toward the sound-tiled ceiling.
Sarah let the silence lengthen. “Anyone?” More shifting, more looking at the floor or knees or coffee cups. “Somebody has to be first.”
“I came here because I want to know how to leave what happened in-country behind.”
They all stared at Tally McNabb. Her chin was tucked down, and she wasn’t meeting anyone’s eyes, but she went on. “I did some things I shouldn’t have. Stuff I thought would stay there.” She pressed her mouth into a hard line. Sarah waited, one beat, two, for her to go on.
Finally, Fergusson leaned way forward so she could look up into Tally’s face. “But it didn’t.”
Tally shook her head, sending her straight, blunt hair jerking left, right, left. “I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.” She lifted her eyes and looked around the circle. “Everything seemed so clear-cut over there. Now I’m home, and I can’t get a fix on anything anymore. My relationship with my husband’s totally screwed up. My job is-” She dropped her head again. “My boss told me today he wants to send me back. As part of the construction team.”
“What?” McCrea stared.
“You’re kidding!” Stillman rocked back in his chair.
“Oh, no,” Fergusson said.
“It’s not like being on frontline duty. I’d be financial administrator for the ongoing projects. Probably get to spend ninety percent of my time behind a desk in the Green Zone.”
There was an awful silence. Everyone, including Sarah, knew there was no such thing as “behind the lines” in Iraq.
“How do you feel about this?” Sarah asked.
Through the thick cotton of her hooded sweatshirt, Tally rubbed the spot where her arm was tattooed. “How do I feel?” She looked at Sarah. “Like I’ve been locked in a box.”
“Do you feel like you’d like to discuss your options with the group?” Sarah kept her voice low and level.
“No. I don’t have any options.”
“You can always find something positive about any situation,” Will Ellis said.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Why don’t you just grow up and drop the damn pep talks already?” Tally shoved her face toward Will. “At least I can admit my life’s in the toilet.”
“What?” Will glared at her. “What do you want me to say? That I lost my goddamn legs? That I’m never going to walk again, I’ve got no goddamn prospects, and I’m going to wind up spending the rest of my life with my parents taking care of me? That make you happy?”
Trip Stillman shook his head. “There’s no reason you can’t-”
“And what’s your problem?” Will turned on the older man. “I haven’t heard anything out of you other than it’s been a pain cycling in and out of country for three-month rotations.”
Stillman sat up straight and angled his body so that he somehow seemed to be wearing an invisible white coat. “I, um, believe I’m showing symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“From what?” Eric McCrea said. “You didn’t get the DVDs you wanted in your air-conditioned lounge? You guys live like four-stars in those combat support hospitals. What the hell kind of stress could you have?”
“I wasn’t in a CSH. I was at a Forward Response Station, and the only AC we had was in the operating rooms.”
“Oh, cry me a fucking river. You wanna know what stress is? Try guarding a bunch of insurgents who’d just as soon kill you as look at you. Trying to get intel out of these fuckers, knowing they’ve got information that will kill Americans locked up in their heads, but for God’s sake, you gotta respect their rights and their religion and their culture. Then a bunch of fucking pictures that never should have been taken get out into the damn media-from another fucking prison entirely!-and suddenly everybody looks at you like you’ve been putting electrodes on Achmed’s balls.”
“Were you?” Fergusson asked.
“What?”
“Were you torturing prisoners?”
“No! Jesus! Whaddaya think I am?”
“I think you’re a good cop. I’m also thinking maybe a good cop who gets coerced or convinced to do bad things is going to wind up feeling pretty awful about it, later on.”
Sarah cut in before Fergusson could take over as therapist. “Hold it.” She made a time-out gesture. “Just hold it. Group therapy means we’re working together to find out what we need to know. We offer observations in positive ways. We don’t gang up and attack each other.” She looked around the circle, taking her time, making eye contact with each one of them. “I repeat. We’re going to talk about why you decided to get into the group.” She zeroed in on Fergusson. “Clare, we’re starting with you.”
FRIDAY, AUGUST 26
Clare eyed the glass of Macallan’s balanced on her porcelain sink. Why had she brought it in here, when she was brushing her teeth? Was she going to gargle with it? She spat, rinsed, wiped her mouth dry. She considered lipstick. She didn’t usually wear makeup, but this was a special occasion. She thought it was a special occasion. She thought she might be getting engaged. She closed her hand around the heavy square glass and downed half the Scotch in one gulp.
The bell rang. She put down the glass and hustled down the stairs to her almost-never-used front door. “Why so formal?” she was asking as she opened the door, but the sight of Russ in a suit and tie made her lose whatever else she was going to say.
“What?” He peered down at his tie. “Do I have a spot?”
“I’ve never seen you dressed up before.” She splayed her hand against her chest. “I’m speechless.”
“That’ll be the day.” He stepped in, and she backed away to circle around him.
She whistled. “You clean up real nice, Chief Van Alstyne.”
“You like it? You should see my dress uniform. Makes me look like an extra in
“Does it have a Sam Browne belt?”
“No, thank God. That’s a little too disciplinarian for my tastes.” He caught her hand. “Nice dress. You wore it at that dance in the park.”
“Mm-hmm.” She twirled, letting yards of poppy red silk wind around her legs. “I remembered you liked it.”
He smiled slowly at her. “Maybe we should just order a pizza and stay here.”
“Tempting.” She considered it for a moment. True to his word, Russ hadn’t been to her bed since the night she had found him waiting for her after the Ellises’ dinner. On the other hand, she had been promised a date. One date in four years. That didn’t seem like asking too much. “Maybe later. I want my chance to go to the ball.”
“Okay, Cinderella. Grab your wrap and let’s go.”
Outside, he opened his truck’s door and handed her in. “Where are we going?”
“You like miniature golf?”
She stared at him. “You’re joking.” He got behind the wheel and backed out of her driveway. “You are joking, right?”
He grinned at her. The windows were open, of course-he didn’t believe in air-conditioning unless the truck was going sixty-so she braced her elbow on the edge and showily propped her chin on her hand, staring outside as if the end-of-the-day shoppers and dog walkers were the most interesting things she’d seen that week. Russ looped around to Barkley Avenue, and she spotted the director of the Millers Kill Historical Society unlocking her car. Clare waved. “Hi, Roxanne!”
“What are you doing?”
“Just making sure we maintain our status as a hot topic of conversation.”
“Great. Now I know what’ll be first on the agenda at their next board meeting.”
“What? The two of us in your truck on a Friday evening? That’s positively wholesome. It’s not like anybody’s been able to see you sneaking into the rectory at all hours.”
