by Cara Hoffman
When she arrived at the two-story vinyl-sided colonial, the garage door was open and there was a snowmobile and a silver SUV parked in it.
Daryl’s house was weighted with other people’s memories. Bigger than she thought it would be but familiar to her, she’d seen the pictures from Christmas and the pictures from Roy’s birthday party that summer.
The woman who answered the door was unmistakable, and seeing her in person was like seeing a celebrity. She was strong and lean looking, wearing a fleece shirt and tan Carhartt snow pants, she appeared to have just come in from the cold. There was snow melting on the mat just inside the door and two pairs of snow boots—one of them small, for a toddler. She looked tired and invigorated, her cheeks flushed, her long hair wavy and damp at the ends. Lauren felt her arms rising instinctively to embrace her. The house was hot compared to the outside and she could smell woodsmoke.
“You must be Camille,” she said.
The woman cocked her head and smiled wanly at her, and then her expression slowly faded, shifted to one of recognition, and she took a step back.
“I’m Lauren Clay.”
“I know who you are.” She nodded. “I’ve seen your picture.”
A little rosy-cheeked boy in snow pants slid across the wood floor in his socks and stood beside Camille, all spring and hop in his step. Lauren smiled and crouched down in front of the child.
“Hey Roy, buddy,” she said to him. The boy mirrored her expression and she could see his little square teeth, his face beautiful and smooth, his almond-shaped hazel eyes like Daryl’s, his thin smile the same.
“You look just like your daddy,” Lauren said. The boy glanced up at his mother and she instinctively took his hand and pulled him back from the door. “Go find Grammy,” she said, giving him a pat on the butt. “Scoot, Mommy’s talking.”
Lauren looked over the woman’s shoulder into the house. It was cozy. She saw the deer head over the fireplace—might have been the animal Daryl had killed with his father-in-law on the trip he took up there when he was just eighteen.
Camille was still standing in the entryway looking at her, her face undecided. It was moving to be this close to her after only seeing pictures. Their Christmas must have been beautiful, so happy to be all together again. Lauren shrugged, tried out another smile, rubbed her hands together, and stamped her boots on the mat. “Looks like you folks are just getting in from playing,” she said.
Camille shook her head. “I dropped my father at work, we needed the car today.” Then she squinted, scowled, as if she didn’t know why she’d bothered to speak. “Why did you come here?” Camille asked her.
Lauren laughed. “I guess you guys didn’t talk about it. Daryl and I had planned for everyone to get together after the holidays. I’m staying up here near the Jeanne d’Arc Basin, brought my little brother—it’s so beautiful, just like Daryl said. Must have been amazing growing up here.”
Camille’s eyes widened and filled with tears, and she glanced behind her into the kitchen.
“I don’t want to impose,” Lauren said. “I’d be happy to take everyone out in town for dinner.”
Camille’s face was drawn, her eyes not quite right.
“I’m Lauren,” she said again. Wondering if she had somehow got the wrong house.
The woman said, “I know who you are and I don’t ever want to see you again. I heard enough of you, I read enough about you in all that paperwork . . . enough about you to last me a lifetime.”
Lauren was shocked.
“Do you have something to say to me?”
Lauren said, “Camille, I got back last week and I’m sure you know things can be a little rough, so I’m sorry if I’ve been rude, or was stupid to come here or if you want to be alone with your family. But I gotta tell you, your husband is the finest soldier I served with and he loves you so much. And he’s my best friend. Well, to be honest, he might be my only friend right now.”
Camille’s body tensed and she started crying. Lauren reached forward and took her hand, it was vital and warm. Camille held Lauren’s hand, wiped tears from her face with the other.
“Are you okay?” Lauren asked. “Is everything okay? Is Daryl out? Is he home? Can I see him?”
Camille’s eyes narrowed and she began shaking her head, her jaw tight. “What is wrong with you?” she asked Lauren quietly, her lips trembling, her face coming undone. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she shouted. “Is he home? No!” she screamed. “No. No and no!”
• • •
She felt the determination of the driver. He wanted something that was different from what she’d felt before. Daryl’s voice rang out again with the promise the driver would be shot. And the vehicle seemed to pick up speed, as if the warnings were calls to hurry. She ignored the sounds of terror-stricken exuberance coming from Walker.
She adjusted her aim, emptied her lungs. A second took a year to pass and then she fired. A loud pop and tick, and the windshield blew out at about the same time as the driver’s-side window. The car sped up, swerved. They hit the ground, bracing for explosives, but the car just smashed against the barricade, scraped and ground against a low concrete reinforcement, the horn blaring. She looked up at her men, felt a manic burst of laughter leave her mouth, then stood again. The car’s wheels were spinning. It was not on fire, but she and Daryl knew that didn’t mean a thing.
One of the car’s back wheels was spinning, not touching the ground. It seemed to hang in time. Cameras mounted by the northernmost edge of the barricade should have captured more information about the driver, but the car was just out of range.
“We got another martyr over here at Jones Road or what?” Daryl asked when he radioed to get the surveillance. Jones was the boy who’d lost his arms and face, the one Walker replaced, and she’d hated the change of a numbered line on the map to a location bearing his name. She didn’t feel it honored him, just made it bad luck for everyone else.
“Affirmative,” she heard him say. “Sar’n Clay’s work.”
Daryl looked up at them. “We got two visible in the front seat. Out of range to get much more on it. One still moving but looks pinned.”
They headed down and over to the vehicle. She heard the choked and feeble sound of the horn as it shorted out, gave way to another sound that made her immediately ill and then suddenly still and dead calm for whatever would be required. It was the sound of struggling, a mordant rasping whine of a thing suffering and snared. But still no kind of noise to trust. She’d felt the teleology of the driver from as far away as the FOB. Felt the resolve of their mission.
She was the first to reach the car. The sound wasn’t coming from the driver. She could see through the empty frame of the windshield, what at first glance appeared to be a woman, smooth skin and shiny black hair, but then she opened the door. He was maybe twelve years old, hit in the throat, blood covering his chest, blood pooling in the seat between his legs. Beside him was the source of the sound, a woman in her thirties, pregnant, her nose broken and face bloodied, sobbing. They called for medical support. Daryl went around to the passenger side, and Lauren knelt before the boy and took his pulse. Just slightly more than nothing. She pulled him out and lay him on the ground and slipped the compress from her breast pocket, putting it over the neat hole in his throat and holding it tight. She began CPR.
She could hear the woman wailing, a congested anguished sound. Daryl was talking to her, telling her there would be help. Walker was on the radio, telling them what happened, saying there was a woman in labor. She glanced up at Daryl, who was trying to lift her gently from the car, talking quietly. The woman was gripping the door, trying to pull herself away and get to her child on the ground. He’d taken off his goggles so he could keep eye contact, his M2 hung on its strap behind him, his pistol was exposed and ready in the front holster.
“Soldier,” Lauren said, gesturing with her chin that he should take the woman to the other side of the barricade where the medic would land. She turne
d to breathe another lungful of air into the mouth of the boy, then heard the shot and looked up to see Daryl thrown back on the ground. His jaw and cheek and top left side of his head gone, blood pouring out and down the front of his face but his other eye focused straight ahead. Before she even saw Walker, Lauren said the words, “Stand down!”
The woman was struggling to her feet still holding Daryl’s pistol, dots of blood speckled her face, one hand resting on the car’s hood, the front of her dress soaking wet and blood running down her legs. She dropped the weapon and hunched, clutching her stomach. Lauren felt what Walker felt but the woman was unarmed now. “Stand down,” she shouted. “Stand down!”
He had raised his rifle. “Stand down, soldier, that’s a direct order. Come and administer CPR to this boy. I will attend to her and Daryl. Stand down.” She got up and began walking toward the woman, who was doubled over in a long contraction, holding her belly.
Walker fired from a yard away and the woman dropped straight to her knees and then, pulled by the weight of her stomach, slumped forward, landing hard, rocked there a moment before falling to the side, her bloodied face nestled close to Daryl’s boots.
“That’s a twofer,” Walker said.
Behind him the ambulance was racing through the gate of the FOB. She could hear a helicopter and hoped it was for them.
In Medical she stood by the boy and his mother and Daryl, who was missing a chunk of his head and face and part of his brain, and whose blood was flowing freely and quickly off the table in a long thin stream. She watched them pack him in compresses. She watched them exchange looks and saw them slow their pace and then she heard herself ask, “Is he going to be okay?” The medic looked up at her, told Lauren to sit down, so someone could check her eye.
But she kept standing. Stood next to Walker, the stupid fuck they’d given her three days ago who was as sure to report her for the order she’d given as she was to report him for disobeying. She stood next to him hating him. Despising him. Together they were two killers before a silent trinity; a past present and future now blown open, and containing nothing. A ruin steeped in the oily metallic smell of blood.
The men from the helicopter pushed in to take them. She couldn’t look at the boy or his mother at all. The boy’s hair was shiny and black and rested just at his shoulders. He was thin, not yet an adolescent, a fraternal shadow, a mirror. She looked at the bandage at his throat and thought reflexively a thing she’d be waking to from now on. That she had not hit his head. That she’d almost missed. That she’d held in her arms the body of a child she had almost not killed.
Forty-three
DANNY WOKE UP alone in the house, cold, and the fire was almost out. He had no idea what time it was—but judging by the sun it was much later than when they had usually been getting up. His sister was not there, so he restoked the fire and then walked up to the car. When he saw it was gone he stood astonished for a full minute, mute and immobile. Then he burst into tears. He kicked furiously at the snow and screamed her name. He ran to the edge of the woods, his heart in his throat. Then pushed into the thick of the trees, crashing through the branches running in a panic. He was at the middle of a great yawing emptiness. She’d left him. This couldn’t be true. She could not have left him. She would not have done this.
He forced himself to stop running and catch his breath. Then he began crying again. If she would just come back he would stay there forever and not complain about it. How the hell was he going to find her? He sat down among the trees until he had calmed himself, then walked purposefully out along their running trail, looking for any signs she had been there.
Once back at the crest where the car had been parked, he turned and looked down into the hollow of the tree-lined basin and the crumbling houses and could not believe he was really there. This must be a dream—like the one where the terrible tall Snow Queen took Lauren away in her sled. His stomach lurched again and he felt his heart race. He ran down to the house. He hadn’t checked to see if her things were still there. When he saw her gear and sleeping bag he calmed, laughed nervously. He tried to breathe normally and made himself sit down in front of the fire. He was not in any danger, he told himself, just alone for now.
Danny had never been alone without his phone. He had never been in a place with no people. But he was now and there was no choice and he had to suck it up like Lauren said.
He gathered snow and heated it over the fire and put in a tea bag. He did pushups while it steeped. Then drank it. Then walked slowly around the compound of little houses. Things were the same as when she was there. Nothing was going to hurt him. He went back in and heated one of the MREs and did situps and ran in place until he was very warm.
He knew she would not leave him. She would not. And if something happened to her he could run out along the main road and find someone and tell them what happened. He imagined trying to explain why he was there. How he got there. He could walk to the Exxon station—it would be a long walk and probably take most of the day, but if he started now he could get there before dark. He could live just fine. He could find her.
He ate and began packing their gear. And then he burst into tears again. How long was he supposed to wait? What if she came back and he was gone? He stood in front of the fire, immobile, stared into the flames and tried to steady himself. Tried to imagine where she could have gone or what she would be doing.
The wind blew against the house and when it stopped he heard boots on the snow and rushed to the door.
She was walking slowly down from the car. He let out a long trembling breath and then started laughing: What a baby, he must have been alone for just three hours and he had panicked. Of course she wouldn’t have left him. The surge of joy in knowing flowed through his body in a great wave of relief and contentment.
He got out the pot to make them tea, but when she entered the house her face was red and swollen and her hair a mess as if it had been tangled by hanging out the car window in the wind. Her face was solemn and alert like a dying animal’s. Frightening like an animal’s. Her coat was not zipped and she had no hat and didn’t seem to feel the cold.
He walked to her and hugged her and she rested her head against his shoulder. He could feel a sadness flow through him as if her whole body was made of it.
“Let’s get something real to eat,” she said finally, and handed him the keys. She stood and looked around the house, picked up the things she had left, pointed to his sleeping bag but said nothing.
He grabbed the rest of their gear, and when she nodded he knew they were finally going to see Daryl.
• • •
She let Danny drive into town so he could practice getting around in traffic—get familiar with intersections and traffic lights. There were two intersections in the town and trucks, SUVs, and logging vehicles were the only things with wheels out on the roads. Their car stood out, shabby and salt covered with new deer dents. She closed her eyes and leaned back as he drove, holding the dog on her lap to keep her warm. He did not ask her where she had been or why they were leaving. He was a smart boy.
Danny did fine getting around, drove down Highway 1 and then pulled into the parking lot of a little diner. She handed him a Visa card with his name on it.
“Why do I have a credit card?” he asked.
“It’s a debit card,” she said blankly. “We have a joint bank account. Merry Christmas.”
The table was sticky and the air close and heavy with grease, the smell of bacon and onions, coffee and propane. They sat at one in a row of booths that ran along the side of the building and faced a counter and round, red-topped stools. Christmas lights framed the rectangular windows, the corners of which were covered with thick patterned frost into which someone had scratched their initials.
The place was filled with men in flannel shirts drinking coffee, hunched before oval plates that were piled with pancakes and eggs and meats. The building was too narrow and bright and hot, and the sound of dishes and silverware and the nu
mber of wide-shouldered men in boots was familiar. It made her feel apprehensive about what was outside and where they were going. And it made her slightly sick looking at them, thinking today one of them was probably going to get hurt. Their big thick bodies and skulls and eyes completely unprotected. They looked naked without their helmets, hard hats, whatever they were called.
Their waitress had kind gray eyes, a small mouth, and pockmarked skin. Her smile a row of short square teeth and exposed gums, red hair pulled up into a covered bun.
Danny ordered pancakes and bacon and eggs and a piece of blueberry pie and a milkshake and a cup of coffee. This made her smile, so he ordered a Danish too. Lauren ordered coffee and drank it down quickly when it arrived. Something in her was gone. Something in her was getting lighter, disintegrating while he watched.
But when his food came she smiled again, looked almost content as he hungrily wolfed down pancakes, his wavy black hair falling around his shoulders. His cheeks were flushed and he looked healthy, purposeful, alert in an unfettered way. It was satisfying to see how much food he had in front of him, to watch him eat. She wanted him to be happy.
“So,” he said, his mouth full of pancake. “Are we going to go see your friend?”
She shook her head and opened her mouth to say something but then didn’t. He continued eating.
“Hey,” he said, “when we go home, are you going to go to Curtis?”
A strange sound escaped her throat. “What do you know about Curtis?” she asked him contemptuously. She was shivering, and in the bright light shining through the window he could see that her dark eyes were darker still, filled with broken blood vessels. Making her face look like a mask that no one was wearing. Her strong hands were wrapped around the coffee mug, and they were chapped and worn from the cold.
He looked at her with pride. “I know everything about it,” he said. “I listened to every song you practiced. I know it’s harder to get into than any school in the country, I know they have an opera company. I know you got in. And I know it’s free.”