Matt & Zoe (33 page)

He looks even more unkempt than he did at our first meeting a couple of weeks ago. His eyes are bloodshot, his hair tangled, his knuckles scraped raw and red. He sits on the bench strumming a guitar. I walk toward him.

“Zoe,” he says, his tone warm. “This is an unexpected visit.”

Without asking I sit down on the bench next to him. “I heard you had stopped going to class, and you weren’t at Craig’s veterans meeting today.”

He shrugs. “What’s it to you?”

His breath stinks of bourbon.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I felt like I should come see you.”

He reaches into his pocket and passes me a metal hip flask. “Drink?”

I shrug, open the flask, and take a sip. Then I pass it back to him.

He takes a sizable swig of the drink. Then he screws the cap on and puts it away. “I needed to get away from things for a little while. I got into a little spat with one of the guys in the dorm.”

“What kind of spat?”

He shrugs. “Bullshit kind. He was behaving like a 19-year-old. Dickhead. I lost it on him. He got all up in my face, and I shoved him up against the wall. And for a second there I considered choking him.”

“That’s not good.”

“Yeah. Scared the crap out of him. Scared me even more. I needed to take a walk for a few days.”

Impulsively, I say, “I get it. If you need a place to stay short term, we’ve got a little bit of room.”

He smiles and strums a chord on his guitar. “No thanks. I pretty much decided to go back to the dorms in the next day or two anyway. I’m gonna see if I can switch to a single next semester. Then at least I won’t have to put up with other people’s bullshit.”

“That seems like a good idea.”

He leans forward, resting his arms on his guitar, and scowls at me. “So why do
you
look so screwed up?”

I ignore the question. Instead, I asked him, “So… what’s your plan?”

He nods slowly. “I gotta keep trying. You know? A big part of me wants to give up. Get a drink or five and to stay the hell away from everybody. It doesn’t matter how far I run, or how much I drink, I can’t make their faces go away.”

I shudder. My problems aren’t his problems, but I know that there are things I’ll never be able to forget, no matter how hard I try. You can’t unsee certain things.

We sit in a companionable silence for several minutes as people walk by on the sidewalk. All kinds of people… young and old, rich and poor, every ethnic group. One of the things I love about Amherst and the Valley as a whole is that it has the feel of a small town… farms and horse camps all over the area… the Five Colleges give the area a cosmopolitan feel that normally you would find in a big city. A few passersby give me odd looks. My companion is filthy, unkempt. Undoubtedly it looks strange.

Who cares?

“Something’s on your mind, Zoe. What is it?”

I shrug. “It’s stupid.”

He weighs a hand vaguely. “Who’s to say what’s stupid? What’s wrong?”

I don’t know why—maybe it’s because he’s clearly as messed up as I am—but I feel comfortable talking. I open my mouth to say that Matt cheated on me, but something completely unexpected comes out. “Do you ever wonder if your parents were proud of you?”

“Sure they are,” he says with a snort. “Dad loved to congratulate me on my kills. He gets to brag about me at work. My son, the mass murderer. He doesn’t know what it’s like to serve in a war. He doesn’t know what it’s like to hate yourself, to look in the mirror and see nothing but death. So he can be proud of me, but for the wrong reasons.”

I nod slowly. Then I find myself telling him about my father and mother, and their disappointment that I joined the military instead of following in their footsteps. I wander back and forth in my story, telling him about the summer nights sitting with my dad in his garage, about my deep respect and love for him, and how devastated I was when my mother said, “Your father is so disappointed.”

The story comes out in a jumble, a confusing mess of half incomplete sentences and interrupted words. It’s a wonder he can follow any of it, but as I wind up, his eyebrows draw together and he says, “Wait a minute. Did your father ever say he wasn’t proud of you?”

I blink. Then I take a breath and say, “No, not really. He asked a lot of probing questions when I told him I wanted to join. He made it clear how he felt.”

“Your friend—you said she argued with you, that your father didn’t feel that way.”

I’m defensive. “Why would she know?” In the back of my head, I think:
Nicole grew up in my house. She knew my dad as well as I did
.

He stares at me and says “Are you sure it’s not you?”

How am I supposed to answer that? And…
what if I’m wrong about my dad?

The idea seems crazy to me. After all, this isn’t something new. I’ve known my dad was disappointed for a very long time. When I think back to the weeks after I made the decision to join the Army, it’s always my mother I picture. Dad was there… but it was mom who expressed their collective disapproval. Could I have just been wrong? The truth is I have no idea what he thought. I’ve been terrified to go into his office or the workshop, and suddenly that decision seems very shortsighted.

I look at Luke, dumbfounded, realizing that I haven’t spoken in at least a couple of minutes.

“You look as if I struck a nerve.” He raises his eyebrows as he makes the statement.

“You did.” I slowly stand up. Then I nod and put a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “Thanks.”

His mouth quirks up in a smile. “Glad I could help. Whatever it is.”

“Will I see you at the next meeting?”

He considers for a moment. Then he says, “Yeah. I think so. Can’t miss all that drama.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

That's not possible (Zoe)

What if I was wrong the whole time?

The thought runs through my head all the way back to the house. I’ve been accused more than once of being too quick, of being someone who rushes to judgment. I barely notice the drive through South Hadley until I pull into my driveway and park the car.

Everything looks the same. The peeling paint, the decaying wood on the porch. An orange flyer, probably for a Chinese restaurant or something, has been folded and stuffed in the front door of the house. But it’s not the house I’m looking at. It’s the detached garage, straight ahead, a small white painted building which hasn’t been opened since the end of August.

I step out of the van, my feet crunching on fallen leaves. I need to rake the yard.

I walk toward the garage, my mouth full of dust. It would be ironic, now that I’ve gotten up the courage to go in (maybe) if the lock stuck and I couldn’t get in. The side door is solid on the bottom, with nine panes of dirty looking glass on the top half. I can barely see through the glass, and it’s dark in there, and the door isn’t going to open itself no matter how long I stand here.

I dig for the key, feeling my heart beating in my chest. Then I slide the key in and unlock the door.

I take a deep breath.
Come on, Zoe.
You’ve battled insurgents in Iraq. You can do this.

Somehow this is worse. I open the door and switch on the light.

The first thing I notice is that it feels empty in here without the Austin Healy. That car was in here my entire life, slowly transforming from a wrecked, rusted-out hulk to a polished, beautiful work of art under Dad’s loving hands. As always, the garage is a study in chaos. Arc welder piled on a table, tools everywhere. I push my way past the shelves which contain hundreds of random tools and parts and walk toward his desk.

It’s dusty. I feel my eyes water at that realization. No one’s been in here in a long time, and that makes me sad.

I sit back and just look. Above the desk—a Classic Cars calendar, stuck now forever on the month of August. Books—some automotive related, some English literature—scatter the desk in small piles. To the left of the calendar, a mosaic of photographs decorates the space above the desk. It’s hard to look at them.

Me and Dad, his arm casually thrown over my shoulder, the Pioneer Valley spread out behind us. We were standing on top of Sugarloaf Mountain when that was taken.

Another one. Mom laying on a hospital bed, looking sweaty, exhausted. Dad is there, and so am I. In the picture, I’m holding a newborn baby—Jasmine—and my face is messy with tears.

A picture I’ve never seen before. It was the day I came home on leave from Iraq. In the picture, I can see Dad’s eyes are red and watering as his arms are wrapped around me. I remember that moment. I’ll never forget it. I’d walked out of the security gate at Logan and there they were. Mom cried out my name, but Dad ran to me wordlessly and threw his arms around me and wouldn’t let go. It was the first and only time I ever saw my father cry. He hadn’t been able to stop, and Mom and I both found ourselves trying to help him calm down.

Other pictures. Me cheerleading. Me in the school play. A letter I wrote from Japan is tacked to the wall.

I’m having a hard time holding back tears. I miss him so much. I miss both of them. A tear runs down my face, then another; then I am crying and can’t stop.

That’s when I hear the sound of the school bus. I sniff, trying to hold back tears. Jasmine can handle getting off the bus, and she’ll see the door open here.

I don’t want her to come in. Not until I’ve had a chance to sort myself out. So I wait.

On the desk, against the wall behind the other books, is a leather-bound journal.

A journal.

“Zoe? Are you in the garage?”

I twist around in the chair and face the door. Jasmine’s standing there. She’s holding the flyer that was on the front door and looking confused. “Are you o—o—okay?” she asks. Her face twists in frustration as she stumbles over the word.

“Yeah,” I say, sniffing. “I’m okay. I just … I need a little while. Can you get your snack sorted?”

She nods. “Yeah. Then I’ll go check on the horses.”

“Thank you, Jasmine,” I say. I know it’s irresponsible of me. I should get up and get her her snack, and have her start her homework, and act like a parent. But … for now… I can’t.

Her eyes go back to the orange flyer again, an odd expression on her face. Then she walks out. Whatever. I’ll deal with her later. We’re going to have to have dinner early if we’re going to make it to the circus on time. I might just take her out to dinner somewhere. I am
not
in a mood to cook.

I reach for the journal, hesitating just a moment. I’m violating his privacy.

No.
He’s gone. It’s okay. I close my eyes, saying a half prayer, then I open the book.

My eyes fall on the words in the middle of the page: “
Only three more weeks before Zoe’s deployment is over. I want to thank God that she’s almost home, but I’m afraid to do it. Three weeks is still a long time in a dangerous place. Please protect her.”
Chills run down my spine as I read the words.

I flip to another page, later in the book.

We got a letter from Zoe last night. I think something’s wrong—she doesn’t say so in the letter, but there’s no mention of Chase, and there was a tone of melancholy in the letter. I’m afraid something may have gone wrong between the two of them. I’ll ask her about it when she comes home, it’ll only be in a few weeks. Missed her terribly at Christmas this year. Jasmine has been asking when Zoe is coming home—it’s been almost a year.

Another one, this one almost four years ago:

I got into a verbal altercation with Donna Tumbler during the Symposium on 16
th
Century Poetry. She made some kind of a sneering comment about two of the visiting students from UMASS who were wearing Army ROTC uniforms. I’m afraid I was uncivilized in the tongue lashing I gave her. But her attitude appalled me. Young men and women like Zoe are putting their lives on the line every day while people sit back here bloviating about their political opinions. It makes me sick.

That one is a shock. I never imagined my Dad thought that way.

Tucked in the journal, several years old, is an article from the Town Reminder—about me and Nicole.
South Hadley Soldier-Cheerleaders Head to Iraq.
I laugh at the headline. Side by side photos on the front of the paper show me and Nicole during our junior year, cheering at the football game, and three years later in our Army uniforms.

I can’t believe Dad saved that article. It’s ridiculous. The article was ridiculous.
Soldier-Cheerleaders.
Sexist. Plenty of guys from South Hadley served, but they sure didn’t get headlines like that.

But seeing it there in his journal puts a lump in my throat. That’s not the only article—I flip forward forty or fifty pages, where another newspaper article is taped in place.

Oh my God.

It’s about the firefight.
The
firefight, the night Nicole earned her Bronze Star. This looks like the Boston Globe, which makes sense. I remember the reporter wandering around the FOB in the days right after that fight. I scan through the article.

South Hadley residents Nicole Banks and Zoe Welch, both military police, were attached to the platoon during the ambush. First Sergeant Randy Wilson said, “Sergeant Banks’s quick action saved several lives, and I expect to nominate her for a medal. Technically they aren’t in the unit—they aren’t even infantry—but they do everything the men in our unit do, and they do it well. Before this deployment I’ve always been against having women in Combat Arms, but I’ve changed my mind.”

The two women were cheerleaders at South Hadley High School, and according to sources at the school, Welch was accepted to more than one exclusive college.

Jefferson Welch, chair of the English Literature department at Mount Holyoke College, said about his daughter’s military service, “I couldn’t possibly be prouder of Zoe. And I couldn’t possibly miss her more.”

Jesus. I can’t. For the first time in weeks, I break down again in tears. After several minutes of sobbing, I page randomly through the book again. Then I stop.
What?