they knew how arrogant I’d been, how I risked the lives
of a bunch of kids.”
She stared at him with wide, now wary eyes. She had
to wonder what in hell he was going to tell her.
He cleared his throat and began. “Somewhere I read
recently that there may be personality types more at risk
of developing posttraumatic stress disorder. I think I’m
one. I mean, I didn’t handle war very well from the beginning. The things you see.” He looked down, startled to realize his hand had tightened on hers to a point that
had to be painful, and muttered an oath. Letting her go,
he said, “God, I’m sorry!”
Fiona shook her head. “No, it’s okay. Really.” She
touched his thigh in reassurance.
He kneaded the back of his neck. “I probably would
have come home a normal, screwed-up vet if it weren’t
for this.” He gestured at his scar and all it symbolized.
“Maybe I’d have had nightmares. Some pictures in my
head I couldn’t get rid of.”
The compassion on her face was almost his undoing,
but he forced himself to continue. “But me, I decided I
could do some good while I was there.” He gave a harsh
laugh. “Prove that Americans were decent.”
He told her about the nearby field, if you could call
the bare, dusty ground a field. About the makeshift
goals that had caught his attention. How there were
often boys there, kicking soccer balls around.
Expression arrested, Fiona said, “That’s why it upset
you so much when Hopper asked if you had a soccer
ball.”
“Yeah. Having them around awakened enough unwelcome memories. Having them heading a soccer ball…” He almost shuddered, even now.
“Did you start playing with the boys?”
He nodded. “I’d played in college, so… We worked
on skills. Eventually I organized them into a team. We
started playing some games with other teams. Nothing
official, not like a league. Just pickup games.” He tried
to smile, God knew why, maybe still deluding himself
that it was possible to lighten the tragic results of his
heedlessness. “Word got around. An American soldier
was coaching Iraqi boys.”
“Were they Sunni or…”
“A mix. I was never really sure. I have no doubt they
were aware—how could they not be, these days?—but
the neighborhood was integrated and they’d grown up
together. In the end, it didn’t make any difference. They
were just…convenient material for a lesson.”
“Oh, John,” she whispered, awakening horror on her
face.
He went on and told her the grim story. They’d been
talking, doing some warm-up exercises while they
waited for the other team to arrive. He’d turned, aware
of the approach of a woman in the dark, enveloping robe
and burqa. The sense—articulated too late—that something wasn’t right. The “Oh God, what have I done?”
moment.
The warning, never uttered.
He told it as unemotionally as he could, trying not
to be graphic about the sights that had met his eyes
when he’d lifted his head afterward and peered through
the blood that bathed his face. Even so, she had one
hand pressed to her chest and the other to her stomach,
as if to quell both horror and nausea.
“Children,” she whispered once.
“Object lessons,” he repeated. “Do not consort with
the enemy.”
“I don’t know how you survived.”
He knew she didn’t mean physically. He still wasn’t
altogether sure he had survived emotionally. But
maybe…maybe he would make it. Because of her.
“I was able to visit the survivors in the hospital.
Except for one. He, uh… It was touch and go. I guess
he did make it. I don’t know if that’s such a good thing.
He lost his eyes, and his face is just…” God. He was
touching his scar again.
“Oh, John,” she whispered again, and this time she
took his hand.
“I screwed up bad. I was so full of myself that I
didn’t listen to warnings.”
“You were trying to do something very, very good.”
“Was I?” he asked out of anguish and a painful need