by KG MacGregor
“I don’t know that I’m either one,” she answered with a shrug. “Some people might think what I did was a big deal, but it was just my job. Same as any other Marine. It’s what we’re trained to do.”
“And right there—that’s what makes it interesting. A woman who grew up right here in Colfax wins a Bronze Star, and we think she ought to lead the celebration on the most patriotic day of the year. But you’re going to tell us why valor like yours is just another day at the office for the Marine Corps. Sound right to you, Captain?”
She finally grinned. “Call me Zann. I’m a civilian now. Or I will be if I can get a few more years in without being called back up. Not even a medical retirement gets you out of the reserves.”
Zann. A stronger sounding name than Suzann, perhaps chosen by a girl who resisted frilly things.
“A civilian. How does that feel?”
“It’s definitely going to take some getting used to. Yesterday I almost saluted the mailman.”
Marleigh chuckled and leafed through a small stack of clippings, handing her the oldest one. “Here’s something kind of interesting…turns out I’ve written about you before. I first came to work at the Messenger twelve years ago as a college intern. One of my assignments was to write blurbs about all the high school seniors who got scholarships. You were headed to Syracuse with the ROTC.”
Zann smiled faintly as she studied it. “I remember this. Mom and Dad bought up about twenty copies of the paper and sent them to everyone they ever knew. You’d have thought I cured cancer or something.”
“That’s what proud parents do.” There was a second article from four years later, a column about Colfax families with a military connection. Fresh out of college, Zann had joined the Marines as a second lieutenant. “I came across this one too, but it’s not one of mine. Volunteering during wartime…even more impressive than a scholarship, if you ask me.”
The smile dimmed as she silently scanned the words. “That was the deal I made when I accepted the scholarship.”
Marleigh went on, “A lot of people were against the war but they respected the people who sacrificed by putting on the uniform and going into harm’s way.”
“Yeah, that was good while it lasted. Hard to sustain the support though when it drags out so long.”
The reporter in Marleigh wanted to pursue that remark, but her assignment was to write a feel-good piece to celebrate a heroic soldier coming home, not a takedown of politicians or protesters. Opening a can of worms could derail her interview, perhaps causing her subject to clam up.
“So what was it that drew you to the Marine Corps instead of one of the other branches?”
Zann shifted and draped an arm on the back of the swing, a surprisingly relaxed posture for someone who’d been so reluctant to talk. “To be honest, ever since 9/11 I felt like busting some heads, and the Marines…they’re all gung-ho, you know? The toughest, the first to get to where the trouble is. I guess the short answer is I wanted to be in the middle of the action. I thought my best shot was with the Marine Corps. Plus it’s like a family. I’m sure you’ve heard that saying—once a Marine, always a Marine.”
Knowing the recorder would capture their words, Marleigh was free to focus on her subject and her unusual combination of features—a strong, intimidating physique that was feminized by soft eyes, rounded lips and smooth-looking skin. The sharp jawline hardened her face somewhat, and her husky voice suggested she didn’t suffer fools. It wasn’t hard to imagine soldiers jumping at her orders.
“But the official policy of the Pentagon was not to allow women in combat. Were you thinking they might change that for the War on Terror?”
Zann rolled her eyes. “You’d think—especially after enlistments dried up. I waited four years to get deployed and ended up doing three tours in Afghanistan.”
“Three tours…that sounds like a lot. But at least you were lucky you weren’t sent to Iraq. The local National Guard unit got deployed there. One of them works at my hair salon now. She said it was like going through the back door to hell.”
“Iraq, Afghanistan. It didn’t really matter to me. If I learned anything in the Marines, it was to shut up and do as I was told. That whole argument over Iraq was for you guys to figure out.”
Marleigh picked up a hint of rebuke. “Sorry, I didn’t mean…I’m sure what they did over there was important.”
“No, I get it. Some people say we shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but the guys I knew felt pretty good about what they accomplished over there. On a personal level, I mean.”
“So what did you do all that time while you were waiting to get deployed?”
“Two years advanced officer training at Quantico, two years instructing urban tactics at Camp Lejeune. Then I lucked out and got picked for one of the FETs. Gave me a chance to put my knowledge to work.”
Marleigh recognized the acronym, sounded out to rhyme with vets. “I read about those, the Female Engagement Teams. Team Lioness, I think they called it.”
“Talk about making a difference…we really did. All the FETs were attached to regular combat units that went out on patrol. We were combat soldiers too. They just wouldn’t call us that because of the Pentagon policy.”
“Pretty absurd, right?”
“Guess that’s one word for it. Our job was to change hearts and minds. A typical FET was six or eight female soldiers paired up with a couple of dozen infantry. We’d go into villages—all of us carrying a full pack and M16s just like regular infantry—but our main mission was to talk to the women. The wives and daughters and mothers…see, they weren’t comfortable around male soldiers. Just talking to a man could be humiliating for a Muslim woman. Imagine how they felt being patted down by one. They got so they’d hide from the patrol units, but we could see them sneaking around. It made everybody tense, trigger happy. We turned all that around by engaging with them…asking about their families, giving toys and candy to their kids. When you show people you care about them, that you respect their customs, they’ll help you. They didn’t want their kids getting blown up or going off to join the radicals. So they’d help us and tell us things we needed to know, like who was working with the Taliban, or what time a truck came through the village and how many men were on it. They knew we were there to keep them safe.”
It was then she realized Zann had been waving her right hand as she talked, while the left lay still in her lap. Lifeless. Was that the reason for her Purple Heart? For leaving the Marines? “It sounds like dangerous work.”
“Like I said, it was a job. The danger—being aware of it, focusing on it—that’s what kept you alive.”
* * *
The lingering gaze at her lap was subtle but certain. Marleigh Anderhall had noticed the weakened appendage hanging almost uselessly from her shoulder.
“I can tell you want to ask about my injury,” she said evenly, resisting the urge to chuckle at Marleigh’s blush, her second of the afternoon after the scornful remark about soldiers getting deployed to Iraq instead of Afghanistan. “Go ahead, I don’t mind.”
Marleigh was charming with a good mix of friendliness and professionalism. And attractive too, she admitted. Especially the brown eyes that smiled so much. It was tempting to read more into their connection, to entertain a certain vibe that they also were speaking to one another through a more personal undercurrent. Or maybe she was so flattered by Marleigh’s respect and admiration that she mistook it for interest.
“Okay then…you were awarded a Purple Heart. Was that because of your arm?”
“I took a bullet here,” she answered, drawing an imaginary line just above her left elbow, which was covered by her sleeve. “Right through the radial nerve, which it turns out is how you bend your elbow and wrist. I don’t have a whole lot of strength in my hand but I’m still working on it.”
“I’m guessing you planned on a career in the Marine Corps. How did you feel about being discharged?”
“Separated is what they
call it…means exactly what it says,” she added dismally. It was as if a wall had been dropped between her old life and where she was now. “They’re there and I’m here. I wasn’t happy about it if that’s what you’re asking. But I went through all the assessments fair and square—it was pretty clear I wasn’t up to the job anymore. You can’t take a gimpy arm onto the battlefield when you’re responsible for other soldiers in your team. I would have been the weak link.” She’d practiced those words in her head at the Naval Hospital at Camp Lejeune once she’d gotten word she was being recommended for medical retirement. The verdict didn’t change just because she didn’t want it to be true.
“So it was hard to accept.”
“Most days I realize I’m damn lucky to be alive. I was wearing a tactical vest with ceramic plates. That’s something you put on every time you leave camp, even if it’s just to fetch a ball that gets thrown over the fence. It protects your major organs, which is the difference between life and death if somebody’s shooting at you close-range with a semiautomatic rifle.”
“The commendation says you were ambushed. That must have been terrifying. It scared me just to read about it. You were on patrol in the Helmand Province?”
She nodded. “What they put in the commendation…that’s pretty much all I’m allowed to say about it. The particulars are still classified. Probably will be until fifty years after all of us are dead.”
Marleigh wagged her pencil by her cheek the way Groucho did his cigar. “Well now, that’s a problem, Captain Redeker…Zann. Because if I can’t write about your wartime heroics, I’m going to have to write about you. And something tells me you don’t like to talk about yourself much.”
Zann chuckled. “You could end up with a very short article.”
“Maybe…maybe not. How about you tell me what you’re looking for out of life now that you’ve come home to Colfax?”
“You would have to start off with a hard question.”
“What makes it so hard?” Marleigh narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, as if she thought the answer would be a whispered secret.
Which in some ways, it was. Zann hadn’t discussed with anyone, not even her parents, her reservations about coming back to her hometown for good. She’d changed so much in the time she’d been gone, not only as a Marine but as a woman. In her mind, Colfax was only a stopover, a place to recover from her injury and buy some time to figure out what to do next. She doubted seriously the town could offer what she needed to feel at home.
Chapter Three
Colfax Union High School was a sight for sore eyes, as it marked the end of the parade route and with it the end of Zann’s ridiculous ride atop the backseat of a convertible. Her arm was tired from waving, her face permanently frozen in a plastic smile.
A parking attendant guided them to a stop amid a throng of parade participants who seemed as happy as she that the event was over. En masse, they peeled out of their outer layers of red, white and blue to reveal shorts and T-shirts appropriate for the summer heat.
That wasn’t an option for Zann. She’d worn her Dress Blues for the occasion and couldn’t wait to get home so she could change. Sweat poured down her back, causing the starched khaki shirt to stick to her skin and the pants to chafe her thighs. The black dress coat was hotter than body armor in Kandahar.
“Captain Redeker!” The exuberant voice belonged to Malcolm Shively, Colfax’s town manager. A penguin-shaped, balding man in his mid-fifties, he wore a short-sleeved white shirt with a bowtie and suspenders. “Great job, Captain. It was a real honor to have you leading the parade this year. You did us all proud.”
“I was happy to do it, sir,” she lied. Halfway through the parade, it occurred to her that Shively’s approval might come in handy if she applied for work with the town’s police department.
“That was quite a story about you in the paper. The whole town’s talking about it. You really took out four Taliban? All by yourself?”
“Yes, sir.”
Marleigh’s feature had included information from her commendation, but true to her word, none of the details of the incident. Instead she’d somehow coaxed Zann into talking about how her training had kicked in to produce an automatic response with no time for fear or panic.
It was fascinating to see her words woven into someone else’s narrative. She’d managed to sound thoughtful and compassionate in her acknowledgment of having made several orphans and widows that day. The article ended with how she hoped to transition from military life to finding a worthwhile second career.
“And you’re coming to the picnic, right?” Shively’s invitation jolted her back to the moment. “We have a booth set up. It would be wonderful if you could sit behind a table, shake some hands maybe.”
“Of course, sir.” There wasn’t anything she’d like less than sitting under a sweltering tent in the middle of a football field talking with strangers.
“Now you stop with that ‘sir’ business. You’re home now, soldier.” He pumped her hand with enthusiasm. “I’ll let Connie know you’ll be setting up at the booth.”
As he toddled away, Zann tugged at her collar to get some air inside her coat. She could stand a couple more hours of feeling like a burrito if it helped with her job prospects.
* * *
With a bottled beer in each hand, Marleigh craned her neck in search of Bridget, who’d stood in another line for their hot dogs.
“Marleigh! Over here.” Bridget Snyder, ten years younger at twenty-four, waved from the high school’s back steps, a perch in the blazing sun. As cute and shapely as a coed, she wore cut-off denims and a clinging pink tank top with matching pink flip-flops. “Sorry, the only shade is over there by the building. Maxine Hurstburger’s over there, and I do not want to hear another word about how awful it was we put her grandson’s mug shot in the paper just for cooking meth.”
“This’ll do. I only want to sit long enough to eat. What did you put on them?”
“Just mustard. The relish looked like puked-up bird food.”
Marleigh groaned. “Thanks so much for that visual.”
“My pleasure. People always said I had a real way with words. Too bad Clay won’t let me use any of them at work.”
“Yeah, that AP style is so unimaginative,” she replied drolly. In fact, Clay had spoken confidentially of letting Bridget go after only her first year on staff, but Marleigh had convinced him they needed someone at an entry level salary who would cover mundane events without complaining and grow as a writer as she gained more experience. All true, but the main reason she’d stood up for her underling was because she was the only other female reporter in the newsroom. If Bridget got canned, Marleigh would find herself back to covering social clubs, schools, craft fairs and the like—topics Clay would never dream of assigning to one of the men.
“There’s Christopher.” She pointed across the field to their compatriot, the summer intern who’d been tasked with collecting quotes from fair-goers while a local freelance photographer tagged along to document the festivities. “Remember having to do that when you were an intern?”
“Ugh. Clay gave me all the crap jobs on the weekend.” Her mouth twisted and she visibly shuddered. “Always making me get photos and quotes so everybody would buy a paper to see if their name was in it.”
It was a reliable trick for boosting sales, and it brought to mind Zann Redeker’s remark about her mother purchasing multiple copies of her scholarship announcement to send to friends and family.
“Say, Bridget…what did you think of the grand marshal, that Marine I interviewed last week?” Zann had looked positively drool-worthy in her Dress Blues as her convertible passed. Unfortunately, the high school band had chosen that moment to strike up “Yankee Doddle Dandy,” drowning out attempts to get her attention.
Bridget daintily licked mustard from her fingers. “My sister used to date her little brother. Payton Redeker, serious stud.”
“He’s married now. Two boys.”
&nbs
p; “I know. That was funny what she said about how they played army when they were kids and he always let her be the sergeant.”
“You read my profile?”
“Of course. I read everything you write. Don’t you read my stuff?”
Blindsided by the question, Marleigh felt the heat rush to her face. “Uh…not all of it. As much as I can though.”
Bridget smacked her arm. “Get outta here! I’m your best friend. You’re supposed to at least read my stuff. Every last boring word of it.”
They were interrupted by the shrill ring of Bridget’s phone.
“Shit, that’s Rocky. I was supposed to be home an hour ago.” She flipped the top and answered sweetly, “Hey, babe.”
Marleigh tried not to listen, knowing it would only rile her to hear Bridget placate her boyfriend’s childish tantrum. Why a woman who was so outgoing and friendly would hook up with a controlling SOB like Rocky Goodson was beyond her. The guy micromanaged her social life—checking her phone and private email account—and always insisted she come straight home from work every day. The only reason he tolerated Marleigh at all was because he knew she was gay and wouldn’t take Bridget out cruising for guys.
“You want the rest of this?” Bridget asked, offering half a bottle of beer. “I need to get home.”
“Pitch it. One’s enough for me. I’ll see you Monday.”
Marleigh polished off her own beer and contemplated calling it a day. But then a crisp figure in uniform strode across the field and entered one of the exhibitor booths—Captain Zann Redeker. Smart, courageous, dashing. And for Marleigh, the sort of woman who made her want to go home and make sweet love to herself.
Since the captain had been kind enough to grant her an interview, the least she could do was say hello.
* * *
Sandy Cruder was several pounds heavier than she’d been in high school, but still had her double dimples and a mass of carefree blond curls that gave her an approachable air. Though she’d once been the object of a minor crush for Zann, there was no inkling of that today. Still, it was nice to see her and meet her six-year-old son.
