Beyond the Point(63)

PULLING INTO HER driveway that evening, Hannah grabbed all of her gear out of her car and hauled it toward the front door—purse, PT bag, two empty plastic water bottles, accumulated over the last few days. It was always sad to come home to an empty house, lights off and eerily quiet. She’d started turning on the television as soon as she got home, just to have the sound of other people’s voices to keep her company. But tonight felt particularly lonely. Last year, she’d been at Sapper School on her birthday, and Sergeant Moretti had led the entire mess hall in singing. He’d even procured a grocery store cupcake that he’d marked with a sloppy 22, in blue icing.

Tonight, Hannah’s plans included eating the rubbery leftover salmon that she’d overcooked the night before, drinking a glass of wine, and tucking in early. After all, she had to be back at work at 0600 for PT in the morning. Her sister, Emily, had sent a bouquet of tulips to work. A card from Wendy Bennett had arrived in the mail the day before, stuffed with a $50 gift card to J.Crew—and her parents had sent exactly what she’d asked for: a small digital camera that she could take with her to Afghanistan. Other than Tim’s phone call from New Orleans, she hadn’t received anything from him in the mail. But that was okay. She couldn’t expect him to send her a present for her birthday when he was busy saving lives.

Opening the door, she shuffled into the dark and put her bags on the ground. Flipping the light switch Hannah looked up toward the kitchen and gasped. A mass of people, standing beneath a silver banner, shouted, “Surprise!”

The crowd of familiar faces made Hannah laugh, even though they’d scared her half to death. Avery stood front and center, holding a cake. There were a few couples from church, all hooting and clapping. One of Tim’s friends from West Point, Erik Jenkins, stood on the stairs with his pregnant wife, Michelle, who was holding a laptop computer face-out toward Hannah. On the screen, she saw Tim, alight with glee. The picture blurred as he laughed, leaning back in a chair.

“What in the world!” Hannah said. “You scared the crap out of me!”

“Are you surprised?” Avery asked.

“I nearly peed my pants! Was this your idea?”

Avery shook her head and pointed toward the computer screen.

“Happy birthday, babe,” Tim said. The image was grainy and imperfect, his voice choppy from a bad connection, but she could still see the deep dimple imprinted in his right cheek. “I love you so much. We all do.”

From: Dani McNalley <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Update

Date: September 2, 2005 06:32:15 PM GMT +01:00

To: Avery Adams <[email protected]>

(1) How was Napa? Tell me everything.

(2) We really need to see each other.

I’ve been trying to figure out a way to get us all together. Would you want to come up to Boston for Thanksgiving? I have a bunch of frequent flyer miles, so I’m flying my mom, dad, and brother up here. I asked Hannah and Tim, too. And Locke, of course.

I’ll have a big turkey and some desserts. It will be amazing. I feel like we need a reunion so bad!! Apparently Thanksgiving up here is a big deal, too. If we want, we can drive up to Plymouth Rock or something equally American. Or we can all just stay here and eat until we’re sick. Which is also American.

I really want you to come. Like I said, flight’s on me. Will you think about it??

Also, I just talked to Sarah Goodrich. She’s deploying to Iraq tomorrow. Thought you’d want to know.

Love you,

D

From: Avery Adams <[email protected]>

Subject: Re: Re: Re: **Update

Date: September 3, 2005 13:27 PM EST +01:00

To: Dani McNalley <[email protected]>

FINALLY! A cult reunion! It’s about time.

I’m totally in. And . . . feel free to say no . . . but would it be okay if I invited Noah?

A





16


Fall 2005 // Jamaica Plain, Boston, Massachusetts

A man stood under the drizzle of a warm shower in his apartment, wearing a pair of navy swim trunks. Coarse hair formed the shape of a heart on his chest and narrowed into a thin trail down his stomach. With broad shoulders and large arms, he was bulky and strong, Dani assessed, with hair cut short and an accent that proved he was definitely a local. Boston became Bwaston. Coffee became cwahfee. Shampoo bubbled around the edges of his temple, threatening to spill over the edge of his raised eyebrow.

“Am I doing okay?” he asked.

“Just pretend I’m not here,” Dani instructed. She pulled the shower curtain open a little more.

The guy laughed. “You going to take me out to dinner, at least?”

“If you play your cards right.”

“Well at least tell me something about you, so I don’t feel so . . . exposed.”

“Unfortunately that’s not how this works. I get to ask the questions, and right now I don’t have any. So just . . . keep on showering.”

Since she’d been hired at E & G, Dani McNalley had completed sixty consumer interviews like this in twenty U.S. cities; she’d logged thirty-five interviews in Europe. The research was fascinating. Men would complete their morning routines and, without even knowing it, provide Dani with little nuggets of insight to take back to the office. Most men kept their shampoo bottles upside down in the shower, to more efficiently squeeze a dollop into their hand. In Europe, men still used a soft-bristled brush to apply shaving cream. In America, men slapped it on with their bare hands, and if they used after shave, they put it on like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone. While washing their bodies, two-thirds of men faced the showerhead; the other third faced away. She hadn’t figured out why that was significant, but it felt meaningful. Perhaps the ones facing away from the water had some psychological reason to avoid the heat.