quite a bit.”
“And he was recovering from his open heart surgery?”
“Yeah.”
“How was that coming?”
“Fine. He looked well. He had lost weight. He was walking most days.”
“That must have been hard to lose your grandfather right before your father’s health was in question.”
“And the looming war.”
Trent nodded. “And the looming war.”
I gnawed on my cheek. “It was. It is.” I breathed. “It was good to see him though. He told me he was proud of me.”
“Did you hear that often growing up?”
“For sure. My parents were always good about telling us they loved us. It was just . . . you know . . . the war. Losing friends, dropping bombs . . . I . . . I didn’t do anything to be proud of, you know? I’m no hero. But he kept pushing it, challenging me. ‘Someday,’ he’d say, ‘you’ll be proud. Trust me. You accomplished something great.’ It made me mad. So I shot back: ‘And what was that?’ He stopped trying to convince me.”
“Do you believe your father loves you?”
I nodded. Trent jotted in his notebook. “After you visited your family, what then?”
“Five months sped past. Back in Denver, I drilled with my reserve unit by day and lived out of a hotel by night. We weren’t allowed to return to our regular lives until our demobilization papers were approved. So, I did what Marines do best. I waited.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, yes and no.”
“Yes and no?”
“I met someone.”
Trent raised an eyebrow. “Someone?”
“A girl . . . I mean, woman. She’s a teacher.”
“Does this someone have a name?”
“Natasha.”
He smiled. “And?”
I rolled my eyes. “And I like her.”
“Okay, okay. We’ll leave it there today.”
I stood up to leave.
“Benjamin,” Trent called after me.
“Yes?” I turned.
“Next time we’ll have to talk about the war.”
I grasped for the door handle. “I know.”
17. Rhizome
As a reservist, I explained to Gunny Bravo that he must be mistaken. He told me to shut the hell up, after which I informed him of my recent move and enrollment. He said I had until Tuesday to drive to Kansas, drop my classes, gather my belongings, and return to Buckley. “Unfortunately,” he said, “you’ll lose your tuition.” By way of consolation, he shook his head and mumbled. “Someone really should’ve called you.”
The world was frozen. It was February. Interstate 70 cut an ebon path between the crystal plains. I drove with no music, no radio—only thoughts. In five days I would be leaving for war. Where was the ticker tape and beautiful women? It didn’t feel right. I wasn’t part of the Greatest Generation—I was a nobody caught in the arbitrary gyrations of history. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t want to be a coward. A flood of questions I’d hoped to never confront rushed my mind: Do I believe in war? How should 9/11 be answered? Would the world be a safer, better place if I died in the pursuit of a free Iraq?
The plains were quiet. Snow fell. The sky darkened.
My anxiety acquiesced to anger. What right do I have to kill? I could destroy a bull’s-eye at 500 yards. I could target an enemy remotely and decimate him or her with a keystroke. Could I actually shoot somebody?
When I was home for Christmas, I asked my pastor, Marcus, about Christians serving in the military. He answered by posing a question: “If our neighbor is being slaughtered, do we stand by and do nothing?”
Marcus’ question didn’t soothe my concerns. Rather, it birthed a slew of subsequent questions.
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