‘Nothing.’ Santo tucked the money behind him, slipped it into his back pocket. ‘They owe me.’
‘They owe you?’
‘It’s nothing.’
Rem looked to the group, Clark, Watts, even Samuels with hangdog expressions — all except Pakosta, who also had money in his hand.
The realization that they were gambling left him dumbfounded.
Santo said it wasn’t quite what it looked like.
Rem struggled to speak. ‘How much?’
‘It’s not like that.’
Rem pointed to Santo then Pakosta. ‘How much?’
Now Pakosta lowered his head.
‘How much?’
Pakosta drew the money out from his pocket and folded it round his fingers.
‘Seventy dollars.’
‘And you?’ Rem asked Santo. ‘How much?’
‘It isn’t like that.’
‘I want to know what he was worth.’
Pakosta gave a snort, something small, either derisive or nervous, Rem didn’t care to know.
* * *
Rem sat outside his cabin and watched them leave the Quonset one by one, none of them speaking. The temperature dropping. The sky an unbroken black.
* * *
On Saturday mornings Cathy made a point of going to Evanston Farmers’ Market on her own — she regarded this as part of her independent life, and did not mind so much that she had erased Rem from the routine. She bought exactly what she wanted: basil, tomatoes, olive bread, and when she could make the expense, cut flowers. Hot with her walk from the station and irritated at the shoulder strap for her purse (over her breast, to the right, between, under? None of the options felt comfortable) she pointed out two bunches of gladioli, and as she searched for the correct change she became distracted by the conversation beside her, two women, one making the choice for the other and explaining in a hurry: ‘Four months ago I had no idea. Now? Now I have a whole new language.’ She replicated the action with three pained gasps. ‘He’s lost weight. His appetite. None of the specialists will admit this has anything to do with the smoke.’
Cathy took her change and backed away. Had she heard the words burn pit? The cut stems bled through the paper, a little repellent. She left the market and made her way back to the station, sure that the conversation was not what she now imagined, then changed her mind and returned to the market to seek out the two women — but could not find them among the stalls and the crowd.
She walked to the library without the decision being properly made and found herself coming up the stairs, sweating at the effort, tired as usual (why always so tired?), and before she could properly rationalize what she wanted she was facing a volunteer and explaining that she was looking for information on burn pits, HOSCO, and everything associated with their dealings in Iraq. She needed to sit down. Damn it, no, she needed to pee.
Phyllis, her name pinned to her jacket, stood with Cathy’s packages as she hurried to the restroom. As Cathy returned she adjusted her top. It wasn’t that her clothes were small exactly, not all her clothes, and maybe it was just because her breasts this past week were as sensitive as hell.
Phyllis helped with the bags and walked with her to the computers. As soon as Cathy sat down she thought she’d need the restroom again — and Phyllis said yes, with a small laugh, it was exactly the same for me.
* * *
When she came to say goodbye, Cathy sought out the librarian, and found her collecting books from the carousels. Phyllis asked with interest if Cathy had found what she was looking for.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ the woman stepped forward, hands precise in their movements, shaping an idea, ‘but how far along? Eight weeks?’
Hands full with bags from the market Cathy looked down and couldn’t see what the woman was talking about. Did she think she was pregnant?
* * *
They sat outside the Unicorn Café, Phyllis with her black coffee, a smart air, with her hair drawn back in a style from another era, one where women smoked, occupied kitchens and dining rooms, took lunch, held dinner parties — her mother’s generation, where women worked to appear sophisticated, nurtured, that look.
‘I shouldn’t have said anything. You aren’t very far along, are you?’ It was only intuition, she explained. ‘You won’t know, properly, until you see a doctor.’
Neither did she apologize. Cathy had cried. Her first thought that she wasn’t much of a woman if she didn’t know this about her body. How stupid could you be? It wasn’t just the dumbness of the situation, but that she’d missed two months of the experience. Here she was, by her calculation, reaching the end of her first trimester without any of the usual indicators. No specific weight gain, no obvious hormonal changes, no morning sickness. Yes to a change in her complexion. Yes to sore breasts, off and on, of all things the nipples, especially today. Yes to the constant need to pee — although wasn’t all this a little early? Yes to the void of her periods, which usually came irregularly with irregular flow. Christ. She’d heard examples of women making it right to the birth without knowing. If she had to admit she thought this was pathetic. How can you not know? She could excuse herself, what with the fainting, and having given up some time ago on her gynaecologist, who’d pronounced her womb to be a hostile environment. Something like Mars. Not very likely to sustain life. Not in those words, not from a professional who couched the judgement in gentler terminations: unfriendly being the favoured phrase. She must have conceived the night Rem left. This, at least, almost had some kind of logic.
The realization came with other fears. A warning once that it would be unlikely that she could carry a child full-term. This is what she’d been told. Christ sake.
The idea that they hadn’t taken precautions was ridiculous. Rem was messy, boisterous, and sex became a kind of combat, so physical she often lost herself. Metaphors wouldn’t cut it, because Rem, being so helter-skelter, was not one man but parts of many. She had no complaints. There might be long periods of inactivity, of barely even touching, but when there was, she thought of this as a kind of fission. But the idea that they should have been careful just didn’t fit the project.
Phyllis listened without overt sympathy. Doctors always draw the worst picture. ‘I lost two,’ she said, ‘with my first husband. On the second marriage it all seemed to work out.’
Earlier today she was one person, now she was two, which struck her as remarkable and horrifying.
Christ. A baby. How much will that cost?
She wouldn’t tell Rem until she was certain.
Secret number two.
Number one: a dog.
Number two: a baby.
INLAND CITY
A single helicopter brought Stephen Lawrence Sutler from Amrah City to Camp Liberty. The eleventh drop since they’d arrived. Rem jumped into the Humvee as soon as the craft came close and drove toward the Beach. Southern-CIPA usually alerted them to deliveries. The unannounced arrival came as an interruption. With his eyes on the craft’s black underbelly Rem watched it hover and dip, load-less.
The craft did not settle, but came close enough for the man to disembark, his pack thrown after him. The man crouched in the downdraught then ran directly toward Rem, hand on head, backpack on his left shoulder, a professional pause and dash as if he had military training. Behind him the helicopter slipped back and upward pillowing sand.
The man, Caucasian (unlikely then to be the replacement translator) and dressed like Markland, in a long-sleeved shirt, tan chinos, buckskin boots, the casual uniform of the HOSCO manager — hurried toward Rem, his voice lost to the noise. His paleness, his short back and sides, the picky way he stooped to brush himself down, marked him as British. Army-trained, public school, Rem would put money on it, a latecomer ready to scoop up those final contracts. A profiteer down to the bone. Infinitely readable.