Part 7 (1/2)

”What Dad would want,” Ruby was almost yelling, ”is to be safe. To be home.”

”Of course. But what”s going to get him home? What”s going to keep him safer?

Negotiations, or guns?”

”That”s a major over-simplification.” Ruby put her cup down on the cement step.

”Ruby. Your viewpoint is critical here. Whatever we call each other, we”re the family. Together. You and I.”

”Okay. Well, okay.” Ruby took a deep breath. ”I”m glad to hear you say that. So: I want to allow them to attempt a rescue whenever they feel they should. I want to give them that trust.”

Clarissa looked to the left, away from the water, further into the cemetery. Someone had attached yellow and orange helium-filled balloons to a bush near several tombstones, and they bobbed cheerfully in the breeze. ”I”m afraid of the kind of action they”re talking about, Ruby. Can you understand that?”

”That”s just baseless, Clarissa. What do we know?” Ruby moved her arms in a circular gesture. ”Look at us. We”re sitting in a Brooklyn cemetery, theorizing.”

”I think Todd would want me to trust his colleagues. Both Amin, and Bill Snyder, who also trusts Amin.”

”What about the people who are trained to look out for Americans in Afghanistan?”

”Looking out for American interests isn”t the same thing as looking out for Todd.”

Ruby was quiet for a moment. ”Angie thinks we should give them the okay,” she said.

Clarissa stood. ”You can see the water from here. Look.”

Ruby watched Clarissa, but did not stand to look at the view. ”You said my voice was equal to yours.”

”It is.”

”But you aren”t actually listening.”

”I am listening. I just want to give Amin a few more days. Can you go with that?”

”Jack says everyone agrees to this. It”s pro-forma. The government doesn”t even ask when the kidnap victims are soldiers, but they have to if civilians are involved. Even so, everyone says okay.”

”When did he say all that?”

”He called me.”

”Doesn”t it seem to you that he”s spending an inordinate amount of energy trying to get an okay for a possible rescue attempt?”

”Clarissa, he must know something that makes it important.”

”Then he needs to tell us.”

”But it”s probably not definite, so he feels he can”t. Purposely murky.” That”s the phrase he used with me.”

”Well, I need a little more transparency here. That”s the phrase I”d use with him.”

”And that”s it?”

Clarissa sighed. ”For now. For now, that”s it.”

Ruby stood up. ”I”ve got to get to work.”

”I was hoping we could... we could walk a little. Talk a little about something else.”

”There is nothing else right now, Clarissa. And I”m running late.”

Ruby left without looking back. Though they weren”t far from the entrance, it was easy to get lost in Green-Wood. Even Clarissa sometimes still did. ”Stick to the right,” Clarissa called after her.

Clarissa rose and headed deeper into the cemetery. Ruby seemed so certain-more certain, actually, than Clarissa-about the way forward. So why was Clarissa holding her ground so stubbornly? And what if her gut was wrong? What if Todd was killed while American troops were waiting for an okay from some clueless wife back in Brooklyn?

humans are delicate so keep it safe humans are impermanent so take the risks humans are transient so soak in the details She had wandered into a part of the cemetery she didn”t know well. She ran her fingers along the rough top of an old tombstone and then knelt before it to read the lines engraved. They were still barely legible. ”But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us, As for an hour, carrying us diverse-yet cannot carry us diverse forever.” She recognized the lines. Walt Whitman, claimed by Brooklyn, still memorized in its cla.s.srooms. ”Yet cannot carry us diverse forever.” She repeated the lines aloud. And marveled, again, at the perverse power of a cemetery to bring her comfort.

Danil, September 7th One foot jammed into the opening between the bars of the rusting gate, Danil shoved aside a vine to tighten his grip. He hoisted himself, hovered in midair for a tremulous inhale and pushed over, managing to clear the barbed wire as well as the pointed ends of the iron posts. An angel flight, he called it, both risky and exhilarating. He was not as agile as he”d been in his 20s, and he”d torn his s.h.i.+rt more than once doing this exact maneuver.

Landing on the ivy-coated ground, he moved quickly away from the street. If he were spotted in the wrecked grace of Admiral”s Row, once the jewel of Brooklyn Navy Yard housing, he could face a trespa.s.sing charge and a fine he couldn”t afford to pay. Yet there was something so symbolically right about what he did here that he continued to chance it. He wasn”t the only one: urban explorers, photographers and the occasional graffiti writer made their way in too. He”d never seen anyone, but sometimes spotted what they left behind: a discarded water bottle or film box, a tag.

Heading for the third house in the row, he climbed up decomposing steps covered with dried leaves and bark. He pa.s.sed through the vine-claimed front door and headed cautiously up to the second floor. Admiral”s Row, once an oasis of stately entryways and arched windows for high-ranking military officers, was built in the late 1800s complete with a skating rink, greenhouse, parade grounds and a sense of exclusivity. The homes were occupied up until the 1970s, but once they were abandoned, the environment immediately began its reclamation work, both destroying and, in Danil”s view, enhancing. He”d pa.s.sed the walled group of crumbling homes several times while biking into the City for work, and it aroused his curiosity. Finally, about a year and a half ago, he”d decided to check it out himself. Despite the no trespa.s.sing signs, he”d been visiting regularly ever since.

A hole in the roof of the second floor invited a single stream of light into the room. He reached behind a crumbled wall board and brought out a stack of envelopes. His mother”s letters, unopened, about 70 of them. A remarkable collection already. From his back pocket, he extracted the three more Joni had given him and added them to the pile. He”d stopped reading them a long while ago and didn”t want them in his apartment, but he felt it would be wrong to throw them away. He hadn”t known what to do with them until he saw the inside of Admiral”s Row. He”d returned a week after his initial visit with the first thick set of letters to deposit.

He also stored here a favorite picture of Piotr, sporting the beginnings of his first mustache. His hair straight and long, he leaned into the camera, his lips parted in what wasn”t exactly a smile, but a friendly look of acknowledgment. Danil had taken the photo himself, right before Piotr went to get his head shaved. ”Dumba.s.s,” he said aloud to his brother. ”For f.u.c.k”s sake. Why?” He asked the same thing every time he looked at the photo, although sometimes the underlying question varied. He”d refused from the start to visit the lie of his brother”s grave, but he”d begun talking to Piotr here.

Danil propped up the photo and leaned back on the heels of his hands, rolling his neck to loosen the muscles. ”Sometimes, you know, you s.h.i.+t,” he said aloud, ”I feel like a war casualty myself. That”s why ...” He shook his head, squeezing his lips together as if to stop the words, stop the thoughts themselves. ”Is it wrong if I end up benefiting from it somehow? I mean, maybe Joni”s right; I might as well meet the guy. But I also might have to say stuff that will make Mom sadder, or angry, or...” He rested his forehead in the palm of his hand a minute. ”I really gotta get something together here, bro, or I might as well be buried next to you right now.”

He paused, half expecting a sign, something he could interpret as a reply, but nothing came. He laughed, then, a little harshly. ”Talking to a picture, yeah?” He lifted the photo and tucked it carefully behind the wallboard, next to the pile of letters. ”Later,” he said, rising.

He hesitated for a moment in front of a ragged opening where a window once had been, looking out into a ruined garden where nothing remained to recall more lively times. Maybe he should open one of his mother”s letters, just one. Maybe the most recent. But he hesitated. What could he hope to find there? Certainly not the permission he wanted. He missed his mom, and the way they used to be together. He figured part of her had died with Piotr, just like a version of him had died too, leaving in its place someone who hung out in deserted buildings listening for signs. ”s.h.i.+t,” he said, and he turned and headed down the crumbling stairs.

Clarissa, September 8th ”h.e.l.lo. Is this Mr. Todd”s wife?”

The voice sounded muted and distant; she wondered if a poor connection could be blamed, or if the speaker simply used a hushed tone. ”Yes,” she said, tightening her grip on the receiver, pressing it more closely to her ear. ”It is.”

”I am very sorry for what has happened,” he said. His English was only slightly accented. And he did, in fact, sound crestfallen.

”Amin?” she said. ”Is that you?”

”Yes.”

”Oh. I”m so glad to hear from you.”

”My people, they are good,” he said. ”They are generous and welcoming. They will offer a pa.s.sing stranger dinner and a bed. But Afghans have endured loss and violence and fear. The culture of war has corrupted souls.”

”I understand, of course I do,” she said. ”My husband loved-he loves-your country. And also working with you.”

”I was happy to hear Mr. Todd was marrying again, after so many years as a widower. He showed me your picture once,” Amin said.

”And I”ve seen yours.” Clarissa remembered Todd telling her that business in Afghanistan, even urgent business, had to be prefaced with a certain amount of complimentary small talk undertaken in an unconcerned tone, as though one had no worries at all. She had to manage, she told herself, to restrain a spill of questions and fears.