The Drifter (30 page)

T
he plight of America’s veterans is very real.

Most veterans come home and restart their lives. They go to work or school, reconnect with their families or start new ones. Thanks to improvements in battlefield medicine, more injured veterans survive their physical wounds than ever before.

But our country still doesn’t put enough effort into helping those veterans settle back into civilian life. There’s a great deal yet unknown about traumatic brain injury and post-traumatic stress, war wounds that are often not visible but can lead to significant challenges for those affected.

When I began researching this book in 2010, veterans had a significantly higher rate of homelessness and unemployment when compared to others of similar age and background. I’m glad to note that, according to 2013 reports by the Department of Veteran’s Affairs and the Department of Housing and Urban Development, these statistics are improving. But
Stars and Stripes
reported in 2014 that veteran suicide rates were actually getting worse, not better. Clearly these challenges are still substantial for everyone involved. For a country with our wealth, history, and ideals, we can
continue to do better for those who have given so much to serve their country. On the positive side, many cities are making great strides in eliminating homelessness among veterans, although this remains an ongoing issue.

—

I’m not an expert in veterans’ affairs. My primary goal is to entertain you, my readers. But if I’m lucky, perhaps the stories I invent will also have the ring of some kind of truth, will make you feel and think.

I made a point to avoid writing about Peter’s life overseas because I wasn’t there.

But in the years after 9/11, as the wars and those who fought them on our behalf became a significant part of the national conversation, I began to read and watch documentaries about service members’ experiences, both during war and coming home. I had friends and professional acquaintances and customers who’d been in the service, and talking with them illuminated a part of the American story that I hadn’t quite understood before.

Perhaps the most meaningful conversation I had was also one of the shortest. It was seven or eight years ago, but I remember it clearly.

I was inspecting a small older home for an Army veteran and his wife. He was at least fifteen years younger than me, back in the States for less than a month. He was smart and curious and polite.

When I learned where he’d been, I said to him, as I often did in the early years of those wars, “Thanks for your service.”

“Man, don’t say that.” He shook his head. “Don’t say ‘Thanks for your service.’ It drives me nuts.”

“Okay.” We were down in the basement. It was musty and
cold. His wife was upstairs measuring for curtains. “What should I say?”

I can’t begin to describe the expression on his face. Equal parts haunted and proud and relieved.

“Just say, ‘Welcome home,’” he told me. “That’s all.”

So that’s what I’ve said for many years, and I say it again now, to all those who have served.

Welcome
home.

T
his book was fun and challenging to write, and I didn’t do it alone. I’d like to thank many people who have helped me along the way.

Thanks to Margret, sweet patootie, artist and reader and expert editor of far too many drafts, and to Duncan, my hero and role model. I can’t wait to see what you both do next.

Thanks to Mom and Maryl for many years of encouraging literary criticism.

Thanks to Dad for spreadsheets and fatherly advice, some of which I actually acted on.

Thanks to Bob and Dani for a quiet space to work on Washington Island. Thanks to Taylor for her encouragement, and Robbie for his enthusiasm.

Thanks to Danny and Chuck for all those excellent conversations, diatribes, and rants.

Thanks to Aimee O’Connor for an encouraging read at a crucial time.

Thanks to Collectivo Coffee (formerly Alterra) for being my second office, where the java is strong, pastries are available, and
there are voices other than the ones I hear in my head. ¡Viva la revolución!

Thanks to Brett Elver for answering my questions about finance—the liberties I’ve taken with reality are mine, not his.

Thanks to WFB friends for shared meals and liquid therapy and for making all those fantastic kids.

Thanks to Dale W. Davis, the first Marine I ever met, force of nature and certified piece of work, and to his wife, Jan, a strong woman and force of nature in her own right. Thanks for the great conversation and advice over the years.

Thanks to my teachers, including but definitely not limited to David Shields, Charlie D’Ambrosio, Maya Sonenberg, and David Bosworth in Seattle; Warren Hecht in Ann Arbor, who taught me to write a good sentence; and Mike Huth of SHS, gone but not forgotten. Thanks to Scott Wilson for his carpentry tutorial, and for our continued friendship since then.

Thanks also to many writers, including but not limited to Nathaniel Fick, whose book
One Bullet Away
helped illuminate one Marine lieutenant’s thinking; Tim O’Brien for
The Things They Carried
, which sure cleared up one young man’s idea of war as glamorous; Phil Klay for
Redeployment
, which was a personal revelation for me as both reader and writer; and David Finkel for the reporting and writing in
Thank You for Your Service
. These last three should be required reading for all aspiring architects of future wars.

Thanks especially to those men and women who shared their experiences online or in person. I still haven’t talked to enough of you.

And last but definitely not least, thanks to the wonderful Barbara Poelle at Irene Goodman Literary Agency for taking time out of her third trimester sabbatical to read this book and find it a
home (yes, she’s that kind of agent). Also to the astounding Sara Minnich at Putnam for her extraordinary eye and ear, as well as the rest of the design and editing team at Putnam. They are the reason you’re reading this today, and I am supremely grateful for their time and patience and professional expertise.

If you’re reading this in a language other than English, that’s due to the efforts of Heather Baror-Shapiro, of Baror International, who boggles my
mind.

NICHOLAS PETRIE received his MFA in fiction from the University of Washington and won a Hopwood Award for short fiction while an undergraduate at the University of Michigan; his story “At the Laundromat” won the 2006 short story contest in the
The Seattle Review
, a national literary journal. A husband and father, he has worked as a carpenter, remodeling contractor, and building inspector. He lives in Milwaukee, and
The Drifter
is his first novel.

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