Beyond the Point(14)
Before they could unload their luggage from the car, the front door opened, and a petite woman with short brunette hair stepped outside. She wore dark jeans and a casual white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, like she’d been washing dishes just before they’d arrived. As for makeup, Wendy Bennett didn’t seem to wear much—mascara laced her lashes; a natural shade of mauve lipstick graced her lips. She smiled and waved.
“Come on in!” Wendy shouted. Her voice carried a slight Southern accent, the likes of which Hannah hadn’t expected to hear this far north of the Mason-Dixon Line. “Y’all must be exhausted.”
Wendy looked nothing like Martha Stewart, Hannah decided, but was a dead ringer for Sally Field, with the same bright eyes, high cheekbones, and easy smile that had made her America’s sweetheart. But as soon as Hannah crossed the threshold, she realized why Sarah had made the comparison.
The Bennetts’ house oozed comfort and gentility. Antiques graced every room, complemented by inviting upholstery. The house smelled like a cake was finishing in the oven, all sugar and butter and vanilla. Hannah caught herself breathing in the scent and feeling surprisingly at ease in this stranger’s house.
In a flash of hospitality, Wendy took drink orders, showed Hannah’s parents to a guest room, directed Hannah and Emily to another spare bedroom, and arranged three different kinds of cheese on a platter. Later, even Hannah’s father, Bill, seemed relaxed, sipping a beer and helping Colonel Bennett tend the grill. Breathing in the scent of charcoal and grass in the Bennetts’ well-manicured backyard, Hannah tried not to let her nerves about the following morning spoil her last night of summer. But every ten minutes, a wave of nausea crashed on her stomach, reminding her that the time was ticking away, bringing her closer to the end of one life and the beginning of another.
“How are you doing?” Wendy asked as Hannah refilled a glass of water at the sink. The cake was iced now, waiting to be cut. “Are you nervous?”
Hannah considered lying. She imagined shrugging her shoulders and pretending that everything was fine. But seeing the look of honest concern in Wendy’s eyes, she exhaled instead.
“Completely,” admitted Hannah. “I doubt I’ll sleep at all tonight.”
Wendy nodded, pursed her lips in a way that communicated deep understanding, then reached out and touched Hannah’s arm, as if they’d known each another for much longer than a few hours.
“I want you to know that if you need anything—and I mean anything—all you have to do is ask,” Wendy said. She grabbed a scrap piece of paper and wrote her phone number on it. “I know we just met. But I mean it.”
“Okay,” Hannah replied, receiving the paper from Wendy’s hand. She folded it, tucked it in her pocket. “Thanks.”
“Now,” Wendy said, clapping her hands together. “How about cake?”
WHEN THEY LEFT the Bennetts’ house the following morning, bellies full of homemade cinnamon rolls and strong coffee, the Speers walked across a stone bridge that traversed Lusk Reservoir and ended right at the entrance to Michie Stadium. Hannah shifted her black duffel bag on her shoulder, feeling the weight of everything she’d packed. It struck Hannah then that aside from bras and underwear, she hadn’t brought any clothes. Unlike other college students who arrived to school with bedding and lamps and decor to “liven up” a dorm room, candidates for West Point showed up with nothing but the clothes on their back and faith that all of their needs would be met.
Ignoring the sound of yelling already coming from the other side, Hannah led her family beyond the stadium’s stone facade, though its iron gates, and toward the beginning of the rest of her life.
4
Summer 2000 // West Point, New York
Dani lay prostrate on the ground, her finger wrapped around the trigger of an M16.
Movies make this look easy, she thought, feeling frustration crawl up her spine. Her elbows dug into the soft ground, along with a vertical pistol grip, creating a tripod for the weapon. She had to keep her knees, hips, and abs engaged to hold her body straight, low to the ground, and yet upright enough to see the target and shoot with accuracy. It was far harder than she’d anticipated. Any time she pulled the trigger, the kickback pummeled into her shoulder. She had bruises.
“Miss,” a voice said above her as the bullet whizzed past the target, wide by several inches. “It might help if you open your eyes, McNalley.”
“And it might help if you shut your mouth, Nesmith,” Dani replied.
She wiped her dirty hands against the legs of her green and brown combat uniform and let her platoon mate help her up. Eighteen, with dark hair buzzed completely to the scalp, Tim Nesmith had quickly become Dani’s favorite person in their platoon, and one of the few reasons she hadn’t quit. Had she been attracted to the all-American look, Dani might have had a crush on him. But she’d seen him pee in the woods more times than she could count, which meant that Tim had moved firmly into the friend zone. During breaks, Tim would lounge against the trunk of a tree, in the shade. He spent half the time sleeping; during the other half, he and Dani drilled one another on the inane definitions they’d been told to memorize out of a book called Bugle Notes.
“Definition of leather.”
Tim would pause before saying, “‘If the fresh skin of an animal, cleaned and’ . . . oh God . . .”