I tease. “Don’t worry. Larry,
Mo, and Curly are friendly.”
Unless you piss them off, amends
Jessie. Then he quickly backs off.
But I told you, you’re safe with me.
Now, come on inside. Quin doesn’t
get to play hostess very often.
Lex decides to chance her way
past the dogs, who sniff her as she
walks by. Hope I don’t smell like
bacon, she says. But she’s smiling,
and the Stooges go off in search
of squirrels or skunks, hopefully
the former. One time they got hold
of a nest of the smelly critters and
I’m not sure who got the worst of it.
The place smelled like eau de stink for days.
Today, However
It smells like sautéed
onions and peppers, stewed
chicken, and hot corn tortillas.
“Man, I haven’t eaten homemade
anything in months.”
Thank God my lady can cook,
says Jessie. It’s one of her best
attributes. He winks at Lex.
I won’t say just what it is
she’s better at, but let me tell
you, she’s an expert!
Tugging Lex behind me,
I follow him into the kitchen,
where Quin is lifting an oversized
pan from the oven. Quite
an accomplishment, considering
she’s barely five feet tall
and thin as a spring shoot.
“Need help?” I move swiftly
across the floor, in case
she says yes, but knowing
that’s highly unlikely.
She thumps the enchiladas
down on the counter, turns
to face me. The only help
I need from you is a hug.
She pulls me to her, obliges
herself, then pushes me away
again. It’s been too long. Why
don’t you ever come see us after
you’re finished shredding targets?
I shrug. “Don’t want to bother
you. And anyway, how do
you even know I’ve been here
and gone without saying hello?”
Her laugh is warm and throaty.
I know pretty much everything
that happens around here.
Now, who’s this? Your girlfriend?
Lex and I exchange amused
glances. But before either
of us can respond,
Uncle Jessie says, Not exactly,
according to Matt, despite
how things might look. Regardless,
this is Alexa, and Matt’s teaching
her marksmanship. Now, how
about a couple of brewskis?
The Invitation
Extends to Alexa and me.
Our mild protests are brushed
away like pesky mosquitoes.
You’re both eighteen, right?
asks Jessie. If you’re old enough
to fight for your country, you’re old
enough to drink a beer or two,
especially as a complement
to enchiladas. Nothing beats
the spice like cold carbonation.
It’s hard to argue with that.
Quin abstains, “just in case
someone needs to play designated
driver.” I don’t mention I’ve driven
after drinking more than a beer
or two, not that it was the best idea.
We settle around the table, dive
into probably the best Mexican
food I’ve ever tasted.
“You should open a restaurant,
Quin. Where did you learn
to cook like this, anyway?”
I’m one-quarter mexicana,
gringo, she says, bastardizing
both languages. Mi abuela taught
me. She’d be happy you like
her recipes. Eat up. There’s plenty.
The revelation is a surprise.
There’s a lot I don’t know
about people in my life.
I suppose I should change that.
The small talk continues
for over an hour. We discuss
Dad, which leads to basketball
and championships almost in the bag.
We move on to Mom,
and I can’t help but mention
that she’s been staying at Aunt
Sophie’s a little longer than I expected.
Problems at home? Uncle Jessie’s
question elicits a “maybe that’s
none of our business” glare from
Quin. He responds, Just asking.
I shrug. “I talked to her
yesterday. She says she’s trying
to get some things straight
in her head.” I don’t mention
the precipitating factors.
Quin inquires about college
and when I mention my lack
of concrete goals, Uncle Jessie
says, Hell, I didn’t have any idea
what to do with my life until after
the war almost stole it from me.
You’ve got time. Just don’t join the army.
Now we talk about the range,
the shooting club Uncle Jessie
is forming. Upcoming competitions.
I sure do need you on my team.
You’re going to join, right? I’ll even
loan you my special Glock. It’s a killer.
That brings us all up short.
“Figuratively speaking, I hope.
As for the team and matches,
I’ll think about it, okay? At least
if you promise to leave Gus home.”
The Joke Falls a Little Flat
So I’m glad the sound of silverware
clattering against emptied plates draws
attention to clearing the table. As we
remove the dishes, conversation turns
to the side effects of war. Jessie
takes a long swallow of beer.
I know Gus can be off-putting,
but he’s relatively harmless.
“Something about him made
Lex nervous. Probably the way
he screamed at his rifle as if
it were a flesh-and-blood enemy.”
He yells sometimes, a product
of traumatic brain injury.
I don’t think he even realizes
what’s coming out of his mouth.
I study Alexa for a minute. “Funny
thing, she just told me on the way over
here that the only things that scare her
are things she can’t see. Isn’t that right,
Lex?” She answers with a half smile
that says it wasn’t the least bit funny.
Things she can’t see? Like what?
Evil spirits? His unpatched eye glitters.
“Something like that. A spirit,
anyway, evil or benign, who knows?”
I think about it for a minute.
Who better to ask than my uncle?
“So, what’s your opinion? You’ve
seen people die. What happens?
Do they have spirits that exit their
bodies, rise up from the cadavers?
Do they float toward some distant
bright light, happy to be released?
Do some of them hang around,
maybe haunt people they know?”
His Answer
Is a hoarse growl, delivered
from a place inside his head
I’m sure he’d rather not revisit.
You’re right, Matt. I’ve seen
lots of people die. Men. Women.
>
Children. Even babies.
I’ve looked into their eyes
as they lay there, waiting.
Never saw happiness or hope,
not even in those that accepted
what was, and those were few.
Most fought for life, here on earth.
Death was unwelcome darkness,
something thick and suffocating.
I watched them slip into that,
and the only thing I ever saw
in their eyes was fear. Do I believe
in an afterlife, or a far-off heaven
to aspire to? No sir, I don’t. I do
believe in evil, but only the kind
that walks and talks, corporal.
Pretty much what I expected.
“So, you’ve never seen ghosts,
then? Never had someone
come back and haunt you?”
I notice Quin give him a look—
one that says, “Tell the truth.”
Not unless you count dreams
as ghosts. I do have nightmares,
and sometimes dead people come
to call there. Buddies. Especially
one—Lil Dog, we called him, because
he kind of resembled a bulldog.
All he ever talked about was his girl.
How they were getting married
just as soon as he got home. Only
he never made it. We were on patrol
and a sniper nailed him. I radioed
for a medic, but it was way too late
by the time they got there. I held
him as he died, all the time calling,
“Sarah.” He visits pretty regularly.
On That Semi-Creepy Note
It’s probably time to go.
I reiterate my promise
to consider the shooting club.
Maybe your girl—uh, Alexa
will think about joining
us, too? Uncle Jessie winks
like a one-eyed old lecher.
Quin elbows him,
tells him not to tease.
It’s okay, soothes Lex.
I’ll think about it, but I’ll need
a whole lot more practice
to be good enough.
You come on out here anytime,
with or without that nephew
of mine. It was a pleasure
breaking bread with you.
Then, to me, You could do
a whole lot worse than this
young woman. Think about it.
Before We Hit the Road
Alexa and I both check our cells,
and in unison exclaim,
“Shit.” Shit.
Then, in almost unison,
“What?”
What?
Which makes us laugh, despite
the seriousness of the text messages
we’ve just read. “You first.”
Mom says if I don’t get my butt
home “right this very minute,”
I’ll find all my stuff out front
and she hopes I have somewhere
to go. That was, uh . . . six hours ago.
“Whoa. She was pissed. But
she’ll have cooled off by now,
right? Not sure Hayden will have.
She texted me five times, wanted
me to pick her up after church.”
In unison, “Shit.” Shit.
Alexa’s Stuff
Is not out front when we get there.
Either her mom forgave her, or
she convinced the Salvation Army
to come pick it up on Sunday.
“See you tomorrow. And thanks
for putting up with my family.”
I like your family. And thank
you for the great day. It was fun.
We don’t kiss goodbye, and she does
take her jacket. I watch her go inside,
hoping the reception she receives isn’t
as frigid as the one I’m about to experience.
I return to a house emptied of people.
I can guess where Dad went, and even
though on one level I understand why
he’s made this decision, it pisses
me off. His wife is still my mom.
It’s a sobering thought as I call
Hayden, explain how I spent the day
with my uncle Jessie, talking
about the ways war changes you,
omitting his observations on death.
And, of course, zero mention of Alexa.
I Shower Off
The strange potpourri clinging to my skin—
gunpowder and oil, Mexican food
and beer. It was a good day, and
I’m totally beat. Dad still isn’t home
by the time I crawl into Luke’s bed,
drawn there for some strange reason.
I lie listening to the clock’s soft tick,
inhale through my nose, exhale out
my mouth, big deep breaths designed
to help me relax into sleep. Slipping,
sliding, skating toward slumber,
I find myself wishing there was some
leftover essence of my brother in
this room. But it just feels deserted.
“Why didn’t you give it more time?
You selfish little bastard. Why didn’t
you wait for me? We could have
talked it through. Just a couple more . . .”
This is the only place I ever allow
myself to cry, and I give myself
permission now. My eyes burn, on
fire, and it’s no more than I deserve.
Who was the selfish bastard, really?
“I’m sorry, Luke. Oh God, I’m just
so fucking sorry. I love you, little
brother.” A torrent of tears rushes
over my cheeks, down onto my neck.
I turn on my side so the pillow can
sponge them. Please let me sleep!
Just let me fall into deep, dreamless
oblivion. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Almost there. Almost there. Breathe
in. Breathe out. Almost there. Al . . .
Someone taps my shoulder and I jump
awake. “Dad?” I bolt upright, scan
the darkness. “Dad?” I repeat, but there’s
no one here. It’s cool in the room—
Luke’s room, that’s right—but I’m
sweating. Must have been one crazy
dream. Uncle Jessie’s words settle
around me: He visits pretty regularly.
Go away, Luke. I’m sick of surfing. . . .
Nightmares
The moment the word materializes
so does a memory. Not of last night’s
dream, but a wide-awake experience
I have to fight with myself not to recall.
Sometimes the wrong part of me wins.
It was right near the end of Luke’s
eighth-grade year and the harassment
was a full-on freight train. I came home
from school all excited about a summer
basketball program I thought Luke
would love and blew through his bedroom
door without knocking, just as he popped
a couple of Mom’s antidepressants.
I knew she’d been on them for years,
but I had no idea Luke realized that.
He did, and exactly where to find them
in her medicine cabinet. “Hey, man, what
are you doing?” He looked so scared that
I tried to lighten things up. “Those Mom’s?
Better be careful. Who knows what hormones
those things might be spiked with?
You don’t want to end up a girl.”
Some jokes buoy a heavy moment.
Others land w
ith a thud, and that one
did the latter. Still, Luke tried to smile.
Maybe I already am a girl. That’s
what everyone keeps telling me.
Then he let loose his anger. I’m sick
of it, Matt! I just can’t take it any more.
And these things make me feel better.
I’d be lying if I said I’d never tried
one, but I hated the way it made me
feel, and the prescription drug unit
we studied in health class helped me
understand why. “Do you have any clue
what they are or what they can do
to you?” I tried to explain that Prozac
is used to treat depression, and that in
teens it could sometimes lead to suicidal
thoughts. “You don’t want to kill yourself, right?”
Despite the Prozac
Kicking in, he went off.
I am depressed. Don’t you get
it? I feel like shit all day, every
day. Almost everyone despises me,
and the ones who don’t hate me
are so-o-o disappointed. Dad wants
to send me away, did you know that?
To hide me at some boarding school.
He can’t even stand to look at me!
I’ve visited websites, searching for help.
You know what the prevailing advice is?
It gets better. It. Fucking. Gets. Better.
But no one can tell me how to make
it through right now. Do I want to kill
myself? Not all the time. But the thought
has crossed my mind. Don’t worry
about the Prozac, I know what it is.
I’ve investigated that, too, and I have
to say the primary research—as in
giving it a try—is working out better
than I expected. Just don’t tell Mom.
He Made Me Promise
To keep my mouth shut.
I thought it would be better
to maintain his trust, but
I only agreed if he vowed
in return to come to me
before he made any crazy
decisions. He gave me his word.
And he kept it.
Unfortunately, I kept mine,
too, and how many times
have I regretted that?
Countless! Multiply
countless by the days
I’ve got left,
stumbling through life.
I’m desperate to escape
the chest-crushing guilt
of not speaking up
when I had the chance.
I didn’t understand
the depth of his depression.
Never believed he’d do it.
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