I pulled into the parking lot of the detention center in West Valley and sat in my Jeep, with the keys still in the ignition. At the café across the street, lightbulbs glowed, trapped inside the barred windows. Two people came out and chatted on the sidewalk for a few minutes before heading off in different directions. There was time yet to turn back. Go home. Let Fierro sit in jail and learn a lesson. No one would blame me for that. But in an unsettling way, I knew I was only stalling; I knew I would turn off the engine and go inside and fill out the forms.
An hour later, Fierro came out of central holding. There were shadows under his eyes and his skin was pale, but his eyes were as piercing as ever. Because of a backlog of cases, he hadn’t been brought before a judge until the day before, when bail was set, so he’d spent four nights at West Valley. At the counter, he signed his name on a form and was handed a Ziploc bag that contained his keys and wallet. If he was surprised to see me waiting, he gave no indication. Without pausing to shake hands, he walked past me through the double doors and stood outside for a minute, trying to find his bearings. It was late in the afternoon. A pair of birds chased each other from perch to perch on the eucalyptus trees. The smell of coffee and meat drifted from the restaurant across the street. “Let’s get outta here,” he said. Only when we got inside the Jeep did he seem to relax. “Thanks for posting my bail.”
On the radio the traffic report had started, but I turned the volume all the way down so he could hear me. “You’re welcome. But here comes the fine print.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re going to therapy.”
Fierro was buckling his seat belt, but he stopped midair. “Fuck, no.”
“No?”
“I’m not dealing with the VA again.” He clicked his seat belt into place. “They made me wait five months for my new hearing aid, and I still can’t get it to work right.”
“This isn’t through the VA. It’s through the community center. A support group for people with anger-management issues. I heard about it from Stratton. One of his buddies runs it.”
“You want me to go to therapy with a fucking amateur?”
“He’s not an amateur, you dumb fuck. He has a master’s degree, he knows what he’s doing, and he’s supposed to be really good. Hell, I’ll even go with you, all right?”
“I’m not going to sit around with a bunch of people moaning and bitching about their feelings. Can we just get out of this place already?”
I started the car and eased out of the parking lot onto the street. At the first light, I pulled out a Marlboro from my pack. It was my third cigarette of the day. Or maybe my fourth. Anyway, I was making progress. It couldn’t be harder to quit than liquor and I’d never looked back once I’d set my mind to it. I took a deep drag, savoring my cigarette all the more because I wouldn’t have another one again that day. Fierro lowered the passenger-side window to let out the smoke. “That stuff’ll kill ya,” he said.
“All men must die.”
“All men must serve,” he said with a grin. After a moment, he turned to me again. “But, seriously, how can you put those toxins in your body? I don’t get it.”
“Clean-living tips from Dr. Fierro. What else you got for me?”
“Just that.” He sniffed. “And stay away from crazy bitches.”
We were about to get on the 10. I waited until I’d merged onto the freeway before I spoke again. “She’s probably going to file a restraining order against you.”
“Who, Mary? I wasn’t planning on seeing her.”
“I hope you mean that, man. You need to leave her alone. For good this time.”
“I already signed the divorce papers.”
“Is that true?”
“Why would I lie? I did it right after I smashed that damn car.”
“All right. Good. First session is next Thursday, by the way.”
“You serious about this support group bullshit?”
“?’Course I’m serious. You need help.”
“Dude, when you start to nag, you sound just like Mary. You know that?”
“Yeah, well. Maybe you should’ve listened to her.”
For the rest of the drive home Fierro remained quiet. Even when we drove past the windmills, he didn’t make his usual joke. Q: How do windmills feel about renewable energy? A: They’re big fans! When we got to his apartment building, he flipped down the passenger-side mirror and ran his hands through his greasy hair, smoothing it down. At Camp Taqaddum, he used to stand in front of the small mirror in the showers and wrap a bandanna around his head, pulling it all the way to his eyebrows. It was the only way to keep the sweat from running down his face in a continuous stream when we were out on patrol. We went on dozens of them together, lost a buddy in them, but it wasn’t a patrol that got us. It was an escort run, just a week before the end of our last tour, when we were told to take an Iraqi minister by the name of Dr. Jaber to a meeting on the west side of Ramadi. He was in charge of restoring parts of the electricity grid that had been destroyed during the invasion, but in the eight months he had been meeting with American contractors they had yet to agree on a plan. It was a Monday morning in May, I remember, the temperature already reaching the high nineties, though no one in our unit minded it. We were eager to get through our final few shifts and much of our conversation while we waited for the minister was about what we’d do once we were back stateside. Go to bars. Meet girls. Swim in a pool. Forget all that, Hec said. I want to move someplace where it rains and where I never have to see anyone.
After the meeting, we drove Dr. Jaber back on Route Michigan. The road ahead was white with sunlight. Sitting at the turret, I squinted against the glare, even through my Ray-Bans. From somewhere down the street came the creaking of a bread cart and the laughter of children. And then, just like that, I was flying ten feet into the air, my rifle spinning out of my arms, a piece of shrapnel lodged in my back. Everything went black. The next thing I remember was the taste of gravel dust in my mouth and Fierro screaming at the top of his lungs: I got you, Gorecki, I got you. He hoisted me over his back and carried me out of the ditch where I’d landed. Only later, when I woke up at the clinic, did I learn that he had a blown eardrum.
He flipped the passenger-side mirror closed. “Wanna get a drink?”
“Not tonight.”
“What? I smell that bad?”
“A shower wouldn’t kill you. But no, I’m just tired.”
“All right. Thanks again, dude.”
I pulled out of the lot and headed home. A heaviness had settled on me, the kind that I knew would keep me up all night. Maybe I should go on a hike, I thought. Tire myself out. Clear my mind. I drove past my street corner and continued down the highway toward the national park. I was waiting at a red light when I saw Nora walk into McLean’s.
Nora
I had gone to the cabin to escape squabbles with my family, but the cabin presented a challenge of its own: it was so quiet that it seemed to me I could hear the beating of my own heart. I wasn’t used to the desert, at least not anymore, and after a while I got into my car and went looking for a place to get a drink. I’d never been inside McLean’s, and it surprised me to see how busy it was at barely six in the evening. I took a seat at the bar. A couple of tourists in hiking clothes and wide-brimmed hats were huddled over a single menu, debating whether to get plain or garlic fries. Three seats down, a man in blue overalls was scratching at a lottery ticket with a house key. Across from me, a couple of bearded men were conversing quietly over their beers. The bartender was mixing cocktails and didn’t look up when I tried to catch his eye.
“Nora,” a voice called from behind.
I swiveled on the barstool and my purse fell out of my lap, spilling its contents—keys, mace, some change, a tube of lipstick I didn’t remember buying, an enameled pill box, my cell phone. It was a fantastic mess and Jeremy Gorecki stood over it, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he said, picking up my things from the floor. “I didn’t mean to startle you like that.”
“It’s okay.” I took the purse from him and zipped it up. “What are you doing here?”
“I was about to get some dinner. Want to get a table?”