by Scott, Emma
“He has a ton of friends in the city,” I said. “He’s probably gone to crash with one of them.”
“Are you sure?”
I started to tell her yes, but the truth popped out instead. “I’ve never seen him like this.”
“I don’t understand what happened,” she said, sitting on the front porch swing, already shivering as the night descended. “What money is he talking about?”
“Connor’s grandparents left him and Jefferson a twelve million dollar trust. Six for each. Their will stated the money was payable upon evidence of their maturity and responsibility. Connor always assumed that meant graduating from college, but apparently his parents have other ideas.”
“Why doesn’t Connor just break free?” Autumn asked. “Take out a loan on his own so he doesn’t have to be under their thumb?”
“Six million is a lot of money to walk away from,” I said, sitting on the other side of the bench. “But more than that, he wants to be treated with the same respect as his brother. Hell, he just wants to be loved because he’s their kid.”
“I had no idea it was this bad.” Autumn pulled out her phone and texted Connor. We waited a few minutes then she shook her head. “No answer.”
Where are you? I sent from my phone.
Nothing.
Where are you, man?
For the first time ever, I didn’t know what he was thinking or where his head was at. And it scared me more than I could admit.
The next morning there was still no sign of Connor. The Drakes, Ma, and Paul were gathered around the immense spread of breakfast food that could have served twenty. Jefferson and Cassandra were out for a walk, unconcerned by this family drama.
Autumn’s hair was a mess and her eyes ringed by shadows. Mrs. Drake didn’t look much better.
“He’s a grown man, Victoria,” Mr. Drake said over his coffee cup. “He’s probably staying with one of his friends. Right, Wes?”
For Mrs. Drake’s sake, I nodded. “That’s my guess.”
“He’ll be fine,” Ma said, her plate piled high with cinnamon buns, eggs, and bacon. “God knows, if I sent out a search party every time this one”—she pointed her fork at me—“got a wild hair up his ass, I probably woulda wound up married to the police chief.”
She laughed. No one else did.
The front door opened and slammed shut. Footsteps stomped through the hall and Connor strode into the kitchen, unshaven and still wearing yesterday’s clothes. He slammed a paper palm down onto the table.
“There, Dad,” he said. “You want responsible. Here’s responsible.”
No one moved as Connor went to the fridge for some orange juice. Autumn tried to meet his eye, and failed.
Mr. Drake reached across the table to snatch up the paper, scanned it, and then his hands dropped. “You joined the Army Reserves?”
I sucked in a breath as if I’d been punched in the gut.
Holy fucking shit, Connor…
Mrs. Drake’s hand flew to her throat. “You’re serious? The Army?”
“The Reserves?” Ma crowed. “Terrific. I was just telling Wes—”
Paul put a gentle hand on her arm and she fell silent.
“Is there something wrong with that?” Connor asked.
His mother stared, all of her poise and public persona falling away and leaving a scared mother in its wake. “The war in Afghanistan… And now Syria… Haven’t you been paying attention to the news? It’s all getting worse.”
“Then I’ll serve,” Connor said, his face hard, mouth set in a grim determination I’d never seen before. He drained his glass and set it down, then surveyed the awestruck faces around him. “What? Serving my country isn’t good enough?”
The senator started to speak, but Mr. Drake cut her off.
“No, it’s extremely responsible. A brave and an honorable thing to serve. It’s not what I envisioned for you, but the ROTC is there and you could become an officer—”
“I’m not going to be an officer. If I serve, I’ll be infantry. On the ground, front lines if I have to.”
Mrs. Drake’s face paled. “Front lines…”
Connor nodded. “Yep. I’m going to serve my two years, graduate college in the meanwhile, and if I’m called up to defend this country, I’ll go.”
“Very well,” Mr. Drake said. His fingers toyed with the edge of the paperwork Connor had dropped like a bomb onto the table. “Right. Very well.”
He pushed back his chair and left the room. Mrs. Drake stared after him, her mouth hung open. Slowly, her gaze went to Connor.
“Very well,” he repeated. He grabbed a slice of bacon and went out the door to the backyard. He kicked it shut behind him with his heel. Autumn stared for a second, then quickly followed.
“Excuse me, Miranda,” Mrs. Drake said, getting up. “Paul. I need to talk to Wes a moment. Alone.”
I pushed back my chair and followed her into the family room.
“Wes,” she said, her voice cracking open to reveal the fear beneath. “It’s so dangerous. He’s not cut out to be a soldier. He’s not cut out to…hold a gun. To fight…” She shook her head, her eyes wide in disbelief. “I don’t understand. Where did he get this idea?”
“From me,” I said over a hard rock in my throat. “He got it from me. I was working out how to pay for my last year of college. I was thinking about joining the Reserves.”
She clutched my arms. “Wes…”
“I’ll sign up. I’ll go with him. We’ll do it together, like we do everything together.”
“You will?” Hope was drowning in the tears of her eyes.
How could I not?
“I will. It’ll be fine.”
“You can watch over him? He doesn’t have a head for that kind of life.” She pressed her lips together. “God, is it too late? Can we go back to the recruiting office and tell them—?”
“It’s going to be okay,” I said. “One weekend a month.”
“But the war…”
“It’s going to be okay,” I said again.
I had nothing else to offer her. I couldn’t predict the future, nor could I tell her I was just as fucking scared for Connor as she was. The idea of my happy-go-lucky friend taking up arms, never mind taking aim at another human being, made me sick to my stomach.
“It’s not going to come to that,” I said out loud. “It’s going to be okay.”
Victoria rested her head against my chest. I held her awkwardly a moment, then she pulled away to compose herself.
“Thank you, Wes. I’m sorry, I had a moment of… It’s a mother’s greatest fear.”
“I know.”
She looked up at me. “We take care of each other. My family and yours.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We do.”
“You’ll take care of him, Wes. Won’t you?”
“I’ll do my best.”
She dabbed beneath her eyes with the heels of her hand, then straightened her skirt. “I’ll just go see about packing some leftovers for your mother.”
I joined Autumn and Connor outside. Connor sat on the back porch steps. Autumn stood a little ways away in the grass, her back to us.
“Is Mom freaking out?” Connor asked. His earlier bravado was gone now. His voice was dull and drained out.
“A little,” I said, my eyes on Autumn. “I told her I’d do it with you.”
Autumn whipped around. “You’ll what?”
Connor shook his head. “No. You don’t have to—”
“I put the damn idea in your head. And I need to pay for my last year at Amherst. I was probably going to sign up anyway. Seemed like my best bet. So, we’ll do it together.”
Autumn stared at us both, then turned her back again.
“Jesus, Wes.” Connor sighed again, blowing his cheeks out. But I knew him. It was relief in that heavy exhale.
He needs me.
“It’ll be good, right? It’s a good thing to serve our country.”
“Of course it is.
” A small laugh escaped me. “You are one crazy motherfucker. You realize what this means?”
“We’re going to Boot Camp,” Connor said, and his grin was back.
“Fucking Boot Camp,” I said. “It’s going to suck so hard for you.”
“Me? I’m going to keep track how many times the drill instructor tells you to drop and give him fifty to get that smirk off your face.”
Autumn turned, her arms crossed tightly though I didn’t think it was against the cold. She started for the house.
Connor reached for her hand. “Hey,” he said. “Hey…”
She kept out of his reach. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better help to you with your parents,” she said, her voice thick.
He stood, cut off her path, and pulled her into his arms. He tilted her chin up. “You were. You did a good thing for me. No girl’s stood up to them like that. It meant a lot to me.”
Tears filled her eyes and I averted my gaze.
“I’m scared,” she whispered. “For both of you.”
He pulled her in close, held her tight and stroked her hair.
“I’d like to go back to Amherst now,” she finally said. “I’ll take a bus if you want to stay.”
“No, we can go. This visit is over with a capital O.”
She nodded. “Good. I’ll just go pack.”
Autumn went back inside, and Connor turned to me.
“I hate that she’s scared, but it’s too late for me. Not too late for you.” His tone was sober now. “What about track?”
I shrugged. “The offers aren’t pouring in.”
“But you’re so fast.”
“I’ll be the fastest one at Boot Camp.”
Connor laughed and then pulled me in for a sudden hug. “I love you,” he said. “No bullshit, no fucking around. I do.”
I stiffened automatically. A reflex when someone tried to touch me. But Connor was already sunk into my marrow, blood, and bones.
I need him just as much.
I hugged him back hard.
I’d die for him.
I couldn’t say it. Couldn’t speak the words out loud.
But give me a pen and paper… Or an Army sign-up sheet… And I’ll write it down.
The following Monday, I went to the recruiter’s office and signed my name on the dotted line.
Wednesday, the United States Consulate in Adana, Turkey, near the Syrian border, was gassed and the Syrian leader boldly took the credit. Eighty-four dead.
A week later, an orphanage in Ankara was bombed.
Three nights after that, I was working at the dining room table on my Object of Devotion poem. It was due in a week, but it wasn’t done. I doubted it would ever be done. Connor was watching a football game, which was pre-empted by the president speaking to the nation. He had, with the full cooperation of Congress, officially declared war on the regime in Syria.
Connor craned around to look at me. I half expected the phone to ring that very minute to tell us to pack up for Boot Camp. We’d intended to wait until summer break to finish the school year, but U.S. forces were stretched to the breaking point. Deployment was inevitable.
We signed our names on the line. If they call us, we have to go.
Connor must’ve had the same thought as we both jumped when his phone rang.
“Hello? Hey, baby. Yeah, we’re watching now. No. Autumn, don’t cry. Everything’s going to be okay.”
My pen doodled across the page. Everything’s going to be okay, I wrote, and then scratched it out.
Weston
Rain water streamed off the brim of Drill Sergeant Denroy’s round-brimmed hat. If he were cold under his rain slicker, he didn’t show it.
“Who’s smirking now, Turner?” he bellowed at me. “You? You still smirking?”
“Sir, no, sir,” I breathed between push-ups. The mud squelched between my fingers. The cold water soaked me through, making my jaw shake.
“Are you going to cry now, maggot?”
“Sir, no, sir.”
“I heard you were a fast one, is that right?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
My shoulders were screaming, my biceps were on fire. Halfway through the fourth set of fifty push-ups I’d been forced to do today.
Three weeks into Boot Camp, and I still couldn’t keep my disdain for the entire operation off my face. Call it Sock Boy Psychology, but the only grown man who had authority over me had given up the job. In the real world, it built me a rep for being an asshole. Here, it got me push-ups. Hundreds of push-ups.
“A braggart, are you, Turner?”
“Sir, no, sir.”
“Sounds to me like you are. Three weeks of you walking around here like your shit don’t stink.”
Thirty-seven, thirty-eight.
“You got a problem with authority?”
“Sir, no, sir.”
My face was a grimace as I pushed through the last ten push-ups that made two hundred on the day. So far.
“Don’t you fucking lie to me, Turner. I’ll ask you one more time and if you don’t tell me the truth, you’ll clean the latrine with your toothbrush. Do you have a problem with authority?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
Drill Sergeant Denroy bent lower, red-faced, a vein bulging in his neck as he screamed at me.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Turner? You must be some kind of Einstein to disrespect authority and then sign up for the Army. A shit for brains. Are you a shit for brains?”
“Sir, no, sir,” I gritted out.
Forty-eight, forty-nine…
“The hell you aren’t. Get your ass up.”
I jumped to my feet and stood at attention, the cold rain making my standard issue shirt cling to my body. Gooseflesh broke out over my aching arms.
The rest of the company had to stand at attention and watch me do push-ups, instead of going in for dinner. Sarge walked up and down the company line with his hands behind his back, the rain sliding down his slicker in rivulets.
“I learned a few things about Einstein just now. He’s not a fan of authority, he enjoys the ever-loving hell out of push-ups, and he’s a fast runner. Faster than all of you. We can’t have that, can we? No, indeed. We got to get the rest of you slugs up to speed. Bravo Company is going to do fifty fifty-yard sprints.”
No one grumbled. No one said a word. No one’s shoulders even slumped. But I could feel the wave of animosity and exhaustion coming off the company. It was the end of the day, almost chow time and the pouring rain would not relent.
“Sure, you might be saying to yourself, But Sarge, it’s dinner time. I could give a rat’s puckered little asshole what time it is. You got a problem with it, take it up with Einstein. Now, move!”
Sarge had me stand at attention while the fifty men of Bravo Company ran to the fifty-yard mark and back twenty-five times. By the time the last guy staggered back into formation, most were shooting me looks that promised retribution later.
I made it through dinner and Personal Time at eight p.m. without incident, but as I came back from the shower in Bravo’s barracks, Sam Bradbury and Isaiah Erickson were leaning casually against my bunk. Connor and a bunch of other guys were playing poker at the rec table in the corner. The rest were reading, sleeping, or writing home.
“Do you want to get your ass kicked?” Erickson demanded. “Are you some kind of fucking masochist?”
“I hate running, Turner,” Bradbury said. He was a no-nonsense, quiet kind of guy who looked like he worked for the Genius Bar, took a wrong turn to work one day, and somehow ended up in the Army. “I mean, I really fucking hate running,” he said. “We do enough of it as it is.”
Erickson crossed his thick arms over his chest. “Maybe Sarge won’t be able to see your fucking smirking face if I beat it all to hell.”
Other guys, smelling blood in the water, gathered around, glowering. I braced myself for an ass kicking. My Southie street fighting instincts coiled in my muscles, feeding off the murderous anger in the host
ile eyes all around me. It was a rush. I’d fed off it on the track and missed it. I hadn’t realized how badly. If I fought here, I was going to lose, but at least with physical pain you could point to the source and watch it heal.
I got up in Isaiah’s face, chest to chest. “You don’t scare me, Erickson, but A for effort.”
He shoved me back. “Fuck off, Turner. That was your one fucking warning.”
“Do I look like I want a warning?”
Connor pushed through the crowd and wedged himself between Isaiah and me. “Chill…the…fuck…out,” he said to me. “This is only Week Three, guys. We’re all going to be where Wes was today before Basic is over.”
“Sarge makes him drop and give him fifty at least three times a day,” Erickson said. “Only it’s going to be on us when he fucks up from now on.”
“I hate push-ups almost as much as I hate running,” Bradbury muttered to no one. “Maybe the Army wasn’t such a good idea after all.”
“It’s cool, guys,” Connor said. His smile was relaxed and calm, as if we were on a beach in the Bahamas instead of South Carolina in a hurricane, getting our asses handed to us every day. “Wes gets that, right? He has our back.”
I nodded. For Connor. I had his back and no one else’s.
“Yeah, guys,” I muttered. “It’s cool.”
For a moment, I thought nothing was cool at all, and my ass kicking would go on as scheduled. But out of deference for Connor, the guys disbursed, many of them shooting me dark, warning looks.
Connor shook his head. “Dude.”
“I know.”
“You gotta stop with the face.” He reached out to slap my cheek lightly and laughed as I ducked out of his reach. Connor was having the time of his life. He was physically fit enough that the PT didn’t kill him. The DI’s grilled him but he was hardly ever singled out. And the guys loved him.
In other words, business as usual.
“You want to join us?” he asked, with a nod toward the poker table.
“No, I was going to write to Ma.” I glanced at him sideways. “You going to write to Autumn?”
“Oh yeah, I should,” Connor said. “I miss her.”
“You do?”
He gave me a look. “Of course I do. But I suck at writing, as we’ve established. You could write something for me. Since you’re already writing letters, and all.”