Five Bars in Rome: Letter to an American Soldier

For Via, in honor of Matt, and all of America’s fallen heroes.

**

I woke up crying. My cell phone told me it was not quite three a.m. Eyes closing, shoulders shaking, I groped blindly for the phone, dialed from memory, listened to it ring—again, again, and again—until the voicemail picked up. Pressing the phone to my ear so hard it was almost painful, I listened to the clear, crisp tones of your voice, and as soon as the message ended, hung up and dialed again.

And again.

And again.

On the fifth call I didn’t hang up quickly enough to miss the beep, and I began speaking before I could stop myself.

“Hi Dad,” I said, sounding like I always did when I left a quick message on your phone, despite the tears on my face and neck. “It’s me. I was just calling to say hi. Rome’s…great. Really amazing. We went to the Colosseum today…we walked around in the Forum…. I liked the Colosseum better, but duh, you knew that, right?” I paused. Then, “Remember when you told me that you worried about me going to visit it because you thought I might try to bring the whole city back with me? If I could fit it into my carry-on I think I probably would. Might make getting through customs interesting, though. I wish…I wish you were here—“

I collapsed back onto my pillow, jerking my knees up toward my chest in a sudden spasm of grief. “Daddy,” I sobbed. “Oh Daddy, please come back....”

Beep.

I didn’t hang up, just pressed the phone harder against my ear and cried until I finally sank back into oblivion.

**

Unless I was in my hotel room, the cell phone service in Rome was abysmal, so I didn’t know that you had died until I saw the evening news.

“Three American soldiers were killed near Baghdad this afternoon in a roadside bombing,” said the announcer, and I hated her fake blonde hair and the way her mouth moved to form the words that informed the world that my father had died.

How dare she tell everyone? She didn’t know you or the two men in your convoy. How dare they show pictures of you—large images of your smiling faces that filled the TV screen—just to make sure we knew exactly what we’d lost?

Your faces were gone. Your smiles and your eyes and your laughter now existed only in the hearts and minds of those of us left behind. You were larger-than-life, now so greatly reduced that you could fit in my pocket, reside on a half-page, slip into my DVD player. But those photos and voice recordings and videos were inadequate representations of the men you were.

Were, were, were.

Who knew that a simple tense change could hurt so much?

**

We only had a day left in the city, but I called my mom to let her know I was making arrangements to come home that night, on whatever flight I could find. She wouldn’t even consider it.

“I need to be there.”

“Oh, sweetie, there’s nothing for you to do. I’ve got Uncle George here, and your dad’s mom, and both my brothers, and your father’s sisters will fly in the same day as you.”

“I should be there. To help.”

“I’ve got more help than I know what to do with.”

“But the...the arrangements—“ I couldn’t say funeral. Not yet. Mom could. She’d always been Dad’s equal in strength, in the times when everyone else crumpled.

“The funeral won’t be until next week. Stay, sweetheart. I don’t want you to miss out on the end of the trip.”

“Mom.”

“Really, honey, I’d just feel awful if you had to cut it short, after you’ve wanted to go for so long.”

I hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. Don’t worry about a thing, Mattie. I have this all under control.”

After we said goodbye I stared down at the phone in my hands and marveled at my mother’s detached tone. Calm, with steady inhalations and corresponding exhalations, she seemed to be having little difficulty with the simple act of letting her lungs do their job.

I, on the other hand, was not as fortunate. My chest ached—a deep, all-consuming ache that came from this new type of emptiness that I never wanted to understand.

**

When I told them I needed some time alone, my friends had quickly rearranged room assignments so I’d have a room to myself.

“But if you need somebody….”

“We’re on either side of you.”

“You promise you’ll come get us if you need to talk?”

“Or even if you don’t want to talk. Just let us come sit with you or whatever?”

I promised I would as I closed the door on their worried, dubious faces. If they’d been really worried, they could have insisted on keeping me company. But they knew me, understood the need to get away from everyone for the night, knew I wouldn’t do anything rash or stupid. They left me alone. Not even Kate, who I wouldn’t have been surprised to find out had camped out by my door all night, tried anything.

So I surprised myself, when, waking around three-thirty, I climbed out of bed, pulled on my coat and a pair of tennis shoes, and left the hotel without a backward glance. Down the dark streets, taking the roundabout way, I passed the Arch of Constantine, and reached the Colosseum.

It was different in the dark; the whole area around the amphitheater was. The Colosseum itself was lit, but it didn’t make its surroundings seem any less menacing. Gone were the swarms of tourists who’d flocked at its base only hours before, snapping photos and craning their necks to look to the top. Gone were the vendors who’d eagerly peddled their wares: “T-shirt, sweatshirt, postcard! Get here!” “Don’t think—just buy!” “Si, bella, it is ten euro, but for you, only eight.” Gone were the heavyset, tattooed men dressed as gladiators, charging tourists as much as they could get for each picture taken with them.

I saw a few people milling about in the darkness—a couple necking near the arch, some guys leaning against a row of nearby trees—and I walked on. My feet seemed to know where I was going, even if I didn’t. Passing the endless arched entryways, each bolted shut, I walked until I came to an ordinary chain-link fence, erected to protect the latest round of excavations at the site.

Looking up, I saw a cross chiseled into the side of the massive construct—just one of several—and I grimaced. A late addition. Even in this Roman sphere of violence—well, God just had to have it all, didn’t He?

Resting my head against the ancient stone, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and squinted against its artificial brightness when it lit up. I don’t know why I’d brought it with me; it had failed me in this exact spot half a day ago, when the news came through that you had died.

I looked, lowered the phone, then raised it slowly and looked again.

Five bars. I had full service in Rome.

I began to laugh, and then to cry, and then stood and began to pace, inarticulate with grief. Running a hand through my hair and clenching my fingers so my nails dug into scalp, my sobs grew louder.

I turned on the structure behind me, slamming my hand against the uneven bricks. My palm stung as I drew back, then kicked. The moon shone down on me, darkened cell phone in one hand, kicking the Colosseum.

They’d killed people here once.

They marched them in and released the lions to rip their limbs from their bodies. And when the crowd grew restless, they dragged them off the sand and left them to die. They’d made an industry out of training men to fight to the death, and the masses had roared their approval, picked their favorite, celebrated his kills. The gladiators: the poster boys of Rome’s bloodlust.

Nobody thought we had gladiators anymore, but now I wondered.

Was that all you were? An American gladiator, sent out to spill your blood on the sand to satisfy our national lust for blood?

Sickened, I kicked harder, slamming my foot again and again against the cool, speckled white stone, and ignored the pain in my foot until I heard the soft, distinct crack. Crying out, I sank to the ground, phone clattering as I released it and clutched my tennis shoe with both hands.

Anyone passing by would have thought I was crazy, but I’d never broken a toe before, and I was surprised at how much it hurt. As my sobs turned into a thin, eerie keening, I almost felt the ache in my chest begin to subside. It seemed fitting, mourning your disappearance into the desert at a place where so many others had lost their lives, alone on the hot sand.

**

Dear Dad,

I came home Friday. Jet lag hasn’t been too bad, so I helped Mom box up some of your stuff. Someone told her it was too soon, that it had only been a few days since your funeral, that she shouldn’t avoid the issue, that she needed to give herself more time to grieve. She told me she needed to put it away now, otherwise she’ll keep dropping her toothbrush into the holder next to yours, and keep one eye on the calendar, absentmindedly counting down to the end of your deployment.

Only this time your deployment won’t end, and you won’t come home.

So I guess Mom’s taking it well, considering. I set aside a couple of your flannel shirts and a pair of your old work boots when she wasn’t looking. I should be helping her to let go, I know, but the shirts still smell like you, and when I slip my feet inside those stinky old boots, worn into the shape of your feet, it’s like you never really left after all. Maybe that’s dumb.

The toe thing was definitely dumb. But losing you was hard—it is hard.

It’s strange when people say they’re sorry. I don’t like that anything so awful could have happened to me that strangers would feel compelled to offer their condolences. They don’t see it as a tragedy, though. They believe in the cause you died for. I do too.

I joined ROTC at school. I know I said I never would, that one soldier in the family was enough, but as soon as I did it, I felt closer to you. I am now a warrior for your cause, and I am honored to follow in your footsteps. “You’re just a girl,” said one of the guys in my lit class. “What can you do?”

Everything, I told him.

Because I’m not just some girl. I’m your girl, and you taught me how to live and love and fight tooth and nail (and toe) for what I believe in.

I wish I still had you here with me. I wish you could still be here for Mom. But you gave us all the love you had, and it’s enough. I still miss you, but it’s enough for me to know that your cause—our cause—was worthy of both your life and your death.

So thank you.

I love you always,

M.