“You want to talk about it?” she asked. Tenderly. Lovingly.
“Not really.”
“You sure? You can. If you want.”
“Yes, Karen, I’m sure.”
“Okay. I’m here if you want.” Karen adjusted her sheets.
Johnathan opened his eyes. His breathing finally under control, he looked at his wife. “I know—I know…” he paused, amazed at her beauty, her patience, her amare. “ I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to help, but seriously, it was just a dream. Nothing I can do about it,” he lied.
“Okay, hun.” Karen hesitated, her gaze prodding the pool of his faded hazels.
“Seriously, I’m okay,” Johnathan insisted.
“I love you,” said Karen sweetly, almost in a whisper.
“I love you too.” Johnathan smiled unconvincingly, but it must have been enough. Karen rolled back over and was quickly asleep once more. Johnathan flipped his own pillow over and nestled back down.
Why didn’t you just tell her, you idgit? Tell her it was about Ricky. She’d understand. He was family for crying out loud. Ricky was your best friend. Not to mention her sister’s husband. She’d understand the dreams. And the pain. She’d understand. So why didn’t you—
—You know why.
Eventually, you’re going to have to practice what you preach.
—Eventually.
For a moment, Johnathan thought of Ricky before pushing the face away. The handsome one in the group who married Maggie, another of Suicide Squad. Suicide Squad. Haven’t thought of the club in years! And here he was, a lifetime since then, thinking of his childhood friends. The boys joining the service, though Bobby and Jake had joined years before he and Ricky had, just after some jerkoffs decided to fly a couple of planes into the Twin Towers in New York. Bobby? Where the hell has he been?
Johnathan vaguely remembered the last time he saw Bobby. He’d heard he was at Ricky’s funeral. Not that he would know for sure. Johnathan had been laid up in an Army hospital in Germany when they put Ricky in the ground. When he got home, he couldn’t face anyone. Just Karen and Tabitha. No one else. Not family. Not friends, not even childhood friends, and especially not the wife of the guy he was supposed to protect. He needed to be alone.
I hope he’s okay, wherever Bobby is, I hope he’s safe, the shit.
Why can’t we get together now? Am I ready? Can I face them? Not even Jake?
He thought of Jake. The tall lanky seminary student on his way at becoming a full-fledged minister. The respectable member of Suicide Squad. Well, before 9/11 changed all that. That day changed a lot of things, I’d imagine. Jake wanted to sign up. Infantry, or so he had said. But his parents had not been as thrilled with the idea of their only child rushing off into some war. Despite the feverish patriotism of the day, the thought of losing their boy was unimaginable, or so Johnathan assumed of Jake’s parents. Jake said he promised to sign up as a Chaplain’s assistant. They reluctantly agreed.
And Mags…? How I can I face her? What if she hates me…? Hates me for ignoring her calls, for Ricky?
Johnathan could picture Maggie easily enough. The image he loved the best was of the Nirvana t-shirt wearing girl in a club of four boys…the girl he had a crush on for years, ever since third grade, back when they were still just kids. Hard headed tomboy was kind enough not to break my heart. Strange world we live. He looked over at Karen as she snored beneath the covers. Ended up marrying her little sister! Who would have predicted that? Never gave her the time of day back then.
But it worked out for the best. Mags never liked me the way I liked her. I was just a kid then. What was love? Puppy-love more like. And Karen…she’s been my salvation in all this fucked up mess. And Tabitha, her sweet little girl, I’d do anything for her.
Despite his best efforts, his thoughts lead back to Ricky, like the stink of something rotting left in the trash, his face wouldn’t go away. Johnathan rolled over, facing away from Karen. He could feel hot tears itching behind his eyes. His stomach quivered. The grief flowed steadily, tickling down the side of his face. Fucking Ricky. Why did you have to die? Why? You couldn’t have…done something, anything? You just sat there and waited for it? Selfish asshole. Now Mags is alone. Won’t talk with any of us for more than five minutes, not me, not even Karen. Hope you’re happy, dickhead. I hope you’re happy you son-of-a-bitch…God I miss you. I miss you, man. You were my brother. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please…just know that I’m sorry. It was my fault…God help me…
Johnathan cried as silently as he could, stuffing the fat of the pillow in his mouth. Eventually he fell asleep and dreamed, as terrible and frightening as that sounds, he dreamed.
CHAPTER 5
JAKE WILLIAMS
Jake
The moan of the mattress springs was a testament of the hotel’s age and typical clientele. Jake was surprised the damn thing hadn’t collapsed entirely from the ruckus they were making, he and…what’s her name? The box spring bed had no label to identify the country of its origin, not that it mattered any. The bed was not designed for sleeping. The pine headboard sounded a hollow thud against the wall, doing some rather impressive damage to the once white plaster, stained yellow with cigarette smoke, and the black trail of what Jake could only assume to be roach turds. A new crack appeared with another rhythmic thrust. And with each thrust, the girl—whatever her name was—some pretty thing, or at least bar pretty, the kind of pretty after a few bourbon and cokes, he found sitting all alone at this piss hole called The Cockeyed Seagull, moaned, allowing her legs to dangle over his shoulders, in erotic shrills from the pleasurable pain of drunken angry penetration.
He didn’t mind the noise. It sounded better and more honest than most chorus hymns of born again believers. Here, in the thrusting upward momentum, he found the battered truth in things. The world, according to Jake Williams, was so full of false pretenses and pomp an honest man could no longer see past his own lie. Pleasure is unquestionably one of the purest and highest truths in human happiness, he often lamented.
Feeling the climax rushing through him, Jake hardened his pace, ready to be finished. The girl dug her heels into his back spurring him on. Sweat came off him in tidal waves. Flesh slapped together as the mattress springs cried out. Jake glanced into her face. The woman from the bar was biting her lower lip; doing everything she could to mask her own breathless moans. He squeezed her breasts hard as he pushed deeper inside her. Her skin felt tight and hot. A subtle scream escaped her lips as he moved his hand and pinched the tip of one of her nipples. Her legs spasmed. She clinched harder around his cock.
Fuck. I’m going to cum. Her thin arms flew to the side, fists full of linen sheet. Jake felt the warm inferno rush through him. He thrust inside her one last time in a quick meaningful exertion. His eyes went white, collapsing on top of her, skin coated slick and wet, and rolled to the side.
Out of breath, he fumbled for the pack of smokes on the nightstand. He found the Camels and puffed grey clouds in deep languorous whiffs. The taste was awful, albeit divinely phenomenal.
“Pass it over, preacher,” said the woman who refused to cover herself.
Jake had nearly forgotten she was there. He looked at her, searching her face for familiarity. “Do we know each other or something?” he asked, without any care of sounding like he was rude. His erection fell flaccid as he prayed silently she was not one of his parishioners.
“Not really,” said the strange woman. “I’ve been to your church, once or twice. You work at that Presbyterian church over near Clear Lake, right?” She reached across the bed and plucked the cigarette from his mouth.
Shit! Okay. It’s okay. Play it off. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was passive. Calm. A real cool guy.
“Sure you do. Saint Hubert’s, right?” the woman pressed. She smiled wirily, keeping the cigarette inches from her mouth between two fingers. One arm across her chest, the other bent upward holding the smoke, her eyes watching. She remind
ed Jake of the cat his parents used to own, the one who loved leaving dead mice on the back stoop.
Jake stood up leaving behind the squeaky springs and lit a new Camel. Taking a drag he searched with one eye open for his purple Hanes underwear. He did not respond to the woman; he couldn’t respond. He had tried to play it safe by going to some no name bar on the other side of town. Should have driven further out. What if she says something? Or does something during worship? What if the elders find out? Or worse, everyone else? I’ll be outta a job. Ruined reputation. The end.
And?
Do you really care?
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to ‘out’ you or anything, Padre.” The stranger remained on the bed, naked, exposed, watching Jake rush for his clothes. There was laughter behind her eyes. Yellow smoke hung in the air around her, giving the woman the appearance of some malevolent djinn let loose upon the world.
She gave me what I wanted. Now I’ll pay the price. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” retorted Jake, mocking annoyance, masking embarrassment. Game over, bro—she knows, preacher man. She knows you. She’s been to your church. Probably sits on the front pew holding the red hymnal book beneath her cleavage. Do you think she’s heard one of your sermons on modesty? Do you think she takes the Eucharist? Has she tasted the Host from your hand?
Jake zipped his fly and looked at the naked woman on the bed, sweat still glimmering off her sultry thighs, searching desperately to place her. I don’t know you! Praying to God somehow she was just messing with him. She smiled back, flicking a mile high stack of ash into a motel foam cup. Jake blinked. The booze was wearing off and the woman was losing her appeal. Not bad for a bar called The Cockeyed Seagull. She’s no Malin Akerman. No Mila Kunis or Bar Refaeli. Hell, she ain’t even a close second to Scarlett Johansson. But not bad for a weeknight in some piss hole. Not bad. Not bad at all. And she was a good distraction.
Yes, the stranger at the bar may have looked a little thinner with a few burning drinks down the hatch, but Jake had seen worse with sober eyes, and at the very least, she had filled the void of silence. For this failed and miserable preacher, to ask for anything more would be presumptuous.
Jake watched her in silence for a moment longer. He admired her sandy, near red hair that floated around her bare shoulders. Her skin, despite the sweat, looked tender with a few small pimples around her inner thigh, which Jake could still see as clear as day. He couldn’t remember her eye color, but from where he stood they looked brown. Her hips were wide and inviting. Her pubic hair was darker than on top. Her vagina looked swollen and pink. He could feel himself getting hard again. Looking at her, he imagined going down on her. He imagined taking her from behind, imagined his thighs slapping against her voluminous bottom. He could picture the ripples spreading up to her lower back. He could imagine her screaming. He could imagine grunting, thrusting, pounding.
“What?” asked the woman, noticing his sudden renewed interest. “Ready for round two, big boy?” she smiled, opening her legs further. She massaged herself.
For moment, Jake nearly unzipped his fly, but thought better of it. Quit now. Walk away before this becomes a thing. You gave in already once—twice. Third time is not the charm. “No,” he finally said. “I need to get going. Room is rented for the night. Feel free to stay, if you want. Check out is around noon, I think.” He moved toward the door. His back turned to the girl. In another place and time she might be worth knowing.
“Got a hot sermon to get ready for, Padre? Maybe I’ll come and check it out.”
Guess not. Jake ignored her and opened the door. The humidity hit him like a wave. “You can keep the smokes,” he said over his shoulder.
“Gee, thanks,” the woman scoffed.
Jake disappeared into the swampy Houston night.
CHAPTER 6
LEARNING TO WALK
Johnathan
The hardest trick with walking on a prosthetic was learning how to balance. The day the VA doc strapped Johnny-Boy in one of those nice Genium poly-silicon legs, he’d struggled like some dopey eyed toddler desperately yearning toward mama’s open arms. It had been nearly seven months since he had to relearn how to walk, starting out in slow painful limps braced against balancing beams gymnasts used. His above-knee prosthetic pinched the hell out of his skin, the gnarled paint-by-number flesh. And it had also been nearly a year since the attack that put him in the prosthetic, a year since the rocket-propelled-grenade and the crater sized hole through his Humvee and the chunk of leg of which the docs at the Green Zone eventually had to amputate.
But at least he lived. Ricky had not been so lucky. And as Johnathan hobbled into the kitchen to join his bride and step daughter for a late morning breakfast, thoughts of his lost friend were not far from mind.
Bright sunbeams bore in between the blinds of the kitchen window. Johnathan slumped down in one of the oak chairs directly across from Tabitha, Karen’s little girl, now his little girl too. His new family. Johnathan and Karen had gotten hitched before his enlistment in a fast and furious wedding ceremony which consisted of her, him, and Tabitha, and the Justice of the Peace.
God bless her. She had stuck with him through the hell of basic, assignment, and the eventual deployment. She stuck through it all, even rehab and recovery. She stayed, despite her own sister’s loss. Tabitha was not his own. She was the product of a previous relationship, which ended just as fast as you can say wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, or as fast as Karen told the scum-bag, “I’m pregnant.” Karen had gotten knocked-up shortly after finishing high school.
Johnathan never asked about the other guy, but had gathered from what little she did say, that she, or rather he, wanted nothing to do with the baby. Johnathan didn’t care about any of that. He loved Karen. And he loved his little eight-year-old piggy-tailed girl, with her glow-in-the-dark, rainbow t-shirts and strangely-boyish bug books.
This morning Tabitha was already dressed, hidden behind a looming box of Cap’n Crunch cereal. Her spoon glinted in the morning sun that came through the blinds. Milk dribbled on her small delicate chin, which she smeared with her forearm, continuing to read whatever maze or riddle was on the back of the cartooned pirate box.
Karen was in front of the stove, scrambling eggs. Johnathan could hear the mechanical pop of the toaster as two near-burnt pieces of toast sprung from the contraption. Dark roasted smoke wafted from the black coffee pot on the counter. Steam came off it in shoots. The red Folgers can sat beside it, the lid precariously left unsealed. Going to lose its freshness.
Johnathan considered getting up and closing the lid, but decided against it. He rubbed his thigh instead. The nerves still danced from last night’s terrible dream and the memory of his dead friend. He sat quietly instead, for some time, watching Tabitha eat blindly while reading the back of her cereal box. He glanced at his wife, who was finishing off the eggs. I’m one lucky guy. The lump in his heart seemed to abate with happy thoughts and thanksgiving for the family he had been blessed with. Blessed? Strange word. Sounds like something Jake would say.
Randall would call it blind, stupid, dumb luck. Johnathan pictured his, what could you call him? Life coach? No. Sounds too yuppie. Counselor? Not great either, but better than ‘life coach!’ He pictured Randall in his mind. An older, grizzly looking man well into his sixties. A Vietnam veteran missing both legs. Randall Hampton had been in the Twenty-Sixth Marine Regiment at the Battle of Khe Sanh. He was wounded when a massive artillery bombardment came down on his garrison near the Laotian boarder. Randall often said it was the bloodiest battle he had the pleasure of seeing, the last one he would see, spanning some seventy-seven days. “It was a beautiful place,” Randall sometimes said. “Tall mountain peaks coated with lush green palms. Lots of sun. I watched this dragon-looking white-tailed butterfly one afternoon. It was gorgeous, Johnny-Boy, it really was. The way it floated like some damn angelic humming bird dancing just above a lotus. Wonderful. But then the mortars and the screams, ‘incoming,’ and the
flares and AK-47’s rattled and we’d remember this was a war. When the sun came back up on that first morning we saw the corpses. Jesus…Some were tangled together like cruel, rotting blue and purple jigsaws. Others had been thrown about like burnt straw. The smell was…well, I rather not say, Johnny-Boy. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. About five hundred Marines died on that hellish mountain, some of whom were my dearest friends.”
Randall talked about the war distantly, as if he wasn’t really telling Johnathan his story about himself, but rather reminding himself of what had happened, as if remembering the truth was too frightening to hold on to; it had to be dug up from time to time and reburied just as quick.
Johnathan understood Randall in a way few could. He always found it strange how open the old man was with it all. The friends he’d lost. What he lost. His self-medicating haze through the ’80s. “Booze and whores; whores and booze, Johnny-Boy,” Randall would say with an unabashed smile. Johnathan wished he could be more like Randall, more open about everything, but his own scars were still fresh, and it would take time to heal. Or so Randall Hampton, the crusty old Vietnam veteran from the VA hospital, would always tell him. “Give yourself time, Johnny-Boy.”
“Hey babe, how’d you sleep?” called Karen from the kitchen, working on a new batch of eggs. Her question seemed automatic, something normally asked when people first wake up and stumble around like some undead creature from one of those Romero flicks…How’d you sleep? Like the dead, sweetie, like the dead.
“Not bad,” Johnathan replied. “Felt like an idiot rolling out of bed last night, but other than that, just peachy.”
Karen seemed to not have heard, humming something tranquil, calming. Johnathan loved when Karen sang or even when she just hummed. She always had a beautiful voice. He recalled a certain middle school talent show. Karen had just transitioned from grade school. Fresh meat on the big-kid campus. He remembered sitting in the auditorium, having just giggled himself into a stroke after a seventh grader with long black bangs recited a gloom and doom poem about death and sacrifice.
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