“Unfortunately, there’s really nothing I can do to stamp your application through,” Coach Jankovich had said over the phone. “It’s quite competitive. We’d love to have you, of course, but I can’t make any promises.”
It was just the kind of challenge that Avery lived to overcome. You say I’m not strong enough? Watch me flex. You say it’s competitive? Watch me compete.
And yet, February had nearly come and gone. A cloud formed in her chest, which distracted Avery from the tears in her eyes. Why hadn’t she heard anything from West Point?
They probably don’t want you, Avery told herself, in a voice too brutal to be her own. The voice was right, though. West Point was a reach. A long shot. Who was she to think she was special? Who was she to think she could get out of Pittsburgh? She was going to have to tell everyone that she’d been rejected, and everyone would secretly laugh, knowing she’d never had a chance all along.
She tried to ignore the voice in her head by moving faster. The harder she pushed, the more pain she felt, which released her emotions through sweat, rather than tears. It was simple math. By wrecking her body, she didn’t have to face her wrecked soul.
But her father’s words cut through the ache in her muscles, whispering like wind into her ears. He watches you. Was he right? Had Avery ruined her little brother’s life, simply by setting a bad example?
She wanted Caleb to see her do something good. Something responsible. Something important. But time was running out. And she couldn’t slow down. Not now.
Not ever.
Streetlights drew Avery westward, spilling an orange haze on bare tree limbs. She pushed to the top of the hill with long, purposeful strides, listening to her own breath: in through her nose, out through her mouth. The cold dried the sweat on her face and her slender legs flew past fences, children in white yards, and half-melted snowmen. The smell of wood-burning fireplaces filled her head as she sucked air and heaved toward the finish. She leaned forward as she passed the mailbox in front of the home at the end of the cul-de-sac. Her father was standing on the stoop, holding his stopwatch.
“Twenty-five thirty-two. So much for that six-minute mile pace.”
“I’ll get it back, Dad,” she yelled, placing her hands on her head. “I’ll get it back.”
“That’s my girl,” he said, leaving her out in the cold.
Exhausted and sweating, Avery walked toward the mailbox, just in case. Inside, there was a stack of mail: a circular of flimsy coupons, a pink envelope with the words Final Notice printed on top, a People magazine, and a large manila envelope with West Point’s gold crest glittering in the top left corner.
“Dad!” she shouted, ripping through the paper. “Dad!”
Her father stepped back onto the porch. The rest of the mail fell to the ground. Avery held her breath, frantically opening the leather-bound announcement.
“I got in,” she mumbled to herself. Then, raising her eyes to her father, she screamed, “I got in!”
3
Summer 2000 // Austin, Texas
After dinner, they sat on the back porch and waited for pie.
There was always pie.
Hannah Speer leaned her head back and breathed in the smells of the night. This was her very last dinner at her grandparents’ ranch and she wanted to take it all in. Barbecue ribs, smoked on her grandfather’s grill, had left a sticky brown residue under her nails. A light lemon-garlic dressing had been slicked across baby spinach and chard, the bowl dusted with Parmesan cheese. Soft salted butter had been spread on crusty homemade baguettes. Hannah had eaten three slices before her grandmother warned her to save room. It was a perfect meal, washed down with sweet tea, served on toile china. Every bite closer to her last.
Tomorrow, an airplane would transport her family from Texas to New York and time would speed up, racing toward West Point’s Reception Day for the incoming class of 2004. Her duffel bag waited on her bedroom floor, stuffed tightly with the things she’d been instructed to pack: underwear, socks, an assortment of first aid gear, a pair of brand-new leather combat boots. Her grandfather had explained how to mold them to her feet: “Lace them up, wear them in the shower, and don’t take them off until they’re bone dry,” he’d told her. Hannah had spent the day walking around her house in a pink robe and combat boots. She hated to imagine having blisters all summer, just because she didn’t break the boots in correctly.
Blisters and combat boots were still two days away. At the moment, the fertile smell of cow manure wafted in from the fields. Above her, the porch’s tin roof reflected a string of twinkle lights, and just beyond the roof, a dark sky hovered over the pasture. The stars looked like the scene at a jewelry shop: tiny diamonds strewn across black velvet. Staring at this view, Hannah couldn’t help but imagine a Creator who’d spread this tableau of jewels just for her. She gripped the cross pendant on her neck and slid it back and forth along its chain, her own secret signal, a prayer of thanks. Life was so beautiful, so vast.
Lowering her eyes from the sky, Hannah watched her grandfather walk up from the yard. Gates Speer was a young-looking sixty-seven, with a full head of white hair and tan skin that had held up to age. He pinched a piece of grass between his fingers, then let it fall to the ground.
Though he’d lived on the ranch full-time for the last five years, he still carried himself like he was walking through the halls of the Pentagon. Shoulders back, chin up. Hannah wondered if U.S. Army generals ever lost their military bearing. She imagined that even when they buried her grandfather someday, his muscles would be clenched. But underneath that rigid exterior, General Speer had a softness that few outside of his family had ever seen. Hannah knew she was one of the lucky ones.
He took a seat on the porch swing next to her, slid his arm around her shoulders. His scent was a mix of Old Spice and fresh-cut grass, the way a man was supposed to smell. But her grandfather wasn’t a cowboy. He didn’t have dirt under his nails or an unkempt shirt. “I judge a man by three things,” General Speer often said. “His clothes, his posture, and his handshake.”
If she wanted to see someone lackadaisical about his appearance, Hannah only needed to look a few inches over, to her father, Bill. He sat in a rocking chair and alternated between picking his teeth, scratching at his mustache, and adjusting the ball cap on his head. That’s why Hannah had never understood the phrase “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” It was a terrible analogy. Couldn’t people see that a tree and an apple are nothing alike? Of course one came from the other, but one was round and sweet, and the other was tall and stoic. She tried to imagine the tree and the apple having a conversation. It would probably go about the same way as tonight’s chat between General Speer and his son.
“Goats would do it,” her father was saying. “Six or seven. You wouldn’t have to mow ever again.”
“Well, I like mowing,” her grandfather replied. “I like making all those straight lines. Plus, if I had goats then I’d have to take care of the goats. There are no shortcuts. You’re gonna work hard, one way or another.”
Hannah’s sister, Emily, snorted a laugh. She was swaying on a swing on the opposite side of the porch next to their mother, Lynn. When they stood side by side, the three Speer women looked like triplets. Lynn appeared only slightly older than her daughters, a few wrinkles at her eyes. Emily’s hair was lighter than Hannah’s dirty blond. They all had sky-blue eyes, dimples, and sharp chins.
“I bet if Grandpa had goats, he’d end up chloroforming them all,” Emily said, her voice flat.
The whole family broke into laughter, including the general.
At that moment, Hannah’s grandmother emerged from the kitchen holding a pie plate and a ceramic pitcher.
“Oh Lord, not that story again.”
Nearly as tall as her husband, Barbara Speer was a formidable woman. Hannah had always thought she looked a bit like Geena Davis in A League of Their Own: glamorous with gusto. Had she been born in a later generation, Barbara might have be
come the CEO of a major international company, but instead, she’d raised five children and successfully negotiated life as a general’s wife. Entertaining heads of state had become second nature: she could hold her own with First Ladies, UN ambassadors, and senators. She read three newspapers every morning and could speak as many languages. To Hannah, her grandmother was like royalty, but to the rest of the world, she was simply a retired general’s wife.
It was Barbara who had convinced her husband to transform their hundred acres into an organic cattle ranch. Now that he was retired from the Army, her grandfather had finally agreed, and the business was growing faster than anyone had predicted—anyone except Barbara.
“This pie is going to get cold if he starts telling stories,” Barbara said.
“I’ll do it,” said Emily. Then, channeling her inner Jimmy Stewart, Hannah’s sister began telling the tale, speaking as if she were holding a cigar in her mouth. “Now, you see, those Navy midshipmen had us beat down. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. Emotionally! We were done for. Kaput! If West Point had a fighting chance, we had to do something. Something big.”
They were laughing too hard for Emily to continue, but of course she didn’t have to. They all knew the story by heart. In 1954, Gates Speer was a Firstie at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point—a senior. It was his last year at the academy, and he couldn’t bear to watch the football team lose to Navy one more time. So in a moment of desperation, he and a group of friends decided it was up to them to turn the tide: they were going to steal Navy’s mascot, a hundred-and-fifty-pound goat with massive curved horns that spanned more than five feet across. To successfully kidnap the mascot and transport him back to West Point, her grandfather hatched a plan that included a rag, a can of chloroform, and his roommate’s convertible drop-top. They’d snatched the goat, heaved his passed-out body into the backseat of the convertible, and then put the roof up, speeding away from Annapolis in the dead of night.
“Damn if that goat didn’t wake up,” her grandfather said, picking up the story. “We stop at a gas station to fill up. And suddenly, Bill the Goat is ripping through the convertible top with his horns, trying to break loose. I jump on top of him and have to wrestle him all the way back to West Point. Scariest day of my life.”
Of course, they all knew that it wasn’t the scariest day of the general’s life. Her grandfather had fought in the Korean War as a second lieutenant. He’d spent four years in Vietnam, too. A lieutenant colonel then, he’d been in charge of a large regiment of officers and soldiers and had probably seen a lot of terrible things happen, Hannah assumed—things she couldn’t even imagine. But then again, she wasn’t certain. He never told those stories.
“Of course, West Point isn’t all just stealing goats,” he said, clearing his throat. Suddenly, she felt her grandfather’s arm stiffen. His teeth clenched behind his cheeks and he shook his head, like he was trying to shake a memory.
“Let’s not get into all that,” her grandmother said gently. “We’ve got pie!”
Barbara Speer placed the pie dish on the table and opened her hands over it as if to say, Ta-da! The sweet aroma of fruit and butter mingled with the tension in the air.
“Strawberry rhubarb,” she announced. “Who wants more tea? Hannah, have I told you how much I love this pitcher? I get compliments on it all the time.”
Hannah smiled humbly. The pitcher was a product of the one elective class she’d taken during her last semester of high school. The body of the pitcher was tall and slender, with a perfect triangle spout and a curved handle. As much as her grandmother entertained, Hannah had known it would get good use.
“It looks great, Barb,” said Lynn. Hannah watched her mother stand up from the swing, raise her eyebrows, and make strong eye contact with the rest of the family.
“I’ll grab the plates,” her dad said, straightening his ball cap. “Emily, why don’t you get the ice cream?”
Suddenly, the porch cleared, leaving Hannah and her grandfather alone on the swing. The exit had clearly been planned, because at the last minute, Emily turned back to Hannah and mouthed, “Sorry.”
So that’s what this is, Hannah realized. An ambush. She felt the muscles in her throat tighten. She didn’t like to be taken by surprise.
“Two days, huh?” her grandfather said solemnly.
“Yes, sir,” she started. “But you don’t need to worry. I broke my boots in just like you told me.”
It was impossible to reassure a man who needed no reassurance. Arms crossed over his chest, he turned to her with his blue eyes, looking down at her the way she expected he’d looked down on so many of his subordinates over the years.
“It’s not too late you know,” he said. “Your dad knows the coach at UT. There are opportunities all over the place. Not just there.”
Hannah bit the insides of her cheeks hard. Her grandfather had never encouraged his grandchildren to join the service. On the contrary, he’d almost downplayed the significance of his contributions to America. Hannah had to beg her father to tell her the truth: How, when he was a lieutenant, her grandfather had single-handedly saved his platoon from capture in North Korea. How he served as an Army liaison for the space program. How without him, Neil Armstrong might not have walked on the moon. He had medals that he wouldn’t pin to his uniform, even though he’d earned them. To Gates Speer, wearing all the pins you’d earned was the antithesis of humility, and if he was anything, he was humble. That was the Speer way. Stay modest. Never claim credit. Avoid talk about politics and religion. Always smile demurely, even when inside, you’re beaming with pride. Stay married for the long haul. Make pies. But couldn’t her grandfather see?
As the second child, she’d spent her childhood watching Emily get into trouble for talking back, sneaking out, and getting bad grades. That was why Hannah had been so compliant: she’d learned early that it was easier to follow the rules than to break them. And the rules worked. If she studied hard, she aced the tests. If she went to bed on time, she felt refreshed in the morning, just like her parents promised. There was no need to rebel when following the rules worked in your favor every time. West Point’s offer of admission was the direct result of all the success Hannah had accumulated by following the rules. Hannah was confident that she was making the right choice, and of all the people in her family, she’d assumed her grandfather would understand her decision. She’d expected him to look at her with joy and pride and respect. Instead, the worry in his eyes stretched across the swing, cutting Hannah like a knife.
“You don’t think I can do it,” she said, more of a statement than a question.
Her grandfather reached over and grabbed Hannah’s hand. For the first time in her life, she realized that his skin was old—paper-thin, with veins pulsing purple below the surface. But his grip hadn’t lost its strength: his long fingers wrapped around her palm and squeezed warmly.
“It’s not a matter of capability. I know you can do it. I just don’t think you should have to.”
The cross on her necklace slid up and down its chain as Hannah prayed for the right words to land on her tongue. How could she make him understand?
When Hannah was in sixth grade, her grandparents had taken her to West Point for her grandfather’s fortieth class reunion. They took a tour of campus, ate dinner in the mess hall, cruised the Hudson River on a party boat. Hannah watched white-haired men shake hands and retell old stories while their wives stood behind them, smiling with patience. Watching, Hannah decided she never wanted to stand on the sidelines as her husband told his stories. She wanted stories of her own. She loved her grandmother, but she didn’t want to spend her life serving pies; she wanted to serve people.
Soon after that trip to New York, a neighbor in Austin had invited Hannah to church, and the preacher spoke at length about being “on mission” for God, helping the poor and defending the defenseless and living up to the call God had placed on your life. While he preached, Hannah felt a burning in her heart and remembere
d experiencing that same thrill at West Point. She took that sermon, that feeling, as a sign, and hid it away in her heart.
Though Hannah was new to faith, she knew that people who believed in the eternal could be unattached to outcomes in a way that perplexed people who didn’t. The more you believed, the more you were willing to sacrifice. It was how someone like Mother Teresa could spend her life among lepers. It was how someone like Martin Luther King could risk his life marching for a dream. It’s how Hannah could sense the concern in her grandfather’s eyes and decide, in a moment, that she was okay if he never understood.
The general stood up from the swing and rubbed Hannah’s shoulder. “If you want to go to West Point, there’s probably nothing I can say to stop you. But there are things I’ve endured that no woman should have to endure.”
And then he rubbed his hands together, in anticipation of pie, as if he’d just had a conversation about the weather.
THE NIGHT BEFORE Reception Day, most incoming cadet candidates booked cheap hotel rooms for their families outside West Point’s gates. But a member of the women’s basketball team, Sarah Goodrich, had connected Hannah’s family with a free place to stay on campus. Apparently, one of Sarah’s professors, Colonel Mark Bennett, and his wife, Wendy, often hosted families for R-Day.
“The Bennetts live just a few hundred yards from the stadium,” Sarah had told Hannah over the phone. “Wendy is amazing. You’ll see. She’s just like Martha Stewart. They’re excited to have you.”
As active-duty members of the military, West Point’s faculty lived on campus in houses maintained by the Army. Quarters on other Army posts looked like prefabricated boxes, Hannah knew, because she’d visited her grandparents at Fort Leavenworth and Fort Knox, when he was still a lieutenant colonel. But West Point’s housing matched its historic greatness.
Beyond the Point Page 4