Unremarried Widow

by Artis Henderson

“Over here.”

  I pointed to an empty space by the stairs and we dragged the containers across the floor, their rough bottoms grinding against the concrete, and pushed them against the base of the stairs, where they sat untouched for weeks. They collected dust and bits of beach sand while I refused to acknowledge them. I knew what they contained, proof that Miles was gone. If I opened them, if I looked inside, then I would have to admit he was never coming home.

  But I worked up my courage late in the month and on a Friday afternoon I left work early, pulled into the garage, and before I could lose my nerve I moved a chair beside the larger of the two bins. One of my mother’s cats sniffed the edge of the box and rubbed his whiskered face against one corner. I lowered a hand to his back and he raised his tail in greeting. The light had an unsteady quality that put me in mind of grain alcohol. I wished I were drunk on it. But I was sober as I stared down at the latched boxes, sober as I snapped open the first clasp, sober as I lifted the lid and ran my eyes over the contents. There was everything Miles had taken when he deployed, neatly stacked and covered with a fine dusting of Iraqi sand. I quickly realized there would be no surprises in the tough bins, just a perfect ordinariness—Miles’s folded undershirts, his socks rolled into balls, his uniforms arranged in ordered stacks. I pulled a T-shirt from the top of the pile and pressed the fabric to my face, but when I breathed deeply the scent was all wrong. They had laundered his clothes before sending them home. I saw that some of the items had come back in black velvet pouches: a pair of sunglasses, a yellow rubber bracelet, the mechanical pencils he used to mark flight charts, his metal nail clippers, a flat-head screwdriver, a key wrench. I pulled open the black drawstrings on each bag and let the items slip into my hand. I held them and felt Miles in every piece. I thought of him using them and wearing them. He kept the pencils tucked into a pocket on the sleeve of his uniform. He stashed the tools in a different Velcroed compartment. He kept the nail clippers in his right front pocket. I looked over the pieces and ran through Miles’s routine, and I realized that these were the items taken from his body. These were the possessions he had on him at the time of the crash. I cradled the sunglasses in my hand. They were unharmed. I thought of Miles, bruised and broken, and his sunglasses coming through without a scratch. The world is without reason.

  I put each of the items back in their black velvet bags and set the pile to the side. I pulled out more from the trunk. A yellow reflector belt, a set of metal handcuffs, a DVD of Dr. Strangelove, past issues of Men’s Health, two cigars, a newsletter from Miles’s church in Texas, an empty ditty bag, his patrol cap, boot blousers, a carabiner. Near the bottom of the tough bin I found the wooden box Miles once kept on the nightstand beside our bed. Inside were tucked his wallet and his wedding ring. I picked up the band, slipped it onto my right ring finger, and cradled my hand in my lap.

  “Miles,” I called out to the empty garage. “Why aren’t you here?”

  A yawning ache opened in me. It would have hurt less if I had been cleaved in two. I set the wooden box on the ground next to the velvet bags and I continued to search until I found a Ziploc bag filled with miscellaneous items: paper clips, pens, pieces of notebook paper. I pulled out one of the papers and read the list printed in Miles’s handwriting. Send Nana a birthday card, it said. Study. He had crossed off some of the items, the completed tasks, but others were left undone, lost in the vast and open space of anticipated life, the days he imagined he had left to live.

  “Damn it,” I said. “Damn it, damn it.”

  I placed the list back in the bag and pulled out a letter handwritten on notebook paper. I read the first line. My Dearest Artis. My heart seized. A breeze blew through the garage and caught the back side of the page so that the paper bowed out like a sail. I pressed the letter flat against my leg as I read:

  My Dearest Artis,

  I love you. I love you so very much! Oh Babe, I don’t think that I could ever convey just how much I love you and how blessed I felt to be with you, no matter how much I wrote. You are the love of my life. It was such a privilege and pleasure to be your “Super Friend,” your teammate and especially your husband. The joy you brought into my life was immeasurable and the adventures that we shared were beyond my wildest imagination. The few years that we were able to spend together were absolutely the best of my life, and I owe that all to you. Despite a job as a soldier that was so demanding on both of us, despite living in places that left much to be desired, and despite some of our adventures turning into near catastrophes (mostly due to me, and most turned out to be fun anyway), being with you made it worth it all and kept me looking forward to every day.

  I greatly regret that I had to go so soon when I know that we would have continued to grow together and share our lives with each other everyday, enjoying adventures like only the two of us can.

  I died doing something that I believe is very honorable, worthwhile, and necessary. I pray that in my life and death I saved others’ lives and kept a few from ever having to experience this war. I just regret that it had to come at the price of causing you any pain. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you in any way.

  Please do not feel angry or ask questions about why, instead rely on God for comfort and strength always. Live your life to the fullest, and know that I will be looking upon you always and doing everything I can to smooth your way. You are the most gorgeous, talented and smart young woman I know. I always felt so privileged and honored to be with you wherever we were. I hope I was able to make you feel safe and special whenever we were together. Please forgive me for the times when I fell short of this goal. Know that I am infinitely sorry for any pain that I have ever caused you. Your joy was my number one priority.

  Live your life on earth to the max. You have so many options with what to do with your life. Pursue your dreams wisely, with all your heart, with honor, and with decency.

  I will love you forever, look on you always, and see you soon.

  I love you,

  No worries!

  Miles Henderson

  I held the page between both hands, careful not to damage the paper, as I bowed my head and closed my eyes, feeling for Miles. His voice was in me, vibrant, alive in the way I was alive.

  “Miles,” I said again, this time in a whisper.

  I opened my eyes and saw his things lying next to the trunk, propped there, waiting to be repacked. I raised my face to the garage walls and the rough concrete pilings and the empty ceiling overhead. The light had taken on a brightness that made my eyes hurt. Was life cruel that Miles was gone or generous that I should have this letter? I held the page to my chest for a moment, then folded the paper and put the letter in the wooden box that held Miles’s wedding band. I bent over the tough bin again until I found his laptop, then replaced the items I had removed, closed the latch, and took the computer upstairs.

  The house was quiet, the air-conditioning resting in a down cycle, as I plugged in the computer behind the couch. I held my breath as it booted up.

  “Please,” I said as the computer worked its slow way through the warm-up. “Please let the video be here. Please.”

  I begged until my throat was tight with it.

  “Please,” I said. “Please.”

  And there: a file created on November 4, two days before the crash. I held myself with both arms and opened the file. There was Miles seated in his bunk. I pressed one hand over my mouth as the video began to play.

  “Hey, babe. It’s me,” he said. “I hope this is working.”

  He laughed, and I smiled on the couch in the living room. Whereas the letter had been written from a place of fear and worry—only to be read should the worst happen—the video was full of life, of expectations for the future.

  “All right, well. This will be a short test video to see if I can figure out how to make all this happen. I hope you enjoy it. I know I really enjoyed the video that you sent to me.”

  He looked down at the keyboard and then up, as if he were thin
king of what to say next. I smiled despite myself. Here was Miles, alive.

  “Not much is happening around here. Sometimes lots of things happen. Sometimes nothing happens. But it’s nothing to be worried about either way. Everybody’s doing just fine.”

  He thought for another second.

  “I guess three days ago our chow hall caught on fire. They have one of those temporary mess tents now. We go by and get something to eat and take it back to our CPR hooch. It’s not too bad. They have good cookies.”

  I let the video wash over me and it wasn’t hard to believe Miles was still out there in the desert somewhere.

  “But speaking of cookies. Oh, my goodness. Those last ones you sent were awesome. Those ginger snaps were like the first cookies that anybody has brought in that have stayed soft throughout the entire trip. I don’t know how you did it. Nobody really does. But, man, I ate like half those things and the other half I took to share and, man, everybody was so impressed. Even Troy.”

  Troy, who volunteered to pack Miles’s tough bins after the crash, who made neat inventories of his gear, who lifted his wedding ring off the nail beside his bed and slipped it into the wooden box.

  “Even Troy was, like, ‘Man, man these cookies are dang good, man. These are, like, these are, like, awesome. I can’t get over it. Your wife baked these, man? You are a lucky man. These are some good cookies.’ ”

  I laughed, my fingers still pressed to my face.

  “My hair I think is actually a little thicker over here. I don’t know why. I can’t tell you. I don’t know if you can tell but it’s longer I think than it has been in a long time.”

  He stretched a piece of hair down over his forehead.

  “Anyway, it’s shaggy for military speaking and I like it. I really like it.”

  He turned his face to both sides. Even in the dim light I could see the hollow outlines of his cheeks.

  “My sideburns are like relatively long and thick. Thick as far as I can get them and long as far as the military will let me push it. So I guess there are some wonderful benefits to being over here. Which I guess is okay.”

  I laughed again, one hand held tightly in my lap.

  “I can’t wait to see you again,” he said. “I can hardly wait until we can go on adventures together again. And I dream about adventures we can do all the time. Big ones, small ones. I think about being together and I think about you.”

  He was quiet as he said this and tears coursed down my face. There is no greater hurt than knowing you have been loved and the source of that love disappearing. I looked at the counter on the screen. We had just two minutes left.

  “Really, I can’t think of anything else,” he said. “Flying here honestly at times is kind of scary. But at other times it’s been really fun.”

  I reached out and touched the screen the way I had once touched his face.

  “Please don’t go,” I said. “Please stay with me.”

  “I love you,” he said. “I miss you. Remember that throughout these next couple of months. We’ve got, like, three down now. Three months down. We’re working on number four. Every day is a day closer. Just keep on keeping on.”

  He laughed, and I knew this would be the last I heard from him.

  “We’ll see each other again soon, babe,” he said. “Tell everybody hi back there for me.”

  His hand hovered over the keyboard.

  “I love you very much,” he said, and his image froze on the screen.

  2007

  12

  After a soldier is killed in combat, the Army performs an official death investigation and the report of the findings is presented to the soldier’s next of kin in a formal military briefing. I asked that Teresa and I might have our briefings together given the circumstances of our husbands’ deaths—also together—and in the spring I flew to Fort Bragg for the presentation. Teresa drove us to the base the morning of the briefing and I was relieved to have her with me, in the way Miles must have been relieved every time he flew with John.

  When we stopped at the security checkpoint, I handed over my military ID, the new one I had to carry after Miles’s death. My status read URW. Unremarried widow. I smiled in the picture, a big smile that looked genuine. My casualty assistance officer had shuttled me to MacDill Air Force Base in Tampa for the new ID. I sat in a metal desk chair while a clerk entered my information and tapped the camera beside her with a long fingernail.

  “Look right here,” she said.

  I turned to my CAO.

  “Should I smile?” I asked him.

  He shrugged his shoulders and looked away.

  I smiled wide, almost laughing. I didn’t want people to think I couldn’t handle my grief.

  The 1st of the 82nd Division was headquartered in a low brick building that was nowhere near as imposing as I’d hoped. Miles’s parents had arrived early and were already inside as Teresa and I entered. She spoke to the soldiers in the office and they smiled at her with tight-lipped smiles and gave each other significant looks as she turned away. I mostly hung back, wanting to disappear into the walls, to shield myself from what was to come.

  Before the briefing, I had been careful to protect myself from the details of Miles’s death. When Teresa would start in on it, I would make her stop. No talk of burning, no talk of the bodies. When Miles’s death certificate arrived in the mail I opened the envelope and scanned the page to make sure it was the right form, but I refused to absorb any of the information printed there. I briefly saw the box labeled CAUSE OF DEATH and before I could stop myself I read Multiple blunt force trauma. I flicked my eyes away and slid the sheet back into the envelope. It seemed a great injustice that my memories of Miles should be clouded with the circumstances of his death so that even now when I think of his face I must ask myself what approximation of him came home.

  A colonel led us into a conference room outfitted with a polished wooden table, chairs on wheels, and a projector for the PowerPoint presentation. I had the sense that the military trains for these things. Everything would be by the book. But here’s what was not by the book: the brownies on the table. They were home-baked, from a mix, but still, someone took the time to make them. I saw a female soldier in the office when I first came in and I thought perhaps it was her. Or maybe the wife of the colonel giving the briefing. Sexist, I know, but I was probably right. Either way, it was a touching gesture.

  We took seats around the table. Teresa and me on one side, Miles’s parents on the other, three men and one woman in uniform beside Terry and Brad. The colonel sat next to the projector and the laptop. We were talking pleasantries—my flight from Florida, the spring weather, the drought in Texas—and my mind wandered. I was nine years old and on a roller coaster at an amusement park in Maryland. My half brother sat beside me. He’d persuaded me to go on the ride not because I like roller coasters but because I’m easily convinced. We sat side by side in the chair while the metal lap guard descended. When we were secure the line of cars pulled forward with a jerk and then crept out of the boarding area to climb the first steep hill. The track made a ticking noise beneath the cars and I was suddenly terrified.

  “This is not so bad,” my brother said to reassure me.

  I believed him as the car ticked up the tracks.

  The first few slides of the PowerPoint covered broad military information. Who was on duty the night of the crash, where the helicopters were headed. The slides had the unit’s emblem in the corners, a wolf’s head for the Wolfpack, and much of the information—base names, Army units, cities—was written in military shorthand as if to name them in full might dangerously bridge the distance between the war and everyday life. It was not so bad. But as the colonel continued to talk, I had the growing sense that we were balancing on the edge of a steep drop.

  In my mind I was in my bedroom in Tallahassee. Miles was there. It was a Sunday evening and he had to leave soon to drive back to Fort Rucker. We lay on my bed and I leaned over him, my hair in his face, over his
chest, on his arms. It was early in our relationship, before we moved to North Carolina, before he had said I love you. I could feel it welling up in him. I could feel that he felt it, that he wanted to say it. The light in the bedroom was silver and outside the sun had set. Time pressed on us and we both knew he had to go but we stayed like that a moment longer.

  In the conference room we were suddenly at the crash. Time of impact: 12:31 a.m. The colonel showed a photo of the crash site taken from above so that we could see the path the helicopter cut through a lemon orchard. The gash was wide and brutal, the kind of damage caused by something hurtling very fast.

  My stomach dropped as we fell over the edge.

  * * *

  On the night of November 6, 2006, the midnight sky stretched wide to the horizon, unraveling blackly toward Syria in the west and Iran in the east. A full moon shone overhead and illuminated the palm groves and the black waters of the Tigris, and the blades of the Apaches hummed as soldiers came out to gas up the birds. Warhorse was tight: two concrete landing pads with just enough space for two helicopters. Most dropped in, fueled up, and pulled out, never powering down their engines or shutting off their blades. The rotors from the two helicopters beat in tandem, so close they almost seemed to touch. Miles and John were in the trail aircraft of a two-helicopter team and John was the pilot in charge of the mission. He sat in the backseat of the Apache, behind and slightly above Miles in the front seat. A small round mirror sat to the left of Miles’s shoulder so that the forward pilot could see the pilot in the rear, but the Apache’s interior was too dark to see much. The only light came from the faint glow of the computer screens on the instrument panel. The helicopters had stopped to refuel after a night mission and would press on, first twenty-five miles west toward the forward operating base near Balad and then fifty miles north to their home base at Speicher outside Tikrit. John let Miles fly the helicopter into Warhorse with its tricky approach and cramped landing space, coaching him on how to pilot the bird in. It was not Miles’s best parking job. The soldiers on the ground struggled to maneuver the fuel line over to the Apache.