Purple Hearts Read online

  But yeah here’s where you can reach me and we can set up skype dates. Feel free to also send me hot pictures. You know, stuff like you dressed up as a Ninja Turtle, you dressed as the Fonz from Happy Days, you know what I like. Kidding. But you are my wife so think about it. But seriously I’m kidding.

  So remember how I was telling you about how my running times will go way down when I get home because I will be used to the elevation here? They are already going way down here, even though i didn’t get to run for the first few weeks because we were getting adjusted. Must be the food. And by food I mean lack of food.

  Anyway I bet they are going to be off the charts when i get home. Maybe I will train for a marathon. Maybe I will make you train with me. :)

  Luke

  • • •

  To: PFC Luke Morrow

  From: Cassie Salazar

  Subject: Miss you!

  Luke, It is I, your devoted wife. Things are as usual here. The Loyal played another gig at The Skylark and we smashed it. SOLD OUT crowd, everyone was digging it, and I can’t even describe the feeling to you. Imagine you ran a four minute mile, every mile, for thirty miles, and everyone you ever knew was cheering for you the whole time. It was like that. (Is that what marathon’s like? Because fine, I will do one with you, if so.) All of the compromises we have made in our short but very passionate marriage are paying off. Thank you for supporting me. Your support in words and gestures and knowing a lot about how much this means to me has been super valuable. :)

  I thought about buying a bike to add to this very exciting eating right and exercising life I have begun and you would have definitely laughed me out of the store. I had a saleslady wheel one out for me to “try it on” but it was WAY too tall and I couldn’t balance so I FELL OVER right on my side like someone had pushed over a statue or something. My friend Toby and I (you remember Toby, the drummer for my band) were laughing so hard and I was so embarrassed that I didn’t try another one and left.

  Everyone misses you, including Marisol (I know how you hate to call her Mom). I hope you are doing well and feeling healthy.

  I love you very much, my dear husband.

  Cassie

  • • •

  To: Cassie Salazar

  From: PFC Luke Morrow

  Subject: RE: Miss you!

  Hi cassie! I was so glad to hear about your show! I cant wait to come to one when I get back. I havent been to see live music since I was in middle school when I thought death metal was cool. Remember when I told you about my death metal phase? It was probably when we were walking by the river and stuff. Anyway I never told you it lasted a week because I burst my eardrum at a metal show, but I had snuck out to see that show, so I lied and told my dad that I got in a fight, and when he asked me who it was I made up a name because I’m an idiot.

  The name was Rick Richardson. Richard. Richardson. I am laughing just thinking about it. The whole time I was in high school my dad thought I was in this tough guy rivalry with a very obviously made up dude named Rick Richardson. i would get home and he would be like, did that kid Richardson give you any trouble? And i was like no dad, he doesn’t mess with me anymore. At one point my dad even asked me to “point him out” when we were at Jake’s football game and I pointed to some random kid and I had to stop my dad from crossing the stadium to yell at his parents. Like just imagine this big military dude in your face pointing to your kid, who’s name is definitely not Rick Richardson, and him being like, RICK RICHARDSON, DON’T MESS WITH MY SON.

  And all because I didn’t want to admit I burst my eardrum at a metal show. And you think you’re an idiot for falling over on a bike. Well you kind of are. We both are. I think that’s pretty clear by now in our marriage. Anyway I remember that night I told you about my metal phase, the night we walked by the river like it was yesterday. That was when I knew I would marry you. :)

  Things are good here. Had a bit of a cold when I first got here but Frankie had much worse. He was shitting his brain’s out. He really likes to talk about it (like I’m actually serious, he likes to talk about it much more then most people like to talk about shit) so do me a favor and don’t ask him about it next time we skype. I’ve heard enough.

  Sorry about my grammar, btw. Community college never gave me many good skills, unless you count making up various funerals for relatives so I wouldn’t have to go to class for a good skill.

  Love your husband,

  Luke

  • • •

  To: PFC Luke Morrow

  From: Cassie Salazar

  Subject: RE: RE: Miss you!

  Hi Rick,

  You don’t exist, but you’re real to me.

  Your archenemy’s wife,

  Cassandra Salazar

  P.S. See you on Skype next week, Tuesday at 11 a.m. your time?! Will give you all the updates then.

  Luke

  We played volleyball every day. Everyone loved volleyball here. We played soccer, too, but volleyball brought in a more diverse crowd. Everyone from six-year-olds with Mickey Mouse shirts playing over a cord tied between two poles to ANA commanding officers with trimmed, British-looking beards to older men with inch-deep wrinkles on courts that had been up since the eighties. Wherever there was a flat enough space and a net, we played.

  Our usual team was me, Frankie, and a gangly eight-year-old named Ahmad, against Majeed, another, college-age interpreter; Randall, a British captain; and Franson, one of the women from the Red Horse unit I knew vaguely through Frankie. Franson actually played in high school, so they’d beat us every time.

  Today she’d offered to switch with Majeed, Frankie, or me. Ahmad didn’t know much English but Franson put her Oakleys on her head and smiled at him, pointing to her and to me, making a rotating motion with her hand.

  Majeed interpreted.

  Ahmad smiled and grabbed our uniforms as we stood on either side of him, shaking his head. “No, no, no, no.”

  He said something to Majeed. Majeed said, “Ahmad likes to stay on a team with Frank and Luke.”

  Frankie and I shrugged at each other behind our sunglasses. Ahmad and I gave each other a high five.

  “We may not be good but we’re fun,” Frankie said.

  “It’s only because you let Ahmad serve every time,” Franson joked, backing up to her spot, tossing the ball.

  Majeed laughed.

  “Yeah, Morrow and Cucciolo don’t know how to serve, anyway,” Randall called.

  “Whatever, dude,” Frankie said, bending his knees to get in the ready position. “Watch what you say or Luke will break your nose.”

  “All right, all right,” Franson said, stepping behind the line.

  She served. The ball came fast to the far-right corner and I stepped under it, bumping backward to Frankie, who set it over the net. Randall picked it up and bumped it to Franson, who spiked it hard back over off Frankie’s wrists. The ball went flying in a wide arc toward the FOB. Frankie and I stood and watched it until we realized Ahmad had jetted after it, his gray perahan barely visible against the dust and glare.

  “Look at him get after it!” Frankie called.

  “Go Ahmad!” I yelled.

  He came back smiling, but defeated, with the ball in his hands. Frankie gave him a pat on the back.

  Ahmad said something and pointed to his eyes.

  Majeed said, “Ahmad said he almost got it but the sun got in his face.”

  Without a second thought, Frankie took off his sunglasses and gave them to Ahmad. Ahmad put them on, and I had to hold in a laugh at how much they dwarfed the rest of his face. But Ahmad just tossed the ball up and caught it, slapping it, ready for business.

  “That’s better,” Frankie said, winking at me.

  Franson served again, but this time the ball went out of bounds. It was our team’s serve.

  “Whose turn is it?” Frankie said pointedly, turning up his hands in exaggerated curiosity. It definitely was either mine or Frankie’s. Franson was right, Ahmad had served every
time.

  “Hm, not mine,” I said.

  “Not mine, either,” Frankie said.

  Over the net, Franson and Majeed smiled, shaking their heads. Randall scoffed.

  “It’s Ahmad’s turn, for sure,” I said, and tossed him the ball.

  He ran to the line, holding his sunglasses in place, and the game carried on.

  Cassie

  “It’s ba-da-da-ba-da-da ba duh-duh-duh be-dum be-dum and then I come in,” Nora was telling Toby.

  “Uh uh.” Toby wagged his drumstick like a finger.

  I laughed. Nora did not find it amusing.

  Toby continued. “It’s ba-dada-ba-dada ba duh-duh be-dum be-DUM, you come in on the DUM.”

  “Cassie, tell him.” Nora looked at me, flipping her pick between her fingers.

  “Uh.” I lifted a shoulder. Toby was right. But only this time, and I didn’t want Nora to think I was taking his side. “Let’s just play again and find out!”

  We launched into “Merlin,” and I went into the forest. This song was less about foraging and more about chopping undergrowth. Staccato blades, an easy rhythm, bossa nova–influenced. Toby really was at the heart of this one, keeping the beat driven forward but the overall mood of the song light. With the wrong production it could sound like the theme song to The Jetsons, but it was in good hands.

  Nora stopped again. “I’m not feeling that, Toby. I can’t pick that up. I have to come in after the be-dum.”

  “Mm,” Toby said, and played a quick train beat. “Fine. Let’s just call it. Cassie and I wanted to catch a movie anyway.”

  “Do you want me to pick this up or not?” Nora said, looking back and forth from me to Toby. I avoided her eyes, and popped open a can of sparkling water.

  Toby said slowly, “I do, but I’m tired.”

  Nora said something like “poor baby” under her breath. “Cass? For real?”

  “I’m good with giving it a rest,” I said. “It’s Thursday.”

  “What the hell does Thursday have to do with anything?” Nora checked her phone. “It’s seven thirty! It’s been an hour. We can’t call rehearsal now.”

  Toby said, “I’ll do whatever Cassie wants to do,” but he was already standing up, setting his sticks in place on his snare.

  “Um.” I weighed the options. We wanted to catch a showing of Tombstone in Pease Park. “I’ve never seen Tombstone, and we wanted to get a blanket and a bottle of something. À la Paree,” I joked. I turned off my keyboard.

  Toby stepped over his set and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Plus I quote it all the time . . .”

  I put my hands on his hands, running them up his solid forearms. “And I never know if he’s quoting something or just speaking nonsense words.” I looked up at him. He stuck out his tongue. I giggled.

  “We can pick this up over the weekend, Nor,” I told her. “I promise. It’s just been a long week.”

  Toby looked at Nora. “You can come if you want.”

  “I’d rather die in my own vomit, thanks,” Nora said. She lifted her bass strap over her head.

  “No, come!” I broke from Toby, and hooked my arm in Nora’s.

  “Nah,” she said, and gave me a small smile, freeing herself to put away her bass. My heart sank. I could feel judgment coming off her like heat. Maybe I wasn’t spending enough time with her. Maybe she was feeling left out. It used to be Nora and me escaping from practice.

  “Cassita!” Toby called, pulling out the keys to his pickup.

  “Just a sec,” I said.

  “K, I’m going to get the truck and bring it around,” he said, and jogged up the stairs. He paused at the top, and ran back down. He extended his face toward mine. I gave him a kiss, my face burning under Nora’s eyes. “There,” he said, and ran back up.

  “Sorry,” I said to her. “He’s cute but he’s a bit much.”

  She nodded toward where Toby had disappeared from. “So you guys are, like, dating seriously now? Like, going to public parks and holding hands and making out?”

  I felt a smile creep over my face. Other than rehearsal and Luke’s occasional funny quips, seeing Toby was what I looked forward to all week. “Yeah.”

  “Huh,” Nora said, her face puzzled. Then she was silent. She took out her ponytail, letting her curtain of hair hang loose, picked up a couple of empty cans from the ground.

  “What?” I asked. What was puzzling about that? I mean, other than the fact that neither of us had ever expected to call Toby my boyfriend.

  She straightened, raising her eyebrows at me. “I don’t know,” she said, sarcastic. “Is it pretty common for army wives to make out with Gumby-looking hipsters in their spare time?”

  She had a point. Technically, legally, I was cheating on Luke.

  “I’ve considered that,” I said. Of course I’d considered that. For a few disparate minutes between putting on and taking off my clothes and checking my blood sugar and all the other shit I was supposed to do, I’d thought about how I probably should be more careful. And then I thought about the conversation we’d had by the playground before Luke shipped out and wondered if it would help the divorce look real once he got back. If there was a way to spin it if we did get caught.

  Nora continued, “So you know that if someone that knows both you and Luke sees you with another man, there will be questions.”

  I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “I know.”

  “And the questions will lead to talking, the talking will lead to reporting . . .” Nora said.

  “But Luke and I don’t know any of the same people,” I pointed out. I told her to recall Chili’s, and how unlikely it was that our circles would intersect.

  Nora shrugged. “Someone’s always watching. Haven’t you seen House of Cards?”

  I let out a laugh, half because it was funny, half because she was making me nervous. I did not want to feel nervous. I wanted to lie on a blanket in Pease Park and listen to Toby drawl along to Val Kilmer and Kurt Russell in his raspy, Arkansas way.

  “I see what you’re saying,” I said to Nora, nodding, trying to clench my brows to look serious. “I will definitely be careful.”

  I felt my pocket vibrate. Probably Toby, waiting out in the truck. We had to stop at the liquor store before we got there. And everything seemed to take twice as long with him. We were always laughing or teasing or forgetting why we came to the store in the first place. I started to take a few steps toward the door.

  Nora followed.

  “You’re going to the park anyway, huh,” Nora muttered next to me as we ascended the stairs.

  “Yeah.” I sighed. She could read me like a book. “I’m just having fun.”

  “Oh, Cassie,” she said, a note of resignation in her voice. She patted my back. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you you’re afraid of fire.”

  Luke

  Skype had gotten a lot easier. I was telling Cassie a funny story Hailey had written me about JJ, how he had taken his stuffed turtle named Franklin to preschool and got in trouble for taking off the toy shell and telling everyone in his class that Franklin was “naked.” Cassie insisted that he shouldn’t have gotten in trouble for that, that he was just stating a fact.

  “It’s a Presbyterian preschool in Buda, Texas,” I told her as I sewed up a hole in one of my socks. “And he didn’t really get in trouble. The teacher just told Jake and Hailey, that’s all.”

  “Still. That shouldn’t even be a thing.”

  Around Thanksgiving, after I’d sent three letters with no response, Hailey had finally started writing back to me. I got the first one last week: She’d said Jake knew that she was writing, that he appreciated it but wasn’t ready to respond, but she’d like to keep in touch, make sure that they knew I was safe, at least.

  Meanwhile, Rooster was behind me, cleaning his gun with shaving cream. Cassie had to stop herself from staring at it in abject fear. When he clicked the safety on, she jumped and let out a little scream, all the way from Austin.

 
I couldn’t help but laugh at her. A moment later, she started laughing, too.

  “What else?” she’d asked.

  It had been three weeks since we last spoke. I told her about volleyball.

  I had even started a letter to my dad. Hadn’t gotten much further than Dear Dad, I’m sorry without crossing everything out, but earlier drafts had things like I’m learning a lot, I’m becoming a better man. How are those Cowboys looking?

  I looked back at Rooster, who had moved on from cleaning his gun to doing sit-ups, conveniently in sight of the laptop’s camera, of course. It was a small room, but he didn’t have to make those grunting noises.

  I looked back at Cassie. We were both trying not to laugh.

  “So,” I said, glancing at my notes. “Savages? The band?”

  “Oh, good. Yeah. So underrated. They are going to blow up, I swear to God,” she began.

  As she spoke, I began to want a little more—I wanted to know what her own music sounded like. After a pause in her description of a “love-hate” relationship with something called Pitchfork, I asked her.

  “What about you?” I said. “How’s your music coming?”

  “Great,” she said.

  “Can I hear something?”

  She looked surprised, and then happy. “Yes, yeah. Definitely. Be right back.”

  I wasn’t a connoisseur, but I was human. Everyone liked music. I liked the classic-rock station my dad played on a boom box in the garage. Led Zeppelin. David Bowie. Doobie Brothers. Moody Blues. The Doors. Janis Joplin. The ill-advised metal phase.

  I snorted to myself thinking about the e-mail where I told her about Rick Richardson. I would have never thought to tell anyone about that—I’d hardly thought of it since it happened. There was something so unapologetic about calling and writing with Cassie that brought out parts of me that I’d forgotten.

  Cassie was back, humming to herself, setting an open notebook beside her on the couch.

  As she set up her keyboard, I found myself wishing I could tell Cassie about listening to classic rock in the garage. When I was a kid, I knew how much my dad loved the song “Spirit in the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum, so I used to call in to V100 and request it for him. I did it so much that they started to note our number on their caller ID and answered each time with “Hi, Luke. ‘Spirit in the Sky’?”