Operation Oleander (9780547534213) Read online

  The heavy air trapped under the tent presses against my skin. The commander talks about the orphanage, about my dad and Mrs. Scott. I didn’t think he’d mention my dad, or that he would describe what happened with the words he used. “Sacrifice” and “compassion” and “love.” I see the marketplace in my head and try to find hope and promise in those burned-out images, in the smoke from the Humvee.

  “On that day,” the commander says, “the forces that signify the worst of human nature came to the fore and snuffed out the lives of Corporal Scott and Private Davis. But those forces cannot destroy the life force behind what led Corporal Scott to the orphanage that day. So today we honor her and her commitment, a commitment that we must also honor by preserving her memory, by carrying on her mission. And by living that life of example for her daughter—Meriwether—so she will remember her mother through her actions. Who she was. What she stood for.”

  The commander’s words echo in my ears. Commitment. Carrying on her mission. What she stood for. Doesn’t that also mean Operation Oleander, not only her role as a

  soldier? Does the commander mean those words for me?

  In the silent spaces between Commander Butler’s words, I hear a sob. Not from Meriwether but from her grandmother.

  Then I hear something else. A rustling. A murmur. Coming from behind us.

  A girl has moved to stand next to me. It’s the blond girl from the PX, the one who tried to help me. She tugs on my arm.

  “You have to look,” she says. “Now.”

  I turn. A group of people are marching toward the canopy. At first I think they are mourners, late arrivals.

  But they’re carrying signs and banners.

  “Who are they?” the girl whispers.

  Others in the back rows crane their necks to see what’s happening. People seated in front of them, unaware of what’s coming, turn and shush them.

  The commander continues, but I can’t hear him anymore.

  Protesters.

  A man says, “I can’t believe they’re here. Come on.” He motions to some of the soldiers standing in the back row. They fan out in a line, close together, not talking.

  The oncoming group splinters as if to flank our position. Men and women, even little kids, carry signs.

  A little blond boy’s sign reads GOD HATES YOU! Another one says THANK GOD FOR DEAD SOLDIERS. A woman waves a placard: GOD IS GLAD CORPORAL SCOTT IS DEAD. SHE DIED BECAUSE OF YOUR SINS. YOU ARE ALL GOING TO HELL.

  I breathe in, but the air around the canopy has become something solid.

  The soldiers lock hands, creating a perimeter to keep the demonstrators back from the graveside. They don’t move to meet the marchers, but they’re waiting. A silent, steady line.

  “Where are the police?” I ask the woman in front of me. “Can’t they do something?”

  “They won’t interfere,” she says. “Unless there’s violence. It’s a public place. Those Angustus Church members are crazy. A cult. They have no decency. But they get their First Amendment rights to protest the war.”

  People can disagree about the war, I know that. I’ve seen protestors wave flags and march down the street. But demonstrators can call out about God being glad Corporal Scott is dead? At her funeral? Who are these people? How can they believe what they’re saying?

  Others under the canopy begin to realize what’s happening. What if these people had come and it was my dad’s funeral?

  “I’m afraid,” the girl says. “What if they attack?”

  “You know Sam, right?” I ask the girl.

  “Yes.”

  “Go stand next to him. Nothing can bother you there. His dad’s the commander,” I say.

  The girl touches my arm. “You come too?”

  “In a minute,” I say. But as soon as I say the words, I know I’m lying.

  Because I’m not going in that direction.

  The minister has started a final prayer. His baritone voice is deep and carries over the hum. He’s projecting louder than before, as if he knows he has to compete, not with jets overhead but with the Angustans.

  Everyone seated stands.

  I nudge the girl forward. “Go on.”

  She nods and slips through the lines of mourners in front of us. She moves like a piece of music on the air.

  I step out from under the canopy, into the glare. Facing the oncoming marchers, who look like soldiers, my knees shake, but I won’t retreat.

  Instead, I run toward and then under the interlocked arms of the soldiers who are between the gravesite and the protesters. I raise my arm as if I am carrying a battle flag of my own into hand-to-hand combat.

  But I have nothing to wave back and forth in the air that’s stronger than their signs. Nothing that’s stronger than their anger.

  Sixteen

  THE PROTESTER closest to me is a blond teenage boy.

  “You’re not too young to burn in hell,” he says. “You’re a sinner.” He thrusts his sign into the air and waves it back and forth, taunting me. The picture on the front is a grainy photo of Corporal Scott, the way it would look if someone had cut her photo out of the newspaper and enlarged it. In the photo, she’s wearing her uniform. Her hair is smooth and close cut, and she’s smiling. But her teeth are blotted out, as if the boy has covered over them with a black marker.

  I blink in the light. Anger oozes out of my skin like sweat. How can they do this?

  TODAY, SATAN GETS A NEW SOUL the poster reads in uneven letters. It’s written in childlike print, where the letters don’t all fit right but squish together at the end.

  I jump and reach for the poster. When I grab a corner, it rips in my hand. Just a piece of it.

  The boy steps back, laughing. He holds the sign up higher. Even though it’s torn, he displays it like a badge of honor.

  Around me protesters are calling out Corporal Scott’s name as a sinner. Mr. Scott must hear them. And Meriwether. I want to protect her the way I would Cara. Or Warda.

  The protesters have to be stopped.

  I jump into the air again, stretch toward the poster. Toward the black glare of anger.

  “Jess!”

  I hear my name, but the short blond hair of the boy in front of me is all I see. I smell his breath in the air. It’s sweet—not what I expected. It should be sour and putrid, the way evil is supposed to smell.

  I reach for the poster, but it slips between my fingers this time without tearing. I stumble, empty-handed, trying to catch my balance.

  “That’s right,” the boy says. “You can’t overcome the power of God.”

  “You don’t represent the power of God.” I’m sure Father Killen would agree.

  “God judges the good and the evil. Today he has judged Corporal Scott and Private Davis and condemned them.” The words tumble out of his mouth like Scripture he has memorized the words to, but not the meaning.

  I stretch out my hands, not for the poster this time.

  I reach for the boy.

  That’s when someone grabs my arms and pulls me back before I can make contact.

  The boy laughs.

  “Jess, it’s what they want.” It’s Sam’s voice in my ear. Somehow he found me.

  I twist out of his grasp. He pulls my arm, and we’re moving upstream, back toward the canopy.

  “How can they do this? To Meriwether—to all of us?”

  “I don’t know, Jess. But we don’t want to make it worse.”

  “How could it be worse?”

  “The press,” Sam says. He points to a van that’s parked on the perimeter road. A satellite dish sprouts out of the top like a strange vegetable.

  “Good. Let the reporters tell the world about these horrible people.”

  “They’ll tell the world you attacked them,” Sam says.

  I wrench free of Sam’s grasp, but I continue walking back toward the funeral. I hate that he’s right. I shield my face from someone holding a camera. Turn away from a woman with a microphone.

  My head hurt
s. What if Dad sees me on television from Germany? Will he think I did the right thing? Do I?

  The minister has finished.

  Behind us, the soldiers still stand shoulder to shoulder. The cult members jeer at them, but they don’t react. Just like the wall of protection they’ve created, like a breakwater.

  “Why don’t they make the protesters stop?” I ask Sam.

  “Discipline,” Sam says, as if that’s a good thing.

  “You would say that.” Was it just that Sam was a commander’s son? Or was it more than that? Maybe Sam’s just a rules-and-order person. His world is black and white. “I’m glad I’m not in the army.”

  “I bet the army is too.” Then Sam smiles at me, just a little, and he nudges my shoulder.

  The honor guard marches forward in unison. Their rifles snap to their shoulders as if they’re one.

  The three-volley salute is fired. I cover my ears after the first shot. Next to me, Sam stares straight ahead, his arms at his sides. On his other side, the girl from the PX jumps at each shot.

  In front of us, Mr. Scott and Meriwether sit tall and straight. They stare ahead. Meriwether doesn’t even flinch.

  Afterward, the bugler plays taps while a soldier folds the American flag and hands it to Mr. Scott.

  Fades the light; and afar

  Goeth day, and the stars

  Shineth bright,

  Fare thee well; day has gone,

  Night is on.

  The words come to me, though I don’t want them to.

  “Come on,” Sam says. “Let’s get in line.” Mourners are filing by the Scotts to pay their respects.

  My feet go in the right direction. I’m walking in a bad dream and I can’t stop.

  “It’s my fault, isn’t it?” I say the words out loud. The words that have circled around me like a swarm of mosquitoes, droning in my ear. Day after day, gathering strength.

  We step closer to the front of the line.

  “It’s not your fault, Jess. You didn’t detour to the orphanage that day.”

  “So it’s my dad’s fault?” My voice rises.

  “I didn’t say that,” Sam says, his voice softer as if to counterbalance mine. “Come on, we’re almost there.”

  In front of us, the girl from the PX has made it to the family. She shakes the grandparents’ hands. She speaks to Meriwether, who stands there, back stiff. She’s holding the folded flag.

  I can’t tell what she’s saying to Meriwether. But she’s listening, because she nods once or twice. Other mourners weave around the two of them. The girl finishes, and when she looks my way, her eyes are shiny as wet grass.

  “What’s her name?” I nudge Sam’s arm. Sam knows all the kids on post practically, since his dad’s the commander. Sam and Mrs. Butler often meet the whole family, not just the service member.

  “Aria. Her dad just left for Afghanistan.”

  “Oh.” What did Aria say to Meriwether that made her listen?

  In the last video Dad sent, even Warda had smiled for the first time I’d seen. A timid smile, as if she didn’t trust herself to move her mouth upward. Then the bombing happened. If Warda is still alive, will she trust enough to smile again? Does she hate American soldiers? Or blame me?

  Suddenly, it’s our turn. I follow Sam’s lead, holding myself back.

  First we pass by the grandparents. When Sam steps on, I reach out my hand to them, but words don’t come out of my mouth.

  They whisper “Thank you for coming,” a line they must have been repeating all day. Meriwether’s grandfather wears dark sunglasses. Her grandmother has black smudges under her eyes. When our hands meet, she touches my arm with both of hers. Whether for her support or for mine I can’t tell.

  The blond boy with the protest sign looms in my mind. How could he do what he did? Doesn’t he think of his own mother or father when he carries those posters of dead soldiers to their funerals?

  But are we so different?

  I am Sergeant Westmark’s daughter. The one to blame for your daughter being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Me. Maybe I am the face of evil too.

  If Meriwether’s grandmother wonders about me, who I am, she doesn’t ask.

  “Thank you again for coming,” she repeats in a voice fragile as moth’s wings.

  And, then, before I am ready, Sam steps toward Mr. Scott, and I stand before Meriwether.

  She clutches the flag that draped her mother’s coffin close to her heart. With her right hand she reaches out to shake mine. As if she doesn’t recognize me.

  I take her hand. Even in the heat, her hands are cold.

  “Meriwether, it’s me, Jess.”

  When I say her name, her eyelids flicker. I don’t release her hand. I lean in close to her.

  “She knows, Meriwether. Your mom knows you love her.” Present tense. I say the words.

  Meriwether nods, but her eyes don’t meet mine. Behind me, others are waiting for the line to move ahead. I let her hand go, finally, and step down the line.

  Mr. Scott shakes my hand too. Formal, as if I am not the girl who spent long summer evenings in their backyard under the magic white lights before Mrs. Scott deployed. I whisper “I’m sorry” and follow Sam out from under the canopy.

  Seventeen

  THAT NIGHT after supper the phone rings. I stand by the door to my bedroom, listening for Mrs. Johnson to pick up. It’s after midnight in Germany. If it’s Mom, the news won’t be good.

  Maybe it’s Meriwether.

  My body presses into the door frame. After the funeral, I came home and went to my room. For once, Mrs. Johnson didn’t lecture me. Or quiz me sixteen ways to Sunday about what happened at the funeral. At supper we ate without talking much either. Only Cara chattered the way she always does.

  “Jess? It’s Sam,” Mrs. Johnson calls from the living room.

  I take the call in the kitchen. Sam and I didn’t say much on the way back from the funeral. Even Commander Butler was quiet. They just dropped me off out front and headed home.

  “Turn on the news,” he says.

  “Why?” Was there another bombing? More soldiers dead?

  “They’re running a piece on the protest.”

  “I’ll call you back.” I hang up and run into the living room. “Sam says there’s something on the funeral.”

  Mrs. Johnson flips the channel to the local news, and there it is. Shots of the plane coming in, the long line of dark cars at the cemetery, and, finally, the Angustan protesters.

  “I can’t believe they showed up here, of all places,” Mrs. Johnson says. “You didn’t say much about them.”

  “Maybe we should turn it off,” I finally say as the footage gets closer and closer to the protesters. The angle of the shot shows the blond kid. And then a shadow blurs past and a figure is running toward him. The camera catches the back of the person. It’s a girl in a skirt. A girl with a ponytail. Her arm raises like a sword and slashes at the sign.

  Mrs. Johnson sits there, not speaking, but her mouth drops open. This is the first time I’ve ever seen her with nothing to say. That should be funny. But not today.

  I watch myself as if I’m someone else on the television footage.

  “J—Jess?”

  “I know. I couldn’t help it. They made me so mad. Did you hear what they said? At a funeral?” The words fire like scattershot out of my mouth.

  “I told you going was a mistake.” Mrs. Johnson shakes her head. She sighs long and hard. My fault. She’s thinking it was my fault. How is she going to explain this to my mother?

  “Didn’t you see those signs?” I say.

  “Oh, I saw them.”

  We watch the replay, the shot where Sam grabs me. This time I see what happened after I turned away. The blond boy cheered. His face lit up like fireworks, white and bright, a starburst of celebration.

  “Did you hit him?” Mrs. Johnson asks, her face flat as pancakes.

  “No. But I wanted to.”

  She turns back to the
television.

  “I did rip his sign. A little.” I wince, as if my hand is seared where I touched the poster.

  Duty, honor, country. Where did my actions fall?

  “Well, I think they deserved anything they got. But I don’t want to burden your mother with this news. Heaven knows it’ll be on Armed Forces Radio.”

  Fear scratches at my insides. Mom might see me on television in Germany.

  And Dad.

  Then he would know. Corporal Scott is dead. Private Davis, too.

  The phone rings again.

  I pick up. “Sam, I can’t believe—”

  “Hello?” The voice isn’t Sam’s. It’s a woman’s, clipped and proper. “Is this the Westmark residence?”

  “Yes, this is the Westmark residence.” My voice goes formal.

  Mrs. Johnson cocks her head at an angle.

  I shrug.

  “This is Carmina Sanchez-Ryan. I’m with the Clementine Times, and I’d like to speak with Jessica Westmark.”

  “Jess Westmark. It’s just Jess. That’s me.”

  “Okay, just Jess. I’ll make a note of that.”

  From her voice I can’t tell if she’s teasing me or not.

  “As I was saying, I’m Carmina Sanchez-Ryan, and I want to do an article on Operation Oleander. A feature story.”

  The moisture in my mouth evaporates. A feature story.

  The woman continues. “The piece would go in the People and Places section of our paper. You know, this is a local story with international connections.”

  When the woman pauses again, the silence stretches on and on.

  “Yes.” I say to say something. Anything.

  “Oh, good. You’re there. Thought I’d lost the connection. I always hit a dead zone along the parkway. Anyway, as I was saying, I understand you and your friends formed this group to help an orphanage in Kabul.”

  “We did.” I know what comes next.

  The bombing.