The Heart You Carry Home (27 page)

And maybe he would have, if it weren't for the bikers approaching the CO from behind. The men were soaking, their legs muddy. At once Becca saw that her father was in pain; his meaty face was flushed red. His ponytail hung down his back like wet rope. She ran toward him, but halfway across the arena, hands caught her. Almost robotically, the guards separated into three groups. One pushed the Native American women back, one kept the bikers at bay, and the final coterie pointed their weapons at her.

“Oh, let her go,” the CO said and waved his hand dismissively, as though he considered Becca nothing more than a nuisance. The guard holding her released his grip, and she ran to her father.

“Go back to Reno,” King huffed. He was shivering in the sopping clothes. Becca thought of his lumbering body swimming the river, his cheeks puffing as he struggled to keep the water out of his mouth. She thought about his heart beating so much harder than it was used to. She felt a swell of anger toward Proudfoot.

“Friends and comrades!” the CO announced with a tooth-filled grin. “Welcome to Kleos. You have come a long way to be here. You have crossed the killing fields, humped through the jungles, weathered the assault of unending slurs. You have wandered through alleyways strewn with needles and broken glass, battled bureaucracies, swallowed too many pills. You have struggled through marriages with women who never knew you—and who could never know you. You have disappointed friends and family, abandoned children and been abandoned by them. And now you have arrived here to compete for the heart of Durga. After all of these trials, you have come to find your peace.”

The men were rapt. The only sound was the faint mumbling of the women in their prayer. Even King, who was clearly hurting, kept his eyes locked on the CO. And then, all of a sudden, the CO threw off his robe. His belly loomed over the crowd like a moon, bald and pale. It was bisected by a Milky Way of shiny skin—the scar. The lesion was grotesque, but Becca was unable to look away. A cry rose up from the men. Except for King. He'd been reduced to a wide-eyed child.

One by one, the CO called out to each man, addressing him by his name and military rank. “Do you agree of your own free will to compete for Durga's heart, accepting the physical and spiritual sacrifices therein?” Becca watched each one step forward and give his assent. Meanwhile, her father wasn't doing well. His breathing was labored, and the color had drained from his face.

Suddenly, his legs buckled and he collapsed.

“Dad!” Becca screamed and dropped to her knees. The CO halted his roll call and shouted for medics. Two of the guards rushed over, joined by Reno and Elaine. Elaine was also soaking. Her shirt clung to her breasts, and mascara ran down her face.

“A hospital!” Becca pleaded.

Reno shook his head. “Ain't no hospital anywhere close.”

“I'm fine!” King gasped. “Just the angina.”

“His nitroglycerin pills,” Becca cried. “Check his pockets.” But the pills must have been in his saddlebags. Across the river.

“He's in no shape to compete,” Reno said.

“No!” King coughed. “I have to.”

“And have a heart attack?” Becca demanded.

“I have to compete! I have to!” King craned his neck toward the platform. Everyone did. And Becca realized something: the CO could prevent her father from competing. With one word, he could send King home.

“He's sick.” Becca stood up. “Just look at him!”

“It's my business,” King said, wheezing, still on the ground. “You don't know. You're not even supposed to be here. Tell her! Elaine, tell her!”

“Honey . . .” Elaine reached for Becca's arm, but she jerked away. Everyone looked up to the CO, awaiting his verdict.

“I'm sorry, King,” the CO said finally. “I can't allow it. Not in your condition.”

King exploded. “You can't take this away from me. You won't, you son of a bitch!” The exertion caused him to double over again but then he struggled to sit up. His face prickled with sweat. “I've waited too long for this chance,” he cried. “I deserve this chance!”

“I'll compete for him!” The familiar voice made Becca's heart slam into her spine. “Let me take his place,” the voice said. “If I win Durga's heart, he can have it.”

Becca turned. Surely she was imagining this—Ben, standing not ten feet away.

“Let me do this for you, Chicken. Please.”

“Ben.” She did not recognize the sound of her voice speaking his name. She did not understand what was happening. She heard herself chant: “Momentum, rhythm, stride.” Only she wasn't running anymore. Her feet were fused to the earth.

“All right,” the CO said. He looked intrigued—almost delighted—by the sudden turn of events. “But King must be present to complete the final challenge, provided Sergeant Thompson makes it that far.”

Reno looked at Becca and his expression indicated that things were spinning wildly out of control. “Wait!” she yelled. “Ben!” But nobody was listening.

“Do you, Sergeant Benjamin Thompson, agree of your own free will to compete for Durga's heart, accepting the physical and spiritual sacrifices therein?”

“I do,” Ben said.

“No!” Becca shook her head madly. “Ben, no.”

“Specialist King Keller, do you agree to let this man take your place?”

King did not hesitate. “I do,” he said.

“Very well. Arne, take King to the infirmary.”

“Ben!” Becca cried again. But the CO's voice boomed through the clearing. “There will be no further conversing with civilians.” One of the guards slung King's arm around his own shoulder and walked him into the trees. The others led the vets in the opposite direction. Just as Ben was about to leave the arena, he turned. At the wedding they had stood apart and faced each other in just this way. “Ben, no.” Becca shook her head, tears budding in her eyes. But the guards prodded him with their guns and he turned away.

A rough hand touched her shoulder, startling her. It was Reno. “Listen to me,” he said. “I'm going with them. I'll keep an eye on your boy. Okay?”

Becca nodded dumbly, not really understanding.

“Keep your wits about you. We'll figure this out.” Then he jogged off after the group.

The Native American women began to file out in an orderly fashion, like congregants exiting church pews. And that's when Becca saw the face, white like a patch of sun-faded stone in a brown canyon wall. Her mother.

Y
OU'RE NOT GOING
to give your mother a hug?” Jeanine said.

Becca couldn't move. The shock of seeing Ben had not yet worn off, and now here was her mother, who was supposed to be a few hundred miles to the northeast gardening organic vegetables in the name of Jesus.

“Are you a hunk of rock?” Jeanine asked. Becca put her arms around her mother, but the older woman's hands on her were feathery and noncommittal. “What in God's name are you doing here?” She pulled away from her daughter.

Becca was saved from having to explain herself by Elaine, who emerged from the departing crowd. The middle-aged women eyed each other, one buxom, one lean, and both equally guarded. The air was charged, crackling, as if two opposing forces were about to collide.

“So you're Jeanine,” Elaine said with none of her typical good nature. Her mouth was cinched tight.

“Who are you?” Jeanine looked Elaine up and down with unchristian disdain.

Elaine seemed shocked. She and Becca exchanged glances. “That's Elaine, Dad's girlfriend,” Becca said.

“Girlfriend?” Jeanine snickered. She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her dress pocket, poorly affecting nonchalance.

“Of five years,” Elaine said, smiling.

As her mother lit up, Becca did the math. Five years meant that King had taken up with Elaine shortly after her mother had kicked him out. Jeanine must have realized the same thing just then, because a small fissure of hurt cracked open in her face.

“So that was Ben,” Elaine said, her eyes softening. “He's handsome.”

“I suppose you're in support of all this,” Jeanine said to Elaine, picking up on a conversation they hadn't been having.

“I'm in support of King finding peace of mind,” Elaine said. “However he needs to.”

“Despite it being a huge mistake.”

“You're here to bring him to Jesus, is that right?” Elaine shook her head. “King said you might show up and try to save some souls.”

“My sisters and I came here to save him, it's true,” Jeanine said. “But that has nothing to do with Jesus.”

“Says the missionary.”

“I don't need to explain myself to you. I know my own purpose.”

Maybe it was because Becca had not seen her mother in a long while, but suddenly she recognized herself in Jeanine's stance, heard her own voice in her mother's combative tone.

How much Jeanine had taught her, Becca realized now. How unfortunately alike they were.

“I know I never cared much for your husband, Becca—”

“You've never even met him!”

“But,” Jeanine went on, ignoring her daughter's protest, “at least he had the selflessness to take King's place.” And then Becca heard her mother murmur something that sounded like
Better your man than mine
. But that didn't seem right.

“You heard the CO,” Elaine said to Jeanine. “King has to complete the final test on his own. He's going to participate and he's going to win.”

“We'll see about that.” Jeanine threw her half-smoked cigarette on the ground and crushed it with her shoe.

King was the infirmary's only occupant. Laid out on one of the narrow beds, he looked like a giant in a child's room. Jeanine sat beside him in a wooden chair, hunched over, her face close to his. Becca stood alone in the doorway, failing to make sense of the scene before her. Jeanine had been so relieved to get rid of King all those years ago. So why was she now smoothing his blanket and running her fingers across his forehead? What was she doing here, watching over him?

Over the years, Becca had periodically asked her mother about King's leaving. What had finally caused the breakup?

It's not about any single thing that happened,
Jeanine would say.
It's about who your father is and what he is—and is not—willing to do for us. It's about where his allegiances lie
.

Now that Reno had filled in many of the gaps in Becca's parents' history, the question of allegiance took on new meaning. Perhaps the trouble between her mother and father was more about this place than the army. But Jeanine had known that King would run straight to Kleos when the marriage fell apart. So why, all these years later, was she suddenly trying to pull King back out?

A
BOUT A QUARTER
of the men at Kleos had arrived with King and were still wet from their swim across the river. The rest had been at the compound for some time and obviously considered themselves superior. Ben, meanwhile, was the FNG, the Fucking New Guy, the kid who showed up green to the infantry unit and was hated because he didn't know how not to get them all killed. He was no better than the hapless Willy Owen from the CO's story. Not even Reno, who'd somehow latched onto the mass of them like a parasite, was looked at with such obvious disdain.

But none of this mattered. In Iraq, Ben had fought for his men. Every single day, he'd risked his life for them and them alone. When King collapsed, Ben realized that he'd been given new orders. He would do for Becca—for their future—exactly what he'd done for his soldiers. This was his pledge to her.

As the hoplites led the vets through Kleos, Ben evaluated the CO's guard force. They were all like Arne: old and beaten. Their hair was gray and their stomachs were soft, but they had real weapons and they'd been trained to use them.

After giving the competitors new clothes, the hoplites led the men toward the forest at the base of the great mesa. The group passed a couple of camouflaged guardhouses and headed along a dirt path into the gloom. It was hotter now, as though the cottonwoods' canopy had trapped the heat. Long mess tables were set up beneath tarps. Something in the air smelled delicious, but all the hoplites gave them were bowls of steaming broth and slices of tough, tasteless bread.

Reno slid in beside Ben, so he shifted over, unhappily. He was eager to take a swing at the guy, but clearly this wasn't the right time. One of the men who'd come with King's group landed heavily on the bench across the table. He was tall with overly long arms, pockmarked skin, and cheekbones so high and sharp they looked capable of drawing blood.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” the man demanded of Ben.

“Like what?”

“Like I'm pissing you off.”

Ben wasn't sure whether this guy was picking a fight or merely responding to Ben's eyes. They frowned at the corners, made people think he was angry even when he wasn't. “I don't have a problem with you,” Ben said.

“Yeah, you do,” the man said.

“Bull, for Christ's sake,” Reno hissed. “Just drink your soup.”

“I want to know how some stranger can just show up all of a sudden and take King's place.”

“You're just pissy 'cause the kid's younger than you are and in better shape,” Reno said. “You thought you were a sure thing and now you're not.”

“This ‘kid,' as you call him, has done some pretty awful things.” Bull held his eyes on Ben's face. Ben let him look.

“Sergeant Thompson has been on this earth half as long as you and a third as long as me,” Reno said. “He hasn't had the time to rack up enough bad behavior to come within shouting distance of either one of us.”

“Why the hell are you defending him?” Bull spat. Frankly, Ben wondered the same thing.