of the Museum of American History, to stare at this, history in the making. Or maybe a refutation of history, an insistence that we stop history, redirect it. The marchers were chanting and singing, waving signs, carrying banners that sagged over their heads. END THE WARS. SUPPORT OUR TROOPS. BRING THEM HOME.
She was against the war and said so when talking with her like-minded friends, but she’d kept silent about her opposition when talking to Marshall and her parents. She knew he had been excited, though nervous. He didn’t need to hear her criticism of U.S. foreign policy. She loved her brother, even though they had lived such different lives. She hadn’t tried to change his mind about anything. And she would wonder for the rest of her life how things might have turned out if she had.
She was the big sister, for God’s sake. She was supposed to offer guidance. She was supposed to tell her little bro what she thought. But she’d been afraid to. She’d let him down, and he was gone.
Who was she kidding? You couldn’t talk Marshall into or out of anything. All she would have done was piss him off. Maybe this was the toughest thing to admit: that she’d had no impact whatsoever on his fate. She was a tiny, insignificant footnote in another person’s story. Insignificance felt even worse than guilt.
She didn’t trust the official and very abbreviated story the army had provided her family. Things didn’t add up, and she couldn’t get anyone from his unit to talk to her. Why had a regular e-mailer like Marshall (amazingly regular, considering the responsibilities he had) stopped sending his family messages a week before his KIA date? And why had his blog been taken down six days before his KIA date, as opposed to afterward? She’d heard that soldiers could get in trouble for posting certain things. After the army banned soldier blogs, he’d taken down his old blog, but then he’d launched a new, anonymous one—he’d mentioned the link to Tasha on one of their rare calls, but in an offhand manner, as if he knew people were listening. Had he gotten himself in trouble with the army or with someone else?
Maybe she was just grasping for something to be angry at. Maybe she just needed an enemy. We all do, don’t we? she thought.
She wished the firm didn’t demand all of her waking hours (and more). With what little free time she had—usually at two in the morning, when she couldn’t sleep—she had started the project of finding and compiling all of Marshall’s old e-mails and blog entries and journals, trying to shape them into some kind of memoir or book in his name. Which meant she needed more detail from the army about what had happened to him. She knew her parents didn’t fully believe the official story either, but they were hesitant to push. Well, she would push—that was a big sister’s job, even if she wasn’t really a big sister anymore. She vowed as she stood there watching the march that she’d find out what exactly had happened, even if she had to call every press office in the armed services, even if she had to track down every soldier in Marshall’s platoon.
She needed to have an effect on something. She stood there as the ex-hippies and college kids marched past, some of them chanting as they tried to merge themselves into something greater. Over to her right a smaller group of Support the Troops boosters waved American flags, holding their own signs and mocking the “Commies,” telling them to go back to old Europe, decrying their misguided rage and weakness.
She stepped forward and joined the flow of protest, let it carry her. She didn’t want to be alone for this anymore. She didn’t know if marching did anything at all, but she would try it.
The day had started cloudy and was only getting grayer as it aged; the Capitol dome seemed to glow in contrast. Tasha marched with the crowd to the steps of the Capitol, read the pamphlets that were passed out, and ignored her cell phone
She was against the war and said so when talking with her like-minded friends, but she’d kept silent about her opposition when talking to Marshall and her parents. She knew he had been excited, though nervous. He didn’t need to hear her criticism of U.S. foreign policy. She loved her brother, even though they had lived such different lives. She hadn’t tried to change his mind about anything. And she would wonder for the rest of her life how things might have turned out if she had.
She was the big sister, for God’s sake. She was supposed to offer guidance. She was supposed to tell her little bro what she thought. But she’d been afraid to. She’d let him down, and he was gone.
Who was she kidding? You couldn’t talk Marshall into or out of anything. All she would have done was piss him off. Maybe this was the toughest thing to admit: that she’d had no impact whatsoever on his fate. She was a tiny, insignificant footnote in another person’s story. Insignificance felt even worse than guilt.
She didn’t trust the official and very abbreviated story the army had provided her family. Things didn’t add up, and she couldn’t get anyone from his unit to talk to her. Why had a regular e-mailer like Marshall (amazingly regular, considering the responsibilities he had) stopped sending his family messages a week before his KIA date? And why had his blog been taken down six days before his KIA date, as opposed to afterward? She’d heard that soldiers could get in trouble for posting certain things. After the army banned soldier blogs, he’d taken down his old blog, but then he’d launched a new, anonymous one—he’d mentioned the link to Tasha on one of their rare calls, but in an offhand manner, as if he knew people were listening. Had he gotten himself in trouble with the army or with someone else?
Maybe she was just grasping for something to be angry at. Maybe she just needed an enemy. We all do, don’t we? she thought.
She wished the firm didn’t demand all of her waking hours (and more). With what little free time she had—usually at two in the morning, when she couldn’t sleep—she had started the project of finding and compiling all of Marshall’s old e-mails and blog entries and journals, trying to shape them into some kind of memoir or book in his name. Which meant she needed more detail from the army about what had happened to him. She knew her parents didn’t fully believe the official story either, but they were hesitant to push. Well, she would push—that was a big sister’s job, even if she wasn’t really a big sister anymore. She vowed as she stood there watching the march that she’d find out what exactly had happened, even if she had to call every press office in the armed services, even if she had to track down every soldier in Marshall’s platoon.
She needed to have an effect on something. She stood there as the ex-hippies and college kids marched past, some of them chanting as they tried to merge themselves into something greater. Over to her right a smaller group of Support the Troops boosters waved American flags, holding their own signs and mocking the “Commies,” telling them to go back to old Europe, decrying their misguided rage and weakness.
She stepped forward and joined the flow of protest, let it carry her. She didn’t want to be alone for this anymore. She didn’t know if marching did anything at all, but she would try it.
The day had started cloudy and was only getting grayer as it aged; the Capitol dome seemed to glow in contrast. Tasha marched with the crowd to the steps of the Capitol, read the pamphlets that were passed out, and ignored her cell phone
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