Fives and Twenty-Fives (39 page)

“Hani is dead?” he asked without turning his head.

“Yes. The Americans told me after they took you away.” I approached him in the darkness, moving slowly. He had something sitting across his lap, and I thought it could be another rifle. “How did my father find you and Hani?”

“Find us?”

“Yes, how did he know you and Hani had been shot? How did he know the Americans had taken you to the Habbaniyah police station?”

I went to my hands and knees and crawled up to the edge with him. I saw that the object on his lap was not a rifle, but rather my father’s old cricket bat.

“Kateb,” he sighed, “he came for us the day you disappeared with the Americans. Why do you think Hani and I were on the road in that old taxi? We worked for him. Muhammad was behind us with the devices, and Hani and I were ahead of the triggermen in the scout vehicle.” Then, with a stoic tone, he added, “We did our job.”

I sat still and quiet, wanting to ask.

Mundhir was kind and did not make me. “I have not told him about you.”

“Thank you.”

“He thinks you are in Abu Ghraib because of the way we saw you taken away with your hands bound. He goes to the Americans in Fallujah once every week to look for you. But they insist that you are not on their lists. He thinks you are rotting in that place.”

“Is it good work, with my father and brother?” I asked, wishing to change the subject. “More fun than working at our rock-and-roll shows?” I thought this might make him look at me finally. A good memory.

But he continued staring out across the town and the highway with its few headlights. “Hani enjoyed it more than I do. He liked your father.”

“Does my father know what happened to Hani?”

“Yes.”

“Then might I ask you another question?”

“Of course.”

“What are you doing with that cricket bat?”

“I’m considering killing you with it.” And after a moment, he added, “You preferred for Haji Fasil and Abu Abdul to die? And now Hani? You enjoy watching Americans live on?”

“No, Mundhir . . .”

“Your brother told me the plan for that day on the lake. It would have worked, and only Americans would have died. We would have been safe.”

“My brother is lying to you.”

Mundhir wrapped his right hand tighter around the cricket bat. “I was up here when Ibrahim . . . when he became sick. Did Nasim tell you? I realized it, the first of anyone. We sleep on the roof when the generators run out of fuel and it becomes too hot in the house. Sheikh Hamza has abandoned us and taken the petrol with him. But we still have the curbstones, and people still pay for them. In fact, the Mercedes had five hollow curbstones in the trunk. Prepped and ready for delivery in the daylight. After I carried Ibrahim down to the car, in the panic to leave we forgot about them. All of us. Your father and brother drove off, taking Ibrahim to Fallujah with five hollow curbstones in the trunk.”

I swallowed. “How many checkpoints between here and the hospital?”

“At least ten.” Mundhir shrugged. “And the trunk would be searched at each.”

“How sick was Ibrahim? If the Americans have him? If they took him to the hospital?”

“You will never know, Kateb.” Mundhir finally turned to look at me.

I stood and put my hands in my pockets.

“If I see your father again, I will tell him you were here. Just so he knows you are free. And then nothing else.”

“I understand.”

“Leave and never come back. Now. Or I’ll kill you on this rooftop, so soft that Nasim won’t hear it.” I opened my mouth to apologize, but felt Mundhir pressing the edge of the cricket bat up into my ribs. “Never another word. Go.”

I admired the view for a moment before turning to leave, the river twisting north into desert with the moon lighting its path.

Doc—

Here's a key. Stay as long as you like, help yourself
to a shower and whatever else you need. But think about going after that girl, if
only to apologize. I won't have cowards under my roof.

—Lieutenant Donovan

Returned to Duty

In the early afternoon, I walk softly down the stairs and out to my car, leaving Lester Pleasant asleep on my ratty couch. The New Orleans weather is shifting, and it’s suddenly too warm for a coat. This doesn’t feel like New Year’s Day.

Following the advice of Gomez’s sister, I’ll take the interstate west to Baton Rouge, north to Shreveport, then west again all the way to Dallas. I’ll need to sleep at a rest stop along the way, but it’s the quickest route.

She was more open to the idea of a visit than I thought she’d be, Gomez’s sister. Even with the phone call coming on the morning of New Year’s Day.

“Of
course
! Michelle loves visitors,” she assured me over the scratchy connection.

“That’s good to hear,” I said, trying to sound upbeat.

“We’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yes. See you then.”

I settle behind the wheel and look at my phone on the pretense of checking the directions, but drift back to the note from Paige. After getting Doc home from the French Quarter, up my stairs, and comfortably arranged on the couch, I’d sent her the message:

“Can I call you?”

She’d responded instantly, wide-awake at three in the morning, with a curt “You can do whatever you need, Pete.”

I examine the words again, as if it’s possible to glean some insight from their pixels that I can’t gain from their meaning.

I can do whatever I need? Does that constitute a good-bye? Is she trying to spare me the bother of what she expects will be a conciliatory breakup call? I doubt it, but for a reason I can’t quite pin down. Perhaps it’s optimism, but I let myself believe that the words are meant as strange encouragement.

“You can do whatever you need, Pete,” I imagine her saying softly.

I start the car and make a right turn toward the interstate.

“You can do whatever you need, Pete.”

Zahn went to the field hospital after our Humvee burned and spent the better part of his time there by himself, in a cold, dark room. Standard treatment for concussions, the Navy doctors told us. Give him a few days to shake it off, and he’ll be fine.

Gomez and I went to retrieve him on the afternoon of the third day, borrowing a beat-up Toyota truck from the company motor pool. Doc tagged along so he could requisition a few items from medical, but Gomez and I went into the hospital tent alone so as not to overwhelm Zahn.

“Meet us by the truck when you’re finished at supply,” Gomez told Doc.

But Doc couldn’t help but offer timid medical advice as we walked inside. “Sir. Sergeant. Make sure his eyes aren’t dilated in the dark, sir.”

“Will do, Doc,” I replied.

“And his pulse, sir. Make sure it ain’t elevated. Or slow. I wasn’t too sure of the reading I took on him in the field, but it seemed kinda slow. We just gotta make sure it’s back to normal, sir.”

“I’ll take a look. Thanks,” I said over my shoulder.

“And one more thing—”

“We got this, Doc,” Gomez cut him off. “Go take care of your shit. Meet us in ten.”

“Aye, Sergeant,” he said, deflated.

“We gotta get that little shit a puppy or something,” Gomez grumbled to herself.

Inside, a young Navy nurse in camouflage utilities handed me Zahn’s returned-to-duty chit and directed us through the maze of connected tents to the makeshift concussion ward near the back of the complex. This austere, vinyl cave had twenty green cots, neatly arranged in the dim light. A large, quiet fan oscillated cool air from one side of the tent to the other.

Zahn was the only patient. He lounged on a random cot, wearing running shorts, a green T-shirt, and sandals. Next to him sat a day’s worth of empty boxed meals, neatly stacked and waiting for a member of the hospital staff to come by with a garbage bag.

“Corporal Zahn,” I called out, moving with Gomez to the side of his cot. “Paperwork just came through. The docs cleared it. Returned to duty, effective now.”

“Great. Sir,” he said slowly, “it’ll be good to get back to work, you know.” He closed his eyes, as though we hadn’t fully roused him from a nap.

Gomez chimed in, dropping a light duffel bag at his feet, “Brought you a fresh uniform and boots, killer. And this . . .” She slapped an extra rifle slung on her shoulder. “Been carrying it around for you, and that fucking sucked. So here . . .”

In a single, fluid motion, she lifted the rifle off her shoulder and brought it to port arms, pulled the changing handle to the rear, locked the bolt in place, and looked inside the receiver.

Confirming the absence of a chambered round, she said, “Clear,” and held the rifle out for Zahn with one hand.

Zahn opened his eyes and looked up at the weapon, unsure, for a moment, of just what he was supposed to do. Then, as a surge of recognition shot across his face, he jumped upright, swung his feet over the side of the cot, and grabbed the rifle with both hands. But his elbows gave way as Gomez let him take the weight. The weapon came to rest on Zahn’s thighs, cradled in his limp arms.

I took half a step forward, instinctually moving to keep the weapon from slipping out of Zahn’s lap and falling to the floor. But Gomez put a palm against my chest, stopping me.

“Corporal,” she said softly. “Clear your fucking weapon.”

Zahn shook his head and mumbled, “Sorry, Michelle. I just . . . it’s too . . .”

“The fuck you just call me, Corporal?” Gomez snapped. “It’s
Sergeant
. And that rifle, the one with the bolt locked to the rear waiting for you to clear it, that rifle sure as shit ain’t
too
anything. You heard me? That weapon weighs eight pounds. Same as a gallon of milk, Devil Dog. Pick that motherfucker up. Look inside the receiver. Make sure there’s no round in the chamber, and say ‘Clear’ when you send the bolt home.”

Without looking up, Zahn took a deep breath and carefully maneuvered his hand under the stock.

“Do it now, Corporal,” Gomez snapped. “Don’t have all fucking day here.”

She kept her palm against my chest and increased the pressure until I took a full step back. I stole a glance at her face and took note of the tears welling in her eyes.

Zahn wrapped his fingers around the stock and slipped his other hand under the barrel. Leaning back as much as lifting, he managed to bring the receiver to eye level.

“Clear,” he said, louder than necessary, hitting the release with the meat of his palm so the bolt snapped into place. With newfound energy, he popped to his feet and slung the weapon over his shoulder. “Sorry, sir. Just wasn’t quite woken up yet.”

Zahn smiled and turned to Gomez, about to make some joke, I could tell from his smirk. About to assure her that everything was okay, back to normal.

But she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Without a word, she turned on her heel and marched smartly from the tent.

I stepped into her place. “It’s all right. Get dressed, and we’ll see you out front.”

“Aye, sir,” he mumbled, his enthusiasm fading with each stride she took away from him, the spark gone as quickly as it had arrived.

I left Zahn alone and chased after Gomez, dodging medical personnel as I scrambled through the maze of tents. I pushed through the vinyl curtain that led into the sunlight and felt her voice cutting through the glare as my vision struggled to adjust.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, sir?” she growled from somewhere behind me.

“Sergeant?” I asked, wheeling around to find her sheltering in the shadow between two tents. Moving toward her, I understood why. She didn’t want her still-swollen eyes seen by a passing stranger, despite how gamely she’d recovered her composure.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, sir?” she repeated, louder, daring me to confront her. Hoping a bystander might hear her cursing at an officer, forcing me to do something about it.

“Sergeant, keep your voice down,” I pleaded as I stepped into the shadow with her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Why aren’t you kicking in the doctor’s door, sir? Why aren’t you telling them that Zahn needs a fucking CAT scan? Why the fuck are you letting him return to duty so soon? Why the fuck aren’t you writing him up for a Purple Heart!?”

“Sergeant, it’s not my decision—”

“Then what the fuck good are you?!” she spat. “Why the fuck are you here?”

I fumbled for an answer, mouth open, before offering a lame “I’m here to lead Marines, Sergeant.”

“Then it’s time to fucking start, sir,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Sergeant—”

She cut me off with a punch to the shoulder. “Sir,” she said, leaning in closer. “It’s your platoon. You don’t gotta explain shit to me. Just get it done.”

“Sergeant . . . ,” I began again, wanting to tell her that she was right. Wanting to tell her that I knew what I had to do. Wanting to thank her. Wanting to apologize. But in the end, I said nothing.

In the silence, she repeated softly, “Just get it done, sir.”