Home Front(54)

And then: September Eleventh.

That day had changed the course of Keith’s life. He’d had a friend on Flight 93, a classmate who had gone east to check out colleges. When Keith heard about the crash, and the sudden, unexpected danger of terrorism on American soil, he’d enlisted in the Marines.

He was that kind of guy, Ed had said, shaking his head. Keith wanted to be part of the solution.

So off Keith went to boot camp and then to war. He’d done two tours in Iraq, and with each return, Ed said he saw less of the boy he’d raised.

Michael flipped through the research his team had put together. Keith had been in the Sunni triangle, one of the deadliest regions of the war. Roadside bombs hit my brigade at least twice a day, every day, for a year, Keith had said. That’s a lot of shit blowing up around you. A lot of your friends dying … when I got home, sounds were the worst. When someone slammed a door or a car backfired, I hit the ground. Sudden light could totally freak me out.

Michael sat back. Why was it he hadn’t known all this, about the deaths and the devastation, about the wounds our soldiers were suffering? This was 2005, for God’s sake. The war had been going on for a while. The truth should have been more apparent. The nightly news should have been showing images of flag-draped coffins being carried onto cargo jets, of heroes coming home in boxes.

He got up, walked away from the table. The Keller case was beginning to trouble him deeply, and not for the usual reasons. The more he read about his client, the more he worried about Jolene.

He grabbed a Corona from the fridge, popped its cap, and went out to stand on the porch. There, he touched the fraying white wicker back of the chair beside him. Why get new furniture? Jolene had said when they’d found this chair abandoned by the side of the road. Back then, they’d had more love than money, and he’d been unable to deny her anything, even a crappy used chair. I want a chair that tells a story.

The night was quiet around him. Somewhere, a coyote howled; it was a mournful, elegiac sound.

On the road below, a bicycle turned onto the Flynns’ driveway—Seth. Michael had a sudden memory of years ago, when Betsy and Seth had ridden their bikes together constantly, and Jolene had worried so much …

Michael waved at Seth.

Seth saw him and pedaled from one driveway to the other.

“Hey, Seth,” Michael said as the kid rode into the light thrown by the fixtures at the garage. As always, Seth looked thin and odd, with his flat cheeks and straight black hair. Tonight he was dressed all in black. Not a great idea when biking at night.

He got off his bike, held it beside him. “Hey, Mr. Z.”

“How are you, Seth?”

The kid shrugged. “Fine, I guess. My grandma’s staying with me. She rented a movie for tonight. It’s probably G-rated and stars a talking dog. Dad had to go to Ellensburg this week for some car part. Is Betsy still at kayak camp?”

Michael nodded. “’Til Sunday.”

“Oh.”

Michael frowned. “You want a Coke?”

Seth grinned, showing off his braces. “Rad.”

Michael took that as a yes and went inside for a soda. When he returned to the porch, Seth was leaning back against the railing; his bike lay on its side in the gravel driveway.

Michael sat down. He should have known this kid really well—he had been around forever; once, he and Betsy had been inseparable—but honestly, Michael had barely shared ten words with Seth in all the years he’d been coming around. It was like with Carl. Michael just didn’t have much in common with them. Until now.

“So, Seth, what’s the deal with you and Betsy? One day you guys were thick as thieves, and the next thing I knew you were gone.”

“She started hanging with some girls—I call ’em the bitchwolves. Sierra and Zoe. They think I’m a loser. I guess Betsy agrees now.”

Michael frowned. “I don’t think she’d say that.”

“Think again,” Seth mumbled. “I’m not the most popular kid in school.”

“Neither was I,” Michael said. “And the quarterback—Jerry Lundberg, by the way—is doing time. High school was probably the highlight of his life.”

Seth took a drink of Coke. Then he said, “There was a bombing yesterday. I saw it on CNN. A helicopter went down. Did you know that when one of our soldiers is killed, they shut down communications on base until the relatives can be notified? I was, like, waiting for a call. They’re fine though.”

Michael had been in court all day. He hadn’t watched the news when he got home. “I didn’t know,” he said, his voice tight.

“Mom keeps sending me these pictures of her and Jo. They’re like vacation photos; girls just want to have fun. She thinks I’m stupid.”

“No,” Michael said quietly. “That’s not the reason.”

Seth looked at him. “My dad says we need to believe she’ll be fine and she will be.”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing down at his half-empty beer.

“I’m afraid I’ll forget her.”

Michael looked away. He understood how that could happen, how you could forget someone. Hadn’t he done it himself, hadn’t he forgotten Jolene while she was standing right beside him?

Michael didn’t realize how long he’d been silent, but then Seth cleared his throat and said, “Thanks for the Coke, Mr. Z. I better get home. My grandma calls the National Guard when I’m late—and in our family, that’s no joke. She calls Ben Lomand, and he chews me out.”