by Naomi Niles
“I guess we’ll see,” I said, just loud enough that he could hear me, and returned to my desk without another word.
Chapter Seventeen Zack
Carson and I were crossing the airport on our way to baggage claim. It was our first time back in the states in almost a year. Behind us a man was talking loudly on his cell phone; his thick accent and the way he kept saying “y’all” and “fixin’ to” suggested that he was from Texas. Ahead of us a couple of teen girls in light-up sneakers were sharing a large pretzel.
“Damn, don’t it feel good to be back?” said Carson, staring gaily around him. “I bet this is how it feels to come out of prison.”
“I can’t really compare it, having never been to prison,” I said. “But I feel like what we went through was a lot harder in some ways. Let’s throw America’s criminals into a hundred-degree furnace for ten months and see if they make it.”
“Literally the only thing that got me through that,” said Carson, “was knowing that I would be going home soon. All in all, it was probably the most hellish experience of my life.”
“After what we just went through,” I replied, “you will never hear me complain about Texas summers again. Shit, those things are mild compared to the Sahara.”
“I don’t understand how anyone can choose to stay there,” said Carson. “And they say it gets hotter every year because of global warming. Pretty soon, no one will be able to live there.”
“Yeah, but they can’t really afford to move,” I said. “There’s either going to be a lot of migration or a lot of deaths.”
“No wonder everybody in that part of Africa is fleeing to Europe. I hear Germany’s taken in millions of new immigrants, just in the past year or two.”
By now we had reached baggage claim, where a couple of boys were gathered playing a game on their parents’ phones. I could see my green duffel bag on the opposite side of the circular conveyer belt, Carson’s resting beside it. I nudged him and pointed at it. “We’ll just wait here and let it come to us,” I said. “I think I’ve earned the right to be a little lazy, haven’t you?”
“If I had had to do one more sit-up, I would have died,” he replied. “Is there a vending machine around here? I want to drink a cool, refreshing soda.”
“Don’t use the vending machine.” My bag was coming back around now; I grabbed it while Carson reached for his. We turned, looking for the exit. “Not when you can get a real soda at any bar or restaurant in Manhattan. What do you say we go out?”
“Any place you had in mind?” he asked as we headed outside toward the waiting taxis.
I shook my head. “And you know, it doesn’t even matter. Our deployment is over, we’re out of the heat, we’re home, and tonight we’re going to celebrate being back in the best damned country on earth!”
***
We ate dinner at an Irish pub in Midtown with wood-paneled walls, plush red carpeting, and furniture that seemed to have been there since the nineteenth-century. A life-size statue of a leprechaun, carved out of oak, stood in one corner, and a plaque on the back wall paid tribute to the victims of an 1860s massacre, all of them mowed down by an Italian mob on their way home from church.
We sat down at the bar next to an older man with a gray beard wearing a green camo vest and a red hat. Carson ordered a plate of chicken wings with honey barbecue sauce and a foaming root beer while I ordered a bacon, turkey, and avocado sandwich, greasy potato crisps, and a cherry soda. I was so absorbed in my meal that I didn’t speak for a good while, soaking in the air of the pub and watching the girls passing by.
“Honestly, I wasn’t sure this day was ever going to come,” I said as I ate my last crisp. “I keep worrying that this is all just a dream and I’m going to wake up in a minute in the hundred-degree heat.”
“That’s the crazy thing about life,” said Carson, his fingers covered in wing sauce. “Sometimes it feels like you’re stuck in a moment, and there’s no way out of it. And then when it’s over, it feels like it only lasted a minute. How does that happen?”
“I bet life is just going to fly by,” I said, raising my glass to my lips. “Even if we live to be ninety, we’ll look back at the end and say, ‘That didn’t last very long.’”
Carson shrugged. “But at least for right now we’re young, and we’re home, and we can bang anyone we want. Though if this turns into a competition, you’re probably going to beat me.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “What makes you say that?”
“The beard you’ve got coming in. Back when you were clean-shaven, I’d have given us roughly equal chances, but now it’s an unfair fight.”
“Well, I don’t think you’ll have to worry too much,” I assured him. “If the girls come over here hitting on me, I’ll just point them in your direction.”
“Thank you,” said Carson sarcastically. “That’s very gracious of you to help me.”
“Well, I do what I can. Anyway, I haven’t really been in a banging mood lately.”
Carson turned me a confused stare. But before he could inquire further, we were interrupted by the old man in the green camo vest. “Pardon me,” he said. “I couldn’t help but overhear you.”
I braced myself, thinking he was going to reprimand us for our loose morals. nstead he said, “Were you in the military? Did you just get back from overseas?”
I was about to respond, but Carson spoke over me. “We did, actually,” he said proudly. “U. S. Navy SEALs, stationed in the Congo and Libya. Boy, you can’t know how good it is to be home after being over there for so long.”
“I think I might, actually,” the old man said. “I did two tours in ‘Nam back in the ‘70s. Lost three of my best friends from childhood. One of them walked into the jungle and never came out again. Two of them were taken out by landmines.”
“God, that’s incredible,” said Carson. “And by incredible, I mean horrible. I’m so sorry you went through that.”
“Well, I’m always glad to meet a fellow SEAL,” he replied. “Nobody else really understands what they put us through. It can be lonely.”
“That it can,” I said, raising my glass slightly.
“Anyway,” he said, “don’t worry about paying for your meal. It’s on me.”
We were both so taken aback that we didn’t really know how to respond. “That there’s a good man,” said Carson as we emerged from the pub a half-hour later, both carrying ice cream cones. “I don’t care what anyone says, the men and women of the U. S. SEALs are some of the most decent, God-fearing people in the whole dang world.”
We continued on our way up the sidewalk, but we soon found our path blocked by about a hundred protestors, many of them carrying signs that read “End the War!” and “Who Would Jesus Bomb?” One of the signs even had a picture of Dwight Eisenhower on it, but I couldn’t get close enough to see what it said.
An older man with a long, narrow face and a grey beard was leading them in a chant: “If war is the answer, we’re asking the wrong question!” They said it again and again, their voices growing louder with each iteration.
“What are they all so mad about?” Carson asked, looking bewildered.
“The war, probably,” I said, not feeling particularly interested. “What, you don’t think they followed us here, do you?”
“No, I’m not that paranoid. I bet they’ve been planning this protest for a while.”
One of the protesters, a woman, shouted, “We’re not against the soldiers! We’re against the war!” and the chant was picked up by the rest of the group. The pedestrians who were having to walk out into the street to get around them didn’t look too happy about it.
“Lordy, I haven’t seen anything like this since before the Iraq War started,” said Carson. “What do you suppose has gotten them so riled up?”
“I mean, from what I’ve heard, a lot of people are scared right now,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road in search of a taxi. They’re afraid we’re going to end up back in the Middle Ea
st, fighting another war that we can’t win. Even though no one really wants to be over there, and every problem we solve just creates another, even bigger problem that we then have to solve. And really, if we do end up in another war, it’s guys like you and me who will suffer for it.”
“I guess that makes sense,” said Carson. “I don’t know about you, I just have a visceral reaction to protesters. I don’t know what it is, I just hate them.”
“I don’t mind them,” I replied. “I think they’re just doing what they think is in the best interests of the country, same as we do. We just have different ideas about how to defend it and where our blood and money should be spent.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” said Carson, adding in a lower voice, “and ‘Who Would Jesus Bomb?’ What does that even mean?!”
I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“God, sometimes I don’t understand the people of this country. We’re sweating away for a year in the jungle to protect them, and this is the kind of welcome we come home to. If those bastards had even an ounce of respect…”
“I don’t get it, either,” I said sadly. “I just have to keep telling myself they’re doing what they think is best.”
Chapter Eighteen Kelli
The next morning, I was awoken by Renee standing over me holding a plain vanilla latte. I glared at it suspiciously as I took it from her hand, as if expecting her to have secretly poisoned it while I slept.
“What’s in this?” I asked, peering down into it as though looking for bugs. “What did you put in it?”
“I didn’t put anything in it,” said Renee. She didn’t even sound like her usual chipper self; she sounded almost, well, normal . “I just thought you might like to enjoy a normal, unhealthy drink for once.”
Now I knew there was something up. “Is this your way of trying to say you’re sorry?”
The miserable look on Renee’s face confirmed my suspicions instantly. “I’m not sorry for what I said,” she explained as she pulled up a chair and sat down beside me. “But I realize that sometimes I can come across as—”
“Abrasive and controlling?”
“Yeah, I was getting to that. And I realized I can’t force you to do things you don’t want to do or to hear things you don’t want to hear. This has been a problem between us ever since we were little, even though you were the older one and should have been looking after me instead of the other way around. It’s because I don’t ever want to see you get hurt like that again.”
That made sense, though it was weird to hear her bring it up—weird even to see her being halfway serious. She had a habit of pretending like terrible things weren’t happening, even when they plainly were. “I didn’t know you still thought about that,” I said quietly.
“Always,” said Renee with a look of profound sadness. “Anyway, finish your drink. Are you coming with me to yoga?”
I took a sip of my vanilla latte and enjoyed it so much I took several more. “Not on a Saturday,” I replied. “It’s my day off, I’ve been going all week, and I need a break. I’ll go on Monday.”
“Sad,” said Renee, throwing on a tight-fitting pink shirt. I had a strange feeling she had brought me the latte in part because she was hoping it might motivate me to follow her to class. “You sure you don’t want to come?”
“Yeah, I think I’m gonna stay here and make some breakfast. It’s been so long since I’ve watched anything, I’ve been so busy.”
“You ought to check out Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries . It’s about an Australian woman in the ‘20s who solves crimes and wears the most glamorous clothes. She’s in love with a dashing police inspector who glowers and has cheekbones.”
“You had me at cheekbones,” I replied.
Renee left. I climbed out of bed and pulled what was left of the bacon, the tube of sausage, and the package of hash brown patties out of the fridge. Then, as the skillet was warming, I booted up my computer and put on James Blunt’s first album, the one with “You’re Beautiful” on it, the one everyone went crazy for, for about a year, before we all collectively decided we hated that song.
I let that play for a few minutes while I logged into Netflix and searched for the show Renee had been telling me about. It looked ridiculous in the best way: there was a woman with an angular face, an upturned nose, and an elegant dark bob wearing the sort of clothes I had dreamed about running away to Paris and getting married in. The episode descriptions sounded fairly lurid: jewel thefts, murder at a carnival, murder on a train, murder in a Turkish bath. I couldn’t help but shake my head and smile as I clicked “play” on the first episode. Leave it to my sister to find the perfect show for me.
I was midway through the opening credits (which were fantastic) when my phone buzzed. Swearing under my breath, I ran over to the table and picked it up. Someone was calling from a number I didn’t recognize.
I felt a brief moment of panic as I stared at the screen. Despite my attempts to be even-handed in my portrayal of the SEALs, I had been getting a steady stream of death threats ever since the article went to press. Some enterprising young fool had found my personal number and put it on Twitter, and the Bugle had been inundated with hate mail. Few of the senders were SEALs or veterans; they were just old people who watched a lot of Fox News and thought I was part of the liberal “resistance” destroying the country.
With a quick prayer for protection, I pressed the answer button. “Hello?”
“Hello? Hey, is this Kelli?” To my immense relief, it was Zack.
“Zack! Hey.” I sank down into a chair, feeling my whole body loosen. “How did you get my number? Where are you calling from?”
“Somebody posted it on Twitter,” said Zack. “And I’m calling from Manhattan. I actually just flew back in yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah? Is your deployment over?”
“Finally over, although those last ten months or so were hell. I think they make it that way on purpose.”
It’s fair to say this wasn’t how I had expected the morning to go. I had almost given up hope that we were ever going to talk again, and now here he was on the other end of the phone crashing my Netflix party. I wanted to tell him how good it was to hear his voice, but I didn’t want him to think I was a sap. Get hold of yourself , I told myself; he’s only calling you because he knows you’re in town. Never mind that he had called me almost as soon as he landed…
“Anyway,” he said, “I was just calling to see if you wanted to get dinner tomorrow night while I’m still in town. I have a feeling my parents are going to want to see me before too long, so I figured we’d better do it soon—that is, if you want to.”
“What? Yes, I would actually love that. Where would you like to go?”
I could almost hear him tousling his hair on the other end of the line; after being separated from me by an ocean for ten months, we were that close. “I’ll let you pick,” he said. “You know this area better than I do, and honestly pretty much anywhere we go is going to taste amazing after the meals I’ve been eating for the last year. That sound good?”
“Yeah!” I knew I sounded too eager, but at the moment I couldn’t bring myself to care. “That sounds great. Text me when you’re on your way? I’ll text you my address.”
Knowing I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on my murder show, I closed Netflix and put the unused food back into a set of containers in the refrigerator. After the invitation I had just gotten, it somehow didn’t seem right to sit here alone eating the same foods I ate every morning. I wanted to celebrate. Throwing on a blue sequined shirt with delicate lacing and a pair of skinny jeans made of dark denim, I grabbed my computer and left the apartment.
I ate a breakfast of bagels and lox at a locally owned shop near Hell’s Kitchen, then sat in the window for about half an hour watching the pedestrians passing in the late-morning sunlight. I ran through our conversation in my head so many times that by the time I paid my bill and left, I had practically memorized it. I wondered if Zack
noticed how awkward I had sounded, if he paid as much attention to the peculiarities of my speech as I did, or if he even cared.
When Renee finally got out of class, I was waiting for her in the coffee shop. I managed to flag her down before she could reach the front counter and Max.
“Hey, how’d your class go?” I asked her. I felt unusually effervescent, and I was sure it showed on my face.
“It actually went mostly well,” said Renee. “Maureen O’Connor only threw up once at the very end of class, so it wasn’t as big of a disruption as—you don’t really care, do you?”
I shook my head, my eyes twinkling. “What have you got going on this afternoon? Whatever your plans are, cancel them. We’re going out for lunch, and then we’re going to go get our hair done.”
***
As we sat in a circular booth at Bareburger on 85th Street an hour later, I told Renee about my surprise phone call from Zack and his invitation to eat out before he headed home to Texas. At first she looked thrilled, but the more we talked about it, the more she reverted to her usual stance of being protective and cautious.
“This sounds great and all,” she said, taking a sip of strawberry lemonade, “and I couldn’t be happier for you.”
I could sense there was a “but” coming. “Go on,” I said, my brow furrowed in suspicion.
“But I hope you won’t assume this is going to lead to anything long-term. It sounds like maybe he was just in the area and wanted to hook up for the night. He might not be in the Navy anymore, but he’s still a Navy man at heart.”
“Yes, but did you hear the part where he called me first thing when he flew in?” I asked. “I feel like you’re overlooking a very important part of all this.”
“Maybe,” she said. “And anyway, it’s cool that he invited you out and it’s exciting and you should be excited. But I don’t want you to be disappointed if you don’t hear from him again after tomorrow night.”