The hotel had become also the stock exchange. There had been a pool near the hotel, and there were doors marked Changing Rooms from which it would have been a short run to the waters of the Tigris. There seemed to be no time during the slow three-and-a-half days I waited for the go-ahead, knowing only that I was going somewhere in the neighborhood, and it was my job.
A chance acquaintance, sitting in a street tea parlor under the sunshade canvas of a mail-order lean-to tent, had an e-mail for me from my sister. Umo was with a crew filming American GI’s listening to Rock and talking about it. He was somewhere over here. Umo an export? What China has to offer Mexico in exchange for business Mexico has been relieved of. “What an old roly-poly” Umo was, according to my sister’s e-mail, and she was “so tired” of the California sun she was moving East. My reply: Like Dad almost. Hers: He don’ care what ah do — Apply yourself — Mom buying me clothes every minute — don’t know why, but do.
My sister didn’t censor much: Your soldier there e-mailed asking Was I married? — I said Not that I know of, but thought again and added, Talk not to me.
She would like to hold me and whisper me a joke that what I start in others need no more be mine than streams far as forever from their source. A faithful e-mailer even later when I got out of the service (I thought) and was seeing almost no one and she told me how they had visited a papermaking studio with the big Mixmasters and the felt blankets and cloudy water everywhere and that was the way she did things, from the ground up. Her exact geography in these e-mails of hers, plotting my whereabouts but exactly where is she, in her words? Another retrieved on a poor happy corporal’s laptop who couldn’t get his earphones or almost his ears to work so rachetting forth was the jam around him (and me) though Stones and Zeppelin-wise.
Again from my sister, this time “some numbers” she promised, and signing herself “Arabiyoun ana Maisoon.” What’s your sister’s name? the soldier wanted to know, though he had only to hit Reply to contact her. She changes it all the time, I said. I thought, Is he going to start up something with her? — and she was e-mailing me abroad that our mother had said Dad had told her one night before I left, and in fact did leave before he had a chance to drive me home, that I had come close to equaling the Club record for the 200 backstroke but he didn’t get a chance to tell me, I had seemed in a real zone looking up into the sky almost…reaching like… She forgot, my sister said…my mother had forgotten what I’d been reaching like. And Umo… Javascript or garbage followed yet at the end, haven’t seen Dad over there, have you? and it wasn’t until I got home to California that I learned the other number she had bulleted for me for Umo. Why my father had not taken the opportunity to tell me my 200 time next morning no more needed to be explained (to me at any rate) than his decision (and permission) to quit the Reserve at this time. Because he knew someone — or had something to offer in exchange, it came to me. Yet my days were clear as memory, my parents, the speed of light in its actual presence (and therefore slowness), and the fact that I’ve never had its constancy (going away or toward) satisfactorily explained to me. A swelled head Dad and Mom would call it. Another e-mail retrieved at Kut asked what had happened just before the photo of the “two headless ones” I’d sent in a wretched mood; a second e-mail, what had happened before that? She could always help me. As she had just before I left.
Dad’s forty-third birthday evening I was fresh from a friendship-ending debate with Milt. And faced with a scheduling conflict. Almost exactly the same age, we had known each other too long and so could swap words of our fathers’—“let your tool do its work,” Milt quoted my dad, and now throughout the forty-five-minute exchange on the way home from The Inventor’s during which I laid out vastly more fact than Milt to establish the error of a war that I was joining up for, we found ourselves paused upon a narrow meridian — its gravelly ground advertised for Adoption — a fault line between opposing three-lane streams of rush-hour vehicles that all but drowned my friend out. So I observed him from head to toe with more clarity than regret somehow pairing the seventeen tons of ordnance dropped during the run-up by the President in a no-fly zone, with Milt’s higher-pitched Lincoln voice; the President’s unwillingness (like a silhouette heavily backlit) to share intelligence among our allies, with Milt’s index finger shaking at me (thumb over the other three), still irritated that I had alleged Jesus had spat into someone’s eye; that the ten-foot-high concrete blast walls in the capital separating protected visitors from exposed natives had been acquired from Kurdistan not poured in plentiful local cement, with Milt’s huge feet encased in gray Converse; and the Middle East vet once trained as a Ranger in Fort Lewis up in Washington, then trained as a forward observer, now an RPG amputee and devoted hunter in Oregon, who had not liked me and had told us personally that his absolute certainty that there is a Jesus got him through — with Milt’s unusually thin, marine neck with its elderly bobbing Adam’s apple. So I felt like a swimmer whose shoulders and legs belong to the water on a very good day, with that coast and skim and play of power quite apart from how far you are going as if you had kid fins on, laying down on the dining room table for my sister to wrap it one of The Inventor’s envelopes that had cost me twenty dollars I think and added its stake to whatever had made Milt mad — a difference with The Inventor often. Once about sex (which Milt said was just the release of tension, a biological function). Today more likely the news, edited in fact slightly by me as if it had been solo, that I had taken my physical at the ungodly hour of seven that morning. And now The Inventor had summoned us to a party that evening, at an address not his that I imagined I knew. But in the kitchen with my mother and the turkey molé conquistadores I asked that the evening be not about me but Dad, which she thought considerate though considerate of what? (Did I know what the envelope contained? my sister asked. Not really.)
The evening was not well attended. We were missing the assistant coach at the high school Wick and his wife, and my brother and Liz and Milt. Sinatra singing “Five Minutes More,” my mother handed me a platter to carry in from the kitchen. My aunt and uncle came for the fresh local shrimp and turkey molé and spoke cordially of this friend of mine they had yet to meet because a young Mongolian (of all things) Sumo had taken Osaka by storm (they laughed frowning at this), broken taboo by taking prize money with his left hand, being left-handed, but in Japan you don’t throw your opponent by yanking him forward by the hair and he’d had to go back to Mongolia until things cooled down. Umo himself, I pointed out, had told me how this Asashōryū glared, but Umo was a diver, he was not into Sumo, in fact I didn’t know where he was (I felt my sister smiling on me — the way I had said it).
I hadn’t seen him in weeks.
Had I done something? We gather what we can together, and that’s it.
My sister made an impromptu speech, wordy for her, in honor of the breadwinner who brings home his loaded gun unfired, and in a moment slightly embarrassing but we didn’t quite know why, she remembered wrestling in the living room with brother Zach over a joke and Dad’s not breaking it up—
He came upon us wrestling—
Angry on the rug.
Father to us both, he thought
Fight — or sport — or hug.
They dive into their home work—