Always Faithful

by Patrick Jones

  The author wishes to thank Susan Olson, Professional Counselor, M.Ed., LPC, for her expertise on military families and thoughtful review of manuscripts in the Support and Defend series, and Judith Klein for her proofreading and copyediting wizardry.

  Copyright © 2015 by Patrick Jones

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  The images in this book are used with the permission of: © Rubberball/Getty Images (teen girl); © iStockphoto.com/CollinsChin (background); © iStockphoto.com/mart_m (dog tags).

  Main body text set in Janson Text LT Std 12/17.5.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  The Cataloging-in-Publication Data for Always Faithful is on file at the Library of Congress.

  ISBN 978-1-4677-8052-0 (lib. bdg.)

  ISBN 978-1-4677-8093-3 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-1-4677-8820-5 (EB pdf)

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 7/15/15

  eISBN: 978-1-46778-820-5 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-46779-013-0 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-46779-012-3 (mobi)

  TO THE BRAVE MEN AND WOMEN IN THE US MILITARY AND THE FAMILIES THAT SUPPORT THEM

  —P.J.

  1

  MAY 10 / SUNDAY MORNING

  MOTHER’S DAY

  “Double time, girls!” my dad yells. It’s Staff Sgt. Ray Alvirde’s only volume. Twelve years in the Marine Corps, the last three as a Staff Sergeant, will lead to that sort of thing. It’s an occupational hazard but hardly the worst for a Marine. Being shot or blown up by an IED are much higher on the list.

  “I hate that expression,” I whisper to my younger sister Lucinda, who’s in middle school. With Dad it’s always got to be “double time”—he couldn’t just ask us to hurry up.

  “More like double chin,” Lucinda jokes. I stifle a laugh. My dad left the Marines two years ago. Since then, he’s gained twenty pounds, held and lost ten jobs, and loses his temper ten times a day with me and with Lucinda but never with Chavo, our younger brother. Mi niño de oro.

  “Get the lead out,” Dad yells. A strange expression for a man shot in combat three times. With the bullet fragments in his body, he’d never make it through an airport metal detector, not that we ever go anyplace. We live in San Diego, CA, as close to paradise as possible. But it’s more that Dad said he’s never getting on a plane again. Except when he says it, the word “plane” is surrounded by four letter words in proportion to the number of Tecates gone from the six-pack.

  It’s Mother’s Day and we’re supposed to cook Mom breakfast in bed. Dad’s orders. Then to church—Mom’s orders. Then to a big family picnic: lots of food, beer, laughing. I know for sure about the first two, but I can only hope on the last one since Dad doesn’t laugh much anymore, except when he stays up late drinking with Victor.

  Lucinda crawls out of bed first. We’ve shared a room going on a year. She moved in with me when Victor, Dad’s down-on-his-luck Marine buddy, took her room.

  “Only a few weeks, Lucy,” always truthful, always faithful Dad said forty weeks ago. Like Dad, Victor’s struggling to make it back into civilian life. He mostly drinks; Dad yells. I think I like Victor’s way much better.

  “So is Miguel coming?” Lucinda asks. Miguel is my boyfriend of four months and fourteen days. We were each other’s New Year’s resolution. “If so, who will I talk to?”

  “You can keep Victor company,” I say. “Or at least count his cervezas for him.”

  “Rosie, do you ever have anything to say that’s not a smart mouth answer?”

  “No,” I say, rolling over and pulling the covers up.

  She cracks up. The laughter irritates Dad, who must be outside our door like he’s keeping watch. He pounds on the door so hard it feels like a Southern California quake starting.

  “Double time,” he shouts for the second time. The seriousness of his voice cracks us both up. I picture him outside the door, steaming mad like some cartoon bull ready to charge.

  “We’ll hurry up,” I say. He walks away, although it sounds more like marching.

  “Even with all of that—” Lucinda points at the door and mimics Dad’s stiff manner. She waves her hand over her head, mocking his crew cut, and pulls her pants out, mocking his beer belly. “Even with all that going on, I’m glad he’s home. I thought he’d never make it.”

  “I think there’s only one person who wishes Dad was still deployed,” I say softly.

  Lucinda yanks a shirt on. “Who?”

  I point toward the door. “Staff Sgt. Ray Alvirde.”

  2

  May 12 / Tuesday morning

  “What did you get?” I ask Miguel. There’s a big smile on his pretty face, so I’m guessing my A-student, National Honor Society, volunteer tutor boyfriend did just fine, as always.

  “Better than Alejandro,” he whispers.

  I’m confused. Alejandro is Miguel’s gang-banger older brother. “What did he get?”

  “Someday it will be five to ten, pending appeal.”

  “And what are you going to get?” I ask, knowing the answer, setting him up.

  “A commission to the Corps.” Miguel thinks his role as an ROTC captain will help him.

  “Rosie, Miguel, I need your attention,” Mr. Richards says. He’s this old white guy with thick glasses, ugly clothes, and a bit of a lisp. And I want to be just like him. I always did well in school—Dad wouldn’t have it any other way—but I never cared about it until this year, taking chemistry with Richards. I’ll have Richards again next year for biology.

  “Yes, sir!” Miguel says.

  Richards laughs. “You’re not in the Corps yet, Miguel, so take it down a notch.”

  Miguel doesn’t laugh—he’s perfect, other than lacking a sense of humor—but I do.

  “So, Rosie, did you sign up for those summer enrichment courses at UCSD?” Richards asks me.

  “The second you told me about them.”

  He sips from his ever-present coffee cup. “That will give you a head start with science, and you’ll sign up for AP Bio next year?”

  I sit up straight. My long black hair touches my chair. “No, because you’re not teaching it.”

  “That’s the problem with all of you Marine kids,” he says. He smiles, but I sense a seriousness in his voice. “You’re too used to following orders. Think for yourself.”

  I stand up and salute him, which makes him laugh. “If you say so, sir!”

  Mr. Richards snorts coffee through his nose, an unplanned science experiment gone wrong.

  3

  May 15 / Friday night

  “Paydays are the worst,” I tell Lucinda, speaking loud to be heard over our parents arguing below our room.

  “I wish I had a boyfriend so I had someplace to go,” she says. We’re in our room. I’m getting ready for my date with Miguel. “Doesn’t Miguel have a younger brother?”

  “No, just an older one and he’s bad news,” I answer. “Maybe you and Chavo could . . .”

  “He’s at some soccer deal,” she reminds me. “They’ll go watch him, of course.”

  “If they don’t kill each other first!”
I joke, but it’s not funny. My parents fight a lot. Well, Dad mostly yells, but I’ve never seen a bruise or heard a punch thrown. The fighting never happened much until Dad came home two years ago, when he resigned from the Marines under pressure from Mom, I think. I don’t know; I stay out of their lives and wish they’d give me the same courtesy.

  “It’s Victor’s fault,” she says. Angry that he took over her room, Lucinda blames him for everything.

  I don’t say anything. Mostly we all feel sorry for Victor, but it does seem like he’s dragging my dad down with him. Both spend most of their days when they’re not working—now at Home Depot—cursing the VA, remembering their fallen brothers, and reliving missions.

  “I have to go.” I glance in the mirror: big brown hair, little red dress. I don’t need an A in science to know Miguel likes those elements combined. He’ll like my white prom dress tomorrow, too.

  I gather my things and head down the stairs, not sneaking out but not calling attention.

  “Once you’ve worn the uniform, you can’t wear another!” Dad shouts. He follows with a string of profanity, mostly in Spanish. Curse words are the only Spanish he speaks at home these days.

  “Raymond, give it time,” Mom pleads.

  My hand is on the knob and I should leave, but—

  “Then you wear it!” There’s an odd sound, then an ugly orange Home Depot polo shirt sails from the living room into the kitchen, landing at my feet. “I quit that stupid job.”

  It’s better he quit than get fired again, like the last job, the one before that, and the one . . .

  4

  MAY 17 / SUNDAY EARLY MORNING

  “Thank you sir, may I have another?” I coo at Miguel after a particularly delicious kiss. We’re on my front porch after prom. The night went better than expected, considering how high expectations are for a lousy dinner and bad music. I brush my hand against his clean-shaven face.

  “With pleasure.” He looks fine in his Marine blue ROTC dress uniform rather than a tux.

  He holds me tight. I press against him. Miguel’s about to say something, but Tino—his drop-out older cousin who drove us with his date—honks the horn. “I gotta go,” Miguel whispers. We were hoping there might be an opportunity for more, but my stupid curfew and Tino are conspiring against us.

  One last kiss, then he’s back to Tino’s rust-bucket ride, our prom night chariot. I watch the taillights disappear into the darkness, wishing I could remember this moment forever, until—

  “You’re late, Rosalita Maria!” Dad says, charging out the front door. When the middle name drops, I usually run for cover.

  I look at my phone. He’s right, I’m wrong, I’ll own it. “I’m sorry, but I’m only an hour late.”

  He thrusts his right arm at me, the one with the Rolex knockoff on his wrist and Semper Fi tattoo on the forearm. “In-country, if you’re one second late for a mission, somebody dies.”

  Mom’s in the background. Silent.

  “I said I’m sorry, but nobody’s going to die because—”

  “It’s about keeping your word!” His forearm’s right in front of my face. He jabs at the tattoo with his left index finger, over and over. “Always faithful! You will not fail!”

  I start to say something, but then I stop because he’s not listening. He sighs deeply, like I punched him or something, and stalks toward the kitchen—probably to kill another Tecate, not the Taliban. Although maybe that’s not true because lately he’s drinking less and spending time working out with Victor since they don’t have a job to go to any more.

  Mom comes toward me. She reaches out, but I’m not interested in her too-little, too-late.

  “Rosie, forgive him.” Her voice is hoarse. “It’s a hard time right now for your father.”

  “What does he mean, you will not fail in your mission?”

  She answers with silence.

  “I’m his daughter, not his soldier,” I say as I walk slowly, almost wounded, up the stairs.

  5

  MAY 19 / TUESDAY MORNING

  “Rosalita, please sit down,” my school counselor Mr. Torrez says. “I know you’re studying for finals, so thanks for meeting with me. I want to talk about your senior schedule.”

  “Sure,” I say and smile. He frowns, then starts talking really fast about all my choices.

  “I understand you’re not taking the AP biology course? You certainly qualify.”

  “I’m not taking AP Bio because I want to take science with Mr. Richards, and—”

  He cuts me off. “AP Bio would be perfect for college, then medical school.”

  “I don’t want to be a doctor,” I remind him. We’ve had this conversation before.

  “Do you plan to join the Corps like your father?” That’s another of his favorites.

  “I want to be a science teacher like Mr. Richards.”

  He frowns again, like his dog died, and he starts asking about other courses. This time, my answer’s not as noble.

  “Well, my boyfriend Miguel is . . .” I start.

  “That’s not a good reason, Rosalita, because by fall he may not be your boyfriend.”

  I’d like to make him frown with a kick in the balls. “I’m sticking with these courses.”

  “You have the tenacity of a Marine.” He points at the walls of his office. He’s got the Marine flag, photos, ribbons, all of it. It’s like the corner of my dad’s room: a Marine museum.

  “What is it with you guys?” I ask him, since it’s not something I can discuss with Dad.

  “The Corps is a calling.” Like Dad, he’s got to show me his Semper Fi tattoo. I swear Marines flash their tattoos more often and with more pride than any gang-banger in San Diego. “How is your dad readjusting to civilian life? For some, it’s hard, but there are resources . . .”

  “He does all of that,” I say. “I thought he’d be home more, but it’s like he’s still in the Corps. He’s always attending meetings at the VA, helping Victor and other vets out.”

  “You can leave the Corps,” Mr. Torrez says. “But it never leaves you.”

  6

  MAY 25 / MONDAY

  MEMORIAL DAY / LATE MORNING

  “He’s crying,” I whisper to Lucinda as I point at Chavo. “Dad won’t like that.”

  Lucinda stifles a laugh, which is smart given the circumstances and surroundings.

  The whole family, along with lots of Dad’s Corps buddies and a couple thousand Corps-connected people are under a hot sun at Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery. We’re at the opening ceremony for the Memorial Day celebration, the biggest in California, Dad brags.

  I’m not sure why Chavo is crying as they read the list of the fallen from the past year. I recall when I was little, when both of the wars were still raging, the lists seemed to go on forever. Now, it’s a few names, but there’s no chance one will be Staff Sgt. Ray Alvirde.

  “He’d better man up,” Lucinda whispers, something Dad is always saying to Chavo.

  Like double time, I hate that expression, but I let it go. It’s not the time or place to argue with my sister or even mock my little brother. My parents keep generating enough turmoil for a family of fifteen, let alone five. But this morning, they stand united. I put my hand over my eyes to block the sun. Last year it rained, but we stood out here anyway. When Dad was deployed, Mom didn’t make us come, but if he was home, we went. No discussion allowed.

  “We are gathered today,” the Fort Pendleton chaplain starts. Every time I hear him speak, I feel sick to my stomach. I recall the nights I’d laid in bed, imagining what words he’d say at my father’s funeral, which I expected to attend before I went to my first prom.

  I see Chavo’s got it together, standing proud if not tall. Dad, who is no giant, towers over Chavo and Mom like an old oak, especially this morning. Standing tall and straight, looking healthier than he has in a year, wearing his dark blue dress uniform with gold buttons and colorful ribbons, Dad looks like a totally different man than a few weeks ag
o when he was just a short, fat guy working at the Home Depot. I stare into Dad’s eyes. I see pride and purpose. And it makes me afraid. Very afraid.

  7

  MAY 26 / TUESDAY EARLY EVENING

  “You don’t have to worry,” Dad says, like that makes a difference. He dropped a bomb and we’re expected not to appear wounded. After he passes the physical, he’s re-enlisting in the Marines effective July 1.

  “I thought you were home for good!” Lucinda whines.

  Dad’s all blank stares. He hands us each a copy of the Basic Re-enlistment Prerequisites. “I meet them all,” he says. “This is what’s best for me, for all of us. Isn’t that right, Jaclyn?”

  Mom nods slowly, more like a recruit following an order than a partner in a marriage.

  “Now, Chavo, you’ll be the man of the house while I’m gone. ¡Hombre de la casa!”

  “Rosie?” he says. This is my second worst nightmare come true. Dad being dead is the first; his rejoining is second because it leads right back to the first.

  “Rosie, your father is talking to you,” Mom says. She sounds tired already. Maybe since we’re all older and can take care of ourselves, she urged him to rejoin. I don’t know. I don’t care.

  “This doesn’t change anything,” Dad says. “Well, except for you, Lucinda.”

  Lucinda stops crying long enough to listen—she’s the only one crying because Chavo knows better. I suspect Mom shed her tears in private like always. And sadness isn’t what I’m feeling at all.

  “What are you talking about?” she asks.

  “Victor is rejoining too, so you’ll get your room back,” he says. For some reason, being thrown this bone does nothing to stop her waterworks. “It will be okay.”

  Stone cold silent, I rise from the table and walk to the counter. I grab a box of tissues and a pair of scissors. I hand the tissues to Lucinda. I use the scissors to slice the Basic Re-enlistment Prerequisites sheet in half, quarters, eighths, shreds. Pieces fall to the floor like snowflakes. “Rosalita . . .” Dad starts, but he’s drowned out when I slam the front door behind me, shattering the glass. The shards of glass join the pieces of paper and my siblings as shrapnel in the kitchen.