Flowers from Afghanistan Page 4

  Travis leaned toward me. “Let me introduce you. McCann, this is Sergeant Thorstad. The sergeant is responsible for most of the cavities in the teeth of local children.”

  I extended my hand toward the guy. “Nice to meet you.”

  Thorstad took my hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “Same here.”

  “Next.”

  Gul Hadi pointed a black plastic comb in my direction. I was just about to settle into the leather barber’s seat when Lieutenant Stockton rushed into the room.

  He slid into the chair before I could claim it. He avoided my eyes, jabbed his finger at Gul. “You work me in, right? I have a meeting in thirty minutes with Colonel Smith, and I need to look sharp.”

  Gul looked at me, almost pleading. I thought maybe he wanted this guy gone as much as I did. But I nodded my head resignedly at Stockton. “Go ahead.” I squirmed inside. I should have said no. Why did this dirt bag think he could bust line for a haircut? Because guys like me let him. I mocked myself by answering my question. I settled back against the wall next to Sergeant Thorstad and began my wait.

  Thorstad flipped wordlessly through a tattered three-year-old issue of an outdoor sportsman’s magazine. Any magazine more provocative than that was banned.

  Gul worked his magic quickly.

  Lieutenant Stockton counted out two seventy-five in change. He slapped it into Gul’s hand for a three-dollar haircut.

  I was embarrassed he was one of us.

  With that, Stockton moved up and out of the chair. “Keep the change.” He left as quickly as he came.

  Gul muttered under his breath. “Az khers mui kandan.”

  Thorstad burst into laughter and clapped the rolled magazine against his thigh.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “He said ‘Pulling hair from a bear.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” Sergeant Thorstad’s eye twitched from laughter, “getting something from greedy people is as hard as pulling hairs from a bear.”

  My throat vibrated with laughter as I lowered myself into Gul’s chair. It was hard to stop laughing long enough for him to begin trimming, but I reminded myself I’d get a lopsided cut if I didn’t sit still. I shoved my feet down onto the footrest and straightened the cape as Gul floated it across me. He snapped it behind my neck with the air of an artist about to begin his project. I never knew what to do with my hands in a cape. I didn’t like the helpless feeling of having them hidden. My M-9 rested reassuringly against my thigh. I wondered how many guys had sat in this same seat, getting ready to go home on leave. I wondered how many never made it. I shook my head in disbelief. I’d make it back.

  “How do you want it?” Gul twirled his scissors in a semicircle around my head like a wild-west gunslinger. For a moment, I wondered if he would accidentally put my eye out with the things, but he spun the scissors with precision. He’d been at this a while.

  “Just a trim.”

  Gul started in enthusiastically chopping at my hair. It cascaded in clumps to the floor.

  In the mirror, I could see that I did need a trim after all.

  Bashir moved about the room, tapping a worn soccer ball.

  I shifted my gaze to avoid watching him. I went to Afghanistan to get away from children, anything that would remind me of Little Mac.

  “You like a little shorter?” Gul’s bloodshot eyes and bushy eyebrows came into view and blocked the little guy from my sight.

  “Yeah, that’s fine.”

  He spun the chair around, and an electric razor buzzed loudly next to my ear.

  I could no longer hide in the mirror.

  Gul’s son rolled his soccer ball to the wall and squatted next to it. His intense eyes seemed to take in every face in the room. Probably looking for more candy. At last, they rested on me.

  I quickly turned my head down, studied the cracked rubber mat beneath my chair. Maybe if I ignored him, he’d find another subject of interest.

  Gul was still trimming. He took my chin and angled it back up so he could continue his work.

  I couldn’t escape Bashir’s gaze.

  Menthol rolled up in waves of steam, mixed with the greasy smell of hair cream and the body odor of four GIs just back from the field. My stomach knotted into a tight ball, and my mouth went sour. It felt like Bashir could read my soul.

  The cement floor rushed up at me, and voices jumbled off the plaster walls, tinny and harsh. Sweat ran down my back and plastered my shirt to me, increasing the claustrophobia. I took a few deep breaths. Tried to calm down so Gul wouldn’t notice.

  The last time I nearly lost it was the day we held Little Mac’s visitation at the funeral home. A long line of people had shown up to express their condolences. The people stretched down between the polished pews of the funeral home. The line wound its way around the corner and out of sight down the hallway.

  I wiped my clammy hands down my black suit in between shaking people’s hands, hoping they wouldn’t notice me sweating. Visitors in line dressed in muted colors or black. Their faces blended into the same sallow color. I knew most by name.

  They were officers with the police department and had brought their spouses to pay respects. Even the chief was there. He put on his best politically correct face and extended his hand to me, though he and I rarely saw eye-to-eye. “Sorry to hear about your loss.”

  My loss? Wasn’t Little Mac tucked in his bed at home, waiting with the sitter for Sophie and I to kiss him good night? But that was the dream. It only took a glance to my side to see the casket covered in flowers.

  Only three days before, Sophie had been wiping grape jelly off Little Mac’s ruddy cheeks. He tried to wiggle out of her grasp, protesting. He never did like his face washed much. Then she picked up his tiny metal patrol cars from the hallway, fussing that she’d probably slip on one in the dark and break a bone.

  The funny thing was, after the fact, I wouldn’t have cared if cars were scattered all over the house.

  After what seemed hours at the funeral home the line finally emptied out. The funeral home director walked the pews, collecting papers and trash left behind by visitors.

  I could tell he was stalling, trying to give us as much time as we needed.

  After a few harried glances at his watch, he finally addressed Sophie and me. “It’s time to lock up. I’m sorry.”

  My gaze roamed over the mahogany box.

  Sophie was looking at the coffin, too. She glanced from the funeral director to the casket and back again to me.

  “Mac, go home and get our sleeping bag. It’s in the hall closet next to the emergency lantern. As a matter of fact, bring me the light, too, and some water bottles and the bag of cheese crackers. He loves cheese crackers.”

  “What do you want the sleeping bag for?”

  Sophie wrinkled her forehead as if she was frustrated with having to explain. “I’m staying here tonight, of course.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” I glanced around at the growing shadows with doubt. “They’ll lock up. Let’s go home.” I didn’t want to stay in that place one minute longer than I had to. Our little guy certainly wasn’t there. He wouldn’t have chosen that place to play. He liked sunlit parks and metal slides that he could catapult himself down into my arms. I reached for Sophie to guide her to the exit, but she wrenched out of my grasp.

  “I want to stay with my baby.”

  My heart seized in my chest. “Sophie,” I lowered my voice. “This is a little insane. Come home with me.”

  “Bring me the sleeping bag, Mac. Please. I’m not asking much.” Her voice lowered to a whisper.

  Sophie crossed her arms over her chest and gave me a look I’d seen so many times. Once I got that look, the game was over, and I’d do whatever she asked. “OK, but this isn’t right,” I muttered as I walked down the rows of pews.

  The funeral home director approached her gently. “Mrs. McCann, we need to close up for the night.”

  I turne
d. Maybe the director could help Sophie understand this was a bad idea. I glanced back at Sophie, but she stood with her arms crossed.

  “I’ve made arrangements. My husband is bringing a sleeping bag for me. I’m staying here tonight,” Sophie said.

  The man looked confused and glanced back and forth from Sophie to me.

  I held my hands up in surrender.

  His eyes creased. “I’ll be right back.” He appeared in a moment, one of the HPD honor guards in tow. Two at a time had stood guard next to Little Mac’s coffin.

  The guard nodded at Sophie. “Mrs. McCann, I would consider it an honor to stay here with you tonight and make sure everything is secure.”

  Sophie smiled for the first time since the accident. “I’d love that.”

  The guard solemnly took up his position at the head of the coffin. His uniform was crisp, white braided rope over one shoulder, black hat with a patent leather brim. Shoes polished like mirrors. He stared straight ahead.

  That used to be me when I was in the Honor Guard. How many funerals had I attended? How many times had I been the one with the perfect uniform, the unreadable expression on my face? Only this time, I was the one on the other side. I turned and exited the building. My presence was only making Sophie more upset. The only thing I could do for her that night was follow through with her request and spend the night alone in a cold, king-sized bed.

  The once packed parking lot had emptied of vehicles, except for a couple of employees’ cars and the patrol car driven by the honor guard.

  I unlocked my vehicle, got in the car, leaned against the steering wheel, and put my head on my hands, wrung out. I stood by Sophie at the viewing. I shook hands. I’d done everything asked of me, but I was a wooden man. My heart was hollowed out and buried in a little mahogany coffin.

  A cold drizzle began. I glanced up through the rain-streaked windshield and pled. “Sophie talks to you. If you’re up there, give me something. Show me a star. Just one star, God.”

  I wiped the fogged windshield with the palm of my hand and strained to see through smeared glass, but no stars shone that night. The black sky above me was as empty as the void in my chest. It was just as well. I didn’t deserve starlight.

  I started up the car, drove home, and collected the things Sophie wanted. The house was so still, as still as the viewing area back at the funeral home. I walked in total darkness to the kitchen for a drink of water, and when I opened the refrigerator door, light washed over me, making me blink. Casserole dishes lined the wall in the fridge. In the South, the balm for grief is fried chicken, potato casserole, and banana pudding. Sophie’s uncle must have let our friends in the house.

  Back at the funeral home, I knocked on the locked door, and the manager let me in. He studied me in a sad, pitying way. I was sure he’d already seen his share of grief. But the way he looked at me and nodded his head toward Sophie let me know. He understood this was killing me.

  I crept quietly to Sophie, set the sleeping bag, lantern, and cheese crackers down, still hoping she’d change her mind. “I brought your pillow, too.”

  “Thanks.”

  I shuffled my feet on the cold tile floor, like an outcast. I pleaded silently. Come home. I need you just as much as you need me. I need your warmth beside me tonight. But the words came out clipped. “You don’t have to stay here, you know.”

  “Yes, I do. Don’t worry about me. Go on home, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” She paused and searched my face as if seeing me for the first time that day. Her voice softened. “You have dark circles under your eyes. Please go home and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day.” She turned her back to me and unrolled the sleeping bag. She didn’t want to go home with me. She just wanted to stay there all night, next to her little man.

  I swallowed, but my mouth was dry. There was nothing to go down. I shuffled to the door and glanced over my shoulder in time to see Sophie crawl into the nylon cocoon.

  She waved me off, a signal that meant, “Don’t fuss over me. I’ll be OK.”

  But I stood at the back of the funeral home, hidden by flowers on a wire stand. I stood guard over my wife until I saw her face relax and her hand slide down and rest across her chest. Quietly, I walked to the front, by Little Mac’s casket.

  The officer stared straight ahead.

  I bent to his side, close to his ear so I wouldn’t wake Sophie. “Take care of her.”

  He gave a slight nod, never breaking his protective stance. He understood. We cared for our own.

  Sophie wanted to stay there alone, a mother’s vigil.

  Bone crushing guilt prevented me from arguing. I’d try to go on. I’d provide for Sophie financially, but I had nothing else to give. Time as I knew it ended the day he died. I’d be forever trapped in my pickup, trying to stop the bleeding.

  8

  The tickle of horsehair and the smell of talcum powder jolted me back to the barbershop. Gul swiped my neck with the round brush, covered every inch with powder, and swept it off with a professional air. He nodded his satisfaction in the mirror. I peeled off the barber’s cape, laid it across the chair, and handed him a ten. Maybe that would make up for Stockton’s stinginess.

  “Keep the change.” I was already out the door as Gul’s “Thank you, sir” echoed off the walls. I felt the gaze of Gul’s son follow me.

  I headed for the nearest place to sit down, which happened to be the hangout of all caffeine addicts in camp. Green Beans Coffee had a little stand-alone structure with a walk-up order window. Their coffee gave us a comforting taste of home. Nearby a group of Adirondack chairs were scattered haphazardly. Seats worn smooth from the rump of every coffee hound in camp made a welcome place to congregate under a tarp-covered patio. Shade from the tarp spelled relief from the searing Afghanistan sun. I pretended to study the menu to give myself time to regain my composure.

  Troops milled past me.

  I didn’t want them to see some newcomer having a panic attack.

  A small bell on the door of the video shop next door chimed each time it was opened and closed. MRAPs roared past on the crackling gravel. None of that noise stood a chance against my raspy breaths and pounding heart. I never wanted to see that kid again.

  “Help you, sir?” A thin man with a Malaysian accent leaned across the counter of Green Beans.

  I studied the menu for real. “Yeah, give me a tall mocha frappe.” I slid my bills across the counter and grabbed the plastic cup, threw the straw aside, and removed the clear dome top. I chugged the iced coffee until my temples throbbed from the cold. In the middle of a swig, my back got a hard thump from someone’s palm. I coughed and spun around as Travis barreled into me.

  “There you are. I wondered if you would wait on me.” He reached for his wallet.

  I waved his money aside. “This one’s on me. You bought last time.”

  Travis leaned toward the counter. “Tall espresso.” He tapped his foot nervously.

  I recognized that mannerism. “You think you need caffeine? You look pretty wired to me.”

  He ignored my question and gasped. “Man, you got your head shaved, didn’t you?”

  The wind felt a little cooler on my scalp than normal. I leaned around Travis and gazed at my reflection in Green Bean’s window. I had a head of stubble, nothing more. Gul had gotten a little happy with the clippers, and I’d been too distracted to notice. The corners of my mouth twitched then pulled into a broad smile. From deep inside, a belly laugh rolled up. It felt good to laugh. It felt good to be alive. I headed back to my tent, nursing what was left of my coffee. I stopped at the barrel outside our tent and pitched in the empty cup.

  Sophie loved coffee. Her collection of mugs took up more space in our kitchen than our iced tea glasses. I wondered what she was doing right then.

  Three thirty Afghanistan time. Subtract nine and one-half hours. That would make it six in the morning in Huntsville. Sophie was probably just rolling out of bed. I could almost smell the pot of Café de Catalina.


  The thumbnail video of Sophie popped up when I signed on my computer. She clamped a thin hand over her mouth and giggled when she saw me. That wasn’t the reaction I expected. After all our arguments about my being here, it sure was good to see her smile.

  “What have you done to your hair?” She leaned closer to the screen as if that would actually bring us closer together. Her eyes opened wide. Sea glass green, Destin beach at high tide.

  Seeing her made me want to run wild with her again, the way we did the week of our honeymoon. Two crazy kids splashing down a beach at midnight. Some part of her had always been a parcel of me, a missing component that, by a great act of benevolence, fate had returned.

  Sophie had a way about her that made me feel I’d always known her…I thought back to the day she became mine. We were sitting in my new truck. Red, short-bed, V8 with 4-wheel drive, a graduation gift from my parents. I’d driven her all over town that day and ended up stopping for hamburgers and onion rings at the local fast food drive-up. She talked nonstop, but I still don’t remember a word she’d said. The setting sun made a halo around her head. Her green eyes were wide, pulling me in. The curve of her lips.

  I brought her there to give her my going-away speech. I was joining the Army, and she deserved someone better than me. She didn’t deserve to wait on some Army grunt.

  But that little spot of ketchup was on her cheek, and when I wiped it away, my hand didn’t stop. I curled my fingers into the back of her hair, wondering how it could be so soft and perfect, and I did what I’d been dying to do all spring. I brought her face to mine and pressed my lips to hers.

  My breath reeked from onions, but I didn’t care. And wonder of wonders, she relaxed into me and kissed me back. My ears roared like the sound of breakers at the beach. I pulled back, ashamed of my lack of self-control. Kissing her wasn’t part of the plan.

  Sophie curled into my arm. “I guess this makes it official.”

  “What?”

  “Us. It makes us official.”

  “That depends.” Onion rings churned in my stomach.