conversations with dead people, 2011
This year, the rolling green lawns at Arlington haven't been paved over with asphalt; the rows upon rows of white marble headstones haven't been bulldozed to build hundreds of columbariums in their stead.
(He's grateful for that.)
With his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket, he walks along the main roadway and ignores the quiet conversation of a group of tourists who are consulting a map near the visitor's center. He doesn't have far to walk to make it to the section he knows Harris is buried in, and he definitely doesn't need to consult a map.
Section 57 -- past the war dead of Iraq and Afghanistan in 60 and 61 -- is close to the main entrance. The rows of headstones still stretch neatly across the grass, but here the solid carpet of green is broken by the occasional discolored patches of freshly cut sod and upturned earth.
Staff Sergeant Timothy Harris, aged twenty-four, (promoted in rank posthumously after being killed in action), is sitting on the ground beside his headstone. His field jacket is draped lightly over the marble slab and a lit cigarette is resting at the corner of his mouth. When Carl approaches, the younger man smiles.
"Afternoon, Captain."
Carl swallows past a lump in his throat as he moves closer, and sits in the grass that covers the foot of Harris' grave.
(What he doesn't say: Afternoon, Staff Sergeant. How are you?, because the kid is dead and buried at twenty-four, never married with no children, shot and killed in some dusty courtyard in Beirut, his body shipped home in the back of a cargo plane in a flag-draped casket.)
He nods his head. "Afternoon, Staff Sergeant."
"Want a light?"
Carl shakes his head at the offer -- he hasn't smoked since that day in Lebanon when everything went to hell, because every time the glow of a cigarette flares he's reminded of the smell of burning skin and screaming.
They sit quietly for awhile in silence. Carl watches a bird hop from headstone to headstone a few rows over, while Harris smokes without a word, the thin wisps of grey curling up into the cloudless October sky.
It's the dead man who breaks the silence first, with a question.
"Did you get him?"
(Not did we get him, because he got shot before they made it to the building, his blood soaked body having to be pulled back to safety after the sniper plastered his brains across the sandstone pavers.)
"No, I didn't."
(Because it wasn't Harris' fault that the stairwell was guarded by a bastard with a cache of grenades, or his fault that the commander back on base decided to pull the plug. It hadn't gone to shit -- completely anyway -- at the moment in which the kid was struck down and killed.)
"Damn."
Harris lights yet another cigarette as the sun tracks slowly across the sky, rays broken and scattered by the bronze leaves of a nearby Pin oak. The golden glow that the late-day light gives the young soldier's skin makes him look like he's alive, and Carl appreciates that.
They both look up as a young woman and an even younger child -- likely her daughter, from the way she holds the girl's hand -- pass by a few rows over. Carl nods his head at the pair; the little one waves and flashes them both a bright smile before they continue on.
"Mom didn't see you, did she."
"She never does. The kid's cute though," Harris smiles, and for a moment Carl realizes just how young the man really was. "They come to see her dad at least once at month. He's only been gone a year or two."
"Afghanistan?"
"Yeah."
"That's shit," Carl says, looking down at the grass.
"No," Harris shakes his head. "That's life."
It's nearing five o'clock (and Carl knows he'll have to be going soon, though he knows that the captain's bars stitched into the collar of his field jacket will earn him a little more time if security starts to round up the last of the still-straggling visitors) when Carl glances up at sight of movement in the corner of his vision field.
Harris is brushing grass off of one knee. "Guess it's time for you to go, huh?"
"Just about," Carl says softly. He bites the inside of his cheek to ward off the pinpricks of heat that suddenly threaten at the back of his eyes. He clears his throat as he stands, looking over the vast expanse of gravesites that surround them. "Hey, Staff Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir?"
"You...you're okay?"
Without even hearing him move closer, Carl feels the presence of the younger man at his shoulder. They're both staring at the obscured headstone, the digital pattern of desert camo oddly out of place against the clean lines of white marble and the lush green carpet that surrounds it.
"I'm fine," Harris promises him. "Besides, I've got plenty of company. Thorton's just up the way, there," the kid nods his head to an area just a few yards over to their right. "It's not like I'm lonely or anything."
"That's good," Carl finally says, after a moment's pause. "And, you know, Harris?"
There's no reply, and when Carl turns to glance at the headstone, both the young Army Ranger and his field jacket are gone, leaving only the cold marble slab to stand in silence.
He bows his head, then turns to walk up the hill, headed for the road.
Crossing the parking lot, he tips his head to the woman and her daughter he saw earlier as he passes their car -- as he turns his collar up against the chill, they pull out onto the road.
Their car backfires, twice, as they round the bend and drive out of sight.
He's on the ground before he realizes what's actually happened.
"Hey man," someone calls from a few yards away as he's picking himself up off the asphalt. "Are you all right?"
Carl nods. "Yeah...yeah. Just stumbled, s'all. Thanks."
The concerned citizen gives him one more once-over, then nods and climbs into his car.
Swallowing hard, he tastes a bitter tang of copper against his tongue -- must have cut his mouth when he hit the deck -- and heads out towards the Metro station, willing his heart to calm down.
(One shot to the leg. One shot to the head. He stopped moving, then.)
(He's grateful for that.)
With his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket, he walks along the main roadway and ignores the quiet conversation of a group of tourists who are consulting a map near the visitor's center. He doesn't have far to walk to make it to the section he knows Harris is buried in, and he definitely doesn't need to consult a map.
Section 57 -- past the war dead of Iraq and Afghanistan in 60 and 61 -- is close to the main entrance. The rows of headstones still stretch neatly across the grass, but here the solid carpet of green is broken by the occasional discolored patches of freshly cut sod and upturned earth.
Staff Sergeant Timothy Harris, aged twenty-four, (promoted in rank posthumously after being killed in action), is sitting on the ground beside his headstone. His field jacket is draped lightly over the marble slab and a lit cigarette is resting at the corner of his mouth. When Carl approaches, the younger man smiles.
"Afternoon, Captain."
Carl swallows past a lump in his throat as he moves closer, and sits in the grass that covers the foot of Harris' grave.
(What he doesn't say: Afternoon, Staff Sergeant. How are you?, because the kid is dead and buried at twenty-four, never married with no children, shot and killed in some dusty courtyard in Beirut, his body shipped home in the back of a cargo plane in a flag-draped casket.)
He nods his head. "Afternoon, Staff Sergeant."
"Want a light?"
Carl shakes his head at the offer -- he hasn't smoked since that day in Lebanon when everything went to hell, because every time the glow of a cigarette flares he's reminded of the smell of burning skin and screaming.
They sit quietly for awhile in silence. Carl watches a bird hop from headstone to headstone a few rows over, while Harris smokes without a word, the thin wisps of grey curling up into the cloudless October sky.
It's the dead man who breaks the silence first, with a question.
"Did you get him?"
(Not did we get him, because he got shot before they made it to the building, his blood soaked body having to be pulled back to safety after the sniper plastered his brains across the sandstone pavers.)
"No, I didn't."
(Because it wasn't Harris' fault that the stairwell was guarded by a bastard with a cache of grenades, or his fault that the commander back on base decided to pull the plug. It hadn't gone to shit -- completely anyway -- at the moment in which the kid was struck down and killed.)
"Damn."
Harris lights yet another cigarette as the sun tracks slowly across the sky, rays broken and scattered by the bronze leaves of a nearby Pin oak. The golden glow that the late-day light gives the young soldier's skin makes him look like he's alive, and Carl appreciates that.
They both look up as a young woman and an even younger child -- likely her daughter, from the way she holds the girl's hand -- pass by a few rows over. Carl nods his head at the pair; the little one waves and flashes them both a bright smile before they continue on.
"Mom didn't see you, did she."
"She never does. The kid's cute though," Harris smiles, and for a moment Carl realizes just how young the man really was. "They come to see her dad at least once at month. He's only been gone a year or two."
"Afghanistan?"
"Yeah."
"That's shit," Carl says, looking down at the grass.
"No," Harris shakes his head. "That's life."
It's nearing five o'clock (and Carl knows he'll have to be going soon, though he knows that the captain's bars stitched into the collar of his field jacket will earn him a little more time if security starts to round up the last of the still-straggling visitors) when Carl glances up at sight of movement in the corner of his vision field.
Harris is brushing grass off of one knee. "Guess it's time for you to go, huh?"
"Just about," Carl says softly. He bites the inside of his cheek to ward off the pinpricks of heat that suddenly threaten at the back of his eyes. He clears his throat as he stands, looking over the vast expanse of gravesites that surround them. "Hey, Staff Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir?"
"You...you're okay?"
Without even hearing him move closer, Carl feels the presence of the younger man at his shoulder. They're both staring at the obscured headstone, the digital pattern of desert camo oddly out of place against the clean lines of white marble and the lush green carpet that surrounds it.
"I'm fine," Harris promises him. "Besides, I've got plenty of company. Thorton's just up the way, there," the kid nods his head to an area just a few yards over to their right. "It's not like I'm lonely or anything."
"That's good," Carl finally says, after a moment's pause. "And, you know, Harris?"
There's no reply, and when Carl turns to glance at the headstone, both the young Army Ranger and his field jacket are gone, leaving only the cold marble slab to stand in silence.
He bows his head, then turns to walk up the hill, headed for the road.
Crossing the parking lot, he tips his head to the woman and her daughter he saw earlier as he passes their car -- as he turns his collar up against the chill, they pull out onto the road.
Their car backfires, twice, as they round the bend and drive out of sight.
He's on the ground before he realizes what's actually happened.
"Hey man," someone calls from a few yards away as he's picking himself up off the asphalt. "Are you all right?"
Carl nods. "Yeah...yeah. Just stumbled, s'all. Thanks."
The concerned citizen gives him one more once-over, then nods and climbs into his car.
Swallowing hard, he tastes a bitter tang of copper against his tongue -- must have cut his mouth when he hit the deck -- and heads out towards the Metro station, willing his heart to calm down.
(One shot to the leg. One shot to the head. He stopped moving, then.)