by K. J. Reilly
Then he told us that more than 250,000 veterans who have returned from Iraq and Afghanistan have PTSD and when you include vets from all the wars, not just Afghanistan and Iraq, 22 vets a day commit suicide. He said that some people argue that that number overstates the problem but then he said, “That’s bullshit. Even if it’s one vet committing suicide it’s too many.” Then he added, “That’s why I didn’t do well as a plumber because I would see my buddy dying over and over again and be thinking about killing myself and not be able to fix somebody’s sink while that was going on.” Then he said that seeing a buddy die was the worst thing that could happen to you in war. It was even worse than killing someone or dying yourself. Then I asked him to repeat that and he said, “Seeing a buddy die is the worst thing that could happen to you in war. It is even worse than killing someone or dying yourself.”
Then I got up and went over to Rooster and leaned in close and said, “Do you think you have PTSD?” And Rooster held up one finger for yes, and then he got up and left and after he was gone I whispered to myself, “I think I do, too.”
Later Eli sent me a text that said:
I can’t show you what more than 250,000 vets with PTSD look like, but this is what the 22 vets a day who commit suicide look like:
And then repeat that every single day of the year.
And every single year.
I was still sitting in the garage holding the gun and now I was thinking about that many soldiers and feeling really sad and then I texted Eli I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you and then hit save to draft and didn’t hear an accidental bluuuurp, which was a good thing based on the scenario I had just gone through in my head.
Then I texted her, Seeing a buddy die is the worst thing that could happen to you in war. It is even worse than killing someone or dying yourself, and saved that text to draft, too. Then I put the gun away and walked back to the house.
We got measured and weighed in gym today. Kutchner grew two inches; Alex B. Renner grew two and a half inches. And I was one quarter of an inch shorter and four pounds lighter than I was in September.
I had them check three times.
That just didn’t seem fair.
The world was getting bigger and I was shrinking.
TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 12:57 p.m.
Jacey doesn’t have Rocky Mountain spotted fever anymore. His rash is gone but I have PTSD, ADD, GERD, IBS, RLS, and all kinds of other shit too.
And that’s just this week.
My mom said I should stay off WebMD.
I said no fucking way.
Just without the fucking part and the no part.
I pretty much said okay I’ll try.
TEXT FROM JOEL TO PRINCIPAL REDMAN 1:04 a.m.
Just having a gun makes me think of things that I would never have thought of before, because it feels like the gun gives me the power to fix things.
Like it makes me more right and smarter or taller even.
Which makes no sense at all because having the gun just makes everything worse. But it’s just fucking true anyway because that’s how it makes me feel.
Sorry I said fucking.
TEXT FROM JOEL TO PRINCIPAL REDMAN 1:14 a.m.
One of the vets at the soup kitchen told me that he has a lot of guns in his apartment. Handguns and rifles and extra ammo.
He said it makes him feel safe.
Like he could protect himself if he had to.
He doesn’t have a job or food. He has guns.
TEXT FROM JOEL TO PRINCIPAL REDMAN 1:24 a.m.
I think I have PTSD. That’s when your brain is messed up because you suffered something too upsetting to get better from.
The vet at the soup kitchen with all the guns told me that when you have PTSD you can have flashbacks and keep reliving the thing that’s too awful to think about that traumatized you.
If that’s true, I have PTSD. Just so you know.
Because of Andy.
You remember Andy, don’t you?
I was standing in front of my locker putting some books away and Eli walked over and said, “Do you think we could do it again?”
I looked up. “What do you mean?”
“Do you think we can steal some eggs and asparagus?”
“Did you say steal?”
“Maybe.”
“I think you said steal.” I called out into the hallway, “Eli said steal!”
“So what if I did, Joel?” Then she leaned in and whispered, “I read on the internet that almost half of the food produced in this county either gets thrown away or rots in the farmers’ fields or ends up in the trash behind supermarkets and restaurants and in people’s kitchens. The way I figure it, that’s a crime against humanity way worse than stealing food that no one is going to eat.”
“Eli, I believe I’ve corrupted you.”
“Maybe just a little, teeny-weeny bit, Higgins. Okay, so on Wednesday we can go steal some eggs?”
“Hell, yes.”
“And asparagus.”
“And asparagus.”
“You’ll bring the camo?”
“I’ll bring the camo.”
“Do you have access to any other farms?”
“No, I do not!” I put my jacket in my locker and slammed it closed. “But if you want we can rob the ShopRite over on Route 112.”
“Joel!” She shook her head and walked away.
I called after her, “Or, how about the minimart at the Mobil station? Or Starbucks? We’ll break in the front window and steal all the Krispy Kremes.”
She was probably thinking that Joel is such an abomination, but even as I watched her from behind, I could tell she was smiling.
TEXT FROM JOEL TO ANDY 12:24 a.m.
I was thinking that I might ask Eli on a date.
But maybe I should wait until I get my driver’s license.
I can’t ask her to walk somewhere. Can I?
TEXT FROM JOEL TO PRINCIPAL REDMAN 12:42 a.m.
It’s me. Joel Higgins again. A couple of things. We should approach the town because everywhere I look I see places we could grow food. Like by the stop signs and in the median strips between the lanes on the highway. And in the field next to the library and up on West Main or on Kennedy Boulevard by the Boys & Girls Club.
And we could keep chickens in the boys’ locker room, not just the gym.
I mean, come on. We won’t need the locker room for changing if the gym is full of chickens.
TEXT FROM JESUS, MARY TO JOEL 2:17 p.m.
WE NEED TO TALK COME HOME RIGHT NOW.
Oh shit!
The thing was, I didn’t know if she found the gun or the mouse.
Or which would be worse.
Probably the gun.
Definitely the gun.
TEXT FROM JESUS, MARY TO JOEL 3:15 p.m.
WHERE R U????
TEXT FROM JOEL TO JESUS, MARY 3:17 p.m.
At church with Eli making peanut butter sandwiches for the homeless.
TEXT FROM JESUS, MARY TO JOEL 3:18 p.m.
Come home NOW!
TEXT FROM JOEL TO JESUS, MARY 3:18 p.m.
People will be hungry, then.
TEXT FROM JESUS, MARY TO JOEL 3:19 p.m.
I DON’T CARE!
TEXT FROM JESUS, MARY TO JOEL 3:27 p.m.
JOEL IT IS ME JACEY
MOM FOOND THE MONNSTERR
that the police came to the house.
Mrs. Faust next door heard “a bloodcurdling cry” and immediately called 911 to report a scream “indicative of a homicide at 257 Barker Street.” She should have said I want to report a loud scream that could be indicative of anything, like my neighbor has a five-year-old who is keeping Harry Potter’s mouse in a box in his closet and it scared the crap out of his mother when she saw it as she was putting his toys away. But she went with full-on overreact.
The police thought it was funny.
I found out later that Officer Jim Hannity called Jackson on his cell phone ’cause he had the n
umber because they knew each other from high school and played together on a summer softball team for men over forty, and he was laughing his head off and said, “Your wife’s got a hell of a set of lungs.”
Jackson said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
And Hannity said, “You better call an exterminator. Mary saw a mouse and screamed so loud the lady next door had a heart attack.”
Not really, but they took Mrs. Faust to the hospital for observation because she was eighty-seven years old and she got all shook up.
Jesus, Mary was not happy with me for a whole lot of complicated reasons.
For starters, disease.
“Do you understand that the mouse you caught is a bacteria-ridden rodent?”
And I said, “Now I know where I get my hypochondria, Mom.”
She said, “I’m really disappointed here, boys.”
I said, “But…”
And Jesus, Mary said, “Don’t interrupt with a ‘but,’ Joel. There is no ‘but’ here. And don’t be fresh with me.”
And I said, “I wasn’t being fresh. Why does everyone think that I’m being fresh when I’m not?”
Jacey said, “Are you going to kill Scabbers?”
Jesus, Mary said, “Of course not,” and she rubbed his head.
I said, “What about all the diseases you can’t catch from a mouse?”
Jesus, Mary said, “Whaaat??”
And then she said, “Both of you go wash your hands a thousand times.”
Jacey said, “But I didn’t even touch him!”
“I don’t care. Plus, your father will be here in a minute.”
I said, “Mom, you didn’t have to call Jackson over a little mouse.”
And Jesus, Mary said she didn’t call Jackson, the police did when Mrs. Faust next door heard the scream and thought there was a murder and had to be taken to the hospital because of angina.
And then I said, “Oh, shit! Are you serious?”
And Jesus, Mary said, “You’re damned right I’m serious.”
Jacey said, “Potty mouth! Both of you! Potty mouth!”
And then it calmed down and me and Jace washed our hands and it got quiet except for the mouse scratching noises and then Jace said, “It’s not a little mouse, Joel. It’s Scabbers!” And then he added, “And don’t be mad, Mom, it was a secret brother project and Joel caught the monster in my closet.”
Jesus, Mary calmed down and kissed Jacey’s head but then she got riled up again and pulled out her phone and said, “Here are all the possible disease vectors and routes of contamination,” and I said, “Seriously, Mom? Disease vectors and routes of contamination? You have to stop reading so much WebMD,” and she gave me a look. “It’s not good for you, so hand over your phone,” I added.
She didn’t.
Instead she launched into another rant about the horrors of handling infected animal carcasses and breathing in bacteria and dust that’s contaminated with rodent urine or droppings and the dire implications of direct contact with rodents and their urine and droppings and of course the deadly health consequences of eating food that is contaminated with rodent urine or droppings. Jacey said, “What’s droppings?” and I said, “Poop,” and he said, “Why would I eat poop?” And it basically went downhill from there.
In a nutshell here was Jacey’s defense: He didn’t handle any carcasses, Scabbers takes lots of baths, he never put his food in Scabbers’s box, he would never eat dog kibble, and Joel is in charge of poop and pee. That last one he kept repeating.
Then Jackson’s truck pulled up the driveway and he came upstairs to the scene of the crime and listened to everyone’s side and then he said, “Jesus, Mary, you didn’t have to scream so loud that you gave Margaret angina over a mouse!”
Jacey said, “We shouldn’t be talking about Mrs. Faust’s vagina.”
We all looked momentarily confused, and then Jackson quickly said, “I agree,” and everyone but Jace laughed.
And then Jackson said, “Okay, boys. Pack up Scabbers and bring him to the truck.”
Jacey said, “No way!”
Jackson said, “Way!”
Then Jacey said, “Joel, do something!”
I picked up Scabbers’s box and headed to the truck.
that a mouse’s favorite place in the world to live was on top of a big heap of garbage.
It was a hard statement to disagree with.
Jacey was sitting on the bench seat in the front of the truck in between Jackson and me and he had Scabbers on his lap in his little box and Jackson let Jace shift the gears a few times to distract him so he wouldn’t cry.
When we pulled into the county waste center, Jackson said he knew the guy manning the gate and told us his name was Fred Haze and he drove a ’97 Dodge Ram with a finicky transmission. After Jackson told Fred that he had to drop some trash off Jacey said, “Scabbers isn’t trash,” and Fred said he had to weigh the truck coming in and going out and Jackson laughed on account of the fact that the only thing we were dropping off was Scabbers and he knew how much he weighed. Jackson explained to Jace that was how they figured out how much to charge and that it’s two hundred bucks a ton and Jacey said, “Does Scabbers weigh a ton?” And Jackson said, “A ton is two thousand pounds. Do you think a mouse could weigh two thousand pounds?” And Jacey said, “Maybe.” And then we set him free—Scabbers, not Jacey—on the biggest pile of trash you have ever seen. The little guy scrambled way up onto the top of the heap and picked up a banana peel and Jackson said, “See?”
The three of us had a Free Willy moment up at the garbage dump. So it wasn’t as bad as you might think.
On the way out Jacey was drawing a picture of Scabbers with a crayon and paper he found in the glove box of the pickup and in it Scabbers was sitting on top of heaps of trash with a whole bunch of other mice. When we got to the gate, Fred weighed the truck again and said, “That will be forty bucks.” And Jackson said, “No way!” and Jacey said, “Way!”
And then Fred said, “Only kidding, Jackson, no charge. Get the hell out of here.”
And Jacey said, “Potty mouth!”
Late that night Jace came into my room and climbed into my top bunk and said, “We’re gonna need that other trap, Joel. The monsters are back.”
a few days later and on the bus ride over I told her that we have several choices: an omelet with asparagus; pasta with cream, nutmeg, and asparagus; or a frittata.
She burst out laughing. “Joel, what on earth is a frittata?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“But you know how to cook?”
“That would be a hard no.”
“But you like feeding people?”
“Yes. I like feeding people. But that doesn’t mean that I believe in God.”
“I didn’t ask you if you believed in God. I just asked you if you liked to cook.”
“And feed people.”
“And feed people.”
We were sitting on the bus together wearing matching camouflage. Our fingers were next to each other on the seat, practically touching. I almost reached for her hand a thousand times but didn’t. I mean, it was only a finger stretch away. It would have been so easy but it was the hardest thing in the world to pull the trigger on. Then just when I was about to make a move, she lifted her hand to brush the hair off of her face.
I started to sweat like the Pittster.
Retreated to my side of the seat.
Almost passed out.
Eli said, “Joel, are you feeling okay?”
I said, “Fuck no, I’m not feeling the least bit okay. In fact, I’m about to barf. I’ve sweated through my clothes because I want to hold your hand but I feel like if I try, it might ruin everything.”
Just without the “Fuck no.” And the part about “I’m not feeling the least bit okay.” And minus the bit about me being “about to barf.” And the bit about “sweating through my clothes.” And the part about wanting to hold her hand. And I also left off the last thin
g about how if I did, it might ruin everything.
So I pretty much said, “Sure thing, why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
Painful awkward silence, at least on my part, then Eli said, “You still coming with me tomorrow to make sandwiches over in the church basement?”
I said, “Maybe we should make frittatas instead.”
“You’re having trouble with peanut butter sandwiches, so frittatas, whatever they are, are a definite no.”
Then the bus stopped at the corner of Main and Lexington and we got off and headed up the hill in silence. When we got to the farm we cut in on the same path as before and I purposely skirted Rooster’s place again, praying that we didn’t bump into him by accident. Then as soon as we saw the chicken coop, Eli got all enthusiastic and ran ahead into the building and started collecting eggs like it was the most fun she’d ever had in her whole life. After we had collected six full crates of eggs and I was about to say we should move on, I looked up and froze. Mr. Miller, the guy from the hardware store, was standing in the doorway.
Eli looked up a second later and she froze, too.
The three of us looked at each other for a long minute without saying a thing and then Mr. Miller just nodded his head and walked off.