One September Morning Read Free Page B

that’s what John keeps writing in his e-mails.
    “Mrs. Stanton, it’s my duty to inform you that—”
    “No.” The textbook slides from her grip to the wet lawn. She leans down and grabs it quickly, noticing the strangest details. The splatter of mud on her calves. A blade of grass stuck to the side of her foot. Two pairs of shiny dress shoes, facing her dirty bare feet.
    It’s all wrong.
    “Mrs. Stanton…”
    She hugs the book to her chest, turns and lunges toward the door, hoping to find escape and safety in the house.
    But he blocks her way. “It’s my job, ma’am,” he says, and, meeting his eyes, she sees that he’s not as old as she originally thought. “Mrs. Stanton, your husband was killed in the line of duty yesterday in Iraq.”
    She presses her eyes closed, thinking how wrong it all is. She’s not Mrs. Stanton—that’s John’s mother. And John cannot be dead. Not the John she knows, the man with the charmed life. He’s always the lucky one.
    It’s all wrong, but these soldiers are just trying to do their job, fulfill their duty to their country, just as John is doing… was doing?
    “We’re sorry for your loss, ma’am,” the woman, lieutenant something, says quietly.
    Abby lets the woman press the written notice into her hand, unable to stop the small cry that escapes her throat.

Chapter 2
     
    Iraq
Emjay
     
    C orporal Emjay Brown is still in a daze when he steps into the orange light of the bungalow shared by eight soldiers. Despite the darkness outside, sunglasses shield his eyes against the curious gawkers who know that he was there, right beside John when he went down.
    Another few inches and it would have been him.
    Bam!
    The slam of the door behind him sends him jumping out of his skin. His heart thuds in his chest, sweat trickling down his back.
    And suddenly he is back in the warehouse, in the rapid hammer of gunfire, the muzzle-flash in the darkness, the alarm of John’s cries, and the blood…so much blood.
    “Corporal Brown,” a leaden voice orders, and Emjay whirls, hands gripping his rifle.
    “Lieutenant Chenowith, sir.”
    “At ease,” the lieutenant says, as if he thought Emjay was moving to salute, which he wasn’t. The lieutenant removes his helmet to reveal a round mop of hair on the top, like a friar. Most guys in combat units shave their heads, best way to escape the vermin and bugs. Chenowith nurtures his grassy knoll, but it’s been a point of speculation among the platoon, some guys figuring he had rows planted in, others figuring he’s got some weird birthmark underneath, an inappropriate shape like a swastika or a dick.
    “I’ve asked the others to assemble in quarters,” Chenowith says. “I’ll be addressing the platoon regarding my investigation.”
    “Yes, sir,” Emjay says, and he waits for the lieutenant to pass, then follows him into the common room used for their quarters, the tiny bungalow where every inch is taken up with bunks, cots, desks, and small plastic tables and chairs, the kind they sell outside the hardware store back home in summer months for five bucks a piece.
    This Forward Operating Base—FOB for short—is officially called Camp Desert Mission, though the men have dubbed it Camp Despair, because once you land in this bombed-out-highway town that is Fallujah, you’ve reached the end of the world. The base, rows of prefab bungalows that formerly served as a government retreat, sits on a desperate stretch of treeless terrain now encircled by sandbags and strung barbed wire. Although the officers were allotted more space, the rest of the platoon was packed into one bungalow—eight men sharing a space smaller than a chicken coop back home.
    The Marines who were in here before nailed shelves into the plywood walls, and in the months since Bravo Company arrived, the walls have come to reflect the personalities of the men in the platoon, with pictures of half-clad girls taped to some walls, Christmas lights shaped like chile