Eleven Days by Lea Carpenter Page B

silver-shelled oysters that washed up on the sand in scores. “The world is yours,” Jones said, flipping one, like a coin, in the air.

CLOSE QUARTERS COMBAT
    CHADDS FORD, PENNSYLVANIA,
MAY 11, 2011
    Sara stands and waits. She considers the fact that she’s never been dressed properly for any occasion in her life, and here she is, about to receive news of her son, and she’s soaking wet from sweat and rain, her hair in the wrecked ponytail that has become her signature.
    When Jason was born, he came one month early. She had arrived at the hospital dressed not unlike how she’s dressed now, a variation on Standard Issue Third Trimester. Learning that “it was time,” she’d meekly left a message on David’s office line and only half-expected him to show. But he was there, at the critical moment, and characteristically wry about the sex appeal of scrubs. It was a cesarean. (“A little Caesar!” David bellowed in the OR, much to the distress of the doctor, who didn’t approve of the grave situation being mocked.) It was a cesarean, and then her baby boy was on her chest, breathing like a tiny puppy, waiting to be fed.
    As she walks closer to the house the men just stand waiting, perhaps out of a sense of respect or perhaps in shock at the manner of her appearance. She can hear music coming from the house—Sam’s music. Almost immediately after arriving to stay, he’d put his CDs in her kitchen, and while she never knows whatalbum is about to be played, she was always pleasantly surprised. She likes reggae, and he knows it very well. He grew up in California, not far from Coronado; he loves to surf and spends hours talking about waves and wave patterns, about wind and the thermodynamics of kite boarding. She doesn’t really care deeply about any of these things, but having him, and his music and his stories, helps. She remembers it is time to sleep, because he sleeps. She is cued to eat by his careful preparation of meals. And though there is no need for cooking given the amount of food brought as gifts, he can really cook. He cooks guy food: steaks and potatoes and fish pies. And she welcomes it, because these are foods she rarely eats on her own, foods that are not served in fancy D.C. restaurants, so they remind her of nothing.
    One of the men puts his hand out and says, “Ma’am, good afternoon. I’m Captain Smith, and this is Master Chief Jones.” She can feel her eyes flooding with tears, so she bites her lip.
    “Ma’am,” the chief says, and he reaches out a hand and holds—gently—on to her forearm, an awkward but powerful gesture. “We still don’t know where your son is.” Sara can’t help the tears on her face. She doesn’t care anymore. She is simply trying to keep breathing.
    “We are here to see how you are,” says the captain. She guesses he’s about her age. Younger, perhaps. He has a lot of ribbons on his chest.
    “I’m all right,” Sara says.
    “We want to help,” says Smith.
    “Thank you,” she says.
    Jones does not say anything. He looks like he could eat a small child for breakfast. She remembers his name. And possibly having met him. Was it Coronado? He’s older, definitely older. He hasthe start of a beard and very cold eyes. Or maybe he’s just tired. She is quite sure her eyes might be assessed as cold at this time.
    “Please come in,” she says. “And please excuse me a moment.”
    The men move into the kitchen. She can hear them talking with Sam. She walks back through the foyer to the stairs of the house—old, broken pre-Colonial wood steps she has promised herself to repair since moving there, but whose charm over time became so much a part of the house that she has left them. She looks at the envelope on the landing table, the letter Sam handed her the night he arrived, after convincing her to let him stay over. The letter was formally addressed to her in her full name. But inside the outer envelope, she knew, having opened it last night, is another