Price of Duty Page 10

We toast. The bourbon goes down hot and cold.

  “A moment like this calls for a good Cuban cigar,” the General says with a sigh but leaves it at that. “Son, I know your deployment isn’t over and you’re going into rehab so you can go back over there. That’s not only admirable and what a hero should do, but exactly what I’d expect of you. Only, I’m arranging for you to attend Officer Candidate School at Fort Benning first. It’s clear that you possess the kind of bravery and leadership skills we need in the Army. Once you’ve completed the twelve-week course, you’ll be able to return to the front lines as a second lieutenant. With your own platoon to lead. And I’m confident you’ll continue to rise through the ranks from there.”

  While I didn’t expect him to say this, I can’t say I’m surprised.

  He pauses for a moment, then displays one of his rare smiles. “I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of the way you’ve conducted yourself.”

  “I appreciate it, sir. But aren’t I kind of young to be a commissioned officer? I doubt the more experienced NCOs under my command would take kindly to being ordered around by a twenty-year-old.”

  The General’s forehead wrinkles. He gives me a perplexed look. “Son, you are being considered for the Silver Star for conspicuous gallantry in action. The soldiers under your command will regard you with nothing short of the well-deserved awe and respect you have earned.”

  I lift my rock glass and consider the amber liquid inside. The General isn’t asking if I want to become an officer. This is an order.

  “I’ve started the paperwork,” he says. “When you get to Walter Reed, there’ll be a packet with your application and other information waiting for you.”

  He picks up his glass and knocks back the rest of his drink in one gulp, then checks his watch and starts to rise. “I’d like to stay and chat, son, but I’ve got to get home. Need a ride somewhere?”

  “Uh, thanks, but I’m meeting someone.”

  He hesitates for a moment, then smiles and gives me a soft punch on the shoulder. “Atta boy.”

  BRANDI

  The setting sun is a low yellow glare in my eyes as I walk toward the park. I feel a little unsteady. I forgot that at Anthony’s when the General orders a bourbon, it’s automatically a double.

  Brandi’s sitting on a bench, texting. In the dusky light, some families are still playing with their kids on the swings and plastic tube slide.

  “So how’s your famous grandfather?” Brandi asks when I sit down.

  “Why did you come?” I ask.

  “I feel like we haven’t finished talking. And you’ve been avoiding me,” she says. “Which makes me think there’s more to discuss.”

  She gets me with those X-ray eyes again. Like she can see right through me.

  “You’re supposed to ask, ‘Like what?’ ” she says.

  Suddenly I wish I hadn’t had that bourbon. I need to be on my game around her. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I really should—”

  She presses her hand down on my right thigh, the one that’s not in the cast. She slides a little closer. “Did you have friends who died over there?”

  Why did she have to ask that? Outside the Army, I might never have had the opportunity to become friends with Morpiss and Skitballs and the rest. We came from different parts of the country, different ethnic and social backgrounds, different religions. But in uniform, none of that mattered. We depended on each other for our lives. We needed each other to survive. We were brothers. “Yes.”

  “Minorities?”

  “Some.”

  “Then you know what I’ve been talking about, Jake. People like your buddies. People who shouldn’t have to die just because they’re underprivileged and don’t have choices. You agree with that, don’t you?”

  “What do you think? Of course I do. I just don’t understand why—”

  She raises a hand. “Hear me out. You said you don’t feel comfortable being in the video, but what if—”

  A flashbang goes off in my head. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner. “Where’s your phone?”

  “What?” Brandi straightens.

  “I want to see your phone.” She was holding it when I got here, but now it’s out of sight.

  “Why?”

  “Are you recording this?”

  “What? No!”

  “Then let me see it.”

  “No.”

  “Seriously? Now I really want to see it.”

  Her bag is lying on the bench between us.

  We both have the same idea.

  But I’m faster.

  “Stop!” she cries, grabbing my arm. But her protest isn’t really angry. It’s half laughter. I open the bag and reach in. Her hands squeeze my wrist. “I said stop! You can’t do this. You’re violating my space!” But still, she’s almost laughing.

  And strangely enough, so am I. “Oh yeah? Well, you’re violating my . . . my right to not be recorded without prior warning.” I pull her phone out. Of course, it’s locked. Now she’s trying to wrestle the phone out of my grasp. But it’s more of a play struggle than a real one. And obviously, she knows I can’t open it anyway. So why are we locked in this pretend battle?

  “Want to see how I used to beat my brother in arm wrestling?” She grabs my hand with both of hers and throws her bare shoulder into me. I smell her fresh sweet fragrance. Suddenly our “meeting” is going in a really strange direction.

  I let her have the phone, but she’s still leaning into me, breathing hard. We’re practically lying together on the bench. Our faces are only inches apart. Our eyes meet and I sense that she too is wondering what, exactly, is going on.

  She retreats, sits up on the bench, and straightens her clothes. We’re still catching our breath.

  “Seriously, you’re not supposed to record someone without them knowing,” I tell her.

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Then why wouldn’t you let me see the phone?”

  “Because it’s mine, and if I don’t want you touching my stuff, then you shouldn’t.”

  “So that’s what this was all about? Me touching your stuff?”

  “And going into my bag. Is that something you do a lot? Just randomly go into girls’ bags without their permission?”

  “Oh yeah, all the time. Just can’t stay out of them.”

  It’s twilight. The families are starting to drift away from the playground. Now that Brandi’s regained control of her phone, she unlocks it and shows me that there’s nothing on the recording app with today’s date on it.

  “Happy?” she asks.

  No, I’m feeling anything but happy. The air between us is still charged. And the thing about electrical charges is, sometimes they repel, but sometimes they attract. And I can’t help wondering if this has something to do with the very shaky state of my relationship with Aurora right now.

  But all of that is off topic. Only I’m having a hard time remembering exactly what the topic was. Damn that Jim Beam Signature.

  “We were talking about you not wanting to be in the video,” Brandi reminds me.

  Right. I take a couple of deep breaths and try to focus. What just happened was way too weird. I have to regroup and shift gears from this immediate and very physical “interaction” with Brandi. Back to the JROTC video. “I told you why I can’t be in it.”

  “What if you were only in silhouette?” she asks. “And we disguised your voice?”

  “Something like, ‘Recent Franklin High graduate, grandson of famous Army general, and wounded war hero who doesn’t want his identity revealed’? Gee, I bet no one would have a clue.” I’m not a big fan of sarcasm, but sometimes it’s unavoidable.

  Brandi looks off across the playground, a place where American children play with no idea of the brutality and hardships children in other parts of the world endure. There has never been a war in which children haven’t suffered and died.

  Brandi’s shoulders slump. “You’re right. If I say anything about your gran
dfather or what happened to you over there, then everyone will know. But if I don’t mention those things, then it doesn’t have to be you. It could be anyone who served over there.”

  Her disappointment is palpable. I can’t help feeling bad for her.

  She gathers herself. “Jake, you know that there’s a story here. And it needs to be told by someone whose opinion matters. There has to be a way you can do it. Tell the world that we really don’t have an all-volunteer Army. We’ve just changed the method of conscription. We let economic forces compel minorities and have-nots to gamble their bodies and lives for a slim shot at a better financial future. That’s not fair, Jake. You and I both know it. Won’t you do something?”

  How can you not be impressed? This isn’t some wannabe YouTube star trying to draw attention to herself by creating a controversial video. It doesn’t look like she even wants to be in the video. She just wants to do something for a great many innocent young Americans who aren’t aware of how those in power want to use them.

  I break the silence. “I admire your determination, Brandi. Seriously. I mean, having the guts to stand up for something you believe in and know is going to be unpopular. Especially here in Franklin.”

  And I’m thinking: She has more guts than you appear to have, Jake.

  Why should it be the poor and minorities, the disadvantaged and luckless, who have to bear the burden of risking their lives for our country? And it’s not just them. It’s guys like me who are seduced by the action ads and unethical recruiters. Guys who believe that enlisting is their duty and obligation to their country. I could have so easily avoided all of this. Could have gone to college, gotten a job. Could have chosen a life where the worst scars come from a burn I get while cooking burgers on the outdoor grill. Where the worst nightmare is a scrape on my new car.

  It’s getting dark. Brandi hasn’t said a word. Meanwhile, there are things I still need to do. “Well, I—”

  Before I can make an excuse for going, she squeezes my arm. “You didn’t answer my question. Won’t you do something?”

  In the dimming light her eyes are dark and not so penetrating. Will we ever figure out the answers? Why we need to have armies? Why we need to go to war?

  I take a deep breath. There is something I can do.

  ERIN ROSE

  I could have asked Aurora’s friends if they knew Erin Rose’s new address, but I didn’t want them telling Aurora I was going to visit my old girlfriend. It was Barry, the bartending bassist with the Zombie Horde, who knew where to find her.

  The address is a few towns over. I take an Uber to a sprawling ranch house with a brick facade and large, neatly trimmed lawn. I ring the doorbell and wait. A vacuum hums inside. When no one comes to the door, I ring again.

  The vacuum stops. “Who is it?” a voice calls.

  “Jake Liddell, ma’am. I’m a friend of Mrs. Burrows.”

  “I think you must have the wrong house,” the voice says.

  “Erin Rose Burrows?”

  The door opens an inch. A young woman peeks out. “You mean, Erin Rose Dixon?”

  She’s gone back to her maiden name. “Sorry. Yes, that’s who I mean.”

  She gives me a look up and down as if she’s not sure what to do.

  “I’m a friend of her husband. Former husband. From the Army.”

  The young woman scowls at me. “You sure we’re talking about the same person?”

  What’s this? How can she work here and not know that Erin Rose had a husband in the Army? There’s a stroller in the front hall. “She has a daughter, Amber? Probably about two and a half years old?”

  The young woman nods and seems uncertain about what to do.

  “If you want to check with her, I’ll wait.”

  For some reason, this offer helps put her at ease. She points. “She’s out in the back. You can go around the house.”

  I let myself through a gate, crutch it past a swimming pool and grilling island large enough to cook for a squad. Farther out in the yard, Erin Rose is hanging sheets on an outdoor clothes tree. She’s cut her dark hair to shoulder length, and her biceps have more definition than I remember. She must go to the gym a lot. Amber, small and dark-haired, is pulling at some laundry in a basket on the ground.

  Erin Rose sees me, stops what she’s doing, then bends down and picks up her daughter. They both watch me approach.

  “I knew you’d come,” she says without a smile. Not the warmest of welcomes. Amber tugs at her mother’s hair.

  “You remember Jake, don’t you?” Erin Rose asks her daughter. Amber shakes her head and hides her face. “I’m sure she does. She’s just being shy.”

  Amber peeks out, points at my cast.

  “He got hurt, sweetheart.” Erin Rose turns to me. “So I hear you’re a hero. Congratulations.” Still no smile. She’s wary. Cautious. Defensive.

  “Thanks.”

  It’s been more than a year since we’ve seen each other. Doesn’t seem to matter now that for years we were sweethearts and then close friends. She’s clearly uncomfortable with me being there.

  “So I take it you have something to say to me,” Erin Rose says. She looks back at the house. The young woman who greeted me in the front is standing inside the sliding glass doors, watching. Erin Rose waves to her and she comes out.

  “Would you like something?” Erin Rose asks me.

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  The young woman arrives and Erin Rose hands Amber off with a kiss and a promise that she’ll be in the house to see her soon. The breeze rustles the hanging sheets.

  “I’ve always loved the smell of air-dried sheets,” Erin Rose says, watching the young woman carry her daughter away.

  “Should we sit?” I ask.

  “I suppose.”

  We cross the yard to a table under an umbrella beside the pool. The filter gurgles. The breeze pushes an inflatable white-and-black swan across the surface.

  “Nice place,” I tell her.

  Erin Rose reads more into the statement than I intended. “When Brad went into the Army, he was away more than he was home. People don’t get married and then stop getting to know each other. My girlfriends say it never stops. But with Brad, the more he was away, the less I felt I knew him.”

  “Erin, I’m not here to make you feel defensive,” I tell her.

  Her eyebrows dip.

  “Isn’t there supposed to be a year between deployments?” I ask.

  Erin Rose smirks. “They have ways to get around that, especially when they’re not making their recruitment goals. And anyway, after his first deployment, Brad couldn’t wait to go back over there. He pulled strings and went early for extra training. The same thing after his second deployment. That’s the one that really threw me, because it wasn’t just me he was leaving, but Amber. We had really bad fights. He kept saying he couldn’t help himself. He just didn’t feel normal here. He couldn’t figure out what to do with himself when he was home. But it made me so angry that he was in a rush to leave Amber.”

  She grows quiet. Alone with her thoughts, I guess. But when she looks at me, her eyes are brimming with tears. “I know you and he got close over there. Do you hate me now?”

  I shake my head and put my hand on hers. “No, not at all. What happened wasn’t your fault.”

  She wipes the tears away. “They wouldn’t fly him home on the same plane with the KIAs. Like he didn’t deserve the same treatment. They sent him home on a different plane, alone. There was no one waiting for him when he got here.”

  So different from the welcome I received. And yet, there was hardly any difference between Brad and me. We were both soldiers, trying our best to serve our country. Both badly wounded by war.

  “But you got the death benefit, right?”

  She sniffs and nods. “It’s for Amber’s college.”

  The young woman comes out with a tray. A pitcher of tea and two glasses filled with ice. Erin Rose may have wiped the tears away, but her eyes are still red.
The young woman sees this and scowls while she places the tray on the table.

  “Thank you, Stacy,” Erin Rose says. “What’s Amber doing?”

  “Watching Curious George.”

  “Not too much TV, okay?”

  Stacy nods and heads back toward the house. Erin Rose pours the iced tea. She smiles sadly at me. “It’s nice to see you, Jake.”

  “You too, Erin.”

  She takes a sip of tea and gazes out across the yard. It’s at least an acre. A good place to raise children. Her eyes well up again. “He said you were a good friend. The only one he could talk to.”

  “He was a fine soldier. He did his best for his men.”

  She frowns. “You wrote that there were things you wanted to say, but had to say in person . . .”

  “He blamed himself,” I tell her. “He knew he scared you. He knew he hadn’t been a good husband. Like you said, he couldn’t help himself. It was like he’d become addicted to the action. And to the brotherhood.”

  She screws up her face. “Then why did he . . . ?”

  “He wasn’t right in the head. You knew about all the meds, right? It was like an ogre inside him. Another creature he had to do battle against.”

  She nods sadly. “He took a lot of pills when he was home, too.”

  “It wasn’t just him. A lot of guys had that ogre stomping around inside their heads. You knew Brad. Before he enlisted, there was nothing that would have made him take his own life. Not in a million years. But you mix what war does to you with those drugs, and it’s lethal.”

  “But he knew about Garth. He knew I was leaving him . . .”

  “Like I said, Erin. He blamed himself. He started to blame himself for everything.”

  Erin Rose wipes more tears from her eyes. “I was afraid you were going to tell me it was my fault. That he wouldn’t have killed himself if I hadn’t left him.”

  The white bedsheets flap in the afternoon breeze. In the house, Amber comes to the sliding glass door and presses her forehead against it. She waves and Erin Rose waves back. That little girl is all that remains of Brad, a man who gave his life for his country just like any so-called hero.