“This is bullshit!” he shouted at his superior. “How you gon’ tell me I can’t be discharged?”
“You didn’t read the fine print, solider? When our country is at war, we keep you as long as we need you. And I need you here in Iraq.”
The daily desert heat was unbearable. Visible waves floated through the air commingling with the stench of death, suffocating him. Lincoln hated walking around all day with layers upon layers of clothing with a metal helmet strapped to his head. Camouflage jacket layered with heavy body armor. Trousers with side, back, and thigh pockets. An M16 strapped across his shoulder, a semiautomatic in his hand, combat boots laced tightly to his feet.
He missed wearing basketball shorts, a cutoff T-shirt, and slip-on shoes. The days of enjoying a shower—what he wouldn’t give to take a bath—were long gone. Being prepared to fight every moment of his life was mandatory. His handgun was strapped to his side. No grenade in his pocket. Needed to get one.
From Saudi Arabia, to Afghanistan, to Iraq, Lincoln walked away shaking his head. “Fuck you, man!” What was his superior going to do? Send him home? Lincoln felt more defeated by his country than by his enemy. Who was the real enemy?
Six years in when he’d only signed up for four was insane. There were many times he regretted making the decision not to follow his dream. If he could roll back time and change his mind about having joined the military, he’d be playing professional football. And if football hadn’t been his destiny, he’d be on American soil like the rest, not caring much, if at all, about the soldiers fighting the war. He could be living comfortably in a big house with Katherine. If he had a kid, his child would be five years old now. Maybe he should write Katherine and Mona letters.
Randy patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s hang in there, man. We’ll get discharged together and go home together. This war can’t last forever.”
Randy was right. But the war could last their lifetime. Thank God he had Randy Thomas. He didn’t need any other friends. Every time he tried befriending a soldier, they were either wounded or killed. Being in the war didn’t differ much from being in a gang. Neither gave the man fighting the cause—not his cause—freedom.
“I love you, man,” Lincoln said, patting Randy’s back.
Before the war, Lincoln hadn’t spoken the L word to anyone. Not his parents, grandparents, Mona Lisa, or Katherine. Didn’t know what it truly meant until now. Caring about someone who could be taken away from you in a heartbeat, now he understood the meaning of love. Had a few more people he needed to say that to face-to-face.
“Randy, man, I’ve been thinking about writing my girls. What you think?”
“Okay, that’s it,” Randy said, smiling. “Your ass is going to do that today and I’ma seal the envelopes and slap the postage on for you.”
Lincoln playfully nudged the side of Randy’s head with his fist. “Man, if I die over here, how do I make sure Uncle Sam doesn’t get the money I’ve saved up?”
“Why you dwelling on death? We can’t worry about that, dude.”
“But seriously. I don’t want the government to keep what I’ve earned.”
Randy looked in his eyes. “Who do you trust?”
“You.”
“Now you talking crazy, man. You ain’t leaving me nothing ’cause you ain’t leaving me. Who else you got? What about that kid you might have? Find out if it’s true. If you really have one, leave it to ’em.”
Lincoln coughed. Randy coughed. Dust filled the hot air.
Pointing at an eighteen-wheeler driving toward them on the dirt road, Lincoln said, “Man, we’re on the wrong side. Those dudes work for American companies. They come through here every day to transport oil. They get paid seventy-five thousand dollars a year. We get thirty thou. They don’t have to risk their lives every day. And we have to deal with real threats of terrorism every fuckin’ minute. At least now we know what we’re protecting. The rich man’s future!” Lincoln yelled, running toward the truck. He chased the truck at least five hundred feet down the road. He stopped, picked up a huge rock, hurled it at the company’s name on the side of the truck.
Boom!
Lincoln looked behind him. It wasn’t the rock he’d thrown that caused the blast. Just like that, a bomb exploded.
“Randy!” The attack came from out of nowhere, and Lincoln’s life went from bad to worst. He retraced his steps to his troops. Everyone except him was dead.
“Fuck this shit! I hate being here!” Why did he have to chase the truck? He could’ve died with his best friend, and the nightmare of having to live with what was in front of him would be someone else’s reality.
“Randy,” he cried, holding his best friend in his arms.
Splattered on the dusty desert next to Randy’s body was what was left of the suicide bomber, a little kid. Lincoln leaned Randy’s bleeding body against him, drew his weapon. If he saw another kid within five hundred yards, he’d shoot ’em dead. He’d shoot ’em all dead.
“Why!!!!!” he cried to heaven. Randy was his best and only white friend. The racial tension he’d occasionally experienced in Selma didn’t matter when you were fighting each day to save your life. Angrily glancing around, he saw one, two, three . . . ten, eleven . . . thirteen more soldiers were dead.
Lincoln closed Randy’s eyes, then removed his combat boots. Lincoln unlaced his own boots, and put them on Randy. “I will walk in your shoes, my brother, until it’s my turn to die.”
That could be a few minutes, a few days, a few months, a few years, or a few decades, but Lincoln wished that day would’ve been today. He prayed God had a purpose for sparing his life.
CHAPTER 14
Katherine
September 2008
Another breaking news flash scrolled across her computer screen.
Twelve American soldiers were bombed today in Iraq. Half were killed instantly. Two lost limbs. Four survived with minor injuries.
Katherine refused to lose hope that Lincoln was alive out there somewhere. “God, please keep Lincoln safe. Keep all of our soldiers safe and bring them home soon.”
In between reporting events that made local and national news, Katherine continued to pray for the troops and campaigned heavily for Barack Obama to become the next president of the United States. She needed hope more than ever before. Hope that Jeremiah’s dad was still alive. Hope that one day she’d find him. Hope that one day soon the war would end.
She stood in front of her local grocery store. A two-by-six rectangular table was covered with applications and pens. “Register to vote today. Ma’am, are you a registered voter?” Katherine asked, handing her an application before the elderly woman answered. “If you are, take this application and pass it along to a person who hasn’t signed up. Perhaps a family member, church member, or friend.”
The woman stopped, balanced herself on a cane, then proudly articulated, “Honey, I mights not be ables to write and speak a lotta fanzy words, but I’ve been registered to vote for over forty years. Give me a few of those applications. We’ve gots to encourage these young peoples to get out and vote for Obama.”
Glad the woman had made her efforts easier, Katherine gave her a hug and a stack of voter applications.
“Mommy, what about her?” Jeremiah asked, pointing at a young girl in tight denim short shorts and a white tank top.
“Ask her to come over here,” Katherine said.
Though the girl was dressed extremely provocative, had a sassy swing in her hips, and oversized breasts, it wasn’t Katherine’s position to judge the girl’s character. The same as Amber, Nichelle, and Tyler had become her newest friends and biggest advocates at the station, Katherine allowed people to show her who they were.
Jeremiah ran about twelve feet, grabbed the girl’s hand. “My mommy wants to talk to you.” He smiled. Didn’t let go of the girl’s hand until she was at the table.
Initiating the introduction, Katherine extended her hand. “Hi, I’m—”
The girl i
nterrupted, “I know exactly who you are. ‘Good morning to you, America, I’m Katherine Clinton. ’ My name is Makeda. I see you on the news all the time.”
Depending on the girl’s perception and projection, that may be good or bad, Katherine thought, then asked, “What’s your age?”
“I just turned eighteen, just graduated from high school this summer. I want to be just like you.”
Wow, she was face-to-face with a girl who considered her a role model. How many other young people saw her that way? Handing out applications wasn’t enough. Katherine was going to start publicly speaking at high schools and universities.
Jeremiah handed the girl an application. “Here.” His eyes appeared fixated on her breasts.
Katherine laughed. “Good job, Jeremiah.” She always complimented him when he did well. Never wanted him to think liking girls was a bad thing, so she didn’t give the situation undue attention.
“Thanks, Mom. What about him?” he asked, pointing at a young man a short distance away.
“Go get him,” Katherine said.
The girl smiled a wide and inquisitive smile. “I see how this operation is running. Send the irresistible kid to reel us in, huh?”
“Are you a registered voter?” Katherine asked her.
“I will be as soon as I complete this application.” She looked at the young man Jeremiah led to the table, picked up a pen. “Here, fill this out,” she told him, handing the guy a pen and an application. “If you need help, let me know.”
He placed his grocery bag beside a chair. “Hey, thanks. I’ve been meaning to do this so I can vote for Obama.”
By the end of the day, Jeremiah and Makeda had become inseparable. Or more like her son had become attached to Makeda. Together they’d registered over a hundred people. Their persistence to make sure the applications were processed timely and the people showed up at the polls on Election Day was Katherine’s next battle.
“Thanks, Makeda. You were a tremendous help. Whatever I can do to help you, you just let me know. Here’s my card.”
Makeda hugged her, then kissed Jeremiah on the cheek. He jumped up and down. She clenched the card in her hand. “My mom is not going to believe this! Ms. Clinton, thank you so much! And if you and your husband,” she said, eyeing the ring on Katherine’s finger, “ever need somebody to babysit this handsome fella, I’ll come to your house and watch him for you. Bye!” she yelled, running off.
Katherine smiled at Jeremiah grinning at her. “Yes, she can come over sometimes to chaperone you and your friends. But only on weekends. Grandma could use a break.”
Truth be told, Katherine could use a break too, but she didn’t want to make her son feel she was tired of him. Single parenting was arduous. Taking care of Jeremiah and working all the time consumed her. If she wasn’t cooking, cleaning, or shopping, she was helping with homework, volunteering, at PTA meetings, working, or going to what they called pre-football practice preparedness.
The exercise was great for her son. She didn’t want him sitting inside obsessing over video games and not caring about taking care of his mind and body. The hour that he’d practice, she’d run laps around the track and keep an eye on him with his teammates in the middle of the field.
“Hey, champ. Great job,” she said, giving him a high five. “What do you want to eat tonight?”
He yelled, “McDonald’s!”
“You sure you want to use your last Fast Pass today? You know your friends are coming over tomorrow.”
Katherine never wanted Jeremiah to feel he couldn’t have what he wanted, so she taught him moderation. He was allowed to eat twice a month at a fast-food restaurant of his choice. Giving him the option helped him to make better decisions. His Fast Passes were use or lose, because he couldn’t use more than two per month. But she’d let him hold on to the unused tickets because somehow he thought saving them was a good thing.
“I’ll wait. Let’s go home, Mama. Can Makeda come over tomorrow? I want my friends to meet my new girlfriend.”
Whoa. New girlfriend? “Jeremiah, you can’t decide she’s your girlfriend without asking her first. Besides, she’s almost twice your age and she might already have a boyfriend. Let’s continue this conversation over dinner with Grandma. See what she thinks.”
Katherine was going to have to start an open dialogue with her son about girls and sex soon. Real soon.
CHAPTER 15
Mona
May 2010
Five years in Bakersfield. Mona wasn’t homesick, but she did miss Lincoln. The only guy who had ever made her feel pretty was William Lincoln. But she didn’t marry Lincoln; she’d married Steven. Each day she was married to Steven, she regretted he was never the man she was in love with. But no one had taught her what marriage meant, so she’d have to continue this journey on her own.
Working two jobs in Bakersfield kept her preoccupied. She had no incentive to go back to Selma. In some ways she’d become better at bounty hunting than Steven. Utilizing her forensic skills and intuition, she was more efficient at locating bail jumpers. Her day job had just gotten started with the ritual of listening to other people’s problems.
No matter what time of the day, the news was depressing. On television and in her adult life, she’d grown to expect more bad than good. Things weren’t always that way for her. All her life she’d been a free spirit secretly in search of the fairy-tale love and happiness most girls dreamt of. She wasn’t there yet.
Mona put on her protective eyewear and a latex glove. The lab was quiet. Like most days, she’d come in early. She had fifteen specimens to sample for drugs before noon. If a positive change were to come, the decision had to start with her.
Thanksgiving was six months gone and six months away, and this was her fifth year living in Bakersfield. Last year she’d promised herself this year would be different. She’d file for divorce, move out, and get her own place. Again she’d lied.
She exhaled. “Every time I blink or breathe is an opportunity to leave him. God, please give me the courage to just do it. What am I afraid of? I’m tired of making mistakes. Next time I go home, just push me back out of his door and out of his arms forever.”
A welcomed interruption of her mental monologue came when she heard a familiar voice say, “Good morning to you, America. I’m Warren Golf with breaking news. An Alabama woman was arrested at her home minutes ago on charges of first-degree murder of her husband. We take you live to Katherine Clinton, who has the story. Katherine.”
The digital clock in front of Mona displayed 8:17—Pacific time. The dialogue from the reporter was background noise to keep Mona company while she worked in the toxicology lab. She put on her other glove, picked up the tweezers, then carefully placed one strand of hair on the rectangular glass slide.
The position paid a decent seventy-two thousand a year, but drug testing was illogical to her. Functioning alcoholics, like the man she lived with, could be gainfully employed. The Food and Drug Administration approved pharmaceutical companies to dispense drugs that caused heart attacks or meds that disclosed suicidal thoughts as a side effect, but companies wouldn’t hire individuals with traces of cannabinoid in their system.
Mona chuckled. She’d rather take her chances working with someone who was high than to be around a depressed coworker who was mentally unstable. She wondered what employers would drug test for next.
Katherine’s voice faded out the rhetoric in Mona’s head. “Thanks, Warren, I’m in front of the police station here in Selma with Detective Daniel Davenport where the time is approximately eleven-twenty a.m. Detective, tell us, how was this forgotten case miraculously solved?”
The detective cleared his throat, then boasted, “I’d never forgotten this case. I simply didn’t have sufficient evidence for a conviction.”
Mona refused to look at the television. She refused to give Katherine the acknowledgment of a job well done in landing the lead anchor position for reporting national news, for stealing her first love while
they were in high school, and for having Lincoln’s baby. Passively listening, Mona imagined the detective was her height, five four, barely a hundred and fifty pounds with an ego ten times his size.
He continued, “That was until I received a lead. The lead provided me the missing link that cracked this case wide open. Now the McKenny family can be at peace knowing who killed their loved one.”
“What the hell?” Mona swiftly turned to face the flat screen attached to the wall. Knocking over several flasks, she watched urine spill onto the table, then cascade to the floor. She’d clean up the mess beneath her feet later. The conversation, once boring, instantly commanded her attention.
“That murder occurred five years ago.” That case made national headlines? How? Why? More important, what lead did he receive? Mona hadn’t seen Sarah in five years nor had she contacted Daniel, and Steven had better not have . . .
“Thanks, Detective Davenport,” Katherine said as the camera faded him out and zoomed in on her.
That cutthroat-boyfriend-thief-trick Katherine was still as gorgeous as the day she was crowned homecoming queen. Her long, dark hair highlighted her standout cheekbones, slender nose, and plump lips. Her buttery brown skin, amazingly flawless. But that was okay. That finders-keepers-losers-weepers bitch got what she deserved. Right after graduation, Lincoln dumped Katherine’s ass and left her with baggage.
“It’s called karma, bitch,” Mona said to the television. “You ain’t all that, and your seemingly glamorous lifestyle probably sucks.”
Katherine continued her story. “Sarah McKenny was taken into custody moments ago and is now being escorted inside the jail you see behind me.”
Mona stared at the flat screen. Her body stiffened with numbness. Her eyes and heart overflowed with sadness when she saw sweet little Sarah in handcuffs.
The Eternal Engagement Page 6