One September Morning (17 page)

Sterling, Virginia
Flint

A
bby’s e-mail directions contain far more detail than any navigation system, and she seems to have forgotten that Flint visited her parents’ house in northern Virginia twice while they were in college. The first time was Thanksgiving weekend of freshman year when, in his lovelorn stupor, he didn’t realize that Abby’s invitation was motivated by pity that his parents would be in Europe for the vacation, rather than unbridled adoration. Duh. The second time was the week Abby married John, when Flint flew in a few days before the ceremony and they played out their own rendition of
My Best Friend’s Wedding
with Flint, most unfortunately, playing the Julia Roberts role.

Back then, Flint couldn’t have imagined he’d ever be driving down this lane of nouveau colonials, past a subdued shopping center with a Subway and a pizza place and a Home Depot, to help Abby make funeral arrangements for John and piece together the details of her husband’s death.

Flint follows the printout, smiling as he turns down Abby’s street. There were times in the past few months when he thought he might not live to see suburbia again, and despite the traffic and the huge, gas-guzzling SUVs hogging the roads, he’s tempted to fall to his knees outside the car and kiss the leaf-strewn sidewalk. He’s glad to be back in the land of the free and drinkable tap water, home of the brave and multiple take-out shops. You don’t know how good you have it till it’s gone. It will take him awhile, he knows, to be able to venture out without the fear of rocket-propelled grenades or random explosive devices. But at least he made it back.

He parks the rental car in front of the Fitzgeralds’ home and sees Abby standing in the doorway, a shimmering vision of dark hair and creamy skin beyond the beveled glass storm door.

Oh, it is good to be back.

He has to restrain himself from skipping up the paving stones of the front path lined by symmetrical box hedges or dancing up the stairs to the brick colonial house.

Abby pushes the door open as he approaches. “We’ve been ignoring the media parked out front,” she says, “but for you, I’ll make an exception.” The years that have passed between them have changed Abby’s appearance, softening the fresh-faced girl into a woman, but the Abby he crushed on is still there—the wide smile, the sprinkling of freckles that are impossible to cover, the round green eyes as changeable as sunlight on a pond.

As soon as he steps over the threshold, her arms reach up to his shoulders and he closes his eyes, savoring the momentary embrace after so long a drought.

This is how a woman feels. This is the touch of a friend.

“I’m sorry about John,” he says.

She squeezes him harder, then steps back. “Thank you for going to Fallujah. You probably gave up a headline news story to do that for me.”

“Actually, my assignment was up. And in the end I got a story out of it.”

“I saw it,” she says, nodding. “The piece about Hero Flights. The
Post
picked it up. It was beautifully done.”

“Thanks.” He had spun the story based on John’s send-off from Camp Despair, but fashioned it to demonstrate the honor afforded every soldier killed in Iraq. His way of squeezing a story out without capitalizing on John’s death.

“It must have taken great restraint to be on the scene and not write about John,” she says. “Or is that something that’s coming later? The unauthorized biography?”

“Only with your permission which I suppose would make it authorized,” he says as she motions him into the living room, a tasteful slice of the upper middle class with polished wood floors, a Chinese rug, and brocade sofas under two large Japanese block prints. Nothing has changed since the day he sat here with Abby, two days before her wedding, and listened as she expanded on her worries over becoming a military wife. Although Flint always prided himself on being a good listener—an important quality for any journalist—he’d had to bite his tongue that day to keep from interjecting leading questions.

Are you sure the role of a soldier’s wife is right for you?

Is this guy asking you to be someone you’re not?

Are you sure you want to marry John Stanton?

Have you ever considered spending your life with me?

He shakes off the memory as he takes a seat on the sofa.

“Noah is meeting us at Arlington Cemetery,” Abby says. “I think he’s coming right from the airport.”

Just my luck, I get to spend an afternoon skipping through a graveyard with Stoneface.
When Flint tried to speak with John’s brother back in Iraq, Noah had clammed up. Flint mentioned his relationship with John and Abby, but Noah had put up a hand and walked away.

Abby sits on the loveseat to his right. Her dark hair tumbles forward, a silken chestnut swath over her white T-shirt as she reaches for a folder on the coffee table. “I got this from the morgue at Dover Air Force Base,” she says, handing it to Flint. “It’s John’s records. I’m not supposed to see it, but I got a copy through some magical mistake. Honestly, I haven’t been able to read through all of it. There are some photos from the coroner and…” Her voice, now hoarse, trails off.

“That’s awful.”

She takes a deep breath. “Seeing them…it did give me some closure. I kept hoping they had the wrong guy, but…no. That’s my John.”

He frowns, holding the file respectfully. This might prove helpful, in light of what he had to tell Abby. “Good work, Abby. You just fought bureaucracy and won.”

“Somehow, it’s a hollow victory, but I just felt like I needed to connect somehow, I needed to know more.” She folds her arms, hugs herself as if warding off a chill, though it’s sunny and seventy degrees outside.

He nods. “And the army hasn’t officially explained anything about the shooting?”

“Just that they were doing some sort of warehouse raid and John was hit by a sniper. Two bullets.” She points at the folder. “I did read enough to know there were two rounds. One in the chest, another in the neck. I think the second one went into his head but…”

“They didn’t mention that the sniper was one of our guys?”

Abby straightens, her hands dropping to the sofa cushions under her thighs. “What are you talking about?”

“John was killed by another U.S. soldier. So-called friendly fire.”

Her brows rise, her freckles standing out over her pale face. “Is this fact or speculation?”

“I had a long interview with John’s partner, Emjay Brown, who was beside John when he was shot. He says John yelled at the shooter that he was a friendly, meaning, they were on the same side, and John seemed to recognize the gunman.”

Abby presses a hand over her mouth. “How could that happen?”

“It was dark. Maybe there was some confusion about strategic location of team members in the raid.”

“So it was an accident?” She winces. “Why isn’t the army telling me this?”

“To save face, and to save John’s reputation as the patron saint of soldiers. If his death was the result of some soldier’s blunder, it’s hard to hold him up as the greatest crusader of the twenty-first century.”

“Oh, God.” She squeezes her eyes shut in frustration. “I hate being lied to.”

“Then you should know there’s one other possibility,” Flint says, measuring his words carefully. He doesn’t want to say this, he doesn’t want to be the one to bring her any more pain, but she seems to be holding her breath, bracing for the impact, and he’s always been a believer in the cold, hard truth. “It may not have been an accident,” he says gently. “The shooter might have targeted John, shot him deliberately. It could have been an ambush, Abby.”

Her breath breaks in a sob as her eyes glaze with tears. “Why? Why would anyone want to kill John?”

He opens the folder and braces himself against the cold, raw details of his friend’s death. “That’s up to us to find out.”

Arlington National Cemetery
Abby

A
bby remembers touring Arlington Cemetery during a fifth-grade class trip. The sweeping hills of green are punctuated by pillars of white that stagger away in lines as far as the eye can see. She has always been fascinated by the way those grave markers are lined up so perfectly. It’s as if some giant had set up for a game of dominoes with white sugar cubes.

After John’s ashes are placed here, will he become part of the attraction? A stop on the tour? Will school kids peer toward his sepulcher curiously? Will tourists imagine him as a bigger-than-life hero, buried here among presidents?

“I really don’t want John to end up here,” she tells Flint as he cuts into the parking lot a little too sharply, gravel flying under his rental car.

“So why are we here?” he asks. “Didn’t you choose this?”

“John’s parents insisted on burying him here, and I’m trying to compromise,” she explains. “But I’m struggling with the choice. I’m going to appeal to Noah. Maybe he can talk his parents out of all the fanfare that Sharice is planning.”

“Good luck with that.” He turns off the engine, removes the key and tosses the ring into the air, dropping it between the seats. “Oops.”

Abby finds herself smiling for the first time in days. When Flint told her he was stopping over in D.C., she felt grateful, of course, but now, after a quick refresher of his poor driving skills, snap judgment, and sardonic humor, Abby realizes that a shot of Flint is exactly what she needs. “You don’t think Noah will be on my side?” she asks.

“When I spoke with Noah Stanton in Iraq, he was not forthcoming with information. The guy barely said two words.”

“I’m sure he was in shock.”

“No doubt suffering post-traumatic stress. I felt for him. But I wouldn’t expect too much from him by way of support. The poor guy’s in bad shape.”

“But I think he’ll help,” Abby says as she gets out of the car. “He and John were close. I’m sure Noah will want to do the right thing for his brother.”

They are parked near small one-story buildings that contain a Visitors’ Center, gift shop, and the cemetery’s administrative offices.

“I’ve never been here,” Flint tells her. “While we’re waiting, I’m going to have a look around.”

Abby crosses to the small wooden sign that says
WHERE VALOR PROUDLY SLEEPS
, the designated spot where they are supposed to connect with Noah and the cemetery’s public relations representative, Sgt. Kenneth Tremaine.

Overhead, an American flag trembles in the breeze, and Abby lifts her face to the sun, trying to sense whether or not John would want to be buried here. A strong sense of history, purpose, and honor emanate from these hallowed grounds, and yet, the lines of gravestones, so straight and stark white and orderly, give her pause. Orders and rules were never John’s thing, which was one of the reasons his enlistment surprised some people. He used to say that he subscribed to “organized chaos.”

When she looks down, her eyes meet a soldier in desert khakis. He is standing against the building, staring at her. His hollowed-out eyes and the slight growth of beard are incongruent with the uniform, giving him the look of an indigent in stolen clothes.

She flinches when he comes toward her, then catches herself.

“Noah…” Abby closes the distance between them, but when she reaches up to hug him, his shoulders are stiff, his demeanor vacant. She closes her eyes and embraces him, trying to infuse life through her palms on his back. “I’d ask how you are, but you look awful,” she says, deciding to keep things honest. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through, losing him that way.” She releases from the embrace to make eye contact, but his head is lowered, his eyes on the ground. “Noah?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t…I can’t talk about it.”

“It must be difficult.” She bites her lip.

Noah lifts one hand, as if to make a point. It quivers like the flag overhead. “I can’t go there.” He turns away, his broad shoulders a barrier.

She doesn’t know what she expected of John’s brother, but this wounded shell of a man comes as a shock. Although Noah was always the quiet, thoughtful brother, he possessed an easy smile and a good nature. Today the old Noah is barely recognizable.

All hope of asking Noah to clarify the events at Camp Desert Mission fades.

Abby holds up a hand to stop Flint as he approaches, but then nothing stops Flint.

“Hey, Noah. It’s good to have you back.” Flint extends a hand.

Noah shakes his hand, zombielike, then walks off, around the side of the building.

Flint frowns. “That went well.”

“I’m worried about him.” Abby begins to follow Noah, but just then a man in uniform steps around an elderly couple and cocks his head at her. “Excuse me—Abby Stanton?” When she nods, he introduces himself.

Sgt. Tremaine is a hand holder. He clings to Abby’s hand while he speaks, long after any social handshaker would have let go. But somehow, Abby finds his clasp charming, even reassuring. She wonders if he’ll hold Noah’s hand this long, and if Noah will even notice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, though I’m sorry it’s under such tragic circumstances,” Sgt. Tremaine says in a voice that carefully balances warmth and reverence. “Now, I’ve been speaking with Sharice Stanton. That’s John’s mother, correct?”

“Right.”

“I explained to her our policy on cremation, which allows cremated remains of a service member who dies in active duty to be placed in the columbarium, a crypt, where the remains will be given an engraved niche cover. Sharice Stanton wasn’t happy with that; she wants a regular plot with a headstone.”

Abby restrains herself from gnashing her teeth. Of course, an unmarked grave wouldn’t suit Sharice at all. “Sharice has…certain expectations,” Abby says.

The sergeant nods. “Yes, yes. Unfortunately, we can’t assign an entire plot to an urn.”

“I understand,” Abby tells him.

“I knew you would.” He pats her hand. “Now, I’d be happy to show you the columbarium where we will place the ashes. He’ll get a niche cover with his name engraved, just like a tombstone, but smaller.”

“That sounds fine,” Abby says.

“But we have one more,” Flint says. “John’s brother Noah just flew in from Iraq. If you two want to wait here, I’ll run and grab him.”

Flint makes it sound way too easy, Abby thinks, though she doesn’t want to let on to the chatty sergeant that Noah is out of his mind with grief and trauma. But two minutes later Flint returns with a broken Noah by his side. They climb into Flint’s rental car and, guided by the sergeant, drive slowly uphill along one of the paved roads that meander casually over the green landscape.

“Now if you’ll turn right here, young man, onto Roosevelt Drive, we’ll go right past one of the most famous stops in the cemetery,” Sgt. Tremaine says.

Flint maneuvers around a line of cars waiting by the side of the road—a funeral procession, Abby realizes. Although the cemetery bristles with the activity of visitors and the occasional tour bus, an aura of peace and dignity resides here.

They follow the curving road to a hillock. People crowd the path leading up the rise.

“Just follow that path and you’re at JFK’s grave,” Sgt. Tremaine explains. “The memorial design is very distinctive—the Eternal Flame.”

Abby nods, trying to take it all in and keep an eye on Noah at the same time. He has been moving along with the group, but he remains silent and withdrawn.

“Next time you visit, take a look at the quote etched in the stone there. ‘And the glow from that fire can truly light the world.’ Do you know what that’s from?”

“Kennedy’s Inaugural Address,” Flint answers.

“So you’ve been there?” Sgt. Tremaine asks.

“I’ve just got a sick mind for detail. Don’t ever challenge me to Trivial Pursuit.”

“JFK’s grave site is our most visited memorial,” he says, confiding, “Everyone wants to be near the Kennedys.”

“Except Republicans,” Flint mutters.

Abby smiles, but Noah, in the backseat beside her, doesn’t even acknowledge the joke. Sinking against the door, Abby wonders how Noah will cope. Although one of the first rules of psychological counseling is that you don’t diagnose your family, her education and training in psychology is ringing an alarm. Noah needs help. Does he have to go back to Iraq? How long will the army give him for bereavement? Are there psychological services available to him in Fallujah? Counseling, therapy? How will he function in such a stressful environment in this overwrought state?

Flint parks along the roadside, and the group ventures along a path toward a low marble vault.

“The nice thing about the columbarium is that it’s set back, away from the road and the more popular monuments,” says Sgt. Tremaine. “I like the quiet.”

Just then an explosion cracks the air.

Fear knifes through Abby’s chest before she realizes that it’s the report of a rifle.

Flint pivots on one foot, turning back toward her as Noah dives to the ground and rolls behind a white gravestone.

At the lead of the group, Sgt. Tremaine doesn’t even break stride. “Not to worry,” he says. “It’s just the three-rifle volley, part of our ceremonial honors. There must be a funeral service going on nearby.”

But Noah is beyond worried. Hunched behind the tombstone, he has fallen into another world.

Of course, he is flashing back. The explosion must take him right back to Iraq, to the scene of John’s death or some other horrific event he’s experienced.

“Noah?” Abby steps toward him, then crouches down so that her face is level with his. “That startled me,” she admits, pressing a hand to her chest. “My heart is still racing.”

Unmoving, he presses against the stone, one side of his jaw to the cool stone.

“Do you want to go back to the car?” she asks.

Without answering, he springs to his feet and takes off running, staying low, ready to dive for cover.

“Noah…” Abby calls after him as Flint and Sgt. Tremaine join her. But Noah doesn’t slow or turn back. He keeps running, a single khaki figure disappearing in a mouth of white granite teeth.