by Cara Hoffman
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For Eli
Even from ten or fifteen miles away you get a good view of a burning village. It was a merry sight. A tiny hamlet that you wouldn’t even notice in the daytime, with ugly, uninteresting country around it, you can’t imagine how impressive it can be when it’s on fire at night! You’d think it was Notre-Dame! A village, even a small one, takes at least all night to burn, in the end it looks like an enormous flower, then there’s only a bud, and after that nothing.
—Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Journey to the End of the Night
Part One
Prologue
January 6
Jeanne d’Arc Basin, Northern Canada
SHE HAD BEEN naked for less than ten seconds when the snow began to feel hot. Her body, pale and lean and strong, biceps and thighs banded with black tattoos, lay basking against the glacial ice; a snow angel overcome by shadows and lights, calm and awed in whatever seconds remained.
The tower scaffolding from the rig flickered, and she could barely make out where the dark stacks cut into the white sky. Just shapes and brightness. And she thought of a silent shower of frozen sparks. And the shhh and hush of sand and desert blindness; how it was here too in the snow where everything shone. Where everything refracted and blazed and brought the world back to the simple material of itself, of its beauty. This was all she had ever wanted.
It was his breath she saw first, then the red of his tongue and gums and black fur. He panted and cantered painfully, lifting his frozen paws and wincing, and then he bowed and pushed his face against hers. She felt the impossible heat of his tongue against her skin. The condensation from his breath had crystallized into tiny bits of ice surrounding his muzzle. He huddled down and curled his small warm body beside her, and she slipped her numb fingers beneath his collar, rested her cheek against him.
The lights of the rig burned and bled to white, and before she closed her eyes, she could see the dunes out in the distance. Placid and silent and stretching on forever.
Dispatch #216
Bad News Sistopher Robins,
Sebastian anti-froze to death and by that I don’t mean he overheated. He drank anti-freeze and died. The most clichéd ending possible for a dog—like vomit-choking for a rock star or heart attack for a Teamster. Dad found him and at first held it together. He didn’t know the cause of death was poisoning and came to my room telling me our dog lived a good long life etc. Using my forensic senses I accidentally stepped in a puddle of bright green dog vomit and put two and two together. I was dumb enough to tell our Dad who then freaked out because he’s the one that spilled the dog poison on the garage floor. I tried to make him feel better by saying that dogs, like pregnant women, know what their bodies need. Grass for dogstipation, just like pickles and ice cream for whatever that treats, and that maybe Sebastian was on his way out anyway. But Dad thought I was just being a smart ass. Anyway, he was a good dog and at least he was old. We’re getting him cremated—good he drank anti-freeze instead of gasoline—and then putting his ashes in his favorite spots in the yard. Dad wants to save some until you get home but I am sure you, like me, think that’s weird so I’ll just do it myself. I can’t wait until you get home.
Be safe, I love you.
Danny
One
December 25
Watertown, NY
NO ONE WAS waiting at the airport for Lauren Clay because she had told no one she was coming home. She called a cab from the car rental at the front desk and then waited by the luggage claim for her duffel, which was more than half full of presents for her father and brother; things she’d bought at the FOB PX and things she’d bought out in the street, in the cramped and sweltering little market just outside the forward operating base where she’d been stationed for the last nine months. She checked her watch, readjusted the bobby pins in her hair. And thought about the promise of relief that would come from doing everyday things like washing dishes, gazing out the window at kids playing by the duplex next door, taking Danny to the movies or going through the National Geographic with him, or ordering Chinese food and sitting by her dad while he watched TV and slept.
She couldn’t wait for them to open presents, to surprise her brother. Sebastian had been one of those surprises, and the look on Danny’s face when he saw the dog made up for a lot, maybe everything. Sebastian’s fur was still brown and as soft as a rabbit’s when she brought him home years ago. He had ears like a kitten’s and his eyes were shiny and black and alert. He looked like a baby wolf and lived in a cardboard box in her room. Sebastian was the sweet helpless thing she wanted Danny to raise. Something he could train. Somewhere good to focus his attention. The kind of thing she knew could save a life.
The dog lived in their house for two days before they showed him to their father and he wasn’t angry. He sat up in bed and held the puppy and laughed. And Sebastian snorted and licked him, fell over and rolled around, chewed on his knuckles with his needle-sharp teeth. His belly was round and taut and pale pink. Jack Clay held the dog and looked into its face.
“He’s a nice pup,” Jack said, smiling, pulling his hair back from his shoulders so the dog wouldn’t nip at it. “He’s a good boy,” he said in babytalk. And then Danny picked up the dog and cradled him. And she felt good because they were happy and she was getting their lives in order. She was getting things done.
Lauren hadn’t thought of Sebastian since getting Danny’s letter, but now in the calm and safety of the terminal she found his memory was the first to vividly greet her, to lead her thoughts to the neighborhood and the house she hadn’t seen in two years.
The dog had followed Danny around, sat on his lap, and, when he got bigger, accompanied them on treks through back lots and out along the river where he would hunt squirrels and swim and snap his teeth at the water. He was a strange-looking animal, and the woman who sold him to Lauren said he was a schipperke mix, told her they were bred to be miniature watchdogs and made the grandiose claim that during World War II schipperkes were used to deliver messages between Resistance hideouts. She and Danny tried to train him to do it, tying notes to his collar to carry between their rooms, but he tore them off and raced through the house dangling the shredded wet paper in his teeth, his head held high. When he got excited he galloped back and forth between their rooms growling, gums drawn back, teeth a gleaming white crescent amidst his fur.
She looked around the terminal and smiled. She had nothing that could replace Sebastian in her duffel, but she’d made it home, cruised right by what could have become a month’s worth of useless talk back on post, and made it home for the holiday. And now she had a week of relaxing before she headed out to finish things up. Meet Daryl, tie up loose ends.
Christmas music played from speakers mounted near the cameras beside the baggage claim. Beyond the sliding-glass doors rain baptized those who ran from the curb to meet their friends and relatives in the roped-off lobby beneath a faded blue and white sign reading simply: ARRIVALS. They came in dripping, disheveled, their faces shining or makeup running as they embraced and balanced packages and bags. People regarded her in her uniform; her black hair pulled up into a bun, her dark eyes and deeply tanned face. If she weren’t in desert camo, if she were wearing a light jacket and high boots over skinny jeans, she could be returning home from school in California, or be some rich girl coming home after a
year studying abroad in Greece or Africa.
She was back but didn’t feel so far away from Iraq. Home was closer to the wider world than she had realized as a girl. Watertown was a base town, the home of Fort Drum, and the place reverberated with its presence. She felt it now more than ever, bodies training and bodies deploying and the vast interconnected system of sleepy faraway places that housed and built soldiers to send out. They were everywhere. And from every lonely FOB or smoldering rubble-strewn corridor, she could feel their readiness now as if they were one.
When her bag arrived she slung it over her shoulder and walked out into the freezing rain to wait. She was giddy from the freedom and the space and the strangeness of returning. The streets were black and slick and reflected the yellow lights flanking the entryway, and the hiss and hush of cars speeding past made her anxious to get going. When the cab arrived she surprised herself by giving the driver Shane’s address. Shane, who she’d stopped emailing months ago. Shane, who hadn’t received a paper letter from her since the first mad lonely and exhausted weeks she’d been away. Her most recent, most consistent correspondence was with Danny. His dispatches. The full report and at least a page of jokes every time.
The last letter made her laugh out loud and when Daryl asked, “What?” she got to say, “My dog died.” Lauren loved that kid. She loved Daryl too because he was smart and did things right but not too right. He liked hearing Danny’s letters. And when he showed her pictures of his kid they were always action shots: the kid doing a head stand, jumping off the top step of the porch, standing on the seat of his tricycle in little red cowboy boots holding a long spindly stick. The kid was a daredevil, had a buzz cut like his dad and the same sweet face. Daryl’d had him when he was nineteen, and, like Lauren, enlisted so he could provide better for his family. Daryl got it. There was no explanation needed between them.
Shane she wasn’t so sure about. His letters were serious and obsessed with the future. Graduate school, cities, traveling, and always “when you come home . . .” Something made her stop emailing and she didn’t know what. When she thought about it all she could come up with was ancient history, a thing he’d said back when she decided not to go to school. Like everyone else he’d been genuinely surprised. She was in most of his classes, studied with him. They’d sat in the library together beneath the fluorescent lights, heads down, his glasses glinting, reflecting the pages they were reading, their feet touching beneath the table. Shane had gone to her recitals, he knew who she was. But his words were an echo of the same stupid question she’d heard from all her teachers, and she was still amazed anyone had the balls to ask her. Amazed she had to clarify yet again how dinner gets on the table.
He said: “Half the fucking kids from this neighborhood are doing the army ’cause they can’t get into college. And after all the bullshit you went through you’re going to send yourself to the same place as those white-trash fuckwads.”
It meant nothing to her at the time. She’d actually laughed about it. Knew she was right, Shane was wrong. But later, dust covered and weighted down and baking in the heat, with every pothole on what wasn’t really a road making her shoulders and back work for her living, sitting just two feet from some brand- new killer who couldn’t shut the fuck up on the day’s journey back to the FOB, she would long for a reprieve. She would try for the music in her head but sometimes she just got Shane’s voice, and those were always the words he was saying. One more reason on a very long list you shouldn’t have anything to do with the Murphys. Because they’re smart enough to know not to say a thing, but they’re always mean enough to say it anyway.
The Murphys were Shane and his mother and the big crucifix in the kitchen and his three bald and blue-eyed uncles, Patrick and two others, whose arms were branded with terse gothic directives in black ink. They came together every Sunday dinner and at one time every one of them could have gone to college like Shane but they opted for bartending, carpentry, and the occasional visit to County instead. They were men so indistinct from one another Shane referred to them collectively as “the Patricks.” He couldn’t stand a thing about them and neither could Lauren. Whatever they were, Shane wasn’t. But he couldn’t escape the fact that they’d helped raise him, given him the confidence and wit to live in the body of a thin, soft-featured, almost pretty man. And he’d inherited their look—the bright, expansive calm that assured you he was paying close attention, assured you that Shane Murphy, slight and myopic and often hidden behind a book, was not the kind of boy who experienced fear, was in fact capable of anything.
Lauren knew his drive to change and escape and how the specter of becoming his uncles had ridden his heels all the way to the lush gardens of Swarthmore. She loved him, had loved him since tenth grade. But it didn’t matter. She’d never had the luxury of taking off like he’d had, never even indulged in the fantasy for too long. She had to take care of Danny and make sure they were ahead several mortgage payments, make sure there was money in the bank. And enlisting was a good plan overall. She didn’t just get smart in basic, she got strong. And when people came home for break with their freshman fifteen, and drug stories, and gross soft, self-centered plans, she saw them for what they were—and so did Shane, and he respected her.
Now it seemed like that had all happened to another girl. That mind, that decision, belonged to another girl. He’d go to graduate school and he’d be a teacher or a professor, and she was back home to do god knows what. To fix things. To do what good women do.
Six months into her tour she didn’t feel like telling Shane anything. Didn’t feel like discussing her plans, didn’t have the energy for “when” or “if” or “afterward,” so she just stopped. Reading one less letter, picturing one less face or having one less dream that wouldn’t come true felt like a good decision in the new war economy, the new austerity plan she had instituted in her soul. But Danny was a different story. Danny wrote her letters like dispatches, pretended that home and middle school were war zones and she was on vacation in sunny, exotic Iraq. He was dark, that kid. And strong and smart. And if there was any “when” or “afterward” it belonged to him and she would make sure he got it.
She looked out the window of the cab as they passed through empty streets, the remains of snow on yellowed green and muddy lawns and houses strung with colored and white and blinking lights. Outside Lourdes Church a nativity scene rose from a puddle, the camels knee-deep in murky water. Red bows and candy canes decorated the streetlamps, and the place rang with quiet. Quieter than anything she’d experienced in fifteen months.
Lauren watched the rain on the window and started at the sound of the cab driver’s voice.
“Don’t you guys usually come into Drum on a military flight or a bus or something?”
“Well, yes sir, that’s often the case. I could see why you’d think that. However I came into Fort Lewis in Washington.” Lauren pushed the earnest lilt of hick into her voice. “I’m unna be seein’ my folks today after quite some time.”
“You’ll make their Christmas.”
“Yes sir, I sure do hope so.”
The cab driver nodded knowingly and looked at her again in the rearview mirror. She smiled back at him. Straight teeth and smooth skin and kind dark eyes.
“I got a nephew over in Afghanistan,” he told her.
“Is that right?” Lauren asked, leaning forward and resting her arms on the front seat. “Who’s he with? What unit?”
Lauren wanted the streets of her hometown and silence to be her only welcome, but she talked to the driver instead. Words, stories, expressions, the lax, entitled way of soft civilian life. She was making him feel at ease and proud of his sister’s kid. And she heard that voice that she couldn’t stand coming out of her mouth. Some kind of camouflage in itself. The constricted encouraging tone of a liar. The modesty and gentleness and ignorance, the unassuming pose. It was a linguistic costume for a woman who’d never really felt these things in her life. But she was patient enough to listen, to
know it was important for the cab driver to speak.
He answered her and she began talking quickly. Felt herself suddenly animated when she’d intended to say nothing, to see the town, feel the pull of the streets and the homey memory of places she’d driven past with Shane on their way to park somewhere where they could sink down in the seats and talk and kiss. This place held her life. It was an empty cup, an empty clip, a place from which she’d slipped, but it still fit her form. She surveyed the uneven sidewalks she’d raced down as a girl, the yellow diamond signs of the dead-end streets that led to the river where she’d played with Holly at the edge of the abandoned, graffiti-tagged industrial park. They skateboarded on the smooth concrete of the loading docks, gliding down the slope of the ramps and up into the arc, the cradle, of the half pipe. In that place they were alone and alive, and sometimes set small fires to let the flames hypnotize them. Stood sweat-worn and thirsty after exerting themselves, dropping wooden matches onto piles of newspapers and scrap wood.
They watched the fire grow until they almost couldn’t put it out. Gauging their abilities against its size, the direction of the breeze, the time of year, what some boy had said at school. When Holly would move to snuff it Lauren would hold her back, make her wait for the feeling, the rush and strange false calm of watching it grow and then the panic that it was not their fire anymore. She’d wait for the quick efficient intake of breath, the flooded dilated feeling in her chest, before they’d dash to stamp it down, or in worst cases blanket the flames with their sweatshirts and jackets. Lauren always made sure it wasn’t smoldering before she left, taking the feeling of terror and virtue with her like the good girl she was, the good girl she’d always been.