Still Come Home. Katey Schultz
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youth, the more Miller hates himself for the suffering his absence must cause her. It doesn’t exactly make him want to arrange a tell-all with his wife in which he’d have to confess that he failed at the one thing his job requires above all else—to keep his men alive—and besides, he’s 7,000 miles away. He’s here. Now. A soldier under his charge getting eaten alive by a woman equally far away. The trajectories his family and Folson’s family are on seem impossible; Miller can’t even touch them. Absence makes the heart grow something, but he’s not certain that it’s fonder.
Outside the trailer, daylight fades to a dim, orange belt that parallels the horizon. It’s the only hour during which FOB Copperhead could be called beautiful, and Folson appears determined to crap all over it. Miller scans a few alleys between trailers, then jogs toward the main pathway opening to the rest of the base and looks for something awry. The base unfolds in front of him like a gigantic Monopoly board—sandbag-lined barracks and coalition offices to one side, the infirmary and dumpsters dotting the opposite. Separate offices for the ANA, of course, who seem under constant harassment to “use their own assets” for Afghan troop casualties or wounded civilians. In the distance, the chow hall and PX sit near rows of Porta-Johns, their fecal-soup scent a nearly constant tickle under his nose. From there, it’s not difficult to spot Folson, what with a cluster of soldiers gathered around the flagpole next to the chow hall and a high-pitched holler hitting Miller’s ears the same moment his brain finally makes sense of what his eyes are showing him.
Miller arrives at the flagpole breathless, having sprinted the 100 yards full-bore, passing articles of Folson’s desert camis along the way. First the uniform blouse. Then one combat boot. Another. Impressive, considering the cumbersome laces. Folson’s ripstop pants and undershirt came off last in what looked like a tumble to the ground, though quickly recovered, and there he is, nearly thirty feet in the air, straddling the flagpole, wearing nothing but boxer briefs and white tube socks. The piercing sound hits Miller’s ears again, and he sees now that it’s coming from Folson, wailing like a baby. A handful of onlookers holler up at him, partly out of concern but mostly out of annoyance. They’ve come for the nightly flag lowering and instead discovered a crazy motherfucker flexing his muscles to the sky. Miller herds the soldiers aside, though most stay close to witness the reputed 2LT in action. Miller squints upward again, trying to draw a line of clarity. This may well be one of the strangest, most fitting sights produced by the war: a trained soldier sobbing in the dying light, the bold stars and stripes of the American flag thwapping him across the chest.
“Hey, man, let’s get you down from there!” Miller cups his hands around his mouth and shouts.
Folson looks down, and one of his legs slips free, causing him to nearly lose balance before latching on again.
“Just keep your gaze level,” Miller calls. “Just hold on up there.”
“Sir?” Folson yells. His voice is a mishmash of rebel teen and muscle man, teetering between tears and brawn.
“Yeah, PFC, I’m right here,” he edges closer to the bottom of the flagpole, though he knows any position he finds is futile. If Folson lets go, there’s no stopping the inevitable.
“Sir, I need you to burn that letter.”
Miller stares up at Folson’s face, astonished to see surprise, then relief in quick succession. “Consider it done,” he says, cupping his hands to project his voice once more. “Now tell me about how the Vols football is looking for next season.”
“Fuck that, man. Fuck the entire fucking state of Tennessee. I am a ‘volunteer,’” Folson’s voice sounds steadier now, a bit less in conflict with itself.
“You got that right.”
“And back home, they’re sucking down Mountain Dew and swiping Sudafed, hulking around in their bright orange football jerseys. You and I both know it. Our country is full of shitholes, Sir. Shithole, after shithole, after shithole.”
“Not the whole country,” Miller says. “I went to California once when I was a kid. Dad squeezed us all into a camper for a week. The ride sucked, but those old growth trees, man. I’m telling you…Nothing shithole about ‘em.”
“I bet you my neighbor back home drinks more Mountain Dew in a week than a goddamn tree sucks water in a year.”
A slight breeze rolls across the FOB, and the ropes clatter and tangle along the flagpole. “Sir, my arms are shaking.”
“Mine would be too. Why don’t you come down?” Miller says, and now he knows. Folson has scared himself. Plain and simple. Climbing a flagpole is one way to do it. Miller suspects the feeling is at least a little better than whatever Folson felt looking at that letter.
“Just…just…I’m shaking. It’s just a lot. There’s just a lot of everything, Sir.”
“I understand,” Miller says.
“Look, I know it’s weird, but I need you to tell me about your wife.”
“Anything, bro. But why?” Miller asks. To think of Tenley in this moment rattles his composure. He’s trying not to fall short. How desperately part of him wants to climb that pole too.
“Because your wife wouldn’t pull something like this. You’ve said it yourself. She’s a good woman.”
Miller looks down for a moment, stretching his neck. His brain ticks its way through the muck. Do good women always remind you how much you’ve missed? Do good women say they’ll always love you, then grow cold because they’re questioning what kind of man they married? Yes. No. Miller could go either way, but what matters has always been the same: he likes who he is with Tenley and Cissy in his life. He has come to depend upon the way they see him. What remains is whether or not they’ll keep seeing him that way once he gets back.
“It’s not as simple as being a good woman or a good man,” Miller finally says. He looks back up and sees Folson’s muscles freeze around the flagpole. The soldier’s skin appears pale from the neck down, making the array of emotions across his sunburned face all the more dramatic. “I’m not gonna lie to you, man. It’s just not that simple. But I will tell you how I screwed up back home last Thanksgiving. How I still have some things I’ve got to set right.”
It stings to think of it, let alone say it out loud. But Folson’s situation demands honesty, and Miller isn’t above personal exchange when called for.
“Did you take the cheesy bread out of the oven too early? Because that’s what Becca always rides me for. The cheesy bread. Can you imagine?”
“Naw, man. It was worse than cheesy bread. But you gotta come down. It’s killing my neck to look up that way, and besides, I’m sick of seeing your hairy back. You’re fucking Wolverine up there, man. Anyone ever tell you that?”
Folson allows a half-smile. “‘I’m the best there is at what I do…’” he quotes. Below, Miller raises his hands into the air, fingers scraping upward like Wolverine’s claws. He lets loose an animal growl. They finish the line together, and the shout echoes across FOB Copperhead: “‘…AND WHAT I DO BEST ISN’T VERY NICE.’”
4
Worse than Cheesy Bread
Miller and Folson find the rec room completely empty, thanks to a late-night screening of Full Metal Jacket on base. A portable generator hums in the corner, parlayed for a Star Trek pinball machine, of all things. No one can get the straight story on who authorized that. The two-player function button is jammed with sand, ruling it out. Delta Platoon sawed the legs off the mail-order air hockey table as a prank on Bravo, and now the game simply gathers dust. Tonight, the pucks are arranged in alternating colors of red and blue, aligned across the face of the gameboard in the shape of the letters OEF. Folson challenges Miller to best three out of five table tennis, and they begin the search for paddles and balls.
“Got one here,” Folson calls. He crouches on one hand and both knees, reaching his free arm under a dank, brown sofa.
Miller grabs a ball from a