It took them most of the night to process his paperwork and ferry him over to the civilian airport. Evening flight from Frankfurt, westbound so you land a little after you left, according to the clock.
He cleared Boston customs about 1:00 in the morning. Naomi would have come to the airport but she had to work the next day. They were used to this—his coming in early in the morning and driving himself to Lincoln. Carl rented a car in Boston and got to Naomi’s house at about 3:00 a.m. He found the key under a fake rock in a landscape bed near the front door and let himself in. He slept in Naomi’s spare bedroom. She got up and went to work without waking him. Naomi would be home at 6:30.
Carl didn’t sleep. He was unconscious, perhaps, but he spent the night tossing and turning. There were men coming out of the walls. The cars in the garage were on fire. There was a naked woman with him, her hands around his cock and balls, her head thrown back, her face ashen and soft, like it was made of putty, so she was all eyes and mouth with no nose. She was moaning, but her eyes were closed, and she was in unimaginable pain. The face of a bearded man came in and out of these dreams, a face he remembered but couldn’t place. Sometimes he thought he saw Julia, sitting in the middle of the burning Land Cruiser, her flesh melting, her hair and her eyelids on fire. Other times RPG shells rained in through the wall, the rockets homing in on Carl’s chest and naked groin as he lay in bed. And then there were moments of peace, sitting at Robert’s Beach, drinking a beer with Julia, watching the pelicans fly up the coast as the sun was setting.
Carl woke up to birds, their chirps and clattering—a wall of sound before dawn. There are also birds in Buchanan, but the dawn is later. There, you hear one call over and over, twceet–tcheapup-cheap, twceet–tcheapup-cheap, the pepper-birds singing from high in the dahoma trees, so their songs sound much farther away. Here, Carl heard a chorus of birds near dawn, and the birds forced him awake. And then he was unconscious again, waking and falling asleep in the bright light of midmorning.
Here. Lincoln, Rhode Island. Not Buchanan. Not Liberia. With his eyes closed Carl heard the whop whop whop of helicopters blotting out the endless popping of automatic weapons and he saw black smoke pouring out of buildings and trucks that had been hit by RPG fire.
With his eyes open Carl saw four plumb white walls and heard the birds, the hum of air-conditioners, and the whisper of the refrigerator compressor from the kitchen, clicking on and off according to narrow parameters set by a thermostat.
You don’t think when the marines come knocking. You just do what they say. You assume they are going to find everyone and get everyone out.
There was an oval picture of a woman on Naomi’s wall—a silhouette in black and white, but suddenly in this silhouette there was sun on the woman’s golden skin, and Carl could make out wisps of hair against the sky. His mother as a girl. Then she was Julia, floating above the ground, catching thermals as she soared from place to place, inhaling the air that was thick with the sweet smell of plowed earth, the green smell of just-cut hay, and the tall airy smell of the pine forests beneath her, as insects whirred and cavorted in the setting sun, and birds of all colors.
Julia was lying next to him. Then she wasn’t.
Julia. The awkward, smart, sexy doctor girl. Fucked him before she really talked to him. It took balls to do that. She thought she didn’t have anything to say, so she fucked him first, and that way she didn’t have to talk, but she could still get close. Then she talked to him anyway. Then she made him talk. When he wasn’t looking. When his guard was down. Very strange to hear himself talking. Who the hell did she think she was?
One day they walked to Thomas Street at noon. They had slept together twice, and they already knew war was coming. Carl’s truck was broken down so the team couldn’t go out. He worked on logistics all morning, reviewing maps with his team and working at the computer, developing spread sheets and timelines. His concentration was blown from just sitting there for three hours. He thought, What the hell, I’ll take a walk and surprise her.
Julia was in the hospital that day. She was surprised and happy to see him. Happy but guarded, as if she didn’t quite believe he had come on his own, so she was on the lookout for a hustle or a hidden agenda. Julia took off her white coat before they left. She was wearing a purple tank-top. Her neck was thin and graceful and her shoulders, which had already started to brown in the equatorial sun, were slender but also muscled.
The sun was strong at noon. It made you squint and sweat just from standing in it. You could feel the burn the instant you stepped out of the shade. You walked a little fast hoping to get quickly to shade but not too fast, otherwise you’d sweat profusely. Beautiful, fragile, and tough all at the same time, Carl thought when he glanced over at Julia.
There was a beggar on Thomas Street with no legs. He was a bald guy with very dark skin and a short scraggly beard who walked on his hands, that is, walked by using his arms as if they were crutches. He had thick dirty brown pads that he slipped his hands into and that covered the back of his fingers and his knuckles. When he wanted to move, the beggar would rock forward from his buttocks and stand, if you wanted to call it that, on the stumps of his legs, put his fists on the ground in front of him, lock his arms and shift his weight onto his elbows and hands, bend the stumps of his legs at the waist, lift his torso off the ground, and then swing his body forward between his arms, so his torso came to rest on his buttocks in front of his hands. Then he would bring his hands in front of him again and repeat the process. That way he could move along the street, slower than walking, but faster than you might think, moving at perhaps half or three-quarters the speed of an adult walking unhurriedly but deliberately in the hot midday sun.
The beggar with no legs usually sat under the awning of the Lebanese hardware store in the morning so he could appeal to the market ladies and the street kids as they walked by. He had shade until the sun reached its apex. In the afternoon the sun fell on that part of the sidewalk, and then the legless beggar would take himself to the market, or, if he could, he’d cross Thomas Street and sit in the shade of the stores on the other side, since people tended to walk on the shady side and the legless beggar preferred the shade himself.
Of course, the traffic on Thomas Street was endless at that time of the day, with one lane stacked up in either direction, and motorbikes, carts, white jitneys loaded with fifteen people in a space meant for eight; with repurposed U.S. school buses that had been painted red and purple and had air horns stuck on the front just over the driver’s window; with lorries covered with blue tarps rumbling in the street, waiting for traffic to clear. All the vehicles, even the lorries, darted into the middle of the street to pass one another the moment there was a break in the oncoming traffic, though there wasn’t room for three cars across. So there was a cacophony of movement, honking horns, cars, and motorbikes weaving in and around one another or coming to sudden screeching stops.
That meant no one other than boys on motorbikes could see the legless beggar when he swung himself to the edge of traffic, looking to cross the street, and no one was looking at the legless beggar when he swung himself forward to cross in front of traffic as he made his way to the other side.
So he waited each day at noon until someone on a motorbike or a taxicab noticed him, until a person of normal height came over and walked into the street or, if they were driving, parked and got out of their car, jumped in front of traffic, and stopped the flow of traffic by holding his hands outstretched, fingers apart, waving his arms and shouting. The cars and buses and trucks and motorcycles could see a man like that so they stopped. Then, they would notice the legless beggar and would wait until he rocked himself across the street. After he was across the temporary traffic cop would continue on his way or return to his vehicle, and traffic would resume its normal frenetic motion, the legless beggar now safe in the shade on the other side of the street.
As Julia and Carl turned from Hospital Street onto Thomas Street, a dusty red Honda motorbik
e pulled to the side of the road just past where the legless beggar was waiting to cross, and the four boys riding on it jumped off, laying the motorbike on its side as they walked into the street, their hands raised and their fingers apart.
The legless beggar scowled. He knew these boys and their tricks.
Still, the traffic stopped. The legless beggar looked right and left. If he waited, the people in the cars and trucks would grow angry at him because they did not know what he knew, and then there might not be anyone else who would stop to help for a very long time, and he would grow hot and even more thirsty in the hot sun.
So the legless man launched himself into the street, moving as fast as he could, in a legless man’s imitation of running.
As soon as he entered the street the four boys waved their arms in unison, as if to say good-bye and then they ran back to the side of the street, righted their motorbike, and rode off, laughing, high-fiving, and slapping one another on the back, leaving the legless man in the middle of traffic on his own. The cars just adjacent to where the legless man had been stayed put, as they could see him clearly.
“Oh shit,” Julia said. She ran into the street.
A bright orange taxicab swung into the middle of the street where a center lane might have been if there was room for it. The taxi had been stopped two cars behind the goods lorry that was stopped on the far side of the street waiting for the legless man to cross. The taxi was aimed directly at legless man who the driver still did not see, as the legless man swung himself into the taxi’s path, rocking forward as fast as he possibly could and not looking left or right now, but only moving, his version of running for his life.
Julia raised one hand as she ran. She swooped down and lifted the legless beggar by the arm pits. The legless beggar threw his arms around Julia’s shoulders. His torso, hanging from her neck like that, was almost as tall as Julia was, and so his legs hung just above the road surface. The orange taxicab’s horn blared and the driver jammed on his breaks and skidded to a halt, just past where it would have hit and likely decapitated the legless beggar. Julia carried him back to his starting place and lowered him to the sidewalk. The driver of the orange cab raised his hand and pointed a finger as he swore, yelling at Julia although he was swearing mostly at himself. And then he merged back into his lane of traffic and drove off.
Carl raised his hands, fingers outstretched, and stood in front of the goods lorry that was still waiting for the legless beggar to pass. Julia went back into the street and raised her hands in front of the cars on her side of Thomas Street. The legless beggar entered the road and Julia walked next to him, hands outraised so everyone could see her. She walked with him until he was safely across the road.
“Jesus,” Carl said when he joined Julia on the side road, “What were you thinking?
“I spent four years of residency learning not to think, and four more years of medical school learning what not to think about,” Julia said. “Sometimes you shoot first and ask questions later.”
“But …” Carl said.
“No buts,” Julia said. “It’s part of the package. Unself-interested advocacy. Sucks in a partnership. Sucks worse in a lover. You’re never quite first even when you are. Full disclosure. I’ll understand if that doesn’t work for you.”
“Just get better at ping-pong,” Carl said.
“Don’t confuse luck and skill,” Julia said. “Turnabout is fair play.” Then there was a man with a beard and a white coat, his collar open, pens in the pocket of his shirt coming through a window or a door. That man knew something he didn’t know.
Carl’s body was picked up by a huge wave and then the wave slammed him into the rocks. Julia was swimming nearby. The wave was lifting her. And then Carl was drowning. Deep under. Needing air. No air. Some light but no air. No way to know what was up. And then another wave lifted him and slammed him into the rocks again, breaking all his ribs.
He did what the marines had told him to do. If they knew about him and they knew about the others, they had to know about Julia. Who she was and where she was. How to find her. He got suckered. He followed their orders even after he kicked up a fuss. Carl let them leave Julia. He had let them bring him home without her. He let them leave Julia behind.
Carl didn’t know if she was dead or if she was alive. Maybe they didn’t go after her because they knew she was dead. He was in and out of sleep. Julia, only Julia. He wanted to be thinking about a hundred other things. Check in with London. Check on David and Grace. Think about the next placement.
But Julia was everywhere, and Julia kept coming back.
The morning July sun now burst through the east-facing windows. This was America, not Africa. America, where the air-conditioning keeps you from feeling the sun’s heat, but the light was undeniable.
Carl woke with a start. A part of him was missing, a part he hadn’t quite yet known was there.
Carl turned on the radio, and then went to the computer. LURD was in Monrovia. MODEL was at Firestone, and there was heavy fighting in the plantation, as they both closed in on the airport from different directions. Taylor was on the run. It was only a matter of days, maybe even hours, before Taylor fled or was killed. And then there would be further descent into endless chaos, more likely than not.
He hadn’t been thinking about Julia when he had been with her in Liberia. She was a diversion. Entertainment. A fact, an option, not a person. A lightweight. Good enough, from time to time. Convenient. Relief. Pretty enough, not settled in herself, lots of bad choices, good company, no real focus, someone to see after work, a break from the routine. Mutual consenting adults. Love the one you’re with.
But here she was again. She was pushing him to take that kid with malaria to Buchanan. She was standing on the roof of the Land Cruiser. The way her skin looked at The Club as she talked about her work and its difficulties in the red light of the setting sun.
Julia was alone. Out there somewhere alone. Julia was scared, but she wasn’t giving up, not for one single second. Somehow Carl sensed Julia’s fear and isolation, which didn’t make any sense. Julia was five thousand miles away, sitting in a truck between two armed men. Carl got a little short of breath, as if there was a gun stuck in his own ribs. He was waking up in a bed in Lincoln, Rhode Island. What kind of sense does that make?
There Julia was whenever Carl lifted his eyes or turned his head or stood to get a glass of water or to make coffee.
She had entered him. She had become part of him. No one asked her to come in. But there she was. He hadn’t even known she was there.
And now she was gone. Someone had vacuumed up Carl’s insides, and he was collapsing, his outside falling into where his inside had been.
Carl didn’t think they were leaving her behind. He thought they had her too. He just went when they said go. He had called it in. They said they’d find her. They found everyone in Buchanan. But they didn’t find Julia. They didn’t look for her. They didn’t even look. They just marched in and scooped up the people they could find, and they forgot to look for Julia. It was an accident. A drunk man hits a pedestrian he didn’t see on a dark country road at night and thinks he had just hit a pothole. Julia had been left behind.
All Carl cared about was that Julia got home safe. I want Julia home safe, Carl thought. I want Julia. Carl wanted Julia. There it was. It hadn’t been clear to him before. I want Julia. He always made damned sure he never wanted anything or anyone.
Carl wanted Julia. Simple as that. Which made everything else complicated.
Naomi had come home, to the extent Lincoln, Rhode Island, could ever count as home to anyone. They had no family left in Rhode Island. Their mother was dead. Their father was in jail in Massachusetts. West Virginia was ready to extradite him for another trial should Massachusetts ever decide to let him go. Their mother’s parents had died of natural causes in Martinique in their sixties—but they were never close once their daughter had married this man they didn’t understand, once she disappeared into a
different world, and then just disappeared. Their father’s parents were in assisted living in Brocton, near their son, whom they visited. In spite of everything. Naomi went to see them every few months. Carl never went there. Other than Naomi, he could not go near anything or anyone that had anything to do with that time or that place. Brenda, even Brenda fled back to the panhandle of Florida where her people were.
But Naomi had come back here like a homing pigeon, as if she had imprinted herself on the place instead of on people and relationships. Naomi didn’t do relationships either. You form yourself around what you know. When they were small Naomi followed Carl around, playing at what Carl wanted to play at. Carl survived by detaching himself from people and places. Naomi survived by attaching herself to Carl and to this place. Carl remembered their mother better, so he could remember what love was. Naomi had somehow used her attachment to this place as their home to remember that love matters, if only someone could teach her how.
Now Naomi worked in a hospital, running a diversity program. So-called. Her life was her work. She submerged herself and went to work every day, doing work that didn’t matter in a culture where nothing was real. Diversity program. We name things the opposite of what they are, but we don’t fool everyone. The way they call subdivisions “Flowing Waters Creek” or “Sky View Farms,” but they aren’t farms or creeks, they’re subdivisions filled with tract houses. Diversity? Now sometimes the white guys in suits are gay Asian women. Our version of progress. You say the word inclusive, but the only people we include are people we know already. You change the package but the product always remains the same, as long as there is return on investment and the business model works. The rich get richer, the poor stay poor, and the shop windows get all decked out for Christmas. The common man is entertained, and no one notices who owns what, who keeps what, and who calls the shots.
She was a beauty, his sister. Present. Always present. Hiding in plain sight. His damn little sister was quite the grownup. Quite the knockout. Not as tall, darker than he was, and damn was Naomi well put together. Long hard brown hair. A business suit. And pearls. She looked just like him, they said, only she looked like she was ready to run the world.
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