“Yeah.” Elliott Young sounded close to tears once more. “He does. Thanks, Pastor.”
After Elliott Young left, Fern sat in deep contemplation in the pantry, her hands clasped around her knees. Then she went upstairs and began writing a love story about a blind girl searching for a soul mate and an ugly prince with a heart of gold.
Iraq
“I would really like to see a woman that wasn't wearing a tent over her head. Just once! And I would appreciate it if she was blonde or even better, redheaded!” Beans moaned one afternoon after guarding a lonely checkpoint for several hours with only a handful of women clad in burkas and children coming through to make them feel useful. Maybe it was ironic that Beans longed for a blonde when he was Hispanic. But he was American, and America had the most diverse population in the world. A little diversity right now would be welcome.
“I'd be happy to never see another burka again.” Grant wiped the sweat and dust from his nose and flinched up at the sun, wishing it would take a break.
“I heard that some guys, especially in places like Afghanistan, don't see their wives at all until after they are married. Can you imagine? Surprise, sweetie!” Jesse batted his eyelashes as he made a hideous face. “What's wrong? Don't you think I'm pretty?” he said in a high falsetto and contorted his face even more.
“So how do they even know who it is they're marrying?” Paulie asked, flummoxed.
“Handwriting,” Beans said seriously. But his nostrils flared slightly, and Ambrose rolled his eyes, knowing that Beans was telling a tale.
“Really?” Paulie gasped, falling like a brick. It wasn't his fault he was so gullible. It came with the sweet temperament.
“Yeah. They write letters back and forth for a year or more. Then at the ceremony, she signs her name along with a promise that she'll always wear her burka in front of other men. He recognizes her handwriting and that’s how he knows it’s her beneath her veil.”
Grant was scowling. “I've never heard anything like that. Handwriting?”
Jesse had caught on and was trying not to laugh. “Yeah. Just think, if Ambrose and Fern had lived in Iraq, he never woulda figured out that it was Fern writing him those letters instead of Rita. Fern could have roped him into marriage. Ambrose would have seen her handwriting at the wedding and said, 'yep, it's Rita, all right!'“
Ambrose's friends howled with laughter, even Paulie, who had finally figured out that it was just a set-up to rib Ambrose about Fern. Again.
Ambrose sighed, his lips twitching. It was pretty funny. Beans was laughing so hard he was wheezing, and he and Jesse were making each other laugh even harder as they reenacted the moment the burka was removed and Fern stood beneath it instead of the buxom blonde, Rita.
Ambrose wondered what his friends would think if they knew he'd kissed Fern. Really kissed her. Knowing full well who he was kissing. No need of subterfuge. Or burkas. He wondered absentmindedly if the burka was such a bad idea. Maybe more guys would make better decisions if they weren't distracted by the packaging. For that matter, maybe guys should wear them too. 'Course, his packaging had always worked in his favor.
He pondered whether Fern would have even wanted him if he was packaged differently. He knew Rita wouldn't have. Not because she wasn't a nice enough girl, but because they had nothing in common. Take away the mutual physical attraction, and they had nothing.
With Fern, there was a possibility of a lot more. At least, the letters made him think there could be more. The tour was up in two months. He decided when he got home he would find out. And his friends would never let him hear the end of it. They would torment him for the rest of his life. He sighed and checked his weapon for the umpteenth time, wishing the day would end.
It was just a routine patrol--five army vehicles taking a turn around the southern part of the city. Ambrose was at the wheel of the last Humvee, Paulie in the passenger seat beside him. Grant was driving the vehicle in front of Ambrose, Jesse riding shotgun, Beans in the turret--the last two vehicles in the small convoy of five.
Just out for a routine patrol. Out for an hour, back to base. Up and down the crumbling, embattled streets of Baghdad along the assigned route. Paulie was singing the song he'd made up about Oz. “Iraq may not have munchkins, but it sure as hell has sand. I haven't got my girlfriend, but I've still got my hand . . .”
Suddenly, a group of kids were running along the side of the road, shrieking and running their fingers across their throats. Little boys and girls of various ages, shoeless, limbs slim and brown, clothing leached of color in the simmering heat. Running, yelling. At least six of them.
“What are they doing?” Ambrose grunted, confused. “Are they doing what I think they're doing? Do you think they hate us that much? They want our throats slashed? They're just kids!”
“I don't think that's what they're doing.” Paulie turned, watching the kids fall back as the convoy passed. “I think they were warning us.” He had stopped singing, and his face was still, contemplative.
Ambrose checked his rearview mirror. The kids had stopped running and stood in the road unmoving. They grew smaller as the convoy continued down the road, but they remained in the street, watching. Ambrose turned his attention back to the road in front of them. Except for the convoy, it was completely empty, abandoned. Not a single soul in sight. They would turn the corner on the next street, circle around the block, and head back to base.