One September Morning

by Rosalind Noonan

  Her neighbor Suz.

  “I couldn’t sleep last night,” Abby replies to the dark window screen.

  A moment later Suz appears at her back door, stepping onto the patio, hands on her hips. “I never sleep anymore, but that’s no reason to be nodding off at this time of the morning.”

  It’s as close as Suz has ever come to complaining. In the four months since her husband, Scott, was killed outside the city of Baghdad by an IED, a roadside bomb, Suz has pushed herself, sometimes stoically, to “shut up and move on,” as she puts it. The army allows widows and their families to remain in base housing for six months after the death of the service member; Suz will need a new place by December.

  “Where’s Sofia?” Abby asks. Suz usually keeps her three-year-old daughter within reach.

  “Day care. I dropped her off for a full day today. Got some leads on apartments near here, and I figured I’d check ’em out without the mommy baggage. One of them’s supposed to have a hot tub,” Suz adds, an enticing lilt in her voice. “Want to come with and check ’em out?”

  “I wish. But I’m beat. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  Suz tilts her head, the concerned mother. “You feeling okay, sweet pea?”

  “Just hallucinating in my sleep. I dreamed John was in my bed last night.”

  “A juicy dream, I hope.” Suz grins wickedly.

  “It was sort of reassuring…except that it felt so real. I swear, when I woke up, there was a warm spot in the bed beside me. I could smell his aftershave on the pillowcase.”

  Suz rubs her arms. “I’m getting goose bumps. Come with me and you can fill in all the details.”

  “Can’t. I’m pulling some notes together for a presentation due tonight.”

  “Well, you were in a funk when I caught you. You got to visualize success, honey.”

  Abby reaches back and twists her hair into a loose knot. “Does that work for you?”

  “Hell, I’m always too busy visualizing whirled peas. That and wrapping up dolls for a three-year-old. As of this morning, we’ve got another baby in the box.”

  “Really?” Abby bites back a grin. In the past few months, three-year-old Sofia has insisted on having her baby dolls tucked into shoe boxes and wrapped up as if they were gifts, which she carries around in a large shopping bag. Abby suspects that the behavior has something to do with the loss of her father, but as she’s pointed out to Suz, it’s a harmless practice. “Maybe Fia is onto something,” Abby says. “I’m going to try that the next time I’m feeling blue. Wrap up something I own and give it to myself as a gift. Maybe carry it around for a few weeks so that everyone will know I’ve got something special.”

  “Well, good luck with that,” Suz says. “’Cause my daughter has cleaned every last shoe box out of your closet.”

  Abby smiles at her friend, who looks almost professional with her ginger-colored hair swept back with a skinny headband. She’s wearing a lime green tank with a matching polka-dotted sweater, a denim skirt and black polka-dotted flip-flops. “You’re all dressed up today.” When Suz works the counter at Java Joe’s, she sticks to shorts or jeans and a T-shirt. “What’s the occasion?”

  “Just trying to look respectable for my potential landlords.” Suz yanks off the headband and shakes out her hair. “Respectable, but not loaded. Rents aren’t cheap around here.”

  “True.” Abby is relieved that her friend wants to stay in the area. At first, she thought Suz might take Sofia home to Nebraska. Suz and Scott both enlisted years ago to “get the hell out of Dodge,” as Suz likes to say.

  “I thought you were going to look for a place closer to Seattle?” Abby says.

  “Yeah, I was, but those places are really expensive. I don’t know what to do. I’d sort of like to stick nearby and keep Sofia in the same day care. Continuity and all. But part of me wants to make a clean break and start over somewhere else.”

  Abby nods, slipping her feet out of her sandals and hugging her knees. “Joe should give you a raise. You certainly deserve one.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not sure that Joe can afford me much longer. With Scott gone, I need a real job. A career. That’s the only way Sofia and I will get anywhere.”

  “I like the way you’re thinking,” Abby says. “The way you’re always pushing ahead. You’re amazing, Suz.”

  “Talk is cheap…a helluva lot cheaper than housing in the Seattle area. Besides, I’ve got a deadline breathing down my neck. The army wants me outta here in December, and with the holidays coming, it just complicates things for a move.” She slides the headband back into place. “You sure you can’t come along? I’ll buy you a latte.”

  “Next time.” Abby leafs through the pages, searching for the chapter’s end. “And if I’ve got any say, I vote for the place with the hot tub.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to need it for all those wild parties I throw…for three-year-olds.” She slides the patio door open. “Listen, I’ve got the sprinkler going out front, so’s we don’t get our own version of a dust bowl. Do me a favor and turn it off in, like, half an hour.”

  “Got it.” Abby waves good-bye even as her eyes skim down a page of the textbook.

  Talking with Suz has energized her, and she works more efficiently now, organizing the material, writing an outline for her presentation and inputting the presentation into the Power-Point format. When she’s done, she clicks on the Save icon, then notices the time in the corner of the screen.

  “Damn! The lawn’s going to be a swamp.” Leaving her sandals on the patio, she clamps a textbook under one arm and races through the house and out the front door to find the sprinkler silently rotating. The lawn isn’t too soaked, though a puddle of excess water is now running over the sidewalk and down toward the street.

  She steps off the narrow brick porch, gasping as her feet sink into the wet mulch behind a shrub John planted. Her fingers close over the handle of the spigot and twist toward the right. Right tight, lefty loosey. Out on the lawn, the fountain of water dies down as the sprinkler stops whirling. Straightening up, Abby wipes her hand on her shorts as a dark car rolls slowly up the quiet street. It’s not Suz’s boxy Volvo wagon, and not one of the neighbors’. She takes in the shiny black sedan, which slows and then parks right in front of her house.

  Her focus sharpens on the two officers inside the vehicle—a man and a woman who exchange a word, then reach for their hats.

  Their dress hats, she notes, as they step out in full dress uniforms, pants creased, shirts smooth and starched.

  Abby is stung by adrenaline, alarm coursing through her. It’s the casualty notification team, the messengers all the army wives talk about, the sight every military wife dreads seeing outside her door.

  Don’t panic, she tells herself. Maybe they’re John’s friends. Maybe someone you know on leave here, come to bring one of John’s creative personal greetings.

  But she does not recognize their faces, and there’s no joke in the demeanor of this woman who stares down at her well-shined shoes, no animation in the face of this man who stands, jaw clenched, regret embedded in his eyes.

  And suddenly, she knows.

  She knows they bring her the absolute worst news.

  “Are you Mrs. John Stanton?” the man asks.

  She nods, feeling like an actress playing out a melodramatic scene. Despite the panic beating like a hummingbird’s wings deep in her breast, she wants to laugh it all off. This can’t be true. They must have the wrong information.

  He gives his rank and introduces the female soldier, but it’s drowned out in the deafening roar swirling in her head and her acute awareness of bizarre details. The sergeant must have cut himself shaving this morning, and there’s a pinpoint of tissue stuck to the edge of his jaw. A flock of small birds rises from some nearby laurels. They circle, then return to their spot. The woman wears a ribbon that’s green and red, reminding Abby of Christmas. Home by Christmas, that’s what John keeps writing in his e-mails.

  “Mrs.
Stanton, it’s my duty to inform you that—”

  “No.” The textbook slides from her grip to the wet lawn. She leans down and grabs it quickly, noticing the strangest details. The splatter of mud on her calves. A blade of grass stuck to the side of her foot. Two pairs of shiny dress shoes, facing her dirty bare feet.

  It’s all wrong.

  “Mrs. Stanton…”

  She hugs the book to her chest, turns and lunges toward the door, hoping to find escape and safety in the house.

  But he blocks her way. “It’s my job, ma’am,” he says, and, meeting his eyes, she sees that he’s not as old as she originally thought. “Mrs. Stanton, your husband was killed in the line of duty yesterday in Iraq.”

  She presses her eyes closed, thinking how wrong it all is. She’s not Mrs. Stanton—that’s John’s mother. And John cannot be dead. Not the John she knows, the man with the charmed life. He’s always the lucky one.

  It’s all wrong, but these soldiers are just trying to do their job, fulfill their duty to their country, just as John is doing…was doing?

  “We’re sorry for your loss, ma’am,” the woman, lieutenant something, says quietly.

  Abby lets the woman press the written notice into her hand, unable to stop the small cry that escapes her throat.

  Chapter 2

  Iraq

  Emjay

  Corporal Emjay Brown is still in a daze when he steps into the orange light of the bungalow shared by eight soldiers. Despite the darkness outside, sunglasses shield his eyes against the curious gawkers who know that he was there, right beside John when he went down.

  Another few inches and it would have been him.

  Bam!

  The slam of the door behind him sends him jumping out of his skin. His heart thuds in his chest, sweat trickling down his back.

  And suddenly he is back in the warehouse, in the rapid hammer of gunfire, the muzzle-flash in the darkness, the alarm of John’s cries, and the blood…so much blood.

  “Corporal Brown,” a leaden voice orders, and Emjay whirls, hands gripping his rifle.

  “Lieutenant Chenowith, sir.”

  “At ease,” the lieutenant says, as if he thought Emjay was moving to salute, which he wasn’t. The lieutenant removes his helmet to reveal a round mop of hair on the top, like a friar. Most guys in combat units shave their heads, best way to escape the vermin and bugs. Chenowith nurtures his grassy knoll, but it’s been a point of speculation among the platoon, some guys figuring he had rows planted in, others figuring he’s got some weird birthmark underneath, an inappropriate shape like a swastika or a dick.

  “I’ve asked the others to assemble in quarters,” Chenowith says. “I’ll be addressing the platoon regarding my investigation.”

  “Yes, sir,” Emjay says, and he waits for the lieutenant to pass, then follows him into the common room used for their quarters, the tiny bungalow where every inch is taken up with bunks, cots, desks, and small plastic tables and chairs, the kind they sell outside the hardware store back home in summer months for five bucks a piece.

  This Forward Operating Base—FOB for short—is officially called Camp Desert Mission, though the men have dubbed it Camp Despair, because once you land in this bombed-out-highway town that is Fallujah, you’ve reached the end of the world. The base, rows of prefab bungalows that formerly served as a government retreat, sits on a desperate stretch of treeless terrain now encircled by sandbags and strung barbed wire. Although the officers were allotted more space, the rest of the platoon was packed into one bungalow—eight men sharing a space smaller than a chicken coop back home.

  The Marines who were in here before nailed shelves into the plywood walls, and in the months since Bravo Company arrived, the walls have come to reflect the personalities of the men in the platoon, with pictures of half-clad girls taped to some walls, Christmas lights shaped like chile peppers to remind Lassiter of Texas, a Pacific Northwest calendar over John’s bunk, and a large mirror so Hilliard can check out his pumped muscles.

  Emjay doesn’t like living in such close quarters, not at all, but he’s learned that opinions are worth shit in the army.

  Doc looks up from the bag of licorice. “At ease!” he calls, as Lt. Chenowith enters the common room.

  A card game is on at the table where Lassiter complains he’s got another losing hand. Doc returns to separating strands of cherry licorice, apparently part of a care package Antoine “Hillbilly” Hilliard just received from his wife.

  Over in the corner, Spinelli, the greeny, remains prone on his cot, plugged in to his iPod. He must be pissed that his injury didn’t get him out of here, Emjay thinks. Spinelli can’t wait to get the hell back, back home to his mama—that’s what Doc says. But no one knows the kid’s whole story yet. Spinelli just joined the platoon a month ago, after they lost Spec. Willard Roland to a land mine. All they know is that he’s eighteen and lived with his mother, but Emjay knows that, eventually, Spinelli will spill. Everyone does.

  The men playing poker pretend that they’re not tiptoeing around John’s brother, Spec. Noah Stanton, who sits on a bench organizing his gear.

  Stone-faced and silent, as if sleepwalking, Noah splits his M-16 in two for cleaning. Cracked open like a Chesapeake hard-shell crab, the weapon seems useless, harmless, definitely not powerful enough to take down a big man like John.

  Emjay goes to him, the elephant in the room. Trying to ignore the others who are pretending not to stare but watching anyhow, he squats down real close and whispers, “Sorry about John.”

  Noah just nods, his dark eyes trained on his disassembled rifle.

  Emjay wants to go on, wants to tell Noah that he was right beside John when he got hit, that the shots came out of nowhere because the power was out in the windowless warehouse and Emjay’s night-vision goggles weren’t working. Does Noah know that Emjay did everything he could to stop the bleeding? The blood…Christ, it was everywhere, smeared between his fingers, blossoming over John’s shirt so fast that Emjay knew it was real bad. Emjay wants to lean his head close to Noah’s and talk, really talk, but he doesn’t want Lassiter and Doc and the others listening, and besides that, Chenowith seems to be in the middle of some half-assed speech.

  “Bravo Company lost a good man today,” Lieutenant Chenowith says. “Every casualty is a great loss, but I know you’ll all agree John Stanton was a special individual, a man of courage and moral strength, a leader and a fine soldier. He will be missed.”

  Silence. Emjay lets his eyes run up to where the cheap plywood walls meet the ceiling. The air is charged with pain and alarm. Even Spinelli reacts, hunching over the side of his bunk wistfully.

  “I miss him already, sir.” Gunnar McGee folds his cards, his baby face as earnest as Charlie Brown’s. Beside him, Lassiter gestures to Noah and smacks Gunnar in the arm, as if he’s said the wrong thing. But Gunnar stands firm. “It’s true. John’s the heartbeat of this platoon. Was, I mean.”

  The men glance nervously at John’s brother, but Noah continues cleaning his rifle, ramming the rod down the barrel methodically, as if there is some therapeutic value in the ritual.

  “Sorry, man,” Gunnar says.

  Noah nods but doesn’t meet his eyes.

  “Specialist Stanton,” the lieutenant begins, then clarifies, “Specialist Noah Stanton…you’ll be dispatched stateside just as soon as you’ve been debriefed. Corporal Brown, I’ll want a full report from you, as well.”

  “Yes, sir,” Emjay responds, a thorny branch spiraling through his chest at the prospect of recounting the incident to his commanding officers. Part of him wants to let it all come spilling out, even as he is sickened at the prospect of reliving the event.

  “And any other personnel who witnessed anything in the warehouse incident that might be helpful to our investigation should report to me. That is all.” Chenowith steps toward Noah. “Sorry for your loss,” he says, and though his voice is brusque, Emjay thinks it’s probably the kindest act of Chenowith’s sorry life.
>
  “Sir,” Noah answers, trancelike.

  The day’s events rush through Emjay’s mind like a rip cord, and he cranes his neck, writhing uncomfortably. It was a nightmare day for him, but it had to be a horror show for Noah, who’s the medic for their platoon. Christ, he was already outside the warehouse, stitching up a gash on Spinelli’s leg, when he sees his own brother hauled out of the warehouse, bloody and fading fast. That must have smacked him hard, the moment of realization that the man dying on that stretcher was his own brother. At least Noah wasn’t in the warehouse when John went down, but the sting of seeing his brother carried out, the sudden knowledge that he was unconscious, bleeding out, almost dead, the fact that Noah couldn’t save him even after the guys had carried John out of the warehouse and into the stark sunlight…

  It’s all fucked up.

  Somebody should have gotten to Noah Stanton first, pulled him aside, got him out of the way so he wouldn’t have to live with that image of his dying brother stuck in his head.

  And Noah’s immediate reaction—the curses, growling at the other guys to stay back. The tears in his eyes. So fucking humiliating, in front of the other men. And now Chenowith telling Noah he can’t head home for the funeral until he gets grilled by the higher-ups.

  “Unbelievable,” Doc says, bringing Hilliard’s cardboard box of licorice over to Noah, who shakes his head. “You should be in Kuwait already, buddy. On a flight to Frankfurt, out of here. And the COs are going to hold you back for debriefing? That sucks.” Doc, their platoon leader, doesn’t usually talk against the brass that way.

  Shows you how out of control it all is, Emjay thinks. Noah’s own brother was killed and they still won’t let him go. As Lassiter always says, The only way out of Iraq is in a body bag.

  “Here’s a news flash for you.” Lassiter lowers his cards beneath his homely face, those big ears and a nose like a carrot. Emjay has chalked it up to Lassiter’s insistence that everything is bigger in Texas. “The army sucks.”

  “Amen to that,” Doc says, extending the licorice toward Spinelli, who peels one out and lies down again with the strand balanced on his chest. Odd bird, that Spinelli.