have to get a tow truck up here.
Maybe it was because he’d felt edgy all morning, with
the knowledge that something he didn’t want to happen
was inevitable, but standing up there in the snow with the
boys, studying the van, triggered a scene in his head too
vivid to be called a recollection, but too brief to qualify
as a flashback. It was like one of those ten-second videos
a person could take with a regular digital camera.
He and Diego had their heads under the hood of the
truck, which had lagged behind the convoy and broken
down. Iraqis gathered, probably just curious, but one never
knew. The couple of guys facing down the crowd had
their M-16s pointing at the ground, but out of the corner
of his eye John saw Larson’s hand holding the gun, his
fingers twitching as if he were typing a coded message.
John shook his head slightly, and the vision vanished.
It had been a meaningless scene; someone at the back
of the convoy had noticed they were missing and a
Stryker had roared back to recover them. Some kid had
thrown a rock; John remembered it banging off the
truck’s welded armor. He’d said quietly, “Easy,” to
Larson, maybe because of those restless fingers. But
that was it. They’d figured out what was wrong with the
truck and had driven off. Ninety percent of the scenes
that flashed into his head were like this one, nothing
he’d normally recall. Just pulled out of his memory
by something—a smell, a movement, a noise—and
suddenly there, as if he lived in two dimensions.
That disturbed him more than anything, the idea that
he just couldn’t seem to leave Iraq and was perpetually
re-enlisting without conscious volition.
But he shook this minor flashback off. They weren’t
coming as often anymore. “Healing” meant he was a
work in process, not cured.
For several minutes, he and the boys threw around
ideas, Troy seeming to have the most experience with
cars. Then they headed back down to the lodge. The
boys raced ahead, their shouts trailing in the thin, cold
air, while he took his time.
When he reported the news about the van to Fiona,
she nodded resignedly.
“I had a feeling backing out wasn’t going to be an
option.”
“The road crew might be able to wrap a chain around
the axle and pull it out.”
While they waited, she threw herself into a frenzy of
laundry and cleaning, driving the kids to help with the
first hint of sharpness he’d heard from her.
Unaware he was within earshot, she told three of
the girls, “Mr. Fallon has been really nice about
getting stuck with us, and we’re not going to pay him
back by leaving dirty linens or bathrooms that need
scrubbing.”
“But what if we end up staying another night?” one
of them complained.
“Then we make the beds up again tonight and wash
the sheets and towels again tomorrow. Boys!” she called
down the hall. “Do you have those beds stripped?”
John heated tomato rice soup and made a pile of
sandwiches, keeping an eye on her as she passed back
and forth through the kitchen carrying heaps of bedding
and borrowed clothing, dirty going one way, warm and
folded the other.
While they ate, she said, “I’m sorry, we don’t know
which of the clothes are yours and which from the lost
and found. We’re just piling everything on the sofa.”
“No problem.”
“I hope we’ve folded the linens the way you like. If
you want us to make up the beds…”
He shook his head. “I’ll do it when guests are scheduled.”
“How do you know when people are coming?”
Dieter asked. “Without a phone?”
“I have a cell phone. Sometimes I can make a call
from here. Otherwise, there’s a spot down river that
usually works.”
“But how do people make reservations?” the boy
persisted. “Do they have to leave a message and wait
until you call?”
He smiled. “No, the real estate office in Danson—
that’s the next town west of here—handles my reservations. They get lodge e-mail and answer my reservation line. I check in with them a couple of times a week.”