The Heart You Carry Home (6 page)

“What do you mean?” Ben shifted uncomfortably. Now that he'd learned about Miles's wife, he felt stuck, obliged to listen.

“Vietnam guys refuse to set foot in the VFW ever since one of the Korean vets told Reno that he wasn't welcome there.”

“Did Reno get in a fight?”

“No, sir. See, the VFW is for veterans of foreign
wars
, and this one guy from Korea told Reno that his war didn't count.”

“Why not?”

“Because Congress never made it official.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Everybody wants his truth to matter, I guess.”

“You'd think these guys could find some common ground,” Ben said.

“You mean like you and me feel common ground with marines?”

Miles had a point. And yet. If you'd been fired at, you'd been fired at. Who cared if the conflict in which said firing occurred had been authorized by Congress?

“So what's your story?” Miles asked.

“Well, I served in—”

“No.” Miles shook his head. “I mean what happened that our friend Reno sent you out here? You'd think since he's so much shorter . . . but his fist is like a rock.”

Ben wondered how many people Reno had punched in recent months. “I was trying to talk to my wife. I guess he didn't want me doing that.”

Miles nodded. “You were angry? And drunk?”

“Yes.” Ben looked directly at Miles, tried to make the guy hold his gaze. “But I would never hurt her.” He didn't know why he felt compelled to explain himself to a man who was as busted as the junk he lived next door to. Looking at Miles, Ben realized that he, Sergeant Benjamin Thompson, was doing pretty well for himself. “So can I have my keys?” he asked.

Miles shook his head. “Reno gave me instructions. Not till you're okay to drive. When was the last time you slept?”

Ben couldn't remember.

“You can rest here, no problem,” Miles said. “I even made up the bed for you.”

Ben did not like this option, but what could he do? “Just a catnap.” He picked up his plate to rinse it and realized that he'd finished the sandwich. When had that happened?

“I'll just be in the shop,” Miles said and left the Airstream. Ben lay down on the bed and set his watch alarm for one hour. Miles wasn't so bad, he decided. He was only following orders.

K
ATH KELLER STOOD
on her front porch waiting for the wind to carry the sound of growling engines to her ears. She looked calm, as always, her plump body draped in a simple tunic, her face serene as a mountaintop monk's. But inside, Kath was full of trouble. It wasn't just that she'd spent the morning wearing an executioner's mask and wielding a fiery torch. (Kath made sculptures from gun shells and kitchen appliances and told gullible tourists—usually Northerners—that the pieces were statements about the military-industrial complex.) Today, the trouble was about her niece. Only a month married, Becca was already running from her husband, on her way here.

“Well, isn't this a sight!” Kath said when the bikes finally crested the hill and parked in front of her cabin. She enveloped her niece in an embrace that smelled of cake flour and solder. “Rebecca Keller—er, is it Thompson now?—whatever caused you to join ranks with these barbarians?” She nodded at King and Reno.

“A lovers' tiff,” Reno said.

Kath studied her niece. She saw how hard Becca was struggling to keep her expression even, saw the panic twitching like muscle spasms under the girl's skin. Whatever was going on, King had not one clue about how to fix it, so he'd simply chosen to deposit the problem with her.
Not so fast, big brother,
she thought and smoothed Becca's short hair. “Men are swine, honey,” she said aloud. “Young men . . .” She paused and cocked her head toward Reno and King. “And old men.”

“So nice to see you too, Kath,” Reno said.

“No love for me?” King butted in.

“How
is
your heart, King? You still taking your explosives?” Among King's many medications were angina pills, hard nitroglycerin tablets he sucked on like candy. “And that belly!” Kath exclaimed. “King, honey, you know your heart and your stomach are connected, right? Reno, are you endorsing this mad-ass trip?”

“No, ma'am.”

“What's mad-ass?” Becca asked.

It was like the wind had died. Nobody spoke. Nobody looked at her.

“Reno was the one who insisted we stop at McDonald's,” King said quickly. “And for the record, I had a salad.”

“Kath, you know your brother does what he wants.”

Now the wind picked up again and shifted toward Reno. Kath and King stared at him, the former with overt suspicion and the latter with self-satisfaction. Becca realized that an entire conversation was being had behind her back and yet right in front of her face. But before she could ask questions, Kath said, “Well, never mind. Thank you for bringing my beautiful niece to me. Come on, honey.”

She led Becca into the house. Reno and King followed like sulking dogs.

That night, the men dug into Kath's homecoming spread. “Your father has this theory that a body on the road needs to refuel often, just like a bike needs gas,” she said after they'd filled their plates.

“But why?” Becca protested. “All you do is sit.” She hadn't been on a proper run in three days and she could already feel her muscles starting to atrophy.

“It's because you're part of the bike's nervous system, isn't that right, big brother? Veins fusing with the wires, blood turning to oil?”

“Kind of like in
The Matrix
,” Reno said, shoveling a fork loaded with multiple foodstuffs into his mouth.

It seemed an obvious contradiction for Kath to be so concerned about King's heart and yet feed him a lard-soaked meal of grandiose proportions. But Becca knew well enough that this was just the usual hospitality—both the concern and the contradiction.

“A man's heart beats with the great machine, King?” Kath continued.

“Not according to Proudfoot,” Reno said and shook his head. “Who needs a bike when you've got a—”

“Enough.” King glared at his sister and best friend and then resumed eating.

The second time in just a few hours that things had gone weird with those three. But maybe Becca was merely imagining it because she was on edge. Because she'd just run away from her husband. And her marriage. Oh, and her long-dreamed-about future. Maybe
that
was the weird thing.

“Now, this is the life,” Reno said, leaning back in his chair after brother and sister had disappeared into the kitchen to wash up. Becca stood.

“Hey, wait a second, girl. Tell me how you're holding up.”

She threw him an impatient look. “I'd be better if I knew when my car was getting here. And Ben too.”

“All in good time.”

“Then why bother to ask how I am?”

“If you want to know about Ben,” Reno said, “why not call him?” He held out his cell phone. She looked from his outstretched arm to his face. There was something approximating concern in his eyes, and yet he'd called her bluff. He put his phone away. “Suit yourself,” he said.

Outside, moths and mosquitoes vied for a chance to self-immolate in the porch light. Kath's dog Shep lay in the dirt, breathing heavily, and Becca sat in a deck chair with closed eyes. She was
here
, physically and metaphysically. Nothing to be done about it. Betrayed as she might feel, she blamed herself more than Ben. A more vigilant person would have avoided this outcome, but she had let her guard down. She stamped her foot against the wooden porch boards. How had she let this happen? She should have been prepared! She had spent years training herself in readiness. When she ran a race, she always scoped out the course beforehand. She'd walk it or, at the very least, study it on a map. And yet where her own life was concerned, she'd failed to do the most basic work of planning for possible contingencies.

Becca stood and walked to the railing. She leaned forward, and her stomach lurched. Beneath her stretched a deep basin of trees, what the tourist guidebooks called the Arkansas Grand Canyon. The precipice was only a few yards away. Still, in the dark, it was easy to imagine this abyss as a solid blacktop, across which she could run.

In the distance came a rumble, and Shep released a whine of distress. Becca edged away from the railing and returned to the safety of her chair. “What kind of guard dog are you?” she complained as the rumble grew closer, its aggressive growl resonating in her bones. Soon enough, an orb hit her like a spotlight. She shielded her eyes until the white circle shut off. Clad in leather from head to toe, the rider seemed to ooze out of the darkness, like he was surfacing from an oil slick. The front door banged and King and Reno clambered down the steps.

“Bull, this is my daughter, Becca,” King said, and he swept his arm out stiffly, like a novice game-show model. He was showing her off, proud of her. Bull removed his helmet and flashed a slick, white-toothed smile. He was the tallest of the three men, though less meaty than King, with razor-sharp cheekbones. He looked less bull than lynx.

“Becca's about to start her junior year of college,” King said and Becca again noted the pride in his voice. “She's a track star.” This was the first time her father had introduced her to someone. This was only the second friend of her father's that Becca had ever met.

“It's nice to meet you, Rebecca.” Bull's voice was rich and deep, and the way he used her full name stirred something in the pit of her stomach. Maybe butterflies. Maybe bile. She was grateful when the men went into the house.

B
EN STOOD OUTSIDE
the COP, watching a pickup soccer game between his soldiers and some of the local kids. As usual, his platoon corporal, Eric Coleman, had kicked off the game. Coleman was gawky and tall, but his toothy grin and oversize ears were like kid-nip to the haji children; they flocked to him. He had such an easy way with the local population that Ben always brought Coleman along when they needed to interview people.

Ben, however, never felt comfortable around the Iraqi kids. The young boys were especially friendly, but slippery too, like their innocence was a ruse. You wanted to love those children but you couldn't trust them. And then you felt like a jerk for not trusting them, because weren't they only kids and wasn't their country going to shit? Ben suspected that if he looked less soldierly—less muscular and serious, with eyes that did not frown—then he'd feel less self-conscious. Becca had assured him that his smile more than compensated for his eyes. But how often did you smile when you were interrogating a family about the militants next door?

On this particular afternoon, Coleman was being schooled in fake-outs by a twelve-year-old boy named Majid. The kid called Coleman Soldier Eric, and the two of them appeared to have bonded over Corn Pops, which the corporal smuggled out of the mess. Coleman talked about Majid a lot, actually, how the kid could be a soccer star one day if his godforsaken country ever got its act together. Now, watching Majid dribble and fake, Ben understood Coleman's interest. But Ben worried. Soldiers should not be so attached—or involved. You had to put people in boxes in your head. You had to be able to tape those boxes up and stow them away. If you couldn't do that, you might very well lose your mind. Ben had seen it happen more than once.

He'd spoken to Coleman about this, but though a sergeant outranked a corporal, Coleman wasn't green; he'd done a previous tour in Afghanistan. And he and Ben were friends. Ben wondered if attachment was more his own problem than Coleman's.

“Aren't we supposed to be winning hearts and minds?” Coleman had rebutted when Ben asked about Majid. The comment was likely meant as sarcasm, but who knew? If he let Coleman cultivate Majid, then down the line the kid might provide some useful intelligence.

But now, in the middle of the soccer drill, Majid skidded to a stop. A man stood across the street, shouting. He had a black mustache and was dressed like any number of local shop owners.

“What's the matter?” Coleman shouted in Arabic.

The man ignored him. “Majid!” he called angrily.

Majid's eyes widened as though he'd been caught stealing. Suddenly, Ben understood that Majid was not allowed to play soccer with the soldiers.

“It's just a game,” Coleman said in English. “It's harmless. Look, your son, Majid, he's really good.” Coleman pointed fervently at the boy. “Really good,” he said in slow, exaggerated English.
“Mumtaz.”

Ben did not like where this was going. “Let's go in, Corporal,” he said.

“It's only soccer,” Coleman protested. “Look.” He turned back to Majid's father, who was becoming increasingly irate. “Don't be angry with him. You really don't understand how talented he is.” Majid's father crossed the street and grabbed his son's arm. “Now, that's uncalled for,” Coleman said.

“I understand you,” said Majid's father in heavily accented English. “And I do not care. I do not want my son around you.” He practically spat on Coleman. As his father pulled him away, Majid looked back over his shoulder with sad, frightened eyes.

Coleman stood there, shaking his head. Ben walked over. “What were you thinking?” he demanded. “That could have escalated. We talked about this.”

Coleman looked pained.

“Hey, man,” Ben said, finding it impossible to pull rank. “It's okay. Majid'll play soccer with his friends.”

Coleman looked at Ben like Ben just didn't get it. “He's going to learn to hate us,” he said, and he glanced back at the COP. It had been a school once, then an insurgents' arsenal, and now it was a makeshift base, fortified with blast walls and barbed wire. He watched a Humvee head out to patrol the trash-strewn streets. “The father—he's the reason that Humvee might not come back. Because his son will grow up to fucking hate us.”