American Wife

With a vaguely amused look, he surveys the interior of the limousine and says, “This isn’t so bad.” (I again wish it were an SUV.)

“Would you like some water?” I lift an unopened bottle from the holder beside me, and he accepts it. “Colonel Franklin, I’m not authorized to speak on behalf of President Blackwell’s administration, I need to make that clear. I’m here only as myself. But I want you to know that I’m terribly sorry for your loss. I’m aware that your son—that Nate was an only child. I’m also the parent of an only child, and I can’t begin to guess how difficult it must be for you.”

Matter-of-factly, not snidely, he says, “No, ma’am, I don’t imagine that you can.”

“He was twenty-one?”

Edgar Franklin nods. “Planning to be a pharmacy technician after his tour.”

“My grandfather worked in a pharmacy,” I say. “I never knew him, unfortunately, but this was in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I understand that you’re from Georgia?”

“We moved around when Nate was growing up, including a couple years each in Germany and Panama, but he went to high school in Columbus, Georgia. I’m retired now and live in Decatur.” Edgar Franklin clears his throat. “Mrs. Blackwell, I’m a quiet man. It was never my plan to draw attention to myself, but this war is the worst mistake I’ve seen the United States make in my lifetime.”

“Obviously, it’s caused a great deal of controversy.”

“Why are we fighting, Mrs. Blackwell? What is it we’re fighting for?”

“Again, I don’t speak for the administration, but if you asked my husband, I think he’d say for democracy.”

“Is that what you’d say?”

I swallow. “I’m not a military analyst, but—Yes. I’d say the same thing.”

“They don’t want us in their country any more than we want to be there.” He speaks calmly. “They don’t think we make them more secure, they don’t say we’ve improved their lives. They see us as occupiers. I’ve been in battle, Mrs. Blackwell, and I know it’s messy, but that’s not the problem here. Our troops are caught in the middle of tribal factions, in a place they have no business fighting. The president says the way to honor the memory of the fallen is to complete the mission, but if the war was wrong to begin with, it won’t become right by going forward in the same direction.”

What can I say in reply, what is there for me to tell him? I can maintain eye contact; I can show him that I’m listening.

He says, “President Blackwell won’t be out of office for nineteen months”—I know, I want to tell him. Believe me, I know exactly—“and how many soldiers will die in that time? Two thousand, three thousand? I think we honor the memory of the fallen by preventing more senseless deaths.”

I say, “Our country is so indebted to you and families like yours, and I know there’s no way to repay Nate’s sacrifice. But the situation is extremely complicated, and if the United States were to—”

“Mrs. Blackwell!” His interruption surprises both of us, it seems. He gives the impression of a very polite person straining against the confines, the straitjacket, of his own politeness; he is saying more than he thinks he should, in a sharper tone (I am, after all, the first lady, and he is, after all, sitting in my armored limousine), but less than what he actually feels (I am, after all, the first lady, and he is, after all, sitting in my armored limousine). He says, “I beg your pardon, but you can repay my sacrifice. You can’t bring back Nate, no, but there are a hundred and forty-five thousand American troops still over there, and all of them have people who love them, who worry and pray every day for their safety. You can tell your husband, ‘These people have families.’ ”

What was it I said to Gladys Wycomb earlier today? My husband’s administration is different from me. Also: He is the one the American people elected.

“I saw you interviewed a few months back,” Edgar Franklin says. “The lady who talked to you, she said, ‘How do you and your husband spend your quiet time?’ And you said, ‘We read, we play Scrabble, the president watches sports.’ Mrs. Blackwell, that’s all anyone wants.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m very sorry.”

“Nate’s mother passed on in 1996,” Edgar Franklin says. “She was a wonderful cook, and she never had to follow a recipe. Meat loaf, black-eyed peas, macaroni and cheese, everything she made was delicious. Well, after she was gone, it was just Nate and me, and he was still a youngster. I hired a lady to help take care of him and make our meals during the week, and come the weekend, Nate and I had spaghetti with sauce and called it a bachelor dinner. We’d say if we turned on the stove, it counted as cooking.” We exchange a wry smile; Edgar Franklin does not hate me, at least not the way Gladys Wycomb did.

“Now, after I retired,” he continues, “a few years passed, and I thought, It’s about time I learn to cook. I bought cookbooks, and I read through them, and at first there were only a few recipes I could try—there were words I didn’t even know the meaning of, parboil and braise and what have you. But I improved. I had some humble moments that no one but me ever needs to hear about, but I improved. I had a plan that when Nate got back, I would make him a full dinner, and wouldn’t he be surprised: pork tenderloin with mushrooms and olives, a fresh salad, some homemade bread. I’d ordered a breadmaker from the Internet—people are very impressed by homemade bread if they don’t know all you do is put in the ingredients and press a button. I tried the different kinds to find the best one, because Nate didn’t care for raisins, but you could do herb bread or sourdough or any number of them.” I know what Edgar Franklin will say next, and I’m not wrong, though the way he says it is more restrained, less maudlin, than it could be. He says, “I never did make that dinner for my son.”

The limousine is quiet—outside, agents stand on all four sides—and after a minute, I say, “I’ve been close to people who died young, and I know it’s terrible in a way that’s different from other deaths. It feels like it’s unendurable, but you endure it because you don’t have a choice.” I pause. “If there were anything I could do to bring back your son, to change what happened, I would.”

“It’d be rough no matter how he was taken, that much I know,” Edgar Franklin says. “But it wasn’t a cause worth dying for. Weapons of mass destruction that were never found? Access to oil fields? Politicians playing cowboys and Indians? I guess those sound like good reasons when it’s not your son.”

Edgar Franklin is wearing khaki pants and a white short-sleeved button-down shirt beneath which I see the shadow of a sleeveless undershirt. He also wears a watch with a black leather strap, a plain gold wedding band on