Sparta (51 page)

“Why aren't you singing?” Ollie whispered.

“I am singing,” Conrad said, not whispering and not looking at him. “I'm singing.” He took another long swallow. “Want some?” He held out the glass.

Ollie shook his head.

“How about ‘Joy to the World'?” asked Jenny. “Page eight.”

Conrad stood and left the room, carrying the empty bottle. In the kitchen he set it on the counter beside the sink and stood for a moment, looking out the window into the dark. The dishwasher was steaming and humming.
I'm here, and they are not
. He felt black inside. He wasn't going to make it through the evening. There was nowhere else for him to go.

He went into the empty dining room. The chandelier was brighter now, no longer dimmed. Crumpled napkins littered the red mats. Constellations of salt and pepper dotted the polished surface. The chairs stood out at untidy angles.

Conrad took an opened bottle of wine from the sideboard. He carried it back into the living room. His mother looked up; he saw her forehead crease slightly at the sight. He set the bottle down beside his chair.

There were more carols. At the end of each one, Conrad drank.

Ollie now refused to look at him. Lydia was trying to catch his eye. When Conrad finally looked at her, she gave an unhappy little smile and shook her head, the way she'd have done when he was eight years old and about to take another dessert at someone's house for dinner.
No,
the shake meant,
don't do it.
He raised the glass again to his mouth, smiling at her as though he hadn't gotten her message.

At the end of “Good King Wenceslas,” Conrad refilled his glass. As he set the bottle down on the rug, he knocked it over. Dark wine flooded across the carpet. Lydia said “Oh!” on an indrawn breath. She stood and hurried from the room. Jenny stood up, too. Lydia came back with towels, sponges, water, salt.

“Let me help,” Jenny said.

“First you mop it up,” Lydia said.

“Sorry,” Conrad said.

He didn't stand up. He was afraid he'd lose his balance. Why were they making such a fuss? This was not a major catastrophe. Marshall and Ollie leaned forward in a concerned way, suggesting by their posture that they were about to get up and help, which they were not. Lydia knelt on the rug in her black velvet pants and ruffled red sweater, the Christmas ball necklace bobbing as she scrubbed. Jenny knelt beside her.

“Can I help?” Conrad asked.

Now he stood. He felt himself sway.

“No, it's all right,” Lydia said. “This is why you have Oriental rugs. It won't show.” She pressed the towel against the rug, turning it to a clean patch, pressing again.

“Here,” Conrad said, leaning over. He felt himself start to tip, and he grabbed hold of the lamp. He was seized from behind by Ollie.

“Conrad,” Marshall said. “You've had enough to drink.”

Conrad turned to him carefully. All movement was risky. “I'm not drinking,” he said. “I was trying to help Mom clean up the rug.”

“You've been drinking,” Marshall said.

“Marshall,” Lydia said.

“I've been drinking,” Conrad said. “And so has everyone else in this room.”

“Conrad,” Lydia said, looking up. “Don't be rude to your father.”

“Don't be rude to my father,” Conrad repeated. “Is that a rule?”

There was a silence.

“Where are the rest of those rules?”

Lydia put the towel down. “Don't do this, Con.” Her face was white and flattened.

“Because, you know what? Fuck those rules,” Conrad said.

“Okay, Con,” Marshall said, holding up his palms. “Let's hold on here.”

“No,” Conrad said. “I'm not holding on.
Hold on
means
Be quiet
, and I'm not going to do that. I don't think you know what it's like for me.”

No one spoke.

“This is like being in the middle of a flooding river. I can't stop it. I can't get to shore. I can't stop to obey the rules.” He looked around. “Though I'm good at obeying them. I obeyed the rules when I went over there. But they didn't work. I ended up doing things I should never have done, by any rules. I saw other people breaking the rules. I watched my men die. I watched our troops kill civilians. We killed thousands of civilians, and we lost our own men. Young men who should have had their whole lives ahead of them are gone. Or they've come home without arms or legs, or without a face.” Conrad looked around again. “I'm through with these rules. We went over there for no reason, there were no WMDs. It was a lie. It was a lie. We lost our men for a lie. What is this about rules?”

Lydia sat back on her heels, the stained towel in her hands. “I can't stand this,” she said. “Con, you have to do something about this.”

“I don't know why I have to obey any rules,” Conrad said. “Your rules, any rules. All those big rules that I paid attention to”—he looked around again—“all those big rules, where did they get me? Where did they get Carleton and Olivera and Kuchnik?” There was another pause. “Where did those rules get any of us? What was the point?”

“Con, I'm sorry,” Marshall said. “No one here wants to argue with you.”

“Please,” Lydia said. She had begun to cry. “I can't stand this.”

“Yeah,” Conrad said. He had let go of the lamp and was staggering. “I'm home, and Carleton and Olivera and Kuchnik are not. And Ali is not. And now Anderson is gone. I didn't tell you this.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. “But you want to hear my news? I just heard today. Paul Anderson is a guy from Minnesota. He saved my life in Ramadi. You met him. You saw him at Pendleton, when we got back. You won't remember him.” He shook his head, blinking. “He killed himself. He went out to his uncle's barn and blew off the back of his head.”

He looked around.

The fire flickered in the fireplace, a chunk of log fell into the ashes. Murphy, on the bench, stretched her paw out dreamily, her eyes closed. The lighted tree glittered against the dark windows.

Lydia got up awkwardly from her knees. She went to Conrad and folded her arms around him.

“Con,” she murmured against him.

He pulled violently away from her; she lost her balance, staggering.

“Lydia, don't do that,” Marshall said angrily. “Can't you stop?”

Lydia turned to him, her face white. “Marshall.”

“Don't touch him,” Marshall said. “Leave him alone.”

“Don't tell me what to do for my son,”
Lydia said.

“Mom,” Jenny said, and began to cry.

“Okay,” Conrad said. He stood with his hands clenched, his head lowered. “I'm sorry, Mom. I know you're trying. I'm sorry I can't do what you want.” He couldn't raise his eyes. “It was bad being over there, and it's worse being back,” he said. “What the fuck was the point? What do the rules say about that?”

He didn't give them the rest, his own news: that he'd royally fucked up the GMAT, that he couldn't sleep and the headaches wouldn't quit and he didn't know if he'd ever be able to study or even concentrate again. That he had fought with his sister and had been thrown out of her apartment and he was frightened that he had no future. That he was ashamed that he'd fucked up, but he was most ashamed that he was still alive and that people who had trusted him were not.

He looked around at them. “I come out here and you're all waiting for me to be the person you want me to be,” he said thickly. “But I'm not him.” He looked around again. “It's like every time I saw you, I told you to be Chinese. ‘Just do it. Be Chinese.' I can't do it. I'm not the person you want me to be. I'm completely different. I look like the person you remember, but I'm not him. You've lost him. He might as well have died.”

Jenny began to cry quietly, tears sliding down her cheeks. Lydia's face crumpled.

Marshall said, “But can't you make an effort, Con? This is up to you.”

Conrad stared at him. “You don't get it. I'd love to do this—what you say. Change. I can't. Something's not working. All you do is tear me apart. I'd like to be back here with you all, but I'm not. You don't get it. I'm not here. I'm not home. I'm still there.”

 

25

Go-Go's apartment was in a modern high-rise building, First Avenue in the East Sixties, expensive but not pleasant. The design goal seemed to be intimidation. The lobby was high-ceilinged and empty, the floor polished stone tile that looked dangerous if wet. The walls were covered with huge gold-veined mirrors. A vast Russian doorman, heavy-bellied and contemptuous, stood guard behind a high desk. He wore a comic opera uniform, scarlet, with gold buttons and epaulets.

On January second, Conrad presented himself at the desk.

“Morning,” he said to the Russian. “My name is Conrad Farrell. I'm staying with my friend Gordon Russell. Apartment 21J.”

Go-Go had warned Conrad not to say he was staying there alone. “I'm not supposed to sublet,” he'd told Conrad. “I'm not even supposed to let anyone else use it. They're strict.”

The doorman narrowed his eyes. “Yes,” he said insultingly. “He told me.” He had a broad Slavic face, pitted cheeks, a wide nose, and cold, dark eyes.

“Did he leave an envelope for me?” Conrad asked.

“Yes,” said the doorman stonily. His eyes were still slitted, as though he were waiting for a password.

Conrad waited a moment. “Could I have it?”

“Yes,” the doorman said again, not moving, drawing out the pause. Finally he looked down and opened a drawer. He took out an envelope and handed it across the desk, his mouth turned down in a disapproving curve. He went on staring boldly at Conrad, as though the transaction was not complete.

“Thanks,” Conrad said.
Does the guy want a tip for just handing me the letter?

The Russian did not reply, still holding him in his gaze.

Apparently he did. Conrad wanted to say
Marines don't pay bribes,
but he didn't want to screw this up for Go-Go. Anyway, he was no longer a Marine, he was a former. Conrad pulled out his wallet and handed ten dollars to the Russian, who took it without speaking and stuffed it into a pocket. He now looked even more contemptuous, as though by giving him money, Conrad had degraded himself.

The gaudy prick
, thought Conrad. He nodded and set off for the elevator.

The apartment was on the twenty-first floor, small but pretentious. The kitchen counters were polished granite, the bathroom marble, and the views of the East River both panoramic and banal. One wall of the living room was plate-glass windows. An angular white sofa stood against the back wall, facing the windows, with an uncomfortable-looking red armchair at either end. A furry black rug covered the floor, and a huge plasma TV took up much of the south wall. Against the facing wall stood a round white table and four white molded plastic chairs. The bedroom, too, overlooked the view. Facing the windows was a huge bed with a square-cornered black leather headboard, hinting mildly at bondage. On one wall stood a fake French antique bureau with ornate brass hardware. An angular green chair, very modern, stood in a corner. The windows reached nearly from floor to ceiling.

The view was the point of the apartment, the point of the whole building. It faced the river, looming high over the intervening block and overlooking the FDR Drive, with its rushing, ceaseless ribbon of traffic. Beyond this was the silver-brown swath of the East River, and beyond that the low red-brown industrial landscape of Queens, stretching out to the horizon like a complicated puzzle.

The apartment was too high. Conrad didn't like the space spreading out so suddenly, alarmingly, so close, just outside the glass. Too much sky. No railings, nothing, just bare sky right in front of him. The room was fully exposed, it was like living on a cliff edge. There was no cover. Conrad set down his seabag and tugged at the limp gray curtains, dragging them across the glass. They didn't meet in the middle. Stretched to their widest, they still let in a bright stripe of light.

Conrad sat down on the bed. He wasn't going to think about the windows. All he had to do was get through the next three weeks until his call from the VA. His class started at the end of January, and by then he'd already be different, his mind would be clearer, the panic ebbing, the fucking eagle's grip on his heart loosened, gone. They'd give him something for the headaches. All he had to do was get through the next three weeks.

*   *   *

His mother called every day now that he was living alone. She sent him email messages, long ones, like letters, as though he were fourteen and away at camp.

Dear Con, You should have seen Murphy this morning. I had left an empty cardboard box on the table in the kitchen, a not-very-big box that a scarf had come in. When I came down in the morning, there was Murphy curled up in it, her sides hanging over every edge. She looked up and blinked, as though it was her bed. Love, M.

She didn't say anything about seeing him.

Mostly he answered briefly.

I'm living right over the East River here, and sometimes I go running in the morning along the river. It is nice watching the light on the water. I'm looking forward to getting back to classes.

Turner wrote to give him the latest.

Just wanted to let you know that things have been resolved. Dail is no longer a bother here, because she was arrested and then she left town. It wasn't exactly clear what happened, whether it was possession or something else. It is clear that Abbott doesn't want to talk about it. He was at home with his family when it happened: it was Christmas. I feel bad for him, but I'm just as glad she's not hanging out here anymore, cracking the door to the bedroom to see who's coming up the stairs. I'm pretty sure she went through my stuff a couple of times. Abbott won't say where she's gone, but I have the feeling it's far. That's all for now, Semper Fi.