At least the music is lower, and it’s not metal. It’s country—rough-riding hillbilly rock, the kind David could dance to but I never could.
Two teams are at war in here, one in greenish-yellow vests like Jules, Caitlin, and me, the other in yellowish-green. I think I might recognize a few kids from school, but it’s hard to tell. Everyone is yelling and firing guns; dodging, sliding, and somersaulting for safety; hiding behind the derricks, hay bales, water barrels, tumbleweeds, cows, bulls, and horses; and firing some more from there.
“Get down!” Jules and Caitlin scream. They pull me to the floor, and we crawl on our bellies to the covered wagon. Somehow we scramble through the tautly cinched opening of the wagon’s paint-spattered cloth cover and inside the wagon, tumbling over each other and knocking down the guy in the yellowish-green vest who’s hiding there.
An enemy, I’m thinking as the wagon rocks beneath us.
“Hands up!” the guy gasps, though he’s flat on his back, Jules squatting with one knee on his chest and me straddling his legs.
Jules points her gun right at his chest. “My, what close range. This could hurt.” She glances over at me. “Think of our guys. Think of what they’re going through. This is just a taste.”
My heart starts pounding so hard that I’m sure it’s going to burst through my vest.
The guy tries to curl into a ball, but with us on him he can’t do much but twitch.
So much for no touching, I think.
Boom, boom, boom, goes my heart.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” I find myself saying.
Caitlin laughs. “Did you hear that in a movie or what?”
The guy flings aside his gun and we give him a little room. “On your knees,” Jules barks, and he goes there. With our guns trained on him, he scrambles from the wagon. We hear him holler, pummeled by paintballs as he hits the ground.
“He is so out!” I shout. I grab Jules’s arm in my excitement, and she jumps, reflexively jerking her gun away like I’m trying to steal it or something.
“Whoa.” I can barely get the words out; I’m that breathless. “We’re on the same side, remember?”
“There are three girls in there!” someone shouts from outside, and then the covered wagon heaves like someone is shaking it.
I scream.
“Don’t wimp out on us now,” Jules says. And Caitlin cocks her gun.
I don’t wimp out. I get lost in the fog of war. There’s the literal fog from the haze of paint, splattering all around outside the wagon, turning a sulfuric color when it mixes. And there’s the fog of colored lights that even the sheen of paint across my goggles can’t hide when I peek out at the Corral. There’s the fog of sound too—music, yelling, guns firing, pellets splatting, and more often then I would have thought, the sound of bodies banging up against things. The wagon keeps shuddering with that impact.
My shoulder aches from the gun’s kick. I never fired a gun before today. Once David tried to take me hunting—just gophers, he said. It’s the only time he asked me out that I refused to go.
But now here I am, squinting as I aim my gun at the Corral and the yellowish-green vests there, pulling the trigger, relishing the kick and the pain. When I think of David, I shoot even better. Blam. Someone else is out of the game. I think of Linda and Isaac—blam, blam—and that works too.
•••
We’re the last women standing.
We climb out of the wagon, triumphant, and swagger across the paint-spattered floor and out of the Wild West.
“Didn’t you love it?” Caitlin asked.
“I did!” I’m sweaty and breathless. My heart is still racing, though it doesn’t feel like it’s going to burst through my vest anymore.
“I could play every night. It makes me feel closer to Zach,” Jules says.
I nod. I did feel connected to David in there. Though this is nothing compared to what he’s going through.
And, come to think of it, I hope he’s going through nothing like this.
I feel suddenly sick. I look around at the smeared floor, and images from Tom’s special reports flash through my mind. The guy in the kaffiyeh on that Internet site. And then I remember David’s drawings: the gun spewing candy bars, not bullets. The soldiers playing only with jokers. And the kids in the orphanage that he told me about. The little girl in the red dress.
I think of Justine. I wonder how she would feel about all this.
I start walking.
“Where are you going?” Caitlin asks.
“We’re going to play again,” Jules says.
I look back at them and shake my head, smiling. “I want to write David. I need to go home.”
“How will you get there?” Caitlin asks.
I shrug. “I’ll walk. I need some air. It’s not so far.”
“Maybe you’ll play again tomorrow night?” Jules asks.
I nod. “Maybe.”
•••
Blaze Orange is nowhere to be seen, so I drop my gear on the counter and walk out of the warehouse. I hesitate on the metal stairs outside, my eyes adjusting in the bright spotlight. A moth darts past my cheek toward the light above. I start down the stairs then. I don’t want to listen to the moth, banging its dusty body to a pulp against the hot light it thinks might be the sun. A deathtrap it thinks might be an open door.
I go to the viaduct.
I hear Ravi before I see him—the wheels of his skateboard skimming across the concrete.
And then there he is in his hooded sweatshirt, skating over the mural, sailing up and down it, up and down.
“Trade nights again?” I call.
Ravi stops skating, but awkwardly, stumbling from his board, falling to the ground. Slowly, he stands, dusts himself off. Then, not looking at me, he nods.
“You’re going to have to watch out or you just might lose your job,” I say. And then I notice that Ravi’s cheeks are wet. That isn’t sweat, I realize. I’m the sweaty one. Ravi’s been crying.
I take a step toward him, then another. “What’s wrong?”
He rolls his skateboard back and forth beneath one foot. He looks at the ground.
“Are you okay?”
He looks at me then, and his black eyes are as striking as the first time I really saw him, the night David and I went on our last roundabout ride. His black eyes look haunted I realize now.
“Ravi?”
“I traded because a month ago tonight, my father died. Heart attack.” Ravi’s voice is low and quiet, almost formal. “He died thinking that my only goal was to work the night shift at the Walmart for the rest of my life.” Ravi dries his cheeks with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Then he straightens his shoulders. “This is why I’m going back to school, Penna. For me, yes. But also for my father.”
“You’re doing the right thing.” I blink at the tears that are building in my eyes now. I laugh, and it comes out all broken. “Going back to school, I mean. And taking tonight off work too, if that’s what seems right.”
“I’m scared.” The statement is so simple and so weird coming from a guy that I blink in surprise. I don’t want to cry anymore. I want to give him advice, snap him into shape, shield him in a suit of armor, smear some war paint beneath his eyes. If I only could.
“Keep a low profile,” I say. “That’s the advice all the army dudes give in the chat rooms and stuff. They say the best way to make it through the army is to keep a very low profile. I read up on stuff like that while David was at OSUT. I wanted to understand, you know? I wanted to really be there for him—almost with him, if I could. If only I could. So I read all this stuff, and I’m thinking sometimes just everyday life, high school and college and all that, is like a war and you just have to get through, do the best you can, try not get hurt, try not to hurt anybody. If we can remember that, then maybe David can too.”
Ravi nods.
Carrying his skateboard, he comes over to me and puts his arm lightly around my shoulder. He guid
es me out from beneath the viaduct. We talk a bit. Ravi tells me he’s got an older sister. She’s come home from college to help him get through this year. I tell him about Justine. I tell him more than I’ve told David, because I tell him about Owen too.
Then we fall silent, and Ravi walks beside me the whole long way home. Then he skates off to wherever he lives, wherever he’s starting his life over again.
•••
Linda’s not home yet.
But David’s there waiting.
Hey, Penna.
Thanks for the photograph. How long has it been since we were there together? I’m losing track of things like time over here. About three weeks, right? Seems like another lifetime.
You look great. Better than ever.
I’ll send you a pic of the little girl as soon as I have one.
I’m going to try and think about now. About everything that’s been going on.
You’ll get this, I bet. When I first got here, I thought the graffiti—Arabic, I guess—was cool. I still think this, mostly. Only at night on patrol it looks kind of scary. It makes me think of snakes or vipers, if there’s even a difference between the two.
But then everything looks different in the dusk and the dark. Garbage, especially. And cardboard boxes. And packed-down dirt (though all the ground is pretty much dirt here, it’s so dry). And burned-out cars and buses and donkey carts. Burkas. Ali Babas.
Remember that guy we shot paintballs at over the Net? I keep thinking I see him. I feel like he’s stalking me, even though I know he’s a U.S. citizen, just like me. He lives in Colorado, for Pete’s sake.
All these things sometimes make it hard for me to keep my mind on the game. Guess I haven’t told you what the game is exactly.
I’m working nights, sleeping days. Patrol is a little different than it used to be, because we’re also helping train the Iraqis who are going to take over when we’re gone. I ride around for six hours straight, trying to find and detonate roadside bombs. Route clearance, it’s called.
They say pretty soon all the training is going to happen inside the wire. We won’t even have to leave camp. The Iraqis will come to us. We’ll show them how to sweep and purge an area there, I guess.
Until then, don’t worry. I wear full battle rattle. And I’m in a truck that’s got armor at least an inch thick all around. A real Frankenstein. That’s what some of the guys call our monster trucks. We scrounge around for the extra armor we need for protection, and then we spot-weld the seams. There are two other trucks like mine in our unit. And then there’s the Buffalo.
The Buffalo is this mega-war machine. It’s got this claw—or more like a giant scoop with a nasty spike on the end. We call it the “spork,” like that plastic fork-spoon thingie you get in the cafeteria when you’re eating mac ’n’ cheese. If we think something’s trouble, like a plastic bag that wasn’t in the road the day before, then the Buffalo rolls up and sporks it. Usually the plastic bag is just a plastic bag. But sometimes the thing blows.
Last night the streets were looking really lonely. Nobody and nothing around. We were rolling along, talking sports, girls, politics, family. Drinking Gatorade. One of the Iraqi guys was teaching me his words for hello and good-bye and please and thank you and Where is the bathroom? We were laughing our heads off at my pronunciation.
Suddenly the earth heaved up and fell in chunks, and our truck pitched like crazy to one side and then came down on all four wheels. We were safe. But, man.
Now the loneliest road looks crowded with danger.
Another guy is chomping at the bit here. He needs to write right now, and I have to whip something off to Mom and Dad. Gotta sign off.
David
I try to write him a real email back. Substantially positive. But I can’t. Nothing I say seems like enough.
So I just write: I miss you. I love you.
And hope that’s enough.
Seventeen
Next morning Linda still isn’t home. So I call Tom.
“Come on over,” he says. “She’s already had her morning walk—no sign of life at your house, she said. She’s probably going to need a nap soon.”
I get ready fast. I slip the old letter from Owen into my bag, and the photograph of Justine too, and head out.
Tom leads me onto his back porch, where Justine is sitting, bowed over something in her hands. He gives me a quick pat on the back, and then he leaves the two of us alone.
“Hi,” I say. And then I try it out. “Grandma.”
Justine looks up and gives me a radiant smile. Now I can see what she’s holding: a square of fabric. She sets the fabric on the porch railing. Gripping the rocker’s rickety arms, she tries to stand.
“You sit here,” she says, wavering a bit.
I hold out my hands to catch her if she falls. “The steps are fine.”
Still hunched, she looks up at me. “There’s a chair in my bedroom. Or we can get one from the kitchen.”
For an answer, I plop down on the steps. Shaking her head, Justine sinks back into the rocking chair.
“I’m not being a good host.” Her laughter is soft and sad. “But then I never really was.”
“You were pretty good to Tom when he needed you.”
Justine wearily waves this off. “It was as simple as setting another place at the table. We’re family.”
Is Tom more like family than I am? I wonder. I remind myself it’s not a competition. I pull her photograph and Owen’s letter from my bag. “These are for you.”
Justine eyes them.
“They won’t bite,” I say.
Justine takes them from me. She gasps at the picture and quickly puts it facedown on her lap. She puts the letter there too. “I think I’ll just save these for later.” She draws a pressed handkerchief from her sleeve’s cuff and pats her eyes. “I don’t deserve any of this. But I’m so grateful.”
Justine tucks the handkerchief back in her cuff. She gives me a steady look then. “I’m losing my mind, you see. Bit by bit, it’s slipping away—my brain is like a piece of ice, slowly melting.” She gives her head a shake, like she’s jarring something into place. “It’s humbling, sometimes horrible, remembering who I was, things I did. But it’s also a gift.”
Hearing this from her is somehow worse than hearing it from Tom. My heart sinks. Here is this woman, the person I’ve been searching for, who was supposed to help me understand so many things. Now she’s saying she’s nearly gone? I want to cry. I look away from her until I can pull it together. When I look back again, she’s watching me closely with the intent, alert eyes of a healthy woman.
“This is my last chance.” Her voice is quiet. “My last chance to do something right.” She smiles. “Just hope I can remember what I’m trying to do. There’s something I must do, something I must find. But now, bless me, I can’t remember what it is.” She laughs, shaking her head so hard that wisps of her hair fall into her eyes. She blinks and her pale eyelashes tangle in her hair. Still she doesn’t push her hair away.
So I do. I push Justine’s hair back behind her ear as if she’s the child and I’m the mom. She smiles so gratefully that I have to smile back, never mind how sad I’m feeling inside.
“You sound like Linda,” I say. “She’s always looking for a last chance to do something right.”
“Is she? Poor girl. Poor dear girl.” A shadow passes over Justine’s face. “The things I’ve done. The things I haven’t done. Someday you’ll understand, Penelope.”
Justine holds out her hand and I take it. Bone thin and fragile, it weighs less than the killdeer did that night in the attic. But Justine’s hand trembles as the bird did. And I can feel a faint pulse at her wrist that seems nearly as rapid as the bird’s frantic heartbeat. Not quite, but nearly.
“I pray you don’t have to, though,” Justine says.
I look away from her hand—that translucent, papery skin—and into her eyes. “Don’t have to what?”
“Understand like this—what
I’m understanding now. These regrets.”
Justine seems to tire quickly then, and she has me call for Tom. He comes immediately and helps her to her bedroom for nap. When he comes back out on the porch, he tells me that he’s doing a double shift today. He’s got about twenty minutes before he has to leave.
“You’re looking peaked,” he says. “Want something to eat?”
“Tell me more about what’s going on with her.”
“While we eat.”
I follow him into his small, neat kitchen, where he makes me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, pours me a glass of milk, and tells me to sit down. “Eat.”
I take a small bite and make myself chew.
“So this is how it is.” He sits down too and spreads his big hands wide across the table. “The doctor says she’s hit a plateau—his word—when it comes to the Alzheimer’s. But when she worsens, she’ll probably worsen quickly, and there will come a time when I won’t be able to do for her anymore. She’ll be harder to manage. There will be falls, infections. Not just her brain, but her body will shut down. She won’t be safe unless she’s living in a facility.”
I put my sandwich on the plate. “A nursing home, you mean?”
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