One September Morning. Rosalind Noonan

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      She has to bite back tears as she pushes herself out of the rocking chair and steps around them. What a nightmare! Her brother’s gone and already they’re trying to make him into the model soldier embodying all the crap be was fighting against.

      Weaving through the throng of neighbors, she feels her face pucker, on the verge of tears. John would hate this! To be mourned by a bunch of army wives gossiping over casseroles and kids.

      On her way out, Madison grabs the frosted glass from where she stashed it on the third shelf. She pushes the door to the back patio and takes a slug of the hard lemonade—the second one she’s pilfered behind her parents’ back. She thought it would dull the pain, but instead it seems to intensify it, as if someone took a photo of her edgy nerves and enlarged it ten times. Still, she takes another sip, liking the taste. She swallows until the cup is empty.

      Behind her, the screen door creaks. Caught, Madison wonders what to do with the empty cup—the evidence—until she hears Abby’s voice. “Hey, you.”

      Madison puts the cup on the table and turns to find Abby looking so incredibly calm in the midst of this storm. Her dark hair shines in the sun and her shoulders are set back, her head lifted high like a flower in the sun. “Oh my God, you look so normal.”

      Abby tries to smile but her lips crinkle in a pucker. “I may look that way, but inside, my heart is breaking,” she admits, her voice cracking.

      “Abby! I am so sorry.”

      Abby opens her arms and Madison falls into them, and, for a moment, Madison feels like her true emotion can flow in front of this girl who loved her brother with all her heart. Loved him so much she gave up an exciting life in the capital to move to this army base and be a military wife.

      “I can’t believe it, Maddy,” Abby says, her voice thick with tears. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

      “Barely gone, and already they’re screwing him over.” Madison steps back and swipes at the tears on her cheeks. “Are you hearing what they’re saying in there about him?”

      Abby frowns. “The hero stuff?”

      “They’re talking about medals and…and an audience with the fucking president!” Madison spins on her heel, stomps toward the back yard and takes a seat on the edge of the patio. “It’s disrespectful to John. They might as well kick dirt on everything he stood for. But when I point that out they act like I’m an idiot.”

      “Everybody is out of sorts,” Abby says from behind her. “Grief does strange things to people.”

      “They’re vultures. Did you hear my mother? It’s like she’s looking forward to the funeral. Giddy about John getting medals. Can’t wait to have Noah back so she can show him off to her friends.” Madison closes her fingers over a clump of crabgrass and tears at it. “Better show him off before he gets killed, too.” A sob rises in her throat and she hugs her knees, grateful to be able to wipe the hot tears against her bare legs.

      “Oh, Maddy.”

      She feels Abby’s hand rubbing her back, is conscious of her sitting beside her.

      “This is hard for all of us,” Abby says.

      “It sucks.”

      “Harder for you in a lot of ways. You’ve grown up an army brat, but I came into this much later. And right now it’s really hard for me to face those people in there without feeling like they’re part of the problem, part of the system that took John’s life. You can bet I’m angry at the army, but I’m still cognizant of the fact that I can’t take that out on Sergeant Palumbo…or on the neighbors who are trying to maintain a normal life in the shadow of this war.”

      “So what about my parents? Are they driving you nuts yet?”

      “I’ve been trying to avoid them,” Abby admits, “but whenever your mother corners me I feel a panic rising. I don’t want to cross her, but it might come to that.”

      “Welcome to my world.” Madison flings the handful of grass into the air, but some of the blades stick to her sweaty palm. “How could they not know that John didn’t want this war, that he was having doubts about his country?”

      “I suppose they didn’t want to hear it. They don’t know John’s views on politics and war. That was something else they didn’t want to hear.”

      Madison nods. “It does suck.”

      Abby squeezes her shoulder, silently agreeing.

      “You know, Mom is all excited about Noah coming home. A mixed blessing, she calls it. As if getting him out of Iraq for two weeks is going to save his life.” Madison turns to look at Abby, whose dark hair is tucked behind her ears. From close up she sees that Abby’s eyes are shadowed by gray sadness, shadows that might never go away.

      Abby loved John so much. Madison doesn’t even have a boyfriend, and she can’t imagine losing the love of her life.

      “Are you nervous about Noah’s trip?” Abby asks her. “About him traveling home?”

      Madison shakes her head. “I’m nervous about him going back. I want to kidnap him, lock him in a closet so he’ll miss his flight, then throw him into my car and drive him up to Canada or down to Mexico.”

      “I can see why you feel that way,” Abby says. “But honor and patriotism mean a lot to your parents.”

      “Maybe. Or maybe they don’t have a clue about it. Maybe they don’t know what patriotism means. Just because you love your country doesn’t mean you have to go off and kill people.”

      Abby nods. “I agree with you, Maddy, but it’s just not that simple.”

      “It could be,” Madison says. “Peace is simple. It’s people who make it seem so complicated.”

      Chapter 11

      Iraq

       Lt. Peter Chenowith

      The procedure is clear: the possessions of a soldier killed in the line of duty are to be secured and inventoried by his superior officer and transported home along with the remains. So technically, Peter Chenowith has every right to go through John Stanton’s belongings. Maybe it just feels wrong because Chenowith knows Stanton would have hated having his lieutenant go through his things.

      Chenowith can almost hear Stanton grousing about invasion of privacy as he dumps the black plastic bag onto the table of the airless briefing room and starts making a list in his notebook. A wristwatch. One wallet with one hundred and ten dollars cash, one Amex card, a Washington State driver’s license, and assorted photos.

      Whoa—apparently Stanton went for the dark, intellectual type. The brunette has to be Stanton’s wife, and though Peter figured a football star like Stanton could have done better, the Mrs. is tight. He’d definitely do her, though after a few weeks in Iraq, most guys would do just about anything on two legs. But the little blonde, there’s a hottie. She looks a lot younger than Stanton, and chummy in the photos. Probably the sister. He’s read that Stanton has a younger sister.

      There СКАЧАТЬ