Fade to Black - Proof

by Jeffrey Wilson

  Pam had made it clear that she would support any decision he made, and had offered to take a break from school, also, so they could be together. He remembered she had been worried, though not as much about his safety. There was no looming war then, and the chance that he would not return to school, thereby giving up his plan to be a biology teacher, was small.

  “What happened then?” Lewellyn had asked.

  Again Jack remembered feeling uncomfortable and unsure, though he didn’t know why the memories seemed so vague after that.

  “I decided not to do it, I guess,” Jack had answered.

  “Why?”

  Jack didn’t really know. He had told Lewellyn that he thought it was because of Pam’s concerns, but he really wasn’t sure why he changed his mind. In fact he couldn’t really even remember the end of their conversation that day. It felt like a gap in his memory at that point. Not in the memories themselves, but more in their clarity. They seemed broken and vague, somehow, like trying to remember a story you had been told instead of one you had experienced yourself. He had graduated a few years later and started his job at JFK High several years ago. He and Pam got married, which he had clear emotional memory of, but again he had trouble with the details of the wedding, which he felt should be crystal clear. Jack remembered getting anxious again during this discussion with Lewellyn. He had been very disturbed at the thought that so much of his memory after the day at Paul’s Deli was superficial. Especially frightening was the fact that he could not conjure up clear memories of his wedding, arguably one of the happiest days of his life. He couldn’t even picture the wedding party, though they must have a picture album that recorded the day. He remembered his dad, shaking his hand. He remembered the breathtaking sight of Pam entering the back of the church in her gown. He remembered their first kiss as a married couple. But it was these fragments that he was left with, rather than a clear recollection of the whole day.

  Ethan brought him his sandwich and fries, interrupting his thoughts about his emotional memory gap, and asked if he wanted a refill on his beer. Well, of course he did, so Ethan hurried off to get another lager, and Jack dug into his sandwich and fries. God he was hungry!

  He had very clear memory of the birth of Claire, however. He remembered every second, including all the warm emotions associated with it. He could picture Pam’s face, tired and sweaty, and her smile when they had laid little Claire by her head, the two of them just staring at each other for the first time. Pam had cried, he remembered. And then he had cried as well. He kissed both of his girls and stroked Pam’s hair. They were a growing family.

  Jack started in on the second half of his sandwich and chomped a few more fries, washing them down greedily with his beer. Across from him by the window, a table of men and women in suits drank white wine and argued loudly about some new account with the city hospital, for whatever it was they made or sold. He heard laughter from the bar.

  So Claire was born and then what? Jack felt his stomach tighten at the realization that he again had only fragmented, picturelike memories after that. The three of them in the park. Claire’s first birthday. Swimming together in a pool. Bits and pieces that didn’t seem linear, like he was reading one out of every ten pages in a book. Did he have some bizarre form of traumatic amnesia? Was something in the missing memories the key to his so‐called stress disorder? The only really clear memories he had after the birth of Claire were of the last week, most especially the nightmares. What the hell did that mean? Jack felt a growing panic, and felt himself resist his mind’s pull towards the answer, which he felt in some way he already knew. It was like looking down a long hallway at a door he knew he should go through, but being too paralyzed with fear to take the first step down the hall.

  “Anything else, sir?”

  Jack jumped at the voice, startled out of his thoughts.

  “What?” he asked, looking up at Ethan.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Sarcasm? “Do you need anything else? Another beer perhaps?” Jack sensed the waiter was condescending to him. Or was that just his paranoia again?

  “No…no, I’m good,” he answered, wiping his mouth on the cloth napkin. “Just the check. Actually…” Jack felt an urgent need to get the hell out of this place, to get home to his girls. It was sudden and overpowering. He fumbled for his wallet and pulled out a credit card. “Just go ahead and ring this up. I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

  “No problem, sir,” Ethan answered politely. “I’ll be right back with this.” The waiter grabbed his empty plate and glass as he left.

  Jack again rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. No more thinking right now. It was time to go home. Ethan was back in record time, no doubt as anxious for Jack’s departure as he was. Jack left a generous tip and thanked him, then slipped his card and wallet into his pocket. He slid out of his booth and headed for the door. As he passed by the booth next to his, a voice stopped him.

  “How was your lunch? You must be starving!”

  Jack turned, but he recognized the voice before he looked. Sitting in the booth was Commander Hoag, regimental chaplain, First Marine Expeditionary Force. He was dressed smartly in his dress blue uniform this time, his white combination hat on the otherwise empty table in front of him. He looked at Jack kindly through his round glasses. Jack felt his right leg begin to shake and he fought the urge to bolt for the door. Instead he looked around the room to see if anyone was staring at them, then returned his gaze to the Navy chaplain.

  Maybe you should try and find a way to listen to them and hear what they have to say.

  “I thought we might chat a moment, Casey.”

  “No,” Jack shouted louder than he meant to. “No, I’m not ready…” Then he strode quickly for the door. “YOU’RE NOT REAL!” he screamed over his shoulder as he reached the hostess stand. He spun around to look at the Navy officer again.

  But the booth was empty. The room was quiet and the crowd of business people spread out at several tables stared at him in stunned silence.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack mumbled and pushed through the heavy glass door and out into the cool November sunshine on the street.

  Jack leaned against the wall and breathed the refreshing air deeply, open mouthed. It felt good, the way it tightened his chest and chilled him. The cool air made him feel alive, which was more than a trite saying these days. Jack realized he was more angry than scared. Perhaps he should have done it. Perhaps he should have listened to what the “image” had to say.

  Jack shook his head. What the hell was he supposed to do? Sit down in an empty booth in a crowded restaurant and have a conversation with this image, this voice from his mind? They would haul him away giggling and wrapped in a wet sheet to a place that Lewellyn would get a phone call from. No, there had to be a better way.

  Jack looked down the street to the corner, where the recruiting station flags still fluttered in the breeze. All he really needed was to prove to himself that Casey Stillman and his friends weren’t real, right? Once he did that, the rest would be easy. How could he focus on finding a psychological root for his problem when he still couldn’t shake the belief that THIS was the fantasy? How should he deal with the sense that his nightmares of Fallujah felt so much more real than his real life, except for Pam and Claire? Everything about his dream was vivid, yet he couldn’t picture in his mind his own fucking wedding day! It might piss off Lewellyn, but Jack had to prove to himself that he was wrong about the Marine Corps, about Fallujah, about Bennet, Kindrich, Simmons, Stillman, and now Commander Hoag. He had to prove to himself that none of it was real. He didn’t have a plan how to do that, but maybe this could be a start.

  Jack headed down the block towards the row of flags.

  Chapter

  15

  The United States Marine Corps Recruiting Station was colocated in the first floor office space with the recruiting offices for the other three service branches. Jack went through the glass door emblazoned with Armed Forc
es Recruiting Station and found himself in a small lobby with a single desk at which a civilian receptionist sat reading a magazine in front of a bank of quiet phones. The walls were covered with large pictures of jets flying over the desert, ships at sea, a SEAL team coming up a beach, tanks rolling up a road, and other staged scenes of America’s military might in action. On the wall behind the receptionist were four recruiting posters, asking visitors to be an Army of One, to be one of the Few and Proud, to Aim High, and another one that just said Navy. Jack felt a familiar stirring when he looked at the picture of a Marine, standing in full‐dress uniform in front of an embassy somewhere in a faraway place. He also felt anxious.

  “May I help you?” the receptionist asked pleasantly.

  “Uh, yes,” Jack said, and then hesitated. What the hell was he afraid of? That the recruiter would recognize him? That the office would be full of dead Marines, chatting and telling war stories in their dirty and bloodstained digital cammies?

  “How can I help you?” the receptionist asked patiently after an uncomfortable pause. She smiled knowingly. Maybe everyone was a little nervous in this office, Jack thought.

  “I’m sorry,” Jack said, and shook his head clear of images of his dead buddies. “I’d like to talk to someone in the Marine Corps office.” Jack realized with some dread that he had no plan at all for what he wanted to talk to them about.

  “Certainly,” the woman said, and she snapped a piece of paper on a clipboard and handed it to him over her desk. “Can I just get you to fill out some information for us?”

  Jack held up a hand, unsure why the idea of writing out his demographics was unnerving. It was hard enough just being here without a paper trail of information on his visit. Hell, the last thing he needed was a bunch of recruiting brochures to show up at the house.

  “Uh, actually I’m not here to join. I just have a few questions.” Then he added, with a sudden brainstorm, “I’m a teacher at JFK High, and I’m looking for a little information for a class I’m teaching on current events.” Brilliant! Things just got a lot more comfortable now. “I can make an appointment and come back if this is not a good time.”

  The receptionist placed the clipboard with its blank form back on the desk. “Let me see real quick,” she said holding up an index finger to Jack and dialing the phone. Jack heard the chirping of a phone down the hall, and when it stopped she spoke again. “Hi, Staff Sergeant. There’s a teacher from the high school here who wanted to talk to you for a minute if you have time…okay, sure.” Then she hung up the phone. “Staff Sergeant Perry will be right out.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Jack stepped away from the desk and started casually scanning the pictures on the walls. This was perfect! He could ask some background questions without looking like an asshole. Why had he not thought of this before?

  Jack leaned in and looked closely at a picture of a Coast Guard helicopter with a rescue diver jumping out into the water below it, but he didn’t really see it. Instead he sorted things in his head. What did he want to know from this Marine? More importantly, what did he think he already knew that he could confirm or prove wrong with the recruiter? He would ask about the 3/1, the Third Battalion, First Marines. They were a part of First MEF, right? They were out of Camp Pendleton in California, near San Diego. The CG, or command general, was a Major General Owen Thomas, his memory (fantasy?) told him. Their light armor element was the First LAR, which was remotely located at nearby Twentynine Palms. They owned the LAVs that Stillman and his platoon had been clearing the road for in Fallujah. If only the LAVs, with their 25 mm guns and crew‐served weapons and mortars had been closer, maybe Simmons and Bennet would be alive, and Casey would not be dying in the dark while he sucked blowing sand through a hole in his neck. Jack shuddered at the images.

  Actually, Simmons had originally been with LAR and had come to them at Kilo Company just before deployment. He hoped to go back to them on their return. Might Jack be able to confirm a few names, even? His pulse quickened at the thought. Then he realized that he was unsure what answers he hoped for. A part of him almost wanted to find that the names were real, despite the terrifying questions that would leave.

  “Hoorah, sir. I’m Staff Sergeant Rusty Perry.” A strong and confident voice said behind him. Jack turned and saw a poster‐perfect Marine in crisp dark green trousers and khaki shirt and tie. His blond hair was cropped skin tight on the sides and back, only slightly longer on top—a so-called high and tight haircut. On his sleeve were three red chevrons, the bottom one joined by an arcing rocker with a pair of crossed rifles in between, indicating he was a Staff Sergeant, an E-6, in the United States Marine Corps. His hand was outstretched and Jack took it, shaking hands with the squared-away Marine.

  “Hoorah, Staff Sar’n,” Jack replied easily. “Thanks for giving me a few minutes of your day.”

  “No problem, sir.” Perry answered then gestured down the hall. “Why don’t you come on back to the office?”

  Jack followed the Marine down the hall to the first office on the right. Perry pulled a chair out from the wall and placed it beside a cubicle‐style desk with neatly arranged folders, paper work, and a computer on which a screen saver boasted “The Few, The Proud.” The Marine sat at the desk and motioned for Jack to take a seat.

  “How can I help you today, sir?” Perry asked and leaned back in his chair.

  “Well, I’m teaching a current events class,” Jack lied, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap, “and I was hoping you could help me get a little information on the Marines and what they are doing now in Iraq.” Jack held the eyes of the enlisted Marine recruiter and hoped his anxiety was not evident.

  “Anything to help, sir,” Perry responded. “What can I tell you?”

  “Well,” Jack was unsure how to start. “The Marines we see on TV, the ones fighting in Fallujah—where are they from?” Jack felt his anxiety rise, suddenly aware that he already knew the answers. He felt certain now of that.

  “The Marines fighting in Fallujah now are mostly West Coast‐based units,” Perry answered. “We set up rotations where the East and West Coast units swap out deployments, together with the Marines in the Pacific, and at present it is the California-based units who are in theater.”

  “That’s the First MEF, right?” Jack asked.

  “That’s right, sir,” Perry answered. “Elements of the First Marine Expeditionary Force from Camp Pendleton are currently conducting operations in Iraq. There is some overlap, though, so some forces from Third MEF are also still in theater.”

  “Third MEF is Hawaii and Okinawa?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “So they’re still completing the RIP?” Jack asked.

  “That’s right,” Perry answered. He looked more closely at Jack now, apparently intrigued by his knowledge and use of Marine jargon. Jack made a note to try and be more careful. “The RIP is the overlap period where the existing unit turns over responsibility of the AOR to the incoming units.”

  “I see,” Jack answered, not sure how to feel about knowing that or where to go next. “Were you ever with First MEF, Staff Sar’n?”

  “No, sir. I was Twenty-fourth MEU with Second Marines out of Camp Lejeune.”

  “Long way from North Carolina, Staff Sar’n,” Jack said smiling.

  “Yes, Sir,” Perry answered. “Recruiting tour is a nice way to round out your package for promotion. I’m actually from Ohio, so makes no difference to me.” The Marine seemed more relaxed. He obviously loved talking about the Corps.

  “Hoping to make Gunny this year?” Jack asked, referring to promotion to Gunnery Sergeant.

  “Just might make it, Sir,” Perry answered.

  Jack sat a moment, trying to think of a way to get to the real questions. He couldn’t just ask outright about individual people could he? Even if he did the OPSEC rules, operational security, would prevent Perry from telling him anything. So now what?

  “Is General Thomas still the CG over at One M
EF?” he asked casually. The CG was the commanding general, in charge of all the units that made up the expeditionary force. Jack’s pulse quickened and he realized he was squeezing his hands together in his lap so tightly that his left hand had begun to tingle. He tried to relax under Perry’s scrutiny.

  “Who were you with, sir?” he asked after a moment.

  Jack was confused for a moment. Had he gone too far?

  “I teach at JFK High,” he answered.

  Perry reached for a coffee cup on his desk, a pewter bull dog with a drill sergeant’s cap on its head decorating the front, the unofficial mascot of the Corps.

  “No, I mean when you were in?” He looked at Jack with a knowing grin, sipping his black coffee. “I can always spot a fellow jar head.”

  Jack felt himself beginning to panic. The last thing he wanted was to look like a fool in front of this Marine staff sergeant. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his mind reeling. Why in the hell would this guy think he was a Marine?

  “I was never in the Corps, Staff Sergeant,” he answered, unaware that his hand was now numb. “One of my best friends is in, though. I kind of lost touch with him the last two years,” Jack swallowed hard. No going back now, so what the hell. “Casey Stillman. Ever meet him?”

  Perry looked a little disappointed that he had missed the call, but didn’t look particularly suspicious, Jack thought. Why would he? The staff sergeant looked up at the ceiling, apparently in thought. After a moment he looked back at Jack.

  “Doesn’t really ring a bell, sir. Was he East Coast?”

  “Not really sure,” Jack lied. He knew exactly where Stillman was—bleeding to death in Fallujah, somewhere in the night. He decided to take one more shot. “What about Rich Simmons? Young kid, kind of lanky?”

  “Don’t think so, sir,” Perry answered without much thought. Jack sensed that he had become unsure of him and was being more cautious now. He decided to shift gears.

  “Well, anyway,” he said lightly, as if those names, his real reason for coming, meant nothing, “let me just get a little quick background, and I’ll let you get back to work.”