Blue Stars (11 page)

“I do have these, upstairs. But it’s good to keep all of this together.” She unfolded the birth certificate copy and they both stared at it in silence.
Proof of Live Birth. Michael Cacciarelli
, infant: male. Date: November 23, 1975.
Mother: Renee Milio
.
Father: unspecified.

“Not a lot of relevant info there,” Mike said. He bounced a knee up and down, finished the beer.

“Would you like to … give at least some of this to your aunt? Or I can make copies of all of it for her, and—”

Mike shook his head. He snapped back into action, flipping through pages in his folder. “She’s not even in Janesville now, I don’t think. Anyways … look, do you want to do this or not?”

Not.
“All right. Yes, go on.”

“Well, I guess the next one is … yeah. Here, you just have to sign a few places.”

Consent for notification, Killed in Action.
Ellen breathed out. “Where do I … okay, I see.” She initialed several places to confirm her name and address.
Don’t you dare be funny,
she told him in her head. The red service flag lay curled on the table between them, drawing her uneasy attention like a live thing.

“One more. Last one.” Mike pushed a form toward her and went back to eating meat loaf. It was a life insurance policy he’d taken out, with Ellen named sole beneficiary.

“Michael, no.” There was also a federal payment in case of death or injury attached to the forms. Someone had helpfully attached tiny yellow Post-its at all the “signature” spaces.

“Why not? Someone should get something if I buy the farm—”

“Don’t—”

“—And we get a death gratuity too, so make sure none of this gets wasted on funeral exp—”

“Stop it.”

“Plus, you know, it’s probably like the only way I could ever pay you back for all the—”

“Fuck you.”
The shock of what Ellen had just said propelled her out of her chair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean you—but—
fuck
this, honestly,
fuck
all of this—” Hands over her mouth, she went in useless circles around the kitchen. Mike hovered nearby, saying something, he was trying to pat her back, but she was fighting hard for control as wave after wave of horror passed through her. After it had, she rested against the counter and studied Mike: worried, out of his element.

“Do you…” She sniffed hard, wiped her face with a tea towel. “Do you have food in your mouth?”

He tried an experimental chew, and then swallowed, giving the thumbs-up. “Caught me off guard with all those F-bombs. I thought I was going to have to—”

“Actually hug me?”

“Whatever. What
ever,
Ellen.” He pulled her into a big hug and they rocked there for a long time, by the stove.

*   *   *

One of the only breaks from composing Michael’s letters that Ellen allowed herself was a movie date with Jane. Of course Jane was late. From the movie theater lobby, Ellen tried her cell, but it didn’t even ring—“call failed”—which made her suspect Jane had stopped paying the bill again. It was a Thursday night at seven, and the Marcus cinemaplex was crowded; Ellen went around the concessions stand to double-check, but no Jane. Frustrated but not surprised, Ellen got into the long line for tickets. Even if she was stood up by her daughter, she was going to try to find a movie to enjoy. Not
War of the Worlds,
although apparently that’s what most people were here to see. Maybe she would try that remake of
Bewitched.

But then Ellen heard Jane calling for her. Outside the rows of ticket buyers, Jane waved both hands,
here I am.
Ellen pointed up at the board of titles and showtimes: What do you want to see? Jane shrugged: You decide. Her daughter would scoff at
Bewitched,
she felt sure, so Ellen made a split-second decision at the cashier and came away with two tickets.

“
Batman Begins
?” She gave Jane a one-armed hug.

“I’ve seen it, but sure, whatever.”

Ellen stifled her response to this and instead they went to get popcorn and drinks. Jane claimed she wasn’t hungry; Ellen ignored her and paid for one of the specials that got you a giant bucket plus two sodas. She was going to have a good time, despite Jane’s attitude.

It was difficult to find seats in the dark, with strident commercials blaring. Ellen stumbled over someone and spilled a little popcorn; Jane reached her hand back to guide her mother. When Ellen did sink in relief into a seat Jane was staring up at the screen in disgust.

“What?”

Jane merely held out both of her open hands.
This, this!

“
Finding your own power and using it for good. Being part of a team. Protecting America, one day at a time.”

On the screen, images of men rappelling out of a helicopter, racing up a dirt hill, grinning under their face paint and helmets. Some sort of country-power-pop anthem built to a climax while the narrator intoned: “Always ready. Always there. The National Guard.”

Jane leaped to her feet, her bag and coat sliding to the floor. She shouted, “Boo! Booooooo!”

Next to her, Ellen could practically feel her young daughter vibrating with intensity. The audience laughed, a few people clapped. One called,
You tell ’em girl
. Jane slowly sat down. Ellen took her hand and Jane let her hold it. She was filled with pride. When was the last time she herself had taken such a stand?

At the same time, Ellen worried. What did it mean to shake with that kind of righteous fury, to find so much of the world unbearable? Would it have been different if she’d grown up with a father in her life? Jane suddenly appeared porous, undefended. Far too vulnerable.

Batman Begins
began. Jane slouched down in her seat and took a giant handful of popcorn. Ellen let the last few days fade away, the fevered intensity of her letters to Michael, and allowed herself to be drawn into the origin story of a comic book superhero she didn’t care about one way or the other. Luckily, there was no need to know much: Bruce Wayne, Gotham City, Alfred the butler, the vault with the rubber suit. She liked the long sequence set in Asia where, as part of his training, Bruce is drugged and has to fight wave after woozy wave of black-suited ninja warriors.

After a while, Jane scrunched closer and put her head on Ellen’s shoulder. Ellen kissed the top of her head with its tangled, dirty hair. They watched Batman acquire some new weapons. Ellen wished time would stop.

“Mom?” Jane had her mouth very close to Ellen’s ear; she could feel her warm breath around the words. “I think I’m pregnant.”

8

“No way, lady. You’re not going anywhere yet.” Lacey leaned her forearm against the thrashing toddler’s stomach while she wiped poop off the girl’s legs and bottom. She wasn’t sure what this one’s name was, but she could tell what she’d had for breakfast. “Good lord. Hey, need more wipes in here!”

One of the other moms dashed in with some. “If you’re done, we may have another for you.”

“How’d I get on this detail?” Lacey asked. It had been a long time since she had changed a diaper and she wanted some verification she got this “pull-up” kind the right way, but the other mom had already fled the designated changing room. Lacey sat back on her heels and helped the fussy toddler to her feet. As soon as she was upright, the girl shot back out to the living room, where there were toys, snacks, and “Yo Gabba Gabba.”

Lacey bagged the dirty diaper, scooped the towel into the laundry bag, and washed her hands. “Next?” Felicia carried in a sleepy baby and laid him gently on the bed.

“I was just about to put him down, but I hate for him to sleep in a full diaper,” she whispered. “The last thing she needs is for him to get a bad rash.”

“Is this—?”

“Yes. His name’s Peter.” They both stared down at the child, just over a year old. His father had been killed in action five days ago. Lacey unsnapped his Onesie and changed him as gently as she could. Felicia sat on the bed and sang a little “shh shh shh,” stroking the top of his head with one finger. Aimee had wanted to bring Peter to the service, but her worried relatives convinced her to leave him with the FRG child care volunteers back at the house. Lacey wasn’t sure what she would have done. It was the older kids and the littlest babies who were at the church now with their parents; most of the toddlers, the hardest to mind in church, had been left at Aimee’s house. But Lacey thought she knew what Aimee had wanted as she sat through the hymns and the eulogy and the prayers: the solid weight of this baby on her lap. An anchor to life.

The news about Staff Sergeant Devon Richards had ripped through the circle of wives and girlfriends and set in motion the wide waves of protocol that surrounded an army service member casualty. Two women from the FRG group, the “care team,” showed up here—at Aimee and Devon’s home in Hunts Point—within minutes of the official notification, and stayed with Aimee while she called her parents and his, while she attended to the details, while she broke down. Other women—Anne Mackay was one of them—fielded everyone’s panicked phone calls about the IED that had hit Richards’s unit. No, no one else had been killed or injured. Yes, they were sure. Most of these calls had Aimee as their ostensible purpose (How is she holding up? What can I do?), but the true subtext had been:
Tell me again that my guy is okay.
Lacey knew this, because hers had been one of them.

“Was he one of yours?” The phone woke Lacey up at 3:00 a.m. two nights ago; she’d been expecting Eddie to call from base on a VoIP, and this was the first thing out of her mouth.

“No. Alpha Company.”

“Thank God.” Eddie was silent, but this was more than the hum and delay following each person’s words. Lacey came up on her elbow in bed. “I didn’t mean it that way. What’s going on? You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just tired and … really pissed. I’m just so fucking pissed.”

“I know. I know.”

“Such a stupid goddamn waste … I can’t get into it, but so many dumb little mistakes, all added up together. And now this.”

“It’s so hard, honey.”

“I’m fine! I’m just pissed! Lots of stupid shit went wrong, and we’re better than that.”

“I know, I just—”

“Lace, I gotta go. Everything’s okay. Hi to Otis.”

“Wait—Eddie? Eddie!”

For a long time Lacey lay awake holding her cell phone, wishing the whole call could get a do-over.

Now Felicia wrapped baby Peter up in his blanket and carried him off to his nursery. Lacey tidied the changing room and washed her hands. Out in the living room, women were pushing aside furniture to make room for the reception; people would begin to arrive in about an hour. Little kids careened around, getting in the way. Lacey threaded through the chaos to the kitchen.

“What do you need?”

“Here,” Dina said, handing her a bread knife. “Can you slice up the hoagies?”

“Mom!” Otis burst into the kitchen doorway, trailed closely by his buddy Rich. “I just unlocked, like, a whole other level on Mario Go-Kart! We’ve never even seen it! Can I use their computer to go online and find out what to do?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” Lacey said. Dina laughed. “Now scat, unless you want to be put to work.” The boys fled.

“How’s Otis doing with it?” Dina asked. “Mary’s too little to understand, thank God.”

“Hard to say. We had a ‘talk’ and I told him how Eddie was nowhere near where that kind of stuff happens”—the two women exchanged a look—“but he’s been pretty poker-faced about the whole thing. Would have helped if Eddie could have gotten him on the phone, but…”

“Right. Don’t hold your breath on that, yeah?” Lacey sliced without answering. She kept the fact of Eddie’s late-night call to herself; as an officer, he had more access to the phone banks than the enlisted guys like Dina’s husband. That sliver of guilty relief was drowned out, though, by the bad memory of how they’d ended things. Maybe it would have been better if she
hadn’t
heard from him.

“You guys. Holy shit. Holy shit.” Another woman burst into the kitchen, staring at them wild-eyed. “Have you seen this?” Others crowded in behind her, Felicia among them.

Dina whispered, “Is it—? Did something happen?”

“Give me that,” Lacey said. She took the electronic reader out of the woman’s hands. “How do you work this?” Someone reached over and enlarged the screen.

AP news: A photo of at least two unidentified U.S. Marines purports to show the men desecrating the bodies of Iraqi insurgents. Photographer unknown. Follow link for photos—
Warning: Graphic.

“Is this a joke?” Lacey said. The others’ faces mirrored her horror. She hit the link; as soon as the first image loaded, all four women recoiled. A row of portable johns, with their doors open. Two soldiers standing, backs turned to the camera, as if urinating. They were looking over their shoulders, in sunglasses, laughing. One waved at the camera. Between them, a slumped figure wearing keffiyeh and robes, propped up and sitting on a toilet. A slumped figure who was dead. There were other photos.

“How could they?” Felicia breathed.

“Which fucking genius took these pictures?” Dina said. “There’s your problem. What did he do, put them on Facebook?”

“Jarheads are unbelievable. They are so up shit’s creek, it’s not even funny.”

“You know what this is going to do for the jihadis, right? Give them every excuse in the world to suicide-bomb our guys.”

“These photos make it seem like we’re asking for it!”

Some other women wandered in from the living room; they too had heard about the photos. Texts were zinging all over. “ABC News is doing a ‘breaking news’ on it right now. CNN has it all over the home page.”

“If I got my hands on those assholes it’d make the Hajjis look friendly.”

“I can’t wait for them to be identified, and run out of the service. Hi, dishonorable discharge. Not a penny of benefits.”

“Please. They’ll get beers on the house everywhere they go.”

“What sucks is that no one sees what probably happened two minutes before this picture—those dead towel-heads killing one of their buddies. Or trying to. CNN should run a photo of
that.
”