Sparta (38 page)

“Thanks,” he said.

What was so mysterious was the fact that she would stand up and walk away. Just a few feet from there she'd open a door and enter another place. She'd move into a realm of shared intimacy, lowered voices, the touch of skin on skin, comfort, sex. Someone she trusted absolutely. Then silence, and then the deep solace of somnolence.

He was alone. What he dreaded was the struggle to reach sleep. To get through the blackness of the night. When he tried, he slid sideways toward sleep but was jerked upright by images, a racing pulse. The night was a minefield. He had begun drinking to get through it. Not a lot.

He got into bed and lay stretched out on his back, looking up at the dim ceiling. The room was dark but not black; the urban night was never black. Ambient light came in from the window: there were streetlights up and down the block, headlights from passing cars, and overhead was the great high wash of light, the city's nocturnal glow, a strange, muted pink.

He closed his eyes, drifting. What he saw was the bloody pattern, so high on the wall, and now it had a mysterious significance. The spattered drops were some kind of writing that he understood but could not bear to read, horror flooding through him as he saw it. Then Olivera's voice whispering in the darkness, asking for something Conrad couldn't quite make out. Now he couldn't reach him, Olivera's shoulder was sliding away, carried by a current that was pulling Conrad down into darkness. A man in the firefight in Ramadi, only now it seemed to have happened at night instead of day. The street was full of shadows, and there were footsteps behind him, and hissing whispers. Now the man was pursuing him. He was filled with dread and fear, and he had no weapon.

*   *   *

When Jenny finished in the bathroom and went into the bedroom, Jock was already in bed, motionless, his face turned toward the wall. He could fall asleep immediately, dropping at once into unconsciousness. Sometimes he was asleep before she got into bed. Sex had become secondary. She didn't know what had become primary.

Jenny slid in beside him, moving herself along his back. She could feel the soft knobs of his vertebrae. He grunted; he was lost already.

“I'm scared about Conrad,” she whispered. She pressed herself against him and slid her hand over the top of his sharp shoulder. “Listen to me.”

Jock's breathing changed from long, slow breaths to silence. She felt him shifting reluctantly out of sleep, listening. Outside, a garbage truck labored along the street, giving out sharp pneumatic noises, metallic yelps, deep mechanical gasps.

“I'm worried,” she whispered.

“What would you like me to do?” Jock's voice was low. He rolled over to face her. “Recommend someone for him to see? Doesn't he have the VA?”

“I don't know,” she said. “It's so hard to get anything out of him. This just goes on and on. It's been months since he got home, since last spring, and he's not getting any better. He's getting worse.”

Jock ran his hand along her shoulder, down her arm. Down her birthmark. “It must be hard, coming home,” he said. “We'll keep an eye on him. I can get him sleeping pills. It's good he's here with us.” His hand slid down over her shoulder and onto her breast. His finger touched her nipple and lingered there.

*   *   *

Conrad, flung into wakefulness, lay propped up on the sofa. He held the remote, flipping from channel to channel. The sound was on low, and he could still hear faint noises from outside.

In the street, a garbage truck labored up the block, yawning open and then cranking closed, shrieking into gear. At the end of the block it hit something with the deep echoing rumble of an incoming mortar round. Everything in Conrad flew up into red alert: heart pounding, brain flashing, lungs pumping, adrenaline flooding through his system, and fear. Fear broke through him everywhere and he lay still on the sofa, rigid.

Jesus,
he thought.
Jesus.
He began to sweat.

 

19

During the night he kept waking. Each time, he was roused by a sense of clamor and confusion: shouts, clanging metal, explosions blooming in the darkness. Once, he heard someone speaking Arabic, close and urgent. He was about to respond, or maybe he already had (it seemed he was fluent), but when he opened his eyes and listened, everything subsided into silence.

Sometime after dawn he found himself lying on his back, looking up at the shadowy ceiling. His arms were spread out, his legs tangled in the sheets. The iron crossbar in the bed frame pressed against his spine and shoulders. Something had shifted in his mind; he woke knowing something new.
He would not go on living like this.

Powdery morning light seeped in around the window shades, making a pale glow around the tall, dim rectangles. Outside were the noises of the city waking, the distant aggregate hum of engines, the proximate metallic rumble of a car driving up the block. A dog barked twice, staccato, peremptory. On the sidewalk were the sounds of rapid footsteps, someone walking fast, breaking into a run for a few steps, then falling back to a hurrying determined walk.

He would not go on waiting to be ambushed by fear.

He disentangled himself from the swirled mess of sheets and sat up, swinging his feet over the side of the bed.

He would make a plan and carry it out. He'd leave all this behind: fear, anxiety, rage. The panic attacks, the headache. He'd get started and keep going, he'd outpace it. He'd pull himself out. He'd reconnect with Claire. His parents. It was a question of focus, will.

There was no sound from Jock and Jenny. Conrad slipped into the little mildewy bathroom, where he showered, shaved. He came out and dressed, then made the bed. He'd learned this at Quantico, where a bed was called a rack. He'd learned to make it perfectly, sheets even, blanket smooth, a flawless envelope, tight and taut as a drum. The things you learned there you learned forever. Pulling the sheets tight, making a straight line with the blanket, gave him a tiny hit of pride. It was a matter of execution. Nothing was too small to do right.

When he'd finished, Conrad lifted the foot of the bed frame, starting its creaky angular arc upward, then scissoring down into the bowels of the sofa. He replaced the big square seat cushions and spaced Jenny's bright pillows across the back. He set his duffel bag on the far side of the sofa, out of sight. It was no longer a bedroom but a living room when Jock and Jenny appeared.

Jock was dressed but ratty-looking, unshaven, in a long-sleeved T-shirt and khakis. He thrust out his stubbled chin. “Hey, Con. I'm out of here. Good to see you.” He kissed Jenny and waved at Conrad and was out the door. They heard him thudding quickly down the staircase.

Jenny stood in the doorway, yawning. She was barefoot, in a rumpled T-shirt and sweats, her hair messy and flyaway.

“Want some cereal?” asked Conrad.

“I'm going to brush my teeth,” she said. “Be right back.”

In the kitchen they leaned against the counter, eating cereal.

“So, I've got a new plan,” Conrad said. “Today's the day.”

Jenny raised her eyebrows. “What are you going to do?”

“Look into grad schools. Everything.”

Jenny looked at him. “Good, Con,” she said. “Good for you. I'm glad you're back.”

“I'm back,” he said. “I'm on it.”

When Jenny left, Conrad cleaned up the kitchen, and then settled down with his computer. BAMCIS: Begin planning. Arrange for reconnaissance. Make reconnaissance. Complete the plan. Issue the order. Supervise.

He still couldn't see himself in graduate school, but now he didn't care. Applications weren't due until the end of this year, and he wouldn't be starting anywhere until a year from now. By then everything would be different.

He needed more econ credits to apply anywhere, he knew that. He found a macroeconomics class at Columbia, in post-bac. Miraculously, he was in time to get in. Today was the twenty-ninth, and registration lasted until the thirty-first. Class started on the fifth.

He spent the morning online in the great electronic state of limbo. He clicked to open screens. He entered information: his name, his social, his address, his email address. He talked to the computer as he worked. “Okay, now, go!” he said, “Dog, go! Go, go, go!” He clicked “Enter,” clicked it again.

The promise of the Internet is that you, still in your pajamas, lying on the sofa, can function as a presentable, responsible member of society, somewhere else. On the Internet, magically, you can have a material effect on the world without actually entering it. Or this is what it promises.

Conrad's computer kept having failures of confidence. After he had entered all the data, and after he'd clicked “Enter,” the computer froze. “Fuck,” Conrad said mildly. “Fuck, fuck. Okay.”

He had to close it down, wait for its confidence to build up again, and start over. Conrad didn't mind this. He was used to dealing with uncooperative equipment. M16s used to jam because of the sand, because they couldn't get enough of the oil they needed to clean them with, and a jammed M16 in a firefight was a lot worse than a computer that forgot what it was going to say.

“Okay, dog,
let's go
,” he said under his breath.

Conrad ordered his transcript. He signed up for an online orientation session. He studied the map of the campus to learn where his class met. He ordered textbooks. He ordered the study guide for the GMAT and registered to take the test in early December. That would give him the whole semester to study for the exam, and he'd have the scores for his graduate school applications. In the meantime he'd have three months to figure out where he wanted to apply.

By the time he'd finished, it was afternoon. Flat midday light flooded onto the big armchairs, making long trapezoids on the rug. A nearby construction site was in full swing, jackhammers drumming their nasal beat, a generator droning steadily. A truck, backing up, sent out high, rhymthic beeping—such a soprano voice for such a bass presence.

Conrad called Claire, but got voice mail.
Hey there, you've got Claire. Tell me something.
When he heard her voice—intimate and confiding, audibly smiling—his heart rose. “Hey there,” he said. He tried to think of something intimate and charming in response, but only managed to add, “Beautiful. Call me. I've got some news.”

He was on a high, as though he'd won a race.

Checking email, he found a message from Adam Turner, a friend from The Basic School. Turner was a lanky guy from New Hampshire, with hooded eyes and a hatchet nose. When he laughed, he slitted his eyes and shook, completely silent. He'd been stationed in Hit while Conrad was in Haditha. He was back now, and out, and living in D.C.

I'm sharing with three other guys. We have a house in Potomac. Chris Abbott, who was at TBS with us, is one of them. I don't think you know the others, both vets. It's pretty sweet, a four bedroom house. We're all taking classes, headed for grad schools. But Abbott, remember how straight he was? How he would never swear or anything? Okay, but his girlfriend is a stripper. A real no shit one, she works in a club called Aladdin's Cave. She's around all the time. The moral dilemma: should we go and see her show, and if so do we tell Abbott? Would Abbott think we were showing fraternal support or checking out his girlfriend's tits? Stay tuned.

Conrad wrote back:

How could Abbott think that would be anything but fraternal support? Swelling the ranks of the audience (in a manner of speaking) could only be supportive. Go for it! Is she hot? Maybe I'll take a road trip and come down to join you. I love the theater as you know.

He sent Anderson a blast.

Hey Anderson, haven't heard from you lately. What's up? I hope things are going well—let me know your news about the job. I'm hitting the books again, signing up for an econ class. I'm planning on going to graduate school next year, see if that will keep me out of trouble. I'm in the city right now, and for exercise I'm running the track around the reservoir in Central Park. It's about a mile and a half, so I do four laps. It's crowded—like running with the whole souk. About half of them are women, which makes it nice for the other half. Hope you're doing well. How are the hands? Keep in touch. Semper Fi, Farrell.

He liked hearing from everyone in the platoon, even Haskell, who was kind of an asshole and whom he never really trusted. But especially Anderson.

The night Anderson had saved Conrad's life, they'd been in Ramadi.

They'd been on QRF, Quick Reaction Force, that night, and sometime after midnight they were called out to back up a platoon that was taking fire. When they got near, they could hear the firefight from blocks away. They were on foot, and Conrad sent first and second squads to the right, to flank it. He'd gone on ahead with third, fourth following behind them. As they neared the fight they started taking fire. Conrad and Anderson were last in line. The others went one by one, covering each other, but a grenade exploded in the street in front of Conrad. He and Anderson ducked into a doorway. Smoke and dust filled the street amid the chatter of gunfire. Conrad got third squad on the radio: they'd taken cover in a house down the street. He and Anderson were cut off from them by cross fire. They were outside a shop, and they kicked in the metal door and headed for the rooftop.

In the open stairwell at the top they looked out at the low skyline of Ramadi, lit up under the night sky by tracer fire and explosions. Across the street, in the greenish glow of their night vision goggles, they saw a darkened three-story building lit up like a fireworks display. Tracers flashed from all over it like shooting stars, brief and blazing—from the roof, from the windows on every floor. The night echoed with the racketing staccato of gunfire.

“Fuck me,” Conrad said. “Look at that.”