by Julia London
The woman quickly raised a rifle she’d been hiding in the voluminous folds of her chadari. Rap rap rap.
Finn woke with a start, groping for a gun, frantic to find it until he remembered where he was. He sucked a calming breath into his lungs and sat up.
He heard the rap rap rap again—someone was at the door of his room. Finn stumbled to his feet and opened it. “Dad,” Finn said roughly, rubbing one eye. “What are you doing?”
“Just checking on you, son.” His father looked strange standing there. Finn was still expecting to see turbans and chadaris. “You’re sleeping. I’ll leave you be,” he said.
“No, no,” Finn said. “What time is it?”
“Ten.”
Ten. He’d been awakened at seven every morning for the last three years by the slide of a tray of food across the dirt floor, or the heel of a boot in his back. For a long time, the first real human contact he would have each day was with the boy, Nasir, who had big green eyes, almost too big for his face. He would stare at Finn through a gate as Finn tried to rouse himself, day after day.
Once he was awake, he’d begin his day of alternately sitting and pacing, save the one hour at midday they allowed him into the courtyard to walk around. Nasir would follow him then, watching Finn feed scraps of food from his bowl to the stray dog in the compound, and then, as Nasir grew older, helping Finn feed the stray.
“Your mom made pancakes,” his father said.
“It’s good to be home,” Finn replied. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
With his father gone, Finn sat on the edge of the bed in his parents’ house and stared at the wall. Ten o’clock. He hardly knew what to do with himself. The army handouts suggested that he engage in routine behaviors, but hell if Finn knew what was routine anymore. There were a few things he wanted to do, like see his land. His dogs. Maybe catch up with a couple of friends, if he could find them. But beyond that, he had no idea what he would do.
He got cleaned up and dressed. The smell of pancakes lured Finn down the hall. As he passed the utility room, something in a box on top of the dryer caught his eye. He backed up a step.
Sticking up out of the box was a folded corner of an American flag. Finn stepped into the utility room and looked at the box, but instantly recoiled, his gut taking a nauseating dip. He took a tentative step forward, peered into the box again, and removed a tri-folded flag. And a Purple Heart.
His breathing grew shallow as he put those two things aside and removed a large frame. It was a collage—a picture of him in full dress uniform in the center, to the right of his head the image of an American flag flying at half-mast. Below that was a gold star, the symbol of the U.S. Army. To the left was a print of his rank insignia and a copy of the bulletin from his funeral. Finneus Theodore Lockhart, it said. Sunrise: March 10, 1979. Sunset: August 18, 2006. On the front was a picture of a green forest with purple flowers—nothing like anything he’d ever seen and damn sure no place you’d find in Texas. I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever was written in script across the page.
Inside the bulletin, the date of his birth and death were printed again, above words that blurred as Finn stared at the date of his death. August 18. He felt a bit of perspiration on his scalp, and put the bulletin down.
There were more things in the box, little mementos from his life. A scratched and faded toy car he did not recall or recognize. A picture of him wearing a cowboy hat, boots, and chaps, grinning like a fool as he stood beside the first cutter he’d sold for top dollar as part of the local 4-H program. There were some medals from high school track—Brodie had been the jock, but Finn had done okay in track. A baby picture of him when he’d had a mess of long, blond curls, and more pictures from Little League, cub scouts, a prom. At the bottom of the box, turned upside down, was one of his wedding pictures—Macy and him with his parents.
She’d looked beautiful that day. Finn remembered how he’d felt when she’d put her hand in his for the first time as his wife.
He felt clammy and hot as he put the items back in the box. The last thing he picked up was the tri-folded flag. They usually gave that to the wife, he thought, and wondered if Macy had given it to his mother and father.
“Hey.”
Luke’s voice startled Finn. Having determined, at three in the morning when they’d finally drunk all the whiskey, that they shouldn’t be behind a wheel, Luke and Brodie had crashed at the house. Luke frowned at the box. “Come on, man, don’t look at that stuff. You want some pancakes?”
“So what’s up with this?” Finn asked. “Did she have…a shrine?”
“What?”
His mother popped her short-bobbed head around Luke. She’d put on a little weight since Finn had left, and the curls on her head were grayer, but she was still Mom. She was wearing a pair of beige pants that hit her about mid-calf, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt that had a little bouquet of flowers painted on it. She also wore some new rectangle-shaped glasses instead of the big circular frames she used to wear. “What are you boys talking about?” she asked cheerfully.
“Mom, I told you to put that stuff in the attic,” Luke said, clearly irritated.
She looked at the box. “Oh!” She looked at Finn. “People said such nice things. We had the memorial at the high school, and all the seats were filled.”
“Mom!” Luke exclaimed. “Finn, come on,” he said impatiently. “Let’s eat some pancakes.”
“I made them just for you, Finneus,” his mother said, beaming. “Are they still your favorite?”
Were pancakes still his favorite? Finn didn’t know. He only knew there was a gulf beginning to widen within him, between the man he’d been when he’d left Texas and the man he was now. His pulse was racing again, and he felt irrationally angry with his mother for even asking.
“Dude…are you all right?” Luke asked.
Besides feeling that the walls were closing in and about to crush him? “Just hungry, I guess.” He stepped past Luke and his mother and headed for the kitchen.
In the kitchen, his mother buzzed happily around the stove, sent Luke to wake Brodie, and flipped pancakes and eggs and sausages as she rattled on about cousins Finn could scarcely remember.
Finn looked around the kitchen as she talked. They still had the blue wallpaper with the tiny pink roses and matching curtains over the sink. There were pots and pans stacked on top of the cabinets and the countertops were covered with small appliances and a black-and-white TV that was on, tuned to some talk show. Nothing had changed while he’d lived four or five lifetimes.
His mother scraped sausage from an iron skillet onto a platter and put it on the breakfast bar. “How’d you sleep, hon?” she asked Finn.
“Good,” he lied.
“It must be a real relief to sleep in an honest bed, huh? Brenda Todd asked if you were going to be here later because her son Greg wanted to stop by.”
Greg Todd? Finn had gone to high school with him, but they’d never been friends. “Why?”
“Why?” She laughed as Luke returned from his mission. “Honey, you are a local hero. Greg works for the Cedar Standard. He wants an interview. Oh, that reminds me. A nice young woman from the Austin American-Statesman called, too. Major Sanderson said he would be in touch about television and radio interviews—oh, I almost forgot! The mayor would like you to be in the Fourth of July parade,” she said proudly.
Finn wasn’t planning on doing any interviews anywhere and he damn sure wasn’t going to be in a parade.
His mother put a short stack, scrambled eggs, and a glass of milk in front of him. The sight of all that food made him a little queasy. His stomach hadn’t been the same since the bomb, and the crap he’d had to eat the last three years had done a number on his system. But his mother was watching him, so he took a healthy bite.
She stood with her arms crossed, her smile full of satisfaction. “Well?” she asked.
“Fantastic,” Finn said through a second mouthful.
“Oh my Lord,�
�� she cried happily to the ceiling. “I am so blessed to have all my boys home!” Her eyes were tearing up again. “My heart just nearly bursts every time I look at you, Finn.”
“Mom—”
“So what would you like to do today?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Not sure,” Finn said, putting his fork down. “Thought I’d see Macy. Where does she live?” He had no idea where that had come from—he hadn’t planned to see her.
His mother’s smile instantly faded. “Why?”
“Why?”
She suddenly turned away from Finn to the stove. “Well, I don’t think you need to see her right off,” she said a little testily. “Seems like you’d want to settle in and get reacquainted with your family before you tackle that mess. There are a lot of people wanting to welcome you home.”
“Mom,” Luke sighed.
“I want to see my dogs, Mom,” Finn said. “She’s got my dogs, right?”
“Dog. She has one. She gave the rest away.” She said it with a look that suggested Macy should be tried and hanged for it.
“Luke, where does she live?” Finn asked evenly.
“Arbolago Hills.”
Surprised, Finn looked at his brother. Arbolago Hills was a gated community with million-dollar homes. It was built up on the banks of the Pedernales River and Lake Del Lago. “Wow,” he said. “Nice.”
“What’s nice?” Brodie strolled into the kitchen bare-chested, scratching his belly. His hair—brown like Luke’s—was sticking straight up.
“Arbolago Hills,” Luke said.
“She did well for herself,” Finn said, for lack of anything better to say.
“Sure she did,” his mom said. “She’s a pretty girl. She knew what she was doing.”
“Oh Jesus.” Brodie sighed and sat down at the bar next to his brothers. When they were kids, they’d called Brodie the runt. He was three years younger than Finn, four years younger than Luke, and he’d been small with a bad stutter. He’d outgrown both afflictions and was now a big guy and a real charmer. He winked at Finn. “Mom has some definite opinions.”
“I think we all do, but I am the only one willing to say what I think,” their mother snapped, and shoveled pancakes onto a plate, which she placed in front of Brodie. “And I don’t think he oughta go around there, that’s all.”
“I just want to get out,” Finn said, pushing his plate away. “Just get out and breathe a little.” His belly was roiling; he couldn’t eat another bite. “I want to see my place. I probably won’t even go by Macy’s.” Like hell he wouldn’t—Arbolago Hills? Something about that made him crazy. “Just out of curiosity, when did she leave Two Wishes?” he asked.
“Ah…” Brodie looked at Finn. “A couple of years ago?”
“So who looks after it?”
Brodie shrugged. “Not much to look after.” He took a bite of pancake.
Finn looked from Brodie to Luke, who was likewise focused on his breakfast. “She said it was more than she could handle.”
“It was a big job,” Luke agreed. “She needed help.”
“She could have gotten help,” his mother said with a sharp tone.
“Lord,” Luke muttered.
His mother shrugged and turned back to her skillet.
There was something they weren’t telling him, Finn could feel it. “Well, she’s got help now. And I’d like to have a look at it.” He looked at Brodie. “Borrow your truck?”
“You bet,” Brodie said. “Just drop me in town.”
12
Samantha Delaney worked at Daisy’s Saddle-brew Coffee Shop. It was the first job she’d managed to hold after emerging from the nightmare of losing her husband, Tyler, in Iraq. She’d meant for it only to be a temporary job until she could get back into teaching, but she’d come to like it and she’d been there two years now.
She was working behind the coffee bar at lunchtime when Linda Gail Graeber and her husband Davis came in. There was obviously trouble in paradise, because Linda Gail came in first with a dark look and slapped her purse onto the counter. Davis wandered in behind her and the two of them stood side by side, glaring at the menu above Samantha’s head.
“How are you guys?” Samantha asked.
“I’m fine,” Linda Gail said. “Give me one of those mackey-otos, or whatever you call ’em.”
“I’m fine, too, but I am going to ask you how you are today, Sam, before I go barking a drink order,” Davis said evenly.
“He thinks he’s such a gentleman, but you ought to hear the way he was talking to me not ten steps from your door. Give him a vanilla latte.”
“I can order for myself,” Davis said to his wife, and fished out a wad of bills from his pocket. “My wife thinks if you disagree with her, you’re automatically a jerk. All I said was, there’s something wrong with Macy Clark if she doesn’t go back to her first husband. There’s no other answer, don’t you think, Sam?”
No. No, there was no other answer to Samantha’s way of thinking, but she kept her mouth shut.
“There certainly is,” Linda Gail snapped. “She is married to Wyatt Clark now. What is he, just a bag of trash for her to throw out? Sam, will you please ask my husband what he wants so we can get this order going?”
Samantha looked at Davis.
“I’ll have the vanilla latte and I’ll apologize for Linda Gail’s surliness.”
“I don’t need him to apologize for me. We’re all grown-ups here. Sam, you probably wanted to know what he’s going to drink sometime today just so you could get on with your life. As for me, I’ll have to listen to his black-and-white opinions for the rest of my blessed life.”
“Large or small?” Samantha asked.
“Large,” Davis said. “You tell me, Sam—didn’t Macy promise to love Lockhart first? Doesn’t that promise trump the second promise to Clark? You can’t have two bites at the apple. You have to dance with the one that brung ya, am I right?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Linda Gail said snidely. “I didn’t realize I was at a barn dance.”
“What would you do, Sam?” Davis demanded.
“Davis!” Linda Gail hissed.
“What?” Davis snapped, and looked at Linda Gail. Whatever he read in her expression made him color slightly. He looked down, threw some bills on the counter, and averted his gaze. “I’m sorry, Sam. I forgot.”
Everyone forgot eventually, but Samantha would never forget. Not for a day, not for a minute. The wound of losing Tyler felt as raw today as it had on July 28, 2006, when the officers had come to her school to tell her Tyler had been killed in action in Baghdad.
“That will be eight seventeen,” Samantha said, forcing a smile.
“Good Lord,” Linda Gail muttered. “Did they deliver the beans from Bolivia in a gold chest?”
“If she didn’t order those Italian coffees, we might be able to afford our mortgage,” Davis said to Samantha. The bell on the door clinked behind him as someone entered the store. Samantha picked up the bills Davis had thrown down and opened the register.
“If he didn’t think he had some divine right to play golf every dang weekend, we might be able to afford a mortgage, a coffee, and a new car,” Linda Gail said, crossing her arms across her bosom.
“I’ll be right back with those drinks,” Samantha said, and handed Davis his change.
She turned away and gulped for a bit of air as Linda Gail turned to face Davis and asked, “What have you got against—oh, excuse me,” she said, as whoever had come into the store had obviously stepped up to the counter.
“Be right with you!” Samantha called out as she made the macchiato.
As she steamed the milk, she thought about Macy with her golden hair and blue eyes. Samantha, with her unruly black hair and dark brown eyes, had always envied Macy’s prettiness.
Samantha had been fairly new to Texas when Tyler was killed. She didn’t have any friends, and her family was all in Indiana. It had taken her a few months to get up the nerve to join a s
urvivors group, but it was there that she met Macy, and the two had hit it off immediately. Macy had taken Samantha under her wing, and for that, Samantha had been truly grateful. They started having coffee a couple of times a week.
They’d eventually realized they were the only two widows in the group without children. The rest of the members had families and needed so much more than the death gratuity and the life insurance Uncle Sam provided. Many of them blew through the money, almost as if they were buying their way out of their grief. Families like that needed more financial support, and college funds, and help planning their futures without their loved ones. But they also needed counseling, a mentoring program for the kids, and for many of the widows, something like a handyman service to help with those chores around the house their husbands had done. Soon after, Macy and Samantha began to learn that families of gravely wounded soldiers, who were often in even deeper financial straits, also needed those services.
They decided to start an organization to raise money for those services. They both had some related work experience, Macy with her social work and Samantha with her involvement with mentoring programs when she’d taught school, so they’d formed Project Lifeline.
Working on Project Lifeline had pulled Samantha from her fog. She’d found it fulfilling, and more important, it had given her something to think about other than Tyler.
They were currently planning a big fundraiser for the end of the summer. “Life Under the Texas Stars” would be a nighttime festival with all proceeds going to Project Lifeline. It was a huge undertaking, and Samantha had to hand it to Macy—she had lined up some fantastic entertainment and vendors. Samantha had done her part, too, but Macy had a real knack for it. It wouldn’t be the big event it was shaping up to be without her. Everyone loved Macy. She was personable and cheerful and had a way of explaining things so that no one could refuse her.