Shoofly Pie & Chop Shop (27 page)

The car shuddered several times and lurched to a stop at the pump, followed by an angry complaint of hisses, clicks, and groans. Nick turned and looked at Kathryn.

“You expect me to pump the gas?” she asked.

“Of course not.” He tossed aside his seat belt. “I expect you to pay. ‘Plus expenses,’ remember?”

Kathryn enthusiastically slammed the door and flashed a look of mock remorse back at Nick before heading toward the service
center. She set a Mountain Dew and a convenience pack of Extra-Strength Tylenol on the counter.

“Pump six,” she muttered to the cashier, who glanced out the window and slid a quart of 10W-40 and a paper funnel across the counter.

“It’s on the house,” he said with a note of genuine sympathy in his voice.

“How far to D.C.?” she asked, tearing through the foil of her Tylenol.

“An hour and a half—that’s just to the Beltway. Where you headed?”

“Walter Reed Hospital.” She rolled the capsules to the back of her tongue. “On the north side—almost to Maryland.”

“Then add forty-five minutes. Double if you hit the traffic.”

As they pulled back onto I-95 North, Kathryn slid a yellow foilwrapped sausage biscuit across the seat to Nick. He peeled back the foil with his teeth and took a bite.

“What’s this?”

“Plus expenses. Eat hearty.”

Nick reached down by his feet and took a chocolate chip cookie from a plastic bag. “They’re from Teddy,” he said through a mouthful. “He made them for you.”

“How am I enjoying them?”

The Dodge slowly accelerated to cruising speed like a jet approaching the sound barrier. It vibrated and shook until Kathryn was sure the frame would come apart beneath her—but then it somehow settled into a relatively smooth and even ride.

“She just has to hit her stride,” Nick said, and Kathryn wondered silently why unreliable equipment is always referred to in the female gender.

They had passed most of the journey in silence, neither one wanting to expend the energy to shout above the constant roar of the wind, but by this point the ennui was becoming more stifling than the heat. Kathryn stopped rubbing her temples and glanced up at Nick.

“We could have taken my car, you know. It has this new thing called ‘air conditioning.’ ”

“I thought my car would fit the image better.”

“What image?”

“The image of a down-and-out Desert Storm veteran and his poor wife, their lives plagued by his lingering Gulf War Syndrome—mysterious rashes, fibromyalgic symptoms, chronic fatigue, and memory loss.”

“How long have we been married?”

“You’re asking me? I’m the one with memory loss.”

Kathryn smiled in spite of herself. “And why is this little charade necessary?”

“I’ve been doing a little research. It seems Walter Reed Army Medical Center is the premier treatment unit for Gulf War Syndrome in the entire U.S. Several years ago they opened a Specialized Care Program for Gulf veterans and their families. It’s a three-week outpatient program. According to Amy, her brother took part a couple of times.”

“What are we looking for?”

“Our interview with Amy raised some interesting questions. Who was the last one to see Jim McAllister alive? Amy didn’t know—no one in Rayford seems to know. It may have been someone up at Walter Reed.”

“Is there some prize for being last in line?”

“The last one to see your friend alive may be able to give us some insight into his state of mind just before the time of death. Was he angry again? Did he seem out of control? Did he say where he was going or what he planned to do? Did he appear in any way suicidal?”

Kathryn felt a knot tightening in her stomach. “I don’t like all this pretending. Can’t we just request Jimmy’s medical records or something?”

“Sure, if you’re the next of kin. I suppose you could tell them you almost married him …”

Kathryn shot him a look. “I just don’t want this to turn into another Schroeder’s Funeral Home. All right? Okay?”

Nick smiled. “Did you bring the things I asked for?”

“I packed an overnight bag, if that’s what you mean.”

He paused. “Does the sheriff know we’re making this trip together?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Does he know we’re staying overnight?”

She narrowed her eyes to tiny slits. “Why shouldn’t he know?”

“Good,” he whistled. “Good, good, good.”

Kathryn turned to the backseat. “I brought you this.” She held up a faded gray T-shirt with the words “82d AIRBORNE” in black block letters across the top with Master Parachutist’s wings beneath. “It’s the only thing of Andy’s that I thought would fit you.”

“It might be a little tight in the chest.”

“You wish.”

“What else have you got for me?”

Kathryn hesitated.

“Come on, Mrs. Guilford, let’s see them.”

She turned slowly to the backseat once more and removed an accordion letter file with a brown shoestring wrapped around it. She opened it and carefully removed a small stack of wellworn envelopes, each bearing her name and address in a coarse handwritten script. Some bore large and foreign-looking stamps; some had no stamps, but several different postmarks; some were so badly worn that the pages within poked through the crumbling corners of the envelope.

“There aren’t many of them,” she said. “Not as many as I would have liked—not many at all before September of ’90, when the postmaster announced that the soldiers could send letters home for free. Andy said he’d go to mail a letter but the whole book of stamps would stick together because of the heat. The truth is, he wasn’t much of a writer.”

She flipped through the crumbling papers like a rabbi handling the Torah. She turned to Nick.

“I’m not sure I want you to touch them.”

“I don’t want to touch them. I want you to read them to me.”

Kathryn looked aghast. The words of these few letters were more than personal; they were sacred. Was she supposed to casually recite each one as though it were nothing more than an interesting tidbit from this morning’s
Holcum County Courier
? And how was she supposed to read them? Should she simply relay each word, or should she make a real performance out of it—should she put some feeling into it? The worst part was that she knew this Bug Man was oblivious to all of these concerns. To him these
sacred writings were nothing more than miscellaneous bits of evidence—perhaps insignificant bits of evidence—to be tagged and filed away for possible use. Her blood ran cold at the very idea. She felt incensed; she felt insulted; she felt violated.

Nick interrupted her thoughts.

“Mrs. Guilford, we’re trying to understand the cause of your friend’s depression. Your husband and Jim McAllister were in the same unit—that means they camped together, they ate together, they probably fought together. Jim’s depression may have been triggered by a specific event in the Gulf, and that event may have taken place before your husband was killed. If so, his letters may provide some clue as to what it was. I’m sure you’ve read them a hundred times; maybe there’s something you overlooked.”

“Maybe what killed Jimmy was my husband’s death,” she snapped. “Did you ever think of that?”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Because you survived it, and no one felt his loss more than you.”

It was a minor acknowledgment of her feelings, no more than a nod in her direction, but Kathryn appreciated it nonetheless.

Nick began to slowly shake his head. “There had to be something else—something more. Mr. McAllister felt that there was something wrong that needed to be made right. Maybe your husband knew what it was.”

Kathryn slowly picked up the first of the precious envelopes and carefully removed the letter within. With the first glimpse of her husband’s handwriting a wave of grief overtook her. These were more than words, they were strokes made by Andy’s hand—a hand that no longer existed anywhere in the universe. The script was rough and uneven, and the left margin of his letters was never straight. He dotted every “i” with a tiny circle because Walt Disney did, and he liked that. Whenever her name appeared—always as “Kath,” never “Kathryn”—it began with a printed “K” simply because he had never mastered the cursive letterform. Every jot and loop and curve reminded Kathryn of the man. It was almost like hearing his voice again, and she longed to weep. Instead she felt sick to her stomach.

She turned to Nick. “Roll your window up,” she said. “I’m not going to shout this.”

He took one look at her and complied without question. She began to read clearly and evenly.

August 8, 1990

Dear Kath,

Well, by now you know it wasn’t just another alert. Got to the base just before midnight—it was pouring rain. Most of the boys were betting that this was just another emergency deployment exercise and after a day in the woods we’d be back home. Then a Red Line came down from brigade HQ and we found out the whole 82d was called out! That’s when I knew it had to be the Middle East.

Spent the night at the Corps Marshalling Area. Slept on the concrete floor—sure wished I was back in bed with you. Most of the unit made it for lock-in but I bet they had to search all the bars in Fayetteville to round up some of the boys. Pete and Jim both made it in, but I was in first. The 2d Battalion split off and that’s the last we saw of Pete.

The next day was just squat and hold. Tried to find out what we could about the mission, but nobody knew much of anything except that we’re headed for someplace called DARAN (can’t spell it) and we’re not jumping in. Then we got the word that the 2d Brigade would be first to deploy and Jim and me were on the first chalk out. We were slotted to leave on a DC-10 but we drew a C-141 instead. It was crowded—forty boys, two Hummers, and a M-105 trailer. We had wheels-up less than fourteen hours from call-in—good thing we were the DRB. Stopped to refuel in Goose Bay, Canada, then again here at Torrejon AFB in Spain. I’m mailing this from the USO post. Free mail!

Can’t tell you much about the mission except nobody thinks we’ll be here long. Sorry I didn’t get to say a proper good-bye—you were sleeping sound and I didn’t want to wake you. Wish you hadn’t been too tired when we went to bed! NOW how long do I have to wait? When I get home let’s set the day aside and—

Kathryn looked away. She folded the letter and gently returned it to its envelope.

“I followed most of that,” Nick said. “What’s the ‘DRB’?”

“The Division Ready Brigade. The 82d Airborne is the army’s rapid-reaction force, and they have to be ready to deploy anywhere in the world in just a few hours’ time. The division is made up of three infantry brigades. They take turns being the DRB, each one for six to eight weeks at a time. It’s like a doctor on call. When you’re the DRB, you’re on two-hour recall and you have to be ready to have wheels up on the lead aircraft within eighteen hours of call-in. Andy and Pete and Jimmy were all in the 2d Brigade, and they were the DRB when the call came in.”

“They were all in the same unit?”

“Not exactly. You were never in the army, were you? A brigade is broken up into battalions. Andy and Jimmy were in the 4th Battalion, Peter was in the 2d. The 4th Battalion was designated DRF-1—Division Ready Force 1—that’s why Andy and Jimmy were the first ones out.”

“Two-hour recall—that’s pretty short notice.”

“Andy left so fast he took the car keys with him. I couldn’t drive because the keys were in Saudi Arabia.” Kathryn stared out the window. “I never even woke up,” she whispered. “Maybe that’s why I never sleep now.”

Without looking down she opened the second envelope.

“The next one’s dated two weeks later.”

August 24, 1990

Dear Kath,

We made it into Dhahran. Me and Jim marched out the back of the Starlifter in full combat gear and camo paint ready to go to war. It was the middle of the night and there was nobody around anywhere. We felt like idiots! Some buses met us on the tarmac and took us to our command post out in the middle of nowhere, an old Saudi air-defense base near a place called al-Jubayl.

Got your first letter last week along with three more. Jim was jealous as a jay—write more! Took a while for the mail to catch up with us here. Thanks for the picture but guess what? The Saudis
blackened out your arms and legs. Seems that’s pornography around these parts, young lady! I’ll have to fill in the rest from memory. Thanks for the
County Courier.
It’s a few days old, but the papers are our only source of news around here. Send a
Fayetteville Times
if you can.

You wouldn’t believe how hot it is here! We picked a great time to fight with Iraq. Yesterday we deployed into the desert for the first time, mostly to start getting used to the heat. By 0800 it was 95 degrees—it can hit 130 in the afternoon. We started NBC training—nuclear, biological, and chemical—and we’re learning to spot Iraqi land mines.

Most of all we’re learning how to see. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? In the desert, distances are really tough to judge. That’s risky when you’re trying to call in fire. Sometimes the rocks heat up and they look like enemy patrols through our thermal sights. We got a lot to learn fast—the 82d’s last deployment was in the jungle in Panama!

Nobody knows when the enemy might come. We keep hearing about terrorist threats but we haven’t seen a single wog since we’ve been in country—but they tell us there are 250,000 of them just a hundred miles north! We have to wear our helmets and carry our weapons and masks at all times, even at mess. Got to be ready when the balloon goes up.

You’d love it here, Kath. They’ve got the biggest black flies you ever seen! The joke around here is that this is where the army’s helicopters are born—the flies are really baby Chinooks. They love our food so we have to eat fast. Had our first scorpion casualty too. Your kind of place—wish you were here.

Word is we might redeploy soon. Rumors everywhere—none of them reliable. I’ll write when I can. Jim says hello.

Miss me?
Andy

“I know those flies,” Nick whistled. “They’re tabanids—probably Tabanus arabicus. Very large, very nasty.”