The static crackled and climbed, distracting him. He cleared his throat.
“Jimmy was a very good Marine. When there was fighting, you were glad he was there. But for Jimmy, that wasn’t a sergeant’s real job. His real job was to understand the men he commanded. To protect them. To keep everybody alive while they did their job. He was my second in command for two long deployments. I only knew him for a few years, but he was my best friend in the Corps.” He blinked. “In the world.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “James and I didn’t talk about the war after he came home. Maybe he was afraid of what I would think of him. He joined up after Nine-Eleven, to fight the Taliban. He wanted to defend our country. But he ended up in Iraq, fighting the wrong war.”
She looked at Peter. “Maybe you don’t agree with that,” she said. “But he loved the men he worked with. He talked about returning to school so he could get a job at the VA. He wanted to help his men after they got home, too.”
“He would have been good at it,” said Peter. “He was smart. And Jimmy—well, you know what a big guy he was, and with body armor, a helmet and an M4, he was huge. He was intimidating as hell, is what he was.”
Peter stared into the darkness, remembering.
“Until he smiled. When he cracked that wide, goofy smile at a checkpoint or a neighborhood meeting, everybody else would smile, too. The civilians, the soldiers. Hell, the whole Mahdi Army. That smile was contagious. You just knew, seeing it, that he would be a good friend if you let him. Everybody liked him. Which made all of us safer. The platoon. The civilians. The women and children down the street.”
Peter looked over at Dinah Johnson. She sat very still in her green hospital scrubs, her back straight and proud, her untouched plate steaming on the table, while the tears slid slowly down her cheeks.
After a moment she stood and went to fill the coffeemaker.
Peter finished his meal while the static rose and the room got smaller and his chest felt like it was wrapped in steel bands.
—
She came over with two white china mugs and the coffeepot. “Do you take cream or sugar?”
Then she looked at him. Her eyes on his face, his posture. The way he twitched in his chair.
“Did I say something?”
“It’s nothing.” He shook his head, and the simple motion made his vision blur, just for a moment. It was like sparks were coming out of his ears. Part of him was surprised they didn’t light up the room. “I should go.” He stood and took his jacket off the chairback and walked to the door.
“Lieutenant? Is something the matter?”
He opened the ruined door and walked down the steps as the cool night air washed over him. The stars were dim in the ambient light of the city, but still they shone overhead. His shoulders dropped and his chest began to open.
She watched him from the doorway for a long moment. Peter was ready to leave when she said, “Stay right there.”
She disappeared inside, but left the door open. Peter took deep breaths.
When she returned, she wore her long wool coat and carried the two mugs steaming in the night air. “It’s decaf,” she said.
She sat on the steps, her mug on her knee. Peter stood in the yard, listening to the wind in the trees, feeling his breath come more easily.
“Thank you,” he said.
For the food, for the kindness. For not asking questions.
“You’re welcome.” She lifted her mug. “Drink up before it gets cold.”
They drank their coffee in silence.
“Listen,” Peter finally said. “About that suitcase.”
“No.” She shook her head sharply. “Take it with you, or give it away. I don’t care what you do with it. But I don’t want it in this house.”
Peter nodded. “I understand that,” he said. “But what happens if the person who left it under your porch comes back for it?”
He didn’t mention the plastic-wrapped rectangles.
He didn’t want to worry her more than she already was.
She watched the steam rise from her cup. Peter could see the wheels turning behind her eyes. She was the kind of person who wore her thoughts on her face, if you paid attention.
He said, “If that person sees the porch has been fixed, won’t he wonder about his money? And won’t you want to have it here, to return to him?”
She warmed her hands on her mug and took a sip before looking up at him. The pale blue of her eyes was startling.
“It must have been James’s money,” she said. “I can’t think of how else it might have gotten there.” She shook her head, looking down at her coffee. “That’s not honest money. All those crisp, new hundred-dollar bills.”
If it truly was Jimmy’s money. But Jimmy was the most honest man Peter had ever met.
He said, “So I should turn it over to the police?”
Dinah didn’t say anything.
“Why shouldn’t that money be yours?” said Peter. “Think of it like winning the lottery. Pay off your house. Pay for college for your boys. Save the rest for a rainy day.”