Iam such a f.u.c.king fool.
THE SOLDIER IS sitting in a circle with a bunch of female vets, who shift uneasily in their hard plastic chairs. Brightly colored admonishments blare down at them from posters on the walls: Love Yourself as Much as Others.
Listening Is the Key to Success.
Heal by Hugging a Friend Today.
And the one that irritates the soldier the most: Learn From Your Mistakes, They Are Our Teachers.
She hunkers down in her chair and glances at the other women with disgust. They look like a bunch of washed-out alcoholics in their sloppy sweats and paper slippers, faces medication-puffy and blank. Theyare older than she is, too, fat and shapeless. Vietnam nurses, first Gulf War pilots. They probably are alcoholics, she decides.
The therapist, a stringy-faced female in gla.s.ses who sits as if sheas got a poker up her a.s.s, does the same thing she did in the last few meetings: makes the women go around speaking their thoughts like kindergarten kids. Vicky, the Vietnam nurse, mumbles something about her husband knocking her around. Nicole, the Gulf War pilot, complains that her memoryas gone. But most annoying is the tiny broad who says she was an Army corporal but has the dumbest little voice imaginable. Corporal Betty Boop. Her contribution is that her head wonat stop aching.
The soldier scowls and wraps her arms across her chest. She hates this f.u.c.king s.h.i.t. Shead rather go back to the pills.
aKate, would you like to take a turn sharing your thoughts with us today?a Pokera.s.s says when the others are done, peering over her doctor specs.
The soldier glowers at her without answering. The other vets glance at each other.
aKate,a Pokera.s.s says again, aif you donat feel like sharing, we understand. But airing our issues usually helps. Thatas what weare here for. Are you sure that you donat want to contribute?a That suffocating feeling is coming on again, the one that makes the soldier panic and her breath come short and hard. She doesnat want all those eyes on her, all those loser eyes. She doesnat want to hear those womenas sad-sack loser stories, either. She doesnat want to hear how, thirty friggina years after the Vietnam War, theyare still as screwed up as she is.
Anyhow, none of them was a real combat soldier like her. They have no f.u.c.king idea.
[ KATE ].
THE SANDSTORM BLOWS harder and harder as the day goes on, and being stuck in a tower like I am, I get the brunt of it. The sky turns a spooky dark orange, and the wind scoops up the moondust and blows it around in swirling billows, clogging my ears and nostrils. The prisoners stay inside their tents but I donat have that luxury. So I cover my mouth with my scarf and hunker down in the chair, watching my sungla.s.ses cake over with sand, wiping them, then watching them cake over again. Soon nothingas visible except brownish-gray muck. I only hope the prisoners donat try anything. My rifle, which I just cleaned, is already too sand-jammed to shoot; Iam blind from the dust, deaf from the wind. They could walk right out of the prison and I wouldnat even see thema"all they need to do is dig out some sand and wriggle under the wire. They could sneak right up and cut my throat, too.
Jimmy comes back after a few hours. He calls out to me, although I donat answer, and when he gets close I can just make out the jagged brown streaks on his uniform through the dust. Heas bent forward against the wind, a white scarf over his mouth and nose like mine, and for a moment it makes me think of the scene in that old movie, Doctor Zhivago, when Omar Sharif is struggling through a blizzard to catch up with his great love, Lara. I used to watch that movie over and over in high school. n.o.body minded a star with an Arab name back then.
Jimmy climbs the ladder to join me, uninvited.
I donat say anything and I donat move from my chair. What I really want to do is push him off the G.o.dd.a.m.n tower.
He sits on the platform floor beside me, knees pulled up to his chest. His face is still hidden under his scarf, and his helmet and goggles are covered in moondust. For a long time neither of us says anything. Just sit there like a couple of abominable sandmen.
aG.o.d I miss green,a he finally says over the wind.
I donat answer. Fool me once, Iam thinking.
aI miss air, too,a he says next.
Another silence.
aThis countryas famous for its date palms, you know that? Forests of date palms. Iad love to see a forest of date palms.a I shift in my chair.
aThey got beautiful palm trees all over Iraq, hundreds of different species. And all we get is desert. Not a f.u.c.king tree in sight.a aWeave got Marvin.a I say that without meaning to but Jimmy doesnat show any surprise. He just answers, aWhoas Marvin?a I point in Marvinas direction, although heas totally invisible right now.
aOh, you mean Rambo.a I donat want to, but I smile.
We sit without speaking for a time, the wind and sand whirling around in a brown blur.
aI miss birds,a I finally say.
aYeah, what the h.e.l.l happened to all the birds? Even the desertas got to have birds.a aI know. Iave been wondering about that.a aGuess we bombed the f.u.c.k out of them, too.a aGuess so.a aWhat else do you miss?a Jimmy asks.
aYou mean other than people?a aYeah.a I think for a moment. aTree roots.a aTree roots?a aYeah. You know when you walk through the woods and they snake around and make all those beautiful patterns on the ground, like theyare trying to match the branches above? Thereas this lake in Willowglen called Myosotis, which is Greek for forget-me-nots. And in May and June, the forget-me-nots grow in beautiful blue cl.u.s.ters all around it, tucked right inside the tree roots. And even better, there are tiny b.u.t.terflies that match them exactly.a aFlying forget-me-nots. Cool.a I glance at him. Is he making fun of me? I canat see him too well, but he sounds serious. aWhat do you miss?a I say then.
aI miss riding my bike with my brothers. I miss swimming.a aSwimming. I love swimming. I used to swim in the lake all the time with Tyler.a We sit in the dust cloud, not saying anything more for a time. Jimmy, I notice, has put a condom over the end of his rifle to keep out the sand.
aJimmy?a I finally say. aWhy do the guys here hate me so much?a [ NAEMA ].
WE HAVE HAD a terrible night. We were sleeping on the roof, as usual, when Granny Maryam awoke shrieking from a nightmare. The sound was so ghastly, as if her throat were being cut, that Mama and I jumped up straight out of sleep, our hearts knocking wildly. We roused Granny and tried to calm her, but she could not shake the horror from her head. I had to grope my way downstairs in the dark to fetch her some of the precious date juice we have been saving. Yet even after swallowing this, she took many minutes to recall where she was.
It is not only the shock of Papaas and Zakias arrests that did this to her, but the fact that the war is coming so close. Last night, the sky above Umm Qasr was lighting up in white flashes, and plumes of black smoke were blotting out the moon. After we roused Granny, we stood on the roof to watch for a moment, listening to the explosions and shots, the throb and roar of helicopters so loud they seemed to be pounding inside our own chests. Then we quickly gathered our sleeping pallets and took Granny downstairs, hot as it was. No more cooling off in the night air for us; not with the bullets and bombs this near.
Zaki and Papa must also have heard the noise in their prison. I wonder if Zaki was frightened. My golden-eyed brother, with his sweet, funny face and his little-boy fantasies of being a rock stara what kind of an army puts a child like that in prison? A child who would rather feed a baby goat than pick up a gun? And why couldnat the Americans at least have allowed father and son to stay together? Zaki was so terrified when the bombs fell on Baghdad, although he pretended not to be. aDonat fuss over me, go help Mama,a he kept saying when I tried to hold him, but I felt his little bones quaking. Who can protect him now in a tent full of thugs and thieves? Because everyone knows that among the incarcerated are not only innocents like him, but soldiers of the Republican Guard, brutish and corrupt, as well as criminals and perverts who will rape little boys.
And what about Papa? Surely this new incarceration must be reviving his days in Saddamas prison. His legs have never recovered from being smashed again and again by Saddamas prison guardsa"he walks bent over and limping now, as if he is stepping barefoot on gla.s.s. How can his mind and heart, already broken by torture and starvation, bear the strain?
I have to stop thinking like this. The not knowing, this is what drives one mad. So I concentrate on keeping useful. I wash and say my morning prayers, then go to the mirror, pick up my blue hijab, a garment to which I am still unaccustomed, and put it on by the light of a candle: fold the front over my forehead, pull the sides over my ears to hide every strand of hair, wrap it firmly around my neck and pin it at the back. I never wore a hijab before this war, just as I never had to wear long skirts, and have not yet learned to move my head without fear of it slipping off. I spend all day holding my neck high and stiff until the ache burns down my back.
I look at my unfamiliar face in the mirror, a pale and tired oval framed in blue, then extinguish the candle and go outside once again to join the same handful of beleaguered citizens who accompany me to the prison every morning: Umm Ibrahim, with her stout middle-aged daughter, Zahra; wrinkled old Abu Rayya and his despairing wife; and the fierce widow Fatima. On our way I think again of asking Fatimaas advice about where my family can flee once Papa and Zaki are released. But I dare not. Mamaas words ring in my head: aRemember, we can trust no one, Naema.a It is so lonely not to trust.
The journey to the prison is not a pleasant one. We keep to the edge of the road and walk in single file, for any minute we might have to scramble out of the way of a military convoy barreling past and prepared to stop for no one. Already, we know of children and old people mown down by those convoys because they could not move out of the way quickly enough. I have seen the bodies myself, run over so many times they lie flattened on the road, reduced to nothing but b.l.o.o.d.y patches of organs and bones. But when we break away from the road to escape those convoys, or to take a short cut over the desert, that brings its own dangers. Hidden landmines left over from the last war. Roving dogs, mad with hunger or rabies. A stray colored ball from a cl.u.s.ter bomb.
I cannot think of those cl.u.s.ter bombs without outrage. It is forbidden by international law to use them in urban areas, yet the Americans and British rain them down on us without compunction. Cl.u.s.ter bombs are filled with small, colorful tin b.a.l.l.s, many of which do not explode on first impact. Instead, they lie in the streets looking as harmless as toys, waiting for a pa.s.sing vibration to detonate. Thus the child who picks one up with delight or the young mother who walks by innocently pushing a pram are turned into suicidal murderers, setting off an explosion that shreds themselves and all around them to pieces. This is one of the reasons our hospitals are filled with babies without arms and our graveyards with disembodied heads and limbs. What sort of a demon invents a weapon like this? And what sort of a population allows its armies to use it?
But then, what did we do when Saddam ga.s.sed the Kurds with his own demonic weapons? And what did we do when he slaughtered the Shia, my motheras people, stole their water, dried up their fields and destroyed their livelihoods? We, too, can be sheep.
My companions and I reach the prison just as the sun comes up, joining all the other anxious families who, like us, have come once again to find their loved ones. They usher me to the front, as has become our custom, and press their photographs into my hands so I can give them to the girl soldier. Then we wait, as the powerless must always wait, no more effectual than a.s.ses swishing away flies with their sleepy tails.
The dawn suffuses our faces, first with rose and then burnished gold, the sun as resplendent as if this were a time of celebration, not horror. And finally, when that same indifferent sun has risen high and hot, the soldiers exchange shifts and I can look for the little Kate with her silly, ignorant face. I wonder what she believes she is doing herea"serving G.o.d? Or is it her president she is serving, with the same cowed obedience with which our soldiers served Saddam?
But I am disappointed, for the soldier who comes toward us is not Kate. Instead it is another woman, a tall one, with wide, heavy shoulders and full b.r.e.a.s.t.s filling her uniform. Her face is round and red but hidden behind the usual sun goggles, so I cannot judge her age. But her mouth is grim. I brace myself for the worst.
aGood morning,a I say to her in English.
aGet back!a she snaps and waves her rifle at me.
aExcuse me, but I am only trying to help. I can interpret for you.a She runs her eyes over me, this tight-mouthed Amazon, her jaw set hard. aYeah, I heard about you. Well, I got news: thereas nothing to interpret. Now leave, and tell the rest of your buddies to leave too. Go!a aBut where is the other soldier, the one called Kate?a aDidnat you hear me?a She raises her gun and points it at my heart. aI said git!a I draw myself up and look at the woman with disgust. She does not frighten me, for she is too obviously frightened herself. aYou have no right to talk to me like that,a I tell her in my very best English. aYou come here, invade my country for no reason, lock up our children. What kind of people are you?a aNaema, in the name of Allah, stop!a Umm Ibrahim says, pulling at my sleeve. She cannot understand my words but my tone is unmistakable. aYou mustnat quarrel with the soldier like this, sheall kill you! Come away!a The soldier stares at me coldly, her rifle still pointing at me. On her chest I see the word McDougall. For some reason, this word makes me laugh.
aCome!a Umm Ibrahim urges again. aYouare going mad. Come!a I allow her to pull me away, for there is obviously no point in staying. But I cannot refrain from looking back over my shoulder and shouting, aYou should be ashamed!a to satisfy my stubbornness.
Mama has always said I am as stubborn as a goat. Perhaps it comes from being the eldest, or perhaps from having had to help her cope when Papa was in Abu Ghraib during my school days. Saddam had him arrested for writing a poem about the death of a young soldier in our war with Kuwait. Papaas accusers said he had acommitted an irreverence toward His Excellency, our Venerable Leadera by portraying the death as a tragedy rather than a triumph of patriotic martyrdom. But we knew the real reason was that Papa had refused to join Saddamas Baaath Party. Papa is a free spirit and hates despotism, as do Mama and I. But Saddam, of course, punished anybody who would not bend to his will.
aI knew this would happen,a I remember Mama crying to me just after Papa was taken. aAs soon as your father showed me his poems when we were courting, I knew they would bring him trouble one day.a She looked at me, her dark eyes wide and frightened beneath her glossy hair, which was still a deep black in those days. aYour fatheras a good man, but he wears his heart for all to see. His poems hide nothing if one is not blind. You know what I said to him when I first read his poetry?a aWhat, Mama?a I looked at her warily. I was sixteen at the time and terrified that Papa would die. I was not at all sure I wanted to hear what she was about to say.
aYour father and I were in my uncleas parlor. Thatas where we did all our courting because, with my mother in Basra and Father deceased, may Allah have mercy on him, I was under my uncleas protection while I went to college in Baghdad. Uncle kept a strict eye on us! Your father hated ita"he wanted me all to himself.a Mama smiled, forgetting for a moment the present and all its miseries. aWe were sitting side by sidea not too closea on the sofa, his soft eyes looking at me. Your father was so handsome in those days, like Zaki, such a gentle face. A poetas face.a She paused, at peace for a moment within her memories. aThen he handed me the poem, blushing. aBe merciful, Zaynab,a he said. aPlease donat think me a fool.a aI took it and read, feeling his eyes watching me anxiously. It was a young manas poem, full of flower imagery and longing. It makes me smile now to think of it, and I know it embarra.s.ses your father. But even then I could see that this juvenile effort was dangerous.a Mama shook her head and sank to a chair by the window. aYou know what I told him, Naema? aYou bare your heart in these poems, my darling,a I said. aItas a good heart, but I fear it will bring you sorrow.a Yet he kept writing those poems anyway. And now, you see? I was right.a But Mama was not angry with Papa, only frightened, for we had no idea if he was alive or whether and when he would be released. Once a person disappeared into Abu Ghraib, the family was told nothing. One was forced to wait in ignorance until the prisoner was released, perhaps without fingers or a hand, perhaps crippled or mad. Perhaps dead.
The Americans at least have lists.
Mama tried to stay strong for me and Zaki while Papa was gone, but it was not easy being two women alone with an eight-year-old boy to feed. Our relatives did what they could to help us, but Mama had to keep going to the hospital to see her patients or else lose her job, so I was forced to stay home from school to look after Zaki, go to the market, cook and clean. How I missed school and my friends! But I read my books when I could, went with Mama to bribe and pet.i.tion this or that official for Papaas release, and when he suddenly appeared at our home eleven months latera" alive, praise be to Allah, but with his legs bent and crooked from torture, his skin torn, his body emaciated and his heart fluttering weakly in his chesta"I nursed him for months. What choice is there but to grow stubborn under such circ.u.mstances?
Once Papa had recovered from the worst of his pain and shock, my stubbornness had other uses. I went back to school determined to catch up, and each day when I came home I made poor little Zaki sit and listen while I played teacher and repeated what I had learned. If he fiddled or whined or tried to run away, I rapped his knuckles with a stick. It was only when Papa caught me that Zaki was liberated. Papa was so angry! aHow can you torment your own little brother?a he said. aThis is not the way to be strong. The truly strong are gentle and merciful, they donat exploit the weak.a If only.
That was a calm time for our family, though. Papa was home at last and teaching again at the university, after paying who knows how much in bribes and joining the Baaathists after all. (Not even he was able to be a hero in those dire times.) Zaki was popular with his little gang of boys at school. And I, now seventeen, was studying hard at school and had my friends Farah and Yasmina, with whom I giggled over film stars and boys.
My favorite of these times were the evenings, when, after Zaki and I had finished our long hours of homework, we were allowed to curl up on the sofa with our parents to watch the latest soap opera on television. We liked to play at guessing and reinventing the plots, and Zaki, who so loves to clown, would introduce the silliest twists: the hero would turn out to have chicken legs, or the heroine to have two husbands and two heads, one for each; ideas I am sure he gleaned from Grannyas stories. He would jump up and stalk about the room, jerking his head and picking up his thin little legs with just the same comic delicacy as chickens do. I find myself smiling at the memory as I walk from the prison back to the house, poor Umm Ibrahim wheezing at my side. How beautiful the most ordinary of times seem when they are gone.
These times will come again. They must.
But with the little Kate soldier removed from the checkpoint, how am I to find out anything of Papa and Zaki? How am I to know whether the Americans are as brutal in their prison as Saddam was in his?
[ KATE ].
TWO WEEKS HAVE crawled by since I started guard duty and my days are so much the same now that I canat tell one from the other. I take my morning runs with Yvette, if she isnat out on a convoy. Third Eye sleeps in most days, which is fine with mea"Iave been keeping my distance ever since the unsympathetic b.i.t.c.h pulled that I-told-you-so c.r.a.p at the Porta-John. The rest of the time Iam up in my tower staring at the prisoners while they wander around in their pathetic sand corral, or get down on all fours to pray.
Iave got to admit, it freaks me out when they do that. They line up in rows facing southwest, which I guess is the direction of Mecca from here, spread out their little rugs, if they have any, get down on their hands and knees and stick their foreheads right into the dirt. I donat like watching them grovel like that, their b.u.t.ts in the air. I know they donat see it like I do, cultural differences and all that, but I donat think G.o.d wants us to act so undignifieda"arenat we supposed to be formed in His image, after all? And it bugs the h.e.l.l out of me that all that praying doesnat stop those same guys from acting like a.s.sholes the minute theyare done.
A whole bunch of them are throwing stuff at me now. Snakes and scorpions they find in the sand. Spiders, dead or alive. Beetles and bugs in all shapes and sizes. They love it if they can make me jump or squeal, so I have to use up all my energy trying to look unfazed when a scorpion lands on my shoulder or a snake falls wriggling at my feet.
There are a lot more prisoners to deal with now, too, because Buccaas growing so fast. Every day, more are brought in. The tents are so overcrowded that weave been ordered to go out after our shifts and put up more compounds, even if weave already worked fourteen bone-draining hours that day. Why the prisoners canat build those compounds themselves I will never understand. In MP training we were taught to discipline inmates by making them work for rewards and privileges. Not at Camp Bucca. aItas too hot for the detainees to work,a the command keeps telling us. aNow get out there and sweat.a That sucks enough, but it really bugs me that the prisoners get fine meals and free cigarettes, whether theyave been trying to escape, jerking off at me or saying their prayers like good boys. Some days it feels like theyare hotel guests and weare their G.o.dd.a.m.n maids.
At least we have a few more amenities for ourselves now. DJ and three other guys in our tent stole some plywood from an engineering company and built us a floor to cut down on the rats and bugs. There are more latrines and even a shower trailer. And we also have e-mail, although there are so few computers and theyare so d.a.m.n slow that I get too frustrated to bother with it. I donat really care, though. I donat much want to write or call home anymore, not after that last conversation. Whatas there to say? I canat tell Mom or Dad about guarding prisoners who jerk off and throw dead spiders at me; thatas not their idea of what a soldier does at war. I canat tell them about Macktruck reading p.o.r.n all the time, or what Kormick did, either. All they want to hear is how n.o.ble and heroic Iam being. The first thing Dadas always said the few times I have called is, aKate, Iam real proud of you.a And the last thing heas always said for good-bye is, aThatas my girl, brave and strong.a Thing is, I do still want to make him proud. I do want to be brave and strong.
Momas approach is different. aHave you been saying your prayers every night and going to chapel?a she likes to ask, after telling me she prays for my safety all the time. aAre you setting a good example to those poor brave soldiers over there?a It was Mom who made me bring the crucifix with me, the one I tacked to my tent post right above Fuzzy. That crucifix is incredibly important to her because she was wearing it when she had this terrible accident back in high school and sheas always believed it saved her life. aMake sure you keep it by you all the time, okay, sweetie?a she said when she took it off her neck and gave it to me the night before I left. aTrust in Our Lord Jesus to watch over you, like He did me.a I was touched. Iad never seen her let the thing out of her sight before.
She told me about the accident when I was fifteen, same age as when it happened to her. aKatie?a she said in the kitchen one summer day, while I was rooting around in our freezer for a Popsicle. aYou have a moment? I need to talk to you.a I pulled out a lemon pop and turned to look at her. It was hot, so I was in bare feet, cutoffs and a bikini top, and I remember itching all over from mosquito bites. Robin, who was already my best friend by then, and a couple of cute boys from school were out in the front yard, splashing in our above-ground pool and waiting for me.
aNow?a I said itchily. aCanat it wait?a But Mom looked so weird and sad that I shut up and sat down. aWhatas wrong? Am I in trouble or something?a She pulled a chair right up to my knees, folded her pudgy little hands on the lap of her yellow skirt and fixed her watery blue eyes on me. aNo, itas not you, honey. But thereas something Iave got to tell you. Itas about what happened to me when I was your age. Itas time for you to know.a And then she told me the whole horrible story in this strange, detached voice, like she was talking about somebody else. Didnat spare any of the gruesome details, though. The five girls getting drunk on stolen whiskey. Piling in a car, giggling, even though every last one of them knew better. Careening into an oncoming pickup at sixty miles an hour. Dangling heads, twisted backs, smashed faces. aI lay in the hospital for six months, thinking about why the Lord let my friends die and not me,a Mom said, aand thatas when I realized He was giving me a second chance, calling me to spread His love. Be the doers of the word, and not the hearers only. Thatas why I want you to trust in Jesus and Mary, Katie. Theyall look after you as long as you heed Christas teachings. And thatas why I donat want you seeing those boys outside again. Theyare not the kind of boys you should be with. I know their parents. Theyare hard-drinking, unG.o.dly people. Dangerous people. You understand?a I nodded, feeling all weird and knotted-up inside. Then something cold hit my knee. My pop had melted clean off its stick.
But even if my parents were willing to hear the truth about my life out here in the desert, what would be the point of telling them? Itad only make them scared for me, and I know theyare already living in dread of seeing that military car drive up, the two stiffs in dress uniform coming to the doora"angels of death. Even April has some sense of the danger Iam in. aKatie?a she said one time on the phone. aI saw a program on TV about soldiers dying in the war. Are you gonna die? aCause I donat want you to.a Tyleras the only person whoas come close to guessing whatas really going on, though. When I called him the second day after I started up in my tower, he said, aAre the men treating you okay out there?a I thought he was asking if I was cheating on him, so I answered, aDonat worry, theyare all d.i.c.kheads.a aThatas what I meant. Are you safe?a I could hear the need in his voice, the need to know I was all right. But I wasnat about to repeat the mistake I made with my parents and come across as whiny and pathetic. So all I said was, aTyler, Iam fine.a That was the first time I ever lied to him, and somehow, since then, I havenat felt like calling him any more than Iave felt like calling Mom and Dad. The commandas banned us from using our phones now anyway, so if Tyler or my parents ask why I donat call anymore, Iave got an excuse.
Tyler wrote to me for my birthday, June 6th. He mustave planned real carefully when to mail the letter because it arrived today with a package, only ten days late. Normally, snail mail doesnat get here for months.
Happy Birthday, Katie-pie!
Wow, 20 years old! One more year and we can go to bars and get hammered, and you can get into the clubs Iam playing without a fake ID. Itas crazy that youare old enough to fight but not drink.
I miss you so bad there are no words for it. I ache for you every day, all day, and every night too. I keep going to our places, like the drive-in and Myosotis Lake and The Orange Dog, thinking itall make me feel better. But without you I canat stand them. Itas like youare walking beside me, but youare invisible.
Keep safe, brave girl. Iam counting the days. Hope you like the present! Listen to track three. I wrote it for you. Love and more love, Tyler In the package is a portable radio and a home-recorded CD of his own songs, their t.i.tles written out in red marker. I push the CD to the bottom of my duffle bag. I appreciate how sweet and careful his letter his, and how much work he put into that CD, but I canat face listening to it right now. The sound of Tyler singing, especially about us, would turn my whole self inside out.
Iam glad to have the radio, though. Gives me something to listen to in my tower other than the frigging detainees. Two guys in particular are getting under my skin. The first is this dipstick in a mustache, about thirty-five or so, who comes up to me every d.a.m.n day to beg for cigarettes in English. He has his own f.u.c.king cigarettes, but no, he wants mine. aSoldier girl, gimme smoke. Come on pretty baby,a he starts. Then, when I wonat give him any, itas, aCome on, c.u.n.t,a and other such charming phrases he must have picked up from American p.o.r.no movies. After heas finally given up on begging and insulting me for the day, he stands in the same spot for hours staring at my face. Iave tried yelling at him to go away, but that only makes him laugh and stare even more. Iave tried ignoring him, but we both know Iam pretending, so that doesnat work either. Iave tried staring back at him, too, but then he acts like Iam flirting with him and strips me with his eyes. Maybe he was a torturer under Saddam or something because heas scarily good at this game of his and Iam not on the winning side. Itas ridiculous: Iam the prison guard here, I have the weapon. But those burning eyes of his wonat leave me alone. They even get into my dreams.
The other prisoner who drives me nuts is the jerk-off. I think heas genuinely crazy. Every time I face his direction, he whips out his d.i.c.k and starts beating it, leering at me with the most obscene expression Iave ever laid eyes on. He shouts at me, too, but I donat understand what heas saying, thank G.o.d, although it isnat too hard to guess his gist. He wears western clothes, gray pants and a white shirt, which are getting dirtier by the day, and he has a beaky face and graying black hair. I donat think he can be a political prisoner; heas too disgusting. Heas probably some nutcase s.e.x offender who was locked up under Saddam, let go when we fired all the Iraqi police, and then locked up again by us.
One day, though, he tries something new. He doesnat just jerk off. He drops his pants, squats in the sand and does his business. Then he wipes his a.s.s with his left hand and throws his t.u.r.d at me.
When he does that, I almost shoot him. He misses me but it hits the platform right by my boot, and the stink of it makes me gag. I raise my rifle and aim it at him but it doesnat faze him at all. I think he doesnat believe a girl would shoot him. I think he doesnat believe a girl is worth any more than the s.h.i.t heas just thrown at me. I aim right at his chest while he jeers, my finger on the trigger, the whole of me yearning to shoot his f.u.c.ka.s.s head off. The only thing that stops me is remembering how much trouble Iad get into if I killed an unarmed prisoner cold.
I lower my rifle and kick his t.u.r.d off my platform, and when Jimmy comes for his usual visit he finds me down on the ground, rubbing my boot in the sand, my face screwed up in disgust and my hands shaking even worse than usual.
aWhat happened?a aSee that f.u.c.king hajji over there?a I point at the j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. with my rifle. Heas strolling around the compound, trying to look innocent.
Jimmy looks. aWhat about him?a aHe just threw his own s.h.i.t at me.a aJesus Christ!a Jimmy shakes his head. aItas much worse for you females out here than for us, isnat it?a Itas true. Those prisoners really hate having female guards. But that isnat the only reason itas better for Jimmy than for me. He doesnat have to work directly with the detainees like I do, acause heas posted at the compound entrance, not right by the wire. And he doesnat have to spend all frigging day alone, eithera"he shares his post with those guys from Headquarters. He doesnat know how lucky he is.
Every time Jimmy comes to see me, he brings me some kind of treat: soda and a bag of Doritos or Skittles from the PX. I think heas worried Iam getting too skinny. But we donat normally talk about the c.r.a.p-throwing prisoners or anything else that goes on in that toilet bowl. Itas too d.a.m.n depressing. We both feel, without needing to say it, that the whole point of each otheras company is to forget. So we talk about other stuff. Books weave read, movies, his past girlfriends, Tyler, our families, our plans for when we get back to college. Jimmy wants to study physics so he can invent things. Iam not sure what I want to bea"maybe a teacher, maybe a TV reporter, or maybe one of those scientists who spend most of their lives alone in the forest studying birdcalls. Anything, really, so long as it isnat a soldier.
Iam the one who does most of the talking, though. Jimmy likes to speak about his little brothers, who are living with their aunt while heas deployed, but he never says much about the rest of his life at home. I think it makes him too sad, partly because of his moma"I gather sheas been in and out of loony bins most of her lifea"and partly because his dad skedaddled when Jimmy was a kid, leaving Jimmy to pretty much raise himself and his little brothers on his own. I think thatas why he worries about those brothers so much.
So when we talk, itas mostly me blabbing on about how Tyleras studying music at SUNY New Paltz, about Robin moving to New York City to be a model, or about some cute thing April did once. Bulls.h.i.t, really, since thatas not what Iam thinking about. What Iam thinking about is when I can next take a p.i.s.s, when Iam going to run out of water, when can I sleep and when can I shower. Itas like my brain has shriveled to the size of one of Rickmanas zits.
As for reporting Kormick and b.o.n.e.r, Jimmy doesnat bring that up anymore. Once, he says, aKate, no pressure, but if you ever want to talk about what happened with those f.u.c.kers, or if you want to do anything about it, tell me. But if you donat, itas okay. I wonat bug you about it anymore.a aThanks,a I answer, and I do appreciate how kind that is. But thereas no way Iam going to tell him about it, or anyone else either. Thatas not what soldiers do.
aHI, SWEETIE,a THE mother says timidly, standing in the door of the hospital room with a big yellow bouquet in her arms and a quavery smile. aCan we come in?a Sheas small and puffy, like a pigeon, and so loud with colors she makes the soldier squint. Hair stiff with copper dye. Eyelids powder blue. Lips neon pink to match her dress.
The mother has a right to be nervous after what happened, the soldier knows this. So she nods and tries to smile. aSure,a she says. aThere arenat enough chairs. You can sit on the bed if you want.a She moves over to stand by the window, the bed between her and her parents like a berm.
The mother comes around the bed for a hug, but the soldier steps out of the way. The mom stops, disconcerted. aHowas your back, honey? Still hurting?a Shrug.
aWell, you look a lot better, thank the Lord. Where can I put these flowers?a The soldier points to a vase on the sink. The mother tiptoes back around the bed as if sheas in church, which annoys the soldier to no end, and fills the vase with water. Then she unwraps the plastic around the bouquet with a deafening crackle and shoves the yellow flowers in, fussily arranging them before she puts them on the bedside table. A rotting, musty smell fills the room.
aI brought you these,a the father says then, stepping around his wife. He reaches across the bed and hands over two books. One a Biblea"no surprise there; the other a collection of nature essays by Annie Dillard. The soldier used to love Dillard. But the idea of reading anything that precious and preachy right now makes her sick.
aThanks.a She puts the books down on the bed and looks at her dad. Heas still as upright and trim as ever. Wide shoulders, silver hair cut military short. Clint Eastwood creases around his light-blue eyes. He looks exactly like what he is: a G.o.d-fearing, law-enforcing American bully.
He hands her a manila envelope. aI think you might want to look at this.a Itas from the Army and itas been opened.
aYou read this already? My mail?a aOpen it,a is all he answers.
The soldier obeys, hands trembling even more than usual. Inside are her discharge papers. Medical, along with afailure to adjust.a That means sheas been booted out for being a f.u.c.kup.
aYou can fight it, you know, appeal,a the father says. aThey tell you how right there.a She looks him in the eyes, the exact same washed-out blue as hers. aWhy would I want to do that?a aIt makes it sound like thereas something wrong with you.a aThere is something wrong with me.a aOh, Katie.a The father looks at her sadly. aYou know what I mean. You donat want that smear on your record all your life, do you? Itas not right after what youave done for this country.a aI donat give a s.h.i.t. The last thing I ever f.u.c.king want to do is go back in the Army. They can smear me all they friggina want.a aKatie, your language,a the mother says weakly.
The soldier sits on the bed, her back to them, and drops her face into her hands. They donat understand that sheas got no patience anymore. Not for their bulls.h.i.t, not for their hypocrisy, not for their total G.o.dd.a.m.n dangerous ignorance. So her parents canat be proud of her now? Canat boast about her being a hero, as brave as any son might have been? So f.u.c.king what.
n.o.body moves. The soldier can hear her motheras wheezing breath. The mom stopped smoking years ago, but sheas so fat and out of shape she breathes like a Pekingese.
aWhereas April?a the soldier says once sheas calm enough to speak. She stands and turns to look at them again.
Her mother glances at the father. aWe thought it was still a little too soon.a She swallows. aNext time.a aWell, s.h.i.t! How am I going to make it up to her if you wonat let me see her?a aWell, you know what happened. You know what you did.a The soldier nods, mouth clenched. aYeah, n.o.bodyas hero, me. Scared my little sis. Embarra.s.sed you all. Iave got no right to act like that with my nice little family, do I? G.o.d forgive me and all that c.r.a.p.a aSweetie, please,a the mother says, reaching out a hand so plump it looks like a little balloon with fingers. aYou canat hide from the Lord, you know that. If you would just pray with me a moment it would help. Just one little prayer?a aMom. Stop.a aSally, leave it,a the father says. aLetas all get ahold of ourselves here and sit.a He waves his wife to the one chair in the room and plunks himself down on the corner of the bed. The soldier backs up until sheas standing as far away from them as she can get.
aTyler told us he came last week,a the father says then.
No answer.
aHe said you werenat doing so well. He said you acted like you didnat know him.a I didnat.