SPRING BREAK WAS NO BREAK, and I was waterlogged from a nonstop week of swimming. Friday afternoon, I stood at our front porch, working up the strength to turn the doorknob. I had chlorine, not blood, in my veins. I felt the exhaustion clear down to my fingertips and I was hoping Dad would open the door so I wouldn’t have to.
He had music going in the den when I finally managed to open the door. I felt a thickness in my throat, fatigue mixed with chlorine. If Dad had that playlist going, I thought I might cry. I might turn around, close the door behind me, and drive to Grandma Adele’s.
One song faded into the next. The air quaked around me. Serious 80s techno-pop alternated with head banging metal, loud enough to shake the walls. Loud enough the neighbors might complain. Again.
I was five when I figured out how important music was to Dad. Whenever his mood downshifted, I went for the radio, my fingers on the dial, shooting past one station, then another, all in search of his favorite songs. I even knew what a mix tape was and could recite all the words to AC/DC’s Shook Me All Night Long by the time I was six.
Once, I brought home a CD filled with patriotic music from Sierra’s seventh birthday party. The CD had passed from girl to girl—the white elephant prize among all the lip glosses and princess tiaras—until it reached me.
When Dad started harmonizing with The Army Goes Rolling Along, I knew; this was better than the radio. We stood at attention during The Star Spangled Banner and booed to Anchors Away.
Then that song came on. With the first strains, it was like something shiny and hard washed across Dad’s face. The moment Lee Greenwood sang about starting over, with his children and his wife, Dad brought a palm down on the boom box. The song skipped. A strangled God Bless the USA squeaked through the speakers, then nothing.
He grabbed the disc and grabbed me by the hand. Down in the basement, he couldn’t grab the air rifle quite as quickly—it was in the gun safe. He dropped the CD on the floor, and it landed, shiny side up. Its surface glinted and the combination lock clicked home.
Then we went outside. He wedged the CD into an old railway tie. With a .22 air rifle, Dad took potshots until gouges, scratches, and scars marred the surface.
I stood, almost at attention, too horrified to run away, but not scared, not of Dad—maybe just for him. I knew this really wasn’t something most fathers did. What coursed through me was one thought: My fault, my fault, my fault. So I didn’t run and hide. Instead, I stood sentry with him.
BBs pinged and cracked against the disc. A few soared through the center hole and hit the railway tie with a muted thump. An entire box spent, Dad set the rifle down and wiped his brow. Only then did I dare speak.
“Daddy?” My voice was tiny in the silence, its quaver matching how I felt.
He looked at me, and the hard, shiny veneer cracked. That was worse somehow, my own father crumbling before my eyes.
“Oh, princess. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He scooped me up in one arm, carried the air rifle under the other. “I’ll buy you another one. Hey.” Here he kissed a tear from my cheek. “What do you say we have make-your-own pizza for dinner tonight?”
I swallowed back the sobs that clogged my throat and nodded.
“What kind do you want?”
“Chocolate chip.”
It was the sort of outrageous request I could make at times like this. Dad didn’t say a word. He bundled me into the Blazer and drove straight to the fancy grocery store by the day spa, bypassing our usual stop at the warehouse market. He sat me on the edge of the information desk and quizzed the lady behind it. Was there such a thing as chocolate chip pizza?
The pizza was round, the sugary sauce shiny. Melted dots of chocolate speckled its surface. It looked too pretty to cut, but we sliced the thing into pieces. I gorged until I was nearly sick. Never had anything tasted so good.
Later that night, I crept from my room, my bare feet muffling the squeaks and groans in the floorboards. Outside, a silver disk of a moon hung in the sky, its surface pockmarked and cold. I crossed the back lawn, clutching my pajama legs high. The CD was still wedged in the splintered groove of the railway tie. When I pried it free, a sliver of wood pierced my middle finger.
Inside, I slipped the CD back into the boom box. I knew it couldn’t play, but something made me try. The speakers screeched and I threw myself over them, suffocating the sound. I waited, my heart pounding like Army Band drums. I lowered the volume and tried again, but all I heard was the scratchy refrain of: Land of the free, and the home of the brave.
I kept the CD, hid it in a shoebox under my bed. Every once in a while, when Dad wasn’t around, I’d pull it out and listen to those same words, over and over again: Land of the free, and the home of the brave.
“Princess?”
Except for Dad’s voice, the house was quiet. No Pump Up the Jam. No Welcome to the Jungle. No Star Spangled Banner. Just me and Dad, on a Friday afternoon, with the strange, silent air around us.
“You okay?” He stood in the kitchen doorway. Over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of our new curtains, bright white with polka dots in multiple shades of spring green. A poofy valance hid the shadow of smoke behind the rod.
“I—”
He glanced at his watch, a frown brewing between his eyebrows. “You just get in?”
“I—”
Then he grinned, like he just plunked down the last piece of a jigsaw puzzle. “Hungry.”
It wasn’t a question. Even so, I nodded.
“What do you want for dinner?”
Chocolate chip pizza. I shrugged. “Whatever.”
“I’m in kind of a pizza mood myself. Want to order something online?”
“Sure,” I said. And hold the chocolate chips.
After dinner, I pulled the ammo crate from under my bed, but didn’t open the lid, not at first. Tonight I needed to catch my breath before I dived into another round of my mom’s poetry. I needed to sort through memories—my own and my mom’s—about that song and Dad.
What did he see when those first notes came through the speakers? Even though I’d been right there in the living room with him, I now knew he’d been somewhere else—like that fourth floor apartment in the Khobar Towers.
The impact of linking my past with my mom’s left me breathless, hollow, and yet, at the same time, a little fluttery. I removed the journal, brought it close to my face, and inhaled—dry and gritty. Every time I flipped a page, residue coated my fingers. The journal was so tiny, not even a full-sized notebook. And yet, it contained so much. I could only imagine what other questions my mom might answer for me.
Where Are Your Men
January 1991
The Boys’ Club
In the early morning, steam rises from fifty-five
gallon drums. Old Spice and menthol
ride the breeze.
The men never falter in this ritual.
By the time the sun’s heat touches
the air, all that’s left behind are
dots of shaving cream on sand.
The scrape of razors sounds like grit
against metal, and that razor-burn red?
The men wear it like a badge of honor
I watch them,
my feet itching to creep closer.
Would the captain lend me
his shaving cream?
Or would I have to bring my own?
Could I kick off my boots, roll my pant legs,
and hike a foot on the rim
of the drum?
And if I carved up my legs like they do
their faces, would that be enough?
Or are there other rituals to endure
to be a member of the club?
Of Surgeons And Gunslingers
The Kuwaiti linguists gather around a
drum, part of the club, but not.
More than I am?
Less than I am?
With the steam clouding the air,
it’s hard to tell.
They jockey for position, elbows and M16s knocking.
Some carry their weapons like gunslingers
from the Old West.
Others have the hands of surgeons, the M16s
too clunky for their precise touch.
None are soldiers.
All speak Arabic.
Every last one can eavesdrop when we aim
our equipment across the border
at the Iraqis.
Every last one has a reason
for being here. But those reasons,
spoken in Arabic, float on steam from
fifty-five gallon drums until the sun
burns them all away.
Where Are Your Men
When Ahmed sees me, he breaks from the group,
sets an intercept course, his aim
perfect, catching me—as always—between
the TOC and the field mess.
He launches the same question, and it strikes me, with the same politeness:
Ah, Lieutenant, I must ask you. Where are your men?
Answers elude me.
I understand his words, but not his intent.
Today, however, I’m glib:
I didn’t know I had any.
Ahmed mutters in Arabic,
the phrases both derisive and melodic.
He has put his Georgetown education on hold,
his mother and three sisters trapped in Kuwait.
The worry—that he hasn’t heard anything since
the invasion—is carved around his eyes
and his mouth.
He is in this no man’s land for a reason.
He wants to know mine.
The intricacies of the all-volunteer Army
are lost on Ahmed.
I’m a soldier. It’s my job.
Might as well be spoken in Chinese
He still wants to know:
Where are your men?
Now he adds, as if he’s given these new questions
much thought:
The ones that stay in America? Why are they not here?
Anything I can say would make as much sense
to him as women in the Army.
He leaves me with an odd, half-salute.
I forget I’m hungry. I forget I need
some field mess coffee.
Grains of sand blow across the toes
of my combat boots, Ahmed’s question echoing
in the wind.
Where are your men?
What does it mean
that after all this time,
I still don’t know
the answer?
For the longest time, I thought nothing bad could happen in April. April meant happy; it meant my dad back to his old self, or mostly so. Like the time when he walked into my third grade classroom, still in suit coat and tie, and pulled me out of school for the day.
We drove north in his Chevy Blazer, straight to the Mall of America and the indoor amusement park. We rode all the rides and stayed until closing. I remember that day, not so much for what we did—although for a week, everyone at school called him the Best Dad Ever. I remember his laugh, how free it was, how it reminded me of summer, sweet and warm, and full of freshly-spun cotton candy. That was just one of the many reasons I believed only good stuff happened in April.
Then I started high school.
The Monday after spring break, I was heading for my locker before lunch when the sight of Nissa and Landon had me stumbling to a halt in the middle of the hallway. Someone bumped my shoulder and I staggered forward, but only a step. I stood there, transfixed, while Landon pulled twenty dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to Nissa. She fumbled with the cash and one bill floated to the floor. By the time he scooped it up, she held out two prom tickets.
Landon vanished into the cafeteria, but Nissa stood there, clutching the cashbox with both hands as if that was the only thing keeping her upright. When her gaze finally focused on me, her eyes went wide. Then she shrugged, as if to say, well, what can you do? She nodded toward the cafeteria. My stomach rebelled at the thought, and I shook my head.
Nissa headed for the door, her step lighter, something new in her attitude. Hope, I thought, in the form of two prom tickets. I wanted to smack Landon. I didn’t care who he was taking to prom. Okay. I did care. A lot. But unless he planned on asking Nissa, buying tickets from her was cruel—and nothing like the boy I used to know.
Forget prom, swimming, and everything else. I had a more important mission. My scholarship. Or what I hoped would be my scholarship. I could work in the library. Or better yet, I could see if Patti, or rather, her alter ego Ms. Flynn, was in her classroom. I took the stairs two at a time. When I reached the second floor, heart thudding, I downshifted into stealth, my Chucks barely making a squeak against the tile. I was sure this was the perfect idea. Almost.
Patti sat at her desk, lunch to one side, a book open in front of her. I hated to interrupt and was about to turn around when that special sense all teachers have alerted her to my presence.
“MacKenna?” Patti sounded pleased, at least. I heard the scrape of her chair against the linoleum. “Can I help you with something?”
“I don’t—I mean, your lunch,” I began. “But yeah, I could use some help.”
“It’s stale.” Patti shoved her sandwich to one side. “So, do you need swim coach help or English teacher help?”
“Well.” I inched into the room, pulling out the scholarship papers from my binder. “It’s English help, I guess. I’m working on a scholarship application and—”
“I don’t believe it!” Patti exclaimed. For one horrible moment, I thought she meant that me + scholarship = ludicrous. But the grin that lit her face had me relaxing in the chair next to her desk. It struck me that how she looked, right then, was a lot like her senior portrait. It was strange to think she’d gone to school with my mom, that they swam together, that if my mom were alive, she’d be the same age as Patti.
“Finally, someone who listens on the first day of school,” she said.
Now she’d totally lost me, but I nodded like I knew what she was talking about.
“I offer to help with applications and essays every year, and if anyone remembers to ask, it’s in June.” She beamed at me. “You just made this teacher’s day.”
“I was thinking about trying for early acceptance, too.” I’d like to see Dad refuse me that—full ride scholarship, early acceptance, all wrapped up with awesome SAT scores. Now that was superior firepower.
“The written portion of all applications is becoming more and more important,” Patti continued. “Along with test scores, extracurricular activities, and grades.” She caught her breath as if just thinking about it winded her. “I sometimes think it gets harder and harder each year. When’s your SATs?”
“After the swim show.”
“Good plan. Now let’s see what you’re up against.”
I tell you, the woman was positively giddy. “The space is really small,” I said, “and we can’t use continuation sheets. I tried to write something, but it’s really hard to write something good and write it short.”
“I have made this letter longer than usual because I lack the time to make it short,” Patti announced.
I looked at her—blankly given how she laughed.
“Pascal,” she said. “Sorry, English teacher moment. Go on.”
“They’re calling it a personal statement.” I studied the paper, like I didn’t already have it memorized. “It has to be all about service, and why you want to serve, and why the Army. I’m thinking a lot of kids will write patriotic stuff, but I wanted to write something really personal.”
I babbled, for how long, I couldn’t say. I wanted to build on the poems I’d read on Friday night, about the volunteer service and maybe even work in that question: Where are your men? I was about to mention the journal when I saw that her eyes had gone hard, the smile no longer lighting her face.
“Pa—Ms. Flynn?”
“Sorry ... sorry.” She shook herself, then considered me for such a long moment, heat rose in my face. I felt all of six years old, caught doing something naughty. “I don’t think I’m the right person to help you with this,” she said at last.
Her words sank all the way to my stomach. Not the right person? Five minutes ago, she’d assured me she was.
“I think maybe your guidance counselor, or even Mr. Reed would be a better choice. You’ll be in Honors English 12 next year, and I’m sure he won’t mind.”
I didn’t like my guidance counselor and other than seeing Mr. Reed in the halls, didn’t know him at all. Patti knew me, both from class and swimming. She could help me. I knew it. So why wouldn’t she?
“I don’t—” I began.
“I’m sorry, Beth.”
Beth?
“I mean, MacKenna.” Patti dropped her gaze, pinched the bridge of her nose, a frown digging deep furrows across her brow. If before she looked young enough for high school, she now looked closer to retirement. “I can’t do this again.”
Patti went silent. She didn’t explain and I didn’t ask. Somehow, I backed from the room. Somehow, I found my way to my next class, hollow from shock and lack of food. I’d felt like I’d betrayed Patti, which didn’t make any sense at all.
I dreaded English. Patti had a policy, announced on the first day of class. Unlike her offer (or non-offer) to help with applications, everyone heard this:
“You are all honors students,” she told us. “Black Earth High’s finest, at least according to your GPA. I expect a certain knowledge of English literature. Starting now.”
In other words, the class spring butt (Marissa “me, me, call on me” Johnson), stealth girl (usually me), the class clown (generally Landon), and everyone in between answered questions. I braced for the worst, most obscure questions to come my way. Patti’s route through the class was arbitrary, but she never missed a student.
Until today.
Behind me, Josh leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder. “How do you rate?” he whispered. “She’s been through the class three times and hasn’t called on you once. Trust me, I’ve been counting.”
I shrugged. Patti was in rapid-fire question mode. Those days usually sucked. I’d sit through class, my stomach clenched, anticipating an answer for each question. It probably got us ready for tests. It probably gave us ulcers too.
Now my stomach clenched, then dropped each time she didn’t say my name. Even blowing an answer was better than this. For once, I wanted to burst out of stealth mode. I wanted to know why Patti refused to see and hear me.
I wanted to know why, after years of flying under the radar, it hurt so much to be invisible.