‘I thought that was my job description.’
‘You work for me. I give you your job description. And I’m sure you don’t want an Article 15 sitting in your file, stinking like shit.’
‘For what?’ Daniel’s mouth turns to chalk. ‘I’ve never gone against the code.’
An Article 15 would end his career in the military. He’d never get a promotion; he could even be discharged. Regardless, he’d be disgraced. The humiliation would burn him alive.
But his pride is not the only issue. Mira works at a public university. When Daniel left his job at the hospital, they had more money than they needed, but since then, he and Mira have taken on Gertie’s living expenses. Mira’s mother was diagnosed with cancer, too, and her father with dementia. After her mother died, they moved her father into an assisted living facility whose annual payments have swallowed much of their savings and will continue to do so: her father is sixty-eight and otherwise healthy.
‘For insubordination.’ A wedge of egg white quivers below the colonel’s lower lip. He lifts the tinfoil in which his sandwich was wrapped and folds it in half. ‘For a failure to comply with military standards.’
‘That’s a lie.’
‘I’m a liar?’ asks the colonel, quietly. He still holds the piece of tinfoil, folding it over and over again.
Daniel knows he’s been given an opportunity to correct himself. But the thought of the Article 15 blazes inside him. He is riled by the threat of it, the injustice.
‘Either that or a sheep,’ he says. ‘Doing whatever leadership tells you.’
The colonel stops. He puts the piece of foil, now the size of a business card, in his pocket. Then he rises from his chair and leans over the desk toward Daniel, his palms flat.
‘Your duty is suspended. Two weeks.’
‘Who will do my job?’
‘I’ve got three other guys who can do exactly what you do. That’ll be all.’
Daniel stands. If he salutes, Colonel Bertram will see that his hands are shaking, and so he doesn’t, though he knows this will make his situation much worse.
‘You must think you’re a special fucking snowflake,’ the colonel says as Daniel turns toward the door. ‘A real American hero.’
Daniel walks to the parking lot with his ears ringing. He lets the car warm up and stares at the Leo W. O’Brien Federal Building, a tall glass square that has housed the Albany MEPS since 1974. After a renovation in 1997, Daniel was given an expansive new office on the third floor. Downtown Albany isn’t much to look at, but when Daniel first sat in that office, he was filled with purpose and surety – the sense that his life had been leading up to this moment from the beginning, and that he had arrived here by making a series of smart, strategic choices.
Daniel reverses out of the parking lot and begins the fifty-minute commute to Kingston. What will he tell Mira? Before today, men sought his counsel, asked for his consent: he was an oracle himself. Now, he’s indistinguishable from any other man, like a priest divested of robes.
‘Bastard,’ says Mira, when he slumps into her arms and tells her. ‘I’ve never liked that guy – Bertram? Bertrand? Bastard.’ She rises onto her tiptoes and puts her palms to Daniel’s cheeks. ‘Where are the ethics? Where are the goddamned ethics?’
Outside, the garage light illuminates the woods that border their garden. A deer sniffs at sticks beyond the first scrim of trees. The landscape has turned brown so quickly this year.
‘Use it to your advantage,’ Mira says. ‘We’ll spend the next two weeks building your case. In the meantime, you’ll have a break; think about what you’d like to get out of it.’
Scrolling through Daniel’s mind, as if across a television screen: the list of disqualifying conditions. Ulceration, varices, fistula, achalasia, or other dysmotility disorders. Atresia or severe microtia. Meniere’s syndrome. Dorsiflexion to ten degrees. Absence of great toe(s). On and on – thousands of regulations in all. For women, it’s even more restrictive. Ovarian cysts. Abnormal bleeding. It’s a wonder anyone gets through at all, but then again, it’s also a wonder that most people, despite rising rates of cancer and diabetes and cardiovascular disease, still live to the age of seventy-eight.
‘What are things you’ve been meaning to do?’ Mira continues. She’s trying to be strong, for his sake, but her anxiety is obvious: she always tries to keep busy when she’s worried. ‘You could rebuild the shed. Or get in touch with your family.’
Many years ago, Mira asked, with characteristic straightforwardness, why Daniel wasn’t closer to his siblings.
‘We’re not not close,’ he said.
‘Well, you’re not close,’ said Mira.
‘Sometimes we are,’ said Daniel, though the truth was muddier. There were times he thought of his siblings and felt love sing from him like a shofar, rich with joy and agony and eternal recognition: those three made from the same star stuff as he, those he’d known from the beginning of the beginning. But when he was with them, the smallest infraction made him irreversibly resentful. Sometimes, it was easier to think of them as characters – straitlaced Varya; Klara, dreamy and heedless – than to confront them in all of their off-putting, fully bloomed adulthood: their morning breath and foolish choices, their lives snaking into unfamiliar underbrush.
That night, he drifts into wooziness, then out again. He is thinking of his siblings and of waves, the process of falling asleep not unlike the ocean lapping shore. During one of their New Jersey vacations, Saul took Daniel’s siblings to a movie, but Daniel wanted to swim. He was seven. He and Gertie brought slotted plastic chairs to the beach, and Gertie read a novel while Daniel pretended to be Don Schollander, who had won four medals in Tokyo the year before. When the tide carried Daniel toward the horizon, he let it, electrified by the growing distance between himself and his mother. By the time he grew tired of treading water, he had drifted fifty yards from shore.