training in Baghdad. He was from Pittsfield, Massachusetts. 24 years old.
A guy name Jeff Kleiner from Stockbridge, Georgia, 25, who drowned in a lake on the palace compound in Al Fallujah.
Dwight from Cass Lake, Minnesota. Another 20-year-old. Could have been a stand-up comedian.
The old man and his goats, pleading in an unknown tongue.
Sgt. Schoener from Ohio. Also a sprinter in high school. 26 years old.
Steiner, 29, of Chattanooga, Tennessee.
Thomas T. Stromberg, III. 18, of Lopez, Pennsylvania.
Johnson, 28, of Sarasota, Florida. His helicopter was attacked. I saw him board the helicopter. He’d just given me a handful of gum and said he really liked my sneakers.
Richard Seiders. Gettysburg, PA.
The 17-year-old and then the hound. They were both accidents.
A guy from Missouri named Lincoln flew through the air and died on top of me. Also immediately: Baxter Flavius, 20, of Boise, Idaho; Burkland, 26, of Rockville, Maryland; Ferre, 21, of Bakersfield, California; Connor, 19, of Jamestown, New York; Sgt. Monday from Newark, Delaware. And later, Howell, 32, of Philadelphia, New York; Lamb, 23, from New Orleans; Charles Terrazas, 25, of Clarksville, Tennessee; Nick Warren’s leg, 24, of Fairview Heights, Illinois; and Rich Rosales’s feet, 21, Saint Louis, Michigan.
Ray Soto, 26. He loved Gabriel Garcia Marquez, he told me once. Loved him. Why did this have to happen?
18
He decided to present his decision in the kitchen to his grandmother and Nigel as if it were final, rather than appear to be asking them for advice. He figured they would say it wasn’t the best idea, that there were so many reasons not to go, and besides, why? He’d just returned home.
“Aw, honey . . . ,” was all Esco said at first. After a few minutes of settling, she said, “Tell me one good reason.”
But then, before he could begin to explain, she was off and away, telling him how Mexico wasn’t safe for Americans traveling alone, that there were regularly reported tales of drug traffickers killing whoever happened to cross their path, that anyways, Jefferson was still jumpy. “Every time someone walks up behind you, you freeze like a stunned jackrabbit,” she said, and then went on to recount the incident at the post office when Jefferson had jumped to the ground and covered his head, screaming, after a man dropped his pile of junk mail. She said she was going to call his therapist (“Esco, I don’t have a therapist”) and ask if it was safe for a young veteran in his state to leave home again so soon. And besides, she was curious where he was going to get the money to pay for his international travel, and anyway, didn’t he care about her and his cousin, who had been waiting all this time for him to get home safe so they could get on with their lives? When was he going to start reading again? As she talked, she shoved plates and glasses into the upper cabinet, jamming a few saucepans and skillets down below.
Nigel just leaned against the kitchen wall, his eyes closed, seemingly humming a silent tune.
Jefferson waited. Despite his grandmother’s words whirling about him, he felt calm.
“Here’s what I wanna know—,” said Nigel, when Esco had slowed down a bit and begun to repeat her arguments.
She immediately took Nigel’s words as support for her view, interrupting him. “See, Jefferson, your cousin has a problem with this coco-minnie idea too, see?”
“Cockamamie, Esco. Cock-a-MAMIE,” said Jefferson.
Nigel seemed to be waiting for the talkers in his family to take another breath. When the pause had lasted a full ten seconds, he started up again, pushing back away from the wall and standing wide-legged between the kitchen counter and the dishwasher, using his hands like a football coach describing a play. “One question,” he said, holding up the pointer finger of his right hand at Jefferson. “Are you taking the dog?”
But Esco continued on in her own line of thought. “You’re not
A guy name Jeff Kleiner from Stockbridge, Georgia, 25, who drowned in a lake on the palace compound in Al Fallujah.
Dwight from Cass Lake, Minnesota. Another 20-year-old. Could have been a stand-up comedian.
The old man and his goats, pleading in an unknown tongue.
Sgt. Schoener from Ohio. Also a sprinter in high school. 26 years old.
Steiner, 29, of Chattanooga, Tennessee.
Thomas T. Stromberg, III. 18, of Lopez, Pennsylvania.
Johnson, 28, of Sarasota, Florida. His helicopter was attacked. I saw him board the helicopter. He’d just given me a handful of gum and said he really liked my sneakers.
Richard Seiders. Gettysburg, PA.
The 17-year-old and then the hound. They were both accidents.
A guy from Missouri named Lincoln flew through the air and died on top of me. Also immediately: Baxter Flavius, 20, of Boise, Idaho; Burkland, 26, of Rockville, Maryland; Ferre, 21, of Bakersfield, California; Connor, 19, of Jamestown, New York; Sgt. Monday from Newark, Delaware. And later, Howell, 32, of Philadelphia, New York; Lamb, 23, from New Orleans; Charles Terrazas, 25, of Clarksville, Tennessee; Nick Warren’s leg, 24, of Fairview Heights, Illinois; and Rich Rosales’s feet, 21, Saint Louis, Michigan.
Ray Soto, 26. He loved Gabriel Garcia Marquez, he told me once. Loved him. Why did this have to happen?
18
He decided to present his decision in the kitchen to his grandmother and Nigel as if it were final, rather than appear to be asking them for advice. He figured they would say it wasn’t the best idea, that there were so many reasons not to go, and besides, why? He’d just returned home.
“Aw, honey . . . ,” was all Esco said at first. After a few minutes of settling, she said, “Tell me one good reason.”
But then, before he could begin to explain, she was off and away, telling him how Mexico wasn’t safe for Americans traveling alone, that there were regularly reported tales of drug traffickers killing whoever happened to cross their path, that anyways, Jefferson was still jumpy. “Every time someone walks up behind you, you freeze like a stunned jackrabbit,” she said, and then went on to recount the incident at the post office when Jefferson had jumped to the ground and covered his head, screaming, after a man dropped his pile of junk mail. She said she was going to call his therapist (“Esco, I don’t have a therapist”) and ask if it was safe for a young veteran in his state to leave home again so soon. And besides, she was curious where he was going to get the money to pay for his international travel, and anyway, didn’t he care about her and his cousin, who had been waiting all this time for him to get home safe so they could get on with their lives? When was he going to start reading again? As she talked, she shoved plates and glasses into the upper cabinet, jamming a few saucepans and skillets down below.
Nigel just leaned against the kitchen wall, his eyes closed, seemingly humming a silent tune.
Jefferson waited. Despite his grandmother’s words whirling about him, he felt calm.
“Here’s what I wanna know—,” said Nigel, when Esco had slowed down a bit and begun to repeat her arguments.
She immediately took Nigel’s words as support for her view, interrupting him. “See, Jefferson, your cousin has a problem with this coco-minnie idea too, see?”
“Cockamamie, Esco. Cock-a-MAMIE,” said Jefferson.
Nigel seemed to be waiting for the talkers in his family to take another breath. When the pause had lasted a full ten seconds, he started up again, pushing back away from the wall and standing wide-legged between the kitchen counter and the dishwasher, using his hands like a football coach describing a play. “One question,” he said, holding up the pointer finger of his right hand at Jefferson. “Are you taking the dog?”
But Esco continued on in her own line of thought. “You’re not
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