“Well, since I need some help with the coolers, today’s a good day for you to start.”
“I can not go riding on a motorcycle.”
“Why not?”
“I’m scared,” she said truthfully, but it wasn’t the only reason for declining his bold invitation. There was also “I’m the Widow James with teenaged daughters,” and “What would people think?”
“I won’t let anything happen to you. Look. I need to get these fish to the homeless shelter. The catch is a lot better than I expected. I can’t bungee both coolers without breaking one of them. I was thinking you could ride along. You stick one under your arm and away we go. I’d also like you to meet some people.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he said, using her earlier reason. “Come on. What have you got to lose?”
“Well, life and limb certainly come to mind.”
“I told you. I won’t let anything happen to you. Just think how impressed Allison and Lisa will be when you tell them.”
“I’m having a hard enough time keeping them away from reckless behavior as it is,” she said, but he was already packing up his gear. He gave her the tackle box to hold while he taped up the Styrofoam coolers with duct tape.
“Maybe he wouldn’t mind if you did this,” he said.
“Who?”
“Trent. He was into this kind of thing—public service.”
“I don’t think he ever delivered fish on the back of a motorcycle.”
“He might have. If asked.”
She didn’t comment. She had never thought of Trent in that context—that he would do something unconventional by request.
And there it was again, that nagging realization at the back of her mind that maybe—if she’d been more “free spirited,” if she’d done more asking instead of cowering behind the status quo—she and Trent wouldn’t have been live-in strangers when he died.
“You heard the part about me needing help?” he asked.
“I did, but this is a pretty haphazard plan, if you ask me.”
“I’ve come up with worse. Come on. Let’s go. You need something to tell your grandchildren.”
“That’s not what I want on my tombstone—‘I Needed Something To Tell My Grandchildren.’”
“I won’t let anything happen to you. And that’s a promise. Let’s go, Mrs. James. The pantry at the homeless shelter is in pitiful shape and these fish won’t keep forever.”
She still hesitated, letting all her misgivings swirl around her. She was too old, too responsible to start running wild on motorcycles, and she had no problem whatsoever imagining how Sandra Kay would laugh at her self-imposed quandary. There was also the rather alarming realization that a part of her, a widow with teenaged daughters or not, wanted to run wild. Just a little.
She gave a short sigh and trooped along after him, carrying the heavier-than-it-looked tackle box. She kept glancing at him for some indication that he wasn’t serious, that all he really wanted was someone to give him a hand so he didn’t have to make two trips to carry all his gear. Following along or not, she was still in the throes of indecision, like a prim old maid suddenly faced with the prospect of being too close to the living male body. It had been a long time since she had experienced that kind of proximity, and Joseph Kinlaw was not a good place to start.
“Lock and load, Mrs. James,” he said at one point, making her smile. She hadn’t wanted to smile, and he knew it.
“I don’t even know what that means. It’s a Marine thing, I take it.”
“More of a World War Two and a television thing. You did notice that I didn’t try to guilt trip you into helping me,” he said as they made their way across the sand toward the street.
“Browbeating is more your forte. Besides, you couldn’t guilt trip me,” she said. Then she remembered that, oh, yes, he could. She owed him for coming all the way to her house to tell her what her daughters had been up to, when he hadn’t had to.
The motorcycle was parked some distance away from the pier. He had left it under a vacation cottage built on stilts, one she assumed belonged to someone he knew—unless he lived there.
“Indian Chief,” she said as they approached it. “Restored.”
“Damn, Mrs. James. You are full of surprises.”
“Actually, Allison is responsible.”
“Like I said. She’d make a good Marine. How’s your bladder?”
“My bladder is fine,” she assured him.
“Outstanding. Wait here.” He took the tackle box out of her hands and ran up the steps into the house. He came back with a second helmet and an orange vest.
“Are we going to Lejeune?” she asked, pointing at the vest.
“Yes. Eventually.”
She had no doubt that the response was designed to add to her misgivings about this adventure, even though he apparently wanted her along. But he also wanted to rattle her cage. Instead of taking the bait, she stood patiently while he helped her get the vest and helmet on.
“Interesting look,” he said. “Kind of . . . electric . . . Halloween hood ornament.”
“Very funny,” she said, but there was no doubt that she was beginning to warm to this whole idea—until she realized that there wasn’t a lot of room on the Indian for a passenger, especially one holding a Styrofoam ice chest full of fish.
She frowned.
“Right there,” he said, slapping the place where he wanted her to sit.
“I don’t see how this is going to work.”
“There’s plenty of room. Slide back as far as you can and hold the smaller cooler. Just put it under your arm and hang onto it. I’m going to bungee the other one on the back fender.”
She was immediately worried about dropping the cooler, but she didn’t say so. She would simply have to do her best and hope both she and the fish didn’t end up splattered all over the highway.
“Wait a minute,” she said just as she was about to give in, throw caution to the wind and get on. “Is that the bitch seat?” she asked, tossing out the only motorcycle term she actually knew.
He rubbed the side of his nose. “That’s more of a Harley term.”
“Is it, or isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Cool,” Grace said. Goody Two-Shoes was busting out to-day.
THEY ACTUALLY MANAGED to deliver the fish to the grateful cooks at the homeless shelter—all of the fish. They made the entire trip without mishap—once he insisted she put her free hand where he thought it ought to be—hanging on to his shoulder for dear life. And it was all she could do not to backseat drive. He rode far too close to the center line in her opinion. All in all, the experience couldn’t have been more nerve-wracking, but in rather a good way. She assumed that the fish delivery would be all that was required of her, until they rode to the meals-on-wheels pick-up site where she was given two plastic bags stacked full of good-smelling boxed lunches to hang onto. At each delivery stop, Kinlaw insisted that she hop off and come to the door with him, so he could introduce her to the recipient and then advise them that it was her fault if it turned out that the green beans were all over the mashed potatoes. Fortunately, no one seemed to mind.
At the last stop, a specific trailer in an RV park, they were invited in.
“Bootch!” the somewhat frail man who answered the door said. “Come on in. I got something to show you. Who’s this?” he asked, nodding at Grace.
“Grace James,” Kinlaw said. “Grace, this is Sergeant Charles Dodge, retired.”
“Sergeant Dodge,” Grace said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you. I understand it’s my fault if the green beans are in the mashed potatoes today,” she added ahead of Kinlaw.
The sergeant laughed; his fingers were very cold in hers. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am
. Call me ‘Chuck.’ Bootch, look at this,” he said, hobbling to the mantel and taking down a case that sat beside the photograph of a young Marine in his dress blues. “They gave me my goddamned Purple Heart. After all these years! A goddamned Purple Heart! What the hell am I going to do with a Purple Heart? Excuse my language, ma’am,” he said to Grace. “Who am I going to leave it to? My boy’s gone.” He stopped abruptly because he was going to cry.
Kinlaw didn’t offer him solutions or platitudes. “Come on, Chuck,” he said, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Sit down and eat. Gracie and I are going to sit with you and the three of us are going to split a beer.”
Amazingly, Kinlaw actually had one in his jacket pocket. He must have picked it up when he went into the house to get the extra helmet. He clearly knew his way around Chuck’s kitchen, getting down two glasses and pouring beer into each of them. He handed one to Grace with a look that told her he really wanted her participation in this.
She took the glass and sat down at the table with the two men, sipping her beer. Chuck Dodge began eating, listlessly at first, then with more interest as the conversation continued. Kinlaw included Grace in the comments from time to time, and she did her best to defend herself against what both men seemed to consider a sacrilege—her aversion to seafood. Chuck Dodge was willing to cut her a little slack, however, because she loved the beach apparently the same way he did. The conversation switched to metal-detecting and then to shelling, and at one point she made both men laugh by asking Chuck why he called Kinlaw “Bootch.” Clearly the reason was far too risqué for her lady-like ears.
The sergeant seemed to be in a much better mood when they left. She couldn’t say as much for Kinlaw, however. He was . . . different, quieter and less apt to tease her about some aspect of her missing “free spirit” gene. He said he had one more stop to make, only it was, more accurately, a tour.
“You told me you weren’t familiar with Lejeune,” he explained as he headed to the base. It was true; she wasn’t. Growing up, Lejeune had never really been a part of her life. It was just there, the way any big business concern might have been—not in the forefront unless friends or family worked there. She’d gone to Lejeune for some reason when she was in elementary school, but she barely remembered it. She barely remembered anything from that time in her life except her parents’ deaths.
Surprisingly, the tour was an interesting . . . interlude. Kinlaw showed her a view of the river, chapels with stained glass windows, an old church and cemetery, and a lot of military equipment from several wars. She couldn’t help but appreciate the fact that he was clearly proud of all of it. But the most significant aspect of the entire experience was that it wasn’t unpleasant being so close to him. At all. She liked the way he smelled—soap and ocean air. She liked his confidence. In time, she was able to enjoy herself, because she actually believed that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.
“Thanks,” she said when he finally took her back to her car.
“For what?”
“For not doing wheelies,” she said, and he laughed. She rather liked his laugh, too.
“Thanks for helping,” he said.
“You’re welcome. It was . . . different.” She had done all kinds of charity work in her time—church suppers and yard sales and auctions. But she’d never done anything so “in the front lines” before. It was an entirely different experience.
She looked at him. “I still want to talk to Angie.”
But Angie didn’t want to talk to her, and two days later, she telephoned Grace to say so in language that left no doubt whatsoever as to her sincerity. Grace had no idea whether Angie knew that she had asked Josh to bring Elizabeth to the James’ house to recover. All she knew was that Kinlaw had been correct in his assessment of Angie’s state of mind.
Until the day before Elizabeth was to be discharged, Grace had thought that it would be a fairly simple matter to add two more people to the household. Neither Josh nor Elizabeth had much in the way of personal belongings to move, but they certainly had a lot of help moving it, and it soon became apparent that there was a Marine way of doing things.
When the Marine contingent first arrived, Grace pointed out the guest bedroom and the bathroom and that was essentially the sum total of her duties. She retired to the kitchen to monitor the meal Kinlaw had so kindly informed her she needed to provide. Volunteer movers didn’t expect to be paid, but they wouldn’t turn down some sandwiches and beer, he said. Grace opted for spaghetti as well—and it was a good thing. As it was, given the number of helpers and the appetites she suspected they all had, she would need both.
The doorbell rang again, and she went to answer it. Kinlaw stood on the porch with four more helpers, all of whom were clearly recovering from serious injuries. One of the ones on crutches looked pale enough to alarm her.
“Come in,” Grace said, wondering if looking worried was on the forbidden behavior list.
“Roger that,” Kinlaw said. “This is Mrs. James. That’s Lance Corporal Peña,” he said, pointing to the one on crutches. “He’s going to help down here.”
“Hello,” Grace said. “Everybody is upstairs rearranging furniture.” She glanced at Peña, the pale one.
“You do need help down here?” Kinlaw asked, or at least it would have been a question if anyone else had said it. But she’d been in his company enough now to recognize that he wasn’t asking. It was also a reminder for her not to feel sorry for any broken Marines, whether the breaks were visible or not.
“Yes,” she said, taking her cue. “In the kitchen. Wash your hands first. The bathroom is through there.” It was only then that she realized that Peña had one hand so bandaged it looked like a boxing glove.
But, she forced herself to turn and walk toward the kitchen without looking back, leaving Kinlaw to divide the rest of his charges into cooks or movers, listening for the sound of a falling body all the way. Not surprisingly, Peña, his one hand washed somehow, found his way to the kitchen. Grace pulled out a chair for him to sit down at the table, then she set him to doing the prep work for garlic bread. A lot of garlic bread. After a few false starts, she put a plastic bag over his bandaged hand and secured it with scotch tape so he could hold the bread down while he buttered.
Grace engaged him in some minimal small talk—where he was from, what his job was in the Marine Corps, but not how he’d been injured—then she went upstairs to check on the progress in the guest room. She had told Josh he could move the furniture around however he wanted, and clearly he had taken her at her word. The new arrangement made for a lot of floor space for Elizabeth to play and practice walking. Clearly, they were going to have everything in order by the time the girls got home from school. Grace was still surprised that Lisa had had no objections to this trial arrangement. Allison, of course, didn’t consider it a “trial.” As far as she was concerned, it was permanent.
The doorbell rang yet again. This time it was Joe-B. At her own insistence, she knew much more about him now. He wasn’t just a boy fishing off the pier with Kinlaw. He knew her daughters and he was having a hard—and angry—time. “The warden made me come,” he said before she could ask.
“Which warden is that?”
“Sergeant Kinlaw.”
“Does he know you call him ‘the warden?’”
“No,” he said, obviously surprised by the question and just as obviously thinking she wasn’t as bright as she could be.
“Then don’t do it behind his back. Understand?”
He looked at her. “Yeah,” he said after along moment.
“Good. Are you here to eat or help?”
“I’m here to eat—but I’ll help if I have to.”
“Wash your hands then,” she said. “The bathroom is there.”
She stood and waited, as if she expected him to exit with all the guest soaps and
the philodendron stuck in his pockets. He was surprised to see her standing there when he came out, and it showed.
“This way,” she said, walking toward the kitchen.
“Hey, Peña, my man,” Joe-B said to Grace’s other helper. “How’s it going?”
“Big wheel in the sky keeps on turning, man,” Peña said obscurely, stopping long enough to punch Joe-B’s fist with his good hand. Grace was relieved to see that sitting down had apparently brought some of his color back.
“So what do you want me to do?” Joe-B asked, looking around at the kitchen. “Does Lisa ever cook in here?”
“Yes. Tear, wash, dry,” she said, handing him, two heads of lettuce, a large bowl and a roll of paper towels. He seemed to know his way around lettuce, immediately slamming them down on the countertop to pop the cores loose and then breaking them into pieces to put into the bowl to be washed. He picked up on her surprise.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Grace said. She busied herself stirring spaghetti sauce. “Why aren’t you in school?”
“I was in school. It doesn’t take long to get here on a motorcycle.”
“You have a motorcycle?”
“Nah. I came with Sergeant Kinlaw. Hey, Mrs. J,” he added after a stretch of lettuce tearing. “Did you go riding on the Indian with Sergeant Kinlaw or what?”
Grace was glad she had her back to him. “Who told you that?” she asked mildly.
“Everybody—except Sergeant Kinlaw.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’ve got a bet on.”
“Which way?”
“Let’s just say I’m not seeing Lisa James’s mom riding no motorcycle.”
Grace didn’t say anything.
“Did you or not?” he persisted.
“Did,” Grace said because there was apparently no way to hide it.
“Damn,” Joe-B and Peña said in unison.
“Watch your language,” Kinlaw said from the doorway.
The Marine (Semper Fi; Marine) Page 10