“Jenny—”
“Too late. Let me finish.” She knew she had to tell him everything. To provoke him, to arouse him, she wasn’t even sure. “And I see a blond guy, surfer type, tall, cute. Not rough. Maybe twenty-one, twenty-two. I start heading toward him, but before I can get to him, this guy in a black T-shirt grabs my arm. He’s got a couple tattoos on his arms. And he’s holding me pretty close. He asks me if I want a beer or maybe something harder, and he’s practically sticking his tongue down my throat while he says it. But I shake him off and head for the surfer.
“And Blondie’s interested, and it only takes about half an hour before I get him to a bedroom upstairs, and we’re making out, and he’s good and hard, and I say something dumb, like ‘Put it in me, stud.’ He looks at me and says, ‘What did you say?’ Then he looks again, and says, ‘How old are you, anyway?’ and he’s out the door like that, moving even faster when I say, ‘But I
“So you didn’t lose it that night after all.”
“Let a girl finish, John. So I go back downstairs, and I find Mr. Tattoo. And I say, ‘How about that drink?’ And ten minutes later he’s fucking me on this pool table in the basement, with a towel under me because that was his main concern about my virginity, that I not bleed all over the felt, ’cause he knew the guys who rented the house. He probably only went about five minutes, but it seemed like a
“Jenny—”
“And the kicker is, when he’s done, and I’ve bled all over that towel, he tosses his condom next to me, pulls up his pants, turns around, and leaves without a word.”
WELLS PULLED THE Jeep to the side of the road. A light rain had just begun, misting the windshield, putting halos on the streetlights. Cars cruised by slowly, driven by men and women who worked in malls or hospitals or offices downtown and lived decent quiet lives. People he would never know.
Why, Jenny, he almost said aloud. Why would you? But he held back. She’d done it because she wanted to, and told him because she wanted to, and who was he to judge? His career choice didn’t exactly give him a lot of moral authority. “So were you glad you did it?” he finally said.
She moved closer to him in her seat, and he knew he’d asked the right question. “Yeah. Even though I never did anything like that again. It’s like dropping acid. A little goes a long way. But the truth is, I was giving something to the guy, even if he thought he was taking it from me. I did it how I wanted to. Maybe it sounds crazy, but it’s how I felt. And I never talked to him again. Never even knew his name. Though I’m pretty sure I spotted him years later in Berkeley, when I was back from college. Luckily I was in my car, and I just kept driving. So there’s your story, John, and I hope it keeps you warm wherever you’re going.” She laughed her low smoky laugh.
HE LOOKED AT her, looked away, then back again. “Can I ask you something?” he finally said, his voice so low she could hardly hear him.
“No more stories.”
“You didn’t show up that night, the night before I went away, did you?”
“No, and I knew you wouldn’t either. We keep blowing our chances. Now unless you want to spend some more time with Vinny Duto, you better go.”
“Jenny. Jennifer—” And she knew what he would ask before the words left his mouth. Maybe before the thought had formed in his mind.
“Yes. I do.”
“Do what?”
“I trust you, John. Of course. Why do you think I just told you what I just told you?” He seemed to want to say something more, but he didn’t. He leaned toward her and for a moment she thought he would kiss her. She stayed still, not moving toward him or away, mesmerized, wanting and angry and afraid at once. But wanting more than anything. And then he kissed her, across the miles and the years. A chaste kiss, lip to lip, that turned warm and open-mouthed and sweet until finally she summoned the will to break it off.
“Go,” she said.
“Look. You know that park in Kenilworth, the Aquatic Gardens?” he said. The Gardens was a small national park on the east bank of the Anacostia River, near the projects where Wells had stolen the Jeep.
“In East Cap?”
“If I need you, I’ll leave you a message with the word ‘swimmingly.’ That’s where I’ll be.”
“What if I need you?”
He didn’t say anything. She ran her hand down his cheek. He raised his chin as if receiving a benediction.
“Take care, John.”
He was silent. Finally, he laughed, a rueful sound. “Be seeing you.”
She got out. He hesitated, then drove off. She watched the Cherokee go, watched until she couldn’t see it anymore, and then kept watching. As if she could bring him back simply by staying still. She wanted more than anything to be in that Jeep.
Be seeing you, John.
Please.
PART TWO. THE BELIEVERS
6
ON THE BATTALION radio, A Company used the call sign “Mad Dog.” As in “Mad Dog 6 to Bushmaster 6, moving out, over.” The other companies in the 2–7 Cav battalion, the armored unit that covered northwest Baghdad, had found call signs to match their letters. B Company went by “Bushmaster.” C had settled on “Commando” after briefly trying “Crusader.”
But no one in A Company could think of a kick-ass word that started with A, except for “Anarchist,” which — like “Crusader”—sent the wrong message. For a while A Company had called itself the Angry Dogs, but that sounded stupid. Then Angry Mad Dogs, which was worse. Eventually Jimmy Jackson, the captain of A Company, gave up on alliteration and said Mad Dog would be the company’s handle. Good thing too, Specialist J. C. Ramirez thought. Hearing “Angry Mad Dog 6 to Angry Mad Dog 2” over the radio was driving him nuts.
Up in the gunner’s sling of Captain Jackson’s Humvee, J.C. mopped the sweat off his face. He used to think Texas was hot, but these Iraqi summers were something else. The sun had almost set, but it was still one hundred degrees. His body armor didn’t help. He drank a gallon of water a day and never had to piss, because he sweated every drop out. And though he stuffed himself with chow, he’d lost twenty pounds in nine months. The Baghdad diet. His uniform hung loose on his five-ten frame.
“They don’t feed you?” his mama had asked him when he came home to El Paso in July for his two-week leave. “They starving you to save money, is that it?” He told her the chow was fine, but she didn’t believe him. She was ready to write the president before he calmed her down. He understood. The food gave her something to focus on, something small that kept her mind off the real stuff. Or maybe she was just being a Mexican mama, looking for any excuse to stuff him with enchiladas.
Either way he’d be back with her and his girl again soon. A couple more months, and then he would never have to see this place again…until his next rotation. This was his first time over here, but lots of the guys in the 2–7 were already on their second trip. Like most soldiers, J.C. figured this war would go on awhile, no matter what the politicians said.
Almost seven-thirty. They’d been waiting to roll for an hour. J.C. was getting bored. Typical false alarm. They
