Back in the Tinian Ballroom, Miriam found Mazz nursing his glass of bourbon, feet perched atop a chair, smoking a cigar. She scanned the room.
“He’s talking with the colonel, right over there.” Mazz aimed his cigar at a crowded table.
Miriam took a seat. “Any more champagne?” she asked.
“One of those nights, huh?”
“Yeah. One of those.” Miriam didn’t realize she was shaking until Mazz placed a hand on top of her forearm. “I’m done, Mazz,” she spat out.
Mazz stared at her.
She nodded. “I’m done,” she repeated. “It’s not even about the cheating, right?” Miriam laughed. “I’m considering paying her. She’s doing me a favor. Come take this off my hands. And I’ve tried. Lord knows, Mazz, I’ve tried. To be a good wife. A good mom—” Miriam broke off. “Give me your bourbon if I can’t get any champagne.”
Mazz raised his hand in the air and signaled for a waiter.
Miriam scoffed. “White folk a trip.”
Mazz faked being shot in the heart. “I’m getting the drink for you. Aren’t I the slave here?”
Miriam laughed in spite of herself, accepting a glass of champagne from the waiter.
“There we go. There’s the old Meerkat back.”
“It’d be real nice to have the old Jax back,” Miriam said, throwing her eyes in her husband’s direction.
“You shouldn’t have worn that,” Mazz said suddenly. “I know it’s not my place. Shit, I’m drunk. But damn, Meer, that was a right low thing to do to a man.”
Miriam rolled her eyes. “This was my mother’s dress. I’ll wear what I want—”
Mazz interrupted, holding up a palm. “Those red shoes broke him, Miriam. Fuck the dress. I mean, no. It’s gorgeous. You know what I mean. Why’d you have to wear those?” Mazz seemed angry. Miriam felt both defensive and confused—Mazz had defused many a fight between her and Jax over the years with his humor, the way he seemed never to take sides while somehow being on both their sides. She watched him shift in his seat, take a puff of his Cuban. His eyes were unfocused; he seemed not to be angry with her, but with something she could not see.
“I want you to understand something,” he said. “First and foremost. A commander has the authority and obligation to use all necessary means available and to take all appropriate action to defend his unit and other United States forces in the vicinity from a hostile act or a demonstration of hostile intent.” He rushed through the words, like the way Miriam used to say her prayers as a child—memorized so deep she hardly had to think about their meaning.
“I quoted that direct from the United States Marine Corps Laws of War. Jax followed orders. He used all the means he had available to him to defend us in that fucking daycare, and that’s what he fucking did, all right? I won’t hear anything else but that. First and foremost. The rest…” Mazz trailed off.
Miriam was quiet, watchful. What daycare was Mazz talking about? How many of Jax’s secrets would she have to find out in a twenty-four-hour span?
“The Gulf was hell, Miriam. War really is. And it was scary. Shit, I was fucking scared. I’d never seen someone get shot before. Stabbed? Sure. That’s Chicago. But I can tell you I grew to know fear like a sister when the shots rang out and Jenkins got hit.” Mazz was staring, unseeing, at a distant spot on the table. The orchestra was playing an upbeat melody, some couples swaying together on the dance floor.
“And we were all so young, Meer. That’s the thing. None of them boys over the age of thirty. Not a one. When Jenkins got shot, you know who he screamed for? His mother. Over and over. Mama! Mama! Had to stop calling mine ‘Mama’ for a while. How the hell you explain that to a sixty-five-year-old woman who refuses, to this day, to speak English? In bocca al lupo.”