One September Morning. Rosalind Noonan

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СКАЧАТЬ thought you were going to look for a place closer to Seattle?” Abby says.

      “Yeah, I was, but those places are really expensive. I don’t know what to do. I’d sort of like to stick nearby and keep Sofia in the same day care. Continuity and all. But part of me wants to make a clean break and start over somewhere else.”

      Abby nods, slipping her feet out of her sandals and hugging her knees. “Joe should give you a raise. You certainly deserve one.”

      “Yeah, well, I’m not sure that Joe can afford me much longer. With Scott gone, I need a real job. A career. That’s the only way Sofia and I will get anywhere.”

      “I like the way you’re thinking,” Abby says. “The way you’re always pushing ahead. You’re amazing, Suz.”

      “Talk is cheap…a helluva lot cheaper than housing in the Seattle area. Besides, I’ve got a deadline breathing down my neck. The army wants me outta here in December, and with the holidays coming, it just complicates things for a move.” She slides the headband back into place. “You sure you can’t come along? I’ll buy you a latte.”

      “Next time.” Abby leafs through the pages, searching for the chapter’s end. “And if I’ve got any say, I vote for the place with the hot tub.”

      “Yeah, I’m going to need it for all those wild parties I throw…for three-year-olds.” She slides the patio door open. “Listen, I’ve got the sprinkler going out front, so’s we don’t get our own version of a dust bowl. Do me a favor and turn it off in, like, half an hour.”

      “Got it.” Abby waves good-bye even as her eyes skim down a page of the textbook.

      Talking with Suz has energized her, and she works more efficiently now, organizing the material, writing an outline for her presentation and inputting the presentation into the Power-Point format. When she’s done, she clicks on the Save icon, then notices the time in the corner of the screen.

      “Damn! The lawn’s going to be a swamp.” Leaving her sandals on the patio, she clamps a textbook under one arm and races through the house and out the front door to find the sprinkler silently rotating. The lawn isn’t too soaked, though a puddle of excess water is now running over the sidewalk and down toward the street.

      She steps off the narrow brick porch, gasping as her feet sink into the wet mulch behind a shrub John planted. Her fingers close over the handle of the spigot and twist toward the right. Right tight, lefty loosey. Out on the lawn, the fountain of water dies down as the sprinkler stops whirling. Straightening up, Abby wipes her hand on her shorts as a dark car rolls slowly up the quiet street. It’s not Suz’s boxy Volvo wagon, and not one of the neighbors’. She takes in the shiny black sedan, which slows and then parks right in front of her house.

      Her focus sharpens on the two officers inside the vehicle—a man and a woman who exchange a word, then reach for their hats.

      Their dress hats, she notes, as they step out in full dress uniforms, pants creased, shirts smooth and starched.

      Abby is stung by adrenaline, alarm coursing through her. It’s the casualty notification team, the messengers all the army wives talk about, the sight every military wife dreads seeing outside her door.

      Don’t panic, she tells herself. Maybe they’re John’s friends. Maybe someone you know on leave here, come to bring one of John’s creative personal greetings.

      But she does not recognize their faces, and there’s no joke in the demeanor of this woman who stares down at her well-shined shoes, no animation in the face of this man who stands, jaw clenched, regret embedded in his eyes.

      And suddenly, she knows.

      She knows they bring her the absolute worst news.

      “Are you Mrs. John Stanton?” the man asks.

      She nods, feeling like an actress playing out a melodramatic scene. Despite the panic beating like a hummingbird’s wings deep in her breast, she wants to laugh it all off. This can’t be true. They must have the wrong information.

      He gives his rank and introduces the female soldier, but it’s drowned out in the deafening roar swirling in her head and her acute awareness of bizarre details. The sergeant must have cut himself shaving this morning, and there’s a pinpoint of tissue stuck to the edge of his jaw. A flock of small birds rises from some nearby laurels. They circle, then return to their spot. The woman wears a ribbon that’s green and red, reminding Abby of Christmas. Home by Christmas, that’s what John keeps writing in his e-mails.

      “Mrs. Stanton, it’s my duty to inform you that—”

      “No.” The textbook slides from her grip to the wet lawn. She leans down and grabs it quickly, noticing the strangest details. The splatter of mud on her calves. A blade of grass stuck to the side of her foot. Two pairs of shiny dress shoes, facing her dirty bare feet.

      It’s all wrong.

      “Mrs. Stanton…”

      She hugs the book to her chest, turns and lunges toward the door, hoping to find escape and safety in the house.

      But he blocks her way. “It’s my job, ma’am,” he says, and, meeting his eyes, she sees that he’s not as old as she originally thought. “Mrs. Stanton, your husband was killed in the line of duty yesterday in Iraq.”

      She presses her eyes closed, thinking how wrong it all is. She’s not Mrs. Stanton—that’s John’s mother. And John cannot be dead. Not the John she knows, the man with the charmed life. He’s always the lucky one.

      It’s all wrong, but these soldiers are just trying to do their job, fulfill their duty to their country, just as John is doing…was doing?

      “We’re sorry for your loss, ma’am,” the woman, lieutenant something, says quietly.

      Abby lets the woman press the written notice into her hand, unable to stop the small cry that escapes her throat.

      Chapter 2

      Iraq

       Emjay

      Corporal Emjay Brown is still in a daze when he steps into the orange light of the bungalow shared by eight soldiers. Despite the darkness outside, sunglasses shield his eyes against the curious gawkers who know that he was there, right beside John when he went down.

      Another few inches and it would have been him.

      Bam!

      The slam of the door behind him sends him jumping out of his skin. His heart thuds in his chest, sweat trickling down his back.

      And suddenly he is back in the warehouse, in the rapid hammer of gunfire, the muzzle-flash in the darkness, the alarm of John’s cries, and the blood…so much blood.

      “Corporal Brown,” a leaden voice orders, and Emjay whirls, hands gripping his rifle.

      “Lieutenant Chenowith, sir.”

      “At ease,” the lieutenant says, as if he thought Emjay was moving to salute, which he wasn’t. The lieutenant removes his helmet to reveal a round mop of hair on the top, like a friar. Most guys in combat СКАЧАТЬ