Beau and I walk with him to the elevator that will carry him up into the airport, where he will meet his brigade and fly away. I thought it was bad when he left for OSUT. It was nothing compared to this.
We stand in our small huddle of three. Fluorescent tubes of light hum and buzz above us—a lethal sound. Cars sail past, probably filled with happy families and couples going on fun vacations. Or coming home.
I draw David’s arm around my shoulder. I try to melt into him. Blend, merge, meld, blur. Stay or take me with you, I want to say.
“You okay?” My voice breaks.
David smiles reassuringly. “Be cool. Atta girl.”
I pull a new book of manga from my bag. I give it to David. “For the flight. For inspiration too. You’ve got to work on your portfolio over there, okay? We’ve got to get into art school.”
David looks skeptical. “You know I don’t get much done without an assignment.”
“I’ll assign you stuff then,” I say.
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“Hold me to anything.”
Beau takes our picture holding each other. Then he takes David’s picture alone. David stands at attention. He looks strong. He is strong. Army strong. Hero strong. I take David’s picture with Beau. David leans his head on Beau’s shoulder, and Beau cups his hand over David’s head like something might fall on his skull and shatter it.
David throws his arms around Beau then, like it’s just hit him, what’s happening.
“This is just something I have to do, okay?” I hear David say. “Something for me. Something for our country.” He looks over Beau’s shoulder at me. “The right thing.”
David steps away from Beau. He comes over to me. He cradles my face in his hands. He kisses me hard. Lets go. Turns away.
He’s gone.
I drag myself out of the humming, buzzing light. I follow Beau back to Bonnie in the truck. We make the long drive back to Killdeer, sudden rain battering the windows.
David would call this a real Oklahoma summer storm. The wind nearly tips us over.
•••
Late that night, after the long ride home with Bonnie and Beau, after cold cereal for dinner and a couple of hours watching I don’t even remember what, I sit down at my desk and pick up the photograph of Justine. Just that simple act—picking up a photograph—and pain radiates through my right ring finger. The feeling makes me so jittery that my hands start to shake. Last fall, after David and I kissed for the first time and we were officially “a couple,” my hands shook like this. They shook like this when he first told me that he’d signed on to join the army. We were standing under the honey locust tree right outside my bedroom window.
“I joined before you even moved here,” he told me, as the leaves rustled above. “Maybe if I’d known you, I wouldn’t have done it. But I believe it was the right decision.” Then he’d kissed my hands until they were steady again.
My hands are anything but steady now. Justine’s photo tumbles to the desktop. And that’s when I see it, there on the back, penciled faintly in looping cursive: Justine Blue, 1945.
World War II ended in 1945. If Justine’s soldier took this picture, he must have gone over to fight right at what they hoped was the end. Like David is now.
Justine must have waited and hoped like me.
Linda is working late again, but I wouldn’t ask her about ancient family history—or any family history—even if she were home. And there’s nobody else to ask.
There’s nobody but Justine Blue. Or Justine Weaver. Or Justine Whatever-Her-Name-Is-Now.
I prop her photograph back against my clock. Then I search out seven Justine Blues online. She lives in Australia. No, she lives in Maine. She lives all over the world, or she has. She’s in a rock band. No, she’s a lawyer. She’s a kindergarten teacher, plumber, porn star, pastor.
She is?
More likely, she was. I do quick calculations. If she was eighteen in 1945, she’d be eighty now, or thereabouts. She’d have to be retired. Or dead.
Considering this, I carefully lift the gauze from my finger. It’s been almost twelve hours, and the tat looks worse now than when I had it done. I wonder what David’s look like. I imagine him flying high over wherever, peeking beneath his bandages too, maybe freaking out on the inside but definitely playing it cool on the outside.
I can feel Justine watching me from the mirror in her photograph.
She loved a soldier once.
If nothing else, finding Justine could help pass some time until David comes home.
Five
I wake up to my ringing cell. Squinting against bright morning light, I roll across my bed. My elbow knocks a full glass of water from the nightstand and then a framed photograph of David and me, taken the night we first realized each other existed, the night of the Teen Community Art Awards ceremony.
In the photograph there are people all around us, but we only have eyes for each other. David’s hair is thick and curly, not by-the-book stubble. My hair has been whipped into the elaborate, coppery confection that the stylist at the salon I visited earlier that day assured me would be a simple updo. David and I are laughing.
I find the phone and flick it on. David, I’m thinking. Already he’s found a way to call. I blurt out, “Hello.”
“Oh, Penna. It’s so good to hear your voice.”
Not David. His mom.
“Did I wake you? It’s nine o’clock.” Bonnie laughs nervously. “Can you believe it? He hasn’t been gone a day, and I’ve already forgotten how late you kids like to sleep.”
I lie down again and mumble something reassuring about how I needed to get out of bed anyway. Then I sit bolt upright again. “Did he call?”
Bonnie sighs. “I wish. No such luck, though. He’s not even there yet.”
I sink back onto my pillow. “Oh yeah.”
“Thank God for work. I’ve never wanted to go into the office as much as I did this morning. Never.” Something that sounds like cellophane crinkles in the background. Then the distinct sound of Bonnie chewing. “And Fig Newtons. Thank God for Fig Newtons. I don’t even like Fig Newtons, but they’re what the vending machine has to offer, so they’ll do the trick.” More crinkling, chewing. “I’m not too worried yet, Penna. Honestly. Not really. I mean, he hasn’t even touched ground yet, right? So what could happen?”
Plenty, I think. I roll over on my stomach, let my right hand dangle over the edge of the bed for tat safety, nestle deeper under Plum Tumble, and close my eyes. I want to sleep.
“It’s just so good to hear your voice, Penna. You mind if I give you a call like this sometimes? Maybe we could help each other get through this. Plus, David asked me to check in on you.”
“He did?” I can’t help but smile.
“Yep. One of his last requests.” Bonnie draws a sharp breath. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
I nod and then remember Bonnie can’t see this. “Sure. Please, call any time. I’d like that too,” I say.
Truth be told, just the sound of Bonnie’s voice makes my heart ache. No one could sound more like David, the way she inflects her sentences and punches certain words. It’s almost like he’s on the other end of the line. Only not.
“Good. I’m glad you feel the same way.” Bonnie crinkles more cellophane. “Kind of a nice thing happened this morning. Took me completely by surprise. It’s the kind of thing I’d tell David.” She’s talking fast, like she’s afraid I might have to go. Something catches in her throat—Fig Newton crumbs, no doubt. She coughs, then says, “I will tell David, of course. But you know me. I’m not the most patient person. So I thought maybe I’d tell you.”
She doesn’t wait for me to say, Sure go ahead. She says, “Just as I was walking out the door for work, I got this phone call from this kid I haven’t heard from in forever. The time was when a phone call from him would have been an everyday occurrence. When he was little, he sometimes called me Mom by mistake.
“Anyway
, it only took a few sentences before I knew exactly who he was. He’s the shyest, sweetest boy. His voice may have changed, but his spirit still comes through. I think you know him. Ravi Sharma. Or maybe you don’t know him? You haven’t lived here long enough, I guess. Come to think of it, you never were in school with Ravi, were you?”
I stifle a yawn. This is David’s mother, I remind myself. I should care that she cares about Ravi. But all I really want to talk about is David—especially if I’m going to have to wake up to have the conversation.
I rub sleep from my eyes. “David’s mentioned him.”
“Then you must know what good buds they were. They lost touch, of course, but I don’t blame either of them. I truly loved that kid. So anyway, Ravi called because he’d heard about David’s deployment. He was pretty upset, I could tell. He’s hard to read, if you know what I mean. But I could tell. So I suggested he talk to you.”
Lesson learned: don’t talk to strangers, even if the stranger is your boyfriend’s old friend. A groan escapes me.
“I know,” Bonnie quickly says. “I should have asked you first. But Ravi seemed like he wants to support David. I told Ravi that David will need letters, and Ravi said, sure, yes, he’ll do that. He’ll write. I gave him David’s address, and that’s when I thought of you. Like I said earlier, support. We all need it.”
“Did you give him my number?” My voice is a wee bit terse. Bonnie knows David, who is the exception in my experience with guys. And I guess she knows Ravi. But I don’t know Ravi. I don’t know anybody, really, in Killdeer besides David—this year was about David. I don’t need another guy. There’s such a thing as loyalty.
“Of course I didn’t give Ravi your number.” Bonnie vigorously crinkles cellophane. “I’m not that clueless. I did get his number for you, though.”
“Well.” I sigh. “Okay. I guess.”
“Penna, he really seems like he needs to talk to someone. I’m thinking not an ancient crone like me. So if you need to talk to someone—and not an ancient crone like me—you might think about giving him a call. Okay?”
Wrapped in Plum Tumble, I sit up in bed, open the nightstand drawer, and locate a pen and scrap of paper with my left, versus my right, hand.
For Bonnie’s sake, I say, “Give me his number.”
•••
The last thing I want to do right now is be strong for someone else. Why should Ravi care about David anyway? He’s got his skateboard. His night shift. His own reasons for being in this town he must hate. He could move somewhere else if he wanted. He could start over. He could worry about his own life.
Like I’ve been sprung from a trap, I sit straight up.
He could worry about his own life.
I sound a lot like Linda.
I get out of bed. I go to the kitchen, stumble and fumble around, make breakfast. I stand at the window, eating toast, drinking coffee, and watching for the clockwork lady. She’s nowhere to be seen. That’s what I get for sleeping this late. I missed her.
Maybe that’s kind of what Ravi’s thinking about David. That’s what I get for waiting this long. I missed him.
The bright day stretches endlessly before me.
Bonnie said Ravi seems like he really needs to talk to someone. Maybe if I listen, Ravi will tell me something about David I don’t know. Maybe he could give me a little bit of David back—maybe even a part of David I’ve never known before.
Maybe.
I look at the clock. It’s that time of day again.
I get dressed. Get on my bike. Head toward the viaduct.
•••
Sure enough, he’s here.
He must know I’m here too, but he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t stop skateboarding. He’s executing tight figure eights, one after another.
I lean my bike against the Icon Killdeer. The wheels are like shields, protecting David and me, big and blue.
I turn to Ravi.
He is very good at ignoring people. I guess it’s a skill he’s had to learn over the years.
I watch him carefully, the way I’d watch a skittish animal or a shy kid.
Clearly he’s been skating for a while. His plain white T-shirt is wet down the back and at the neck. Wet, it shows a lot of detail. Given his usual baggy sweatshirt, I’d never have known that Ravi is at least as muscular as David—maybe more so. Ravi’s a bigger guy, less wiry. Also like David, Ravi’s got great balance. Maybe this is another skill you can learn when you grow up bullied: staying stable. Ravi and his skateboard seem to be one fluid creature, the way David always seems on his motorcycle. Mythical, kind of. Like a centaur or satyr.
I’ve been counting. Ravi’s executed twenty figure eights just since my arrival. He shows no sign of stopping. His black hair is long enough that his bangs keep falling in his eyes, but even when he impatiently shoves them aside, clearing his line of vision, he doesn’t waver.
It’s getting a little old, just standing here watching. I take a step forward. Another. Still no acknowledgment. Suddenly I’m pissed. I could be sleeping. I’m doing this for me, sure, but I’m also doing this for him.
Turns out I’m not so impressed with Ravi’s skills. I mean, you’ve seen one figure eight, you’ve seen ’em all. An infinity of infinity symbols.
“To infinity and beyond.” My voice is as dry as the red dust that suddenly billows around us, stirred by the wind.
Something flickers across Ravi’s face—a smile?—before he can loop away again. He loops, showing me only his back.
I cross my arms. I don’t need this guy. I’ll write David a letter and ask him to tell me every little thing he can remember about himself from when he was a kid. I’m giving Ravi one more minute, tops.
He turns back toward me.
“You going for the Guinness Book of World Records? Or what?”
He shrugs, banking another tight curve.
That’s it. I’m done. Sensitivity is overrated. I’ve got a letter to write.
I turn to my bike. The skateboard abruptly stops. I get on my bike. Only now, ready to go, do I look at Ravi. He’s got one foot planted on the board, the other on the ground. I’d leave in a minute if it weren’t for his expression. It’s like something’s cracked open there. Ravi looks like he might cry.
Or be sick.
He says, “I was going to sign up too. Enlist. I went down there and everything. I got the talk, all the forms. I filled them out. Then I didn’t do it.”
“Why not?” I sound cold. Good.
“I don’t know.”
I can’t help myself. “Scared?”
“Maybe.” Like someone’s hit him across the back of his knees, Ravi sits down on his board. He wobbles, then steadies himself. “Or I didn’t know what I was trying to prove. Or I realized I wouldn’t prove anything.”
I get off my bike. I go over to him and stand there, looking down at the top of his head. His hair is as glossy as a blackbird’s wing.
I shift my weight, feeling suddenly, horribly awkward.
Ravi looks up at me. The circles under his black eyes are such an angry, dark purple that for a moment I think he might have been beaten up again. Then I realize he probably just hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours. Or more.
“When we were kids, David and I used to play together all the time. You know this? Yeah, I thought so.” Ravi swallows hard. “Our favorite games were make-believe. We pretended we were robbers—good robbers, like Robin Hood. Or buccaneers running blockades during the Civil War. We were all kinds of superheroes.”
This—this—is what I came for.
I imagine David running wild and free around his backyard, his now aging, very cranky and creaky German shepherd, Mars, trotting along spryly behind him. Ravi is there too, somewhere in the shadows. David was such a beautiful boy. Still is. I’d smile if my jaw weren’t clenched so tight, if I didn’t feel so awkward standing beside Ravi.
“We pretended we were knights in shining armor,” he continues. “We used sticks for swords
. Once I accidentally stabbed David in the side.”
“I know that scar.” My voice comes out in a croak.
“I always wondered if it was still there. I felt terrible about it.” Ravi shakes his head. “I suppose I still do.”
“What else?” I say. “About David.”
Ravi picks up a stone, weighs it in his hand. “He really looked out for me. He took it hard for me more than once.” Ravi gives a low laugh. “And he taught me how to belch the alphabet. That was about the closest I ever came to being cool as a kid. Got me through a whole year of recess, probably. I’ve always wanted to thank him for that.”
“You still can.”
Ravi looks at me. “I did. I wrote him a letter last night, after work. I had some time to kill.”
I go cold. Someone did it before me. Wrote David.
“I’ve got to go.”
I’m on my bike. I’m out of here.
Ravi calls out to me. “I’ve got some great pictures of David if you ever want to see them.”
“Sure,” I call back to him. “Someday.”
“I was thinking of sending the pictures to him, but—”
But what I don’t know, because I’m too far gone to hear.
•••
I sit at my desk and write a letter on the thin, blue international paper that I stocked up on at the post office last week with David standing by my side.
Dear David,
I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I miss you so much.
Don’t forget to let your tats get some air so they can heal. But only when it’s safe, okay? Play it safe. I’ve bumped my ring a couple of times, and it hasn’t been fun. And a ring is one thing, a finger is one thing, but your chest—you’ve got to take care of that.
Have I mentioned I love your chest?
While He Was Away Page 5