Price of Duty Page 4

  THE RECRUITER

  He sits at his table in the high school lobby, along with all the colorful pamphlets and Army Strong posters. He’s not the same recruiter who signed me up. He’s new, but doing the same job, coming here regularly, looking for fresh meat.

  When I see him, I tell myself to keep going, that nothing I say will change anything. But Lori won’t be back to pick me up for another fifteen minutes. I stop in front of the table. It’s like I can’t help myself. The recruiter is staring at his phone, but when he senses my presence, he looks up, sees my cast, frowns, then forces a smile.

  “May I?” I gesture to the chair on the near side of the desk.

  “Of course.”

  I sit. Instantly my thoughts are back to roughly a year ago, the last time I sat at this table. The day I signed up. The recruiter back then was a guy named Marshall. We’d been talking for weeks. The way Marshall described it, the Army was like a 24/7 college fraternity house, only better because you got a cash bonus to join, party, shoot guns, and collect a monthly paycheck.

  This new recruiter nods at the cast. “How’d it happen?”

  When I tell him my femur and ankle were shattered by rounds from an NSV heavy machine gun, his eyes widen. He figures it out. “Oh, I heard you might be coming here.” He offers his hand. “It’s an honor.”

  I should shake his hand. Whatever I’m royally ticked off about isn’t his fault. He’s just doing his job. But it’s too late. The recruiter’s hand hangs unmet in the air between us. Then he retracts it and starts to look tense and wary.

  “What kind of bonuses are you offering these days?” I ask.

  “Twenty thousand to quick ship. But you have to be ready to go in thirty days. Forty thousand if you sign up for four years.”

  Just as my feet brought me here of their own volition, now my mouth wants to go off on its own. Along with those sudden flashes of anger, my impulse control is out of whack. “That’s serious scratch. You tell them about the eight years of inactive reserve after they get out?”

  The recruiter squirms a little. Now he definitely looks uncomfortable.

  I’m not finished: “The guy who used to sit here? He forgot to mention that when I signed up. Funny thing. Turned out most of the guys I served with were signed by recruiters who ‘forgot.’ They told one of my buddies he could quit any time he wanted by asking for a failure-to-adapt discharge. Can you believe it? And a bunch of guys got the line about the chances of seeing active duty being slim to none. And guess what? Two of them came home in a box.”

  The recruiter shoves his hands into his pockets and stares at the table. It’s common knowledge that recruiters have to lie in order to make their quotas. (What happens if they don’t make their quotas? Do they risk getting reassigned to even crappier jobs, like Mortuary Affairs? Imagine spending your days sifting through bags of body parts, trying to match them to the appropriate corpses.)

  I lean forward. “Listen, man, I know they’ve got you between a rock and a hard place. You didn’t ask for this job. And now that you’ve got it, you just want to do your time and get out.”

  He nods almost imperceptibly.

  “But be honest with these kids, okay? They don’t know anything except what they see on TV. Those ads about making a difference and being a problem solver? They don’t have a clue about what really goes on over there.”

  The recruiter taps his fingers on his laptop, which is filled with slick videos designed to convince new recruits that they’re about to become superheroes. He knows everything I’ve said is true.

  And he’s not going to do a thing about it.

  AURORA

  We’re meeting at TGI Fridays. Emily and Michael can’t make it, but Emily wants us to come to the pool party after. . . .”

  Aurora’s in front of her mirror, trying on clothes. We’re in the room she grew up in. In her parents’ house because with car payments and student loans, she can’t afford a place of her own. I’m sitting by the window. In the backyard next door, some kids are kicking a soccer ball around a freshly mown green lawn. How many times over there did I see kids playing soccer in some dusty street, surrounded by the crumbled concrete and twisted rebar of bombed-out buildings? And then a few days later I would see the same kids playing a different kind of game. Instead of a soccer ball, they’d be lugging rusty old AKs. Kids as young as nine and ten whose fathers had been killed or maimed in battle. Kids who now needed to make money to feed their families. The insurgents paid them twenty-five dollars a month to fight in a grown-ups’ war.

  “Jake?” Aurora is facing me, a couple of different colored tops draped over her arm. “Did you hear what I said?”

  “About swimming?”

  “I asked if you brought a bathing suit.”

  “What’s the point?” I gesture at my cast.

  “I just think you’ll feel more comfortable.”

  I’m wearing long sleeves and pants. Except for the missing finger and the scar on my chin, she has no idea what my body looks like now. The scars and gashes from shrapnel and surgery. The entrance and exit wounds of the rounds that tore right through me. I don’t have a clue what my leg will look like when this cast comes off. “I’ll be fine like this.”

  Aurora leaves the small bedroom. Why do I feel relieved when she’s not here? Because I’m not the same person I used to be. Does anyone come back from war the same person they were when they left? Maybe if you’re a fobbit who never stepped outside the wire for your entire deployment.

  She comes back wearing a pink top. She went into the bathroom to change. It’s been nine months since we’ve been in close proximity. Even with all the Skyping, calls, and texts, there’s an awkward shyness between us that wasn’t there when I left. She knows some of what I’ve been through. I’m sure she’s read up on wounded warriors, PTSD, on the high rate of returning soldier violence and suicide. Maybe she also senses that I’m not the same person. Maybe she feels like she doesn’t know this “new” me.

  I’m not sure I do either.

  So she fills the unsettled space between us with words—about dental hygienist school, about Sue Ann’s pregnancy and what color she wants to paint the nursery, about what Luke’s mother said about Jen’s weight, and how Trey’s parents have offered to help buy them a home, but only if . . .

  I’m thinking about Brandi. An hour ago she texted asking if we could meet again. She wants to show me something she’s been working on. I’m recalling those piercing hazel eyes. And the quick intelligence behind them. What made her sense that I have doubts? What did she see? Am I not doing as good a job of hiding it as I thought? Maybe she’s simply smart enough to know that it’s natural to have doubts. She knows I’ve seen death up close, been seriously wounded, undergone all those operations. Makes sense I’d be somewhat less than gung-ho, right?

  But what if it isn’t a guess? What if she can see into me? Then, along with Lori, there are now two people who suspect I’m pretending to be something I’m not sure I want to be.

  “Sue Ann thinks it’s blackmail, and I agree. Trey’s mom is going to be over there all the time, telling her how to decorate, what shrubs to plant, and—”

  “Aurora!” Suddenly I can’t take her blabbering.

  She freezes, then stares wide-eyed, the way she’d stare at a snarling dog.

  Damn it! Instantly I’m filled with regret. I’ve never snapped at her before. Prior to going over there, I never felt irritable or angry for no reason.

  Aurora’s still frozen in place, staring at me. She doesn’t deserve to be snapped at. She is the sweetest, kindest, most thoughtful person I’ve ever known. Always thinking about others. Always there to help. There are three reasons I’m still alive: luck, the desire to survive, and Aurora.

  I heave myself up and spread my arms. Whatever’s going on inside me, it isn’t her fault. “Hey, come here.”

  She approaches hesitantly. Like I’m that dog she isn’t sure about. Now she’s in my arms, her head nestled against my sho
ulder, the fragrance of her hair once again in my nose. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  “You’re different, Jake.” She sounds stung.

  I can’t deny it. These furies inside me boil up so fast and unexpectedly.

  She slides her arms around my waist. “I know things must have happened. Things you don’t want to tell me about.”

  She has no idea. No one does. Except, maybe, the General. In Nam, he was in firefights. He was wounded. But unlike me, it only seemed to make him more gung-ho military. How was that possible? How could he come through that without any PTSD? It’s practically abnormal.

  Aurora gives me a hug. “You’re like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

  I hug her back. “Dr. Jekyll and Private First Class Hyde.”

  She gives a tiny chuckle. For the moment, things are better.

  * * *

  Jen and Luke. Sue Ann and Trey. These are the couples Aurora and I hung around with back in the day. I haven’t seen them since we graduated. At TGI Fridays we catch up. They tell me what they’ve been doing. But then there’s that awkward moment when it’s my turn. Aurora’s probably warned them about my visible wounds. Maybe she’s even suggested that they not ask me about what happened over there.

  Another round of sodas and iced teas arrives. How’s this for irony? I’m old enough to kill, old enough to have seen humans do unimaginably vicious and cruel things to one another. But not old enough to order a beer.

  Trey brings up sports. Relief spreads around the table. Here’s something we can talk about. Chatter about our favorite division one teams carries us until the cheese fries and fried shrimp appetizers arrive. Man, does this stuff taste good. At the FOB they tried their best. I’ve already mentioned the occasional Sunday steaks and ice cream. But then there were times when weather, or enemy maneuvers, or just plain military snafus made it impossible to resupply. We’d have a week of battery acid (coffee) with armored cow (condensed milk), dead donkey (canned ham), bug juice, and the four fingers of death (hot dogs). That was usually when Skitballs would come a little unglued and start going on stealth missions to liberate every pack of Skittles he could find in our MREs, the prepackaged ready-to-eat meals we carried on patrols. The FOB’s rat and mouse population would suddenly triple as they feasted on the ripped-open MRE pouches he’d leave behind.

  But I can’t think of Skitballs without thinking about the ambush. And I can’t think about the ambush without feeling a flood of pain and regret. And I can’t feel that pain and regret without thinking of what I would do today if I were truly brave.

  Aurora nudges me gently, bringing me back to dinner. So far I’ve managed to eat with my right hand. I’ve kept my left hand in my lap. I could probably continue to keep it hidden through the appetizer course, but what’s the point? I’m sure they all know about it. So I pick up a napkin with both hands and dab my lips.

  They all stare at my left hand for a moment. It’s like they’ve been waiting. But it’s probably not as bad as some of them have imagined. The Army surgeons did a pretty good job of smoothing the raggedness. It almost looks like I was simply born with three and two-thirds fingers on my left hand.

  The entrees arrive. It’s knife-and-fork time with both hands in use, but our friends are no longer watching. Conversationwise, there’s the current baseball season to discuss, and next fall’s football prospects. We chew over sports as thoroughly as we chew our New York strip steaks and baby back ribs.

  By dessert, the subject of sports has been exhausted. We plow through our New York cheesecake and brownies with vanilla ice cream, and talk about cars, movies, what various people we graduated with are up to. Finally, the bill comes. We’ve made it through the entire meal without a single mention of the military. You’d think that after all those interviews it would be a relief not to have to talk about it. But strangely, I felt its absence.

  * * *

  At Emily’s they set me up on a lounge at the pool’s edge. This warm evening is filled with laughter, talk, splashing, and teasing. Out of the dark come the chirps and peeps of crickets and tree frogs. More importantly, out come beer, tequila, and spiced rum.

  Aurora and my friends are careful not to leave me alone. There’s always someone at the edge of the pool ready to chat. Someone with hair soaked and tanned skin dotted with drops. The smile on my face is sometimes authentic, sometimes forced. They’re trying their best to make me feel comfortable while they have fun.

  It’s not their fault that I’m thinking about Skitballs again, lying wounded in an open sewer in the middle of the firefight. His bright red blood mixing with human waste.

  Stop, Jake. No one made you enlist. It was your decision.

  In the pool are the ones who chose not to enlist. With the exception of Aurora, all of them are at four-year colleges or universities now, still preparing to begin their careers. I must be the only one who feels like his career is probably over.

  Emily swims over and rests her arms on the edge of the pool. They’re all pretty girls, but she’s the prettiest, with black hair and dark eyes and full lips. Her father used to be my pediatrician. She plans to become a radiologist. She just finished her freshman year at Barnard College in New York City.

  “Sorry you can’t come in,” she says.

  “One of these days.”

  “But aren’t you leaving at the end of the week?”

  “Yeah. They’re shipping me to Walter Reed for rehab.”

  “And then?”

  Good question. If she were reading an MRI of my heart, what would she see? What do I see?

  “What makes you ask?” I’m curious.

  She rakes her fingers through her slick wet hair and shakes it out. “Not sure. Just a feeling. After what you’ve been through? Like maybe you’ve paid your dues?”

  “I haven’t finished my deployment. There’s still a war going on.”

  With a whoop, Luke does a cannonball off the diving board. Water sprays everywhere. Some even gets on me. Everyone cheers. Small waves splash against the sides of the pool.

  “There’ll always be a war going on,” Emily says when the noise dies down. “I hear they call it the Forever War.”

  True that.

  “How long do you think she’ll wait?” Emily asks.

  There’s no question who she’s talking about. I don’t waste much time wondering if Aurora sent her on this mission. The answer is almost surely no. That’s not the way Aurora rolls. But Emily’s always been one of her closest friends and doesn’t hesitate to say what’s on her mind.

  “It’s not like no one else is interested.” Emily nods toward the snack table, where Aurora’s talking to a guy wearing green board shorts. Normally, there’s nothing that lifts my spirits more than seeing Aurora in a bikini. She’s chatting and laughing with the guy, who’s got a decent build and sun-streaked hair. And whose body isn’t peppered with scars. You don’t have to observe their body language for long to see that they’re comfortable with each other. This isn’t the first time they’ve chatted.

  “Doug Rhinebach,” Emily says.

  “As in Rhinebach Ford?”

  “Not anymore. Now it’s the Rhinebach Auto Group. Ford, BMW, Honda, Jeep, and yadda yadda yadda. Don’t get me wrong, Jake. Aurora’s been true blue to you, but how much longer do you expect her to hold out?”

  * * *

  The moment’s finally here. Aurora and I left the party and are parked in a secluded place. She’s in my arms. Before we left Emily’s, she took a quick shower. Her hair is damp and stringy, but she smells great and feels great. I’ve dreamed about this for a long time.

  But something’s not right. As if I don’t already have enough crap swirling around in my head, now there’s Doug Rhinebach. And while I believe Emily when she says that Aurora’s been true to me, it was pretty obvious tonight that Aurora hasn’t exactly been giving Doug the cold shoulder.

  I should be pissed. I am pissed. But I’m also burdened by this tendency to see the other side of things.

&nb
sp; Can I really blame her for hedging her bets? Isn’t it human nature to try to protect yourself from being devastated? She knew there was a chance I wouldn’t come back. That just adds to what I owe her for waiting for me.

  She rests quietly in my arms. We listen to each other’s breaths. We’re parked in the woods at the end of a road marked private. No one knows why this road is here. Years ago Trey bought the yellow PRIVATE ROAD sign and hammered it onto a tree at the entrance. It’s been our private road ever since.

  It’s quiet. Is Aurora thinking about Doug? Has she parked here with him?

  Stop it, Jake. You know damn well she hasn’t.

  “Do you have to go back?” she asks.

  “It’s what I’m supposed to do.”

  She runs her finger along the cast. “After what you’ve been through, it doesn’t seem right.”

  Tell me about it. And yet, there’s always the other side of the story. “Suppose I sold cars for a living. And I have this fantastic day where I sell more cars than anyone’s ever sold. And as I’m leaving the dealership, I trip on the curb and break my ankle. That mean I don’t have to sell cars anymore?”

  “Well, not if you sold a million cars that day.” Aurora grins. And no, I don’t think Doug’s on her mind right now. She gently traces the scar on my chin with her fingers. “How long will you be away?”

  If I go back? I just can’t imagine doing that. Forget the medal. I’ll return the enlistment bonus. I’ll go to prison if they make me. Anything is better than being over there.

  But I can’t tell Aurora that. I can’t burden her with a secret that momentous. My grandfather is one of the best-known generals alive. My father is a lieutenant colonel. This town loves its military and I am its hero. How can I embarrass my family and town? How can I thumb my nose at them?