Measuring Henry’s waist.
“What’s your name?”
Measuring Henry’s chest.
“Roger.”
Measuring Henry’s inseam.
“Nice to meet you, Roger.”
“The smaller sizes are on the left. Upper rack.”
“What size am I?”
“You’re the size that’s gonna need alterations.”
“Which is—?”
“There might be a couple of thirty-fours in there.”
“You got anything for my friend?”
“A tuxedo?”
“Hey, Alice! You want a tuxedo?”
“Maybe,” Alice answers from the other side of a rack.
“I was thinking more like a dress,” Henry says. And then quietly to Roger: “You know that actress in the movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s?”
“Audrey Hepburn?”
“A dress like she wore.”
“That’s a sheath, bud.”
“And maybe a hat.”
“Does the girl know?”
“No.”
“You might ask the girl.”
“That’s my mom’s favorite movie.”
Roger gives him a look.
“Do you have anything?” Henry asks.
“I might.”
“Is it in a vault or something?”
Roger calls to Alice. “What size are you?”
“I don’t know. Small?”
“That’s a start.”
He walks to the racks of tuxedos, effortlessly extracts four of them, hangs them in a fitting room wallpapered in leopard print, and disappears through a back door.
“Am I supposed to try those on?” Henry asks.
“Yup!”
Alice plops into a lime green swivel chair to wait.
Henry closes the curtain.
“I think you should look at some pearls.”
“What?”
“Some long strings of pearls.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are there hats? Have you seen any hats?”
“Henry, have you lost your mind?”
He steps out of the fitting room.
“This one’s too big.”
Henry is drowning in this tuxedo. The sleeves reach his knees. He’d need stilts to wear the pants.
“Try the next one.”
“Look at the pearls.”
“What pearls?”
“In the glass case.”
“What do I want with pearls?”
“Alice could you just—”
Henry steps back into the fitting room as Roger appears with half a dozen little black dresses draped over his arm. He hangs them one by one across the back wall of a fitting room papered in faded peppermint stripes.
“I think this is what he was looking for,” Roger says.
“Those are for me?”
“I’ll find you some pearls.”
“Henry . . . ?”
“Just try them on. Just for fun,” Henry says from behind the curtain.
Alice finds herself in the pink room with the peeling wallpaper taking off her backpack and her clothes and carefully pulling the first dress over her head. There is no mirror inside the fitting room, so she’s going to have to step outside to see what it looks like. She hesitates. This could be really embarrassing. It seems like it fits; she can still breathe after she zips the zipper. At least it’s not long, and at least it’s not full of ruffles and bows, and it definitely doesn’t look like anything her mother would pick out for her. It’s straight and close fitting but not tight, and the skirt hits just below the knee. Maybe she’s gonna look like a fifty-year-old widow in this dress.
She steps outside the fitting room. She still has her socks on, but even so she can see that it’s a beautiful dress. And even though she’s mostly all covered up, it’s also a sexy dress. It hugs her body and her waist looks tiny and it shows off her shoulders and her long neck.
“What size shoe do you wear?” Roger asks.
“Seven and a half.”
He hands her a pair of red high heels. She shakes her head.
“Do you have any flats?”
Roger disappears and reappears with a pair of black, pointy-toed flats. Alice pulls her socks off and slips into them.
Henry steps out of his fitting room in a jacket that actually fits and pants that are kind of tight but in a good way. Even just wearing a T-shirt under the jacket, Henry looks good. But Henry is not looking in the mirror, Henry is looking at Alice.
“What?” She laughs.
Roger reappears with an impossibly long string of pearls that he doubles around her neck, and several hairpins.
“Put your hair up,” he instructs, handing her the pins.
Alice lifts her hair off the nape of her neck. Roger glances at Henry, raises an eyebrow. Here it is, the simplest gesture in the world: a girl lifts her hair off the nape of her neck and a boy and an old man catch their collective breath.
“There,” she says, and turns to them.
She smoothes the front of the dress, looking down at her hands, at her bitten fingernails, at her big feet in the pointy-toed shoes. This is a woman’s dress, she thinks, a young woman’s dress. It is not a girl’s dress. It is solidly on the other side of the line outside of girlhood. It is a dress that says something big in a very quiet way; it is a dress that is talking to Alice right now, a dress that is making her feel possibilities never before considered, the possibility of perfume and pretty and dancing and boys. This dress is who she might be, only more so.
When she looks up they are both smiling at her.
“You need a shirt,” Roger says to Henry, and hustles off to find him one.
Henry almost can’t bear looking at Alice. There’s something happening in his stomach that could be the flu or could be just plain, pure misery and longing.
“Do you like it?”
He nods his head and closes his eyes to try to contain the intensity of what he is feeling. He closes his eyes and imagines holding Alice on the dance floor, his hands resting on the small of her back; he imagines hearing Duke Ellington and a tenor sax and knowing the tune and knowing the words and knowing the steps, and holding Alice in his arms, Alice in that dress, Alice with that music.. . .
“Henry . . . ?”
He opens his eyes to find Alice grinning at him.
“What?”
“This could be fun.”
April 21st
“There are two soldiers at the front door!” Ellie shouts.
“What? !”
“Two soldiers! Knocking on the door.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I think you should answer the door.”
“Is it Dad?”
“No! It’s not Dad!”
“Nobody comes to the front door.”
“Alice! I want you to come down here right now!”
“I’m coming!”
Alice is running down the stairs thinking, soldier at the front door, soldier at the front door. Her heart is flip-flopping in her chest, and she’s not really sure where her feet are and before she opens the door she has a chance to register Ellie. Ellie who is standing stock still in front of the living room window, a bright blue crayon in her left fist, staring out the window at the soldiers who are improbably standing on the front stoop, patiently waiting for someone to open the door.
She hesitates with her hand on the knob. He knocks again, softly. Do they get training in this? How to knock? What time of day to show up?
She opens the door to a soldier in his twenties who immediately takes off his hat, revealing an extremely new haircut. He is flanked by another soldier twice his size.
“I’m Sergeant Walker Ames. This is Army Chaplain McMurphy. May I speak to your mother?”
“She’s not home.”
“When will she be back?”
Alice glances at her dad’s watch.
“Maybe six thirty, maybe later.”
br /> “Can you call her?”
“Is my dad all right?”
“Can you call her?”
“Can you just tell me that?”
“I’ll wait while you call her.”
He is eerily, almost creepily calm Alice thinks, as her mind races to take in all of the possibilities of what his presence on her front stoop means.
“Do you want to come inside?” Ellie asks.
“No, thank you. Please call your mother.”
Twenty minutes later Angie pulls all the way into the driveway and comes in through the kitchen door, the way they always do. As she stoops down to give Ellie a hug, Alice can see that her hands are shaking.
“I just wanted a moment with my girls,” she says, as she pulls Alice to her side.
There’s that soft knock again.
Angie stands and walks to the front door. The girls are hesitating behind her. She reaches out and opens the door.
“Mrs. Bliss? Mrs. Angie Bliss?”
“Yes.”
“Sergeant Walker Ames. May I come in?”
Missing. They have almost no information other than that Matt Bliss is officially MIA.
Here’s what they do know, or what the army will tell them, or what they have sanitized to put in the official letter, which is delivered by Sergeant Ames and the very bulky, very bald, and nearly tongue-tied army chaplain McMurphy.
Matt had been patrolling Falluja for six days with his thirteen-man infantry squad. On the day in question, Matt’s unit rushed the roof of the tallest building in the northern end of the city. With a nineteenyear-old named Travis Boyd in the lead, the soldiers ran up the building’s four flights of stairs. When they stepped out onto the roof, the enemy opened fire. Matt ran past Travis Boyd to the far side of the building where he was shot and wounded. Within seconds, everyone else on the roof was wounded.
In the letter to the family they quote Travis Boyd: “We tried to get to Matt. I could see he was still alive. But the insurgents dragged him away with them.” Boyd was hit with shrapnel and suffered a concussion, earning a Purple Heart.
They do not know where Matt is being held or why. Sergeant Ames is talking about hope, telling them of other cases where missing soldiers have been found, or rescued. He advises them to be patient, not to watch the news, to go about their daily life as usual.
The army chaplain is doing considerably less talking. He does manage to ask them to call him, any time of the day or night. He hands Angie his card. Ellie wants one, too.
“Girls, I want you to go to your room.”
“But, Mom—” Alice says.
“Alice, take your sister upstairs, please.”
Alice turns to Sergeant Ames.
“Did you say he was on a roof?”
“Yes.”
“He was ambushed and wounded on a roof?”
“Yes.”
“Alice, I’d like you to go upstairs now please,” Angie says.
The girls go, reluctantly. Alice sits on the upstairs landing to listen as best she can with Ellie sobbing in their bedroom.
Angie asks to speak to Sergeant Ames alone. McMurphy heaves himself out of Matt’s favorite chair and leaves the house, shutting the door very quietly behind him.
“The army recovers her own, ma’am.”
“Dead or alive?”
“We always work toward the best possible outcome.”
She looks at him.
“Believe me. We are on top of this. We will be the first to know if there is any intelligence.”
“Are you actively searching for him?”
“I’m afraid that’s classified.”
“Is that really all you can tell me?”
“Steps are being taken.”
“When will we know more?”
“It is my duty to keep the family informed, ma’am.”
“Do you have any idea why they would take Matt like that?”
“It happens occasionally.”
“But why?”
“Ma’am—”
“I’m thinking the worst here, Sergeant. Some real information would help.”
“Intelligence is usually the motive for any capture.”
Angie takes a deep breath.
“And how often do you recover soldiers alive?”
“I don’t have an exact number, ma’am.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s a small number.”
“Is it zero?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Are you going to make me guess, Sergeant?”
“Less than twenty percent.”
“Thank you.”
Angie looks out the window at the weak April sunshine shading into evening.
“Is he likely to be tortured?”
“There’s no reason to give up hope.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Reports vary widely.”
The careful management of information, or lack of information, is making Angie furious.
“My husband has been wounded—we don’t know how gravely—and dragged away by insurgents. He is presumably without medical care.”
“He’s strong, he’s fit; he’s well trained.”
“Do we have any idea how badly wounded he was? Or where he was wounded? Can you contact Travis Boyd with our questions?”
“I will make every effort to do so, ma’am.”
“My name is Angie. Please call me Angie.”
“We are instructed to—”
“Every time you call me ma’am I feel like a widow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sergeant Ames with his raw haircut and bad skin ducks his head, embarrassed.
“Is there anyone I can call to find out more? Is there anything I can do for my husband?”
“You have my number. And the number for the chaplain.”
“Can I talk to a soldier who was there with him?”
“I’ll look into that.”
“Where is Travis Boyd now?”
“He’s at the army hospital in Landstuhl, Germany.”
“Will he recover?”
“Yes, ma’am, he will.”
“I’d like to speak to him.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“When, Sergeant? How soon can I speak to him?”
“I’ll make it my priority, ma’am. . . . May I make a suggestion?”
“Yes.”
“Go to work. Go to school. Go to church. Continue with your daily lives.”
“I’m not sure . . .”
“Sitting in your house for days or weeks can be demoralizing. Call your family. Call your priest or your pastor.”
“Are you telling me to pray, Sergeant?”
“I don’t know what your beliefs are, but most people find it a solace. We can also connect you with another family who has gone through this.”
“Thank you.”
“Shall I contact someone then?”
“I don’t know. Not yet. I don’t know . . .”
“With your permission, I’ll call on you tomorrow.”
“Yes. All right.”
Now that he is at the door Angie finds she doesn’t want him to go. She doesn’t want the next minute and the next to begin.
“Hope is a powerful thing, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
Angie stands at the door watching Sergeant Ames as he walks down the driveway and gets into his army-issue Ford sedan. McMurphy is slumped low in the passenger seat, waiting. She notices that Ames is painfully thin and too pale and that he walks with a limp. What has he survived, she wonders? What have we put this boy through? What does he do to prepare himself to bring this news to grieving families? Is this kind of duty something you choose or something you are assigned to? How in the world does he bear it?
Be strong, she hears Matt saying inside her head. Be strong, Angie.
If he’s still talking to her, if he’s still bossing her around, if he’s still driving her c
razy by holding her to a higher standard, even if it’s just inside her own head, then he must still be alive. Matt, she thinks, Matt . . . Be there for me. I need you.
In the sudden quiet after the door closes on Sergeant Ames, Alice sits on the landing and closes her eyes and tries to imagine a rooftop in Falluja.
She’s nine years old the first time she goes on a roofing job with her dad. Her mom is at the library studying for her state licensing exams to be an insurance agent and examiner. Ellie is in day care and Alice is on spring break and therefore at loose ends. So Matt enlists her as his helper.
This all sounds like a good idea when they’re in the kitchen making sandwiches and pouring strong hot tea into Matt’s special work Thermos. Fun project with Dad. Dad and Alice on an outing. No interruptions from baby Ellie.
But then they get to the house in question, with the roof in question, and Alice’s stomach takes a nosedive. The house is high on a hill. On top of that, it’s a tall house. With a tower. There’s an extension ladder and a kind of scaffolding built into the roof. Alice stands at the foot of the extension ladder and looks up. The roof is a million miles above her. And it’s really, really steep. She’s in the midst of changing her mind and coming up with a plan. She could stay in the car, or near the car, she promises not to be any trouble, not to interrupt him or complain about being bored.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
“I think I might be afraid of heights.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I didn’t think it would be so high.”
“It’s not that high.”
“It looks high.”
“Let’s go.”
“I could stay in the car, I could—”
“Alice—” he says in that tone. That tone that says there’s no sense arguing, don’t be a wuss, and don’t disappoint me. She hates that tone. More than she hates that roof? It’s a toss-up.
When she starts up the ladder she’s fine, but half way up one of her legs starts to shake. She is not making this up. It’s weird.
Matt is right behind her, his hands gripping the rungs on either side of her.
“It’s okay. You’re not gonna fall.”
“But—”
“I’ve got you. Take a breath. . . .”
She breathes in.
“Don’t hold your breath, Alice. Blow it out.”
“Okay.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just a ladder.”