If You're Reading This

by Trent Reedy

  He took a sip and his face screwed up like the drink burned. It must have, because I could smell it from where I sat. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve, polished off the drink, and thumped the glass down on his desk. When he smiled, I actually thought I might live. “Isma has told me some good things about you. From what I hear, you are a hard worker. Smart. A good writer. Isma’s mother would probably like her to go to school and come home, talking to no boys in between.” He watched me as if waiting for me to say something. “That was … a bit of an exaggeration. A joke. But my wife is very reluctant to allow Isma to date, to go to the movies and do a lot of the things you young people do.

  “Me?” He poured himself another drink and took a swallow. “As much as I wish she could stay a little girl forever, I know she is growing up. It’s only natural that she’s going to be interested in boys. So …” He held his glass up in front of him and looked at me. “It’s good to see she’s with a nice young man like you.” His look turned serious. “But my wife and I must ask you please to not come over to our house ever again without our knowledge and permission.”

  I nodded. It sounded like a fair deal to me.

  Several awkward minutes later, Isma and I were closely supervised back in the living room. “Um, good-bye,” I said to Isma as I put on my shoes. I nodded to Asad and to Isma’s mother. “It was … uh … nice meeting you.”

  “Likewise,” said Asad. Isma’s mom was silent.

  I jogged out and climbed into the Falcon, strapping in, firing up the engine, and pulling the knob for the headlights. A light clicked on in one of the house windows and Isma came to the glass and waved. I waved back from my dark cab, but there was no way she could have seen me, so I flashed my headlights a few times before I drove away.

  That night, after driving around in the Falcon thinking about Isma and life and the Falcon and Isma for a long time, I beat Mom home to find Mary in the living room with some reality show on TV. “Hey, Mary, slobbing around watching crap again?” I said.

  “From now on I’m not going to answer people when they’re being stupid.”

  I decided not to let my spoiled sister ruin the best birthday I’d had in years. “That’s nice. Have fun being your bored and miserable little self.”

  “Whatever,” Mary said. “Package came for you today. It’s on your bed. Who keeps sending you stuff?”

  I wish I knew.

  I rushed upstairs to my attic and grabbed the package (a whole package!), a big plain cardboard box with no return address. I sat down on my weight bench and shifted the box in my hands. It weighed more than I had expected. Dad had said he wanted me to have all the letters by my sixteenth birthday. There had to be hundreds of letters packed in this box. I guess the Mystery Mailer liked waiting until the last minute.

  I pulled off the tape and opened the box, but I did not find a huge stack of letters. Instead, I pulled out a rectangular plastic computer thing — the size of a toaster, but half as thick. It had power and USB cables coming out of it. A hard drive? A huge hard drive. It had to be three or four terabytes. I checked the sticker on the back. Two hundred fifty megabytes? I’d seen fifty-gigabyte thumb drives at the store with two hundred times the memory of this old thing. I might actually be able to fit two hundred of those thumb drives into the hard-drive case.

  A faded tan canvas bag, like a small briefcase with a shoulder strap, lined the bottom of the box. Flipping it over, I ran my fingers along the sewn-on WILSON name ribbon. Two patches had been added on either side of the name tape, with red bull skulls on a black field that was rounded at the bottom and sort of squared off at the top. Inside the bag, I found another letter from Dad. Maybe his last letter.

  Once again, I searched for a message from whoever kept mailing all of this stuff. Nothing.

  Wednesday, September 22, 2004 (249 Days Left)

  Dear Michael,

  Happy birthday, little buddy. Today you are eight years old! Of course, if you’re reading this, you’re not so little anymore. You’re sixteen and a sophomore in high school, and I hope you’re having the best times of your life. Gosh, it’s hard for me to wrap my mind around all that now.

  I keep thinking of what you might get for your birthday. Maybe you got clothes or money for new clothes. That’s good. It’s important to look cool. But don’t be the guy who pays money for an expensive T-shirt with the store’s logo written across your chest. The store should pay YOU for that kind of advertising. Be the guy who is cool and confident enough to wear a shirt with no writing on it that you buy from the sale rack at the end of the season.

  Oh, and learn how to tie a necktie. It’s important.

  Things for me and my guys have gotten a lot better here. First squad, fourth squad, and a mortar squad from our platoon have come out from Kandahar. Now we finally have enough guys to fill a decent duty rotation so that we can get some real sleep some nights. With the Humvees and the other squads here, we’re settling into something like a routine. We’re really getting the hang of this.

  We are living in our barracks now with hot showers and flush toilets. We have a washer and dryer for our clothes, so we don’t have to spend hours hand-washing our uniforms anymore. The chow hall is finished, so we have real food, or as real as the Army ever gives us. Field rations are only for long-range missions now. All of this is possible because the Afghan construction workers have finished work on our base.

  That’s another thing. We don’t call the Afghans “hajjis” anymore. We were talking to our interpreter, Shiaraqa, and he told us that a hajji is a Muslim who has made a trip called the hajj all the way to Mecca, in Saudi Arabia. In places like Afghanistan, a hajji is a big deal. He’s highly respected. Since our mission is to help these people, and since we’re a lot safer if they’re not mad at us, most of the guys have stopped calling them “hajji” and just say “Afghan” now.

  To understand this war, you need to know that the Afghans are good people. They’ve helped us out, saved our lives, plenty of times. The Taliban are monsters. Brutal. Inhuman. But they are the tiniest fraction of the real Afghan population, like gangs or the Mafia in America. The Afghans are a great people. I’ve learned that Afghanistan used to be a pretty cool, peaceful place. Americans and Europeans used to vacation here. Their culture has been interrupted by wars that were not the people’s fault. We’re trying to help them restore what they’ve lost.

  Have I told you about the guys I’m serving with? Maybe not. I’m with these guys so much that I guess I take it for granted that people at home know them too.

  Our third squad leader is Staff Sergeant Joe Pratt. He’s a good guy, a great leader. Cares about his soldiers. Like I wrote before, I’m the alpha team leader, with three guys in my team. One is Specialist Fredrickson, who likes to be called “Fast Freddy.” Then I have this young kid, Private First Class Matthew Gardner, who’s eighteen or nineteen and got called up for the war like a day or so after he got home from basic training. My other guy is Corporal Christopher Andrews, the only black guy in the company.

  Bravo team is led by Sergeant Sweet. My friend Sergeant Ortiz is in his team along with a specialist and a PFC, but lately he’s been upset because one of his guys had to go all the way back to the hospital at Bagram to have his appendix taken out and to deal with other weird medical problems. Meanwhile, he’s stuck with MacDonald from the mortar squad, kind of an annoying guy. He’s from Riverside, believe it or not, but a couple years younger than me. Anyway, those are my guys, my family over here.

  Jackpot! MacDonald, a guy who at least used to live in Riverside. Almost a perfect clue. Though, still — “You gotta be kidding me, Dad,” I whispered. He’d given first and last names for almost everybody in his team, but hardly mentioned the Bravo team guys.

  That was okay. It would be easy to find MacDonald here in town. The name didn’t sound too familiar, but I could find it in the phone book or run a search for it easy enough. If that failed, I’d look up the number for Dad’s armory and start asking for the other
guys he just mentioned.

  Two hundred forty-nine days. I trick myself into thinking the time is winding down by saying things like, “We’re in the lower half of the two hundreds now!” Drives my guys crazy, especially when they have to pull six-hour shifts for guard duty.

  Wait a minute. Two hundred forty-nine days? I somehow hadn’t thought about the day count and the date when I read the date on the first page. It bothered me now, though. I was supposed to get Dad’s last letter by my sixteenth birthday. This couldn’t be the last letter, could it? Was the Mystery Mailer slacking off? There had to be more letters to come.

  And thinking about the day count … Dad had been killed August 28, 2005. If he only had two hundred forty-nine days in September of ’04, he should have been home well before the day he died over there. Something wasn’t adding up. Maybe the letter would offer more clues.

  That’s the thing about the Army. It forces time on us, gives us time to think with fewer distractions. Ed, my boss back home, has a cellular telephone and a pager. They go off all the time, even when he’s out with friends. He has the radio on all day and likes to keep it loud enough to be heard over the noise of the hammers and saws. He says that when he gets home, he has to sit at his computer messing with his email for over an hour. It’s like the guy is constantly connected to other people. That’s no way to live.

  The Army is different. Lots of times it strips life down to just me, my boys, and the world around us. Sometimes, when we’re out in nature and it’s all quiet, we notice the beauty that surrounds us. The other day there were actually some clouds for once, and the sun came up over the mountain, shining white beams of light down on the desert. It was beautiful and felt like God watching over us. But we see that view from behind walls topped with razor wire, and we remember we’re a long way from home.

  Sometimes we have to hurry to do some missions. Lots of times I’m scared, but sometimes life makes more sense with fewer things distracting me from thoughts about what really matters.

  What matters is you, little buddy. Well, you, Mary, and your mom. That’s the price of all this time. We always, always, always miss the ones we love.

  What I’m trying to say with all of this is that I hope you’ll take some quiet time to pray, to think about your life, where it’s been, and where it’s going. I hope, and I pray, that you’re happy with your life. That you’re taking steps to move it in the right direction.

  Oh, and your mission for this letter? Easy. It’s your birthday, and you’re sixteen. Go get yourself a driver’s license. Maybe someday you’ll be able to get a car. Be safe, and have fun.

  Happy birthday.

  Love,

  Dad

  “I am having fun, Dad. Things are finally starting to work out,” I whispered. I prayed, for the first time in a while, that somehow Dad might hear my words.

  P.S. PFC Gardner came back from leave with this fancy new digital camera that doesn’t even need film. It also shoots video. I’m going to try to make some video letters for you soon.

  I picked up the big hard drive. Were these videos? Of what? My father? What would it be like to see him again, to hear his voice and see him talking to me? If I hadn’t been in so much trouble when I left Isma’s house, I might have been able to call her and ask to borrow her computer so I could watch the videos. Now I’d have to lug this thing to school and use one of the computers in the library. That meant I’d have to wait until Monday.

  The letter had raised more questions than it answered. Dad’s day count was all messed up, and I had no idea if he had any more messages for me. But he’d given me names of people I could try to contact who might be able to tell me what I needed to know about him. Best of all, if the hard drive contained what I thought it did, my dad had sent me videos. I would get another chance for my father to talk to me directly. I could never have imagined a better birthday present.

  * * *

  “Mary and I are going shopping for groceries and some things,” Mom said late Sunday morning.

  I looked up from the phone book, which had been no help at all. “Hey, do you know anyone who used to live in town with the last name of MacDonald?”

  “Why?” she asked.

  Mary put her hands on her hips. “Mom, are we going or not?”

  “It’s for a school project,” I said.

  Mom shook her head. “The name doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “Did Dad know anyone named MacDonald?” I tried.

  Mom frowned. “I’m sure I don’t know. Sorry. We’ll be back in a bit.”

  After they left, I figured I’d call Dad’s old engineer company armory, since he’d given me so many soldiers’ names. If that didn’t work out, I’d start asking around town about this MacDonald guy. Maybe Ed Hughes or even Mrs. Potter would know about him. I looked up the number for my dad’s old National Guard unit in the Iowa City phone book. It was a Sunday, so who knew if anyone would be there. I knew the National Guard had training one weekend a month, but it might not be this weekend. It didn’t matter. Now that I had all these names, I would keep trying until I found someone who knew how I could get in touch with one of them.

  I dialed all but the final digit in the phone number and took a deep breath. Then I quickly tapped the last button before I could chicken out. The phone rang forever. I’d nearly given up when I heard a rattle on the other end of the line.

  “Charlie Company, this is Sergeant Ballard. How may I help you?”

  I took a breath. “I’m … Can I talk to Staff Sergeant Pratt, Specialist Fredrickson, PFC Gardner, Corporal Andrews, Sergeant Sweet, or, um, MacDonald?”

  There were lots of voices in the background. “Whoa, that’s a lot of soldiers,” Ballard said. “Some of them don’t drill here anymore. Who did you say you want to talk to? Can you give me the names slower, please?”

  I put the phone to my other ear. “Um, Staff Sergeant Pratt —”

  “He’s a first sergeant in Alpha Company now. I don’t think they’re even drilling this weekend. Who else?”

  This was the right unit. They’d heard of him. This Ballard guy knew someone my father had known.

  “Specialist Fredrickson?”

  “Fast Freddy? Yeah, he’s been out of the Guard for a while. What’s this all about?”

  I didn’t want to go into the whole thing except with someone who might actually have the answers I needed. Maybe I should have started with the guy from Riverside. “Um, is there a guy named MacDonald there? I don’t know his rank.”

  “First name?

  “Sorry,” I said. “Don’t know that either.”

  “Hold on a second.” I could hear Sergeant Ballard talking to someone else, but I couldn’t make out the words. “We have no MacDonald on record.”

  What was going on here? Why wouldn’t the company have records on a guy who’d served with them in the war? Maybe the records didn’t go that far back?

  “Wait, did you say Corporal Andrews earlier? You mean Christopher Andrews?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Whoa, no need to call me ‘sir.’ I work for a living. Corporal Andrews got promoted. He’s a staff sergeant now. You want to talk to him?”

  “Yes, s — yes, I would, please.”

  “Can I ask who is calling?”

  I twisted the long rubber coil of the cord on this ancient phone in my fingers. “This is Mike Wilson.”

  “Okay, hold on.” There was a long pause on the line. Finally, I heard someone pick up. “Sorry, Mike, but Sergeant Andrews is in a class conducting some training. You’ve caught us on our drill weekend. Can I tell him why you’re calling?”

  “I just …” I was so close to real answers about my dad, to talking to someone who had known him and served with him. “My dad, Sergeant Mark Wilson, used to …” I bit my lip. “Used to serve in Charlie Company. He was killed in Afghanistan. Corporal — I mean, Staff Sergeant Andrews was in his squad. I just need to ask …”

  “Oh. Hey, no problem, buddy. I’ll have someon
e get him out of his class. Can you hold the line again?”

  I waited for a long time. I was starting to think they’d forgotten about me when a deep voice came on the line. “This is Sergeant Andrews.”

  It had taken so long to figure out how to get in touch with anyone from Dad’s letters that I hadn’t thought about what to say. “Um, hello. I’m Mike Wilson. I think you served with my dad. In Afghanistan, I mean. You were a corporal?”

  He didn’t answer right away. Finally, he sighed. “Yes, I served with Sergeant Wilson. He was my team leader. That was a long time ago.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, it was. I’m sorry to bother you, but —”

  “You could never bother me, Michael. Your dad used to talk about you all the time.”

  “He did?”

  “Of course he did. He always talked about how he looked forward to taking the family on a big vacation when he got home, how he couldn’t wait to teach you and your sister to ride bikes, how he would throw the football around with you. He loved you and your mom and sister.”

  Holding the phone, I pressed my back to the wall and slid to the floor. “I was wondering —”

  “I know why you’re calling,” said Sergeant Andrews.

  He did? I smiled.

  “You want to know who’s been mailing your father’s letters to you.”

  “Yes!” I said. “Was it you? Thank you so much for —”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “Then who —”

  “I’m really sorry, Mike, but I can’t tell you.”

  I felt the tension rising in me again. “But they’re my letters —”

  “Your father trusted Sergeant Ortiz to deliver the letters to you at the right time. Ortiz didn’t make it, so someone else agreed to do this for your father. The sender doesn’t want to be identified.”

  I leaned my head back and pressed it against the wall. “Can you tell me anything? Like what you remember about my dad? How he … How he died?” There was another long pause. “Hello?”