Dear Edward(62)

He’d kept his mouth shut but thought: I love this place. This place is home.

Maybe he can devote himself to the service of this old lady. He could clock in and out of the desk job, recruiting new grunts and completing their paperwork, and spend his money and free time on Lolly. They could go to the movies. Lolly likes jigsaw puzzles—she always has one spread out on the kitchen table; he could buy her a brand-new one every week, so she doesn’t have to keep redoing the frayed, incomplete sets she bought at the dime store. They could drive to the ocean, which is only a few miles from where she lives but which no one in their neighborhood ever visits, as if the great blue sea isn’t there for them.

One of the boys from across the aisle—the younger brother—walks toward him and then comes to a stop.

“Are you waiting for the bathroom?” the boy asks.

Benjamin shakes his head.

“Oh,” the boy says, and sticks his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Can I ask—are you in the army?”

The kid is skinny, with a worried expression and a mess of dark hair. He’s probably about the same age Benjamin was when he was dropped off at military boarding school. Benjamin didn’t know shit at that age. The oldest boys made fun of him that first semester, and though he knew their intentions were mean-spirited, Benjamin couldn’t make sense of the insults. They were mocking him, but which part? Luckily, he had a growth spurt over Christmas break and came back thirty pounds heavier than any kid his age, so they left him alone.

But he’d never figured out that interpersonal language. He’d done well on every academic test but remained stupid socially. If he had been savvier, he would have put himself on the officer path and found his way to West Point. Mostly white boys went there, but to make their numbers, the army was always on the lookout for enterprising young men of color. But Benjamin never shook the right hand, or even knew the right hand to shake. He kept his mouth shut throughout high school and was funneled directly into basic training afterward. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’d confused his own thoughts to the point that he had no idea who he was or what he wanted. He pictures Gavin and feels a deep ache.

“I’m leaving the army,” he says, and the sadness inside him morphs into incredulity. He says it again, but more loudly. He wants to hear what the words sound like in the air. “I’m leaving the army. I’m on my way home.”

The boy nods, like this makes sense. Does this make sense? How can this make sense? He has no expertise, no experience outside the military. He can handle a .50-caliber rifle better than almost anyone, march impeccably in formation, and walk through a forest wearing a seventy-five-pound pack without making a sound. Are those skills applicable to civilian life?

The boy says, “It must be really stressful, knowing you could die at any time.”

It is, Benjamin thinks, as if this too is a new idea.

He considers the boy. It feels like so long ago that he was that young. “You’re in school?”

“Kind of. My dad homeschools my brother and me.”

Benjamin gives a smile so small no one else would identify it as such. “What’s your name?”

“Eddie.”

“I’m Benjamin.”

“I should …” The boy points at the bathroom door. “It was nice to meet you. Sir.” He adds the last word as an afterthought.

“You too, Eddie.” Benjamin watches the boy walk into one of the bathrooms and lock the door.

Linda tracks the mousier flight attendant as she makes her way down the aisle with a trash bag. Hurry up, she thinks. Please hurry up. She’s trapped by the foul-smelling, untouched food on her tray. She wants it gone. She wants the gray sky gone and a blue sky in its place. She wants Florida, and her encroaching mass, gone. She wants off this plane. She imagines her moment of exit: seeing Gary waiting with a bouquet of flowers in the center of a crowd of strangers. It’s the moment featured in nearly every romantic movie. The girl exits the plane looking lipsticked, dewy, well rested. The man’s eyes light up at the sight of her.

Linda looks down. Her clothes, so crisp when she put them on, now look dingy and faintly gray. Her hands are chapped from the dry air. Her hair—she puts her hand up to touch it and immediately brushes against a rough spot—is undoubtedly not at its best. She imagines Gary’s eyes widening in dismay. The flowers wilting.

“What do you think she does for a living?” Florida says.

“Who?”

Florida points to the sleeping woman on Linda’s right, who is still draped in a blue scarf.

“I envy people who can sleep like that,” Florida says. “I’ve had insomnia for as long as I can remember.”

“She must be really tired,” Linda says. “Maybe she works two jobs and never gets enough rest.”

Florida narrows her eyes, as if making a mathematical calculation. “Nope. Her shoes are expensive. My guess is that she’s overtired from trying to satisfy multiple boyfriends. It’s exhausting to lead that kind of secretive life, not to mention have that much sex.”

Linda laughs, an openmouthed hiccup.

“Sweetheart,” Florida says.

“What?”

“You should laugh more. What a wonderful sound.”

“Shhhh,” Linda says. “You’ll wake her.”