Where One Goes

by B. N. Toler

  “I didn’t say anything,” Sniper says, as he eyes me suspiciously.

  “It’s George,” Ike practically pants.

  “Where is he?” I ask, the hair on my arms and the back of my neck standing on end.

  “Where’s who?” Sniper asks.

  “Where’s George?” I add, still focusing on Ike.

  “Out back. Misty’s boyfriend and his brother just showed up and beat the fuck out of him.” Ike turns his head to the back door.

  “Shit,” I hiss.

  “Are you okay, love?” Sniper asks as he takes a hesitant step toward me.

  “Sniper. I need you. Follow me,” I call as I bolt to the back.

  “Watch the line, Greg,” Sniper orders as he hurries behind me. Greg steps in and takes over.

  “What the hell is going on?” Sniper asks as he trails behind me.

  I don’t answer. Instead, I burst through the back door, my heart pounding in my chest. I didn’t even think about the fact Roger was back in town after seeing him at the dance. Shit! I didn’t look out for George like I was supposed to. Now he’s hurt, and it’s all my fault.

  When we hit the pavement, we find George motionless on the ground, blood covering his shirt and face. “Shit,” I breathe.

  “What the fuck?” Sniper bellows as he pushes past me and runs to George. I follow behind him and kneel beside George. His face is already swollen, his cheek bubbled up, his lip busted open and bleeding.

  “That mother fuck . . .” Sniper growls aloud, but doesn’t finish. He lays George on his back, stretching him out.

  “We’re trained for this. Sniper knows what to do,” Ike assures me as he stands over us, arms crossed, concern painted across his face.

  The night air is slightly humid from all the rain, enough to make anyone sweat, but I’m perspiring profusely; my shirt is clinging to my back and strands of my loose hair are stuck to my neck and forehead. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just wanted to out George so maybe it would separate him and Misty. I thought Sniper and I, together—albeit Sniper had no idea this was happening—could stop George from getting hurt.

  “Is he okay?” I ask, reaching my hands out, wanting to touch George but unsure if I should or even where I should touch him.

  Sniper smacks George’s face on the side that isn’t pulverized. “Wake up, ya wanker.” George flutters open the eye that’s not swollen and groans. “That’s a lovely shiner you have there, mate,” Sniper notes as he attempts to sit George up. “Go get a bottle of bourbon,” Sniper orders me as he reaches in his pocket and tosses me his set of keys. I hurry inside, groaning as I try each key on the lock to the cabinet. Of course, the last one works. I grab the bourbon, and as I slam the cabinet closed, Misty appears.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” she squawks as she glares at me with her arms crossed. She thinks I’m stealing bourbon.

  “It’s for George,” I answer nervously. Not because of her, but because my nerves are a fucking wreck.

  “He asked you for this?” she questions and quirks a bitchy brow.

  “Now’s not the time for your shit, Misty. Your boyfriend—ya know, the one you’ve been cheating on—just beat George’s ass,” I counter before spinning around and sprinting to the back door.

  “What?” she calls, shock laced in her tone.

  By the time I get outside, Sniper has George sitting up. Peeling the plastic off, I twist the top open before handing the bottle to Sniper. “Chug this.” Sniper holds the bottle to George’s lips and George gulps it. I cringe. I can hold my own, but I could never chug Wild Turkey.

  “George,” Misty gasps as she kneels beside him, placing one hand on his leg. I can’t help the gigantic eye roll I make.

  “Misty, lass.” Sniper shakes his head as if trying to reel in his anger. All I’ve ever seen of the burly line cook is flirtatious winks and perverted smiles. This look on him is quite terrifying. “We both know who did this. You need to go. Take a few days, and let’s see how things play out.”

  Misty shakes her head vigorously. “Roger wouldn’t—”

  “Misty!” Sniper snaps. “Get the fuck out of here, and tell that asshole boyfriend of yours Sniper’s coming for him.” Misty is stunned silent. So am I. I wonder how he would react if he knew I was also responsible for George getting hurt. Sniper is incredibly scary when he’s pissed off. “Go!” Misty stands stiffly and rushes back inside. “You have to take him home, Char. I have to stay and close this place down for the night. The only other people to call would be his mom and dad, and he’d kill us both if we did that.”

  “Shouldn’t we take him to a hospital?” I ask.

  “No,” Ike and Sniper say, almost in unison.

  “I have tables,” I add.

  “I’ll have Peyton take over your tables.”

  I help Sniper drag George to my truck where he straps him in, leaving the bottle of bourbon in his lap. George’s head lulls as he struggles to keep conscious. Sniper shuts the door and his head drops for a moment. Slowly, he turns back toward me and his expression makes me freeze. Is he pissed? At me? When he grabs my arm, jerking me away from the truck a few feet, I know he definitely is.

  “What the fuck, Sniper?” I hiss. “You’re hurting me!”

  “I might hurt you worse if you don’t tell me how the hell you knew George was going to get the shit kicked out of him tonight.”

  “I didn’t,” I lie.

  “Bullshit! What was that the other day, that little I just feel like something is going to happen and having a tough guy like you around might keep things from getting too crazy bit? You knew this was going to happen. You ratted George and Misty out to Roger, didn’t you?”

  “Is that true?” Ike gasps, but I don’t look at him. I’m too busy staring at the vein swelling off of Sniper’s throat because he’s so angry. I was naïve to think the truth would never get out.

  “Yes,” I answer, which coincidentally answers them both.

  “What the fuck?” Ike groans.

  Sniper takes me by both arms, holding me firmly in place. “Do you know what he’s going through? What’s your game here? Trying to break him and Misty up so you can move in on him?” he snarls.

  “No!” I shriek as I panic. Sniper’s understandably irate. He thinks I’ve just gotten his friend badly hurt, and I’m trying to take advantage of him, which technically, I did, but I had good intentions. I’d be pissed, too, if I were him.

  “Tell him you see me, Charlotte,” Ike insists. “Tell him friends share the joy and divide the sorrow.” I repeat Ike’s words and Sniper freezes. “He said that at my grave, months after they buried me. He didn’t make it in time for the funeral.”

  “You missed Ike’s funeral,” I wheeze, still panicking. He turns slightly, fixing his lethal, narrowed gaze on me.

  “Anyone could know that,” he hisses, releasing me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Tell him the truth,” Ike says.

  Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. I have to tell Sniper the truth, or he’s liable to break my neck. I hate this part. They never believe me at first. Then they ask you fifty questions trying to prove I’m lying. “Listen, Sniper,” I begin, “what I’m about to tell you is going to sound crazy, but I just need you to hear me out, okay?” He crosses his arms and glares at me, but doesn’t argue. The muscles in his jaw tic, and I have to swallow my nervousness and fear before I continue. “Ike brought me here. I’m a medium . . . of sorts.”

  Sniper doesn’t speak. He just continues to stare at me so I continue to babble to fill the awkward silence. It’s a bad habit of mine. “Ike and I met a few days ago, and he asked me to come here to help George. You see . . . Ike is in limbo. He can’t cross to the other side because he has unfinished business.” Again, Sniper stares, his jaw still twitching angrily.

  “He doesn’t believe you,” Ike mumbles, shaking his head.

  “No shit, Ike,” I snap as I glare at him.

  Sniper takes a step back, shaking his h
ead. “You expect me to believe you’re talking to him right now?”

  “Yes,” I answer simply. “Ask me something only Ike would know the answer to. Maybe an inside joke or a secret between the two of you.”

  “I’m not doing this, you crazy bitch.” His words make me wince. He’s never spoken to me like that before. Sniper suddenly takes one large step toward me, muscles, bulging, fists clinching and I cower slightly, but refuse to step back just yet. I’m not lying and I refuse to be scared away. “Again, I don’t know what your game here is, but you better get out of my face and out of this town before you get hurt.” I swallow hard as I back away.

  “Charlotte, repeat after me,” Ike orders. As he speaks, I shout after Sniper who is now walking back to my truck to retrieve George.

  “Number one on the bucket list was to piss in Sgt. McForbe’s canteen and watch him drink it.” I give Ike a narrowed glance. “That’s disgusting,” I say.

  “We hated him.” Ike shrugs before speaking again, to which I repeat to Sniper, who has stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Number two was to go to the Super Bowl together if the Steelers and Seahawks were playing. And you have a pink unicorn shitting a rainbow on your ass!”

  My gaze immediately jerks to Ike’s, and I give him a What the fuck? look. Ike laughs. “He lost a bet and he was wasted.”

  “Really?” I turn back to Sniper, who’s steadily approaching. “You have a pink unicorn shitting a rainbow on your ass?”

  “Bloody hell, Ike,” he grumbles. When his gaze meets mine, his eyes are brimming with tears. Watching a man like Sniper become emotional is a beautiful thing. It’s like witnessing a baby take its first breath. You know it’s rare and because of that, it’s beautiful. “He’s really here? He can hear me right now?”

  “Yes,” I answer and smile faintly as my gaze flicks to Ike. His eyes are brimming with tears, too.

  Sniper crosses his massive arms again. “This is fucking crazy,” he sighs.

  “I know,” I answer honestly.

  “Ike, man, I . . . I’m sorry,” he apologizes.

  Ike tells me what words to say and I repeat them to Sniper. The conversation is emotional on both sides, and even I begin to feel a bit weepy after a while, but the two say very wonderful and loving things to one another, things only brothers of war would understand. When men walk into hell together, they believe they will walk out the same way and when that doesn’t happen, when one brother comes home and the other doesn’t, there’s a guilt so choking, you can’t breathe. Sniper lives with this pain and through me, Ike tells him, “It wasn’t your time, brother. God has plans for you still. Live for us both. And it would mean the world to me if you’d help us help George so I can rest in peace.” As Sniper cries, the emotions rolling off of him are like strong waves crashing over me. I can feel the weight of guilt and sadness he’s carried since Ike’s death. They say a few more things, promises from Ike that he’ll always be looking over Sniper, and promises from Sniper he’ll always take care of the McDermott family. And when they are through, Sniper drags me into his large arms and hugs me tightly.

  “I’m so sorry I manhandled you, Char. You have no idea what this has meant to me. Thank you,” he whispers in my ear as his breath hitches. When he releases me, he steps back and rubs his face roughly with both hands. I’ve heard that a million times when I’ve communicated the words of the dead to a loved one, but this time, it feels good to hear. Ike is quiet when I glance at him, tears still streaming down his face, and I realize Sniper’s gratitude means more than I imagined; in helping Sniper, I helped Ike. And more than anything, I want to help Ike.

  “I take it George doesn’t know about you seeing Ike and all, since he acts like a wanker to you.”

  “He’s not in the right frame of mind to really accept the truth,” I say.

  “So Ike told you to tip Roger off about George and Misty?”

  “Uh . . .” I pause and give Ike a sheepish glance. “Not exactly. I kind of took that initiative all on my own. Ike wants George to stop seeing Misty because she’s supplying him with drugs.”

  “That lass is a bit of a crack whore, isn’t she?” Sniper snorts.

  “I thought with you being here, and me staying on alert, we could prevent George from being hurt. I just wanted Roger to . . . I don’t know . . . scare him, I guess.”

  “Well, a good ass-kicking is probably what he needed most. You get him home, and we’ll talk more tomorrow. I’ll help in any way I can.” Sniper pats my shoulder as he glances around as if trying to catch a glimpse of Ike. “I love you, man,” he says, before walking toward the back door.

  “You okay?” I ask Ike, who watches him with me. When his eyes meet mine, anger flashes in them.

  “You could’ve gotten him killed,” he growls.

  “You said Roger wouldn’t kill him,” I argue.

  “You should’ve asked me, and I could’ve kept an eye on things before my brother got hurt!”

  “Look!” I snap. “I’m sorry, but something drastic had to happen. The people in this town see George falling and keep handing him a fucking crutch because they feel sorry for him because he’s grieving you. If I’m going to help him, so that I can help you, he needs to be clean, which means he needed some sense knocked into him.”

  “This wasn’t your call to make.”

  I laugh bitterly at him. “Oh. I see. So I’m just a fucking puppet for you? You call the shots, and I simply obey, is that it?”

  “He’s my brother!”

  “I’m well fucking aware of who he is, Ike!” I shout. “And who am I?”

  He stares at me blankly a moment. “Who are you?” he asks, confused, as if he doesn’t understand my meaning.

  “I’m the only fucking person here that’s able, and willing, to help you, so get off my ass!” I stomp away and head toward my truck, leaving Ike to fume.

  After Charlotte cleans George and removes his bloodied shirt, she leaves him on the sofa, placing a blanket over him. I’m mad as hell at her and decide it’s better not to speak or I may say something I’ll regret. How could she be so reckless with his life? What if Roger had pulled a gun on him?

  After she scrubs his house top to bottom, ignoring me as she works, she dozes off in the recliner near the couch around one in the morning and I simply stare at her. Maybe this was a huge mistake. Maybe I was wrong to make her help me. I need her to help me save George, not get him killed. Another hour passes and George begins to stir. Sitting up slowly, he places a hand to his swollen eye, wincing when he does. “Fuck,” he grunts.

  Scooting forward, he reaches for the coffee table, his hand fumbling across the surface, freezing when he finds it cleaned. Charlotte got rid of all the trash, and even polished the table with Windex. His head jerks to the recliner where Charlotte sits and he jumps up, groaning as if his bruised ribs are screaming painfully in torture. Of course, Charlotte doesn’t wake at the sound of his agony; she could sleep through a hurricane. George stumbles into the kitchen, ripping open the drawer closest to the fridge, looking for his stash, only to find it empty. Charlotte looked in every drawer and cabinet, flushing anything she found. She even looked in the toilet tanks.

  “Charlotte,” I say, loudly, as I watch George morph into anger and panic. He wants his drugs badly, and he knows exactly who to blame for not being able to have them. She doesn’t flinch. George slams the drawer shut and opens the cabinet above the stove where he keeps his liquor. It’s all poured out. Gone.

  “Charlotte!” I boom, and her eyes barely crack open as she shifts her position in the recliner. “Wake the fuck up! He’s pissed!” George slams the cabinet door shut and beelines straight for her. Charlotte snaps up like someone’s electrocuted her, shooting her gaze to George. I expected to see fear in her eyes—after all, he does look like he’s going to murder her—but instead, she welcomes it. She wants his wrath.

  “Are you fucking crazy?” I ask as she fights the smile dancing on her lips.

  “Wha
t the fuck have you done?” he shouts as he stomps right to her, rage pooling in the one eye not swollen shut, fists clenched at his sides.

  “Whatever do you mean, George?” she asks calmly, as if he isn’t practically breathing fire in her face.

  “Where the fuck is it?”

  “Where is what?” She plays dumb.

  He steps back and tugs at his hair as if he’s trying to keep control. “My whiskey, my . . .” He pauses. He knows she knows about the drugs, yet he can’t even say it.

  “Your coke?” she questions.

  His head snaps up, his one eye glaring at her. “This is my house. You have no right to be here messing with my shit!”

  Charlotte shrugs nonchalantly. “I drew the short straw. Had to bring you home after you got your ass kicked by Misty’s boyfriend.”

  “It was a misunderstanding,” he grumbles.

  “Was it?” she asks sardonically. “I mean, the entire town knows you’ve been sleeping with her even though she dates the town drug dealer.”

  “Well it’s none of their business, and it sure as hell isn’t any of yours! You owe me three hundred dollars!”

  “I don’t owe you shit!” Charlotte yells back, her own fists clenched at her sides. “I’m trying to help you.”

  George steps back, shaking his head. “I didn’t ask for your help,” he says calmly, but the bite is still there.

  “Well, you’re getting it anyway. You need it.”

  “What are you? Some kind of fucking martyr? Gee, thanks, Mother Teresa, but I’m good. You can go.” George stomps into his bedroom, and Charlotte stares after him.

  “Maybe you should go,” I urge, not wanting her to push it. He’ll have nothing to do with her if she pisses him off anymore. Then what will I do?

  “No,” she grumbles and stomps off after him.

  “Shit,” I moan as I slide a wide palm down my face. This is going to get ugly.

  I morph to George’s bedroom. Charlotte is already standing in his doorway watching him dig through his bottom dresser drawer before pulling out a small bottle of pills.

  “You’re fucking kidding me, right?” Charlotte groans.