I was surprised by how little I cared what they thought.
A herd of one-humped camels wandered onto the road, and we stopped. The men asked if we could drive through them, because it could be a delay tactic for ambushers, and who cared if we ran over a camel or two? I told them to shut up and wait, because they were just camels. The shepherd, a teenage boy wearing a Guns N’ Roses concert tee, frowned as we passed, even though we’d waited for him and his herd.
About a mile down the dirt road, we spotted a half moon of five small mud huts. We parked there. I dismounted, tapping Snoop and Batule to follow. There was a small, square garden of green shrubs and dandelions in the middle of the houses, marked by two strands of barbwire and four wooden poles at each corner. The air was windless and smelled of wildflowers.
The three of us walked by the huts. Nothing stirred, and the only sound I could make out was our own strained breathing. I searched the windows for peeking eyes or fingertips holding back curtains. Thoughts of an ambush flitted through my mind. I took off my helmet, grabbed the hand mic on Batule’s back, closed my eyes, and waited for the sniper’s shot I’d never hear, let alone see.
I counted to ten and thought of a train ride with Will when we were boys, all infinite hopes and forever dreams, play-fighting with our hands around each other’s shoulders. We were pretending to be antiheroes like good postmodern American boys, he Batman, me Wolverine, watching the sleepy coastal towns of California blur by, slowly at first, then quicker and quicker until we couldn’t even make out the names of the towns being passed, let alone the streets or mailboxes.
I’d worshipped my brother my entire life, though it sometimes came out wrong, like as resentment. Five and a half years’ difference in age could do that. He’d been a tough act to follow, and I figured the last thing he needed was more people telling him how smart and capable he was. I knew everyone thought I’d joined up because he had, even our parents. Maybe he felt that way, too. But that hadn’t been it, not exactly. It wasn’t to be him, or to be like him. It’d been to believe in something the way he had. To know idealism as something more than a word. That had been what I wanted.
He’d lost that belief somewhere along the line, somehow. I doubted I’d ever had it.
Now he was learning to be a goddamn businessman. And me? I didn’t even know anymore.
I opened my eyes, took in a deep breath of dust, and cursed. Ignoring Snoop and Batule, I walked to the center garden and studied the dandelions.
The sound of kicked pebbles brought my eyes up from the garden. A small woman in an ankle-length gray dress walked across the half moon spinning an umbrella above her. She wore a shawl but no veil, and hair fell from her head in black waves. Her complexion was fair for an Iraqi. A coffee stain of a mark splashed across her left cheek, and an arrow nose pierced out at us. I lapped her up like water, lingering at the curves of her hips and again at the small dip in her neckline. It wasn’t until I made it to her eyes, though, two jade ovals shining defiantly, that I knew we’d found her.
“Well-come,” she said. Behind her, two boys wearing matching striped shirts clutched her dress. Neither stood taller than her knees. A small pink scar the width of Silly String ran down the elder’s left earlobe to the top of his neck. He scowled at us while his little brother stared.
“Hi,” I said. “My name’s Jack Porter.”
“Hello.”
I pointed to the black umbrella and switched to Arabic. “What’s with that?”
She smiled, revealing a set of blocky teeth stained light brown. A dimple sank into her cheek, under the birthmark.
“It seldom rains here,” she said. Her English was awkward and slow, but clear. “But we need many umbrellas.”
She kept spinning the umbrella in circles, clockwise twice, counterclockwise once, again and again. I watched with my mouth agape until Snoop coughed.
“Would you and your men like any water?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” I said. “It’s Ramadan, you know.”
31
From: Ken Tisdale
To: Jack Porter
Re:? from Ashuriyah
August 18, 10:17 PM
LIEUTENANT PORTER—
I WAS INTERESTED TO RECEIVE YOUR EMAIL. IT’S GOOD TO HEAR THE EFFORTS OF MY COMPANY IN ASHURIYAH ARE STILL HAVING A POSITIVE IMPACT ON THE ESTABISHMENT OF A FREE AND DEMOCROTIC IRAQ.
THERE WAS AN OFFICIAL INVESTIGATION INTO THE DISAPPEARANCE OF STAFF SERGEANT RIOS. IF IT’S OF INTEREST TO YOU AND YOU BELIEVE IT CAN HELP YOUR UNIT’S EFFORTS, I RECOMMEND CONTACTING YOUR BRIGADE’S JAG OFFICE. THEY CAN LOCATE THE OFFICIAL REPORT. THOUGH I HAVENT READ IT FOR SOME YEARS, IT WAS FOUND THAT STAFF SERGEANT RIOS VIOLATED OUR UNIT’S PROCEDURES BY WALKING AWAY FROM THE OUTPOST UNAUTHORIZED.
THERE WAS ALSO AN OFFICIAL INVESTIGATION INTO THE SHOOTING OF THE INSURGENT ENGAGED BY LIEUTENANT GRANT IN CLOSE QUARTERS. IT WAS FOUND THAT MY COMPANY ACTED IN ACCORDANCE WITH ALL RULES OF ENGAGEMENT.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR WORDS ABOUT LIEUTENANT GRANT. HIS DEATH WAS A TERRIBLE LOSS FOR ALL OF US WHO SERVED WITH HIM. WE TRIED TO GET HIM THE HELP HE NEEDED. HE’S WITH GOD NOW.
PLEASE UNDERSTAND THAT GIVEN THE SENSITIVE NATURE OF YOUR INQUIRY, AND THE IMPLICATIONS SUGGESTED IN YOUR EMAIL, I’VE ALERTED YOUR CHAIN-OF-COMMAND TO THIS EXCHANGE, SPECIFICALLY YOUR EXECUTIVE OFFICER, A FORMER WEST POINT CLASSMATE OF MINE. HE’S A GOOD OFFICER. ANY FUTURE QUESTIONS SHOULD BE DIRECTED TO HIM.
YOURS IN SERVICE,
KENNETH TISDALE
MAJOR, INFANTRY
U.S. ARMY
32
FACEBOOK — NEW MESSAGE
August 18
Lieutenant Porter:
Your name was mentioned in our hometown’s article as the officer who found Elijah so I am especially glad you contacted me. I had been wanting to say thank you for bringing closure to my family, especially my mom. We had another service for Elijah a couple weeks ago, this time with a proper burial.
It’s strange to hear that my brother is still known in Iraq, but also good. To be honest, I don’t really know how to answer your questions. We weren’t close. When he joined the army, he stopped contacting us. He was very bitter — our father left when we were children, and he never stopped being angry about it. Hated school, hated Texas, hated us, hated himself. I didn’t even know he knew Arabic until your message. We didn’t know he’d been sent to Iraq until the army chaplain showed up on our porch to say he’d gone missing there.
As for good stories, there’s this one, which is how I like to remember him. It was his junior year of high school, and he was working at the adventure park, saving up to buy a used car. Some friends and I went to the park after school, and a group of older boys started messing with us. They got on the log ride right after us, and kept taunting us from their log the entire time. They wouldn’t leave us alone. Elijah saw the whole thing. So he waited for our log to go down the big drop, and when their log was at the very top, he shut down the ride and walked away. They were up there for hours, screaming for help. It was funny. Elijah lost his job, but he didn’t care.
Maybe not the greatest story, but it was a nice, older brother thing to do. Don’t have many memories like that.