CHAPTER TWO

The Whitford Funeral Home sat stately on Red Arrow Highway in Farmington, New Mexico. Arthur’s first reaction was that it wasn’t the type of new conformist brick construction people had grown accustomed to these days, but rather the elevated look of a converted Victorian home, circa 1885, with cream-colored gingerbread that accented well against its mocha exterior paint. Inside, polished walnut pocket doors opened into elegant rooms where back in the day men would have smoked cigars and talked business while women would have been sequestered in a parlor to dish the latest gossip, debate the latest fashions, or even discuss the Statue of Liberty finally arriving from France that June.

The accumulated gathering of somber mourners, Arthur noticed, seemed to have broken off into their respective clusters of family and groups of friends to talk among themselves throughout the main floor. That seemed to be the pattern of most of the wakes Arthur and Sharon had attended over the last ten years, and the funeral home’s third reception room, where Sergeant Joshua Derrick’s body lay, was no different. Derrick’s wife of fifteen years, Kathy, sat in the front row with a few other members of the family, accepting the perfunctory well wishes from the line of people that seemed to stream by at a staggered, never-ending pace.

This is probably the room where the women would have congregated after supper, Arthur reflected, glancing around the room at the tall ceilings and wide baseboards of stained dark wood to match the thick moldings. He let his mind wander because he was trying his level best to think about anything other than the reason he was there. Canned organ music flowed solemnly from the Bose Wave sound system sitting on one of the side tables stationed between two small but tasteful flower arrangements. It had been lowered to a whisper by one of the funeral directors.

Arthur Nakai studied the family members sitting in the front row, sure they were all still trying to comprehend why two weeks ago, on a Sunday afternoon, the man in the coffin had gotten up from the couch during a Diamondback’s ball game, went upstairs to his bedroom without uttering a word to anyone, and put a 9 mm Parabellum round through his temple.

He had left no note.

Arthur was sitting in one of the white, straight-backed chairs trying to wrap his head around the fact that Sergeant Derrick had become the latest of twelve brothers of the 6th LAR Wolf Pack to commit suicide in as many years. A transient thought tumbled through his mind about how the older he got, the more mass cards he seemed to collect. But at forty-six years of age, he conceded, his stack would only get thicker with all the friends, relatives, and servicemen he had known. Pretty soon, he told himself, you’ll be saying what all the elders say: all my friends are dead. There is no one left from my past. I am alone.

He shook his mind free of those thoughts and into one of how the sergeant’s story had only differed slightly from all the others who had gone before him, but, nonetheless, had ended with the same tragic outcome. He had now officially become just another statistic of the psychological demon known as PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder. Derrick had locked himself inside his own mind, reliving over and over the sights and sounds of the things that anyone who had ever been in combat never talked about. Arthur sighed heavily. Some of us never really make it home, because home is still half a world away, filled with firefights, explosions, and death. Because that’s the only home that seems to make sense anymore.

Arthur felt Sharon’s hand gently clasp his. He gave her a sideways look and a soft smile before turning his attention to the Marine Corps honor guard standing at attention at either end of the flag-draped mahogany casket. Their dress blue uniforms were well manicured with crisp, clean, razor-sharp lines and decorated with brass buttons polished to perfection. The whites of their peaked dress caps, gloves, and belts stood out like freshly fallen snow against their long-sleeved midnight-blue coats and the red-striped, sky-blue trousers. The glossy black bills of their caps and wet-polished dress shoes gleamed sharply. Arthur’s chest filled with pride as he gazed upon their silent, statuesque presence. Behind the casket, the American and Marines Corps flags hung sorrowfully on their stands, weeping the same quiet, unseen tears they had for generations.

The room itself was of average size, but still comfortably held everyone assembled to pay their respects. The hardwood floors were a rich, dark maple accentuated by Southwestern designed area rugs, and they creaked with an elegant hint of age whenever someone walked across the room. White folding chairs were set up in two columns of ten wide and fifteen deep and separated by a center path. Arthur took note that the chairs were quickly being filled with sobbing women and introspective men. Sprays of colorful flowers with cards relaying their sorrow had all been carefully positioned throughout the room on stands and tables, while a large portrait of a younger Sergeant Joshua Derrick in his dress blues stood proudly on a large easel to the left of his casket.

Arthur stared at the portrait for a long moment, remembering the excited kid who had just landed in-country a few months before Arthur’s last rotation out of Operation Enduring Freedom. Derrick had enlisted four weeks before 9/11. As he had mentioned in their first conversation after meeting, he “joined during peacetime and came out of basic in wartime.” He recounted how his DI had come into the squad bay, told them all to circle up, and removed his cover. The room was silent. Later that day, the company commander had brought in a TV and shown videos of America under attack. Derrick told him of the anger that had filled him that day after witnessing the Twin Towers fall and that in the days afterward all he wanted to do was exact vengeance upon those who were responsible. Arthur remembered seeing in him both the eagerness to fight and the naivety that had convinced him that he was going to win the fight and change the world. That eagerness always came at a cost, Arthur reflected. And all being in-country ever did for anyone was make them hard or make them scared or, like most who came back, make them love it. Love it so much that you would go back in an instant and climb into the uniform that felt as cozy as a pair of pajamas without even a second thought.

Arthur felt Sharon’s hand squeeze his again, and he turned to look at her. He remembered his father telling him when they were discussing his idea of matrimony that life was about choices. And after a while marriage becomes wondering if you made the right choice. As Arthur read the emotion in his wife’s eyes, he knew his choice had been the correct one.

“I’m going to go over and talk to Kathy,” Sharon said, wiping tears away from her eyes. “Are you coming?”

Arthur shook his head almost imperceptibly. “No, not yet. I can’t just yet. Maybe later.”

Sharon smiled softly and got up, smoothed out her dark skirt that matched the rest of her somber outfit, and left Arthur to his thoughts.

Arthur half smiled. He was glad that both his mind and soul had been strong enough to tackle what he had seen before Sharon and he had even met. Arthur was of the Towering House clan, born for the Big Medicine People clan, and attributed his sanity to his deeply ingrained spirituality, his nights spent in ceremony, and his resolute quest for harmony. Without that, he surely would have fallen victim to the string of sleepless nights that had plagued so many of his fellow servicemen, over and over in their tormented minds, like scenes from some horrific movie. And not a movie one could simply get up and walk out of. Arthur knew there were things he’d seen and done that would have tormented him every day of his life, much like Sergeant Joshua Derrick had surely endured.

“Fucking sucks, Lieutenant,” a familiar voice muttered quietly. Arthur felt a strong hand squeeze his left shoulder. “We just keep burying our guys. Whether we’re fighting it on the battlefield or in our minds, in the end we’re all just another angel going home.”

Corporal John Sykes, who had overseen one of the fire teams within the squad that was part of the platoon Arthur had commanded, was looking down at him, his large frame dressed in somber attire like all the other guests. The years that had passed since their time at Kandahar Airfield had obviously been hard and had managed to add more rugged lines to his already scarred and worn face. The look in Sykes’ blue eyes gave Arthur the impression that he was barely hanging on to his sanity and could easily end up becoming the subject of the next wake he would attend. Arthur remembered instantly what had shaken the big man the most—Sykes had blown away an old woman in Musa Qala, Afghanistan, who’d been running toward them with an RPG. He saved his squad, but there was no way of burying that one deep enough. Besides, you can’t run away from the things that are in your head.

“It’s just Arthur now, John,” he replied. “That lieutenant stuff is from another world.”

Corporal Sykes bristled. “No, sir. Don’t believe that one bit.” He paused briefly to look around. “You wanna see the rest of the guys? I just came from the mess hall they’ve got set up in this place, and they were down there stuffin’ their faces.”

Arthur nodded and stood. He looked around and quickly located Sharon. She was among the small group of wives that had formed a comfort circle around Kathy Derrick. Knowing he had some time, he wanted a chance to feel Sykes out, see if he needed any help. But he sensed he would have to move slowly with him. “Who’s all here?” he said.

Sykes’ expression became slightly distant. “Including you, there’s only six of us left, sir.” He looked at the mahogany, flag-draped coffin. “We’re all here.”

Arthur nodded. “Lead the way, Corporal.”

They moved quietly through from the room where later the sliding pocket doors would close to allow Joshua Derrick’s family a few moments to have their own last remaining bit of privacy with him. They crossed the foyer and passed a small but neatly organized cherry desk where a thin, gray-haired woman sat guard in a dark skirt, white blouse, and crisp suit jacket. The hallway behind her was covered in period wallpaper that spoke of a less hectic time, when people weren’t so concerned with the talking heads of dysfunction that now inundated the visual airwaves and minds that had not been brainwashed by smartphones. On the other side of the foyer, an ornate staircase rose to a second story where Arthur assumed offices now resided in rooms that had once been bedrooms. They continued quietly, weaving through the friends and relatives of Sergeant Derrick until they reached what had most likely been an expanded servant’s quarters and that now had been converted into a room where food could be displayed like a golf course brunch buffet.

Once through the doorway, the room revealed a handful of round tables and padded chairs. A long counter off to the right displayed assorted foods and snacks. Another counter at the far end of the room had been loaded up with black sentinels of brewed coffee, two-liter plastic bottles of various soft drinks, foam plates, and plastic utensils.

“Ten-hut!” Sykes announced.

Arthur recognized the four men in the room right away. Two of the men, seated at one of the tables, quickly jumped to their feet with a crisp salute. The two by the buffet, who had been concentrating on shoveling food onto their foam plates, suddenly spun to face the doorway and did the same. It took only a split second for smiles to brighten their faces and an awkward joy to fill the small room. Hands that had saluted were pushed forward for handshakes before the men returned to either their seats or to raiding the buffet.

James Basher, a cross between Dolph Lundgren and the Incredible Hulk, sat at the table. His nickname, “Bash,” came not from his name but from the size of his fists. Dave Lugowsky, who sat next to him, Arthur remembered had earned the nickname “Lugnut” because of his resourcefulness at being able to Frankenstein any truck in the combat zone by utilizing whatever he could scrounge up to armor an add-on kit for a vehicle. The two men waved Arthur toward an empty chair while Sykes went to fill his own plate. Lavar St. James and Mike Dokozinski filled their red Solo cups with pop, plus one for Arthur, and sat at the table. Sykes finished gathering his food and drink, pulled up a chair, and squeezed himself into the group.

“A toast,” St. James said, holding up his red plastic cup. “May our brother finally find the peace in death he sure as hell didn’t find in life. Till Valhalla!”

The men all tapped cups. “Till Valhalla!”

Arthur took stock of his command, or what was left of it. He studied St. James and Dokozinski—on the surface both appeared unfazed by the trauma of war. St. James’ eyes were clear, and he showed no signs of what the shrinks at the VA would call meeting the DSM-5: Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. There were six men from his unit dead already whom the VA had failed. Left to fend for themselves, they had taken the only avenue open to them to stop the pain. And he had buried them all.

Dokozinski’s blond crew cut looked good on his blocky head. High and tight. And by the look of his body, Arthur could see that Dok had kept up his grueling workout regimen. Bash, on the other hand, was harder to read. There was no giveaway, no clue in his looks or behavior that Arthur could pick up on. Lugnut was another story altogether. There was some kind of vibe that emanated from him like a scattered high-intensity frequency that Arthur just couldn’t put a finger on. The skinny kid who had wrangled a .50 caliber machine gun on top of a scout truck in the provinces of Afghanistan hadn’t added much weight to his frame since he had been home.

“How you guys holding up?” Arthur asked. “I know it gets tougher … tougher every time one of our own falls.” Arthur studied their faces. “We all still carry our demons.”

“That’s why some of us just say ‘fuck it’ and blow our fucking brains out,” Sykes said before spitting out his chewing gum into a napkin and drinking again from his red plastic cup. “There’s plenty of scars on the inside no one can see.”

“Yeah,” Dok chimed in, “when you’re in the CZ, it’s like death is always right next to you, whispering in your ear.” Dok took a big gulp from his cup and swallowed hard. “And it’s always hard not to listen. You just can’t fucking get away from that shit.”

“Any of you have luck with the VA?” Arthur said.

They laughed.

“They had me seeing a psychologist and a psychiatrist,” Sykes replied. “I told them both I didn’t want any drugs, that too many guys I knew had a shitload of bad reactions to ’em. They said, ‘okay, we understand, no drugs.’ Then I had another appointment a few months later, and they handed me a prescription for goddamn pills!”

“What’d they give you?” Dok asked.

Sykes huffed disgustedly. “Trazodone.” He shrugged. “I ended up takin’ ’em, but all they did was fuck me up worse, so I flushed ’em.” He shook his head, thinking back to it. “By then, it was too late. I’d already lost my wife and my kid. I was just in too many dark places for her, I guess. She couldn’t take it anymore, so she took my son and left. I got divorce papers served on me a month later.”

“That’s rough, man,” Dok said. “But let me guess: the pills made you feel like shit and the nightmares they were supposed to handle got more vivid?”

Sykes looked from under his brow at him. “How’d you know that?”

Dok nodded. “Happened to me too, bro. The silence will kill you, man. Nothing worse than the silence inside your own head.”

Arthur’s cell phone suddenly began to vibrate and buzz in his jacket pocket. He apologized for shattering what was turning into a badly needed support group and moved away from the table. Pulling out his phone, he saw the name and tapped Accept. Immediately he heard Margaret Tabaaha’s frantic voice filling his ear.

“Both my sons are dead!” she screamed between sobs. “Someone murdered them! Someone has taken them from me!”