Dear Edward(36)

11:16 A.M.

The solid gray sky grows heavier and starts to spit rain. The water is light, colorless, tapping the exterior of the plane. Wipers are activated in the cockpit, and the small oval windows that line the vehicle are washed. Rain is inconsequential to a commercial aircraft, but the fact that precipitation is beating the windows at full altitude means today’s rain clouds are unusually high and dense. Clouds usually float at 2,000 to 15,000 feet. Planes fly at 30,000 to 40,000. Outer space begins at 300,000.

Passengers turn their attention to the weather. The raindrops and gloomy sky make some people feel sleepy, and they close the books they’ve been struggling with. They give their chairs a hard look, as if hoping to discover a magic button that might turn the narrow, unforgiving seat into something resembling their bed at home.

Benjamin closes his eyes and stops fighting the memory. This feels like giving up, and he hates to give up, but he’s both exhausted and six-cups-of-coffee awake, and there’s nowhere else to send his mind. The family across the aisle has gone silent; the father’s asleep.

It was quiet for an entire month before the fight, which meant everyone in camp was bored out of their skulls. Weapons had been cleaned and recleaned; video games were played at all hours; guys even looked forward to midnight patrol, just to have something to do. There were rumors of an Afghan attack, but it never happened, and Benjamin had found himself standing at the edge of camp, staring into the woods, confusing trees with men. When there was wind, the branches waved like arms, and he grabbed at his weapon.

He and Gavin and another white boy, whom everyone called Jersey, were on the late-afternoon patrol. There had been more rumors that day, this time about three groups joining forces for an ambush. The mess had run out of fruit and vegetables and the delivery wouldn’t arrive until the next morning, and Benjamin felt like he was composed of gummy cornflakes, oatmeal, and hamburgers. His tongue felt funny in his mouth.

“Stop sighing,” Gavin said. “You’re making me nervous.”

“I’m not sighing.” Benjamin was surprised by the comment, as if Gavin had told him he’d been picking his nose.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jersey said. He was the kind of guy who never knew what to say and had figured out that shut the fuck up was a safe choice. He repeated it in varying tones depending on the occasion: sincere, ironic, angry. This time, he sounded bored.

“You were sighing,” Gavin said. “All day you’ve been sighing. When we were brushing our teeth this morning, you were sighing into the mirror.”

Benjamin stopped walking. He gave Gavin the look that he knew, from experience, scared the shit out of almost everyone. He’d learned it from Lolly; he’d seen her giving it to Crazy Luther on the corner. He had never seen the look on his own face, but he knew it was mean and full of threat. It was a look that ended conversations.

“I did not sigh.”

Jersey whistled, the second of his three stock responses. His complete I-just-want-to-get-to-the-end-of-this-tour-alive repertoire was: shut the fuck up, a low whistle, and motherfucker.

Gavin didn’t look intimidated. He said, “You sighed.”

Benjamin and Gavin stared each other down, the word sighed in the air like a bubble in a cartoon strip. Benjamin would have staked everything on the fact that he had not sighed. If he’d ever sighed, and he’s not sure he ever had, it would have been in private.

“What did you say?” he said.

“Hey, motherfuckers,” Jersey said, in a placating tone.

“I said you sighed. Maybe you were sad.” Gavin kicked at the dirt. It hadn’t rained in weeks. They’d been besieged by dry peace. “It’s fucking sad out here, after all.”

Benjamin felt his insides flood, like a bad engine, with hot red steam. He lunged at Gavin, grabbed him by the shirt, and threw him. The soldier went a fair distance and then rolled to a stop. His glasses were no longer on his face. Gavin clambered up, dropped into a sprinter’s stance, and came at Benjamin. He moved like a small locomotive. He hit Benjamin in his midsection and knocked the wind out of him.

Benjamin sucked the air, incredulous. He moved outside himself. He thought, in some distant part of his brain, that he might be dreaming. In the dream, he lurched at Gavin, lifted him up, and then shoved him to the ground. There was a sound when Gavin’s head hit the dirt.

In the distance now, Jersey was shouting, “Motherfuckers! Get your asses over here—Stillman’s gonna kill Gavin!”

Benjamin dove as if he were a baseball player aiming for home plate. He pressed Gavin to the dry earth. He stared him down and tried to come up with words. Words that would intimidate him, get him to apologize. Get him to admit that Benjamin had never sighed, would never, ever sigh.

He stared at Gavin’s blue eyes and freshly shaven chin, and the red warmth inside him rolled over into something new. Something powerful, something he had no control over. It felt like an internal wall had exploded into pebbles and rocks of every size. Each rock was a desire; he was a beach of itchy, terrible needs. He wanted fresh salads and nice sneakers and an end to this constant fear of death, and he wanted to touch Gavin’s cheek to see how soft it was. He could do that. He heard the trample of boots shaking the ground as soldiers approached. Benjamin leaned forward; he was only inches from Gavin’s face.

If the guys hadn’t pulled Benjamin off Gavin at that moment, he would have done something weird. He knew it, and from the look on his face, Gavin knew it too. Benjamin got up quickly, forced his features into a forbidding expression, and took off. He hid in the forest for hours, shaking. When he crept into his bunk after midnight, he heard someone whisper through the dark tent: faggot. Two weeks later, sleep-starved, marching a few steps behind the rest of his patrol, he was shot in the side.