by Jody Pardo
Copyright 2016 Jody Pardo
Warning, this novel is recommended for those who are 18+ as it contains adult content.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters in this novel are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-1534843035
ISBN-10: 1534843035
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.
The author acknowledges the real people or places and copyrighted or trademarked statuses and trademark owners may appear within and use is limited to scope and reference.
Cover Model: Burton Hughes
Photographer: Eric Wainwright
Cover Design: Katheryn Kiden of Indies InDesign
Edited by: Wendi Temporado of Ready, Set, Edit
When the answer is simple, it's God speaking. - Einstein
For all those who walk with ghosts, take my hand.
Coming Home
Stepping off the train at the Pleasant Street station, the dirt kicked up around me in a cloud of dust coating my boots. I should have been no stranger to dust, but with the mild-April temperatures, I expected more bloom. Multiple deployments overseas in the deserts of Iraq and Afghanistan and everywhere in-between kept me busy for the previous sixteen years, and it was good to be home. Home, my state of origin, last known address—home. The word stung and felt funny on my tongue, foreign. I hadn’t seen Legacy Falls in over ten years. Not my entire military career was spent overseas, but I didn't come back to Legacy Falls. My sister visited me from time to time any time I was stateside. She would fly to meet me at various duty stations all over the country, sometimes for just a beer and some dinner.
I was home. Nothing much changed. My small town stayed out of the waves of politics, scandal, news, and kept to its old-fashioned, small town ways generation after generation. Maybe that’s why they named the small town Legacy Falls. Nestled in the rolling hills of the South just north of the Mississippi Delta, the land was rich for farming and ranching. I stood, waiting for the luggage handler to pull my ruck sack from below the train, and when he saluted me, I snapped to attention.
“No, son. You don’t wait for me. You are the one with the honor here.” Surrounding passengers took notice to the man’s salute and followed suit. I remained stoic, transfixed at attention. He ultimately dropped his arm first and extended it for a handshake.
“Thank you for your service, son.” He shook my hand vigorously, resting his other on top of our joined hands. I was in my civvies—a pair of dark blue jeans and my unit t-shirt from a PT challenge we did last summer and my work boots. I was not in my dress uniform or even my everydays, yet a line of ten to fifteen gathered to shake my hand. I greeted each of them and wasn’t quite sure what to say as each thanked me for my service. Two women hugged me, and one elder woman planted a gentle kiss on my cheek.
“God Bless you, young man. Welcome home.”
Home. The word still stung, and surrounded by strangers, I was starting to doubt the validity of the word.
“Peter. Peter. Get out of my way. Peter.” The shrill sound of my sister’s voice cut through the crowd as she waved her bright-pink handbag above people’s heads who blocked her path.
“Beth? Beth.” I excused myself from hands awaiting shakes and made my way to her.
My baby sister jumped into my arms nearly strangling me with her stringy arms while winding her long legs around my waist.
“Hey, brat. Guess you’re happy to see me?”
Rustling her hair and giving a gentle smack on her hind end, she hopped down from her perch. She nearly matched me in height but my two-hundred-and-fifty-pound physique shadowed her wiry frame.
“Are you kidding me right now? Where is your stuff? Don’t tell me they lost your luggage.”
“No, it’s over by the train.”
“Good. I was gonna say, how do you lose a big ass ruck sack on a non-stop train?”
“Stranger things have happened. “
“I will take your word for it on that one. Come on, let’s get you home.”
I grabbed my ruck sack from the dwindling pile of passenger luggage and followed my not-so-little-anymore sister’s lead to her car. She must have counted on me having lots of stuff because the trunk of her little, lime-green, VW Beetle was empty.
For a small car, it had more room in it than what it appeared on the outside. With the passenger seat in the rearmost setting, I had plenty of leg room. I’m not sure I would have wanted to be a person in the backseat, though. After dropping my bag in the trunk and fastening my seatbelt, we were zooming down Main Street.
I wasn’t sure if it was Beth’s driving or homecoming that had my stomach in knots but it growled in protest.
“Did you eat anything? Do those trains still have food compartments?”
“If you want to call what they serve food. It’s more like a rolling convenience store. Just chips and stuff.”
“Let’s feed that monster before it chews its way from your stomach to your butthole. It sounds like it has a head start.”
I laughed out loud at my sister’s colorful choice of words. I didn't know where she got it from, and I was sure in time I would get blamed for it, but I had been gone for so long, it was definitely not my fault.
“Does Mom know you talk like that?” I asked with raised brow.
“Oh, yeah, she does. Doesn’t mean she is happy about it. She razes me all the time about it. She keeps threatening me that she’s gonna make me eat my teeth for lunch, but I’m still smiling.” She flashed me an alligator smile before quickly directing her attention back to the road.
“Where did that sassy mouth come from anyways?”
“Oh, brother dear, some people run off and try to save the world, some protect it and others curse it. I guess I’m the latter.”
“Is that what you learned in college? Liberal Arts?”
“Are you gonna start on me too? This was supposed to be a happy day.”
“I’m just asking.” I raised my hands up in surrender and smiled as her hackles began to raise.
“Let’s get some food. We will stop at the diner on the way. Mom is making you a big dinner, but don’t tell her I told you or anything. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“Don’t tell me she invited the whole neighborhood?” This is not good.
“No, it’s just gonna be us and the Smiths. I told her you would want to relax and she can do her big party some other day.”
“Thanks, sissy. I need a hot shower and a comfy bed and about a week’s worth of sleep before I am company worthy.”
“First things first, let’s get you Mom and Dad worthy and get rid of Betty White. You are cranky when you’re hangry.”
“Did you just call me Betty White?” I nudged her in the ribs, and she flinched.
“Don’t tickle me when I’m driving, jerk.”
“It can’t get any worse.”
“If we crash, it’s your fault.”
“Sgt First Class Toledo—” I raised my arms outlining the headlines “—Survived multiple deployments, comes home, and wrecks on Main Street with his little sister. Sheesh. That is one helluva obituary. I’m just gonna sit over here where it’s safe. Does this thing even have airbags?�
�� I pawed at the dashboard looking for the safety equipment.
She pulled into the diner parking lot and threw the car into park with an exaggerated effort making me lurch forward and nearly eat the windshield.
“If you don’t like my driving, you know you can walk home.”
“I’m just messing with you. Holy cow, someone is feisty. Are you sure you’re not the one who needs a Snickers there, Dorothy?”
She glared at me for a long few moments more before flashing me another cheesy smile.
“Come on, Golden Boy, let’s go eat.”
We managed to make it through breakfast with minimal interruption sitting all the way in the rear of the restaurant. Our only interruption was one of my sister’s friends who had moved to town during my absence. When she approached the table, she didn’t do the usual fawning over the returned veteran routine. Instead, she was under the impression that I was my sister’s latest beau, which led me to question her dating history.
“Hey, Beth, who is this?”
“Hey, Christina. This is Peter—“ Christina leaned one hip against the table’s edge essentially cutting off my sister and directing her focus on me.
“Where you been hiding this cutie? I thought we were besties?” She pouted at my sister over her shoulder, quickly returning her attention to me and fluttering her eyelashes.
“Kuwait, ma'am. First Sergeant Peter Toledo. Nice to meet you.”
“Ma'am? Do I look old enough to be a ma'am to you?” She feigned offense complete with her hand on her chest. Southern girls and their drama.
“Christina meet my brother, P—“ I stood up to greet her and towered over her munchkin-sized frame.
“Whoa, you’re tall,” she squeaked.
“Everyone is tall next to you, Christina.” My sister rolled her eyes behind her small friend, and I couldn’t help but smile.
“Yeah, but he is like another zip code kind of tall.” She attempted to whisper to Beth, but I’m not sure any Southern women knew how to effectively whisper.
“I’m right here.” Why do people insist in talking around me? I expect it in the military, but not in civilian life.
“Christina, say hi.” Beth turned Christina around to face me and waited for her reply.
She giggled a meager “hi” before turning a ripe shade of cherry.
“Feel free to join us.” I offered, holding out my arm to direct her to the vacant space in our booth.
“Oh, no, you two enjoy your breakfast. I am sure I will be seeing you again.”
I sat back down, and she waved to us as she scurried away. I shoveled another forkful of eggs into my mouth, and from the corner of my eye saw her holding two fingers to her ears miming ‘Call me’ before bumping into another patron nearly spilling her cup of coffee on him and herself.
I turned to my sister who was trying to steal my bacon and swiftly but gently stabbed her hand with my fork.
“Hands off the bacon, woman.”
“You have two more strips.”
“If you wanted some, you should have ordered some.”
“I wouldn’t have eaten it all.”
“Trust me, it wouldn’t have gone to waste.”
“Whatever, and ouch!” She rolled her eyes at me and pouted, moving her remaining home fries around on her plate.
“So, who did she think I was, sissy?”
“No one.” Not accepting that response, I glared at her to continue. “She is always trying to hook me up with people.”
“No special man in your life?”
“Nope, just you.” She winked and blew a kiss at me. “Are you done?” The conversation was not over, but I let it go for the moment.
I popped the last strip of bacon in my mouth whole, and Beth stared at me with her mouth hanging open.
“Leave your mouth open like that and you’re bound to catch flies.” Quickly shutting her mouth, she grabbed her keys and cell phone and went to the register to settle our check. I pulled my wallet from my pocket and left five bucks on the table before following my sister back to her car.
Welcome home. Time to face my parents.
I hadn’t seen my parents since graduation day at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. My parents were proud of me, but my dad was a small town businessman. He couldn’t afford to close up shop and take his right-hand woman and go anywhere for more than a Sunday-afternoon drive. He had one boy working with him for a while when I left. His name was Ronnie if I remembered correctly. He ran errands, swept up the shop, and performed other odd jobs in hopes of learning the trade.
My dad was a butcher. He started bagging groceries in the local Piggly Wiggly back in 1960 at the tender age of ten. With World War II long over and the Vietnam War in full swing, everyone’s fear was their children going to war. In 1968, when he had to fill the Selective Service rolls, his flat feet and heart murmur kept him from military service. Instead, he was taken under the wing of the town butcher and learned the trade. Dad married his high school sweetheart, and in the spring of 1975, on the 30th of April, I was born as Saigon fell.
Mom grew up on a ranch and stayed away from the hippie movement. She stayed attached to Dad’s hip, and when their courtship took them to a small house living on the outskirts of the Smiths’ ranch property, it was a symbiotic relationship as Dad became the head butcher for the Lance Smith, owner of the Rocking T Ranch, and processed their cattle.
Whatever beef wasn’t trained or ideal for rodeo circuits was raised for beef and butchered. Dad had a retail shop in town, but it was the ranchers and hunters that kept him in business. He serviced multiple suppliers and was very busy during hunting season processing their kills.
We pulled up to my parents’ home—the home I took my first steps in and waved goodbye to after high school graduation, then again after I graduated college when I left for the military. The paint was peeling and the porch needed a few planks replaced. Not much had changed in the years of my military service, and suddenly, I felt like I had stepped backward in time. Time stood still there, and it made me sad.
The world around that place was progressing, and I suddenly felt stagnant. Maybe it was the wrong idea coming home. I had to pay my parents a visit, but the idea of staying there longer than I had to, didn’t appeal to me at all.
I pulled my ruck sack out of the back of my sister’s Beetle since it probably outweighed her and prodded up the porch steps of my childhood home. As my foot hit the landing of the porch, the screen door flew upon and my mother bounded out of the doorway, arms outstretched, screeching, “Peter. My baby. My baby is home.”
My father lumbered out behind her, his face scrunched and wincing at each octave my mom escalated to as she announced to anyone within the county’s earshot that I was home.
“Daddy, look. Our baby is home.”
“Settle down, woman. I can see. I might not be able to hear anything for a week with all your carrying on but I can see. Now, let the boy go. He don’t need your weight adding to that load on his back.”
My mom unfurled herself from me and smoothed out my clothes as if her hands were lined with starch and kissed my cheek.
“I’m so happy to see you, Peter.”
My father shoved Mom out the way and held out his hand. “Let me take a look at you.”
He eyed me up and down. I wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, but he examined me like a used car. I almost expected him to kick me in the boots. Finally, after circling me twice, he patted me on the shoulder and extended his hand for a handshake.
“Damn proud of you, boy. You did good. And you came home in one piece. That’s the most important part. Now, come inside and take a load off.”
“I will see you guys for dinner later. I have a few things I have to do. Love you, bro. See you in a little bit. If you need anything, text me.” My sister bailed on me and jumped in her little green bug, speeding off before anyone had a chance to say if they needed anything of not. Something told me that was exactly her plan.
Dad opened the scre
en door and held it for me, pulling my mom to his side allowing me to pass first.
“Will you get out of the boy’s way? You don’t want him dropping that big thing on your head.”
I stepped into the foyer and set my stuff down next to the boot bench. Raincoats, dusters, and hats lined the hooks around the mirror that backed the bench we used to put our shoes on.
My parents’ house looked exactly the same on the inside as well. There had not been any remodeling or redecorating at all. I didn’t think anything had changed in the forty-plus years my parents lived in that house except the old, avocado, time capsule refrigerator was replaced nearly ten years ago. After it finally kicked the bucket, Dad refurbished that old fridge into an ice chest now laying on its side on the back porch. My dad loved that ugly avocado fridge. He said it was the first thing he ever bought, on layaway, and paid for in full. A new, well kind of new, stainless steel fridge sat in its place in the kitchen, but the rest of the décor remained the same.
My mother was obsessed with roosters. Roosters adorned everything you could put a rooster on, including the dish towels, sugar and flour canisters on the counter, even the good dishes—the ones put out for Thanksgiving and family dinners—had roosters around the edges of the china. At least she was easy to shop for around birthdays and holidays. Anything cock-a-doodle-do would do.
We sat around the farmhouse-style, white-tile-topped, kitchen table, and my mom started pulling mugs out for coffee. She always had a pot of coffee on the ready. If you wanted to stay awake for days, just hang out with my mom. Her coffee would put hair on your chest and lightning in your veins. I was tired and just wanted to rest, but I would humor my mom.
“You got any decaf, Mom?”
“Decaf? What is that?” My dad chuckled as he scooped two sugar cubes into his cup and added cream to the mug my mom set before him. I might have seen deployments, but my dad knew which battles to fight on the home front.
I took his cue and didn’t respond to my mother’s challenging question. I guess some Benadryl would counteract the caffeine. Then again, I was so tired the coffee would probably give me just enough energy to lug my bag to my room upstairs.