The Turnaround

  Darlene exercised her radio privilege by playing the oldies R&B station Soul Street, hosted by the legendary Washington DJ Bobby Bennett, remembered by many as the Mighty Burner. When Darlene was feeling generous, she conceded the radio choices to the Hispanic employees who made up the balance of the crew: Rafael Cabrera, an energetic young man from the Dominican Republic, who managed to perform both delivery and dishwashing duties; Blanca Lopez, colds and sandwiches; and Juana Valdez, the counter waitress.

  Alex only asked that during the rush the radio be set on something without vocals. Vocals annoyed him when it was busy and only added to the confusion in the store. Alex’s older son, John, had suggested to his father that he play the “chillout” sound at rush time, which he called “up-to-date and intricate.” To Alex it was just rhythmic instrumental music, mildly hypnotic and inoffensive, and intricate, he suspected, only if one was high. But John was right. It was perfect background music for the lunch rush.

  “The music is very important in a store like ours,” Alex had said, trying to justify the expense of the satellite radio box to his wife, Vicki, as they stood before the unit in their local RadioShack. “Not just for the customers, but for the help, too.”

  “If you want it, buy it,” said Vicki, knowing his penchant for gadgets. “You don’t have to sell me on it.”

  “I’m just saying,” said Alex.

  The customers took note of the radio immediately and ribbed Alex about entering the new century seven years after it had arrived. The employees enthused over its novelty and playfully argued about the choice of stations all day long. Plus, Alex’s by-the-book accountant, Mr. Bill Gruen, had told him he could write off the expense. It had been a worthwhile purchase that had improved the business. His father would have approved.

  The rush was winding down. Several customers sat at the counter, finishing their lunches. Alex knew them all, the makeup of their families, what they did for a living. One of them, an attorney named Herman Director, ate a liverwurst on white every day. Alex brought liverwurst in just for him, as it was rarely requested by anyone else. Like buttermilk, which Alex also kept on hand for a big mustachioed fellow named Ted Planzos, it was an item that was fading from America’s culinary radar screen.

  Alex sat on the stool behind the register. He had been looking through the glass of the refrigerated dessert case at the pies and the cheesecake that remained, planning what he would take to the hospital on the way home. He ordered extra since he’d begun his routine, more than he would ever sell, so there would always be a surplus at the end of the day. The soldiers were big on cheesecake and key lime pie. They liked the rich and the sweet; not surprising, as most of them were not much more than kids.

  “What do you owe me?” said Dimitri Mallios, a longtime attorney and longtime customer, stepping up to the register, sliding the guest check across the counter.

  “I owe you seven and change,” said Alex, barely looking at the check. Turkey and swiss on kaiser, lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise, fries, small Diet Coke. Mallios came in twice a week, sat on the same stool if it was empty, and ate the same sandwich and sides every time. Juana would write the order on the pad as she saw him through the plate glass window, coming around the ledge bookended by twin shrubs. Blanca would start building the sandwich before he parked himself on the stool.

  “Everything all right?” said Mallios, as Alex rang him, slid the bills into their respective beds, and made change.

  “Business is steady,” said Alex with a shrug. “But the new people, they’re gonna raise my rent.”

  “You had a good ride with Lenny Steinberg,” said Mallios, who had represented Alex and his father on the lease negotiations since the inception of the business. “We’ll deal with the increase when the time comes.”

  “Okay, Dimitri.”

  “You’re good, right?” Mallios was giving him the serious eye now, the question not about the store but about his mental health.

  “Entahxee,” said Alex, with a small wave of his hand. “Everything’s okay.”

  Mallios nodded, left two on seven for Juana, and headed back to work.

  Darlene walked the rubber mats down to the register, spatula in hand, humming softly. She wore a pale pink shift and sneakers whose backs she had cut off.

  “How’d it go?” said Alex.

  “The chicken breast sandwich went like a mug. People liked the horseradish sauce. That was John’s idea.”

  “He’s full of ideas.”

  “Where is he, anyway?”

  “I told him to take the rest of the afternoon off. Who thought to add bacon?”

  “Me. Bacon makes everything taste good.”

  “Get your order together for tomorrow, and see what Blanca needs, too.”

  “Blanca say, ‘Eighty-si, corn bee,’ ” said Darlene, with her idea of a Spanish accent.

  “Put a corned beef on the order.”

  Alex looked at Rafael, back by the dishwashing area, leaning on the counter, talking to an attractive, leggy woman in a short skirt and matching jacket. She had removed her eyeglasses, meaning he had gotten to her. Rafael was a handsome young man with soulful black eyes, fluid and athletic movements, and a wealth of charm. He took a shot at many of the female customers who came through the door, and though he was rarely successful, few of them took offense. They didn’t seem to mind that he was nineteen, or that he washed dishes for a living. Rafael had that kind of male glow. He was well aware of it. He loved coming to work.

  “What’s Rafael doin?” said Alex, a mix of annoyance and admiration in his voice.

  “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Kid’s a horndog.”

  “He’s a young man,” said Darlene. “Remember?”

  “She’s gotta be ten years older than him.”

  “So? It never stopped you.”

  “No need to go there.”

  “That secretary, worked on Nineteenth Street, when you were Rafael’s age? Above the Korean place? You were just a kid, and what was she, thirty-two?”

  “That was —”

  “Fun. And don’t even try and act like it wasn’t.”

  “Go ahead, Darlene,” said Alex, feeling a warmth in his face.

  “You about ready for lunch, sugar?”

  “Soon as these customers clear out,” said Alex.

  The afternoon light came through the window, a spear of it warming his hand. Alex didn’t need to look at the Coca-Cola clock on the wall. He knew the time from the touch of the sun.

  “YOU SAW him,” said Sergeant Major O’Toole, looking at Raymond Monroe. “You were out there after First Formation.”

  “When I saw y’all, his friends were around.”

  “They left us after you went away. Private Collins told me he needed to talk to me alone.”

  “What did he say?” said Kendall Robertson.

  “He’s ready to do it,” said O’Toole.

  They were seated in Kendall’s cramped office in building 2 of the main hospital. Kendall, an inpatient therapist for wounded soldiers and their families, had been visiting with Monroe when O’Toole knocked on her door. The three of them nearly filled the space. Around them, along with her desk, computer, and files, sat boxes of chocolates and plastic-wrapped flowers, stuffed animals holding miniature American flags, and other gifts of a similar feel-good, patriotic nature. Kendall delivered them on her rounds.

  “What changed his mind?” said Kendall.

  “I think just, you know, seeing the progress made by his friends,” said O’Toole. “They’re walking now. Shoot, some of them are running. He sees his buddies joking and smoking, and he’s thinking, I need to get on with my life and get some prosthetics.”

  “Is he certain?” said Kendall.

  “He’s as close as you can get to it,” said O’Toole.

  “Voluntary amputation is a complex decision. It’s one thing to have it done out of necessity, postinjury. But to say, I want you to remove my legs . . .”

  “It’
s not that simple on the logistical side, either. He’s got to make his request formally to a group of doctors and officers. It’s almost like a hearing. I mean, it takes a while for the procedure to be approved. I’d hate to see Private Collins change his mind again while all the red tape is being sorted out.”

  “I’ll get the ball rolling,” said Kendall, “if that’s what he wants. I’m due to see him today on my rounds.”

  “Thank you, Miss Robertson.”

  Kendall nodded. “Sergeant Major.”

  O’Toole left the office. When the door closed, Monroe raised his eyebrows at Kendall, who smiled.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Kendall. “When is it going to be an easy day around here?”

  Monroe got out of his chair. Kendall stood and walked into his arms.

  “You’re doin good, baby.”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “I guess I’m having lunch by myself today.”

  “Looks like it. I want to get started on this Collins thing.”

  He kissed her softly. They enjoyed a long embrace in the quiet of the room.

  ALEX PAPPAS had secured a visitor’s pass through the AW2 offices so he could get through the security gates of Walter Reed without undue hassle. Because he was making quick deliveries, he usually parked his Jeep on the grass near the Fisher Houses, estate-sized brick homes that functioned as hotels where parents, siblings, girl- and boyfriends, and spouses stayed near wounded soldiers during their treatment and recovery.

  Alex retrieved his desserts, neatly arranged in a large fold-up box, and carried them around the back of Fisher House II, where wrought iron tables were set up on a patio, a quiet outdoor spot where soldiers and family could find some peace, smoke cigarettes, or talk on their cells. A rear door led to an extralarge state-of-the-art kitchen shared by the residents. Food was made available here at all hours, often in elaborate spreads.

  “Hello, Peggy,” said Alex to a woman who had just cleared a granite countertop and was now wiping it down. Peggy Stawinski, a middle-aged blonde, had a son who was currently serving in Afghanistan. She volunteered her time in both Fisher Houses, as well as the Mologne House, an older, more elegant structure that also served as a hotel.

  “Hey, Alex. You can put that stuff down right here.”

  Alex set the box on the counter and pulled its contents. “Got a few things today. It all came in this morning, so it’s fresh.”

  “What’s that?” said Peggy, pointing to half a cake swirled pink and red.

  “They call it Marionberry cheesecake.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “They were going for cute.”

  “You want some coffee? I just brewed it.”

  “I’m parked on the grass,” said Alex. “I better get home.”

  “Thank you. This all looks great.”

  “My pleasure. How’s the library doing?”

  “We could always use more books.”

  “I’m gonna bring some paperbacks. Detective stuff. I got too many lying around. My wife is on my back to get rid of them.”

  “Okay, Alex. Bye.”

  He stopped by weeknights on his way home from work, but he never stayed to mingle with the soldiers or their families. He said he didn’t have the time to hang around. He didn’t want their thanks. He was parked on the grass. He had to go.

  RAYMOND MONROE walked the grounds of the facility, staying after his shift to catch a ride with Kendall, who was late getting off work. Especially going west, away from the hospital, the grounds were green and landscaped with old-growth oak, maple trees, and flowering cherry and magnolia. It had been announced that the Walter Reed complex would move out of D.C. in the next ten years. Officials had been wavering on the decision as of late, but the stay of execution would only be temporary. One hundred and thirteen valuable acres in the middle of the city—it was inevitable that the facility would go.

  Turning the corner of one of the Fisher homes, he nearly walked into a white man about his age, just coming out the back door. Monroe was used to deformity, what with all the wounded, amputees, and burn victims he treated. But there was something else about this man, aside from the horrible droop of his right eye, that unsettled Monroe immediately.

  “ ’Scuse me, buddy,” said Monroe, putting his hand on the man’s arm as he moved to step around him.

  “Excuse me,” said the man, who went on his way.

  Monroe stopped at the back door of the Fisher House and looked at the man walking to his vehicle, a Jeep Cherokee parked on the grass. He studied the man for a moment longer, flashing on those days after, that painful time in court. He pushed on the door and entered the house.

  Peggy Stawinski stood in the kitchen, setting out some cakes and pies on the long counter. “Raymond. Funny how you just happened to stop by as soon I put these out.”

  “You know I like sweet things, Peggy. Like you.”

  “Stop.”

  Monroe often came in to say hello to Peggy. Both of them had sons under fire.

  “I’m waitin on my girlfriend. Killing time.” Monroe reached for something on the counter, and Peggy gently slapped his hand. “That does look good, though.”

  “Marionberry cheesecake.”

  “Clever.”

  “Want a cup of coffee?”

  “Nah, I’m good.” Monroe ran a finger along his thin black mustache. “Listen, who was that man who just left out of here? Had on a white shirt and work pants.”

  “He owns a lunch place downtown, at Connecticut and N. Brings us desserts every night on his way home.”

  “Just to, what, show his support?”

  “He lost a son in Iraq.”

  Monroe nodded.

  “His name is Alex Pappas,” said Peggy.

  “Pappas.”

  Alex Pappas had been the boy’s name. He knew Pappas was the Greek version of Smith or Jones. Still, there was the eye, and this erased any doubt. The boy would have carried that mark his whole life. Charles Baker had seen to that.

  “You know him?” said Peggy.

  Monroe didn’t answer. He was thinking.

  Eight

  CHARLES BAKER sat in Leo’s, a neighborhood watering hole on Georgia Avenue, near a flower-and-tree cross street in Shepherd Park. On the wood before him was a glass of draft beer that he had been nursing for some time. He was reading a newspaper and waiting on his ride.

  Baker went through the Washington Post front to back. He did this daily. Though he had opened neither books nor newspapers in his youth, he had picked up the reading bug while in prison. The habit had stuck.

  One section he skipped was employment. With his history, there wasn’t any good reason to apply for a job that came with a pension, health insurance, or a future. He’d been down that funny road. Going out on interviews, employers sensing immediately that he wasn’t “right” for the job, the box cutter scar on his face not helping him, the stink of his life on him permanent. When it was time to talk about his experience, he mentioned his felony convictions and incarcerations, as he was required to. Also, he liked to make straights squirm.

  “It’s only fair to tell you that there are a lot of people applying for this position” (people without rap sheets). “Many of them are highly qualified” (they have been to school past the tenth grade, unlike you). “You seem like a good person” (I’m afraid of you). “We’ll give you a call” (never).

  Sometimes Baker just wanted to laugh out loud in their offices, but he did not. He was a good boy. On the outside.

  Anyway, he had a job, a part-time thing his PO had hooked him up with. It involved bedpans, soiled diapers, trash bags, and mops, but he was on paper, so he had to get himself employed. He was part of a cleaning crew in a nursing home down in Penn-Branch, off Branch Avenue, in Southeast. He had an arrangement with the dude he worked with, some variety of African, who would cover for him when he didn’t come in, assure the lady parole officer that Baker was regularly showing up for work. The African preferred to hav
e his brother, whom he’d just brought over from the motherland, take the hours instead.

  It was at the nursing home that Baker had met La Trice Brown. And through La Trice he’d gotten together with her son, Deon, and his friend Cody. Indirectly, working in that shithole had been good for him.

  “What’s the name of the song and who did it? And don’t say Lou Rawls.”

  “Gimme a second. I’m thinking.”

  At the other end of the bar were two middle-aged white men four rounds deep in vodka. They had been talking loudly about women they claimed to have done, sports they’d never played, and cars they would someday like to own. Now they had begun to argue over the song coming from the juke. It was a popsoul number, heavy with strings. The vocalist had a smooth voice that started calm and grew in drama. At the peak of it, the man sounded like he was about to bust a nut all over the microphone. Baker knew the song but not to name it.

  “ ‘Hang On in There, Baby.’ Johnny Bristol.”

  “What year?”

  “Seventy-four?”

  “It was seventy-five.”

  “I was off by a C hair.”

  “What about the label?”

  “It was MGM.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “I bought the forty-five up at Variety Records when I was a teenager. I can still see the lion and shit.”

  “You know what this song means, don’t ya?”

  “It means, like, don’t let the world get you down.”

  “No, dumbass. It means, hang your sausage hard inside me and don’t let it go limp.”