Sparta (25 page)

“It's based on Chinese fish sauce,” said Conrad.

“How do you know these things?” asked Lydia.

“Why do you think Americans like it?” Marshall asked. He always asked these questions as though he were talking to students.

“Because it's so inauthentic,” Lydia said. “We've acquired the taste; it's all sugar and thickeners and preservatives.”

“I think it's the color,” Marshall said. “It looks life-enhancing.”

“Looks like blood,” Conrad said. “We always used ketchup when we made our serial killer videos in seventh grade. It was kind of de rigueur.”

“I think it's the fact that you can't pour it,” said Lydia. “That's what people like.”

“Isn't there a case study of that?” asked Marshall. “I think there is, at Harvard Business School—the problem of ketchup bottles—and they ended up saying that the bottles should stay narrow and the ketchup thick because people liked banging on the bottom.”

“Only now they've changed it,” Lydia said.

“True,” Marshall answered. “Could Harvard be wrong?”

“Is that a metaphysical question?” asked Lydia.

“I'm thinking of buying a car,” Conrad said.

“Really?” Marshall said.

“What kind? I love my Volvo,” Lydia said. “It's seen me through thick and thin.”

“But it's no good in the snow, Mom,” Conrad said.

“It's no good in the snow,” Lydia agreed. “I still love them. They're safe, they're great-looking, and they get great mileage.”

Both Lydia and Marshall had Volvos. Marshall had a rusty-bottomed station wagon, used mostly for driving to the station and back.

“They're expensive, though,” Conrad said. “And I'm not sure that's my look.”

“Yes, what is your look, Con?” Lydia took his empty plate and set it on top of her own. “I've been meaning to ask.”

“Haven't worked it out yet,” Conrad said. “Camo. Maybe a tank?” He stood and took the plates from his mother's hands. “I'm doing this,” he said, and took Marshall's plate. “I'm just sitting around. Might as well work for my keep. As long as I'm here, I'll do the dinner dishes.”

“Conrad,” Lydia said, “that may be the nicest offer anyone has ever made me. In my whole life.”

“I sincerely hope not, Mom.” Conrad carried the dishes to the sink. He raised his voice over the sound of the water. “I sincerely hope people have made nicer offers to you than doing the dishes.”

“Actually, Con,” Lydia said, “the nicest thing is having you home.” She brought the glasses and the water pitcher over to the sink. “That's the nicest thing.” She set them down on the drainboard. “That you're here.”

Conrad turned to her. She was standing beside him, a faint smile on her face. He thought of her here in the kitchen while he was gone, and he had a sudden sense of what it had been like.

She had been here, moving through her day, waiting, waiting for phone calls, waiting for letters, waiting for emails. Unable to do anything but wait. Waiting to learn once again that at that particular moment he was alive, still present in the world. He had been present to himself, living each second, but Lydia had been here in this silent house, powerless.

The waiting and the fear: he felt sorry that he'd done this to her. She had never complained.

“I'm sorry I was gone so long,” he said. “Thanks for waiting. I'm sorry I put you through all this.”

Lydia shook her head. “It's over.” She smiled at him. “That's all that matters.”

*   *   *

After his parents had gone to bed, Conrad went up to his room and called Claire.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Claire said. “What's up?”

“Not much,” he said. “Had dinner with my parents. We had a debate over ketchup. Why it's so popular.”

“What did you decide?” she asked.

“Can't tell you, sorry,” he said. “Classified information.”

“That makes me feel safer,” she said, “knowing that you guys are taking such good care of us.”

“Trust me, we are.”

“Did you ever get into secret stuff when you were over there?”

“Here and there,” Conrad said. “I wasn't part of it, but there were a lot of Special Ops around.”

“And?”

“Some weird situations.”

“Tell me one,” Claire said.

“Well, one time I was taking a Black Hawk out of Ramadi to another outpost. It was at night; we always flew at night so we wouldn't be a good target. There were ten or twelve of us on the flight. A random bunch, guys going to the other base, a reporter or two. I was already on board, and two guys got on behind me. A sergeant was checking the IDs of everyone getting on. He's got a list on a clipboard. He calls out names and people come over to him, verify who they are. Everyone's listed by name and rank. The sergeant looks down at his list and says, ‘Bob?' and he kind of frowns, looking down. ‘Bob?' he says again, and looks up. He adds, ‘And Mr. Stirling?'

“I look around. There are two guys standing next to each other. One is tall and skinny, and he's wearing all black. Not a uniform, just all-black clothes, long-sleeved shirt and pants. The guy next to him is huge and wide, like a giant. He's wearing a big brown cape that comes down to his ankles. Neither of them says anything, they just look at the sergeant. The sergeant says, ‘So, Bob, let's see what you've got here.' He opens the big guy's cape, pulling it back on both sides like a curtain and holding it open. It's like a cartoon: Bob's got enough weapons under there for a platoon. I've never seen so many guns—rifles, pistols, grenades, knives, ammo. He's like
double
Bob. He doesn't say anything; he just stands there staring at the sergeant. Armed from ankle to neck.

“The sergeant stares at him for a moment, then says, ‘Okay, then! Thank you.' And then he looks at the other guy. Mr. Stirling is carrying a sniper rifle and about five bullets, loose, in his hand, and that's all. The two of them just stand there waiting, staring at the sergeant. After a moment he looks down at his clipboard and goes, ‘Right, okay. So, Bob and Mr. Stirling.' And they walk past him and sit down.”

“Amazing,” Claire says. “So where were they going?”

“No idea,” Conrad said. “Could be any-fucking-where. They did a lot of Special Ops missions at night.”

“Amazing,” Claire said again. “Bob.”

“Mr. Stirling.”

Telling stories made him feel good. He talked on and on, lying on his back in his bed and looking up at the ceiling, making Claire laugh.

Finally she said, “So, I have to go. Have to get some sleep.”

“Okay,” he said. “I'll call you tomorrow.”

“I won't be home tomorrow night,” she said.

There was a pause.

“You sound like something's up,” he said.

“I should probably get something straight.”

“Okay,” he said.

“You wanted to know what other guys I've been seeing.”

“Go on,” Conrad said.

“Well, I do go out with other guys.”

He waited.

“No big deal. But I'm seeing one of them tomorrow. It's no big deal,” she repeated. “I've told him about you.”

“I see. And what the fuck am I supposed to say to that?”

“If you start swearing at me, I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

“Okay. I'm not swearing. What do you expect me to say to that?”

“I don't expect you to say anything. I'm just telling you what's been happening. You asked me. So I'm telling you. I see other people, I have other friends.”

Conrad waited. This was like an exercise. His chest was tight, but he made himself breathe quietly. He could hear the pulse inside his head.

“Great,” he said. “Really great.”

“Conrad,” Claire said.

“So, tell me something. Do you have another boyfriend or not? Are we on? Or not?”

“I don't know,” she said. “There's really no one else.”

“So who else are you seeing?”

“Conrad, you can't tell me that I can't see anyone else.”

“What's the guy's name?”

“What will you do, hunt him down? I'm not telling you that.”

Conrad clicked off. He stood up and threw his cell phone as hard as he could onto the bed. It bounced nearly to the ceiling, fell on the floor, and skidded under the bed. He put his hands on his hips. He leaned over from the waist and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Fuck,” he whispered, leaning down. “Fuck. Fuck.”

He punched the bed hard.

He straightened and looked around the room: The cheesy plastic gold trophies in a dim line before the mirror. The photograph of himself in dress blues. The Led Zeppelin poster. The books. All those silent books.

“Fuck,” he said, this time out loud. He punched the bed, harder. He could hear himself breathing. He walked to the window. The air beyond the screen was black and heavy. Outside there was no sound.

“The fuck,” he said. He thought of her sitting at a table with some other guy, cocking her head and smiling. He wouldn't think of her in bed with him.

He thought of calling someone else, but there was no one he could talk to about this. He wasn't close enough now to talk to any of his friends from college about his girlfriend. His Marine friends were fellow officers, and mostly scattered. Maybe his closest friend had been Bruce O'Connell, but O'Connell was in Afghanistan now. Conrad couldn't complain about his girlfriend to any of his men: you didn't complain to your men about anything.

Conrad thought of Go-Go: he was nearby, anyway. Hadn't Claire said he was in New York? He'd been a good friend. It would be good to reconnect with him. Conrad got down on the floor and swept his hand back and forth under the bed. Finally he retrieved his cell phone. He scrolled through it to see if he had Go-Go's number: he did not.

He didn't really want to talk to Go-Go. Civilians wouldn't understand what it was like to leave your life and then come back to it.

There was nothing for him to say to anyone. What was there to say? He was being a dick, that was the thing.

The house was quiet now. He could go downstairs and watch TV alone in the library. He could sprawl out on the sofa, aiming the remote at the screen, flicking idly from program to program. The room would be dark except for the lighted screen. He could lie there and tune out the rest of the world, close his mind to everything else.

He sat down on the bed and dialed Claire's number.

“Okay,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

She began to cry.

“I'm really sorry,” he said. “Fuck.”

He didn't know why he acted like this. There was something, like a veil, between himself and himself.

*   *   *

If he was going to be home for a while, and by mid-June it appeared he was, he needed a plan. He still couldn't see past the summer, but he'd work out a routine that would take him to the end of it. He'd go running every day. He'd keep up with his men, which was still his responsibility, and he'd get onto the grad school thing, even if he still couldn't imagine going.

He asked his mother if he could take over the other bedroom on the third floor as a study, and offered to do some project for his parents, something they needed done. Paint the barn, or clear the brush from the back field. His mother said of course he could use the bedroom, and it would be a godsend if he would clear the field. It was being invaded by bittersweet.

So he had a plan. A mission.

The second bedroom on the third floor was smaller but had more light. Its windows looked out on the other side of the house, over the lawn, toward the big ash and the barn. A single bed stood near the door under the sloping eaves. Next to the window was a table and chair, where Conrad put his computer. He'd bought it on his first leave home, and he was still working out the kinks. He faced the eaves, but if he turned his head, he looked out at the green canopy of the ash. This was part of his plan; now at least he had a place of his own where he could sit at a desk, not just sprawl on his bed.

The next morning, after his run, he sat down and checked his phone: Claire had called him on her way to work, from the sidewalk. Behind her voice were the sounds of traffic. “Hi, it's me. I just want you to know I'm eating a Krispy Kreme doughnut in your name. It is really good. You would be proud.”

He called back but got voice mail. She was at her office by now, under the eye of the dreaded Yvette. He left a message. “I know how you feel about Krispy Kremes, and all I can say is I'm honored and proud.” He thought for a moment. “Yeah. Nothing out here can equal that. Talk to you later.”

When he checked his email, there was a message from Anderson.

Hey, sir, how's it going? Just wanted to let you know I've just got a job, and I'm psyched. I start next week, driving a truck for a big company out here, Nordort. Not a big fucking deal but its a fucking job and in this economy that's a big fucking deal. Things are going pretty good here, but in a weird way I miss the big sandbox, if you can believe it. I'm thinking of volunteering for a church organization, working with teenagers. Or reenlisting, ha ha. That's all for now, LT, hope you are well. semper fi.

Conrad wondered if it was really a joke, about Anderson reenlisting. A lot of guys did it, guys who couldn't make things work out at home. There was nothing wrong with it, just as there was nothing wrong in enlisting. But he didn't like the thought that this war had changed men inside, twisted them somehow so they couldn't fit back home. The joke wasn't a good sign. But why would Anderson raise it when he'd just gotten a job?

Conrad wrote back:

Hey, Anderson, congratulations on the job. Any job sounds good, also the volunteering. I know what you mean about missing Iraq, weird, isn't it? But we're here now. It will take a while for things to feel normal, but all this will get better. Stay in touch. Let me know if you want to talk. Farrell.