Sparta (6 page)

He unlocked the car, and Conrad threw his bag into the trunk and climbed in back. Lydia opened the front door, then shut it. She opened the back door.

“I'm going to sit with you. I just want to be next to you for a while.”

She climbed in beside him. The back was cramped, and they sat very close. Lydia turned to look at him. She said nothing, smiling a little. She shook her head, then looked away, her eyes glittering. He could feel her tenderness. Marshall looked at Conrad for a moment in the rearview mirror. He could feel their gratitude that he was back, their gratitude at the end of the fear they'd lived with: the car was thick with it. But there was nothing he could say about being alive. You were alive or you were not. It was too close for you to look at.

The cars were all leaving, backing out carefully and getting in one another's way, forming a glacially slow parade.

“This will take all night,” Marshall announced.

“It doesn't matter.” Lydia smiled at Conrad, then looked away, out her own window.

Marshall called back, “How was the flight home?”

“Good,” said Conrad. “From Germany on, we flew chartered.”

“Nice,” Marshall said, nodding.

Going over, on his first deployment, he'd flown cargo. They'd left San Diego in the middle of the night. He remembered lining up on the runway in the dark, the men humping their ponderous packs in silence. Above them towered the huge C-5, its dark outline barely visible against the night sky. There were no lights.

Inside, the vast cargo bay was cavernous, smelling of oil and metal and canvas. Rows of Humvees, chained to the floor, gleamed faintly in the dim light. The men's boots rang on the metal floor as they filed past the tarpaulined mounds of equipment, snaking their way to the steep, ladderlike staircase. The passenger capsule was set high against the side of the plane, narrow seats and no windows. The metal seatback hit at the base of his head, and on the floor there wasn't enough room to put his feet side by side. When the engines started, the noise drowned out everything. Conrad sat beside the thrumming metal wall, motionless and solitary as the sky roared past outside.

Sealed and sightless, high inside the plane, he was cargo. Roaring toward the unknown, fear was with all of them, he knew. Not exactly fear of death—that was a blackout, an abstraction. No one could imagine it. What they feared was mutilation. The exploded body, the missing limbs, the horribly scarred face. The wheelchair beside the Christmas tree. The C-5 roared through the dark sky; they put in earbuds and listened to music; they slept, cramped in the narrow seats.

“Chartered! That's good,” said Lydia.

“It was great,” Conrad said. “Real seats, real flight attendants, and real meals. And a movie.”

“What did you see?” asked Lydia.

“The Aviator,”
Conrad said.

“What is it? We didn't see it,” Lydia said.

“Martin Scorsese, Leonardo DiCaprio,” Conrad said. “It's about Howard Hughes.”

“Any good?” Marshall asked.

Before he could answer, Lydia broke in. “I'll tell you what you have to see,” she said, “
Sideways
. It's wonderful. It's so funny. About two guys going to the wine country in California and drinking too much. Red wine, it's all about red wine.”

He hadn't seen it, of course. The last four years had been a cultural blank. Everyone here had been watching movies and reading books, and he had not. He was Rip Van Winkle. He'd never catch up with the things he missed while he'd been living in the alternate universe. Even if he saw them, he'd see them in a different context, part of a different year.

When they left the base, they headed into Oceanside. The road was flanked by a bright lineup of national chains—motels and gas stations and fast-food restaurants—but there was a holiday air to it all. The low horizon, the moist air, the palm trees all suggested the presence of the coast. Between the buildings were glimpses of a wild, majestic sunset, scarlet banners melting into the sea, the sea a molten pewter.

The hotel was Spanish Mission–style, two stories high, pink adobe. Heavy wooden beams framed the doorways, with clusters of red chili peppers hanging in the corners. The lobby was pinkish beige: rug, chairs, the hard-looking sofa, the high counter at reception. The girl behind the counter didn't fit in with the Spanish colonial theme. She was Eastern Bloc, with pale skin, heavy eye shadow, and a scary smile. Her dry bleached-white hair was teased back in a rooster tail.

“Welcome,” she said to Conrad, baring a row of little gray teeth. “Welcome home. Here's your key.” She slid him the envelope with his computerized plastic card.

“Thanks,” he said.

They were on the second floor. Conrad's room was next to his parents'. He slotted his key card into the lock and it flashed green. He stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him.

He was alone in the room.

He hadn't been alone for a long time. He stood still, feeling the air settle around him, hearing the faint singing sound of silence. The room was stuffy, smelling slightly of cleaning fluid.

Against one wall were two double beds with carved and painted wooden headboards. Against another wall stood a painted wooden armoire with double doors. A wide mirror hung over a low bureau: he saw himself standing against the white curtains, the festive headboards. The sunburned face was familiar, but not the rest. He was in civilian clothes—a polo shirt and khakis. He stared at himself. He looked like someone else.

He walked to the window. Below was a small rectangular swimming pool, the water bright turquoise. The pool was empty, and the water lapped restlessly along the tiled sides. The narrow pavement around it was scattered with lounge chairs. On one side was a high stockade fence, easily scalable. On the far side of the pool was another wing of the hotel, and rows of blank windows stared in at his. The other wing was twenty meters away, an easy shot. Though he'd turned in his rifle.

He pulled the curtains closed. He wanted a civilian shower. He began to undress, dropping his clothes on the bed. He kicked off his moccasins. His feet were white and slimy: he had a Godzilla case of athlete's foot. Everyone got it. It was fungus from wearing your boots too long, too much heat, not enough washing.

He didn't actually want to touch his feet. Sometimes when he'd taken off his boots, the skin peeled off in his fingers in long, pale, putrid strips. When he was wearing his boots, his feet didn't hurt. It was when he took them off that his feet started itching and burning.

It was strange walking around in civilian shoes, no boots, no dog tags inside the left one, bunching beneath his toes. The dog tags felt like a good-luck charm, even though they were for the worst-case scenario, ID'ing a dead body. But they meant a kind of ultimate care, like a name and address pinned onto a traveling kid.
This is who I am.

In the shower he closed his eyes and let the hot water stream over him. The showerhead was a small disk, pale with oxidation. He raised it, training the stream directly at himself, closed his eyes, and turned his head up toward the hammering rush.
All the hot water he wanted, and all the time.
It was unimaginable. He felt something release in his neck. He was here, standing in the bathtub in a hotel in America. He was back. What lay before him was dinner with his parents, nothing more than that, and he was not in danger, there was no threat outside this room, his body was not held tightly on alert, nerves singing, waiting endlessly for the sound of the explosion; he was here in this clean, tiled space, alone, and he was safe, and this was a kind of miracle. The shower curtain drifted against his shoulder and he twitched reflexively, but it was only the shower curtain moving in the current of air made by the shower. It was nothing. He was safe, and at that surprising thought he felt something stinging around his eyes: he was crying. The water drummed against his face, his ears, the back of his calves, his slimy feet.

This would be good for the athlete's foot. Or maybe not: you should dry out fungus, not get it wet. He didn't move. The pounding water felt primally good, like a reward, and he stood under it for a long time, head lowered, letting the water thud onto his neck and shoulders, turning back and forth, offering himself to it, as if the stream could carry everything away.

He turned off the water, got out, and stood on the thin mat. He began to dry himself, rubbing hard. It felt good. There was no sand. He kept expecting to find it in creases, armpits, balls, ass. Behind his knees. No sand.

The thing was that he couldn't see where he was going. It was like heading toward a dam. He couldn't see past it, over the edge. All he could see was air, though he knew about the drop. He was waiting for something to click into place. In the military you had orders, and a task. Now what he had to do was keep moving. Without orders or a task.

He thought of calling Claire, but couldn't imagine the conversation. He'd call later. This was something else he had to figure out, besides what he was going to do with his life. He wasn't sure how to talk to her now. Now that she'd semi–blown him off. Not entirely, of course, Claire was too nice to blow him completely off while he was in-country. She'd gone on writing, but everything had changed, and now he didn't know what tone to take or how they were meant to talk, or if they were supposed to talk at all. Or if she had another boyfriend, which she never mentioned, and which she clearly did not want to discuss before he came home, and which he certainly had not wanted to know about. The thought depressed him.

He went back into the bedroom and dropped down onto the deck, the carpet rough beneath his hands and feet. He did fifty push-ups, fast, his arms pumping up and down, trying for speed. He was determined to stay fit. He kept his face forward, gaze focused, body rigid, arms flexing and straightening, as though he were doing PT. He counted in a loud whisper. What he wanted to do was yell out the numbers at the top of his voice, like during PT.
One! Two! Three!
Everyone rising and falling together, thundering out the words.

When he'd finished he felt better, as though he'd paid off something, shaved a piece off a debt. He thought again of calling Claire. He'd do it after dinner. He didn't want to start the conversation now.

The civilian clothes felt weightless and flimsy, like a costume. This was not real life. It was unnatural not to put on anything more: no flak jacket, kneepads, holster. No CamelBak over his shoulder, no grenades at his belt, no tourniquet. When he left the room, stepping into the hallway, he felt unarmed. Lightweight, useless, walking down the hall in the flimsy pants, as if he were in disguise.

*   *   *

The restaurant was a long, high-ceilinged room. On one side was a wall of plate-glass windows looking toward the beach. The tables were full, and when Conrad and his parents pushed through the heavy doors, the noise closed around them, loud and shrill. Conrad felt his chest draw tight. There were too many people in the room, and too much noise.

They stood at the high front counter, waiting. A young blond woman came over, wearing tight capri pants and white jazz sneakers. Her hair was pulled back in a wispy ponytail that nodded jauntily when she moved. She gave them a wide, empty smile.

“Three? Follow me, please.” Holding big menus, she led them through the crowded room. She rose a little with each step, as though the white sneakers held springs. The ponytail bounced. She stopped at a big round table in the center of the room.

“Here you are,” she said.

“Do you have anything smaller?” asked Marshall. “We're only three. This looks like it would hold ten.”

The waitress shook her head. “I'm sorry, this is the only table available.”

“We did ask for a table for three,” Marshall said.

“I'm really sorry, sir.” The waitress smiled without apology. There were crow's-feet around her eyes: she was older than she'd looked. Was everyone in Southern California an actor, or was that a myth? “This is all we have. We're really busy.”

Marshall looked around the room; Lydia spoke.

“Never mind,” she said, “we'll take this. Thank you.”

They sat down, widely separated. The waitress dealt out the menus like cards and left, ponytail bobbing.

Lydia cupped her mouth and called, “We'll just have to shout!”

Conrad smiled but did not answer. He hated this.

They were in the dead center of the room, full tables around them in every direction. On one side a wall of breakable glass gave onto a public thoroughfare. Behind him, double swinging doors led to the kitchen, where people pushed back and forth. He didn't like being in the middle of the room. He didn't like having his back to the swinging doors, and he didn't like people suddenly appearing behind him. He didn't like the big plate-glass windows giving onto the beach just beyond them, strangers walking past carrying bags. Conrad began to sweat.

He opened his menu. The name of the restaurant was spelled out across the top in elaborate gold letters.
Italia del Mar
.

At the next table was a group in their forties, with bright clothes, big hair, loud voices. The nearest man was balding and dark-skinned, his open collar showing a nest of black hair. His rosy shirt rose loosely over his swelling belly. He leaned forward in his chair.

“No, she didn't!” he shouted. “She never tells me! That's her little secret!”

The others screamed with laughter.

The woman beside him was deeply tanned, with thick black hair, big glittering blue earrings. She waved her hands. Her crimson fingernails were like talons.

“He never listens!” she shouted back. “How would he know if I told him or not?”

They were all screaming, screaming and laughing, like demons. All around him was the clinking of glasses, silverware, crockery. The room was dense with noise. Waitresses and busboys hurried between the tables, behind his back, carrying trays. A pulse started in Conrad's head.