Charlotte Rogan - Now and Again

“I can only imagine,” said Rita.

“I can take it off and you can tell me if there’s a difference.”

“That’s a nice offer,” said Rita, “but maybe some other time.”

“I didn’t mean…I just meant I could change into jeans.”

Kelly’s mother came up with a tray of drinks, and Rita used the interruption to move toward the door. When Kelly turned around a moment later, she was gone.

“Shit, Mom. There you went and chased her off.”

“I’m sure you’ll see her again,” said Kelly’s mother. “Her name is Rita and she works with your dad down at the U-Haul.”

Kelly took one of the drinks and then another. It was some concoction his father had whipped up. It tasted like pineapple and coconut with something pink mixed in, but it carried a kick. By his third drink, the shabby house seemed to be disintegrating around him. What was he doing sleeping in a dingy little bedroom off the kitchen of his parents’ house? He was twenty-two years old. He was a man. He was a warrior, for Chrissakes. He could take any man in the room with his hands tied. Blindfolded with his hands tied. Blindfolded with his hands tied and bowling balls chained to his legs.

“How about tomorrow you look for a job,” said Joe Senior when everyone had gone.

Yeah, he could do that. Or he could hold up a bank and take what he needed without bungling the job the way his father had done. Or he could bungle it in the family tradition and go off to prison and come back fifteen years later and pretend everything was A-OK. He could vanish into thin air, kind of the way he had come. He could do all of those things or none of them. Suddenly he wanted to cry like a baby, and then crying was the last thing he wanted to do. Instead, he took a twenty out of his mother’s purse and headed out to see what people in the great state of New Jersey did for fun.

6.9 Penn Sinclair

When Penn left the library, the air was fresher than it had been, as if a storm had blown through or an oppressive haze had burned away. The sun was sharp and clean and the shadows were cool and blue, reminding him of his boyhood and hiding from the heat beneath the long veranda of the Greenwich house. Two privates were walking along the sidewalk smoking cigarettes. Every now and then one of them would stop to look around as if he wanted to take it all in: the traffic, the sooty buildings, the girls in summer dresses, the street vendors, the city smell. Recognizing military, they saluted when they saw him, and Penn saluted back.

“Where’re you headed?” he called out after them, but he said it too late and they didn’t hear him.

When he got back to Louise’s apartment, he was relieved to find it empty. After he showered and shaved, he stood in front of a long gilded mirror, dressed in a black T-shirt and new jeans, and tried to see himself as other people saw him, but he couldn’t. For the first time in months, hope stirred within him. Gone was the shame that had followed him everywhere since the incident and along with it, the impulse to study theories and avoid life. Gone too was the dense flock of misgivings that had pecked steadily at his insides as if he were Prometheus, sentenced to have his liver devoured by a giant eagle for bringing the fire of the gods to undeserving mortals. This was the way he used to feel after the snow began to melt and the crocuses and little stubs of grass poked through. He had been waiting for months for someone to tell him that everything was going to be okay, and now the news about redemption was his to tell and spread.

Louise came home a little while later. “Did you get the job?” she called down the narrow hallway. He could hear the liquid rustle of her jacket against the silk of her blouse as she took it off and hung it on a hook in the vestibule. “I’ve just discovered something. Do you want to know what it is?”

“I’ve discovered something too.” Penn could hear her opening the refrigerator and setting something on a shelf.

“It’s actually really good news for you,” called Louise.

After considering whether to share his news or listen to hers first, Penn said, “What did you discover?”

“Come out here and I’ll show you.”

“In a minute. Just tell me.” He had left the television tuned to CNN, and in the background, the six o’clock anchors talked crisply of world events. For days the news had been filled with the case of Ehren Watada, who was the first commissioned officer to refuse to deploy to Iraq on conscientious grounds and whose case was making its way through the military courts. Penn strained to listen to the story over the sound of Louise’s heels clicking against the polished floor, but he lost the thread.

“I’ve discovered costume jewelry!” she called from the bathroom. “I never understood it before, but now I do.”

The next story was about collusion between the government and the media and the blurred line between news and propaganda. Was his crime not just that he had failed to properly lead his men but that he had thought he could lead them at all in such murky circumstances? Was Watada a coward or was he insanely brave to risk being called about the worst thing Penn could think of? The questions swirling through Penn’s mind had given him the idea that he could partly make up for his mistakes by helping Watada or someone like him. That he could do something to clear away the fog and tell the truth about the war. Louise’s voice floated toward him: “Just wait until you see!” He would help Watada, and if he could help his men in the process…He didn’t know yet what he would do, but it wouldn’t be theoretical help. It would be practical and real, and nothing Louise or anyone else said or did would stop him.

When Louise walked into the bedroom, his clothing was stacked in neat piles on the bed next to his open duffel, but she didn’t see it at first. “It’s really fabulous, and it’s so cheap,” she said, striking a pose that showed off the strings of colorful baubles draped around her neck. “You’ll never have to give me anything measured in carats again!” She caught herself and laughed. “Or, well, almost never.” Then her eyes swept the room and she saw the piles of folded clothing.

“It’s not you, it’s me,” said Penn when Louise sat down next to the duffel and started to cry. He was reminded of what he loved about her — her sincerity, her elegance, her pleasure in new things. Even when she was crying, her skin was like porcelain, her eyes like glass. But he and Louise were like trains traveling in opposite directions — either they passed each other safely by or they met and destroyed each other.

“Obviously it’s you,” she said.

The tears threatened to give way to anger, but Penn had nothing more to say. The knot in his stomach was back, tense and ticking. He knew it wouldn’t go away as long as he and Louise kept each other trapped inside old versions of themselves.

Louise raised her damp eyes. Behind the tears was a smoldering clot of questions, as if she too housed a ticking mechanism and she was waiting for him to either set it off or snuff it out. Penn was sorry for so many things. “I’m sorry, Louise,” he said. “I’m so, so sorry.” He could see her deciding whether to continue to cry or to shout at him, but her indecision lasted longer than usual, as if she finally understood about more than costume jewelry. He felt sorry for her, but the good thing was, he no longer felt sorry for himself.

Penn tracked Le Roy Jones down at a computer repair shop. Le Roy found Hernandez in a veterans’ database, and Hernandez had the number for Kelly’s parents’ house in New Jersey. Kelly had Danny Joiner’s number, but Danny wasn’t answering his phone.

Penn explained his idea of going to Seattle to support Watada. “Or we can do something else that will expose some of the lies about the war.”