One September Morning (14 page)

She was heading out of the terminal, toward Plan B, when she heard a shout: “Hey!
Times
Girl!” And John Stanton waved from a hot dog stand, where he was paying for his food.

Tossing off caution, Abby grinned and told him she was happy to see him. She shared his cheese dog and told him about her cancelled flight. He topped her bad news by telling her that his flight was cancelled, as Denver, his stopover point, was facing blizzard conditions. Abby’s flight was tentatively scheduled for the next day, but John, and hundreds of travelers, were stuck without a guarantee of a flight until the weather in the Midwest cleared.

“So why don’t you come with me to D.C.?” she said, knowing that what she was doing was beyond crazy, but it was time she started being more of a risk taker, and how risky was it inviting a guy to stay in the guest room at your parents’ house? Besides, holiday spirit filled the air, and this seemed a small thing to do for a person stranded for Christmas. “I’m taking the train out of Penn Station. It might be standing room only, but what the hell?”

He tilted his head, dark hair falling over one eye. “Serious?”

“Sure, why not. But you would have to pretend that we’re friends. At least for more than, like, an hour. My parents might freak if they find out I’ve started adopting strangers.”

“So we’ll get to know each other fast. Like a crash course.” He reached a napkin to her cheek and wiped off a swath of cheese, such an endearing gesture. Just five minutes and already he didn’t seem like a stranger anymore. “I can be a decent student when I focus.”

“Oh, sure. Everyone knows they throw the A’s at you football stars.”

“But this is one course I’m going to do well in, totally on my own,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Abby one-oh-one.”

Iraq
Col. Billy Waters

“T
his thing is so full of holes, I could drain spaghetti init.” Colonel Billy Waters stacks the pages of the casualty incident report neatly, closes them into the folder, and slides it across the table to Lt. Chenowith. “The question is: Who shot Specialist Stanton? And I have to tell you, Lieutenant, I don’t know any more about the answer now than I did before I read your report.”

Chenowith’s face pales as he flips open the folder and stares at the report, as if some new conclusive fact might catch his eye. “Sir, procedure was followed in the course of the investigation.”

“I’m sure it was. But it was a pointless investigation if you can’t draw any conclusions, and that’s exactly what the media is going to say when they get wind of this.” He sat back in the molded plastic chair and cracked open a bottle of spring water. “You mention an insurgent sniper, but did anybody see this shooter?”

“No, sir,” Chenowith says, his eyes still on the report, “but we had reports of an insurgent in the warehouse.”

“The building’s perimeter was secured, and yet none of our guys saw him leave the warehouse? And you have one witness who claims he saw one of our soldiers flee from the shooting. And M-16 shell casings were found at the scene. Sounds like one of our weapons. Did you check the weapons belonging to the troops in the platoon to see which ones had been fired?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, that doesn’t always work, with guys taking target practice and firing off rounds at anything that moves, but in the future, Lieutenant, it’s worth a try.” The colonel took a swig of water. “And then we’ve got the issue of Corporal Brown’s night-vision goggles not working. Isn’t there an equipment officer in the platoon in charge of this sort of thing?”

“Yes, sir. Captain Jump, and he’s been reprimanded.”

“But Specialist Stanton’s NOD was working. He saw the shooter, and what were his remarks?”

Lt. Chenowith seems to sink lower in the chair as he reads, “According to his partner, Corporal Brown, he said ‘Don’t shoot. Friendly. Friendly. I’m John Stanton, U.S. Army. Your army.’”

“He recognized the sniper as one of us.”

“It appears that way, sir.”

“Why didn’t you make that clear in your report, Lieutenant?”

“Do you want me to rewrite the report, sir?”

“What I want is for all this to go away,” Waters says, waving a hand over the file on the table, “but we rarely get exactly what we want.”

The lieutenant screwed up the investigation, and Colonel Waters wants to make sure he learns from his mistakes. Furthermore, the colonel doesn’t like the fact that this incident transpired on his watch, that and the fact that he’s been left to piece it together long after the incident.

As it stands, it’s an administrative nightmare. John Stanton wasn’t a bad guy, but Waters never asked to have a celebrity in his ranks. It puts the entire company under a microscope so that nothing can slide when screw-ups like this transpire. After twenty-three years in the army, his record is scot-free of blunders and scandals…and now this. Waters has a feeling he’s looking down the barrel of a loaded political rifle.

As the company commander, it’s his responsibility to investigate this incident. However, his resources are stretched thin, and his mission objective has nothing to do with cloak-and-dagger crime solving. He has orders to follow, perimeters to guard. It seems that every day he is dispatching troops to resecure an area that was once considered a safe haven. And a few weeks after occupation, that same area must be resecured again.

If the U.S. military’s occupation of Fallujah were to be mapped out with pushpins and flags, those markers would move daily. And casualties of war like John Stanton are an unfortunate reality, tangential to the mission.

There’s a knock on the door of the briefing room. The lieutenant goes toward the door to answer, but Waters waves him off, tilts his chair back, and reaches for the knob.

Captain Charles Jump salutes, and Waters nods. “At ease. Have a seat, Captain. We were just discussing your platoon. I spoke with Noah Stanton before he left. The men seem to be taking it hard.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been trying to keep them talking. Noah Stanton exhibited some symptoms of shock, which isn’t surprising, considering they were brothers. But I wanted to bring another one of our guys to your attention, Colonel. Corporal Emjay Brown was partnering with Stanton when he was shot.”

“I’m aware of that.” The colonel takes a swallow of water.

“I’m concerned about Corporal Brown, wondering if some action should be taken.” Jump places his helmet on the table, his shiny scalp giving him a wise visage, the face of a philosopher. “I observed that he was shaky even before the incident with Stanton happened, and this has put him over the edge. I have doubts about his stability, and I honestly have to question his readiness to engage in combat. He’s displaying symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Lt. Chenowith has been squirming during Jump’s assessment.

“Lieutenant?” Waters calls on him. “Do you agree with Sergeant—or should I say, Dr. Jump’s assessment?”

“Are you sure Brown’s not just looking for a ticket home?” Chenowith asks. “I mean, PTSD? What soldier out here isn’t suffering from a touch of that?”

Jump frowns. “It’s not the sort of thing you can get a touch of. Many of the men are depressed, yes, and with good reason. They hate it here. But this is different. He’s got every symptom on the list. Avoidance symptoms. I’ve seen Corporal Brown sweat and become breathless when the episode is brought up. He’s experiencing difficulties sleeping, and hopelessness. He’s easily startled.”

“Those behaviors could apply to any soldier who’s seen his buddy killed,” Chenowith argues.

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Jump tells him. “I thought the colonel should be aware of my observations.”

The colonel downs the last of his water and caps the bottle. “Chenowith is right. We’re living on a Forward Operating Base, in a combat zone. There’s going to be an emotional toll; it’s inevitable.”

Jump presses his lips together and nods. “Yes, sir. But one of my jobs here is to recognize these symptoms before a soldier becomes a threat to himself and a danger to others.”

“And is Emjay Brown at that point? A danger to his platoon?”

Jump sighs. “He’s close, sir. My honest opinion? If it were up to me, I’d send that boy home.”

“I’ll take it under advisement, Captain.” Colonel Waters taps the empty bottle against the table as he stares off blankly.

“Sir?” Chenowith straightens. “In my dealings with Corporal Brown, I’ve found him to be attentive and focused. He doesn’t seem like a threat. He’ll be able to finish his deployment. I think we should let the army realize some benefits from all the time and money it’s invested in him.”

“A good point. Both viable positions,” the colonel says. “I’m losing ranks. Roland and Stanton dead. Noah Stanton on leave for two weeks.” He shakes his head. “I’d like to give Brown some time to recuperate mentally, but it would be foolish to let him go right now. Let me mull this one over.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jump stands and salutes, but Waters is the first one out the door. He’s heard enough. Jump is a whiner, and Chenowith is a man to be taken in limited doses; sometimes Waters thinks his lieutenant truly believes all the operations and maneuvers in this desert arena are just a training scenario for West Point—a competition, a game, a chance to prove himself against all obstacles. The kid definitely has balls, just not enough to compensate for his lack of healthy fear.

As he crosses the compound, a journalist talks with one of the soldiers from Bravo Company, obviously gathering material for hero pieces on John Stanton.

Waters wishes that story could have a happier ending.

Maybe he should leave good enough alone, let the world think Stanton died defending his country from terrorism. In the end, who would know the difference? A handful of people, and most of them did not have knowledge of all the circumstances of Stanton’s death. Most people wouldn’t have the information to piece things together.

Chenowith would have to rewrite his report, shift the focus. After twenty-three years in this man’s army, Waters had learned that history was simply the spin you put on what happened yesterday.

Fort Lewis
Madison

A
nother interview!

Madison Stanton presses her cheek to the cool molding of the kitchen doorway, shrinking from the superwhite lights that flood their living room, making it look as if some alien vessel just landed and focused their ray guns on her parents, who sit side-by-side on the sofa like a married couple from a ’50s sitcom.

What are these people doing in their house…and why is her mother talking to them as if they’re her best friends from college? Doesn’t she know they’re here to carve out a story for themselves? Doesn’t she have a clue that every word she says here will be pumped up and amplified and twisted to draw viewers or make snappy headlines?

And the really creepy part is that weird light in her mom’s eyes, a spark of pride that wasn’t there before. You’d think she’d just been voted prom queen or something.

At least the two of them gave up on having
her
sit in on the interviews. That was painful. Especially when a reporter tosses you an inane question, like, “Madison, I suppose you’re feeling sad today”—Duh!—or “Where were you when you heard the sad news?” When the female reporter asked that question, Madison had to sink her nails into the cushion of the sofa and restrain herself from jumping on the couch like Tom Cruise and putting her cause on the air to rally support.

Man, she would have loved to answer that one honestly.
Actually, Diane, I was marching in protest with my friends. An antiwar protest!
The talk show host would have loved that one, and her father would have gone into shock. And her mom, what would she do if Madison blurted out the truth? Probably squeeze her hand gently and lead her back to the bedroom to rest, then return to glaze it all over and ask them to edit her out. Mom was good at that sort of thing—ice the dry cake, wash down the bitter pills with something sweet. Not a terrible habit, except that her mother was so accustomed to smoothing things over that she’d lost contact with the truth festering underneath that sweet glaze.

You see, Diane, I’ve always known this war was a travesty. Ever since the day our president sent the troops into Iraq for the fictitious weapons of mass destruction, one of the great mysteries of our time. I’d love the president to send one of his daughters. Put them in the line of fire and we’ll see how long the troops linger there!

Madison wishes she had the nerve to say something like that, but when she’d had her chance she’d withered respectfully under the lights and avoided looking into the camera. She couldn’t do it. One look over at her parents served to wilt any thoughts of defiance.

How long is this media circus going to last?
she wonders as a cameraman tilts a photo of John in the background to minimize the glare of the lights. Dad sits tall in full-dress uniform, his medals like LEGO blocks of color on his chest, and Mom perches stoically beside him, wearing the yellow blazer that brings out the blond highlights in her hair. The yellow blazer is her way of waving a big yellow ribbon, as in, “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ’Round the Old Oak Tree” and Let-the-Hostages-Go. Shiny pins on the lapel of the blazer snap in the light of the cameras—an American flag pin and one shaped like a black ribbon that says
SUPPORT OUR TROOPS
in tiny letters. Tacky, tacky, but her mom loses all sense of style when it comes to showing her patriotism.

Madison turns back to the kitchen, neat and shiny enough to pass inspection, as always, and circles the table, not quite sure what to do with herself. She didn’t eat breakfast, she couldn’t even swallow toast, not feeling this way.

So empty. An emptiness of the soul.

She considers sneaking out the back door. She could walk to school, get a late pass from the office. If she left now she would catch the tail end of chemistry, where the students are probably sitting with safety goggles, observing the color change of some liquid in a beaker. The math part of chem is a struggle for her, but the social part of it rocks. Besides, she gets a large charge out of seeing the gorgeous football players and perfect popular girls trapped behind geeky plastic goggles.

But no, she was not allowed to go to school today.

“It’s not appropriate,” her mother said earlier that morning as she swept a dust cloth over the living room shelves in preparation for the media visitors. “When there’s a death in the family, you take a break from life out of respect.”

“But I want to go to school,” Madison said. “It’ll be a good distraction for me. Plus I have a history quiz.” Not to mention the trip to Olympia she’d planned with her friends after school. They would visit the state legislature to protest any allocation of funds for the war in Iraq. Sienna wasn’t sure if it was the right venue for that sort of issue, but they all figured it was a good place to start. Would Sienna and Ziggy and everyone go on without her? God, had they even heard about John? It wasn’t as if they had a direct line to the military wives’ clubs on base.

Sharice Stanton grimaced as she lifted a photograph of John set in a heavy brass frame and rubbed the corner diligently. God forbid there was a smudge on John’s photo, Madison thought grimly.

“So can I go?” Madison pushed, realizing her mother was lost in thought. “I’m going.”

“Over my dead body,” Sharice said in a sharper tone than usual, prompting Madison to wheel toward her.

Madison’s dad appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m sorry,” Sharice said, “but you are not going to school. It’s inappropriate.” Shaking her head, she reorganized the photo gallery, placing John’s military portrait front and center, shifting photos of Noah and Madison to the background. “What would people think of that? Acting like you don’t care about John.”

“I do care!” Madison blurted out. “But what am I supposed to do, moping around here?”

“We know you loved him.” Her dad was suddenly behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “It’s hard. This is difficult for all of us.”

No shit! And you’re taking away the only thing that makes my life bearable,
Madison thought as embarrassing tears formed in her eyes.

Without another word she went to her room and locked the door and cried, really cried, for the first time, with her sobs smothered in her pillow. Normally, it didn’t bother her that she and her parents lived in totally different worlds. She could deal with it.

But it takes a crisis like this to point out how little your parents understand about you.

And now, she’s stuck with nothing to do but watch her mother paint John as some sort of military saint. St. John of Arc. The Angel John. Hard to believe Mom is talking about the same guy who would hold her down and give her a wet willy.

She circles the kitchen again, then goes to the coffeemaker, the only thing in the room showing any sign of life, its red burner glowing. She fills a mug halfway, then peers out to the living room, where cameras are rolling. Dad sits upright, back ramrod straight as Mom speaks earnestly to the camera’s cold eye.

“The loss is difficult,” Sharice says sadly. “Unspeakable. But we are consoled by the fact that our son’s life mattered. John made a difference in this world.”

“We are proud to have been his parents,” her dad adds, his voice strained with emotion.

“We know your son left a promising career in the NFL to fight the war against terrorism,” says the reporter who sits out of Madison’s view. “Did he find satisfaction in his work in Iraq?”

“Absolutely. John’s dedication is clear from his own letters.” Sharice lifts an e-mail printout, now set in a frame that used to contain a photo of Madison’s grandmother. “‘Life here is challenging, but we are accomplishing our mission, and that’s something that I think will be a source of personal pride for me the rest of my life. The Iraqi people need us desperately. They need us to be diplomats, traffic cops, listeners, humanitarians, and defenders, and every day, I pray to God that I might fulfill those roles.’”

Tears glisten in Sharice’s eyes as she lowers the framed letter in pensive silence.

A poignant moment—or, at least, it would be if Sharice hadn’t acted out the exact same scenario half an hour ago for another television interview. Not to mention a similar performance before that. The tears, the quote from the letter, the silent pause, it was all executed on cue, perfectly timed.

Jesus Christ, my mother should have gone into show business,
Madison thinks, backing away from the doorway. All the emoting and posthumous praise…John would not want that.

As Sharice and Jim field another question, Madison opens the cabinet beside the stove and feasts her eyes on the array of shiny bottlenecks until she locates the most delicious: Baileys Irish Cream. The bottle makes a “glug” sound as she turns it upright, filling her coffee mug to the brim.

Mmm. The alcohol part burns slightly, but the cream part isn’t so bad.

Carefully, she replaces the bottle, closes up the cupboard, and goes to the window to watch a hummingbird alight on one of the feeders John used to delight in filling with sugar water. The lime-green bird broadcasts its color brilliantly, a beacon against the summer blue sky.

“Did you know that a hummingbird’s heart can beat more than twelve hundred times a minute?” John used to say, and she would remind him that she knew because he’d told her, like, a bazillion times.

As the liqueur begins to warm her from the inside out, she promises to make sure all the feeders stay full. John would want that.