once more. “Now tell me about how the Vols football is looking for next season.”
“Fuck that, man. Fuck the entire fucking state of Tennessee. I am a ‘volunteer,’” Folson’s voice sounds steadier now, a bit less in conflict with itself.
“You got that right.”
“And back home, they’re sucking down Mountain Dew and swiping Sudafed, hulking around in their bright orange football jerseys. You and I both know it. Our country is full of shitholes, Sir. Shithole, after shithole, after shithole.”
“Not the whole country,” Miller says. “I went to California once when I was a kid. Dad squeezed us all into a camper for a week. The ride sucked, but those old growth trees, man. I’m telling you…Nothing shithole about ‘em.”
“I bet you my neighbor back home drinks more Mountain Dew in a week than a goddamn tree sucks water in a year.”
A slight breeze rolls across the FOB, and the ropes clatter and tangle along the flagpole. “Sir, my arms are shaking.”
“Mine would be too. Why don’t you come down?” Miller says, and now he knows. Folson has scared himself. Plain and simple. Climbing a flagpole is one way to do it. Miller suspects the feeling is at least a little better than whatever Folson felt looking at that letter.
“Just…just…I’m shaking. It’s just a lot. There’s just a lot of everything, Sir.”
“I understand,” Miller says.
“Look, I know it’s weird, but I need you to tell me about your wife.”
“Anything, bro. But why?” Miller asks. To think of Tenley in this moment rattles his composure. He’s trying not to fall short. How desperately part of him wants to climb that pole too.
“Because your wife wouldn’t pull something like this. You’ve said it yourself. She’s a good woman.”
Miller looks down for a moment, stretching his neck. His brain ticks its way through the muck. Do good women always remind you how much you’ve missed? Do good women say they’ll always love you, then grow cold because they’re questioning what kind of man they married? Yes. No. Miller could go either way, but what matters has always been the same: he likes who he is with Tenley and Cissy in his life. He has come to depend upon the way they see him. What remains is whether or not they’ll keep seeing him that way once he gets back.
“It’s not as simple as being a good woman or a good man,” Miller finally says. He looks back up and sees Folson’s muscles freeze around the flagpole. The soldier’s skin appears pale from the neck down, making the array of emotions across his sunburned face all the more dramatic. “I’m not gonna lie to you, man. It’s just not that simple. But I will tell you how I screwed up back home last Thanksgiving. How I still have some things I’ve got to set right.”
It stings to think of it, let alone say it out loud. But Folson’s situation demands honesty, and Miller isn’t above personal exchange when called for.
“Did you take the cheesy bread out of the oven too early? Because that’s what Becca always rides me for. The cheesy bread. Can you imagine?”
“Naw, man. It was worse than cheesy bread. But you gotta come down. It’s killing my neck to look up that way, and besides, I’m sick of seeing your hairy back. You’re fucking Wolverine up there, man. Anyone ever tell you that?”
Folson allows a half-smile. “‘I’m the best there is at what I do…’” he quotes. Below, Miller raises his hands into the air, fingers scraping upward like Wolverine’s claws. He lets loose an animal growl. They finish the line together, and the shout echoes across FOB Copperhead: “‘…AND WHAT I DO BEST ISN’T VERY NICE.’”
4
Worse than Cheesy Bread
Miller and Folson find the rec room completely empty, thanks to a late-night screening of Full Metal Jacket on base. A portable generator hums in the corner, parlayed for a Star Trek pinball machine, of all things. No one can get the straight story on who authorized that. The two-player function button is jammed with sand, ruling it out. Delta Platoon sawed the legs off the mail-order air hockey table as a prank on Bravo, and now the game simply gathers dust. Tonight, the pucks are arranged in alternating colors of red and blue, aligned across the face of the gameboard in the shape of the letters OEF. Folson challenges Miller to best three out of five table tennis, and they begin the search for paddles and balls.
“Got one here,” Folson calls. He crouches on one hand and both knees, reaching his free arm under a dank, brown sofa.
Miller grabs a ball from a dirty paper cup and wipes it clean.
“So?” Folson says. He stands and pockets the ball, then brushes his hands down his pant legs.
Miller pulls two paddles from the top of a vending machine and hands one to Folson. “So, as I said…last Thanksgiving.”
“I’ll serve,” Folson says. He spins the paddle in his right hand a few times. “My friends call me Forrest…”
Miller slips the coffee-stained ball from his palm and beats Folson to the serve. “Think fast, Gump.”
“Oh, I see how it’s gonna be.”
They volley, the hollow toc-toc sending a wash of relaxation down Miller’s back. He thinks of home—Indiana—the pinging of the ball in his basement to while away winter boredom. Mostly, he played with his older sister, Miranda, the two juking while their mother shuffled around them with loads of laundry. There had been warmth, even then, though high winds pierced the empty nights and whipped snow into long, powdery banks. Home seemed an unquestioning embrace—one he now understands he took for granted.
Folson lets out a victorious shout. “One-zero, my serve,” he calls. Miller bats a soft one back over the net, forcing Folson to stretch across the table, just barely tapping the ball in return.
“So, we’ve had the turkey dinner,” Miller says, “and the pie…”
Folson smacks a direct shot across the line and scores a quick point.
“…and it’s not even really about all that,” Miller continues, “because the shit didn’t actually hit the fan until two days later.”
“Ha!” Folson paddles the ball hard and quickly, back across the net.
Miller catches it midair. “I can’t do this in here. Let’s walk.”
“‘My Mama always said you’ve got to put the past behind you, before you move on…’” Folson stutters through his best impression.
“Yeah, yeah, Gump. You comin’?”
They drop their paddles and head for the door. Folson tosses the spare ball into the corner on his way out. Miller hocks a sand-clogged loogie into the trashcan. Together, they find the main path and begin tracing the extended loop inside the perimeter of FOB Copperhead, which hasn’t been on blackout for over a year. Beneath the security lights and glinting concertina wire, Folson’s face still looks haggard, but his demeanor is oddly cheerful. Easing Folson’s mind is a task Miller readily welcomes, if for no other reason than the sheer obviousness of what’s needed—friendship,
