by Kahn, Denise
“Jean, stop,” Davina said. “He’s dead!” She pulled her away.
Jean crumpled into Davina’s arms. Police sirens wailed.
Davina held her. “Are you alright?”
“Davina, I’m so sorry. I was trying to protect you from him. I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you, Davina, please forgive me. I beg you.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Davina said. “Zeferino told me. He made me understand.”
“You’re always there for me,” Jean said. “You’re always giving. I never returned any of the giving.”
“It’s alright, Jean. Your heart spoke. That’s what I heard, your heart.”
“Davina, will you be my baby’s godmother?”
Police burst into the house.
“Jean!” Sergeant Ernesto Martinez shouted. “Davina!”
“Back here, we’re okay.”
Martinez looked from Grady’s body to the two women. It’s over, he thought. Finally.
Jean doubled over in pain.
“What is it?” Davina asked.
“I don’t know. The baby…I’m bleeding. It hurts.”
“Ernesto, help me,” Davina said.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I don’t know. She’s bleeding. That son-of-a-bitch kicked her.”
“An ambulance is on the way.”
“Let’s not wait. My car.”
Martinez, against his better judgment, helped Jean into Davina’s car, and ordered two cruisers to accompany them, one in front and the other behind.
Davina floored it without waiting for her escort. Jean held on. Both police cruisers, surprised at the speed she had taken off at finally managed to catch up to her.
At the hospital, as Jean was being rolled out to the Emergency Room, said to Davina: “Hell of a ride. Ever think about racing?”
Jean’s baby was delivered by caesarian section, a little premature but healthy. Zeferino arrived in time to hear the baby’s first cry.
“My son,” he said to Davina.
“My godchild,” Davina said.
Jean held both their hands. She shut her eyes. She knew, they all knew, that fox’s secret was the delicious obsession of their hearts.
♫♫♫
BOOK THREE
WARRIOR MUSIC
____________
DENISE KAHN
DEDICATION
For my son, Michael
One of the first gallant Marines to march into Iraq during
Operation Iraqi Freedom
To all members of the military,
And those who support them, past, present and future
We are grateful, and thank you.
Bless you all.
A mind at peace does not engender wars.
SOPHOCLES, Oedipus Rex
Let's face it—if mothers ruled the world
there wouldn't be any goddamn wars in the first place.
SALLY FIELD
acceptance speech,
2007 Emmy Awards
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
It is said that before we are born we choose our parents. Thank you, Michael, for the choice you made. I am proud and honored of the title Mom you bestowed on me. That is, and will always be, my highest award. Thank you also for your gallant service, and for all the questions you so graciously and patiently answered. Without your contributions this novel would not have been possible.
Thank you also to my own Mother. You are perfection not only as a Mom, but as a best friend. You went through and survived your own war, and more than anyone you knew what your grandson might have been going through. Though you surely fought your own perdition, you never let on. You were always stoic, and as strong as the Colossus of Rhodes.
Thank you to amazing friends and colleagues, who not only love my ‘little boy’, but whose hearts would skip a beat every time they thought of him during his deployment in the war zones.
Thank you to passers-by who shook Michael’s hand and thanked him for his service, which, when I happened to be present, would always move me to tears.
And last, but definitely not least, to all the individuals who have prayed and supported the men and women of the Armed Forces, whether you have/had someone in uniform or not—THANK YOU!
Denise Kahn
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MARCH 22nd, 2003
PROLOGUE
Davina Walters lay awake staring at the ceiling. How many more sleepless nights would she have to endure? How would she cope if her worst fears came true? Only a mother could understand her thoughts and emotions at this turning point in her life, and more importantly her son’s. She smiled as she remembered her apprehension that she might not like him, because people said babies were ugly when they were born. But the moment she first laid eyes on her newborn son she realized that this statement could have not been further from the truth. The day Max first entered the world he had a full head of dark brown hair, so much so one of the nurses had combed and parted it on the side. And his eyes! Just like Alejandro’s, his father, a deep dark violet. Women would gasp at the sight of his eyes. “Elizabeth Taylor would be jealous,” they would say. But his eyes would eventually change by the age of two. They turned into a brilliant powder blue, and his hair lightened to a shiny Nordic blonde. Little Max looked very much like his father at this young age, but as he grew into adolescence his features would resemble those of Davina’s father William. From then on his eyes would change with his mood. Blue when he was happy, and a hazy gray when anger overtook him. For the rest of Max’s life his eyes would be his storyteller. Davina always thought she could look into her son’s precious heart through his eyes. Where were those eyes now Davina wondered, What were they staring at?
KUWAIT/IRAQ BORDER
MARCH 22nd, 2003
On the other side of the world, those eyes were dark blue and fully alert. They stared at the crisp, sinister sky. The stars were so bright and so close Max thought he could touch them. Guide me through this night, he silently begged the bright spots in the blue-black sky, guide us through this unknown, and the surely unfamiliar hell my brothers and I are about to enter.
“Hey, man, what the fuck are we doing here?” Colin Haferty, the Louisiana native asked in his sweet, Deep South accent.
“We are going to kick some ass!” Jock Stapleton, the man from the Bronx answered.
“Hoo-rah!” The three buddies resounded. They had been together since the beginning in boot camp on Parris Island, and now found themselves on a border in a foreign land, prepared for such an occasion. No brothers could have been closer.
They sat next to their green Humvee, waiting for the orders to march into the ancient sands of Iraq. They had been waiting, bored out of their minds, for the past four weeks. To pass the time they would play spades and some poker, their antes cough drops of different colors from a big bag one of the mothers had sent in a care package. They also passed the time by beating rhythms on the rims and rubber of different sized wheels and tires.
Colin started singing ...Courtesy of the red, white and blue... It would become, and remain, the theme song of this war. The other two men listened and then joined in. As Max listened to the sound coming out of Colin Haferty’s mouth, he kept thinking that the world should have the privilege of hearing the beauty of this virtuoso. He made a mental note to tell his mother, certain she would be able to help.
The signal they had been waiting for came via the booming voice of the Gunnery Sergeant: “Get your asses in gear! This is what we’ve been waiting for! This is what Marines do! We make history! NOW MOVE!
The young men shared a quick glance at one another. As they looked into each other’s eyes they held a look—of a love unique among warriors, of unknown adventure, of camaraderie and brotherhood. At that very moment the three buddies understood the full meaning of the Marines dictum Semper Fidelis, Always Faithful. As they headed out they knew that the brother on either side was more important than their own self. They would protect each other and sh
are the travails of the journey ahead, as elite fighters among the world’s best. They were proud to be United States Marines.
♫
BOSTON 2001
CHAPTER 1
The Singing Pub was filled to capacity with people of all ages and walks of life. Sam looked at the crowd in front of her as she quickly tuned her guitar. Robert, her fiancé, sat at a table in front of the platform. ‘Two more hours’ she mouthed to him. He nodded back and blew her a kiss. She smiled, strummed for a moment and spoke into the microphone on the stand in front of her.
“How are you tonight?” She asked the crowd.
“Good!” They answered back.
“Alright, who’s going to sing for us? Do I have any volunteers?”
The Singing Pub was a famous Boston landmark. Located near the Berkley School of Music, the establishment had been around for almost a century, having hosted professional and amateur musicians, local enthusiasts as well as international celebrities. The walls were entirely covered by photographs, all of them with people singing on stage from every decade since the twenties. Some sang into high tech microphones, others had no mics at all. Some of the photos were in beautiful color, others in black and white, older ones in tones of sepia. Most of them were unknowns, others enormously famous.
Any one passing through its front door, whether they had a singing voice or not, knew that one of the criteria for being in the pub, other than to have a drink and a good meal, was that at any moment one of the staff could come up and point to the stage—which meant that it was time to sing. The patrons didn’t mind and they figured they were pretty safe as chances were high that a student from Berkley, or even a world famous singer would gladly get on stage and serenade them with a song. Tonight was no exception. As soon as Sam asked her question a very enthusiastic young woman went up to her.
“Hi, what’s your name?”
“Gloria.”
“Hi Gloria.” Sam turned toward the crowd. “Everybody say hi to Gloria.”
“Hi Gloria,” they chanted.
“So Gloria, what do you do?”
“I’m a student at Berkley.”
“Nice. Voice? Instrument?”
“Both. Graduating next year.”
“Very good, congratulations. Okay, what are you singing for us tonight?”
“Do you know…”
Sam had talent and a great repertoire. If she didn’t know one of the requests she would ask the singer to sing a few notes. She could then immediately follow without ever having heard the tune before. It was a gift not too many people possessed and this talent had helped her secure the job at the pub, a job she never thought she would need, but very much enjoyed.
♫
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MARCH 2001
CHAPTER 2
Davina was in the kitchen cooking, making her beloved Alejandro’s favorite dish, a delicious paella, when Max walked in.
“Hey, Mom, I’m going to join the Marines.” There, he thought, it was out. He had said it, and nothing was going to change his mind. He could only imagine how furious his parents were going to be.
“What do you mean you’re going to join the Marines?” Davina exclaimed. “Besides, you’re not the military type. You like the good life, the freedom to do whatever you want, whenever you please. And you certainly aren’t very good at taking orders. Hell, you don’t even listen to me anymore!” She said with chagrin, remembering how the last few years had been difficult—a typical teenager from a famous and wealthy family who had it all, who wouldn’t listen to his parents, and who managed to get into more trouble than she cared to remember.
“Mom, listen…,” Max started.
“Why should I listen, you don’t!” Davina retorted, thinking that Max was concocting another harebrained scheme that would get him yet again into some sort of mischief.
“Mom, please. You’re right. I’ve been a real jerk with you guys, and I’m trying to change. I’m really sorry at the way I’ve been behaving and I think the Marines would be good for me.”
“Well, you don’t have to go to extremes and join the military, and the Marines!” Davina closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “Listen, I’m sorry too. Let’s make a fresh start. Surely we can work on this together.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do. Please, Mom, I need to do this. I have to prove to myself, and everybody else for that matter, that I’m worth something, and not just a spoiled brat.” Davina was stirring the rice. Max went up behind her and put his arms around his mother. “You’ve given me the world, and no child is as lucky as I am for the family that I have. I actually really know this.” Davina put the wooden spoon down, turned and looked at her son. Was he finally growing up? Was a little maturity finally seeping in? What Davina didn’t know was that Max still had a drug and alcohol problem, and the boy could only see a future by enlisting. Max knew his mother was smart and she might pick up on the real reason for enlisting, and if he didn’t he knew he wouldn’t last long on this earth. “Mom, if I can get through Marine Corps boot camp, I can do anything.” Davina thought about this statement. He had a point, and it was good to know how to defend oneself, and trained by the best professionals in the world was a definite plus. But it wasn’t, as a mother, what she had dreamed for her son, for her only child. Max was an incredible musician, played a myriad of instruments and she knew, whether as a musician or a mother, she wasn’t sure, that someday he would follow the ancestors of his family. It was a gene he had undeniably inherited, and could go far with his music. She also knew, however, that she wouldn’t, nor any other member of their family, be able to change his mind.
♫
PARRIS ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA 2001
CHAPTER 3
Max didn’t know much about the military. He respected the men and women in uniform, but had no idea what these people had to do to get through boot camp and earn the right to be called a soldier, sailor, airman or Marine. He was, however, embarking on that road right now. Max was on a plane heading to Savannah on his way to Parris Island. He settled into his seat and as soon as they were in the air he brought out a green denim-covered journal and opened it to the first page, which was blank. He pondered on the last few years of his short life and started writing.
SALEM, MASSACHUSETTS 1999
It was Halloween and as typical American teenage ‘druggees’ my buddies and I needed to find the most extravagant way to get fucked up. A group of us heard stories from older kids and big brothers about all the fun in Salem on Halloween. Salem is known for its historical witch trials, black magic and just the unknown. We decided there would be no better place to spend our Halloween. Jimmy, Jason and I flew out of Washington, landed at Logan airport and took a train on that Halloween night with high hopes of an insanely good time consisting of smoking pot and getting drunk. Jimmy and I went back a long way. Anything I have ever done in my life that I would tell my kids not to do I’ve done with Jimmy. We smoked pot with each other for the first time. He was the first person I was arrested with (for jumping off a bridge). All our experiences weren’t negative though, and he was there when I got my first girlfriend.
The excitement kept rising as did my blood alcohol content as we practically inhaled the rum and cokes we had with us. I told the guys that we needed to find some weed when we got into Salem, and of course the decision was unanimous. At least we had a goal, considering we didn’t know what the fuck we were actually going to do when we got there. We heard the conductor call next stop Salem and we hurried to finish our extremely strong mixed drinks, which I now realize is a trademark for teenagers. It’s funny watching people’s expressions as they swallow that big sip of some warm Captain Morgan. The train stopped and we stood up. I realized how drunk I was then and Jason’s face was beet red. Yup, I thought, this is going to be a good night. We followed Jimmy, as his older brother lived in Salem, and he knew the city pretty well. As we kept walking we saw a pretty shitty side of the town, which included crack houses and welfare
shacks. As we moved closer to where Jimmy said we were going we could hear faint horns and cheers. Music came to our ears and the sounds of intoxication were in the air. Then, even louder, celebrations were heating up with tens of thousands of people, shoulder to shoulder, dressed up like vampires, ghouls or witches. And all getting fucked up in some sort of way. I looked at my two buddies and I remember yelling “fuck yeah!” in an immature, mischievous way. We decided to walk around the main street a little, see what there was to see, do a little people watching and maybe find some weed. We kept walking toward what looked like a park. Everybody knows that during the day a park is a nice relaxing place to take the kids, but after dark it’s a haven for the bad seeds of the city to congregate and do drugs. Definitely my type of place at the time. We turned around and noticed a kid a little older than us who looked like he was on his way to a Grateful Dead concert. He had shoulder length hair and a pretty thick beard. Over his nappy roots he wore a wool stitched beanie. His shirt was tie-dyed, accompanied by ripped jeans and a pair of Birkenstocks. I remember looking at him and thinking I bet he got some good nug but I didn’t even want to ask. As our paths crossed though, he said the word that would change my life forever. “Doses!” Then he said it again. The three of us stopped in our tracks. Now when you’re talking about drugs the word ‘doses’ could mean anything from mushrooms to ecstasy. But judging by his appearance I was sure he was talking about LSD. Better known to us little street punks as Acid. It was music to my ears, and before I even got his name I was asking him how much, which is actually a pretty stupid question. Street value for a hit of acid is almost always five dollars unless you are buying the mysterious ‘double dipped’ which means the paper carried twice the amount of the hallucinogenic chemical. I always found the double dipped to be bullshit anyway because to tell you the truth there was no way to tell if you were only eating one hit. He told us it was only five bucks a hit. I asked if it was good and he said it was the best acid he’s ever had. Told us it came from San Diego and one hit would knock you on your ass. We walked with our back to his vehicle which was a VW bus of all things. I thought it was pretty fitting. There was a girl in the front seat. She was pretty but I remember looking at her eyes and they were ‘pinned’. Her pupils were the size of needle tips. She was high on heroin, something that I would never mess with. When the kid took out the acid it was like he had opened up a treasure chest. It was a big sheet of tin foil and when he opened it up it revealed a sheet of about 8x8. The paper was a tie-dye design, almost identical to the shirt he had been wearing. We all stared at it, anticipating how fucked up we were going to get. We told him we wanted three hits. That’s all we had the money for and we gave him fifteen bucks. Instead of carefully cutting the paper with a razor blade or some scissors he just ripped off a piece which ended up working to our advantage. The paper was worth more than we paid. I put the acid in the cellophane from my pack of smokes and we said goodbye. I never liked to hang around too long after a drug deal.