by PJ Sharon
One of those residents was my grandfather, retired Brigadier General, Alistair Dunn—“Brig” to everyone who knew him. A tall, broad shouldered man with a stubble of white hair on his head and the constitution of a polar bear. The harder the winter, the better he liked it.
The houses on the lake blurred along with the trees and shrubs that lined the trail as I zipped past. My breath came in a steady rhythm, my heart settling into its galloping beat. Shaded by the trees, the warmth of the sun hit me in tiny bursts that cut through the branches of tall pines, oaks, and maples. Levi and I used to run the trails together, him leading and me following…always following. Trying to keep up with my big brother had occupied more of my life than I wanted to admit.
Before I could stop them, tears leaked from my eyes and my breathing came in erratic spurts. I guess I couldn’t escape after all. I slowed to a stop and bent over, sucking wind. I had only run a couple of miles, but I couldn’t go on. Whatever life coursed through me wasn’t enough to propel me forward.
I walked the rest of the way home, memories of my brother playing in my mind. The stinging mosquitoes provided a welcome distraction from the images that flooded my brain with the bitter sweetness of good memories mixed with bad.
Levi dissecting a frog to watch its beating heart or tormenting one of the neighborhood cats by wrapping paper booties on its paws and watching it stumble around until it worked the elastics off and could escape. I would cry and tell him how cruel he was and he would just laugh, trying to convince me and Coop it was all in fun.
At other times, it was as if the world’s suffering was his own, and he couldn’t tolerate injustice. Then his anger would turn outward. Rocks through a window, a baseball bat to his car, or his fist through a wall were the only things that satisfied his temper. Brig would never allow physical violence, even though he tolerated a lot—anything but fighting, which seemed uncharacteristic for a Marine.
My brother wouldn’t attack anyone unprovoked, unless, of course, someone picked on me. Levi hated bullies and Brig cut him some slack when it came to defending me. On any given day, Levi could be a champion for the weak and helpless, or frighteningly demented and cruel. When we were little, it scared me. But as we got older and I understood him better, it just made me sad. He didn’t like his unpredictability any more than anyone else did. On a really bad day, he fought with kids in school, assaulted our mother with the cruelest of insults, or generally wreaked havoc any way he could.
Then came the cutting. I shuddered at the unwanted intrusion of an image of the scars that lined his arm like railroad tracks.
Determined as I was to find the truth surrounding his death, I wasn’t so sure Levi would want me to. He had sworn me to secrecy, not wanting to worry our mother or Brig with what he called his “dark side.” If they knew, no one ever talked about it. So I kept quiet, too. He promised me it was only once in a while when he needed to feel something—anything beyond his rage.
Maybe if I’d told someone, he wouldn’t have been able to join the Marines and he might still be alive. The thought made my misery complete. My legs felt like lead weights as I dragged myself up the driveway.
Even the antique shop sign reminded me of Levi—how he and I and Coop would sit across from the sign and see if we could spit all the way from the other side of the driveway and hit it. If I hawked up a good one, I could spit as far as the boys, a talent I was proud of at the time. The memory faded along with the ghosts it conjured. Back when Levi was Lee, Alex was Coop, and I was Jordie, the tag along little sister. How could it be that so much had changed and yet so much seemed the same?
The old farm house that had stood through three generations of Dunns loomed before me, the tree-lined gravel driveway an obstacle course of potholes and puddles. My grandfather appeared out of his workshop and came into the sunlight. He spent most days there lately, in his barn, building custom-ordered furniture. Beautiful rockers, dressers, tables and bookcases people came from all over to buy. He stared at me for several moments. “That was a good long run,” he said as he squinted into the light.
“I walked most of it. Is Mom up yet?” It was a rare Sunday that we missed church, which is how I knew she still wasn’t doing well.
“No. I was going in to check on her, but I’m sure she’d rather see you.” He wiped his hands on a rag and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans. He was a handsome man, my grandfather, fit and strong, even at the age of seventy. He had an easy smile and his crystal blue eyes had a spark of mischief behind them that suggested there was some amount of planning going on in his head at all times.
“I’ll make sure she eats something,” I said, veering toward the front porch. The old rocking chairs, the deacon’s bench and the antique Canadian Flyer sled leaning against the house reminded me again that it was Sunday, my usual day to work with Brig in the shop. “Would you mind if I took the day off?”
Something Old, Something New was my Grandma Josie’s labor of love, a family antique shop she had revived back in the nineteen seventies. It had a good reputation for servicing the locals year ‘round and any tourists who came up to the lake seasonally. Brig had kept it going after Gram died from cancer just after he retired and before we came to live with him. Another pang of sadness hit me square in the chest. Life was so unfair. I brushed the thought away, tired of crying over tragedies beyond my control.
He looked up, his bushy brows rising in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting to open today anyway. You got big plans?”
I’d been helping in the shop since I was twelve, sweeping floors, cleaning windows, polishing furniture and eventually working the register and taking inventory. Brig and I were more or less partners now and I worked on commission, earning fifteen per cent of anything I sold on my shift, which sometimes added up to big dollars on a busy weekend, but more often than not, barely kept gas in my tank.
“I’m going to see Alex in the hospital.” Whether he likes it or not, I thought.
Brig followed me onto the porch and then leaned on the screen door with one hand before I could open it. “You’re not planning to pester that boy, are you?”
I glanced over my shoulder at him, my hand on the door handle, my height closing in on his since I’d grown another two inches this year, making my above average height of five-foot-eight jump to a standing-way-out-in-the-crowd, five-foot-ten. Our eyes met dead on, though he was twice my width and enough taller to be looking down his frequently broken, and very crooked nose at me. “Of course not,” I said. “I just thought he could use some company.”
He lifted his hand and let me proceed, following on my heels. “Just remember he’s been through a lot. He isn’t likely to be up to answering a bunch of questions. And don’t be too upset if he doesn’t want to see you. It’s hard for soldiers to have people look on them with pity.” A brief look of empathy crossed his face and then disappeared. “We’re a proud lot.”
“Don’t I know it?” My mother said from the arched entry of the living room. She was showered and dressed, although her eyes still looked swollen and red, her nose raw from blowing. “Proud, and stubborn, too,” she said. Her face couldn’t quite manage the amusement that carried in her voice.
She looked surprisingly young without makeup, her strawberry blond hair pulled back from her face. Other than being shorter and curvier, and her hair a little darker and tamer, she looked like a slightly older version of me in her jeans and sweatshirt.
“Good to see you up and about, Katherine. Can I fix you girls some lunch?” My grandfather didn’t wait for her to answer but headed into the pantry and came back into the kitchen with two cans of soup and a loaf of whole wheat bread. He pulled a bowl of tuna salad from the fridge and started making sandwiches.
Mom sat down at the table and I put the tea kettle on to boil. “Do you want a cup of tea, Mom?”
“You two need to stop fussing over me. I’ll be okay. It’s just going to take time.” Her voice cracked and she lifted a crumpled tissue to her nose.
“I’m going to see Alex after lunch,” I said, hesitantly. “Do you want to come with me?”
Her face hardened. “Why…why would I want to see him? It’s his fault this happened. If Levi hadn’t gone into that building after him…” Her voice trailed off and she broke down crying again.
Before I could respond, my grandfather spoke. “Katherine, you can’t blame the boy. I’m sure Alex did what he thought was right, and it sounds like Levi did what he was trained to do. Any soldier worth his salt would have done the same. They were on a mission and they did the best they could with the intelligence they had.” He set a steaming bowl of soup and a sandwich in front of my mother. “Blaming Alex won’t bring Levi back. You need to let it go.”
Acid churned in my stomach. I glared at my grandfather, the question burning on the tip of my tongue. You still think the truth won’t change anything? Instead I gripped my mother’s hand, hoping she’d see reason. “I need to see how he’s doing. Levi would have wanted us to look out for Alex now.” My own voice threatened to break again and I knew a flood of tears would follow. Her expression grew darker. I gave her fingers a squeeze and let go, hopes of changing her mind lost to her sour expression.
An overwhelming urge to escape shot through me. I needed to get out of the kitchen and into the warm June air. Maybe then, I could breathe. Maybe then, the ice that encased my heart would begin to melt. I looked to my grandfather, who was setting a second bowl of soup on the table. “I’m not really hungry,” I lied. My stomach rolled in protest of my refusal to eat, but I felt queasy at the thought.
Food seemed a betrayal somehow since Lee would never again taste a sandwich or soup or a steamed hot dog from a Rock Cats game, or his favorite spaghetti and Mom’s giant meatballs. I glanced at my mother as she picked around the edge of her sandwich, wondering if she was thinking the same thing. “I’ll grab something later,” I added.
He nodded and moved the soup and sandwich across the table and sat down. “You tell Alex we’re thinking of him.”
Abruptly, my mother rose from the table and tromped through the living room, her footsteps pounding up the stairs to her room and the door slamming shut behind her. I sighed and rose from the table, turning off the tea kettle that had started a shrill whistle.
My grandfather shook his head. “You girls sure are fond of stomping your feet and slamming doors. Your grandma used to slam the doors so hard, I’m surprised there’s a door knob in this house that still has all its screws.” He slurped a spoonful of minestrone. “She’ll get past this. You know Alex is as much like a son to her as your brother was.”
“I hope you’re right.” The sound of my mother’s crying drifted through the old floor boards, echoing softly like a ghostly moan. I looked up at the ceiling, my throat aching for the release of tears my mother had found so effortless. But I could hear Levi’s voice, don’t be a cry baby, Jordie. I swallowed hard, a salty lump catching in my throat.
“Everyone handles grief in their own way, Sunshine. She’ll get through this, and so will you. We all will.” He exhaled slowly, his eyes cast down. “Its times like this I wish your grandma were here, though I wouldn’t want her to have to suffer this loss with the rest of us.”
“You must miss her terribly,” I said, my heart splintering another fraction. It was clear she had been the love of his life since he hadn’t really committed to anyone else in the fifteen years he’d been widowed. “I wish I’d known her better and had more time with her.”
“Me, too.” Brig’s eyes grew misty again and he cleared his throat. “But I’m sure she’s up in heaven right now welcoming Levi in through the Pearly Gates.” He flashed me a sad smile and set his spoon down, meeting my eyes. “You know, wherever your brother is right now, he’s at peace.”
“I know.” I tipped my ear to the ceiling, listening to Mom’s fading sobs, “I wish she believed that.”
“Don’t worry, she’ll come around,” he said with assurance. “You know, Alex is lucky to have you for a friend.” Brig’s usually stern features held the tender expression I knew he reserved for the people he cared most about. “He’s going to need all the help he can get. Just don’t push him, understand?”
I crossed the kitchen and stood behind my grandfather, wrapping my arms around his neck and leaning my chin on his bulky shoulder. The familiar scent of sawdust and lemony wood polish comforted me, and I sighed, “I’ll do whatever it takes to help him.”
Brig patted my hand. “That’s my girl.”
Chapter 3
After a hot shower and another private round of tears, I threw on jeans and pulled on a tank top, layering it with a button-down shirt and tying the ends at my waist. It was cool for a June day. I hadn’t noticed it earlier. Noticing anything beyond the memories and images that played on a continual loop in my head took great concentration. I turned away from the sad faced girl in the mirror and wished I weren’t her. She looked desperate and lonely and I hated feeling so weak. Levi’s voice popped into my head, ‘Life sucks and then you die—get over it.’
I flopped onto my bed, reaching for the box underneath. Slowly, I lifted the lid and ran a hand over the envelope on top, my heart racing in anticipation. My name and address printed in Levi’s neat, left slanted scrawl, stared back at me. His last letter, dated March 23rd, two months after he returned for his second tour in Iraq. The letter told about how he’d spent his twentieth birthday partying with his pals on base and day to day events in the desert—nothing that would give me a clue as to what had happened on that last day. I skipped through the pile and reached for the letter at the bottom.
I needed to start back at the beginning, back when I still knew my brother. Being a Marine had changed him so much. I had thought for the better, but now I wasn’t so sure. I took the folded pages out, pressing them flat on the bed. Knowing our hands had touched the same paper made me feel connected to him, and another blanket of lonely grief wrapped around my heart, squeezing until I couldn’t breathe.
I picked out the first letter he’d sent me two weeks after enlisting.
Hey Jordie,
So far, Basic pretty much sucks. They keep me ridiculously busy and tired. The food isn’t too bad but it’s not Mom’s. Training is wicked. My feet are killing me and every muscle in my body feels like I’ve had the crap kicked out of me. I’m getting used to the daily grind but getting up at the crack of midnight is seriously twisted. You know how I like sleeping in. No TV or internet here so nothing to do but eat, sleep, and work. You would probably love it.
It was weird, coming onto the base the first day. I could feel my life changing as the gates closed behind me, like suddenly being marooned on another planet. By day three, I wondered WTF I’d gotten myself into. I’m sick of the DIs screaming in my face and calling me a maggot. It freaks me out. But I figure I’ll be okay as long as I follow orders and don’t ask questions. It’s becoming clear that every stupid thing they make us do ends up having a reason, so there’s no sense questioning anything.
I only get a few hours of free time on Sundays to write, hang out, or catch some extra sleep, so I’ll write when I can, but you know me and good intentions. Mom will be happy to know I’m going to church. It seems like the only time we can get away from the DI’s and have an hour to think for ourselves. Most of the guys here seem to lean pretty heavy on their faith to get them through the tough times and the homesickness. I just like the peace and quiet of the chapel where nobody is in my face.
I do miss home, though. Especially my bed, my car, and of course, my baby sister. At least Coop is here with me. I know Brig had something to do with keeping us in the same class of cadets. I guess he thinks I’ll work harder if I’m competing against my little bro. We’re in separate barracks but I get to see him every day in classes and out in the field.
I can see how Brig was right about the Corps making me grow up. Don’t tell him I said so though. I’ll never hear the end of it. I have no choice here but to take care of myself and �
��man up’ as the DIs say. Nobody is going to pick up after me or hold my hand in this place. They don’t let you off the hook for anything. After the DI made me remake my bed about twenty times, one of the other guys showed me to use some boot straps to hold my sheets and stuff in place so I don’t have to mess with making up my rack every day. It’s good to know even the Marines have a few shortcuts.
All in all, I’m getting settled okay. I can’t help but wonder though, if Juvenile Detention wouldn’t have been easier. A year in Juvie or thirteen weeks of Marine hell—it’s a toss-up. At least I’m learning something here. School is hard, but I’m studying stuff I never did in high school. The history of the Corps is pretty cool and I’m learning a lot about weapons. I get to go out on the rifle range tomorrow. It should be fun.
I guess that’s all for now. Coop says Hi.
Love ya like crazy,
Lee
I folded the letter and slipped it into the envelope, bringing it to my nose to see if it smelled like Lee, a sweet mix of woods and fresh air. But there was nothing but the smell of the cedar box I kept them in. The last time I’d seen him was at Christmas, just before he went back to Iraq. He said he felt needed there—like him being there could make a difference.
I wiped fresh tears off my cheeks and put the letter back at the bottom of the stack, resisting the urge to take out and read another one. All of the letters he’d written from boot camp and then from Iraq lay, like my brother, dead in a wooden box, whispering the only words I would ever hear from him again. I wanted to wrap myself up in the pages and pages of words—let myself imagine him hugging me, calling me Squirt, and telling me he loved me one last time.