One September Morning

by Rosalind Noonan

  Abby is nodding vigorously. “Ask away. I am so sick of cold-calling these people, explaining my sad story, and getting past all their condolences to the heart of the matter. I probably sound ruthless on the phone, but no one is giving me the answers I need.”

  “I can do ruthless,” he says. “Let me make some calls. In the meantime, there’s one other avenue you might want to consider.”

  The way her dark hair tumbles over one shoulder when she tilts her head, those green eyes so wide and inquisitive…he has to look away.

  “What’s that?”

  He clears his voice. Focus, you idiot. “You could play the celebrity card. It seems to me a lot of reporters would jump at this story—” His fingers form quotation marks. “‘Hero struck down in his prime, but what’s the real story, and why isn’t the Pentagon telling?’”

  Her frown is the same, that funny way her mouth scrunches over to one side. “I could do it,” she says, “but Sharice and Jim would freak. As it is, they’re not happy that I’m pursuing this at all, even in my quiet way.”

  “Just keep it in mind as an option.” He stacks some empty paper containers and brings their glasses to the sink. When he and Abby shared a suite in college, Flint was the Felix Unger of the group, clearing away drinking glasses before people were finished, making visitors slip off their shoes at the door. He’d worked through some of his fanatical neatness; the remainder of it had been stripped from him when he became an embed in Iraq. You don’t wear the same armored vest for three straight months without learning to live with your own stink.

  When he turned back, she was still sitting, gripping the kitchen table pensively. Her freckles stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin.

  “What?” he asks, leaning back against the kitchen sink. “What’s wrong…other than the obvious, that you just lost your husband and all that.”

  She sucks in a breath. “There’s something I want to show you, but first…I need you to promise me that all this will stay between you and me.”

  “As in, don’t tell Mrs. Niedermeyer down the block?”

  “As in, this can never be published. This has got to be more than off the record. It’s so secret, I was even afraid to e-mail it to you and have it out there on the Internet.”

  “Abby, come on! Have I ever crossed the line, or even come close to it with personal stuff involving you?”

  “No, but…this is so sensitive, and John’s not here to defend himself anymore. It’s up to me to do it for him.”

  “I would never take advantage that way. Never.” He pushes away from the sink and throws his arms into the air. “Is that what you think?”

  This is the part where the irate reporter is supposed to rail over the indignity of having his integrity questioned, storm out the door, and never return. And the Flint of a few years ago would have done just that. Hell, a few months ago he would have walked.

  But Abby is his friend. She needs help navigating the waters that he’s been sailing for years. Of course, there is another reason to stay, but that is something Flint can’t name. Best not to go there right now.

  “Don’t be offended.” She picks up a manila folder from beside her computer and hands it over. “Noah e-mailed them to me. Apparently, John was keeping an electronic journal, besides the written ones. I printed out a copy of everything for you. Just take these home and read them over when you get a chance. Then you can tell me whether something was going on in John’s platoon, or if I’m just being paranoid.”

  He pulls the envelope open, but she whips it out of his hands.

  “What are you doing?” she asks sternly. “You can’t read them here.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “It’s…it’s too personal. I’d have to go in the closet and shrivel up.”

  “Okay, then.” He tucks it under his arm and grabs his jacket from the chair by the door. “Lest you shrivel…I’ll take these to go.”

  Rain. Flint never thought he would miss Seattle’s weather, but in the desert of Iraq, when he felt his body broiling in the 130-degree sun, he’d longed for the cool, wet drops on his face.

  He leans on the rail of the balcony facing Lake Union, where one of the last prop planes of the day is landing on the water. The one-bedroom condo behind him was his trophy when he purchased it two years ago, but, like anything material, its importance has diminished as other issues—like staying alive in the desert—swelled.

  He’d passed that hurdle and survived, though it was still hard to sleep here, where the occasional rumble of a passing bus or whir of a landing seaplane could jar him awake in alarm. Then there’d been the task of ending his relationship with Delilah, which had loomed large for so long that when they actually met and decided to part, the finale was anticlimactic.

  And now…Abby.

  His original plan was to read through the files tonight and call Abby in the morning, so that she wouldn’t smell his overeagerness and construe it as interest. Which it was. His lack of focus on anything else was proof of his renewed attraction to Abby, but he was trying to keep it all in the friendly category right now. Having written pieces about obsessive stalkers, he had learned what a complete put-off the obsessive type could be.

  But now that he’s read John’s journals, he can’t put off calling.

  Flint steps in out of the rain, peels off his damp socks, and wipes his face on the sleeve of his shirt. The way he reads the whole situation, Abby isn’t paranoid. John’s platoon had been a volatile mix of borderline sociopathic cowboys and misguided patriots. He flips through his notes to locate the names of the men in John’s platoon. He’d seen the dynamic before. Cowboys like Lassiter. The unwitting followers like Gunnar McGee. Cocky know-it-alls like Doc, and narcissists like Hilliard. What a crew.

  There was dissension among the guys, heated arguments, jealousy. In that milieu, what was the likelihood of one of these guys turning on John?

  Very likely.

  And Stanton saw it coming. He sensed trouble brewing.

  Did they kill him because of his opinions? Because he no longer believed in the war? Flint itches to get at the moral center of this story.

  Right now they have only a handful of pieces of the puzzle. A grainy outline of the true picture, but Flint senses a substantial story here, a tale that needs to be revealed.

  Of course, he will never be able to write it.

  That’s killing him. But in the course of a lifetime, he figures you have to crash and burn a thousand times before you get it right. What’s that myth? He’s like the phoenix rising from the ashes.

  By the time he flips open his phone and calls Abby’s number, he has already put it behind him. It’s a bitter pill that went down hard, but the worst is over now.

  Well, almost.

  Chapter 38

  Seattle

  Abby

  At five a.m. the Seattle studio of the morning show affiliate is an assault of cold air and blinding lights. Abby feels like a phony, propped in an upholstered chair on a platform in front of a blue screen. She has never been on television before, but if this is the typical experience, she’s glad to be pursuing a degree in psychology.

  The segment producer, who has an unusual name that Abby can’t make out, like Micah or Micko, looks like he’s fourteen and talks superfast like an auctioneer. He explains that they’ll project the skyline of Seattle on the screen behind her. She’s not to touch her microphone or leave this chair during the interview. She needs to wear an earpiece to hear Carly Michaels, the host of American Morning.

  Yesterday, by phone, Abby went over salient points to be touched on in the interview, and yet, when Micah starts counting down to when the feed comes to them, nerves whip her heartbeat up to double time. She hates this. It’s very uncomfortable to speak to a voice in your ear, a face on a screen.

  Honestly, Abby is a little afraid of Carly Michaels. The host of American Morning has a reputation for getting to the heart of the matter with a minimum of time wasted in chit-chat. If
Abby can make her points without sounding like a whiny widow, she’s confident Carly will get it.

  While Carly introduces her, Abby takes a minute to let her shoulders relax, her heart rate slow closer to normal. This is not fun, but it’s important.

  I’m doing this for John, she keeps telling herself. But really, she would rather be home reading the driest of psychology texts. She would rather role-play as a therapist utilizing cognitive behavior therapy. She would rather scrub the toilet or scrape the bird droppings off the porch than put herself out there on national television and demand answers from the military.

  After offering condolences, Carly digs right in. “Thank you for speaking with us. I understand you’ve been trying to get information regarding the circumstances of your husband’s death. What have you learned?”

  “It’s been frustrating, to say the least, Carly. I’ve made dozens of calls to military personnel, trying to get some answers, but I’m left with the same questions. If there was an insurgent sniper in the building the day my husband was killed, why wasn’t he found? Why was I not told that my husband was killed by two rounds from an M-16?”

  “An M-16 being the type of rifle our troops use in Iraq,” Carly interjects.

  “Exactly. I’m trying to piece things together, at a loss without reliable information. However, there’s been a report that the soldier who was by John’s side when he was shot actually saw a U.S. soldier retreating from the scene.”

  There…she got that in. Before the show she and Flint had gone through a list of critical points she wanted to make, and Carly was giving her the perfect leads to share important items.

  Carly is shaking her head in disbelief. “With so many signs pointing to fratricide, one soldier killing another, why isn’t the government investigating this incident?”

  “I wish I knew,” Abby says. “John Stanton has been held up as a great American hero, and yet there’s been no action taken to explain his death, which does not seem to be combat related at all.”

  “We think you deserve some answers from the United States Army, Abby,” Carly says. “So we’ve asked Colonel Witt Hollister to speak with us from our news bureau in Washington, D.C.”

  An army representative? This is a surprise for Abby, but she’s hopeful that she can make some headway right here and now.

  “Good morning, Colonel Hollister,” Carly says sweetly.

  His name reminds Abby of an old-fashioned book series she stumbled upon in third grade called the Happy Hollisters in which a large family encounters and solves mysteries in their travels. An only child, Abby had always loved the way the kids turned to each other for resources and ideas. Besides, they were always so happy.

  As is Colonel Hollister. The man on the monitor has a halo of snow-white hair matched by his brilliant smile. “Good morning, Carly. And Mrs. Stanton, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Colonel, what can you tell us about John Stanton’s death?” Carly asks.

  “The loss of Specialist John Stanton was a true tragedy, Carly,” he says, all pearly teeth and halo hair. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details or the circumstances.”

  “Colonel, Abby Stanton just lost her husband.” Carly tilts her head with that flinty I’m-not-giving-up-so-you’d-better-answer look. “Don’t you agree she should have access to this very personal information?”

  Abby feels a flash of momentary satisfaction that Carly is on her side.

  “I would love to be able to offer John Stanton’s family information to help with closure. However, Specialist Stanton was assigned to a Forward Operating Base in Fallujah, a dangerous area, a very active combat zone. The army cannot disclose information regarding operations or missions in a highly volatile area such as—”

  “But Colonel,” Abby interrupts, running over his words, “how top secret is the activity in this area if there are news teams embedded there? If they can report what’s going on, why can’t I have a few simple details about a mission that cost my husband his life?”

  “I wish it were that simple, Mrs. Stanton,” he says with a forlorn expression, and Abby wishes he were in the same studio so she could smack that condescension right off his face.

  “Colonel—” Carly takes another shot. “Is there or is there not an investigation being conducted regarding the details of John Stanton’s death?”

  “Absolutely,” he answers. “I can assure you that every casualty is thoroughly investigated.”

  “And in the army’s investigation is there any mention of friendly fire?” Abby asks.

  “I have not heard that term used in connection with John Stanton.” Colonel Hollister is now void of emotion, a flat affect.

  He’s lying, Abby realizes. Part of her training is learning to read body language and demeanor, and Hollister’s sudden shift in attitude is telling.

  Anger burns through her, a flash fire. It’s a good thing the colonel is thousands of miles away; if they had to share the same studio, American Morning would have a new wrestling segment.

  “Here’s a question I’m sure you can answer, Colonel,” Abby says. “If you were me, if you’d just lost, say, your wife while she was serving in Iraq, how would you piece together what happened to her? How would you assemble the pieces to relive her last day in your mind, to calculate what her last thought might have been, to determine that, though she is dead, that death was not a result of foul play or unfair advantage?”

  Tears sting Abby’s eyes but she refuses to blot at them. They are tears of anger, she tells herself, a reaction to the bright lights. She will not cry in front of this stuffed shirt who would love to see her reduced to tears.

  “If, in the end, all that was left of your wife was an urn full of ashes, how would you reconcile her death, Colonel?”

  “Mrs. Stanton,” he says, “losing a loved one is a—”

  “Don’t patronize me!” she snaps. “My name is Abby Fitzgerald and my husband John is dead and I want to know what happened to cause that death while he was serving his country in Iraq. That is what I am asking; that is what I demand to know.”

  But of course, Colonel Hollister cannot give her any real answers; most likely he doesn’t know much more about John’s death than what he has read in news stories.

  When the whitewashed burn of the studio lights dims at the end of the interview, Abby expects a cold reception from Micah. It’s not like her to be brusque and argumentative, but then again she’s never been pushed into a situation like this before.

  “That was great!” Micah calls, rushing over to her as she waits for the mike pack to be removed. “I like the way you refused to stand down.”

  Abby lets out a breath of relief. “I don’t think the colonel liked it too much.”

  “Ah, screw him!” Micah grins. “We wanted to give the army a chance to respond, and though they gave us a spokesperson, he really didn’t have a response.” He shrugs, his jacket lifting on his bony shoulders. “Their loss!”

  Abby climbs down from the small stage with mixed feelings. “We’ll see about that,” she says, “because if they continue to shut me out, I’m lost, too.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Micah insists. “Just stay on them. And thanks for a great interview. I had you pegged as a shrinking violet, but you’ve got guts, kid.” He extends his hand and Abby shakes it firmly. “Good luck to you, Abby Fitzgerald.”

  I’ll take it, Abby thinks. Having hit the stone wall of the U.S. Army, Abby knows she’s going to need luck, lots of it.

  PART II

  December 2006

  Chapter 39

  Tacoma, Washington

  Suz

  “This place is packed,” Suz says, circling the long line of cars that extends all the way out to I-5. “You’d think they were giving the stuff away.”

  “Dis place is packed, Mommy,” Sofia parrots from the backseat.

  “You got that right.” Suz glimpses her daughter in the rearview mirror and smiles. Her own little chatterbox.

  “Do you
see Santa, Mommy?” Sofia asks.

  “Not yet, but we’ll find him.” Suz has circled the parking lot three times in search of an empty spot, but then it is Christmastime, and this is a popular shopping center, built to resemble a quaint village, its central streets of inviting shop windows open only to pedestrian traffic. Scott used to call it a movie set when they came here, joking that he was always expecting Steven Spielberg to be lowered down on a crane to talk the actors through another take.

  Up ahead, two red lights emerge out of nowhere and Suz slams on the brakes. “Finally!” she says, waving her thanks as the car takes off and she slips into the spot.

  “Finally, Mommy,” Sofia echoes. She climbs out of her car seat and grabs this week’s favorite shopping bag. Christmas trees sway on the bag, which contains a shoebox with an unnamed doll wrapped inside—Fia’s odd fixation. Last week, seeing how grungy the box had become, Suz insisted that Sofia open it so that she could rewrap it in shiny new Christmas paper. Sofia’s eyes shone as she tore into the paper; the process of unwrapping tickled her with delight. She couldn’t care less about the doll, so Suz rewrapped it and—voilà!—a new gift.

  “Hold on to Mommy,” she warns, pulling her daughter close as they cross the crowded parking lot. Sofia squeezes her hand fiercely, as if to keep her mother anchored on the earth, and Suz doesn’t have the heart to explain that Mommy is not flying off into the clouds but that they’re watching for cars. Suz cannot resist her daughter’s ferocious love, though she imagines Sofia’s separation anxiety has everything to do with Scott’s death.

  What can you do? She can only try her best to be twice as loving.

  They make their way down the Disneyesque Main Street to a plaza with a gazebo, fountain, play structure, and a three-story Christmas tree, a real Douglas fir. On the opposite side of the tree is a small cottage—gingerbread, trimmed with giant gumdrops and peppermint swirls.