call
tomorrow,” Jack said and turned away, leaning an arm against the wall. Pam came
up from behind him and wrapped her arms around him again, hugging her head
against his back.
“Thank you,
Jack,” she said. “I love you so much.”
“I love you,
too, baby,” he answered without turning around. He thought of Claire, by now
asleep in her bed. “I love you both so much.”
Chapter
7
He slept soundly—or at least he
had no memories of dreams—but he woke up tired and achy, his muscles tense like
he had slept curled up in a knot. His hands, in particular, were sore and he
saw that he had deep purple, crescent-shaped bruises in his palms from where
his nails must have dug into his flesh. He dumped his pale, sweet coffee into
the sink and filled a travel mug to the brim with steaming black coffee before he
headed out to his car, kissing his daughter and wife on his way out.
“I love you,”
Pam said, her voice tense with worry. Jack felt her eyes studying his face from
her seat beside Claire, a spoonful of oatmeal in her hand.
“I know,” he
answered tightly. “Me, too.” He wanted to give her more, to say something magic
to erase her anxious look, but he had nothing.
He drove to
work listening to a Dierks Bentley CD, trying to think about the words to the
songs—anything other than the images of Fallujah that flashed in his tortured
mind. Instead the images became a slide show set to country music.
Bentley sang
about a hot girl in a tank top…
Click.
Kindrich, his
brain blown out the back of his head, his face frozen in surprise.
Bentley wanted
to kiss the hot chick…
Click.
Simmons lying
in the dirt beside him, his face a gory mess of missing skin and bone. That
horrible, one remaining eye staring at nothing, the other socket a ragged oversized
black hole.
Bentley
wondered what the hell he had been thinking…
Jack knew what
the fuck he was thinking. He was thinking about how it felt to be starved for
air, sucking too little air through a bloody hole in his neck. The terror of not
being able to lift his arms, the feel of dust on his face and in his lungs, and
the sound of a Blackhawk, kicking up dirt around him.
Thump thump
thump thump…
The sound of a
horn made him open his eyes. Green light. His hands were tight and white
knuckled on the steering wheel and his palms ached. He pulled through the
intersection and ignored the angry face of the driver pulling around him,
mouthing the word “asshole” as he sped by, his middle finger up in an irritated
salute.
Jack mashed
the forward button on the CD player, tired of thinking about what he was
thinking and where the night might lead. Dierks slowed it down with an angry
tune about throwing his girlfriend’s love letters into the river and flipping
over his mattress. He wanted to be able to burn the pictures in his head and
get on with his life, too.
I hear ya’
Dierks. I hear ya’, buddy.
His first two
periods went by in a blur. He felt distracted, but able to keep a train of
thought loosely focused on his lesson plans. His students seemed unusually
sedate and asked few questions, doubtless reading the heavy mood of one of
their favorite teachers. Chad came by in between to make sure his friend was
ok, and seemed somewhat satisfied with Jack’s reassurances that he felt much
better. Jack told him he was heading to the doctor later “just to be sure.”
Chad said he would check on a sub for his last class so Jack wouldn’t have to
come back after his free period.
Third period
started out normal enough. Jack was talking away about how DNA wrote out recipes for the cell to make things they needed, and how RNA carried the recipes in
code to the “kitchen” workers, so that they would make the right stuff. He
enjoyed his lesson, actually, and relaxed just a bit as he let his mind focus
on cell biology, a nice break from the war in Iraq.
Halfway
through, Jack felt a growing sense of dread that he
tomorrow,” Jack said and turned away, leaning an arm against the wall. Pam came
up from behind him and wrapped her arms around him again, hugging her head
against his back.
“Thank you,
Jack,” she said. “I love you so much.”
“I love you,
too, baby,” he answered without turning around. He thought of Claire, by now
asleep in her bed. “I love you both so much.”
Chapter
7
He slept soundly—or at least he
had no memories of dreams—but he woke up tired and achy, his muscles tense like
he had slept curled up in a knot. His hands, in particular, were sore and he
saw that he had deep purple, crescent-shaped bruises in his palms from where
his nails must have dug into his flesh. He dumped his pale, sweet coffee into
the sink and filled a travel mug to the brim with steaming black coffee before he
headed out to his car, kissing his daughter and wife on his way out.
“I love you,”
Pam said, her voice tense with worry. Jack felt her eyes studying his face from
her seat beside Claire, a spoonful of oatmeal in her hand.
“I know,” he
answered tightly. “Me, too.” He wanted to give her more, to say something magic
to erase her anxious look, but he had nothing.
He drove to
work listening to a Dierks Bentley CD, trying to think about the words to the
songs—anything other than the images of Fallujah that flashed in his tortured
mind. Instead the images became a slide show set to country music.
Bentley sang
about a hot girl in a tank top…
Click.
Kindrich, his
brain blown out the back of his head, his face frozen in surprise.
Bentley wanted
to kiss the hot chick…
Click.
Simmons lying
in the dirt beside him, his face a gory mess of missing skin and bone. That
horrible, one remaining eye staring at nothing, the other socket a ragged oversized
black hole.
Bentley
wondered what the hell he had been thinking…
Jack knew what
the fuck he was thinking. He was thinking about how it felt to be starved for
air, sucking too little air through a bloody hole in his neck. The terror of not
being able to lift his arms, the feel of dust on his face and in his lungs, and
the sound of a Blackhawk, kicking up dirt around him.
Thump thump
thump thump…
The sound of a
horn made him open his eyes. Green light. His hands were tight and white
knuckled on the steering wheel and his palms ached. He pulled through the
intersection and ignored the angry face of the driver pulling around him,
mouthing the word “asshole” as he sped by, his middle finger up in an irritated
salute.
Jack mashed
the forward button on the CD player, tired of thinking about what he was
thinking and where the night might lead. Dierks slowed it down with an angry
tune about throwing his girlfriend’s love letters into the river and flipping
over his mattress. He wanted to be able to burn the pictures in his head and
get on with his life, too.
I hear ya’
Dierks. I hear ya’, buddy.
His first two
periods went by in a blur. He felt distracted, but able to keep a train of
thought loosely focused on his lesson plans. His students seemed unusually
sedate and asked few questions, doubtless reading the heavy mood of one of
their favorite teachers. Chad came by in between to make sure his friend was
ok, and seemed somewhat satisfied with Jack’s reassurances that he felt much
better. Jack told him he was heading to the doctor later “just to be sure.”
Chad said he would check on a sub for his last class so Jack wouldn’t have to
come back after his free period.
Third period
started out normal enough. Jack was talking away about how DNA wrote out recipes for the cell to make things they needed, and how RNA carried the recipes in
code to the “kitchen” workers, so that they would make the right stuff. He
enjoyed his lesson, actually, and relaxed just a bit as he let his mind focus
on cell biology, a nice break from the war in Iraq.
Halfway
through, Jack felt a growing sense of dread that he
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