Through the morning there were false alarms, false sightings. A female camper wearing a red shirt, staring at them as they approached her campsite. And her partner, another young woman, emerging from a tent, for a moment frightened, hostile.
Excuse us have you seen?
. . . girl of nineteen, looks younger. We think she is somewhere in the vicinity . . .
IN THE SEVENTH HOUR of the first-day’s search, early Sunday afternoon the father sighted his daughter ahead, less than one hundred yards away.
Jolted awake, shouting—“Cressida!”
A desperate run, a heedless run, down a steep incline as other searchers stopped in their tracks to stare.
Several saw what the father was seeing: on the farther bank of a narrow mountain stream where the girl had fallen or lain down exhausted to sleep.
Rivulets of sweat ran into the father’s eyes burning like acid. He was running clumsily downhill, sharp pains between his shoulder blades and in his legs. A great ungainly beast on its hind legs, staggering.
“Cressida!”
The daughter lay motionless on the farther side of the stream, part-hidden by underbrush. One of her limbs—a leg, or an arm—lay trailing into the stream. The father was shouting hoarsely—“Cressida!” He could not believe that his daughter was injured or broken but only just sleeping, waiting for him.
Others were approaching now, on the run. The father paid no heed to them, he was determined to reach his daughter first, to waken her, and lift her in his arms.
“Cressida! Honey! It’s me . . . ”
Zeno Mayfield was fifty-three years old. He had not run like this for years. Once he’d been an athlete—in high school a very long time ago. Now his heart was a massive fist in his chest. A sharp pain, a sequence of small sharp pains, struck between his shoulder blades. He ran on reckless, desperate, as if hoping to escape the sharp-darting pains. He was a tall deep-chested man with a broad muscled back; his hair was still thick, licorice-colored except where threaded with gray; his face that had been flushed from the exertion of hours in the Adirondack heat was now draining of blood, mottled and sickly; his heart was pounding so laboriously, it seemed to be drawing oxygen from his brain; at such a pace, he could not breathe; he could not think coherently: his thick clumsy legs could hardly keep him from falling. He was thinking She is all right. Of course, Cressida is all right. But when he reached the mountain stream he saw that the thing on the farther bank wasn’t his daughter but the carcass of a partly decomposed deer, a young doe, the still-beautiful head lacking antlers and a jagged bloody section of her chest torn away by scavengers.
The father cried out, in horror.
A choked animal-cry, as if he’d been kicked in the chest.
The father fell to his knees. All strength drained from his limbs.
He’d been searching for the daughter since ten o’clock that morning. And now he’d found his daughter asleep beside a little mountain stream like a girl in a child’s storybook and in front of his eyes his daughter had been transformed into a hideous decaying carcass.
Zeno Mayfield hadn’t wept since his mother’s death twelve years before. And then, he hadn’t wept like this. His body shook with sobs. A terrible pity for the killed and part-devoured doe overcame him.
His name was being called. Hands beneath his armpits, lifting.
Wanting to hide from them the obvious fact that he was having difficulty breathing. Pains between his shoulder blades had coalesced into a single piercing pain like cartoon zigzag lightning.
He’d insisted early that morning, he would join the search team in the Preserve. Of course, the father of the missing girl must search for her.
They had him on his feet now. The wounded beast swaying.
It is a terrible thing how swiftly a man’s strength can drain from him, like his pride.
These were young volunteers, Zeno didn’t know their names. But they knew his name: “Mr. Mayfield . . . ”
He pushed their hands from him. He was upright, and he was breathing normally again, or—almost.
Would’ve insisted upon returning to the search after a few minutes’ rest, lukewarm water out of the Evian bottle and a nervous splattering urination behind a lichen-pocked boulder but blackness rose inside his skull another time, to his shame he sighed and sank into it.
GOD TAKE ME instead of her. If you take anyone—take me.
TWO
Bride-to-Be
July 4, 2005
YES YOU KNOW. Know that I do. Of course—you know me.
How could you doubt me.
IT IS A SHOCK—of course. We are all—we are all very—sad . . .
No! Sad is what I said. We are all—everyone who loves you—and me—especially. We are sad.
NO, WAIT. We are very happy that you are alive, Brett, and returned to us of course.
We are not sad about that, we are very happy about that.
All those months we prayed. Prayed and prayed.
And now, you are returned home to us.
And now, you are returned to us.
I KNEW YOU would return of course—I never doubted.
Even when we were out of contact—when you were in combat—I did not doubt.
In that terrible place—how do you pronounce it—“Diyala” . . .
PLEASE BELIEVE ME, darling: I love you like always.
That is why I wanted us to be engaged before you left—in case there was something that happened . . . over there.
But you know me, I am . . . I am your girl.
I am your fiancée. Your bride-to-be.
That will not change.
EXCEPT NOW: there is so much for us to plan!
Makes my head swim so much to plan . . .
Your mother promised to help but now . . .
. . . (should not have said promised. I did not mean promised.)
But, before this, before—this . . . The surgeries, and the recovery and rehab. Before this, your mother was excited about planning the wedding, with my mother, and grandmother, and we were planning the wedding to take place as soon as you were . . .
Well yes: there is a before, and there is now.
OH IS IT WRONG to say before? And—now?
Brett why do you look at me like that . . .
Why are you angry at me . . .
Why do you seem to hate me . . .
. . . look at me like I am a stranger. And you are a stranger to me and I—I am frightened of you at such times.
BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, Brett. I love you.
I love you and so sometimes this other—it’s like this other—is staring at me out of your eyes . . .
It is very frightening to me. For I don’t know what I can do, to placate this other.
I PLEDGE TO YOU to be your loving wife forever & ever Amen.
I pledge to you as to Jesus our Savior forever & ever Amen.
I am not ashamed of loving you. Of being with you as we did . . .
I would not have been ashamed if I had been pregnant (as I had worried I might be, as you know) and I think now (almost) that I am sorry that I was not.
(Are you sorry?)
(It would be so different now!)
I feel that I am already your wife. But I feel sometimes that you are not my husband—exactly.
I feel that there is Brett my darling, and there is—this other.
Sometimes.
HERE IS THE bridal gown design.
It’s so lovely—isn’t it? Do you like it?
Please tell me yes. I am so eager to hear yes.
I know it doesn’t interest you—much. Of course . . .
Some dresses are very expensive. This is a bargain, we found online—“Bonnie Bell Designs.”
And so beautiful, I think.
Ivory silk. Ivory lace. One-shoulder neckline with a sheer lace back. The pleated bodice is “fitted” and the skirt “flared.”
The veil is gossamer chiffon. The train is three feet long.
And these are the s
hoes: ivory satin pumps.
Let me hold the picture to the light, maybe you can see better . . .
Do you think that I will look . . . pretty . . . in this?
You’d said I was your beautiful girl. Many times you’d said that, Brett. I believed you then, and I want to believe you now.
Please say yes.
YOU WILL WEAR your U.S. Army dress uniform. So handsome in your dress uniform with “decorations.”
You will wear the dark glasses. You will wear white gloves. The dress cap, so elegant.
Corporal Brett Kincaid. My husband.
We will practice. We have months to practice.
(YOU’D HAD A “stateside” promotion—you’d said.)
(All things have a meaning in the military—you’d said. And so stateside had a meaning but what is that meaning?—we did not know.)
(We know only that we are so proud of our Corporal Brett Kincaid.)
YOU ARE MISTAKEN—YOU do not look wounded.
You do not look “battered.”
You do not look “like shit”!
You are my handsome fiancé, you are not truly changed. There will be more surgeries. There must be time to heal, the surgeon has explained. There will be a “natural healing”—in time.
You can’t expect a miracle to be perfect!
The ears, the scalp, the forehead, the lids of the eyes. The throat beneath the jaw, on your right side. Except in bright light you would think it was an ordinary burn—burns.
Oh please don’t flinch, Brett—when I kiss you. Please.
It’s like a sliver of glass in the heart—when you push me from you.
IF PEOPLE ARE looking at you in Carthage it is only because they know of you—your medals, your honors. They are admiring of you, for you are a war hero but they would not want to intrude.
Like Daddy. He is so admiring of you, Brett!—but Daddy has a funny way about him when he’s emotional—gets very quiet—people wouldn’t believe that Zeno Mayfield is a shy man really.
Well I mean—essentially.
It’s hard for men to talk about—certain things. Daddy had not ever had a son, only daughters. To us, Daddy talks. We listen.
And Mom talks about you all the time. When you were in Iraq, in combat, she prayed for you all the time. She worried more when we didn’t hear from you than I did, almost . . .
All of my family, Brett. All of the Mayfields.
Try to believe—we love you.
I WISH YOU would come back to church with me, Brett.
Everyone is missing you there.
We have a new minister—he’s very nice.
And his wife, she’s very nice.
They ask after you every Sunday. They know about you of course.
I mean—they know that you are returned to us safely.
There are other veterans in the congregation, I think. They don’t come every week. But I think you know two of them at least—Denny Bisher and Brandon Kranach. Maybe they’d been in Iraq, or maybe Afghanistan.
Denny is in a wheelchair. Denny’s younger brother wheels him in. Or his mother. How’s Brett Denny is always asking me and I tell him you’ll contact him soon . . .
How’s Corporal Kincaid. How’s that cool dude.
No, please! Don’t be angry with me, I am sorry.
. . . I will not bring Denny up again.
. . . I will not bring church up again.
Don’t be angry at me, please I am sorry.
JUST FIREWORKS, BRETT! Over at Palisade Park.
The windows are shut. Air conditioner is on.
I can turn the music higher so you won’t hear.
I said honey—just fireworks. You know—Fourth of July in the park.
Yes better not to go this year.
I told them not to expect us—Mom and Dad. We have other things to do.
WHICH TABLETS?—the white ones, or . . .
I can bring you a glass of water.
OK, a glass of beer. But the doctor said . . .
. . . not a good idea to mix “alcohol” and “meds” . . .
Don’t—please.
WE WILL PRACTICE, in the church. Before the wedding rehearsal, we will practice.
You do not limp. Only just—sometimes—you seem to lose your balance—you make that sudden jerking movement with your legs like in a dream.
I think it is not real. It is just something in your head.
HAND-EYE COORDINATION. THEY have promised.
In the video, you can see how that boy improved.
There are many miracles. The great miracle God has provided is, you are alive and we are together.
The doctor—neurologist—says it is a matter of neuron-recircuiting.
It is a matter of new brain cells learning to take over from the damaged brain cells. It is neurogenesis.
Like not-sleeping. The brain “forgets” how to sleep. Like—sometimes—the brain forgets how to control “elimination.” It is no one’s fault.
These reflexes will come back in time, the doctor said.
WHEN THE GRENADE exploded, and the wall collapsed.
It was combat. It was in action. Which is why you have been awarded a Purple Heart.
And the Infantry Combat Badge which is a special badge beautiful gold-braided in the shape of a U with a miniature facsimile of a long-barreled rifle against a blue background. A badge to hold in the hand and contemplate like a gem.
Like a gem that is a riddle, or a riddle that is a gem.
How brave you were, from the start.
Which is why you must not feel shame, that you are returned to us.
You are not a traitor or a coward. You did not let your platoon down. You were injured, and you are convalescing. And you are in rehab.
And you will be married.
WE WILL HAVE CHILDREN, I vow. A son.
I know this. This is possible!
We will do it. We will surprise them. In rehab they have promised—the older doctor said, to me—If you love your future husband and will not give up but persevere a pregnancy is not impossible.
Lots of disabled vets have fathered children. This is well known.
The MRI did not detect any growth. The MRI did not detect any blood-clots. The MRI did not detect any “irregularities.”
Whatever you see in your head like in dreams is not real. You know this!
CORPORAL BRETT GRAHAM Kincaid.
On the maps, we tried to follow you.
Baghdad—that was the first.
Diyala Province. Sadah.
Where you were hurt—Kirkuk.
Where the maps gave out—faded.
So far from Carthage.
OPERATION IRAQI FREEDOM.
Very few people in Carthage know the difference—if there is a difference—between “Iraq” and “Afghanistan.”
I know: for I am your fiancée and it is necessary for me to know.
But still I am confused, and there is no one to ask.
For I dare not ask you.
The look in your eyes, at such times!—I feel such cold, a shudder comes over me.
He does not love me. He does not even know me.
Reverend Doig was explaining last Sunday there is no end, there can be no end, never an end to war for there is a “seed of harm” in the human soul that can never be wholly eradicated until Jesus returns to save mankind.
But when will this be?—Jesus returning to us?
Like Corporal Kincaid returning.
Yes I believe this! I want to believe this.
Must believe that there is a way of believing it—for both of us. When Reverend Doig marries us.
WHAT DID I tell them, I told them the truth—it was an accident.
I slipped and fell and struck the door—so silly.
At the ER they took an X-ray. My jaw is not dislocated.
It’s sore, it’s hard to swallow but the bruises will fade.
I know, you did not mean it.
I am sorry to upset you.
r /> I am not crying, truly!
We will look back on this time of trial and we will say—It was a test of our love. We did not weaken.
THIS MORNING in my bed which is so lonely. Oh Brett I miss our special times together before you went away when I could come to you in your apartment and we could be alone together . . .
When that happens again, we will be happy as we were. This is not a normal way for us to be, living as we are. It’s no wonder there is strain between us. But this time will pass, this time of trial.
I wish your mother did not dislike me. When I am trying so hard to love her.
She said to me You don’t have to pretend. You can stop pretending. Any day now, you can stop pretending. And I didn’t know how to answer her—there was such dislike in her eyes . . . And finally I said But I am not pretending anything, Mrs. Kincaid! I love Brett and want only to marry him and be his wife and take care of him as he might need me, this is all I dream of.
This morning when I could not sleep after I’d wakened early—(there is a rooster somewhere behind where we live, up the hill behind the cemetery on the Post Road, I like to hear the rooster crowing but it means that the night is over and I will probably not get back to sleep)—I was remembering when we said good-bye, that last time.
In the Albany airport. And there were other soldiers arriving at the security check and some of them younger than you even. And that older officer—a lieutenant. And everyone—civilians—looking at you with respect.
So sad to kiss you good-bye! And everybody wanting to hug you and kiss you at the last minute and you were laughing saying But Julie is my fiancée not you guys.
There are so many of us who love you, Brett. I wish you would know this.
You gave me your “special letter” then. I knew what it meant—I think I knew—I felt that I might faint—but hid it away quickly of course and never spoke of it to anyone.