Soldier Doll (21 page)

. . .

As he settled into the familiarity of being home, Alex thought less and less about the army. He still felt the same rush of irritation whenever his father pounded his cereal spoon on the breakfast table over news items that raised his ire, but he put off making any decisions or having any serious discussions.

On Christmas Eve, Alex got an e-mail from Benji: “Alex—grades are UP. Check at your own risk! Geometry's a bitch. Lump of coal in my stocking…prof's an ass. Later, B.”

Geometry's a bitch
. Alex felt his head spin and stomach drop, as if he were skydiving and his parachute had failed to open. He needed to maintain a least an A average to keep his scholarship and stay in the Honors program. Alex cringed, thinking of how it would feel if he were kicked out. He'd never even got a grade less than an A- in high school, and now here he was, worried about
passing
a damn geometry course.

Hands shaking slightly, Alex logged on to his university account and waited. His heart pounded so loudly, he was sure his mother would be at his door any second asking what all the racket was. He stared at the page in front of him for a moment, paralyzed, before clicking “grade report.”

A list of grades appeared before him. Alex had to blink twice; it all looked like a blur to him, as if someone had written the grades in pencil and then wiped a damp cloth across them. He breathed deeply and read out his grades, running his finger along the screen for confirmation: “A…A-…B+…A-…D.”

“D.” Alex said the last grade aloud. Saying it out loud made it feel worse. “D,” he said again, this time practically yelling. Then he quieted down, breathing heavily. “Shit,” he whispered, staring at the screen.

Alex quickly added up his five grades and divided them. He felt the room swing from side to side as if he were on a broken elevator or amusement park ride. He double-checked the numbers, but he had been right the first time: he was coming up just short of a B+.
I'm going to get kicked out
, he realized. He felt numb. It took a moment for the reality to sink in, like a burn that takes a second or two to cause pain. He tried to stand up, but he couldn't. He couldn't feel his legs.
Where are my legs?
he thought stupidly, panicked. He looked down, expecting them to have vanished, but there they were. Angrily, he poked his left thigh with a pencil. “Ow,” he muttered. So he wasn't paralyzed. Momentarily disappointed—at least if he were in a wheelchair, no one would judge him for getting kicked out of honors math—he stood up and launched himself onto the bed, where he curled up in the fetal position. Checking to make sure his door was closed, he fished under his pillow for his old blanket and held it tightly to his chest. He inhaled its familiar scent and felt a slow-moving wave of calm overtake him, as if the blanket were a fast-acting tranquilizer.

Alex wondered if he could petition to remain in the program. Maybe he could repeat the geometry class. Alex groaned and rolled over onto his other side. He now stared at the wall, at his old
Star Wars
posters and a calendar from 1998 he'd never bothered to take down. It had come free in the mail from a travel agency, but Alex had liked it: each month had a picture from a different destination. The calendar was stuck at December, and happy children eating gingerbread smiled at him from a snow-covered Christmas market somewhere in Germany. Alex stared enviously at them in their handmade hats and mittens. He daydreamed of clearing out his savings and hopping on a plane to Munich and not coming back. He'd have to learn German, sure, but it couldn't be any worse than geometry. Also, he knew a little French, and weren't all European languages pretty much the same?

Alex sat up and reached for the can of Coke on his bedside table. It was from yesterday, and warm and flat, but it was better than nothing. He swallowed the tepid liquid and resisted the urge to gag. Putting the can back down, he knocked his wallet to the floor.

Swearing to himself, Alex bent over to retrieve the wallet and settled back down on the bed. He opened it and took out Rory's card. He read it for the hundredth time, reciting the phone and e-mail almost by heart. He played with the little card, flipping it back and forth between his left and right hands.

. . .

That night, Alex waited until his mother had served the soup before making his announcement.

“I've decided to join the army,” he said. His tone was matter-of-fact. “I've given it a lot of thought.”

His mother made a small noise and put down her wine glass. His father dropped his soupspoon in shock. They all watched as it hit the floor with a loud clatter.

“You. Are. Not. Enlisting. In. The. Army.” His father enunciated each word very carefully and slowly. His voice was thunderous, and his face was flushed. Alex felt his resolve crumble but mustered his strength. He thought of his D in geometry, of Jonathan's know-it-all laugh, and of the girls in burkas. Most of all, he thought of his father running away all those years ago. He steeled himself, staring at his father with hard eyes.

“You can't stop me.” Alex was calm. “I'm over eighteen. I'm an adult.”

“An adult!” His father nearly choked on his words. “You're a child. I don't care what the law says. You spend most of your time playing video games!” His anger was rising. “And what about school? You're just going to drop out of school?”

“The army is going to pay for school. I'm still going to finish, just later.” He watched his father's reaction and felt a small thrill of pleasure at his fury.

“This is insanity.” His father was shaking his head so quickly, Alex wondered how he managed to stay upright. “How long have you been planning this?”

“I don't know. A while, I guess.”

“And you thought you'd do this tonight? On Christmas Eve?”

Alex was silent. He felt a stab of guilt as he stared across the room at the carefully decorated tree. Each year his mother chose a theme: this year, in honor of his first year away at school, it was decorated with little graduation caps and miniature calculators.

“It's just the three of us,” muttered Alex, pushing his guilt aside. “It's not like it's a big family holiday dinner.”

“That. Is. IRRELEVANT!” His dad was shouting again. He banged his fist on the table and the soup bowls shook, the soup inside swaying slightly from side to side.

“Don.” His mother spoke up for the first time. Her voice was quiet and trembling. She put a hand on her husband's arm. “Please.”

She paused to breathe and spoke up again. “Please calm down, both of you.” Her voice was stern now. She turned to Alex. “Alex, I know 9/11 was upsetting and that you feel like you need to do something. But your father is right. You're young, and you're not thinking clearly. You need to finish school.”

Alex started to protest, but she cut him off abruptly. “Maybe you have a romantic view of war from movies and TV, Alex, but I can assure you that's not how it is in real life. I've been through it: it's horrible.” She gave her son a hard stare. “You could die, or lose a leg or an arm. Is that what you want?”

Alex was fuming. “I can't believe you think I'm such an idiot!” It was his turn now to slam his fist down hard on the kitchen table, rattling the silverware. “I don't think war is romantic.” His face was hot. They sounded just like Jonathan. “And I'm
not
too young to make decisions. And I want to join the army.” Obstinate, he folded his arms and glowered at his parents.

His mother began to sob quietly. She got up from the table and rushed out of the room.

“You see?” His father was yelling so loudly now, Alex felt himself shrink back into his chair. “Look what you did to your mother! This conversation is over. No one in this house is joining the army. Understood?”

Alex jumped up. He felt bad about making his mother cry, but he wasn't going to let his father scream at him like he was eight years old and tell him how to live his life. “You can't stop me,” he said calmly, glaring at his father. “I'm going to join. I'm not a coward.”

The unsaid words
like you
hung in the air. Alex immediately regretted what he'd said. He backed away from the table and stared at the ground.

His father turned red and looked hard at this son. He stared at Alex, mutely, his eyes filled with sadness.

“I didn't mean…” Alex's voice trailed off as he looked at his father, abashed. Still, his father said nothing; he just kept looking at him with that same sorrowful stare. Alex tried again.

“Dad, I'm sorry you don't like it but…it's important to me. Same as
not
going to Vietnam was important to you. Don't you get it?”

His father stood up from his chair and called out after his mother, then left the room. Alex stared at the half-eaten bowls of soup, now cold and unappetizing. He waited to see if his parents would come back. Ten minutes passed. Alex collected the soup bowls and dropped them in the sink. He went back to his room and opened his e-mail. He had an important message to send.

. . .

There was a soft knock at the door. Alex looked up from the laundry he was folding, startled. His mother stood in the doorway, leaning against it. She looked tired; her eyes were shadowed with gray and her shoulders sagged slightly inward.

“Alex?” Her voice was tentative.

“Mom.” He set down a shirt and turned to her. “What is it?”

“I just—” Her voice faltered. “Your father—”

“I don't want to talk about him.” Alex's voice hardened, and he turned away. His dad hadn't spoken to him since the episode Christmas Eve. He hadn't yelled or fought or even tried to persuade Alex. He had just stopped talking to him, as if Alex didn't exist. Alex had tried to engage him, tried to talk to him, to convince him he knew what he was doing, but his father ignored him. When Alex spoke, he stared right through him as if he were invisible, a ghost.

“He just—he wants what's best for you. He doesn't want to see you get hurt or lose your legs or…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked away.

“He wants what's best for
him
. If he really cared about me, he'd think of what I want and not just what he wants.”

“But sweetheart, I don't believe you're thinking this through enough. It's a war in the desert somewhere, and you could be killed. Why do you want to do this? I think that's what we don't understand. Why?”

Alex gritted his teeth. “I want to fight the Taliban. They're evil. And I want the people who plotted the 9/11 attacks to pay for what they did.”

“But Alex, they don't even know if the people behind the attacks are
in
Afghanistan.”

“So you think the Taliban are okay?” Alex ignored her point and turned to her, arms folded. “You think their form of government is good?”

“I don't. But I also don't know if this is a winnable war. I'm worried it will be like Vietnam. So many lives lost, and the country all but destroyed…. It's a foreign war, Alex.” His mother spread out her hands helplessly. “I don't know what the right thing is. But I don't want my son killed.”

“What if the Americans had said that in World War II? Do you think the concentration camps were okay, Mom? That was a foreign war. And Vietnam—it was bad, fine. But it got you out of there, didn't it? It brought you here. You wouldn't have
me
if someone had held that attitude.”

His mother sighed. She looked weary, as if she didn't have the strength to fight anymore. “I just hope you've thought this through. I don't think it is as black-and-white as you believe it is. And I don't know if this is the right choice for
you
, Alex. The army? You never even liked being on a baseball team.”

Alex's face twisted. “I don't think sports and the army have anything to do with each other.”

“I understand your principles, but is this really the right choice for you, personally? For Alex Cameron?”

“Everyone is so sure I'm not cut out for this.” Alex resumed folding his shirts with ferocity. “I'm going to be just fine.”

His mother sighed again. Her shoulders seemed to bend inward as she did so. “I'll leave you, then,” she said softly. She turned quickly and left the room.

Alex didn't turn his head. He folded another shirt and shoved it into his duffel bag. Then he took a deep breath and looked around the room to see what else needed packing. He couldn't take much to the basic-training camp, but he didn't want to forget anything important, either. He walked over to his desk and began opening and closing drawers, rifling through them. He remembered the last time he had done this, barely four months ago. How he'd changed since then, he thought. He was practically a different person. He'd been younger then, naive, innocent about stuff like war and politics and history.

Alex was about to slam the final drawer shut when he noticed the soldier doll. It peered at him from the dusty space, half covered by a pack of yellow Post-it notes. It had a somber look on its little face.

Alex pulled it out and studied it. It was a soldier, and he was going to be a soldier. He held it, considering. Was it silly to bring along a doll? Would the other guys laugh?

It's from an American soldier who was in 'Nam
, he decided.
No one's going to laugh at that.
Alex grabbed his backpack and stuffed the wooden figure inside.

. . .

The sky poured freezing rain the day he left. He waited for his parents to come to the door to say good-bye, but they didn't. He unlocked the door very slowly and went outside, closing it with force behind him. He waited, but still nothing. He waited longer, his wool hat turning to ice. He felt his eyelashes freeze and the vapor drip into his eyes. He blinked and stared hard at the door, waiting. Still nothing. Not even his mother. She spoke to him less and less now—his father had seen to that. She still looked at him with sad eyes, but she didn't say much.