Matt & Zoe (7 page)

Back in my class, I sit down at my desk and begin work on grading yesterday’s math worksheets. Then I hear a knock on the door.

It’s Zoe. I feel a small spasm in my chest. She looks so sad.

“Miss Welch.”

“Zoe,” she responds, drifting into the room as she talks. “I forgot to tell you earlier, the funeral will be this coming Tuesday. Jasmine won’t be in school.”

“Of course.”.

She opens her mouth to speak again. Tyler walks into the room, interrupting her without realizing. “Hey, buddy, did you hear the latest about the union meeting?” He stops when he sees her, his eyes widening. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I was just leaving.”

“No, you don’t have to go—” I say.

“I need to,” she says with finality.

I nod. “I’ll send you an email later to let you know how the rest of the day went.”

“Thank you,” she says, turning to walk out.

Tyler’s eyes follow her backside, then he turns back to me and says, “I’ve been asking around. Everyone’s going to vote to strike.”

“I had the feeling,” I say. “The school committee’s not budging.”

Zoe freezes in the doorway. She turns back toward me and says, “Forgive me for eavesdropping but… you’re not talking about the teachers going on strike are you?”

Before I can respond, Tyler says, “Yes, ma’am. School committee is screwing over the teachers, and we’ve been trying to negotiate since Spring. The union meets tonight to decide whether or not to strike.”

Her eyes dart to mine. “What happens if—you mean, the school would close?”

Tyler, oblivious of the turmoil on her face, says, “Yep.”

“You have to stop it,” she says to me.

Tyler chuckles. “Stop it? Matt here’s been our representative through the negotiations! He’ll be right in front.”

Zoe’s clearly horrified. “You can’t… Jasmine… your class is all she has left that she looks forward to!”

“Zoe, I don’t have any control over whether or not—”

“You
can’t,”
she spits out. “Don’t you understand the shape she’s in? And now you’re going to take away everything she has left?”

I’m frozen in place. I don’t have any idea what to say.

Tyler, diplomatic as always, says, “Look, lady, hire a babysitter or something. Or get your parents to watch your kid. The strike is happening.”

She gasps.

“Tyler,” I say, an edge in my voice.

“What?” His tone is annoyed.

Zoe’s face flushes red and her hands curl into fists. She spins around and marches out of the classroom.

Lucky Charms (Zoe)

Get your parents to watch your kid.

Asshole.

I’m back at my car, without noticing how I got there. I don’t know the guy who walked into Matt’s classroom, but his brief appearance made it clear I was dealing with not one, but two assholes. Matt gave me no hint that there might be a strike. Instead, he reassured me he’d do everything he could for Jasmine, that he would help provide the stability she needs.

Stability I can’t provide her because my own little sister barely knows me.

I growl with the effort of suppressing tears as I start the minivan and put it into gear. My mind circles back. I can’t remember when I was this angry, except maybe when I was in Iraq.

Intentionally, I turn my mind away from
that.
I’m halfway across the notch to Amherst before I calm down a little. And when I do, I’m more than a little bit troubled.

I’m angry because Matt—no,
Mister Paladino,
Jasmine’s teacher—had promised he could do something for Jasmine I couldn’t. And now he can’t, because of the strike, which he’s apparently up to his ears in organizing. It’s not just him. I’m troubled now that I’d even consider finding myself depending on some guy I don’t even know to help my sister.

It shows just how far out of my element I am. Sergeant Ryan would have laughed. She used to say I was one of the most hard-nosed MPs in our unit. That I never depended on anyone. And when Sergeant Ryan said that, she didn’t mean it as a compliment. She meant I wasn’t a team player. My default mode has always been to try everything on my own, to depend on no one, to be self-sufficient.

You can’t do that in a war zone. You
have
to learn to depend on other people. We depended on our drivers and machine gunners, on the men and women who delivered ammo and food, on the weather and on the people who delivered the mail.

More importantly, we depended on our squad mates. And when things got bad, they got bad quick. I’ll never forget the terror when we were ambushed on the way back to Iskandiriyah. Half a dozen guys went down in the first couple minutes, and our SAW gunner, an infantryman, panicked and wouldn’t get back on his gun. You couldn’t blame him—it was a dangerous, bloody mess. I was on the ground, but Nicole jumped up into the truck and got on the gun and kept shooting until the barrel got so hot the machine gun jammed.

Later though, it was all bullshit. I loved Tokyo, but I was one of two women in our unit, and every time I turned around one of the jerks would be trying to play grabass. I quickly regained my reputation for being a loner.

What do I do now? Jasmine can depend on me, but it’s just us. And deep inside—I don’t want us to be all alone. I guess I
did
depend on at least two people.

My Mom and Dad. I depended on them. It never even crossed my mind that they wouldn’t be there, today, tomorrow, next week, next year.

It never occurred to me that when I left last February, it would be the last time I saw them.

And what hurts … I can’t go back. I can’t go back and say to my mother that I’m sorry. That I was a self-absorbed bitch, that I was inconsiderate, that I didn’t consider her feelings. It’s too late. It’s too late to go back and repair it, it’s too late to put my arms around her and beg her forgiveness.

What. The. Hell?
As I approach the traffic circle near Atkins where I collided with Matt Paladino’s car the other day, I struggle to get a grip on myself. Seriously? This isn’t who I am. This isn’t who I want to be.

I turn on the radio. I was so out of whack when I got in the car that I didn’t even put on music. Now
that
is weird. An unfamiliar pop song begins to play. Fifteen minutes and I’m parking in the lot near the Visitors’ Center at UMASS Amherst, across the street from the administration building. Nervously, I lock up the minivan and walk across Massachusetts Avenue. It’s a very unfamiliar environment. The valley overall gives me this sense of space… spread out, with tree covered hills rolling high above the Connecticut River.

There were times over the last five years when I regretted joining the Army instead of going to college. I had the grades—I graduated in the top 10 students in my class. My father was a professor at Mount Holyoke College, walking distance from the house, and that fact meant I could go for free. I suppose I still could, but the Army will pay for me to go to school, and I think I’ll be much more comfortable at UMASS than a smaller college, no matter that my father taught there. Especially I don’t want to be in a tiny all-women college, or one where my father was so well-known.

Some people rebel by drinking, or getting arrested, or picking a different sport than their parents.

I rebelled by joining the Army.

The Veterans Services Office at UMASS is a chaotic space, crowded with posters and flyers and papers and interns. It’s a storm; a whirlwind of papers and pens, and at the eye of the storm stands Craig Stills, the director of Veterans’ Services.

The thing about Craig is, he operates inside his own perfect no-bullshit bubble. All you have to do is look at his prosthetic legs (both of them) and arm (one) to realize he's the real deal.

I met him a few days ago for the first time—that’s when I read the Silver Star citation hanging on his wall. In 2005, somewhere along MSR Tampa just a few miles east of Iskandiriyah, he’d saved a soldier’s life and sacrificed his limbs in the process.

“Zoe!” He calls out in a strong voice. It sounds like broken gravel. “Come in, sit down!”

“Hey,” I say. I walk toward his desk. It’s piled high with files and books. I look at the titles with interest.
Achilles in Vietnam. Soul Repair: Recovering from Moral Injury After War.

Huh.

“You can borrow them if you want. My office is kind of a lending library.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You hanging in there?”

I nod. I don’t want to say too much. I don’t want to talk about what’s going on inside. I just want to get down to business. “What have you heard?” I ask. I try to hide the trembling in my voice. I’m starting to realize—I
really
care about this.

He grins. “It took some doing, since you’re long past the deadline. But you’re in.”

“I am?” As I shout—well, scream—the words, I jump to my feet, knocking half a dozen books and some papers off his desk.

As the books hit the floor, I shift to horror.

“Christ, I’m so sorry.” I kneel to pick them up.

His smile just gets bigger. “Zoe, they wanted you in. Everyone knows you’ve gone through a brutal time. You deserve it.”

I carefully don’t answer as I set the books back on his desk. He senses my reticence. “Here’s how this will work. It’s going to take a while for your veteran’s benefits to come through. Probably a couple months. We can get you a small advance for books and you’ll be able to go ahead and register for classes. You need to do that as quick as you can, classes start Monday. All right?”

I nod. I’m overwhelmed. He walks me through the first steps. I’ve got a long laundry list of things I’ll need to do. Visit the IT office in person, because I can’t wait the days it normally takes to get an account set up. Figure out how to use the online systems. Register for classes. Get my textbooks. Fill out paperwork and more paperwork for the GI Bill.

I don’t care. I’ll do all of it. Most of it I’ll have to do tomorrow, because the elementary school gets out in forty minutes and I need to get home to meet Jasmine. Let’s hope South Hadley’s teachers don’t go on strike, because if they do, I’ll be dragging her along for all of it.

I manage to get back out to my car and on my way home in plenty of time. As I drive back to South Hadley, I remind myself that I’m going to need to work my class schedule around Jasmine’s school hours.

When she gets off the school bus, I’m outside sweeping the wraparound porch. The wind blows dust across the porch, and as I sweep, a few flakes of paint, already peeling, break loose. She shuffles away from the bus and toward the house, her head bowed, eyes on the ground.

I stop sweeping and watch her. I wish I had some clue how to help her. Of course, what she needs is Mom and Dad. And there’s nothing at all I can do about that.

“Hey. How was your day?”

She walks up the steps and looks at me. The boards creak under her feet. “O—O—Okay,” she responds without enthusiasm and with a pronounced stammer. She walks right past me, opens the front door, and disappears inside.

Damn.
I set the broom against the wall and go inside the house.

Her book bag is on the floor near the stairs, and I can hear her thumping around upstairs. That was quick. I stand there, listening. This is a very old house, and here and there loose boards make it easy to tell where people are. Jasmine is in her room. That doesn’t last long. I hear her walking again, but no longer in the soft sound of sneakers.

She thumps down the stairs wearing riding boots.

“Homework?” I ask.

She seems to thud to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. “I don’t have much,” she says. “Can I do it after dinner? I want to ride Mono.”

“I don’t know, Jasmine….” My voice is hesitant. I don’t like that—I rarely hesitate when making decisions. What’s the right thing to do here? Her eyes begin to well up with tears.

I sigh. “Yeah. Okay ride until dinner time if you want.” I need to muck out the stalls anyway. Which raises another issue. How the hell am I going to take care of three horses while I’m in school? It’s nearly four in the afternoon, and the horses haven’t been out of the paddock to graze today, though I fed them hay first thing this morning.

Mom pretty much spent all her time with them… feeding them, taking care of their stalls, of their food, of their every little need. I don’t know how I’m going to manage, because horses need a
lot
of taking care of.

By the time I get to the stable, Jasmine is already on her way to the paddock with her saddle.

“Make sure you run the other two.”

She nods. Jasmine is short of words lately.

I sigh when I step inside the stable. All three stables are soiled, of course. Shoveling out the stalls is a familiar task. Scrape it down to the bottom, then lay out a new bed of shavings. I dump and scrub the water buckets and refill them. The last few days I’ve been able to let them spend a lot of time either in the paddock or grazing, but soon enough winter will be here and they’ll be in their stalls a lot longer during the day and night. And that means mucking out the stalls twice a day, because muddy or wet conditions mean infections.

Shovel in hand, I get started. The thunder of hooves outside tells me Jasmine is running Mono hard, with the other two horses on tethers. In the meantime, I shovel. I scrub. I sweat. I’ve been in the Army five years, and I’m in better physical condition than the vast majority of American women. By the time I’m finished, my shoulders hurt. Shoveling out stalls and scrubbing requires a different set of muscles than I’m used to using.

Maybe I should sell Nettles and Eeyore. I’d hate to see them go, but I’m not sure how I’m going to take care of them.

Selling Mono, however, isn’t an option.

Finally finished.

I step outside of the stable and look down the hill.

Our land stretches nine acres, running mostly behind the line of houses along College Street. Jasmine is down there at the far end, where our land abuts Paul Armstrong’s. Mono is still moving quickly, Jasmine bouncing in the saddle, the other two horses right behind. I turn to walk back to the house, stretching my arms and shoulders. It’s 5:30 and I haven’t even started dinner.