The Heart You Carry Home (13 page)

“Just do me a favor,” Coleman added. “If anything happens to me and the kid Majid shows up again, promise me you'll keep him in Corn Pops.”

“You can keep him in the fucking Corn Pops.” Ben moaned. “And fuck your superstitious bullshit.”

“You'll see,” Coleman said and left.

Two hours later, Ben heard about the explosion. He stumbled down to vehicle sanitization to wait for the mortuary affairs people to haul the Humvee back in. There'd been four of them in the Humvee, and the report was one casualty and three injured. There was a 75 percent chance that Coleman was still alive, so Ben allowed himself, just this once, to have faith in the corporal's theory. After all, how could a guy like Coleman, with his goofy smile and cereal-smuggling operation, end up dead in some random and pointless explosion?

Ben opened his eyes in the Arkansas darkness. It was three in the morning and he was wasting precious time. He dressed hurriedly, scribbled Kath a note of thanks, and left it on top of King's
Iliad
. Then he blew on the Breathalyzer and headed down the mountain. His heart raced the way it always did when he woke up for a dead-of-night mission. He was headed for Colorado to see Becca's mother—a woman he'd never met but who, he knew, hated the very fact of his existence. Was it too much to call her his enemy? It didn't matter. Not if there was even the slimmest chance that she could help him get Becca back.

Jeanine had told Becca that she did not want her daughter to be a military mule, a person yoked to an army marriage. And because of this, she had declined to attend the wedding. But a few hours into the reception, Ben caught sight of two figures in the shadows behind the garage. At first, he didn't think much of it. But when he approached, he realized that one of the people was King and that a sound he'd initially heard as laughter was crying.

He'd gone up to his bedroom, grabbed his NVGs, then stealthily pressed himself into the shadows between the garage and a large tree. He felt a little ridiculous—doing recon at his own wedding—but he recognized Becca's mother from pictures. Why was she lurking here, crying in the arms of her ex-husband? And what if Becca found out?

Ben hurried back to the party. Becca was standing by a table of cupcakes, holding a beer, showing off the red cowboy boots she'd chosen to go with her dress. Her red dangly earrings swung with the movement of her head, tapping gently at the sides of her neck. Ben touched her upper back, and her laughter swung toward him, bright and clear, like the pluck of a mandolin. His stomach flipped over with happiness. He would never tell her about Jeanine. He would do nothing, as long as he lived, to upset her.

But now his spying had paid off, if only as confirmation that Becca's parents were in touch. It was the longest of long shots, but what if Jeanine could help him get his wife back?

Ben drove through Wichita, spent the night in a nowhere trailer park, and then sped into Colorado, barely cognizant of having left one state and entered another. Soon, however, the grassy flatness swept into hills, which mutated into low, humpy mountains. The Death Star climbed up to the plateau that was Pueblo; a nice enough town, but Ben drove on through. He was gunning for the snowy peaks. He wound along a narrow road where pines towered like massive spears, and small waterfalls ran through creases in the rockface. He kept the window down, breathing in the chill air, and eventually pulled into a scenic lookout for a piss. He hopped out of the car, jumped the guardrail, and picked his way a few meters down the embankment. Balancing on a rock, he unzipped.

“Hey! That's dangerous!”

Ben started, certain that the ground was sliding out from under him. But it was only a few clattering pebbles. He craned his neck to see a child-size spot backlit by the sun.

“You want to get me killed?” Ben snapped as he climbed back to the parking lot. The voice did indeed belong to a boy. A child of nine or ten, small and brown with eyes that were too big and hair that was too long. He wore a puffy silver parka despite it being August. He gawked at Ben's black eye like it was the most exciting thing he'd seen in days. “We sell frybread,” the child said, indicating a food truck parked at the other end of the lookout. “It's good and cheap.” He nodded, concluding his well-rehearsed sales pitch.

Ben's stomach rumbled, but he'd allowed himself to be derailed too many times already.

“Sorry, kid,” he said. Then the child smiled, and in the boy's face, Ben saw a flash of Majid.

“Come on,” the boy said and ran out ahead, his silver coat flashing in the sun.

The woman beside the food truck stared at Ben's eye with open disapproval. “Two dollars for the bread,” she said, her voice deep and flat. Apparently, the boy had already negotiated the transaction. “You want a Coke? Fifty cents. You want jewelry for your wife? It's handmade.” She indicated the spread in front of her and stared at Ben as though challenging him to dispute the fact.

Ben handed over some money. As they waited for the boy to get Ben's food, the woman continued to stare at him. He was starting to feel uncomfortable. “Do you live around here?” he asked, ordering himself to behave normally. The woman made a motion that was either a nod or a shake of the head. He tried again. “Do you know the Hands of God Church? It's a Christian commune in Lewell. The town's close, right?”

Before she could speak, the boy reappeared. “Frybread!” He handed Ben a paper plate. On it sat a puffy, crust-colored circle full of air bubbles. Its golden surface glistened with grease.

“Hot sauce,” the woman snapped. “Honey!” The words burst forth from her lips like small explosions, and the boy ran back to the truck. “Coke!” she screamed even louder.

Ben sniffed the bread. It was fragrant and warm, and when he put it into his mouth, he felt every nerve ending on his tongue burst into life. The bread was salty and sweet and chewy and it released wave after wave of flavor. He'd barely been able to taste anything since his first tour; the doctors thought his olfactory nerves had been damaged by an explosion. Or maybe even by something as simple as a cold. They didn't know if he'd get better.

The frybread was a small victory, but it felt profound.

“So, Hands of God?” he asked again, chewing and savoring.

“I know it,” the woman said. “But you can't pray there.”

The little boy was now standing beside the jewelry table balancing on one leg, his toe trailing behind him in the dust. Ben felt a visceral affection for the child, a feeling he didn't like or trust. “I just need to see someone.”

“The white woman.”

Ben furrowed his brow.

“Who else would you be going to see?” The woman looked him up and down.

Ben thought he should feel offended but he was mostly confused.

“They've all been gone for two weeks now. To Utah. On a mission.”

Mission.
Sights and sounds flooded through him: heavy breathing, boots against the ground. He could almost feel his weapon in his hands.

“Healing mission,” the woman was saying. The images dissolved, and her face reappeared, her brown skin and wide cheeks, material and solid.
She is real,
he thought.
Focus on what's in front of you.

“Where in Utah? How far away are we talking?”

“Couple hundred miles. How badly do you need to find the white woman? You planning to drive there?”

“Why?” Ben asked, feeling uneasy.

“My sister—his mother,” she said, nodding at the boy, “is with them, but I haven't heard from her since she left on the mission. Phone goes straight to voicemail. Doesn't answer my e-mails.”

“I can tell her to call you when I get there,” Ben said. “If you tell me what town it is.”

“I'm trying to raise bus money,” the woman continued.

“If you're worried, why not call the local police—what town did you say it was?”

The woman snorted. “My boyfriend won't let me use the Tucson powwow money. He's got it in a wallet around his waist and
under
his shirt. But I'm worried about my sister.” The woman's eyes drifted over Ben's shoulder toward the Death Star, then back to Ben. She wasn't making a request so much as issuing a demand.

“Hold on,” Ben said and dialed the number for Hands of God. The answering machine explained that the church was temporarily closed and that its congregation was away on “spiritual business.” Ben scowled and hung up.

“So,” said the woman, “are we going after them or not?”

Before Ben could answer, the woman began dumping her jewelry into a pillowcase. As she did so, she gave Ben instructions. “I'm gonna get a few things from the truck. You'd better start up the engine. I'm Lucy, by the way.”

“Are we making a break for it?” He was kidding, but Lucy didn't laugh. She pulled her nephew over to the truck and disappeared inside. Ben stood by the car and considered leaving right then, but before he could move, arguing erupted. Moments later, Lucy hurried out with a backpack slung over her shoulder, pulling the child behind her. “Come on!” she shouted and ushered the boy into the back seat.

“Whore!” shouted a man—presumably the boyfriend—as he barreled down the stairs. “You good-for-nothing cunt. You ugly, worthless bitch.”

“Fuck you!” Lucy yelled and slammed the passenger-side door.

Ben just stood there, stunned to be caught in the middle of two strangers' domestic dispute. The nephew had his nose pressed to the car window, his eyes wide and worried. The boyfriend came closer. Ben braced himself. But the man stopped short. He was obviously drunk. His balance was off. “Enjoy your Navajo whore, white man,” he said and spat a glistening wad of saliva onto Ben's shoe. Then he turned around and stomped back to the truck.

I
T HAD BEEN
six days since Becca fled Dry Hills and she was still searching for her stride. She practiced leaning into the speed and power of Reno's bike, closing her eyes for long stretches of road, feeling the engine rumble through her bones. She wanted to absorb the machine's power, to reach that mechanical Zen state in which she and the bike were one. But most of the time, she was bored and in pain. And still in Kansas. She perked up when a sign welcomed them to Colorado. But the landscape still looked like Kansas and smelled like Kansas and felt like Kansas, so little had changed, and Becca was convinced that she was going out of her mind.

As they headed deeper into the state, Becca realized that they were nearing her mother. Not that they were exactly close; Hands of God Church was at least a hundred miles away from the bikes' location. But Jeanine did not come home for holidays and made excuses whenever her daughter suggested a visit. Becca grimaced, thinking how happy her mother would be to discover that she'd left Ben. This outcome was more or less what the woman had predicted from the beginning. But since the men had no reason to visit Jeanine, her mother would be deprived of the pleasure of issuing a well-deserved “I told you so.”

Two Easters before, Becca had gone home to tell her mother about the proposal in person. Ben had wanted to come with her, but the situation was delicate, so she went alone. As soon as she'd walked into the house, though, she knew something was off. Her mother was no housekeeper, but the house was clean. Streaks from the vacuum cleaner ran like jet trails through the sky-blue family-room carpet. Upstairs, she found her mother packing. Trash bags full of clothes were lined up against the wall, and a suitcase sat open on the bed.

“The college girl has arrived,” Jeanine said with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. She kissed Becca on the cheek, her breath thick with cigarettes. Becca asked what was going on. Jeanine sat down on the bed and folded her hands in her lap. “I can't be a good enough Christian in Dry Hills,” her mother had said. “I need to take my faith to the next level.”

“You're a Christian, not an aerobics instructor,” Becca said.

Jeanine frowned and began explaining her newfound sense of purpose. She told Becca she'd be leaving Dry Hills for good the next day, right after church. “I need to await the Resurrection with my fellow faithful,” she said, as though salvation were coming any day now. Maybe even tomorrow, and if she waited too long before driving to Hands of God, she'd miss it. “It would be ungodly for me to stay any longer.”

Ungodly to spend Easter with her only child whom she had raised alone?

Not knowing what else to do, Becca went for the jugular. In one brusque sentence, she spat out the engagement, Ben's current job, the fact that he'd already served a tour in Iraq and was heading back the very next week. Oh, and they planned to get married as soon as he returned, in about fifteen months.

Her mother's eyes narrowed and her jaw tightened. “What's his name?” Jeanine said.

“Ben. Benjamin Thompson. He grew up in Kentucky. He's twenty-four.”

“You foolish girl,” Jeanine replied, turning away. “Go yoke your life to the army. You do that.”

“The army isn't going to be the rest of our lives,” Becca said.

Jeanine slammed the dresser door. “Your father didn't make a career in the army, Becca. He enlisted to avoid the draft and went for a year, and it ruined the rest of his life. It ruined ours—his and mine, yours and mine!” She stomped to the bed and shoved socks into her suitcase. “Are you stupid? No, you can't be. You're a college girl.”

“Ben's unlike anyone I've ever known. He loves me. I mean, really loves me.” Only after Becca spoke did she realize how this sounded. “I didn't m-mean—” she stammered, but her mother's face closed up. She turned toward a statuette of Jesus on the dresser.

“I wonder,” Jeanine said, appearing to address the statue, “has my daughter taken up with this man in order to spite me? For all the love I didn't give her?”

“Mom,” Becca pleaded.