Whitney Terrell - The Good Lieutenant

Harmon leaned in. “What the colonel means”—he glanced over at Seacourt for affirmation, and the colonel, making a grand effort, managed to nod, though without making eye contact—“is that he’s willing to look the other way when it comes to your faults, especially in the realm of personal relationships. But if you force me to do a full investigation here, every line you’ve ever crossed, every mistake you’ve made — it all comes out. It’s bad news for everybody. Especially for people you care about.”

Aggressively naïve, her ass. Too bad for them Pulowski had dumped her two weeks back. “So you do want me to change the part about the T-walls,” Fowler said.

“I want you to write a report that’s accurate and fair.”

This must have been the offer Hartz had talked about. Time to cut a deal. “Well, that’s not the same thing anymore, is it?” she said, turning to Seacourt, holding his gaze steadily. “So if you want that , then I want something back.”

“I’m going to grab a Coke,” Major Harmon said.

“No, no, you can stay,” Fowler said. “We’re not doing anything criminal. Or if we are, we should do it as a team.” Harmon gave a wilted grin. Seacourt’s expression was distant, not exactly defeated, but something more equivocal, as if reluctantly impressed.

“We can’t just ignore what Beale did,” Seacourt said. “The Iraqi’s injury is in the system now. If you’d wanted that, you shouldn’t have written a report in the first place.”

“Then no investigation. Reprimand only. Beale stays in the field.”

“No,” Seacourt said. “Court-martial. Honorable discharge.”

She sat down in the chair that Seacourt had offered her. Crossed her legs.

“Fine,” Seacourt said, tossing Beale’s file aside. “I’ll give him office hours. A week in detention. He drops rank, E-6 to E-5. But you’ll go on the record. You’ll rewrite your report, and you’ll be grateful to have walked away.”

She turned back to the major. “If Sergeant Beale did hit that Iraqi, he would have been disobeying my order, my direct order. Intentionally.”

* * *

The first email that Pulowski managed to send her in four weeks was an invitation to a meeting with his CO, Major McKutcheon, at the 16th Engineer Brigade in Camp Victory. Sorry I’ve been out of touch , he wrote. But I do think you’ll be interested in this. You’re an idiot, she told herself, deleting it. Then later, Well, in that case, showing up won’t change anything . And so in the end she went. Camp Victory was a forty-five-minute drive, clear across Camp Tolerance, through the stop-and-start madness of fuel and water convoys, and around so many orange-coned roadwork areas she felt as if she’d been teleported back to Kansas in summer when the potholes on I-70 got patched. A stone bridge marked the entrance, its carved balustrade arching over a cattailed canal that divided the fighting soldiers and the brass. She and Pulowski had driven over it the first week that they’d arrived in-country, gazing out like tourists at what Pulowski had termed McSheikh palaces strung gaudily along a vast lagoon. They’d asked a passing private to snap a picture of them outside the white walls of the Al-Faw Palace, which housed the entire brains of the Multi-National Force — Iraq. For Pulowski the background had been ironic—“Say WMD!” he’d prompted, as the private framed the shot — but the foreground had been something else, something personal, the two of them together, arm in arm, with nobody they knew watching. She’d had the same feeling at the party he’d organized for her at the Cracker Barrel outside Fort Riley, when she’d glanced down from the national broadcast of a K-State basketball game and caught him staring at her, concentrating. Not I agree (though she didn’t necessarily disagree) so much as I am with you , and she’d agreed to see him now because of that. The offices for the 16th Engineer Brigade were salmon-colored, the plain concrete walls roughed up with adobe-style spackle, in which the imprints of some lucky Iraqi contractor’s blades could still be seen. On the other side of the flimsy varnished door with its fake brass handle, she found Pulowski waiting on a bench. As she entered, she caught an unguarded glimpse of him, nervous and pale as a fifth-grader, a spiral notebook jogging compulsively on his knee. “You’re here!” he said, leaping up, his voice lifting in awkwardly high-pitched relief.

“I’m only five minutes late,” she said, pointing to her watch. “Oh-nine-hundred, right? It’s not like I’m on vacation, Lieutenant.” Before his leave, she’d always liked calling Pulowski “Lieutenant” formally, out in public, as if they were barely acquainted, when of course they each knew every hair on the other’s body. This “Lieutenant,” though, was just the formal one, and saying it that way made her knees feel weak. “The traffic sucked,” she added, to soften things.

“No shit,” he said. “McKutcheon was telling me that the guys who actually laid out this whole camp — and I shit you not — like two-thirds of them were from Kansas. No sidewalks anyplace. Can you believe that?”

“No,” Fowler said.

“McKutcheon’s got another meeting upstairs. So I was freaking out because this guy”—he nodded to a bulky sergeant at a metal desk—“wouldn’t let me call up to tell McKutcheon that I was here. So I didn’t want to leave in case you actually showed up, but then I started to worry that McKutcheon was gonna think I’d bailed—”

“Yeah, well, I found you,” Fowler said. Pulowski’s chatter, its faint edge of panic, both irritated her and felt familiar in its irritation. An abrasion she had missed.

They were standing there in the entryway of the 16th Engineer Brigade. Past the sergeant, there were rows of desks, maps pinned to the wall, glowing computer screens, and the little wooden stands that you could buy at the PX, where you could hang your body armor once you got to the office, as if it were Mr. Rogers’s sweater. This was the moment when, if she was going to stand on ceremony, she was going to need to do it. She could’ve asked him what the hell he was thinking even asking her here, what the hell he had been doing when she’d needed him during the past four weeks. On the other hand, that would’ve meant she had to be prepared to turn around and walk out that door permanently and accept never being irritated by a Pulowski story ever again.

“You know I’m not real comfortable in places like this,” she said.

“Well, thank fucking God for that,” Pulowski said. “Because if you were, I would have had to ask somebody else.”

* * *

They climbed three flights of concrete stairs and pushed out through a red-painted fire-exit door onto a flat, industrial rooftop. There were five or six white shipping containers on the rooftop, shaded by blue tarps, their sides marked with the red logo PODS. Major McKutcheon waved to them from the doorway of the third, bareheaded, with a sunburned, thinning scalp, each follicle strangely stout, so that his skull appeared to be sprouting mechanical pencil leads. He grabbed Fowler’s hand with his stubby, baby-soft fingers (Pulowski was a few steps back, out in the heat) and said, “My God, Lieutenant, I am so appreciative of you being able to come here, in the middle of — well, I mean, look at us — you have my — I am so sorry about—”

“Sorry for what, sir?” Fowler asked, before he could mention anything about Pulowski. It was the last thing she needed, the idea that their separation had been broadcast out over the network, so remarkable as to find its way here.

“Yeah, sorry for what?” This voice, to her dismay, belonged to Beale. They’d steered clear of each other ever since, in Beale’s view, Fowler had sold him out to Seacourt and gotten him demoted. Or saved his ass, in hers. But there he was on a rolling chair beside a wooden shelf that ringed the inside of the pod, staring up at a television bolted to the ceiling. “That’s one thing we don’t do around here is apologize.”