One September Morning. Rosalind Noonan
Don’t panic, she tells herself. Maybe they’re John’s friends. Maybe someone you know on leave here, come to bring one of John’s creative personal greetings.
But she does not recognize their faces, and there’s no joke in the demeanor of this woman who stares down at her well-shined shoes, no animation in the face of this man who stands, jaw clenched, regret embedded in his eyes.
And suddenly, she knows.
She knows they bring her the absolute worst news.
“Are you Mrs. John Stanton?” the man asks.
She nods, feeling like an actress playing out a melodramatic scene. Despite the panic beating like a hummingbird’s wings deep in her breast, she wants to laugh it all off. This can’t be true. They must have the wrong information.
He gives his rank and introduces the female soldier, but it’s drowned out in the deafening roar swirling in her head and her acute awareness of bizarre details. The sergeant must have cut himself shaving this morning, and there’s a pinpoint of tissue stuck to the edge of his jaw. A flock of small birds rises from some nearby laurels. They circle, then return to their spot. The woman wears a ribbon that’s green and red, reminding Abby of Christmas. Home by Christmas, that’s what John keeps writing in his e-mails.
“Mrs. Stanton, it’s my duty to inform you that—”
“No.” The textbook slides from her grip to the wet lawn. She leans down and grabs it quickly, noticing the strangest details. The splatter of mud on her calves. A blade of grass stuck to the side of her foot. Two pairs of shiny dress shoes, facing her dirty bare feet.
It’s all wrong.
“Mrs. Stanton…”
She hugs the book to her chest, turns and lunges toward the door, hoping to find escape and safety in the house.
But he blocks her way. “It’s my job, ma’am,” he says, and, meeting his eyes, she sees that he’s not as old as she originally thought. “Mrs. Stanton, your husband was killed in the line of duty yesterday in Iraq.”
She presses her eyes closed, thinking how wrong it all is. She’s not Mrs. Stanton—that’s John’s mother. And John cannot be dead. Not the John she knows, the man with the charmed life. He’s always the lucky one.
It’s all wrong, but these soldiers are just trying to do their job, fulfill their duty to their country, just as John is doing…was doing?
“We’re sorry for your loss, ma’am,” the woman, lieutenant something, says quietly.
Abby lets the woman press the written notice into her hand, unable to stop the small cry that escapes her throat.
Chapter 2
Iraq
Emjay
Corporal Emjay Brown is still in a daze when he steps into the orange light of the bungalow shared by eight soldiers. Despite the darkness outside, sunglasses shield his eyes against the curious gawkers who know that he was there, right beside John when he went down.
Another few inches and it would have been him.
Bam!
The slam of the door behind him sends him jumping out of his skin. His heart thuds in his chest, sweat trickling down his back.
And suddenly he is back in the warehouse, in the rapid hammer of gunfire, the muzzle-flash in the darkness, the alarm of John’s cries, and the blood…so much blood.
“Corporal Brown,” a leaden voice orders, and Emjay whirls, hands gripping his rifle.
“Lieutenant Chenowith, sir.”
“At ease,” the lieutenant says, as if he thought Emjay was moving to salute, which he wasn’t. The lieutenant removes his helmet to reveal a round mop of hair on the top, like a friar. Most guys in combat units shave their heads, best way to escape the vermin and bugs. Chenowith nurtures his grassy knoll, but it’s been a point of speculation among the platoon, some guys figuring he had rows planted in, others figuring he’s got some weird birthmark underneath, an inappropriate shape like a swastika or a dick.
“I’ve asked the others to assemble in quarters,” Chenowith says. “I’ll be addressing the platoon regarding my investigation.”
“Yes, sir,” Emjay says, and he waits for the lieutenant to pass, then follows him into the common room used for their quarters, the tiny bungalow where every inch is taken up with bunks, cots, desks, and small plastic tables and chairs, the kind they sell outside the hardware store back home in summer months for five bucks a piece.
This Forward Operating Base—FOB for short—is officially called Camp Desert Mission, though the men have dubbed it Camp Despair, because once you land in this bombed-out-highway town that is Fallujah, you’ve reached the end of the world. The base, rows of prefab bungalows that formerly served as a government retreat, sits on a desperate stretch of treeless terrain now encircled by sandbags and strung barbed wire. Although the officers were allotted more space, the rest of the platoon was packed into one bungalow—eight men sharing a space smaller than a chicken coop back home.
The Marines who were in here before nailed shelves into the plywood walls, and in the months since Bravo Company arrived, the walls have come to reflect the personalities of the men in the platoon, with pictures of half-clad girls taped to some walls, Christmas lights shaped like chile peppers to remind Lassiter of Texas, a Pacific Northwest calendar over John’s bunk, and a large mirror so Hilliard can check out his pumped muscles.
Emjay doesn’t like living in such close quarters, not at all, but he’s learned that opinions are worth shit in the army.
Doc looks up from the bag of licorice. “At ease!” he calls, as Lt. Chenowith enters the common room.
A card game is on at the table where Lassiter complains he’s got another losing hand. Doc returns to separating strands of cherry licorice, apparently part of a care package Antoine “Hillbilly” Hilliard just received from his wife.
Over in the corner, Spinelli, the greeny, remains prone on his cot, plugged in to his iPod. He must be pissed that his injury didn’t get him out of here, Emjay thinks. Spinelli can’t wait to get the hell back, back home to his mama—that’s what Doc says. But no one knows the kid’s whole story yet. Spinelli just joined the platoon a month ago, after they lost Spec. Willard Roland to a land mine. All they know is that he’s eighteen and lived with his mother, but Emjay knows that, eventually, Spinelli will spill. Everyone does.
The men playing poker pretend that they’re not tiptoeing around John’s brother, Spec. Noah Stanton, who sits on a bench organizing his gear.
Stone-faced and silent, as if sleepwalking, Noah splits his M-16 in two for cleaning. Cracked open like a Chesapeake hard-shell crab, the weapon seems useless, harmless, definitely not powerful enough to take down a big man like John.
Emjay goes to him, the elephant in the room. Trying to ignore the others who are pretending not to stare but watching anyhow, he squats down real close and whispers, “Sorry about John.”
Noah just nods, his dark eyes trained on his disassembled rifle.
Emjay wants to go on, wants to tell Noah that he was right beside John when he got hit, that the shots came out of nowhere because the power was out in the windowless warehouse and Emjay’s night-vision goggles weren’t working. Does Noah know that Emjay did everything he could to stop the bleeding? The blood…Christ, it was everywhere, smeared between his fingers, blossoming over John’s shirt so fast that Emjay knew it was real bad. Emjay wants to lean his head close to Noah’s and talk, really talk, but he doesn’t want Lassiter and Doc and the others listening, and besides that, Chenowith seems to be in the middle of some half-assed speech.
“Bravo Company lost a good man today,” Lieutenant Chenowith says. “Every casualty is a great loss, but I know you’ll all agree John Stanton was a special individual,