The Lucky One

"Yes."

"There's nothing else you want to add?"

"No."

She opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind. "Excuse me for a minute. I have to talk to someone."

Beth could handle a lot of things, but this was beyond her. As much as she tried, she couldn't quite grasp everything he'd told her. On some level, it made sense, but on the whole, it just seemed . . . off. If the guy was telling the truth, he was strange; if he was lying, he picked strange lies. Either way, it was weird. Which was why, of course, she wanted to talk to Nana. If anyone could figure him out, Nana could.

Unfortunately, as she approached the house, she realized the game wasn't over yet. She could hear the announcers debating whether it was right for the Mets to bring in a relief pitcher or something along those lines. When she opened the door, she was surprised to find Nana's seat empty.

"Nana?"

Nana poked her head out from the kitchen. "In here. I was just getting ready to pour myself a glass of lemonade. Would you like some? I can do it one-handed."

"Actually, I need to talk to you. Do you have a minute? I know the game is still on . . ."

She waved the thought away. "Oh, I'm done with that. Go ahead and turn it off. The Braves can't win, and the last thing I want to do is listen to their excuses. I hate excuses. There's no reason they should have lost, and they know it. What's going on?"

Beth walked into the kitchen and leaned against the counter as Nana poured the lemonade from the pitcher. "Are you hungry?" Nana inquired. "I can make you a quick sandwich."

"I just had a banana."

"That's not enough. You're as skinny as a golf club."

From your mouth to God's ears, Beth thought. "Maybe later. Someone came in to apply for the job. He's here now."

"You mean the cute one with the German shepherd? I figured that's what he was doing. How is he? Tell me that it's always been his dream to clean cages."

"You saw him?"

"Of course."

"How did you know he was applying for the job?"

"Why else would you want to talk to me?"

Beth shook her head. Nana was always a step ahead of her. "Anyway, I think you should talk to him. I don't quite know what to make of him."

"Does his hair have anything to do with it?"

"What?"

"His hair. It kind of makes him look like Tarzan, don't you think?"

"I really didn't notice."

"Sure you did, sweetie. You can't lie to me. What's the problem?"

Quickly, Beth gave her a rundown of the interview. When she was finished, Nana sat in silence.

"He walked from Colorado?"

"That's what he says."

"And you believe him?"

"That part?" She hesitated. "Yeah, I think he's telling the truth about that."

"That's a long walk."

"I know."

"How many miles is that?"

"I don't know. A lot."

"That's kind of strange, don't you think?"

"Yes," she said. "And there's something else, too."

"What?"

"He was a marine."

Nana sighed. "Why don't you wait here. I'll go talk to him."

For the next ten minutes, Beth watched them from behind the living room window curtains. Nana hadn't stayed in the office to conduct the interview; instead, she'd led them to the wooden bench in the shade of the magnolia tree. Zeus was dozing at their feet, his ear flicking every now and then, shooing away the occasional fly. Beth couldn't make out what either of them was saying, but occasionally she saw Nana frown, which seemed to suggest the interview wasn't going well. In the end, Logan Thibault and Zeus walked back up the gravel drive toward the main road, while Nana watched them with a concerned expression on her face.

Beth thought Nana would make her way back to the house, but instead she began walking toward the office. It was then that Beth noticed a blue Volvo station wagon rolling up the drive.

The cocker spaniel. She'd completely forgotten about the pickup, but it seemed obvious that Nana was going to handle it. Beth used the time to cool herself with a cold washcloth and drink another glass of ice water.

From the kitchen, she heard the front door squeak open as Nana came back inside.

"How'd it go?"

"It went fine."

"What did you think?"

"It was . . . interesting. He's intelligent and polite, but you're right. He's definitely hiding something."

"So where does that leave us? Should I put another ad in the paper?"

"Let's see how he works out first."

Beth wasn't sure she had heard Nana right. "Are you saying you're going to hire him?"

"No, I'm saying I did hire him. He starts Wednesday at eight."

"Why'd you do that?"

"I trust him." She gave a sad smile, as if she knew exactly what Beth was thinking. "Even if he was a marine."

8

Thibault

Thibault didn't want to return to Iraq, but once more, in February 2005, the First, Fifth was called up. This time, the regiment was sent to Ramadi, the capital of Al Anbar province and the southwest point of what was commonly referred to as "the triangle of death." Thibault was there for seven months.

Car bombs and IEDs--improvised explosive devices--were common. Simple devices but scary: usually a mortar shell with a fuse triggered by a cellular phone call. Still, the first time Thibault was riding in a Humvee that hit one, he knew the news could have been worse.

"I'm glad I heard the bomb," Victor had said afterward. By then, Victor and Thibault nearly always patrolled together. "It means I'm still alive."

"You and me both," Thibault had answered.

"But I'd rather not hit one again."

"You and me both."

But bombs weren't easy to avoid. On patrol the following day, they hit another one. A week after that, their Humvee was struck by a car bomb--but Thibault and Victor weren't unusual in that regard. Humvees were hit by one or the other on almost every patrol. Most of the marines in the platoon could honestly claim that they'd survived two or three bombs before they went back to Pendleton. A couple had survived four or five. Their sergeant had survived six. It was just that kind of place, and nearly everyone had heard the story of Tony Stevens, a marine from the Twenty-fourth MEU--Marine Expeditionary Unit--who'd survived nine bombs. One of the major newspapers had written an article about him entitled "The Luckiest Marine." His was a record no one wanted to break.

Thibault broke it. By the time he left Ramadi, he'd survived eleven explosions. But there was the one explosion he'd missed that continued to haunt him.

It would have been explosion number eight. Victor was with him. Same old story with a much worse ending. They were in a convoy of four Humvees, patrolling one of the city's major thoroughfares. An RPG struck the Humvee in front, with fortunately little damage, but enough to bring

the convoy to a temporary halt. Rusted and decaying cars lined both sides of the road. Shots broke out. Thibault jumped from the second Humvee in the convoy line to get a better line of sight. Victor followed him. They reached cover and readied their weapons. Twenty seconds later, a car bomb went off, knocking them clear and destroying the Humvee they'd been in only moments before. Three marines were killed; Victor was knocked unconscious. Thibault hauled him back to the convoy, and after collecting the dead, the convoy returned to the safe zone.

It was around that time that Thibault began to hear whispers. He noticed that the other marines in his platoon began to act differently around him, as if they believed Thibault were somehow immune to the rules of war. That others might die, but he would not. Worse than that, his fellow marines seemed to suspect that while Thibault was especially lucky, those who patrolled with him were especially unlucky. It wasn't always overt, but he couldn't deny the change in his platoon members' attitude toward him. He was in Ramadi for two more months after those three marines died. The last few bombs he survived only intensified the whispers. Other marines began to avoid him. Only Victor seemed to treat him the same. Toward the end of their tour in Ramadi, while on duty guarding a gas station, he noticed Victor's hands shaking as he lit a cigarette. Above them, the night sky glittered with stars.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm ready to go home," Victor said. "I've done my part."

"You're not going to reup next year?"

He took a long drag from his cigarette. "My mother wants me home, and my brother has offered me a job. In roofing. Do you think I can build roofs?"

"Yeah, I think you can. You'll be a great roofer."

"My girl, Maria, is waiting for me. I've known her since I was fourteen."

"I know. You've told me about her."

"I'm going to marry her."

"You told me that, too."

"I want you to come to the wedding."

In the glow of Victor's cigarette, he saw the ghost of a smile. "I wouldn't miss it."

Victor took a long drag and they stood in silence, considering a future that seemed impossibly distant. "What about you?" Victor said, his words coming out with a puff of smoke. "You going to reup?"