s more like eating soup. I’m impressed and—yes, I’ll admit it—touched that Foss paid such close attention to the way I like my food.
“Who?” I ask. “The lieutenant?”
“No,” he says, dead serious. “Lopez.”
“How do you mean?”
“He takes all that Stars-and-Stripes stuff seriously. Howley told me he says the pledge of allegiance each morning after he does his prayer and push-ups.”
“Prayer and push-ups?” I lick the last drops of gravy off the tray. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”
“He’s just trying to be a good soldier.”
“A little too hard.”
“Maybe,” Sergeant Guzman says. “You see, he don’t understand that you can tell a joke every once in a while and still be a good soldier. For him it’s just yes or no. Nothing in between. No gray.”
“And it’s just my tough luck he decided I was a ‘no,’ is that what you’re saying?”
Sergeant Guzman frowns. “Hey, look buddy, don’t tell me you didn’t know what you were doing, going out there like that.”
“No, Sarge,” I say, “you’re right. I take full responsibility. I’m just saying, he’s a little bit tough on the boy is all. That’s it. I’m not laying blame. All this shit is on me. But what happens next?”
“There’s a chopper coming tomorrow at 0600. It’s taking you back to HQ.”
“Is that the same one the MI guy is taking out?” I stand and stretch. A belch comes rippling out of me. “Excuse me,” I say.
“I don’t know nothing about that.” But I see something pass across his face, a sort of anxious recognition. He chews on his cigar.
“Do you think they’ll let me make a call home?”
“Doubt it. Who you want to call?” He takes the cigar out of his mouth, looks at the wet black stump, and sticks it back in.
“Fiancée.” Or whatever she is now.
“H’mm.”
I hand him my tray, and he steps into the hall. I point to the Coke can.
“Thanks,” I say.
The rush of air when he shuts the door makes the cobwebs in the corner flutter like streamers. I stare at the dark Judas hole, listening. A lizard darts across the mildewed stone above the door and disappears into a hole in the corner. Its feet make no sound. The sergeant’s footsteps are swallowed by an enormous gray silence.
83
An hour later, Sergeant Guzman comes back. He glances behind him and steps in.
“Make a fist,” he says quietly, holding out his own.
I do.
“Same stakes?” I ask.
He holds my gaze for a spell before saying, “Nope. You’ll be gone. Just give me that book you’re always reading.”
“Sure.”
“One, two, three,” he says, knocking his fist against mine.
I hold out paper. He holds out a rock.
“You got five minutes. No more.” His expression is as blank as an Easter Island head. You can say whatever else you want about Sergeant Guzman, but he’s not a poor sport.
“Thank you, Sergeant, thank you.” I walk toward the door. He grabs me by my shirt front and pulls me back.
“If you get me caught, I’ll personally pound your head out your asshole.”
“Yes, Sarge,” I say, cheerfully. “I wouldn’t expect any less.”
And I don’t.
84
The phone rings six times and then the answering machine picks up. I prepare a message in my head as I listen to the recording. This is the worst connection I’ve ever had. Her voice bobs on a sea of static. I can barely make out what she’s saying. If it were any other fucking day, I’d just hang up and have Sergeant Guzman give it another shot. But I’m afraid to ask and have him tell me I got my one chance. The answering machine beeps, I say hello, and then, miraculously she answers. For a moment, I’m actually disappointed. I didn’t know how hard this was going to be until she picked up the phone.
“Clarissa,” I say.
Now, with a bad line, this will be extra hard. My words have a full second delay. Static blows along the line. Dead dust drifting between stars. I try to picture her face. I get an earlobe, a wisp of hair, a tooth. She refuses to be summoned. Without meaning to, I make a soft sound.
“Oh, shit, if it isn’t old Toby, calling for his pound of flesh. Not five minutes after my sister.”
“Clarissa, come on. Don’t let’s start. I haven’t even said hello.”
“I knew you’d do this. I knew it.”
“Do what?”
She puffs in a disgusted way.
“I need to talk to you. I only have a few minutes.” I glance over at the office. Sarge fiddles with something on the desk.
“Well, whatever load of guilt you planned to lay on me, just let it go. I don’t need it. It’s over. The whole shitty thing is over and done with. So if that’s why you’re calling, then you can just go—”
“Wait, Clarissa, slow down.”
She clears her throat. “You got the letter, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Then that’s all you need to know.” Her voice rises in pitch again. “It’s all in the letter. Read it again if you have to, but leave me alone. I don’t want to go through this whole thing again, especially not now and not with you.”
“Why are you so angry at me? I’ve barely said a word. I don’t understand what—”
“Because every time you call it’s always me, me, me. Why would I think today would be any different?” Her words distort as they get louder. “You think because you’re over there you’re the only one with problems. Well, you’re not. Try being alone, pregnant, not sure if the father of your child will live to raise it, working a shitty job for sixty hours a week. So if you’re calling to tell me how bad my letter made you feel and what a bad person I am for having an abortion, then go to the back of the line after Mom, Dad, my sister, Dr. Andrews, Pastor fucking Keebles, the Goddamn mailman—”
“Stop,” I say, louder than I meant to. “I read the letter. That’s not why I’m calling.”
“What?” This seems to take her aback.
“I need to talk to you about something else. I—”
“What do you mean, that’s not why you’re calling? I don’t fucking believe you. You’re just waiting until I’m not expecting it, and then you’ll lay into me. Just like everybody else.”
“Why are you cursing so much, Clarissa? I thought you hated when—”
“Why the fuck do you think?” She says something else, but I can’t understand it because she’s speaking through sobs. Huge gulping sobs. I imagine her bent over her knees on the cracked leather couch I found for her on a sidewalk up on 61st Street and Abercorn, shoulders shaking, long hair sticking to her wet cheeks.
“You’re talking like I know what’s going on, but I don’t.” I feel oddly detached, as though I’m looking down on some other version of myself, a very confused one. Who is this guy? What does he think he’s trying to do?
“I had a Goddamn abortion. What the fuck do you think is going on? My head hurts, my belly aches, I’m bleeding more than—” She goes on, but her voice becomes garbled, a series of digital bleeps. Even so, the anger carries through the noise.
“I mean, why are you—wait, Clarissa.” I press my forehead against the trailer’s fake wood paneling. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“That doesn’t mean it was easy. That doesn’t mean I liked it. Do you know what happens to you when you have an abortion? What actually happens? What they do after you go into the clinic and put on the robe and they clamp your feet into those Goddamn stirrups?”
“I don’t want—”
“I didn’t fucking well think so. Why don’t I let you in on a little secret, then? Just between us girls.”
“Why are you shouting at me? I never wanted you to do it in the first place.”
“No, but you had to tell them about it, didn’t you? You had to go a
nd spill the fucking beans. I thought I could trust you at least that much. What did you think was going to happen when you told them? Did you think you could reach them before I went to the clinic? Maybe the sheriff would gallop in on horseback, scoop me up and save me. Tough fucking luck there, Toby.”
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. Whatever it is you think I’ve done, you’re wrong. I live in a tent in the middle of the desert. I’m sure you’re having problems over there. I never thought you weren’t, but guess what? Over here people are shooting at me.” My eyes throb. My mouth tastes like blood. At some point I bit my chapped lip so hard it started bleeding. Stop, I tell myself. Remember why you’re calling. You’ve got, like, a minute left.
The line clears briefly. Somewhere far in the background, I can almost swear I hear an ice cream truck. A jangling version of “Pop Goes the Weasel.” The sudden jolt of homesickness this sound causes takes me completely by surprise.
“Did you hear me?” I ask. “I don’t know what you think I’ve done.”
A lighter scratches. She inhales, exhales. “Well, when you didn’t call and tell my parents I was having an abortion, they somehow magically appeared at my apartment an hour after I got back from the clinic. My dad said—get this, you’ll love it—he said, ‘The next time I talk to you, Clarissa, it’ll be in hell, unless God has mercy on my soul for killing that little shit who started all this.’ In case you wondering, you’re the little shit he meant. After he stormed out of the apartment, my mom said, ‘Let’s hope for all our sakes some little brown man gets to Toby first. It would be a mercy.’ And then, just in case I wasn’t feeling bad enough, she gave me the little white caps she’d knitted for baby. Seven of them.”
“Jesus.”
I see her father then, another uninvited guest in my head, certainly an unwanted one. I see him standing in the doorway of Clarissa’s new apartment on the day I left. Filling up the entire space. A thick neck and eyes the loud artificial blue of Kool-Aid. Smiling at the shabby furniture like he had a stomachache. Dressed in his Saturday uniform. A short-sleeved button-down shirt and gray polyester slacks. Clarissa’s mom stood behind him, literally in his shadow. A pink smudge of color on her lips. Mousy, in a brown dress and thick-soled nurses’ shoes. Each time I caught her eye, she winced in an odd, apologetic way.
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