Purple Heart (7 page)

Matt knew what she meant. Itchy might be able to ignore the sounds of combat, but at the slightest sound the guys in his squad would wake up out of a sound sleep, jump out of bed, and pull their gear on. Wolf once put his gas mask on in the middle of a dream. And one time Figueroa hit the ground in the middle of the street when the wind knocked down a wooden sign.

“Just keep track of everything in your notebook,” Meaghan said. “Random memories. Noises, sights that trigger you.”

“Okay,” he said. “Ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

“But Private,” she said as he turned to leave, “I’d keep that notebook on the DL.”

“S
O
, P
RIVATE, ARE YOU ENJOYING YOUR STAY HERE
?” D
R
. Kwong asked, glancing up from Matt’s chart. “The nurses tell me you’re getting stronger every day.”

“Yes, sir,” Matt said. “Sir? This thing I have—TBI. How do I know when I’m better?”

Kwong hung the clipboard at the foot of the bed and pulled a tiny penlight from his pocket. “There’s no clear scientific way, if that’s what you mean.” He came around to the head of the bed and shined the light in Matt’s eye.
“It’s more the absence of indicators—you understand?”

Matt nodded. But he wasn’t sure he really did grasp what the doctor was saying.

“You still having language-retrieval problems?” Kwong said.

“Some.”

“Mood swings?” Kwong’s voice came from over Matt’s shoulder as he shined his light in Matt’s ears.

Matt blinked. “Sort of.”

“How about your cognitive functioning? Are you able to absorb new information?” Kwong had put on his stethoscope and was listening to Matt’s heart. If Matt answered, what would it sound like through the stethoscope? Would his voice rumble in Kwong’s ears? Or would it sound like a fly buzzing just out of range?

“How about focus?” Kwong asked, his stethoscope now on Matt’s back. “Are you having trouble concentrating?”

Matt tried to think. He couldn’t even remember what Kwong’s last question was.

“Not really,” he said.

The doctor took off his stethoscope and stood in front of Matt. “Now let me see you take a few steps.”

Matt slid off the bed and walked over to the window, exaggerating his posture and working hard to take even, measured steps so Kwong wouldn’t notice the way his
right leg dragged ever so slightly. When he turned around to come back, Kwong was making notes.

“One day, you’ll notice that the fuzziness is gone,” he said. “Then you’ll know you’re better.”

P
ETE SHOWED UP AT THE NURSES’ STATION A LITTLE WHILE
later, a pillowcase slung over his shoulder. He looked like a skinny, underage Santa in scrubs. He scanned the ward, spotted Matt, and came over.

“A care package,” he said, setting the pillowcase on Matt’s bed. He reached in and pulled out a box of Little Debbies. “Oatmeal Cream Pie,” he said. “Not the best, but better than the Zebra Crunch.”

Matt sighed. A bunch of second-graders had sent his squad a mother lode of Little Debbies. Little Debbie must have gotten herself on some kind of list for what to send to soldiers.

Pete reached into the pillowcase again. “A slightly used copy of
Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover’s Soul: Stories of Feline Affection, Mystery and Charm.
”

“Where do you get this stuff?” Matt said.

Pete shrugged his skinny shoulders. “Around.”

“You’re not, like, taking stuff from…you know,
where they keep supplies….”

Pete held up his hand. “‘Don’t ask, don’t tell,’” he said. He started to walk away. “Oh,” he called out over his shoulder, loud enough for everyone to hear, “I also threw in a copy of that
Us Weekly
you asked for. The one with Zac Efron on the cover.”

T
HERE WERE A COUPLE OF
MP
S WAITING AT THE NURSES
’ station when Matt got back from lunch. He tried to pick up his pace as he went past, but his right leg was still weak and dragging a bit, which meant he sort of half hopped as he went by.

“Is this the soldier?” one of them said. He was a skinny guy with a skinny mustache.

The blond nurse nodded, and Matt’s mouth went dry.

“Private Duffy?” the other one said. “We’d like you to come with us.” He was a beefy guy, Hispanic-looking, and he held his arms rigidly at his sides.

Matt swallowed. “Where?” was all he could say.

“With us,” the skinny one said. Then he extended his arm out toward Matt at an angle that made it look like he was offering to walk him down a wedding aisle.
Matt didn’t know if he was supposed to take the guy’s arm or what, so he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Lieutenant Colonel Fuchs’s office,” the beefy one said. “They have some questions for you.”

Matt glanced over toward Francis’s bed. It was empty. Maybe Francis was in trouble for his black-market business. Maybe that was what this was about.

A sickening sensation in his gut told him otherwise. He felt for his notebook in his back pocket. “Okay,” he said.

T
HE
MP
S ESCORTED
M
ATT THROUGH THE HOSPITAL, DOWN
to a lobby of some kind where there was a giant mural of Saddam that someone had tried to cover with an American flag, and then held the door open and led him outside. A ferocious gust of hot air blew in, and Matt had to struggle to push his way through it.

As they stepped out into the sudden sunlight, his eyes went weak and achy; for a minute he was unable to see where he was going.

The skinny one kept his hand on Matt’s shoulder as they crossed some kind of courtyard that seemed to be full of Americans in khaki pants walking purposefully
this way and that. The two MPs mainly ignored him, grousing about their mosquito bites and debating whether cigar smoke kept the bugs away at night.

After a little while, the skinny one let go of his shoulder and Matt found himself trailing along behind them. He couldn’t be the one in trouble, he told himself, or they’d keep him firmly between them, constantly in their sights the way soldiers on patrol did when they took an Iraqi into custody.

A moment later, they stepped inside what seemed like a large, ornate building, and Matt found himself barely able to see in the sudden dark. After his eyes adjusted, he saw that the halls were made of marble and the walls adorned with Arabic words in fancy gold lettering.

“Used to be Saddam’s palace,” one of them, the beefy one, said to Matt.

Another good sign. They wouldn’t be so friendly if he was in trouble.

A moment later, he heard the percussive thump of hip-hop coming from a boom box. They rounded a corner and he found himself inside a vast room of some kind, where soldiers were painting a mural of the Twin Towers on the wall. One soldier was holding a bag of Doritos as he worked.

The room, which was practically as big as a football field, had marble floors, marble walls, a balcony around
the top, and a gigantic crystal chandelier. In the middle of the floor were rows of metal-frame canvas cots, each one topped with mosquito netting; around the edge of the room were a dozen Porta Potties. The whole place looked like some kind of weird, palatial summer camp. As Matt and the MPs walked by, the soldier holding the bag of Doritos looked over at Matt and gave him a wry, better-you-than-me look.

Finally they crossed through a giant rotunda with a turquoise dome and came to a hallway with a long row of heavy doors. The skinny one pointed to an ornate wrought-iron bench and told Matt to sit down and wait until someone came for him. Then they left.

M
ATT COULD HEAR THE RUMBLE OF MALE VOICES FROM THE
other side of the door but couldn’t make out what anyone was saying. His knee was bouncing up and down and his heart was pounding the way it used to when it was his turn in Public Speaking class.

A few minutes later, the door behind him opened and out walked a pair of Iraqi men, each of them wearing a long, flowing tunic, the Iraqi clothing Justin called a “mandress.” They were grumbling and talking to each
other and hardly noticed Matt.

“Hello,” he said in Arabic.
“Al Salaam a’alaykum.
” It was a reflex, a habit from months of street patrols. He’d nearly flunked Spanish sophomore year, but Matt had picked up a good bit of Arabic, a skill that had helped defuse more than one tense situation. Even Charlene had had to grudgingly ask for his help when she wanted to buy a scarf at the bazaar.

The elder of the men—the one wearing a Western jacket over his mandress—stopped, bowed, and greeted Matt in return.

Then the men left. He could still make out the sound of voices from behind the door, but the tenor was different, lighter, more conversational. Then, plain as day, came the sound of a television. The door opened and a first lieutenant, a balding, thickset man, stepped out. Lieutenant Brody, according to his name tag.

“Private Duffy?” he said.

Matt jumped to his feet and saluted.

“At ease, soldier,” he said. “Please come in.”

Matt noticed two things about the room the minute he stepped inside: a TV showing a college basketball game and an officer, a lieutenant colonel with a regulation crew cut, seated behind a large wooden desk. It was the officer who’d given Matt his Purple Heart, Lieutenant Colonel Fuchs. Matt stood at attention and saluted.

“Private Duffy,” Fuchs said, getting up from behind his desk and walking across a thick Persian carpet. “Last time I saw you, son, you didn’t look so hot.”

“Yes, sir,” Matt said, still holding his salute. “No, sir, I mean. I didn’t.” He didn’t look so hot right now, either, Matt thought, standing there in his shorts and flip-flops.

“Well, son, it is my great pleasure to meet you, to see you looking like a soldier again and to thank you for your service.” He extended his hand.

No one had said anything in basic training about what to do when an officer wants to shake your hand. But Matt lowered his salute and offered his hand in return, slowly becoming aware that it was part of the unspoken code of the army. Normally a guy this high-ranking would treat him like he was invisible. But if you were injured, you were a hero. Matt knew it was supposed to make him feel good, but it just made him more nervous.

“You’re welcome, sir,” Matt said.

The room was quiet except for the hushed tone of the sportscaster narrating the game, and Matt found he had to make a real effort not to look at the basketball game on the screen behind Lieutenant Colonel Fuchs, where a point guard with cornrows was walking the ball up the court.

“Son,” Fuchs said, turning to face the screen, “I want you to watch this boy. Number twelve. He has
one hell of a jump shot.”

The three of them stood there—in Saddam Hussein’s old palace, watching a kid in the United States take a jump shot. This, Matt thought, was a war story no one would believe.

“Blast!” Fuchs said, when the ball bounced off the rim. Then he walked over to the TV and switched the channel to FOX News. “Well, everyone’s allowed to fuck up once,” he said, gesturing to an upholstered chair in front of the desk. “Take a load off, Private.”

Matt eased himself into a stiff upholstered chair.

“So, Private Duffy,” the balding one, Brody, was talking now. “They’ve got you under observation. TBI, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Matt said, focusing his gaze on a spot in the middle distance: SOP when dealing with a senior officer.

“Son,” Fuchs said, “you can relax. You’re among friends here.”

“Yes, sir,” Matt said, still rigid in his seat.

“At ease, Private,” said Fuchs. “And that’s an order.”

“Okay.” Matt shifted a bit in an effort to look relaxed, but he ended up in an awkward rearrangement of his limbs that made him feel even more uncomfortable. “Sir.”

Brody cleared his throat. “Private, as we said, we’re
happy to see you making a full recovery and expect you’ll be as pleased as we will be to get you back into uniform.”

Matt looked down at his flip-flops. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I…uh…miss my buddies, sir.”

“Good,” he said. “We just have one matter to deal with first.” He picked up a file folder from the edge of the desk. “A bit of unpleasantness with the locals,” he said. “You understand?”

Matt swallowed.

“Good,” he said again, as if Matt had said yes. “They’ve made some claims about a recent incident.”

Matt’s head was pounding and he could feel his lunch churning in his gut.

“They claim that one of the casualties, a child, was killed intentionally.” He opened the folder. “Ayyad Mahmud Aladdin Kimadi is the name.”

Matt went numb. It was like the time his squad’s convoy was hit by an IED. He’d seen a bright flash up ahead, then a cloud of dust. He actually felt the Humvee go up in the air and come back down. The force of the blast blew his door into the bushes, but Matt just unbuckled his seat belt, walked away, and started firing.

“Ali.” Matt’s voice cracked as he said the boy’s name.

The two senior officers studied him intently.

When Ali had first told him his full, mile-long
name, Matt replied, in slow, halting Arabic, “I’m going to call you Ali.” And Ali had thumped his skinny chest with his fist and replied with his favorite bit of English slang: “Word.”

Fuchs coughed. “You knew the boy?” he said.

Matt struggled to regain his composure. He cleared his throat, coughed, cleared his throat again. “Yes, sir.”

The other officer, Brody, went on as if Matt hadn’t said a thing. “We had the body brought up from the morgue here when they called the incident to our attention,” he said. “No one had come to claim it.”

“His sister,” Matt said. “They live in…They’re homeless.”

“Well, of course, we’ve given the…tribal elders the standard death gratuity.”

Matt had heard about the death gratuity; it was about the equivalent of 2,500 U.S. dollars.

Brody went on. “And our condolences, of course.”

He kept saying “of course,” as if this were routine procedure. And somehow Matt found himself nodding as if it were routine to him, too. As if they were acting out lines from a TV show. The actual TV, the one behind Lieutenant Colonel Fuchs, was showing a clip of a soldier in Iraq patrolling a street in Baghdad. It was surreal, Matt thought, and he forced himself to look away, to pay attention to what Brody was saying.