Waiting in Line

Waiting, as they call name after name. Why did my name have to start with an “S”? Sanders, what kind of name is that anyway? My ancestors weren’t even good enough to be full-fledged carpenters? Just sanders.


Bailey, Barlow, Connor…
Connor, who’d write to him? That’s a guy even his mama must struggle to love; with his dark, inset eyes and stubble that is still there even right after he shaves. You just know that once he gets out of here his hair will dangle on his shoulders, straight and greasy, and black like used motor oil.

One day, we were out on mission, supposed to secure the village, that’s all. No present danger, orders said. Connor and Striffe were leading us in. Everything calm. Then we came to the last house on the right and Connor started getting jumpy. He said something’s up he could feel it. Like that guy had a sensitive bone in his body. They pushed open the door and walked in. Before any of the rest of us could get there, there was an explosion of gunfire. By the time the rest of the squad got through the door, it was over. Connor and Striffe were standing there, droplets of blood rained down over every inch of them, Connor was grinning.

“I got ‘em!” he said. “They thought they would get me, but I got them, by God!”
And in the corner, on a mat spread out as a bed, they lain. He couldn’t have needed to shave for long, and she still had hips that had never opened up to bear children. They laid there, nothing more than a bloody heap, entwined in each other’s arms. Maybe they’re the ones that had a feeling that day. And Connor, standing over them, like a kid that just won King of the Hill on the playground, grinning, with a chunk of something stuck to his left cheek, right below his eye saying, “I got’ em! I got ‘em! I knew I felt something!” over and over like he was in a trance. Striffe, at least he would’ve had to wait in this godforsaken line longer than me everyday, was found face down on his bunk chewing on the steel of his pistol and missing the back of his head a week later.


Daniels, Darrow, Davis, Dougherty…
Come on, come on, can’t you guys tell your family they need to write you less? You don’t have time to read their letters anyway.


Everett, Fisch, Foster…
Good ole’ Jimmy Foster. His girl writes him every week. She tried writing to him everyday at first, but they live in Biloxi, Mississippi and after the first two weeks, she couldn’t think of anything to tell him. So her letters just started saying, “ I love you babykins!” and “I miss you!” and “I can’t wait to see you and hold you in my arms at night and…” he wouldn’t read the rest to us but we could imagine. So she started just writing to him every Sunday night that way she’d get to see everyone in town that morning at church and be able to fill him in with all the local gossip.


Graves, Hatcher…
What did your ancestors do to have a name like Hatcher?


Heady, Hock, Hughley…
Stan Hughley, his brother would write him sometimes and tell him how cold they are back in Wisconsin, or how hot and humid the summer’s getting…and lucky for us we are in a “dry heat”! I’d like to show that boy a ‘dry heat’.

I’m going to need to refill my canteen before I get my letter. I gotta get it today. She said she had something real important to tell me. What could it be? She always did that kind of thing to me, lead me on, make me think I was waiting for the biggest headline news of the century. Last time she told me she had something important to tell me but wasn’t sure how to say it so she had to think on it for a while, I waited for 9 days. Does she have any idea how long 9 days is here? Only sleeping an hour here, two hours there? Working on patrol for 36-hour shifts, wearing night goggles so you almost forget that it’s 4am and you should be sleeping? And then the letter finally comes and she says that our dog, Mojo, ran off. She was hoping that if she waited a bit to tell me, he’d come back and then she wouldn’t have to even say anything. Sure I liked that dog, but dogs do that…they run off. They meet a cute poodle when you’re out taking them for a walk and next thing you know they’re off chasing that sexy poodle down by the river. What’re you going to do?


Issak, Jackson, Jefferson…
         Must be annoying to be named after a famous person or a president, people always asking if you’re Michael and Janet’s brother, or if your great-great-whatever grandfather was one of the founding fathers.


Meyers, Naverro, Noble, Owens…
         Terrance Owens, that boy’s from Oakland, California. Stands in this line everyday, but hardly ever gets a letter. Once in a while his mama will write to him and tell him what kind of trouble his little brother’s getting into, “Last month he was off runnin’ around with them hoodlum friends o’ his an’ went out and stole themselves a beat-up ole’ Pontiac” she’d say. “Lucky, li’l Jesse wasn’t the one drivin’ so they let him off easy. Only gots to do a bunch of community service hours and pay a big ole’ fine, which means I’ll be payin’ since he ain’t got no job yet! I don’t know how that boy keeps himself out of the juvie hall with all the trouble he puts me through!”


Petrie, Pizarrio, Pratt…

only three more now, Randall, Razze, and Rossiter…
Daniel Rossiter; Mr. New York City. He never thinks any of us are as smart as him. After all we’re just country folk, not big city spenders like him. Even Owens, who’s from Oakland, he says, “…that’s not a city, it’s just a cesspool.”
These guys don’t need mail. They don’t have a girl back home that just found out she’s pregnant last month. She was so happy when she found out! "And to think you were only home on leave for two weeks!" She'd said. And then, just after that, her very next letter, saying that she had some big news she just couldn't bring herself to tell me.
What if she lost the baby? Maybe she was in an accident and had a miscarriage. Or maybe it’s not bad news at all. Maybe she went to the doctor and found out that she’s having twins! Or they did an ultrasound and she knows the sex of the baby. Maybe she’s so excited that she doesn’t know how to tell me that she’s pregnant with my son! Jacob Mathew Sanders, Little Jake, growing inside her round little belly until one day, when I get to come back home, we’ll get to play catch in the backya…

“INCOMING!”

The voice of Sergeant Mason rings in my ears, like the gong of the monastery bells of Tibet. Rossiter turns, and for the first time since we were stationed here I see something in his dark brown eyes that wasn’t arrogance.

The air around us seems to thicken. The only sound I hear is the hum of voices, no words, and the pounding of my pulse echoing in my ears, like the tribal drumbeat of the Aborigines to a count of four; boom, two, three, four; boom, two, three, four. I can see Rossiter’s mouth moving, yelling; and Thompson, trying to run but looking more like Wiley Coyote standing still next to the Roadrunner just before the box from ACME blows up.

And then everything goes white… bright, like when you stare into the sun too long just to prove to your mom that you’ll be able to see just fine afterwards. And suddenly I see them, floating like the feathers of a phoenix, with their edges on fire, drifting gently to their final resting place on the dry, desert next to me. And there it is, I can see it lying there just out of arms reach.

It can’t be more than two feet away from me, I can read it, well most of it,
…oline Sanders
…3 NE Allan St.
...aville, GA 30340

Why can’t I reach it? Foster! Hey, that’s my letter, Foster! Oh, thanks man, hand it here. I can read it. Why are you ignoring me? Why are you looking at me like you’ve seen a ghost? Help me up man, lets get… What are you doing Foster?

He settles down next to me, with his pudgy round face and smiles, but I can read that smile…I won’t be seeing my son, will I Foster? He opens up the letter from Caroline and starts reading it to me.

My dearest Joseph,
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write. I didn’t know if I could find the words to say this to you…

“The doctor says the baby’s fine and that he’s due on your birthday,” says Foster.

The baby’s not yours, Joe. I missed you so much and I didn’t know when you’d be home…

“She says she went and saw your mama last week to tell her the news. She’s excited to be expecting a grand-son.”

Damnit Foster! Quit saying it in your words! Just read it in her own words, man.

“She says she’s doing ok and can’t wait to see you.”

I’m sorry baby, I just can’t go on like this, never knowing when, or if, you’re coming home. You’ll always have a special place in my heart, but little Jake and I have to move on.

“She says to stay safe and hurry home. And then there’s a bunch of x’s and o’s and hearts and stuff,” says Foster.

Love always,
Caroline