TUESDAY, OCTOBER 9
Chandler poured over another intake form. It was lunchtime, and his stomach was grumbling, but one of his clients no longer needed services, so he had a slot to fill. For each person who graduated from one of the vet center programs, four more waited to enter. How was he supposed to divine which one to move from the waiting list?
Each application represented a real need.
A rap at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Allison stood in the doorway, a stack of files balanced on her laptop.
“Ready for me?”
“Grateful for your help.” It would take hours to wade through the pending files, and he trusted Allison’s intuition. The no-nonsense woman had a way of seeing through the paper version to the real person as if she could sniff out a brewing crisis even the client couldn’t identify.
She settled onto the chair in front of his desk, and he winced as she sat with a back so straight it looked painful. “Our list is growing.”
“There’s not much we can do about it.” Without more resources, he couldn’t get the authorization to hire more staff to help soldiers and airmen and airwomen. That was the harsh reality.
“I think we should revisit holding more group sessions. Those become critical when the need outstrips services.”
“How would that work?”
She laid out a developed plan, and he nodded at key points.
“I can tell you’ve thought hard about this.”
She tapped the stack of files. “It’s getting more difficult to know who is critical.”
“They all feel that way.”
“Yes.” She flipped along the tabs on the files without opening any. “Each of these individuals has seen things on tours that no one should experience. In a group they can support each other, since they’ve experienced similar situations and stresses.”
“We can try it.” Group sessions went against the macho military environment. “How will you create a setting where they can share?”
They talked about logistics, and then Chandler pulled her back to the immediate issue. “So who gets the open slot?” He glanced over the files he still needed to review. “I’ll finish these and give you my vote by five.”
She nodded, then pushed to her feet and left him to the files. The men and women represented had achieved heroic things in their tours. They had not all received medals or recognition, but he sensed their losses, their fears. Their reentry issues were unrelenting, but they could be managed. Often it just took knowing they had the freedom to talk. Admitting there was an issue and asking for help.
He leaned back in his chair and gazed at the map he’d hung on the wall reflecting his own tours.
Each person had a map like that, if not physical then seared on their consciousness. Superimposed on top of that were the comrades who hadn’t returned home.
Chandler’s thoughts turned to the mysterious phone calls. What was the caller’s story?
The fact that he would call and threaten Chandler indicated that he had serious need of the exact services the Vet Center provided. How many military members just like that man were in this pile? He couldn’t be part of their slipping through the cracks. Maybe trying Allison’s groups was the best way to reach more. It was surely a better option than receiving no services while lingering on the waiting list.
His stomach growled loudly enough to break his concentration. Chandler reached for the file cabinet beside the desk and tugged on the drawer that held a stash of soft drinks and sparkling water. He felt around in the drawer and frowned. Empty. Guess he’d have to go out.
He walked past empty offices and then into the open area where a couple work stations were located. Allison looked up from her desk.
“I’m headed to grab a bite. Need anything?”
Allison glanced at her desk, then at the empty reception desk. “I’d join you, but I’m the last man standing during lunch.”
“I could bring back something.”
“Thanks, I’m good.” She patted a container on her desk. “I think the first flood of callers related to the latest sex scandal is slowing.”
“That’s good news. I’ll be back in time for my next appointment.” Chandler strode out the front door and walked the couple blocks to one of the restaurants lining the square around the Metro stop. He felt like some tandoori chicken from the Delhi Club. Inside, the butter-colored walls alternated with slices of red to give the small restaurant an exotic feel. Black chairs and tables stood against the colorful backdrop, creating a weight for the space. The line was unexpectedly short, and it didn’t take long to enjoy the feast of the lunch buffet. He was pacing himself through some spicy curry when he felt a presence behind him and to his right.
Chandler glanced over his shoulder. At the two-topper nearby sat a man with a Washington Nationals hat pulled low over his face. He was slouched inside an oversized hoodie, making it difficult to determine his actual size.
Then the man reached for a napkin, his chair scraping against the brick floor, and Chandler saw he carried a weapon.
In an instant the dynamic changed.
While military installations were scattered in this area, thanks to the proximity to DC and the Pentagon, that didn’t stop many in civilian clothing from telegraphing that they carried.
Casually, Chandler stood to get another plate of food, giving him an opportunity to eyeball the man more directly and assess the risk.
He’d gladly laugh if he were overthinking the matter, but the phone calls on top of his military experience made him cautious. He kept an eye on the man as he started down the buffet line, but when he returned to his seat, the man had disappeared and a note rested on his chair.
Chandler set down the food and picked up the note.
Maybe I’ll do to you what you did to me.
Watch your back. You might see me coming.
Then again, maybe you won’t.
Chandler frowned. What kind of delusional gobbledygook was this?
He tucked the paper into his jacket pocket and then turned back to his food. The gulab jamun he’d put on his plate didn’t look like a welcome dessert anymore. He pushed it away and settled his check.
As he walked back to work, he considered the note. He’d only touched it by the edges in case it became evidence. Of what he wasn’t sure, but it didn’t feel right.