by Lori Leger
Before it even shut behind him, he’d spotted her backpack. He picked it up from the spot, exactly where she’d dropped it, and pulled the zipper. He dug around for a while before he gave up and dumped the contents on the bar. The phone fell out, slid across the slick marble to hit the concrete slab under the cooler.
“Son of a bitch!” He grabbed it, or rather the three separate pieces it broke into, meaning the back, the front, and the battery. He put everything back the way it was supposed to be and pushed the power button. Nothing. He popped the back off again…no easy feat when you wanted the son of a bitch to come off. He checked the battery, the card, every connection he could think of and snapped it back into place. Wondering how in hell he was going to explain a busted phone, he held his breath and hit the power button again. “Oorah!” He pumped his fist when the screen lit up. Hit the phone function and the call log button.
Calls received: None
Text messages received: None
Calls sent: None
Text messages sent: None
“No…no…no…Aarrrgghh…dammit it to hell!”
After he’d turned it off and on several times, and discovered varied new and unique ways to cuss like a Marine, with the same results, he finally gave up the fight. He threw everything back in her pack, and dropped it right back where she’d left it.
Totally disgusted with himself and his luck, he walked over to the men’s restroom. He used the head and washed his hands afterwards, using lots of soap and hot water. As he lathered, he wondered about the percentage of men in the civilized world who actually washed their hands after taking a piss. If they’d spent as many years as he had in the dry, middle-east, sleeping in sand with nothing but your helmet, or an empty water jug as a pillow, they’d know. Afghanistan—where a man spent as much time fantasizing about showering for hours at a time, as he did about women with big tits. If they only knew what it was like to not be able to, they’d wash their fucking hands. He finally finished and toweled dry, then hit the back door to lock up and make the drive home.
His side door stuck, as usual, so he kicked the bottom to get it open and entered his drab-looking rent-house. It wasn’t exactly a palace, according to middle class standards, but he figured it wasn’t bad, considering the rent was cheap as shit and utilities were included. Anybody and everybody had informed him that was non-existent these days, but he’d lucked out. It just so happened the husband of the couple he rented from was retired USMC, circa Vietnam war, and didn’t need the rent money to survive. The dude was slightly disfigured, but Mitch didn’t want to ask if it happened in Nam. He figured if the man wanted to talk about it, he’d bring it up. If not, it sure as hell wasn’t his place to ask.
An hour later, Mitch tossed his Lee Child novel onto the bed and got up. He’d read the same page several times and still didn’t know what the damn thing said. Maybe getting a little two-legged distance between him and these four walls would help.
He changed into some sweats and eased his feet into a pair of expensive running shoes, a gift from his new brother-in-law. He stood, sighing with satisfaction at the better than average fit. One more thing civilians took for granted—running in anything other than combat boots. What a certifiable pain in the ass—as well as back, feet, and knees.
He warmed up by doing some stretches then hit the street running. He’d almost completed the first mile without incident, but nearly shit himself when an old piece-of-shit truck backfired. One more thing civilians didn’t respect: the ability to walk, run, drive for days, weeks, months…anywhere in this entire country without having to worry about an IED blowing off various parts of your body or snipers taking pot shots at you.
Nope. They just didn’t get how precious the gift of being here, living here in the USA was. With all its problems…crooked politics, ignorant voters from all parties, biased media coverage, congressional standoffs, and what not…it was still the best fucking place in the world to live. Anybody who didn’t think so could kiss his ass and move the hell out.
The next two miles produced very little excitement for him. Someone blew a car horn unexpectedly and a guy loading some sheets of plywood in the back of a flatbed let one get away from him, causing a loud pop when it fell. He still hadn’t rid himself completely of the basic instinct to duck for cover. So far, he’d managed to keep it to a mild flinch rather than a full-fledged ‘hit the deck’ type of move.
Mitch reached Lakefront Park, and ran the length of the boardwalk extending over the water before heading back home. By the time he turned onto his street, a red and orange glow was beginning to light up the eastern horizon. He’d just finished his stretches in the front yard when the husband half of his land lord couple pulled up in the drive. Roger Guidry’s truck, an old Ford, battered and spotted with primer, might look like crap on the outside, but ran like a piece of well-maintained equipment.
“It’s a great morning for a run, ain’t it Mitch? It’s nice and cool and not too humid. How far’d you go?”
“To the boardwalk, about six miles, I think.”
“Yeah…yeah…sounds about right.”
“I’m glad you came by, Mr. Roger. I’ve got your rent for next month. Let me go get it for you.”
Roger gave him a slightly crooked smile. “That ain’t why I’m here, but I do need your help to unload a few things, though.” He opened his door with a little difficulty and stepped down, then walked to the back of his truck. “Some things are kind of difficult to manage with this thing.” He waved one prosthetic arm with a type of grabber attached where the hand should have been.
“What’cha got here?”
“Things for the house. My old lady has been after me to fix this place up, put some money into it. Just didn’t want to make it too nice for the trash that was living here the last few years. Every time I’d put something in, they’d tear it up. Now that I have a good renter, I’m glad to do it.”
“Well, thank you, sir. I appreciate the compliment.” He lowered the tailgate and slid a large box to the edge of the truck bed to examine it. “What do we have hear? A portable heater?”
“It’s a portable fireplace. We got one for our family room this year. That old fireplace of ours wasn’t cuttin’ the chill for the wife and I anymore, and we used one of these as an insert. Son of a gun works like a charm and does it, using a lot less energy, too.” He elbowed Mitch with his right arm. “The wife said this place could use a little romantic ambiance, and you can roll it wherever you need the heat. Living room or even…the bedroom,” the old man said, with a wink. I also bought some paint for the inside. I got painters coming to give me an estimate in the next couple of days.”
Between the two of them, they got the truck unloaded quickly. Mitch set the several gallons of paint in the utility room, and unboxed the new heater. To Mitch’s surprise, it looked more like a fireplace than an electric heater. “No assembly required?” He rolled it out of the box in one piece and ran his hands over the solid wooden mantle and trim in a rich walnut stain. “This is a nice piece of furniture.”
Roger nodded as he leaned over to plug it in to an outlet. “We’ve enjoyed ours so much and since this place is kind of small, the wife figured it would work nicely in here.” He pulled the remote out of the box and put in the batteries. “Watch this.” He pointed the remote at the heater and realistic flames lit up the logs in three different settings.
“Well kiss my ass!” Mitch nodded. “That’s pretty cool, and that fan is blowing some hot air but you can barely hear it.” He beamed down at Mr. Roger. “Just in time for that cold front we’re expecting tomorrow night.”
“Oh Lord, I know. I hope it doesn’t come in earlier and ruin trick or treat. Bessie must have bought five hundred bucks worth of candy. If we don’t give that crap away I’ll go into sugar shock for damn sure.” His deep chuckle rumbled in the air. “It’s kind of difficult to hide that much candy from an old Marine scout with a sweet tooth, but every year, my wife sure as hell gives it her best sh
ot.”
He looked around to survey the place. “Somebody will be in tomorrow to get measurements for flooring for me. When the painting is done, I’m having new wood and vinyl flooring installed throughout the house. Hope it won’t be too much of an inconvenience to you.”
Mitch laughed and waved at the sparse furnishings. “What few things I have can be moved from room to room pretty easily.”
He grabbed two mugs from the cabinet and turned. “How about some coffee, Mr. Roger?”
The older man nodded. “Sure, if you don’t have some place to be.”
“Nope. Normally I’d be sleeping right now, but that plan got shot to shit when I got a two a.m. message and had to go check on a friend.” He poured the coffee he’d programmed to brew fifteen minutes earlier.
“I take mine black.”
Mitch handed him a mug and poured a second for himself—also black. In the absence of a dining table, they sat in the living room with their coffee.
“Did I ever tell you how this happened?” Mr. Roger held up his stainless steel hook.
“No, and I didn’t want to ask.” Mitch sipped from his own mug.
“Damn grenade blew off the arm. While I was knocked out, I caught a bullet in the jaw when my buddy was dragging me to safety. Hell of a thing to wake up with no arm and only half of a jaw.” He sipped his coffee and set down the mug on the makeshift coffee table.
Mitch stared down at Roger’s arm and utilitarian claw. “Has it held you back? Did it keep you from doing what you needed to do?”
The older man lifted his mug from the makeshift table and smiled. “Wanted to do? I couldn’t bring myself to pick up my guitar again. Need to do? Naw…I built a successful business, bought several pieces of real estate that have allowed me to provide for my wife. We never could have children and they wouldn’t allow us to adopt because of our combined medical histories.” He waved his right arm to indicate his jaw and prosthesis. “I had this and my wife has had insulin controlled diabetes all her life. I guess they thought we wouldn’t be able to raise a child properly.” He shook his head. “Sons-a-bitches! The worst thing is that they’ve deprived us of grandchildren. Man, we see all our friends with their grandbabies and it just twists my insides, you know? Poor Bessie became a kindergarten teacher so she could be a part-time mother to those kids.”
After several moments of Mitch not knowing what the hell to say to that, Roger’s gaze landed on Mitchell’s own guitar.
“Please tell me you play. It’d be a big disappointment if a man with a vintage Gibson LG-2 sitting in his living room couldn’t play it.”
Mitch laughed at his coffee drinking guest and picked up the guitar to break into Bottle of Wine.
“Damn, that’s a mighty fine sound coming out of there. That wood has got to be aged at least a good fifty years.”
Mitch ran his hands lovingly along the stock. “Closer to seventy; it’s a 1946 model and it was my dad’s. It’s about the only material thing I’ve given a damn about since I joined the Corps. Twenty five years of playing it has only increased my appreciation for its sound.”
“Beautiful…nice full neck you can wrap your palm around. That’s what I liked about that style. It was kind of like holding a full-bodied woman. I don’t know why everybody goes crazy over those bony assed models on television and magazines. And whoever the hell that Victoria chick is, she can keep her damn secret as far as I’m concerned. Sheesh…those gals are nothing but skeletons with skin.”
“And wings, Mr. Roger…don’t forget the angel wings.”
Roger threw back his head as he laughed. “They look worse than some of the guys we rescued from those ‘non-existent’ Vietnamese POW camps.”
Mitch nodded. “I gotta agree with you. I like a woman with muscular thighs rather than toothpicks, and some meat on her. To me, there is nothing appealing about a woman whose butt is too damn bony to do anything but slip right out of your hands when you grab hold of it.”
Roger’s laughter rang out in the no frills interior of the room. “Kinda sounds like you got your eye—or your hands—on some particular girl. Give this nosey old man the scoop, son.”
Mitchell’s mood grew somber at the thought of the only woman he’d ever considered as more than casual entertainment. “I, uh…I’ve got some issues to deal with before I can even think about that.” Keeping his gaze averted, he felt, rather than saw, the man’s eyes on him.
“Do you have any other family members around, Master Sergeant?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a sister here.” After filling him in on his twin nieces and new brother-in-law, he looked over at the man. “How about you? Do you and your wife have any other family around?”
The old man’s eyes grew dim as he delved deeper into his family history. “I had two brothers. I lost both of ‘em the same year I got injured. One, was a pilot in the Air Force. He got shot down before I was hit. Our younger brother got his head split open in a riot protesting the same war we were fighting. Called us both murderers to our faces the last time we saw him.” He sent Mitch an amused look. “Didn’t make for a very pleasant family gathering. Son of a bitch brought his supply of drugs into our parents’ home, even lit up his bong in his old bedroom, yet still had the nerve to accuse Wayne and me of being irresponsible adults.”
He sighed and shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved my baby brother, but he was always spoiled ass rotten. The irony was that the dude who cracked him with the bat was also protesting the war. Assholes were on the same side. That guy was too high to know who the hell he was swinging at. Denny’s girlfriend got the whole thing on her 8mm recorder. Screwed her up so bad she shot herself. Left behind the roll of film, along with a letter saying she blamed herself because she’d been the one to introduce Denny to that whole ‘scene’ in the first place. Said she realized what a cop-out it was after the fact, but couldn’t live with it.”
“God, that’s gotta suck, for everyone affected.”
“I know. Little brother had brains, too. The kind that could have changed the world, made it a better place for everyone.” The old man wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “What a waste.”
After an entire pot of coffee and a two-hour visit that went by surprisingly quick, Mitch walked his landlord out to his truck. They’d made several agreements during their talk. For one, Mitch had offered to do the prepping and painting of the interior himself, as well as installing the new flooring afterwards. He also agreed to draw up a floor plan for the place with his laptop’s drafting software and get it printed to scale. Roger was thrilled at the prospect of free labor, as long as Mitch agreed to put it toward six months with no rent.
“Oh hell, I almost forgot to give you this.” Roger reached inside his truck and handed Mitch a plastic container full of tarts. “Here you go, son…fig pies and sweet potato pies, courtesy of the wife. You won’t find any better.”
Mitch opened the container and tried a fig pie, rolling his eyes in appreciation. “Oh man, is that good, or what? Tell the lovely Ms. Bessie I said merci beaucoup, and any old day of the week she feels like spoiling me, I’m available.” He took another bite and nodded again. “Yup. I’m about to go all quart of milk ballistic on a few of these babies.”
“She’ll be glad to hear that. It makes her feel good to pamper people. Oh, by the way, in case you were thinking about going out to buy any pieces of furniture, you might want to check out our storage unit first. All of our rent houses started out as furnished years ago, but over the years, most of our renters have begun to bring their own furniture. So we just started keeping some stuff in a climate controlled storage building.”
He pointed to the house. “I noticed you don’t have a dining table, and I’m pretty sure there’s one in storage, along with a set of chairs, some end tables, and night stands, too. It’s a shame to have it all just sitting there when someone could be using it.” He handed him a key. “Here you go, it’s the storage facility behind the Market Basket on East 7th street,
right across from the bakery. Use whatever you think you can fit in here.”
Mitch took the key from him. “Thank you, sir. I’ll take a look, if you’re sure you don’t mind. I don’t have much because I don’t need much…a bed and a recliner and a couch from my sister. But maybe I could save you the rent from having to store the furniture.”
Roger chuckled as he started his old truck and threw it in reverse. “Oh, we don’t have to pay to rent it—we own the place.” He pulled out of the drive and waved as he drove off.
More than a little curious as to what he’d find in the storage unit, Mitch remembered he needed to do some grocery shopping, and the grocery store was near the storage facility. He went inside just long enough to grab his truck keys off the counter and yank the grocery list from the fridge.
CHAPTER 22
Storage Units and Chance Meetings
“Holy crap.”
Mitch stared at the conglomeration of ‘stuff’ in the storage unit. He inched his way to what looked like a table, yanked off the blanket used as a dust cover and nodded in appreciation. It was one of those retro looking tables from the fifties, all chrome and covered with red and gray Formica. Judging by the spots worn smooth and pattern free, this was no reproduction. He pulled tarps from the three stacks surrounding it to find six chairs, all covered in red vinyl.
Turning in a slow circle, Mitch saw several items he could use, such as end tables, lamps, rocking chairs and various other forms of additional seating. Everything from antique chifferobes and dresser drawers to an old china hutch just like his and Sarah’s old Maw Maw Dee used to have in her home. A good half of the items in the storage facility looked as though they could have held a place of honor in that old woman’s house. The other half was a hodgepodge collection of pieces of furniture that didn’t seem to match anything else in the room.
He left the storage unit, satisfied with his little foray, and promising to pay a return visit once he’d completed the minor house-remodeling project.