Captured(29)

“I bet it has been. It’s a big place. Lots to do.”

“Yeah.”

“Not many people could’ve done it, I think. Kept going, the way you have.” I’m not sure whether he’s talking about the farm anymore.

“Not much choice. Give up, or keep going, you know? Those were my only choices. And once Tommy was born, it’s turned into a routine I can’t get out of. You just…get up, do what you have to do. Don’t think about the next day, or the huge list of things still to be done. There’s no time off on a farm.”

Derek hangs his arm out the window. “War is the same, in some ways. Do what you gotta do. I don’t think about it too much, and I try not to think about what I’ve done, or what the pencil-dicks up the chain are gonna ask for next. You just…do the job. Patrol. Keep your eyes peeled, watch your buddy’s back. Obey orders and keep your head down. Try to have some fun when you get a few hours of liberty.”

He rests his head back on the seat, stares off into space, at the trees lining the road. “It’s funny, I haven’t thought about life as a Marine in a long time. I don’t feel like a soldier anymore. For…so long, it’s what I was. It was my identity: Corporal Derek West, United States Marine. Now? I don’t even know anymore…who I am, what I am.”

“Are they going to try to make you go back? I mean, are you discharged?”

“I don’t know, officially. I do know I won’t go back. Fuck that. Fuck the Corps. Fuck Afghanistan. Fuck war. They’ll have to drag me back in cuffs. And I wouldn’t survive the first SNAFU. I’m twitchy. Jumpy. I’m in horrible shape.” He shakes his head. “No. I’m not going back.”

“I don’t blame you.” Another long silence. “I never wanted to be a farmer. I grew up on a horse ranch in Oklahoma. Middle of nowhere, just like here. I hated it. I wanted to move to a big city. Phoenix, or Austin. Even New York City. I wanted to be a chef.” I’m not sure where that admission came from. I’ve never told that to anyone.

Derek glances at me, head lolling on the seat. His eyes are the green of moss on a tree, dark and cool. “Yet here you are. Why?”

I shrug. “I loved Tom. This is where he wanted to be. He loved this land. His father farmed this land, his grandfather. His great-grandfather. That farmhouse is the second one built on that spot. The first one burned down in nineteen twenty-three. And Tom? He just…identified with the farm, with Texas, with being a farmer. He wanted to see some of the world before he settled down, though. He wanted to do something with his youth, I guess. I mean, he watched his father, who grew up on that plot of land and never left it, never left Texas, or even traveled any farther than Galveston.”

“Well, Tom saw the world, all right. Iraq, Germany, Afghanistan, Morocco.”

This was news to me. “Morocco? When did Tom go to Morocco?”

He grins, remembering. “Me, Hunter, Tom, Blast, and Abraham, we took a trip together. This was when we were stationed in Baghdad, early on in the second go-around. We had four days of liberty, so we hopped a plane to Casablanca. Raised some serious hell. We all got written up for that. Barrett and I pulled latrine duty for two weeks because of that trip.” Derek’s voice breaks. “Me and Hunter, we’re—we’re the only ones left alive of our entire unit. Everyone from the original Foxtrot…they’re all dead. Most of ’em—most of them died in the ambush.”

I can’t just not respond, but I don’t know what to say. “Have you seen Hunter? Since you’ve been back?”

He nods. “Yeah. Him and Rania came by the hospital. Spent a few days with me. They’re having another little girl.” He pauses to think. “Should be due in a couple of weeks.”

“They’re doing well, then?”

“Yeah. Real good. Hunter works on a road crew, Rania is a nurse at a hospital.”

Suddenly, we’re at the Home Depot in Brenham. It’s a strangely domestic experience, buying paint and fence rails and a few other odds and ends. Then it’s on to the Brookshire Brothers for groceries. Even more domesticity. Wandering up and down the aisle, a cart with one wobbly caster, Derek strolling beside me, casual conversation about idle things: Baker—Hank’s aged and zany Blue Heeler—chasing a rabbit through the north pasture, barking madly and tripping every third step because he’s game in his hind leg; Henry the Eighth and his endless search for loose fence rails to knock down so he can get to the greener grass on the other side; anything but Tom, anything but the war.

I haven’t gone grocery shopping with a man since Tom’s ten-month leave between tours. It’s a strange feeling, having someone around who’s not Hank, Ida, or Tommy. I catch myself watching him, staring at the way his shoulders move when he walks, the remnants of an unconscious hunch. The long swing of his legs, the way he clenches his left hand every so often, wiggles the ring finger. Holds his hands low by his thighs and shakes them to stop the trembles. The way his eyes are always scanning, hopping from person to person, assessing, and noticing when someone comes up behind us. Derek notices everything, missing nothing.

We’re tossing the bags into the bed of the truck. A souped-up pickup truck full of rowdy teenage boys roars into the parking lot, pounding rap music thudding from the speakers, shouts and laughter and curses. There are three or four boys in the bed of the truck, shoving each other and laughing, standing up as the truck squeals to a stop one row over. One of them has a cigarette in his mouth, and he’s leaning toward his buddy, nudging and laughing, holding a hand out, demanding something.