Kormick looks mildly surprised, then throws his head back with a laugh. Boner just stands there, his jaw dangling.
“Whoa, the bitch really can’t take a joke,” Kormick splutters, still laughing. It isn’t real laughter, though. “Put that fucking thing down or I’ll slap you with an Article 91,” he says to me more seriously, although he’s still pretending to chuckle. “Insubordinate conduct toward an NCO. Not to mention threatening me with a weapon, tut-tut. That can get you in serious trouble, Tits, didn’t you know that?”
I back up, rifle still pointing at his crotch, my eyes locked on his.
For a second, everything’s still. Then something comes flying at me from the side and slams into my right breast so hard it knocks away my breath. I double over, dropping my rifle and gasping, the pain tearing into my chest. I feel myself being picked up, flung into the shack and thrown facedown on the table. I kick out hard as I can, struggle and struggle, but huge hands are gripping my neck, pressing into my trachea, the fingers squeezing so deep I can’t move, can’t breathe. All I can do is taste my own spit and blood.
And then I’m not me anymore. I’m a wing. One ragged blue wing, zigzagging torn and crooked across the long, black sky.
“THERE, BABY, LET me just plump your pillow for you. Isn’t that easier on your poor back, huh? Now take your pills and go to sleep. It’s time for this overworked nurse to get her butt home.”
The nurse hands the soldier her nightly paper cup full of pills.
The soldier pulls herself upright and peers into it, picking them out one by one. An orange one to numb her messed-up back. A yellow one so she doesn’t get sad. A pink one so she can fall asleep and have fun dreaming about screaming and blood. Two blue ones so she doesn’t know what’s hurting so much inside of her that she can hardly get from one breath to the next. And a white one—she thinks that’s to stop her pissing the bed.
She swallows them all.
The room is dark now; it must be late. The nurse changes the TV channel from its usual giant, ticking clock face to some sitcom, but the minute she’s gone the soldier gropes for the remote to turn it off. She keeps telling the nurse she can’t handle TV, the fast-moving lights, the noise. The news. She keeps telling her. The nurse, who is kind but on automatic pilot, keeps forgetting.
The soldier lies back down in the quiet darkness, waiting for the pills to take her away again. She doesn’t like it when her body empties of them and her mind begins to clear because that’s when the memories come. She’d take pills all day to avoid that.
In her hand she holds April’s little pink box, still shimmering like an Easter egg, but she’s afraid to open it. She’s afraid the innocence inside will fly out forever.
[ KATE ]
I’M AlONE IN the shack when I come to. Crouched on the floor in a corner, knees to my chest, back up against the wall.
There seems to be somebody else’s rifle in my hands. It seems to be pointing at the door.
I have no idea why I’m alone like this, or who pulled Kormick off of me just in time. All I know is the next son of a bitch who puts his head around that door is getting it blown to pieces.
The wind is moaning through cracks in the plank walls, pushing the moondust in a wave along the ground. But when it dies down a moment I hear angry male voices outside shouting, and it sets me to shaking so hard I need to rest the rifle on my knees. Then the wind rises again, drowning out all but its lonesome whistle. But the shaking won’t stop.
A knock.
I jump. “Get the fuck away or I’ll shoot!” My voice comes out a rasp.
“It’s Jimmy Donnell. Let me in.”
“I said get away!”
“Kate, I’m going to open the door now. Don’t shoot. I’m coming in.”
The sand edges across the floor. The wind groans. I stare at the door, heart kicking against my ribs.
The door creaks open slowly. Lifting the rifle to my shoulder, I squint through its sights. My bullets could go right through that flimsy plywood. I don’t even need to see my target.
“If anybody’s with you, I’m firing!” My voice is still a croak.
“No, I’m by myself, I promise.” Jimmy eases his head inside. “Can I come in?”
“Swear you’re alone?”
“I swear.”
He steps through the door and closes it behind him without turning, watching me the whole time. I focus on his face through the crosshairs. His nose is bleeding, upper lip cut. And his glasses are cracked right across the left lens.
I lower my rifle to my knees. “What happened to you?”
“Me and Kormick had a scuffle. I saw from the tower, saw him… did he hurt you?”
“Where is he?”
“He’s gone. Boner too. Took off in the Humvee.”
I pause while this sinks in. “Boner’s the one who punched me, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.” Jimmy looks at me, his face tight. “The fucker should be shot. It’s you he should’ve protected, not Kormick.”
“Is this Kormick’s rifle?” I nod at the weapon in my hands.
“Yup. He left it here when I dragged him out. I think he’s got yours.”
Jimmy hasn’t moved. He’s still standing with his back against the door, holding it closed behind him.
“They’re gonna throw you in the brig for fighting an NCO like that,” I say then, each word a scrape in my throat. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Jimmy looks at me strangely. “Don’t worry about it. If that shithead reports me, I report him. Me and DJ both. He knows what we saw.”
“Did you see me point my weapon at his balls? He could get me for that.”
“He wouldn’t dare. It’s you I’m worried about. Are you okay?”
I place the rifle butt on the ground by my foot, its barrel pointed at the ceiling. I don’t want to stand up because the seat of my pants is torn wide open, I hurt all over, and because I’m trying not to cry. “I’m fine.”
Jimmy steps toward me. I shrink back. “I said I’m fine.”
He stops. “All right.” He takes a deep breath. “Listen, we need to get out of here. You think you can get up? You’re driving back with my team, don’t worry. Here.” He takes off his blouse and hands it to me. It’s damp and smells of his sweat but I put it on over mine anyway because it’s long enough to cover the tear in my pants. Then I pull my flak jacket over it so nobody can see Jimmy’s name tag.
“You need help standing?” he says then.
I shake my head and drag myself to my feet, nauseated and dizzy, a sharp pain shooting again through my breast where Boner punched me. Jimmy turns and walks out of the shack. Moving stiff and slow, I follow him.
His team’s waiting in their Humvee right there, all guys I know well enough to kid around with, but not as friends.
Jimmy walks me over, close but not touching, while I concentrate on staying upright, one step at a time. My ears are ringing like I’m about to pass out and my legs feel like Jell-
O. Next thing I know, I’m doubled over and puking.
Jimmy stands between me and the Humvee, trying to hide me. When I’m all emptied out, he guides me over, although I still won’t let him touch me. We crawl into the back. The men inside stare at us—me dressed in Jimmy’s uniform shirt, disheveled and splattered with puke; Jimmy with his smashed glasses, bloody nose and lip. I can smell their curiosity filling the car like a gas. None of them speaks, though.
I look down at my hands. They’re still shaking.
Once the driver drops us off at the tents, Jimmy walks me to mine—he sleeps in a different one down the row. “You going to be all right?” he asks quietly. We both know the tents have ears.
I swallow, tasting blood and acid. Then I take my scarf, the one I use to filter out the moondust so I can breathe, and wrap it around my neck to hide the fingerprints.
“Everyone’s going to know about this, aren’t they?” I croak.
“Probably. But not from me. Listen, if either
of those fuckers or anybody else gives you any more trouble, you tell me. Promise? And if you want to report them or anything, I’ll back you up.”
I turn away, Kormick’s rifle up against my chest like a shield. I don’t want a protector, I don’t want a fuss and I don’t want to look like an even bigger loser than I already am. I want to look after myself. I am a soldier, after all.
Nobody greets me when I step into the tent. The teams are all back by now, the guys sitting on their racks, chewing on tobacco or MREs. Third Eye and Yvette are there, too, doing the same. I can feel every one of them stare at me as I walk past. Feel them taking in Jimmy’s blouse hanging down to my knees, the scarf around my neck. I freeze my face so it won’t show anything.
Sitting on my rack, I drag my duffle bag from under it and fish out my spare pants and mending kit. Macktruck snorts and rolls over on his side to face me, hairy gut hanging, his chew making a bulge in one blue cheek. “Where you been, party girl?”
I shake out a needle from its little metal coffin and try to thread it. I can’t even get close. My hands are quivering too bad. I want to poke that needle right in Mack’s eye.
Nobody else speaks to me for the rest of the night. Nobody at all.
[ NAEMA ]
WE ARE IN a painful time of suspension, Granny, Mama and I. Our manless house has grown oddly still, as if the very walls know we are waiting. Nothing we do seems to matter—eat, drink, work, talk. We are unable to take pleasure in anything in the face of our fears for Papa and Zaki.
The news that Zaki is on the prison list does little to comfort us, for we do not know what it means. If it means that Zaki is alive, that, of course, is good. But what, then, does it mean that Papa is not on the list? Is it better to be on the list or no? We have no idea.
We try to alleviate our worries by making plans. “When your father and brother are freed, inshallah, we must leave this place,” Mama says to me in the kitchen, where we are gathered to sew and clean. “I’m afraid a former colleague or neighbor, someone jealous of your father’s position, perhaps, must have given his name to the Americans. Why else would they arrest him? I don’t think your father will be safe if he returns here.”
I nod in agreement. We are only too familiar with betrayal by friends and colleagues, with spying and denouncements, rivalry and revenge. We have been living with this corruptive poison for decades. It is what keeps the powerful secure.
“But where will we go?” I ask. “And we have to take Granny with us. She’s too sick to leave alone.”
Granny shakes her head, her worn face stubborn beneath her heap of white hair. She is feeling better today, her mind restored to the present, at least for the time being, so has risen from bed to sit with us at the table, where she is sewing a torn and faded blouse with her quivering hands in the hope of making it last. “I will never leave my home,” she declares, her voice tremulous. “Umm Kareem left her house and immediately strangers moved in and took it over. In this war, everyone is a thief.”
“But Mother, it’s not safe to stay,” Mama says. “Now that Halim’s been arrested, we can trust no one, not even your neighbors.”
“Bah!” Granny exclaims, waving her old blouse for emphasis. “I refuse to believe it. These people are good and honest, especially dear Abu Mustafa and Huda next door. We’ve helped each other survive for years. No, this can’t be true.”
Mama lays a hand on Granny’s arm. “Don’t distress yourself, Mother. Perhaps we’re wrong about the neighbors, perhaps it was one of Halim’s colleagues who denounced him. We’re only guessing. What else can we do when we know nothing?”
“But where will we go?” I ask again. “And how are we to get across the border? Widow Fatima told me the Americans are blocking or arresting anyone who tries to leave.”
Mama walks across the room to gaze through a small window into the courtyard where Granny keeps her few scrawny chickens. “Your father has cousins in Jordan.
They’ve offered to help us before. When he’s released, I’m sure he’ll know what to do.”
Yes, we talk like that. When Papa and Zaki are released, not if. Never if.
“I’ll ask Fatima for her advice tomorrow,” I say, for I am still set on going to the prison every morning. “She’s been through so much, she might know where we can go.”
Mama turns from the window to face me, her dark eyes grave. “Be careful what you tell her, my love. Remember, trust no one, not even a friend who seems kind.”
After that, we return to our tasks. Granny bends over her sewing. Mama puts the lentils in to soak and feeds the chickens pecking in the yard. I sweep the dust from the carpets and floors, then go to what is left of the local market for the few supplies that are available. Later, I will take a ration of the flour and sugar we brought with us from Baghdad to give to the village baker so she can bake for us our daily samoon, the flatbread which is all we have now to make bearable our wartime diet of watery soup and goat yogurt.
All the while I work, though, I harbor secret plans. Once Papa and Zaki are home, I will not leave Iraq with them, whatever Mama says. I will go back to Baghdad, to my fiancé, Khalil, and to medical school, for I am determined to qualify as a doctor and make something of my life.
I call Khalil my fiancé, but in truth, matters between us are too uncertain for that to be entirely accurate. He is my closest friend, and I love him and yearn for him every moment here in our exile, but we are not yet officially engaged.
We met during our second year at Medical College, for we are the same age and at the same level of schooling. As soon as I saw him, my heart began to leap about in my chest like that little goat under Zaki’s shirt. His fine dark eyes, curly black hair, sturdy shoulders, these pulled me to him as the moon pulls the tides. And when I saw him looking at me, I knew he felt the same.
We began to talk whenever we could without attracting attention—between classes, on our way to lectures—sidling up to each other shyly, clutching our books to our chests in excitement. Every day I awoke with a surge of pleasure at the idea of seeing him, and every evening I stared dreamily at my books, as foolish as any girl in love. We were awkward and slow, but I knew Khalil was a good man, a man who would not hurt or betray me.
The first time he kissed me was on my roof at night, my family safely out of sight inside the house. This was before the war, so we were not too afraid of bombs to be out after dark. Khalil looked about to make sure we were seen by nobody but the stars, then took my chin in his hand, his gentle eyes asking permission. His lips were so warm, little pillows of tenderness.
After nearly two years of courtship, just before I fled Baghdad, we were again on my roof, gazing sadly at the ruins of our poor city, when he asked me to marry him. “I have a dream about our future, my love,” he said. “I want us to be doctors together and set up a joint practice. And when, inshallah, the bombs and looting are over, I want us to open our own clinic. Look around, Naema.” He swept his arm over the bloodstained rubble below us. “Think of the wounded and sick who will need our help. Think of the good we can do.”
The generosity of his vision moved me, as did his eagerness to include me in it. But I also felt afraid. Yes, Khalil is kind and intelligent, and yes, I love his warm eyes and kisses, his devotion to his career and belief in mine. And our parents approve of us, so there would be no objection from them. But I am wary of the yoke of marriage and all the expectations that go with it. I love Khalil, but I do not love the idea of being a wife and am not ready for children. I am only twenty-two. Like Zaki, I have most of my life ahead of me, and, like him, I have my own ideas for my future.
So I did not give Khalil the reply he expected. “Khalil,” I said, “I love you and I’m grateful for your proposal. But I need to wait. I need first to follow my own dreams.”
My own dreams, yes. This is how they go: When the war is finally over and we are truly liberated from Saddam and his murderous sons, God willing, as well from the Americans and their armies of thugs, I will tra
vel to London and Paris, to Istanbul and Rome, and there I will add more languages to my English and more skills to my medical practice so I can gain the tools with which to help my country. Then and only then will I be ready to return home, be married and open a clinic with Khalil. That is, if the war spares us both.
I know my dreams would probably seem absurdly romantic to an outsider—to anyone who does not understand what we have suffered in Iraq. That girl soldier, Kate, for example, no doubt would find them foolish. Or perhaps the very idea of an Iraqi with dreams would be too foreign for her even to entertain. After all, don’t Americans like her consider us all “insurgents” now, primitive Islamists and terrorists—the sort of creatures who are not allowed dreams?
But no, I would say to her—for I would need to argue— nobody can live in Iraq and not dream of a better future.
All my life, I have watched one force after another crush my homeland. Our war with Iran started two years after I was born and lasted until I was ten. The ruthless deprivation that followed—imposed by your fellow Americans, soldier Kate, and their Western friends under the name of “sanctions”—ate at our infrastructure, our middle class, our schools and hospitals the way termites eat at a house until it collapses. The Kuwait war, which began when I was twelve, slaughtered hundreds of thousands of our people—again with your weapons. Saddam also used your weapons and your support to torture and murder us for decades. And now, Miss Kate, you bring us this new war, repeating the same lies as your predecessors, promising freedom only to bring occupation and terror, pushing us into poverty and illness, ignorance and hatred, and opening the way for violent fanatics to seize control and rule us.
What else do I have, oh comfortable, blind and selfish American? What else could any Iraqi have but dreams?
[ PART TWO ]
TOWER
[ KATE ]
THE FIRST MORNING of my new job, Jimmy comes right to the entrance of my tent to pick me up. He pretends he’s just here to take back his blouse, but I know he’s really trying to protect me and I don’t like it any better than I did last night. I don’t want him escorting me to the Humvee like a prisoner, and I don’t want him causing a lot of gossip, either. I want to walk around free, prove that no shitbag on earth, not Kormick, not Boner—not the whole frickin’ Army—can stop me from being a soldier.
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