Meet Me Here

by Bryan Bliss

  “We don’t need him.” As I say it, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t look at it, just at Jake. He won’t meet my eyes.

  “Hell, no, he’s coming,” Phil says. “We don’t leave men behind. Or trucks. I swear, where did you boys grow up? New York City?”

  “I’ve got something to do,” Jake says again, and Phil looks ready to tear his head off. He takes a step toward Jake but stops and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he speaks slowly and calmly.

  “If you’re anything like me, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for your brothers, right?” Jake nods, but not as quickly as I expect him to. “This is your brother, but soon he’ll be one of your brothers, too. So peddle that bullshit somewhere else, boy.”

  Jake gives me a long look before finally nodding.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Wayne follows Ray’s truck the mile and a half to his dad’s store. Sinclair is in the bed with Jake, both of them flanking opposite sides of the truck. Even if they were talking, we couldn’t hear. Wind whips through the windows, my hair. Nobody says a word. Wayne sighs deeply every few minutes.

  When we get to the tire shop, Ray pulls up to a locked chain-link fence and hops out to open the gate. As we drive through, Wayne says, “Why are we doing this?”

  “You know why,” I say.

  “We got off light. You don’t realize that, but it’s the truth.”

  “So I let them keep my truck? Fuck that.”

  Wayne shakes his head as he stops the truck, just behind Ray. Phil is already out and staring at us as Jake and Sinclair jump out of the truck and start casually picking through the stacks of tires.

  “They won’t keep the truck. They’re just talking shit.”

  “What am I supposed to do? I need my truck.”

  “You’re leaving in like three hours, you said. You don’t need it.”

  I’ve already told Mallory; but this seems more difficult, and I don’t know why. The words stumble out of my mouth.

  “I’m not going to the army.”

  Confusion covers Wayne’s face. “What?”

  “I’m not going anymore. And I need the truck so I can get out of here.”

  Wayne blows air through his lips and opens the door, chuckling. I stop him and say, “Really.”

  “C’mon now.”

  “You saw Jake,” I say, nodding toward the group. When I do, Sinclair yells to hurry up. “I’m not letting that happen to me.”

  My phone buzzes in my pocket again, but I’m too exhausted to look. To be reminded that Mom and Dad are waiting for me. I fall back into the seat, close my eyes, and say, “So it’s got to be now.”

  Wayne doesn’t say anything for a second. He spins his key chain around his finger, the soft tink-tink-tink the only sound in the truck. “Damn, son. That’s serious shit. Will they, like, arrest you or something?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Well, I don’t know. It’s not good, but what else can I do?”

  “Does your dad know?”

  I laugh. “No.”

  “Jake?”

  “Just you and Mallory,” I say. Sinclair calls out to us again, followed by Phil: how we’re being pansies or something. Wayne looks at them and sighs one last time.

  “You owe me so bad,” he says. “You know that right?”

  “Trust me. I know.”

  Wayne hits the steering wheel once and pockets his keys. “Well, shit. Here we go, I guess.”

  We hop out of the truck, and everybody’s standing in a circle. Ray asks what kind of truck I drive, and he tells us the tires we’ll need. It doesn’t take fifteen minutes to find four tires, each one more worn and bald than the last, but they’re good enough to get me out of the state. We load them into the back of Ray’s truck as Phil goes around to the side of the shop and returns with a jack, some tire irons, and a power wrench, which Sinclair snatches up like it’s candy.

  “Hell, yeah,” he says, torqueing it once.

  “We don’t use that unless we have to,” Phil says. “Otherwise, we’re in and out, quick and silent. Any questions?”

  Nobody says a word, and Phil claps his hands together once. “All right then. Let’s do this.”

  We park fifty feet from the entrance of the trailer park and start walking, tools in our hands and the tires on our shoulders. Phil leads us down the driveway, stopping when a car tries to start in the distance. Then we move again: ragtag and hobbled.

  I can barely keep up with them, and even Ray is moving faster than I am. When we get to the truck, my phone buzzes again, and Phil gives me a look that is impossible to misunderstand. I reach into my pocket and silence my phone as he whispers instructions.

  “Jake, you and Ray take this side. I’ll take Sinclair and do the other. Wayne, watch the house.” He points at my leg. “You stand there and try not to hurt yourself.”

  Sinclair snorts, and Phil gives him the same look. “Okay, one, two, go.”

  They try to remove the lug nuts, but every one of them is stuck. Sinclair puts all of his weight against the small tire iron and says, “Damn. What did you do to these things?”

  Phil gives it a try; but nothing happens, and he comes up cussing. Ray tries another nut, grunts, and then quits. He stands up and stretches his back. “I didn’t think we’d need any WD-40, but these things are rusted like nobody’s business.” He shakes his head at my inability to care for the truck. “Can we call for a tow?”

  Wayne gives it a go with the tire iron; but it bests him, and he sits down, breathing hard. “Might as well put a spotlight on us while you’re at it,” he says, throwing the iron into the dirt.

  “We could pull it out,” Ray says. “Got any chains, Phil?”

  He shakes his head, and Ray bites his bottom lip, thinking. Sinclair steps forward with the power drill. “I can get those tires off in less than a minute.”

  Ray laughs, and Phil says, “Son, don’t let that hooch get you thinking you’re Superman.”

  “It’s too loud, Sin,” Wayne says.

  “It won’t take but a second to do each wheel,” Sin says. “You know I can do it.”

  Ray shakes his head. “I think we should stick with the irons. A lot less noise, and if you drop a nut, we’re never getting this truck out. At least not today.”

  Sinclair looks offended. “I’ve never dropped a nut in my damn life,” he says, turning his cap backward, the NASCAR logo showing, and before any of us can stop him, he makes the drill sing. The first tire is off before any of us can stop him.

  Phil looks at Ray, shocked. “Well, shit. C’mon then.”

  The three of them work like machinery as Jake and I watch, but Sinclair is the star, moving around the truck like a ballerina, pulling wheel after wheel off and putting new ones back on. The drill is loud, too loud, but they’ve almost got the last tire on before Jerry Lee comes out of the trailer cussing. When he sees us, he jumps off the porch and yells, “Clem!”

  Clem comes to the door, catching up to Jerry Lee. Phil taps Ray on the shoulder, and they walk to meet them. To my surprise, Jake joins them.

  “Look at this,” Jerry Lee says, laughing and waving his knife for emphasis. “Soldier boy went and raided the goddamn nursing home.”

  “How’d you like it if I took that knife and stuck it straight up your ass, boy?” Phil says.

  “Perfect,” Wayne says as they all start yelling about who’s going to stick what, where. Wayne tries to stop me, but I walk toward them. “We just came for the truck,” I say.

  “And I told you to stay away,” Jerry Lee says, pointing the knife at me.

  “Raise that knife again,” Phil says, “and you’re not going to like how this ends, boy.”

  “Call me boy again and let’s see,” Jerry Lee says.

  Phil smiles. Jake speaks.

  “We’re taking the truck,” he says. “There’s no problem unless you make one.”

  Clem steps forward and says, “That’s where you’re wrong, Jake. The problem is all these people
coming here. It’s the fact that the truck was ever here in the first place. So why don’t you go fuck yourself and let these fine people come along for the ride?”

  Jake doesn’t respond; he’s staring at Clem like a dog at the end of his chain. Ready to snap.

  “We’re leaving,” I say, reaching out and tapping Jake on the arm.

  When I turn to go for the truck, Clem takes a step toward me, only to be met by Phil, Ray, and Jake. He laughs to himself, shaking his head.

  It happens quickly. Jerry Lee lunges forward, and Phil dances sideways. Before I know it, Jerry Lee is on the ground and Ray is struggling to restrain Clem. Phil twists Jerry Lee’s arm behind his back, all of it over in a matter of seconds.

  “Get in that truck and get out of here,” Phil says to me.

  “We’re not leaving you,” I say.

  For the first time Wayne agrees with me. “Jerry Lee, why do you always have to start shit?”

  “I’m going to beat your ass, you little—ah!” Phil jerks Jerry Lee’s arm up toward his shoulder blade.

  “Don’t you worry about these cheesedicks,” Phil says, making Jerry Lee scream again. “And those tires are on me, okay? I’ll settle the finances with Ray tomorrow. You and your friends get out of here.”

  I don’t move. A quick look at Phil, and you’d think nothing was different from earlier this evening. He’s smiling. His face is soft, almost relaxed. But there’s something behind his eyes—a wildness—that I’ve seen too many times with Jake. It’s how he looked right before he punched me. How he looks whenever somebody spends too much time asking him about the war, about how he’s doing.

  Before I can say anything, Clem breaks away from Ray and rushes Phil, knocking him over. As he goes down, Jerry Lee’s arm snaps. He’s screaming as Clem falls on top of Phil, punching him twice. Ray tries to get to Phil, but Jake is there in a flash. He pulls Clem off and holds him in the dirt, his forearm on Clem’s throat.

  Wayne and Sinclair pull Phil off the ground. Once up, he pushes them away and tries to go for Clem before Wayne grabs him.

  “Take him back to the truck,” Jake says, picking Jerry Lee’s knife off the ground. “I’ll take care of this.”

  Nobody moves, but alarms are going off all over my body.

  “Big mistake,” Clem says, and Jake pushes his forearm harder against his throat, choking away whatever else he’s trying to say.

  Jake looks at me and says, “You, too. Get your truck out of here.”

  “Jake, no.”

  “Get in your truck, Thomas.”

  The weird thing is, Jake looks more present right now than he has in months. Like he is in complete control of the fury that’s gripping his body. I’ve never been more scared of him.

  “Just leave it,” I say. “Please.”

  “You don’t understand,” he says, pushing harder against Clem’s throat as he holds his knife in his other hand. I say his name again, but he’s leaning close to Clem’s face, spitting as he talks. “You don’t stand for shit. You know that? You don’t stand for shit.”

  “Whatever you say, tweaker,” Clem manages to say. “Good luck getting through the day after this.”

  I imagine Jake in the bright county jail suit, standing before a judge. The newspaper articles painting him as the villain. A trial. Having to visit him at Central Prison. Everybody will say they didn’t see it coming.

  “Bennett,” Phil says, “you don’t want to do this.”

  “He’s a piece of shit.”

  Phil laughs. “Well, that’s true. But taking care of a piece of shit ain’t the mission. We got the truck, and these little pissants know exactly what will happen if they come looking for more.”

  Jake doesn’t move, and Phil reaches out and touches him on the shoulder, just barely. “It’s done.”

  Jake nods first, then slowly lifts his arm from Clem’s throat. When he stands up, Clem doesn’t move. Phil steps over him and says, “I swear, God as my witness, if you come near any of these boys, I’ll break your goddamn neck. You understand me?”

  Clem rubs his throat but doesn’t say anything at first. Jake still hasn’t dropped the knife. Phil carefully takes it and puts into his waistband, turning his attention away from Clem, who crab walks backward a good ten feet before he says anything.

  “I’ll kill you fuckers,” Clem says, but it’s toothless. It bounces off Phil and Jake like a toy dart. And right then I finally get to see Jake the same way as everybody else. The way I always had before. The kind of guy who’d walk toward hell because that’s what’s right, that’s what’s expected.

  He looks like a hero.

  As we head to my truck, I expect Clem to stand up and chase us down. To do something. But all he does is lie in the dirt and yell.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The sun is coming up, a thin line of light drawn across the mountains as we drive back to the Waffle House. When we get back, everybody gets out, and I ask Phil if he’s okay. He stands there for a moment, holding his ribs.

  “Shit,” he says. “Takes more than a bunch of damn titty babies to do me in.”

  Phil’s words are like dawn bringing light, and everybody laughs, one big exhale. Even Jake smiles. Then Phil says, “That kid ain’t gonna be pitching for the Braves anytime soon, is he?”

  Wayne nods, but I can tell he’s still worried. When Phil sees it, he comes over and wraps an arm around his shoulder. “Your brother ain’t made of the same stuff you are, you hear me? Not even close.”

  Wayne nods as Phil looks over at Sinclair and says, “What about this kid? Like he was in the pits at Daytona!”

  Ray pushes Sinclair playfully until his hat falls on the asphalt. As he picks it up, Sinclair says, “Hell, I probably could’ve done it ten seconds faster.”

  They laugh even harder, giving Sinclair shit. “Boy, you don’t know a damn thing about nothing.” But then Phil comes and pulls me aside. Jake looks over but quickly gets pulled into whatever story Ray is telling. Phil puts both hands on my shoulders and stares at me for a second, smiling.

  “You ready for today?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “Okay, okay.” He looks over my shoulder, at the group of friends. “You know why your brother was with those guys, right?”

  I hesitate. I’ve trained myself to not say anything to anyone. The last few months have been about smiling and agreeing and never—never—letting people on the outside know what was really going on. But Phil looks as if I could tell him anything. I don’t know how to do it or if I even can. So I drop my head and don’t say anything.

  “I didn’t know. Not until tonight.”

  “Hey, listen—listen to me.” He bends over so he can look me in the eye. “You don’t worry about your brother. We take care of our own. You understand that? When you leave, we got this. You understand me?”

  The tears well up, a rogue wave of happiness. Or maybe it’s simple relief. Whatever it is, all I can do is stand there with my arms hanging uselessly. He claps me on the shoulder once.

  “Your brother’s a tough son of a bitch,” he says. “You may not be able to see it, but he’s going to be okay.”

  I want to believe him. But Jake stopped fighting so long ago, and it feels like I did, too. “Sometimes I think he’s not going to get better.”

  “He may need his ass kicked a little bit,” Phil says, smiling. I must look confused because he says, “I’m saying we’re going to watch out for him. That’s all. Make sure he doesn’t go off fucking around with any of the other cheesedicks out there.”

  “I think he needs help,” I say.

  Phil nods slowly, exhaling deeply. “Well, that, too. But son, nobody can do anything alone. And that’s my point: he isn’t on an island. He’s a part of me, and I’m a part of him; that’s what it means to be brothers.”

  Phil stares at me as he finishes, his face certain. As if there weren’t any other option. And maybe there isn’t. Maybe that’s the real secret of being a brother, the commitm
ent that isn’t based in obligation but in something deeper. Love? Compassion? And if Phil knew my plans, if he would try to talk me out of it right now, I just might go, restarting that old fire with words like brotherhood and honor. Everything I’ve seen on display in the past hour. That’s all I ever wanted: people who would stand beside me no matter the odds.

  “I’m scared,” I admit.

  He treats the statement with the same calm regard as everything else I’ve said.

  “Anybody who says they’re not scared is lying and most likely the biggest coward you’ve ever met. Everybody’s scared, and you have good reason to be. Better than most. If you aren’t scared, then you’ll never be courageous.”

  The thought works its way inside me, expanding all the cracks of my plan with thick doubt. Could I do a complete 180 and by this afternoon be a full-on saluting soldier? I don’t think so, but the way he’s looking at me, the way he stares at me with his calm confidence, I still remember why I wanted to be.

  “I’m going to go have a word with your brother,” he says. “But then I want you two to get out of here, all right?”

  He walks over and says something to Jake, the two of them separating from the rest of the group. As it happens, Wayne walks over to me smiling. I hobble and meet him halfway, at my truck.

  “All right, Bennett.” He reaches out and, yawning, slaps my hand. “For real, if you get into some shit and need a wingman, you call me.”

  Sinclair walks up as he says it, looking confused. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing, man,” Wayne says. “I’ll tell you later.”

  Before they walk away, Wayne says, “Screw it,” and pulls me into a hug. He nearly crushes me, but I put my arms around him. When we let go of each other, he fakes a punch at my stomach and says, “You’re getting weak, son. Shit’s pitiful.”

  As I watch them walk away, I’m struck by how much I’m going to miss Hickory no matter where I end up, a thought that until now hasn’t really materialized for me. This town, these people are like DNA. Pulsing in my veins, making my body work. It’s why I’m so worried about leaving, about letting them down. It’s like denying a part of my flesh.