I Saw a Man (25 page)

Although part of Daniel’s agreement with Cathy had been to give her space, they’d still kept in regular contact. Weekly phone calls, emails. He’d Skyped the girls regularly too, close-shaving in guesthouse bathrooms to maintain his previous military smoothness. As far as Sarah and Kayce were concerned, their father’s work had taken him away again. Which in a manner of speaking, Daniel had convinced himself, was true. It wasn’t a difficult story for them to accept. Over the years of his service his absence had become as familiar to them as his presence. But even when on tour he’d always got leave, so a few months ago with Cathy’s consent, he’d travelled back to Las Vegas to see them.

He’d been with them for only a day. Cathy had said it would be too disruptive—for her and for the girls—if he’d stayed for any longer, or come to sleep at the house. So instead he’d arrived the night before, checking in to a serviced MGM apartment just off the strip. As usual, he hadn’t been able to sleep, so he’d spent much of the night strolling the covered malls and the casinos, watching the gamblers feed the machines.

They met over breakfast at one of the Paris restaurants, a foot of the Eiffel Tower planted through the ceiling above them. Seeing the girls had almost been too much for Daniel. But he knew Cathy would be watching him, weighing his responses, his behaviour, so somehow he’d held himself together, suppressing his desire to just take them in his arms and hold them. As he’d paid the bill Cathy had thrown him a look, one in which the wife he’d known and the wife he was coming to know both seemed to be imploring him to understand how fragile this was, to understand what he held.

That evening Daniel took the girls to Disney on Ice, but before that they’d had a whole day together. They’d spent most of it walking the strip, Daniel pushing Sarah in her stroller, Kayce holding his hand. Between shopping in the malls and eating snacks they’d seen New York, Paris, Venice, Egypt; dwarf versions of the Empire State, the Arc de Triomphe, the Pyramids. Later, on their way to the show that evening they’d stopped to watch the choreographed fountains in the lake before the Bellagio, their towering plumes shooting from shadow into light.

After his months in the wine country and coast of Sonoma, the city felt heavily present to Daniel, and yet film-set ephemeral too. He’d never noticed before how there was music piped everywhere on the strip. From the lampposts, potted plants, all along the fake cobbled malls. Even the walkways above the highway felt like themed zones of homelessness, these being, as far as he could tell, the only places where the city’s beggars were allowed to ply their trade.

As Daniel watched the Bellagio fountains, the girls shrieking and jumping at his sides, he realised he’d been wrong. For all the time he’d worked out at Creech he’d always seen what he did there as a strangely jarring disconnect from the rest of Las Vegas. Here, in the city’s heart, fantasy, escape, and gambling were the dominant notes of its song. Out there, in the desert, they faced reality, war, death. The strip was about forgetting death. Creech was about dealing in it.

But it wasn’t that simple, and as those fountains had danced in unison he’d seen that, with a sudden clarity. Creech wasn’t a disconnect from the aspiration of the city, but a continuum. In Las Vegas, versions of the world were translated to America so America didn’t have to go there. In doing so, other countries, other places, were simultaneously brought closer and pushed farther away. Just like they had been on those screens he’d watched out in Creech. Because isn’t that what they’d done out there too, he and Maria with their coffees cooling on the shelf? Brought a version of the war to America. A close-up yet far away version, a safe equivalent, so they didn’t have to go there themselves.

All through the show that evening, as the dancers at Cinderella’s ball had spun and pirouetted over the ice, Daniel felt the city’s culture of imitation bleeding through his previous life there. All of it, he saw now, had been simulacra, representation. The broad streets and ochre houses of Centennial Hills were communal, but no more than an image of community. The desert bushes and trees planted in the gravel were miniature models of the real desert spreading beyond the locked gates of the cul-de-sacs. Even the Charleston Mountains, he realised, looked like a shrunken version of those ranges through which he’d flown in Pakistan and Afghanistan, as if they’d been bought in the same job lot as the Eiffel Tower under which they’d had breakfast. And them, too, he had to admit. He, his daughters, Cathy, sitting to eat pancakes like a real vacationing family. They, too, were no more than an imitation. A pretend family, hollow at the centre, and all because of him.

When Daniel handed the girls back over to Cathy that night, strapping them into their car seats in the Thomas & Mack Center’s parking lot, he’d made a silent promise to all of them that whatever it took, he’d fill that hollow. That they would not, one day, be just the image of a family, but the real thing, living a life together, not making one up.

As he’d driven back west the following day, taking his old route towards Creech, Daniel finally turned off the highway and drove up into the mountains he’d only ever seen from afar when he’d lived in the city. Pulling up beside the road at the crest of a high valley, he’d got out of the Camry and breathed in the scent of eucalyptus on the breeze. At that altitude snow was still patching the ground below the bushes. Bending to it, Daniel had brought a handful to his face and pressed it against his cheek, its sting gratefully real.

“Are you getting help?” That’s what Cathy had asked him the previous night before she’d driven the girls away. “Because you should, Dan,” she’d said, one hand on the open driver’s door. “You really should.”

“I am,” he’d told her. “And it’s working. I’m feeling much better, Cathy.”

“That’s great,” she’d said, giving his arm a squeeze. “God, that’s so good to hear.” For the first time since they’d met at breakfast Daniel had believed the honesty of her emotion. So maybe she really did want him back? Maybe he could make his promise to them true, and sooner than he’d hoped?

It had been a lie, what he’d told Cathy. But also not a lie. He was feeling better, and he had been getting help, just not the kind she’d meant. But it was still help. The combed vineyards patching the hills. The river mists and sea fogs. A red-tailed hawk lifting from a tree. He’d got as far as finding out about the local veterans’ charities, and he’d seen their bumper stickers too, advertising their work with “heroes.” But Daniel didn’t feel like a hero. And he didn’t feel like a veteran either. That was the problem. The military was like a family, that’s what they told you. Until you left. One minute you’re on the inside, the next you’re out. Ever since college it was all Daniel had known. He’d spent a third of his life flying, and now suddenly he’d found himself grounded. Like Colonel Ellis had said, he’d upheld the American Airman’s Creed—
My Nation’s Sword and Shield
,
Its Sentry and Avenger.
And what had they done in return? Pushed him out the door as fast as they could.

Without flying Daniel felt lumpen, clumsy, as if deprived of one of his senses. He felt stripped, too, of everything else it had brought: authority, identity, purpose. Even through his time at Creech when he’d flown from a ground control station, not a cockpit, he’d still thrived on the sensation. Which is why he’d kept the veterans’ charities at bay. Because if he couldn’t have his military life then Daniel wanted to forget it, and he knew those charities would mean talking, remembering. And remembering would mean seeing too. Which was also why he’d fashioned his own kind of help in Sonoma rather than seek it elsewhere. Because of what he might see again if forced to remember. He’d seen too much already, of that he was sure. He’d looked for too long, until he’d wanted his eyes to rot. So yes, he’d lied to Cathy, but it was for the right reasons. If he wanted to get back to her, to the girls, then he knew he’d have to find his own route. For now, that meant staying out west, Sonoma, working at Sally’s. And it meant the letters too, the letters he’d been writing to Michael.

―

“Okay, reckon that’ll do.” Sally pushed herself off the fence and began walking back to the farmhouse, her two dogs lifting themselves from the dust to follow her. “There’s some pellets in the feed bin,” she called to Daniel over her shoulder. “Give her a handful. But not too much, now.”

―

Daniel had picked up other jobs, other routines, during his time on the coast—working on the grape harvest, helping out in a fishing harbour—but it was only when he’d come to Sally’s that he’d felt ready to write to Michael. When the words had finally come, they’d come quickly and he’d written that first letter in one sitting;
Dear Mr. Turner, I understand this is a letter you most probably do not want to receive…
When he’d finished it, he’d read it through, put it in an envelope, addressed it to Michael’s publishers, then got in his car to mail it from San Francisco. He wanted to make contact. He wanted to be known. But that hadn’t meant he’d wanted to be found.

The only address Daniel put on his letter was that of a mailbox in the Bay Area. Not that he expected Michael to reply, at least not in the form of a letter. Perhaps he’d publish Daniel’s name online, or go to the papers. It would be a story, after all, his writing to him. But whatever he did Daniel found it hard to imagine Michael would write to him directly.

This uncertainty about Michael’s response meant in the weeks after he’d written to him Daniel had woken each morning washed through with a nervous anticipation. What were the consequences if Michael went public? What would be the military’s response? But at the same time he’d also woken feeling relieved. Because he had finally done it. He’d completed the circle, and it was the only way forward, he was sure, regardless of what it might bring.

When, eventually, Michael did write back, Daniel wasn’t just surprised to receive the letter, but also to open it and read his asking him for more. There’d been no blame, no recriminations, no anger even. Just questions. In a list. About himself, his family, his work. And about the day he’d killed his wife.

At first Daniel hadn’t understood. He had confessed, he’d stepped out of the shadows. Wasn’t that enough? But as he’d worked at Sally’s that day, clearing out the stables, restocking the kitchen, cutting back the ferns along the brook, he’d come to see that no, it wasn’t enough. To confess and leave was easy. But to confess and stay, to remain circling over your deed, to hunger after the detail of it, that was something else. He of all people should know that. So perhaps it was a form of punishment, these questions? Michael’s way of making him pay through recollection, through offering up his life for dissection? A way for him to reap some kind of a victory from his loss; a victory through knowledge.

―

Opening his fist to reveal a handful of pellets, Daniel flattened his fingers and let the mare nuzzle into them, working her lips against his palm. As she did he ran his other hand along the muscle under her mane. The sun was warm against the back of his neck. He could hear the sound of a shower through the open window of one of the guest rooms. For the first time in what seemed like years, he felt content, calm.

―

Today Daniel would send his third letter to Michael. Having replied to his first Michael had sent Daniel another set of questions. Some asked for clarification or more detail. Others, though, were entirely new. Daniel understood Michael was a writer, but at the same time he couldn’t imagine what he might do with the answers he was giving him. But despite this uncertainty, or perhaps because of it, Daniel had still decided to reply. And now, in response to a third letter from Michael, he would reply again today. Partly to pay his dues to the husband of the woman he’d killed, but also for himself. Because that’s who else Daniel was writing these letters for now, himself. As a form of focused remembering, of purposeful recollection, and as a way to trace, through his answers to Michael, the convoluted paths that had led to what happened.

―

“I said not too much!”

Daniel, his hand already digging in the bin for more pellets, turned to see Sally behind him.

“It ain’t about reward, remember. You want her instinct to work for you, not her goddamn hunger.”

She was leading another horse out of the yard into the field. “Feels good, though, eh?” she said, as she passed him. “To have that connection? Without even touching?”

Daniel held the mare’s jaw as she nudged under his arm, searching for the pellets.

“Yeah,” he said, although Sally was too far away to hear him. “It does.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

IT WAS TWO
months after Michael and Josh had gone jogging on the Heath that Samantha told Michael her husband had left. They were in a café in South End Green, its French windows drawn open to the pavement. An overcast day had broken, its vanilla sunlight suggestive of autumn. A couple of buses were parked up nearby, casting shadows over their table.

Josh, Samantha told Michael, had moved out the day before. They’d talked for several hours, Samantha said, and agreed that for the time being it was the right thing to do. She was going to come round and tell Michael at some point, but as she’d bumped into him now, well, he may as well know.

Michael didn’t know what to say. He offered her his sympathies, asked if she was all right. He hadn’t expected them to break. He’d thought, in these last quiet months, they’d been holding each other closer, not coming apart. “God, Sam,” he said, “that must be tough.” Samantha nodded, her jaw tight, holding back. Then, suddenly, she laughed. A short, manic burst that made Michael think she might cry, too.

“It’s amazing, really,” she said, through the tail of it, “that we’ve lasted this long.”

―