Allahna on the Map, Part III
Somehow, almost two years went by without seeing her and without any significant exchange, except for one morning when I was traveling in San Francisco in October of 2008, and right before a meeting, she called; I had to go; I returned her call; she wasn’t there.
2009 arrived, and so did the month of May. It was a Thursday. I missed a phone call from her; on Saturday, she was driving somewhere south, in order to fly to Iraq. She would serve there for a year. She was calling everyone she cared about to let them know the news, and to apologize for not being in better touch this past year, life’s been crazy, but things are good, she’s fine, it’s been an emotional month, and she’d love a phone call or a text if I could manage it between now and Saturday; she’d be driving all day.
So I sent her a message on Friday morning, asking when I should call her. She called me back immediately.
I was at my office; I closed my door, and looked out the window at the small parking lot straddling the building. I’m not certain I was the best listener this time around, as I was trying to monitor the volume of my voice, as it was a personal call at work, and so I cannot reproduce verbatim the conversation. Which is unfortunate.
I can, nonetheless, attempt to reconstruct the content of the conversation successfully:
—
It has been a month or so of up and down. One moment she is fine, another she is crying for no reason. In yet another, she is cursing.
She clarifies the moment at which a picture was taken during an amorous tryst with her ex-fiancé. My timing, it appears, was slightly off when I wrote about it at first. She laughs about, indicates that it’s fine, and that she’s surprised that I remembered that detail, and is happy to be reminded of it.
She remembers one of the chapters I’d written about her, but wants me to send her both of them again. I promise to comply as our conversation continues.
She’s going to serve as military police, as she understands it, which she thinks she does, in the town where Saddam was hung, or near there. She will be working in a prison. That makes me think about the photos revealed to the world in the spring of 2004. She’s better than that, I tell myself.
She expresses her happiness with her new boyfriend who isn’t new anymore. He just isn’t her ex-fiancé. Which is good, that fuck up. We don’t get into it. But no, this new boy is pretty great, and pretty understanding. She is excited for me to meet him. I am, too, I suppose, but I don’t vocalize it.
The deployment will last about a year. It is a long time, she affirms. And when she gets back, she plans on jumping in a car and driving up to see me again. Because it was a good time last time. Almost two years ago? No shit. It has been that long. She apologizes again for not keeping in better touch, especially the time I drove to Connecticut to see her after her fiancé converted himself into her ex-fiancé. In general, too, though. Life’s been crazy, fucken work was nuts, didn’t have any free time, and when she did, she was too tired, you know how it is. There’s no need to worry, I say. Life happens, I say. I probably say some other things, too.
I’ve still got to write this book, she says. I ask if she still wants me to continue writing about the stories she tells. She says yes, that we have to work on that when she’s back and we see each other again.
So you’ll come up to Vermont, again, I ask. She confirms. You bet, Honey. That’s good, I reply; it’s been too long, and I’d love to see you. You going to be okay? Yeah, I’m going to be okay.
The conversation winds down; she is bringing a webcam with her and a computer, so she hopes to keep in touch. I can always e-mail her, too, she informs me. She will try to respond when she has time. Do I have to get back to my job, she asks. I say that I should, but I’m glad that we connected. I wish her well. She wishes me well. The line is cut, and the parking lot is still there, still half-empty. I return to my desk, and set about checking my e-mail.
—
Later that day, she calls again. She has reread the chapters, and is glad to have done so, and glad that until she writes her own book, that someone is getting all this shit down. Thanks again, Sweetie, she says. That’s it, really. Just wanted to let you know I read them.
I am back at the window, looking outside again. We say we love each other; she calls me Sweetie again as she says good-bye. I turn around; there is work to be done.
