The more Maggie thought about her friends, the more rapidly the memories came. The summer of ’95 had been hot; the humidity in Houston set a new record. But there was only so much a group of kids could do back then inside. The fun, real memorable fun, was outside, riding bikes behind the local Bowling Alley, scoring a pack of Marlboro Reds, hacking lungs against the tar-bite smoke, prank calling 911 on the Clear Lake Plaza payphone, tossing eggs down on passing cars off Bunker Hill, or bribing one of their parents to drive them out to the Cinemark. What did we see that summer? There were a few. Ricky had insisted on…? Yes! We saw Batman Forever, which we all hated, except for Ricky, but Ricky always had a thing for Val Kilmer. The nights were reserved for horror movie marathons or Sega Splatter House championships, though for these Maggie could never stay the entire night. Her parents would never allow it, despite her best attempts at whining. ‘You are not going to be spending the night with a bunch of—boys! It’s not decent,’ Maggie recalled her mother saying more than once.
She didn’t understand until High School why her mother had been so paranoid about boys. Yet, she’d hangout for a little while anyway, eventually finding her way back home, alone, and usually past curfew, much to her father’s and mother’s disappointment. It was hard being the only girl in the group, Maggie confessed now as the whistleblower on the TV sobbed into her palms.
Maggie searched farther into her memory for the birth of Suicide Squad. Why did we pick that name? Why that and not something else, something less…grim? The woman on the tube had broken down and was frantically crying still. Copper looked smug, but did his best on camera to console the woman. Maggie found the little bubble she had been looking for. It was the day she and the boys were hanging out in Bobby’s clubhouse, the large square mock-house overgrown with kudzu, real kid stuff, but it was the groups only, as Ricky called it, Inner-Sanctum. It was private, at least. Non-club members were not allowed.
Johnathan had come running in one day, huffing and puffing, red in the face. Between his hands he held a long rectangular white box. Instantly the group knew the contents were comics. Maggie smiled, shifting on the couch, ignoring the drama going on the Anderson Cooper Show, and beckoned the memory to the surface a little more. It came, as if she were really there, a silent observer for days gone by.
***
“Look at what I got,” Johnathan wheezed.
“What? Your mama’s panties? Boo-ya!” Bobby teased. He was sitting in the corner of the clubhouse smiling, a half-eaten carton of Oreo’s lying beside his faded black Vans sneakers, nearly concealed by the bell bottom plume of his JNCO Jeans. His teeth were coated with black crumbs.
“Dude! That’s hella sick!” Ricky screamed in mock horror.
“Shut up!” Johnathan retorted.
“Don’t tell me, I’ll tell you, those are your panties, ain’t they?” Bobby mumbled between a mouth full of cookies.
“Don’t be a douche bag,” Maggie warned. Turning to Johnathan, “Whatcha got in the box, Johnny-Boy?” She sounded genuinely interested, her gaze falling on the box.
Johnathan turned pink. “Box?” he managed.
“Whhaaattss in the booox?” Ricky whined in his best Brad Pitt impression. He sat at the small table they had stuffed inside the mock-house. Jake sat on the other side of him.
Bobby snickered from the corner. “Love that movie!”
“Oh. Yeah. Here, check it out.” Johnathan moved to the table. The others gathered around as he lifted the box lid revealing the contents inside. In the long rectangular box, stacked row to row, were comics, mostly 1980s era stuff, including a few detective genres and Star Wars editions from the ’70s.
Ricky eyed the Hulk comics while Bobby drooled over the Uncanny X-Men Dark Phoenix series. Jake was interested in the Days of Future Past ones, picking up the Uncanny X-Men issue 142, “Mind Out of Time,” the one when Wolverine was obliterated by an Sentinel Alpha Class on the cover with the words “THIS ISSUE: EVERYBODY DIES!” written across the bottom corner in bold lettering.
“Phat…” the group of friends whispered in unison.
“Bobby, don’t get your crumbs all over the comics, okay?” chided Ricky.
“Your mom.”
“How original.”
“Shut up.”
Maggie flipped through the box, looking no doubt for a Ren & Stimpy comic. She was never that big on the boys club Marvel and D.C. were known for. Some of it was pretty grittier and dark, she didn’t like those kinds of storylines. Others may have, but not her. But even so, beholding such a collection was mystifying, an almost religious experience, even for her.
“Where did you get these?” Ricky asked.
“My brother gave them to me,” said Johnathan.
“Jesus! What did you have to do to get these, blow him?” Bobby said matter-of-factly. The ease of his vulgarity was unnerving sometimes. But they were used to it. Bobby had always been crude, even in grade school.
“No,” Johnathan smiled. “Caught him sneaking out of the house last night. Told him I’d rat on him. Teased him about going to see Holly Peterson in the middle of the night.” He started giggling.
“Rotten-Crotch-Peter-Eater?” Bobby exclaimed.
“The one and only!” Johnathan laughed. The boys joined in.
“Don’t be gross,” Maggie warned.
Johnathan turned red again.
“Easy, boys, we’ve got a lady amongst us,” Ricky teased.
Maggie punched him in the arm. “Shut up, numb nuts. I’m more man than you’ll ever be!”
“Ouch!” Ricky mocked offence, holding his chest and falling to the floor.
“So, Vincent just up and gave you his comics?” Jake inquired.
“Offered as fair trade. For my silence, of course.” Johnathan had his hands on his hips, looking very proud. His chin up. Eyes nearly closed.
“Sweet deal,” Jake commented.
“He didn’t really care, actually. Hadn’t read ’em in years. I think he was just pissed he got caught is all,” Johnathan confessed.
Silent agreement. Heads nodded as the group continued to pour through the treasure. Hushed excitement stirred in quiet murmurs as long forgotten and unknown comics were rediscovered. Ricky was flipping through a Superman and Swamp Thing 50th anniversary issue. Bobby stared perplexed at a Werewolf by Night, issue 39—also known as Werewolf VS. Brother Voodoo! Maggie was peering into a Savage She-Hulk, issue 9. Why does fathead Vincent have a She-Hulk comic? Johnathan was carefully turning pages on an Iron Man comic, issue 128, better known from the “Demon in a Bottle” series. He turned the pages with a queer look as he studied the disheveled image of Tony Stark looking at himself through a mirror.
“Oh…!” Jake broke the silence.
Everyone snapped, “What?” in unison. Eyes were on Jake.
Jake said nothing. He lifted his hands, eyes wide with wonderful childlike glee. Lips quivering. Light reflecting off a modest pool of drool collecting on the corner of his lips. He held a comic for everyone to see. The comic had a near complete black cover. Eight headshots profiled the center image, along with the words “These 8 people will put their lives on the line for our country. One of them won’t be coming home!” running down the center. Looming above, in bold red, was the title, Suicide Squad, issue number 1.
“Is that…” Bobby trailed off. He stuffed an Oreo nervously into his mouth.
“Schwing!” Jake sang joyfully.
“Issue number one? Score!” Ricky danced. “Why would lard butt Vince have a comic so…so…so wicked cool?”
“What’s so cool about this one?” Johnathan asked bluntly.
“Dude? You are a serious fart-knocker, you know that,” Bobby chimed, finishing his Oreo cookie. “Suicide Squad is the single most badass comic on the planet, man. All of D.C.’s baddies forced to work as special ops for the government. And because their supervillains and totally expendable, the government can send them on impossible missions.”
Johnathan looked embarrassed
. “What, like Rambo or something?” he asked.
“Better,” said Jake.
“Such a fly comic…cool name…” Ricky said distantly, seemingly lost in thought.
“Vince came through, huh Johnny-Boy?” said Maggie.
Johnathan smiled, thankful for not being picked on any further.
“You know,” said Ricky, “we should have a name too, for our club, like in the comics.”
Excitement was building in Bobby’s clubhouse. Conversations blossomed and grew into a feverish pitch. Bobby and Jake were arguing between Marvel themed names, Avengers or Generation X. Maggie thought Omega Five sounded cool, considering there were five of them in the club. Johnathan was set on Excalibur, much to everyone’s disgust.
“Why not just…?” Ricky offered the near mint comic above his head. Deadshot, Bronze Tiger, Nightshade, Enchantress, Boomerang, Rick Flag, Mindboggler, and Rustam loomed above them.
“Suicide Squad…” each whispered in unison. To an outsider, they may have seemed like monks giving some kind of mystic incantation. “Suicide Squad,” they chanted together.
The debate was over. In a strange way, it never really began. The group of teenagers, who’d come together back when Voltron and Teddy Ruxpin were the hot items on Christmas wish lists, and though of differing ages, Bobby and Jake being the oldest members of the group by at least two years, grew closer that day when they identified themselves with the moniker Suicide Squad. It wouldn’t be until years later during high school when things began to finally change. Relationships became, complicated. Identities. Love. Distance. It all muddied the water of their friendship. But the real kicker didn’t start when Bobby and Jake joined the service; the real rift set into motion the day they came upon the two-story farm house in Jotham later during that summer of ’95.
Jotham…?
Maggie sat on the couch, fighting the aggravated itch of forgetfulness. Jotham…? She struggled to remember. Everything after was so plain. Easy to find. Bobby dropped a ton of weight. He wanted to get into the infantry, and so he did, soon after walking the stage for his average grade point diploma on some other sad summer of June. Maggie recalled all this, but couldn’t recall Jotham, not yet at least. She pictured the day it all ended, the club. Bobby had never talked about joining up. Never mentioned it. He called Ricky the day he was leaving for Basic from a payphone to say goodbye, taking the lonely road to the MEPS center in Houston over near Rusk Street.
She and Ricky had gone on a date that same night, the first of many during that hot sad summer, to the movies, some horror flick, American Psycho. But Ricky seemed distant, clouded. Perhaps because he could no longer ignore that the group, Suicide Squad, was really pulling apart, and would never be the same, not as it had been. Not like it was.
Never again.
After 9/11, the September terrorist attacks on New York City and the Pentagon and that tragic field out in Pennsylvania, the world changed, and what remained of the group did not go unaffected. When Jake graduated he had started seminary, much to his parents delight. But when the Towers fell, he dropped out and joined the service, with the very same recruiter that had recruited Bobby, much to his folks’ horror. He shipped off a week later. The gang was less worried about Jake. He was going to be a Chaplain’s Assistant. Bobby was one to look out for. He was always so reckless. What would he get into with the infantry? God only knows. He wanted to be in the shit, as he’d said over the phone with Ricky.
Maybe he did find the shit, or the shit found him and that’s why no one’s seen or heard from him…? Maybe.
Eventually, the rest of Suicide Squad, Johnathan, Maggie, and Ricky, graduated high school. And they stayed relatively close, working meaningless, unsatisfying jobs in a growing and changing metropolis. The only reason, as Maggie had guessed, why Johnathan had even stuck around was because of Ricky, and because he had started dating her younger sister, Karen. Karen’s longtime ex-boyfriend had split after a pregnancy test came up positive. Johnathan had been in love with her since Middle School, of this Maggie was quite sure. Karen was too proud to ask their parents for help, but Johnathan had swooped in to save her. A regular Knight in Shining Armor, yuck! And he stood by her side throughout her pregnancy. Made sure she went to her doctor’s appointments, took her prenatal vitamins, folic acid, mega multi-minerals, C’s, B’s, D’s, the works. He made sure she got rest. He was there with her on every single step of the way.
And then, for some god-awful reason, Ricky got the itch to join the service. Maybe it had to do with all the stories Bobby was sharing of his misadventures in Afghanistan. Or perhaps it was because even mild-mannered Jake had joined, even if he was just a Chaplain’s Assistant. Maggie was never for certain. She had protested. He proposed. She agreed. They were wed. And then he shipped off for Basic, dragging a newlywed Johnathan along with him. Suicide Squad became nothing more than a pleasant nostalgic memory. Something brought up only when they were drunk enough to remember, or whenever they were actually able to get together. But no matter how far they fled, how far the world took them from one another, no matter how deep the memory hid, it survived. Suicide Squad, despite all the years and changes, never really went away. Maggie felt it now. It was buried deep, hibernating perhaps, beneath the surface while the wild wind of modernity blew new acquaintances, new relationships, and new destinations, as fast and furious as busboys hustling tables at a crowded restaurant. She could recall all of this, but nothing of Jotham.
Jotham…?
Maggie came back to reality. Cooper and the crying woman were gone. Another CNN anchor had replaced them. Some short-cropped brunette with blonde streaks. Black-framed glasses and a sharp chin. She was hosting the News Room Hour. Discussing something about the Supreme Court and Same Sex Marriage. Maggie looked for the remote to turn the volume up, but the report had shifted to something about ISIS. Maggie turned the TV off instead. The living room was pitched in a sudden and eerie silence.
Wasn’t Moxie barking?
Maggie turned on the couch, listening. “Moxie?” she whispered.
Nothing.
Strange. Damn dog must have fallen asleep in Ricky’s chair.
Ricky—God I miss you…
Maggie did everything she could not to think of her dead husband. But there he was, his face at the forefront of her mind, smiling at her with his nerdy goofy smile. Always smiling, warm and handsome. And then the flames, or how she had always imagined his end, consumed whatever happiness she felt from the intrusive memory. She begged Johnathan to tell her once, over the phone. “I don’t care about your fucking leg, Johnathan. Tell me! Tell me how my husband died!” she had yelled. But Johnathan never, could never, say. And so she imagined it on her own, pieced together by the worst newsreels she could imagine. And was that so horrible? It certainly was not difficult. The news can be a good substitute for the truth.
Maggie fought to turn back her thoughts, to find that summer of 1995 in her mind again, to find Jotham. There was meaning there, she felt it, but the more she reached the more her memory slipped away until all she could see was the loneliness that hung over her like a fat angry dark cloud. She put her face in her palms, rocking back and forth on the couch, wishing Ricky’s face would go away, praying the horrible tremors of regret to vanish.
Ricky was so handsome; his voice, comforting, strong. Suicide Squad never claimed a leader, but it was a silent agreement. Ricky was the naturally born Rick Flag of the group. The others took on varying codenames. Maggie fancied herself as first Enchantress, and later as Harley Quinn (after the animated show made her a popular character). Bobby was Deadshot. Johnathan was Boomerang, no matter how often they told him Boomerang was a pussy. Jake took Tiger Claw. Ricky had always been Flag. And it made sense. But now, she couldn’t see the charming handsome boy anymore, all she could see was what she’d imagined how his face looked when the RPG struck his truck, burnt to a crisp. When the Army had shipped his body back to the states, he had been too far decomposed to see, to identify. And a
ccording to his Last Will and Testament, he was to be cremated. Maggie never saw his body. Just the box with American flag draped over the top, rolled down into some boiling crematoria and conveyored into the furnace. Anger. Hate. Resentment.
Seeing Ricky in her mind’s eye fell on her like an old misshapen hat. Through all the “We’re sorrys,” and “Things will get better,” and “He was so young, I’m so sorry, Maggie’s,” and all that bullshit, she hated Ricky for what he did. She’d be damned to hell had she ever told anyone, but in her heart Maggie resented Ricky for making that choice, choosing the Army over her. If he wanted a fucking adventure why did he have to drag me along with him? Now what was she supposed to do? She said yes and off they went. And now the ride was over and she was left all alone. Just her and Moxie.
Moxie…?
That poor mutt was taking it worse than she was. Always in his tomb, always barking at his picture, sleeping in his chair. At least Maggie wasn’t doing that! She wasn’t giving in to the madness of loss. No shouting at the walls or wrapping herself in his old musty clothes. They were still there, in the closet, but it was only about a year since the cremation. Still the flowers lay crumbling on the table and it had been months since her last visit with the wives of the FRG, but still, she had time.
Maggie surveyed the quaint base house the two—three, if you count Moxie—had shared for a few short years before his deployment. She sneered at the items on the wall. The large, Texas Star bronze sculpture they had bought on a vacation to Galveston. The empty wine bottles saved from a weekend getaway to San Antonio for the Cottonwood Wine Tour. Photos of backyard BBQ’s and family get-togethers. It all seemed poisoned somehow, fragmented by the reality of loss. God, I hate this place, she thought.
The silent television sizzled back into life.
Dwelling Page 9