The Unknown Soldier_a Joaquin Serrano Novel

by Jace Killan

  “Do you not want to go, mijo?”

  “I do, Ma. That’s fine. Tomorrow then. I’ve got nothing else going on.” He looked at Brooklyn. “You coming, too?”

  “I would,” she said, “but they won’t let me out of the state, let alone on an airplane. I’m on like six terrorist watch lists.”

  She put her polished plate in the sink and left.

  Joaquin hurried after her. “You’re joking right?”

  “Sure.” She laughed.

  Joaquin had never had a sister before and hadn’t been around females much over the last six years. He wasn’t quite sure how to act with Brooklyn. He wasn’t attracted to her, but enjoyed her playful banter.

  She whispered to him, so only he heard, “Your mom wants to spend some time with you. And I’ve got like fifteen dates this weekend, so...” With that she hopped up the stairs.

  Joaquin returned and helped himself to another plate of huevos not even feeling the least bit full from the first. He had six years of appetite to try and satisfy.

  His mind wandered to the thought of flying on an airplane. He’d never flown before. Brina and he had talked about catching a flight to Vegas and tying the knot, but that’d been only talk and she hadn’t lived long enough to make it a reality.

  His mom finished eating her tostado and left Joaquin. His mouth burned from the chili-spiced sausage. He took a long sip of milk to calm the heat and wiped his nose. He’d grown accustomed to bland prison food. Chorch would razz him as much as the day was long if he saw how the picante so affected Joaquin.

  His cell rang. Joaquin withdrew it and looked at the number, 623 area code, West Phoenix.

  “Hello,” he answered while simultaneously setting his empty plate in the sink.

  “Oye, holmes. Cómo estás?” the whiney Hispanic voice churned Joaquin’s stomach. They’d already come calling.

  “Who is this?” Joaquin climbed the flight of stairs to his room. Eyeing his new tennis shoes.

  “It’s me, homes. Gomez.”

  “I know a few Gómezes, quien habla? who’s talking?” He walked outside to the warm morning, his heart pounding.

  “Gómez, homie. You know—Chancho? From Graham. I got out a couple years ago.”

  Joaquin thought he might lose his breakfast. They hadn’t even let him settle in before contacting him. Pendejos.

  “What do you want, Chancho?”

  “Ah, you do remember me then?”

  “What do you want?” Sweat tickled his forehead.

  “Hey, right to the point,” Gomez said. “I remember that about you, always business. I was just calling to say that it’s good to see you’re out.”

  “How’d you get my number?”

  “From a friend.”

  Joaquin almost hung up. He wanted nothing to do with Gomez but to disrespect the guy would not go unaddressed. It’d be seen as a sign of hostility toward the entire cartel. “I’m going to ask one more time. What do you want?”

  “Alright, amigo. We need to meet. I gotta get you plugged in.”

  Joaquin considered his reaction carefully. Maybe it was the shoes talking, but it became easier and easier to believe that he could escape his debt--recover from his hiccup. “I’m out man.” Joaquin ended the call. He’d figure out how to deal with the consequences later. Even if they came fighting, he didn’t care. He was out. He’d stay out. Getting mixed up with the cartel would be the fastest way back in.

  His mind turned to better thoughts. He was going to the nation’s capitol. He was going to see Chorch.

  In preparation, he and his mom went shopping and Joaquin ventured to ask questions that he hadn’t the courage to ask earlier.

  “How’d you find out about Chorch?” The two walked the isles of Wal-Mart.

  “The same way I found out about your father.”

  Joaquin didn’t want to discuss his dad yet. “How?”

  “eSpencer, the Mormon, came to the door one morning. He was my Chorchi’s best friend and was with him when he died.”

  “What did they tell you, Ma?”

  “Not much. Just that Chorch died in a firefight. eSpencer said that the report is declassified now and he’ll let us read it when we visit.”

  Joaquin’s mind shot back to a time when he and Chorch were much younger. A girl, Lizzy or something like that, had moved in one street over. Chorch couldn’t have been more than fourteen and Joaquin twelve. Lizzy was a beautiful girl, fair skin and brown hair and Joaquin went out of his way to avoid any sort of contact with her. Chorch chided Joaquin for being shy.

  “Listen, Jaqui, just get a flower, like that there.” Chorch pointed with his lips like his mom would do. On the edge of the sidewalk lay a dozen yellow dandelions.

  “Those are weeds,” Joaquin said.

  “Yeah? Who cares? They’re pretty and she’ll love it. Trust me.”

  Joaquin picked the dandelions and held them like a bouquet.

  “Now, go knock on her door and tell her that you like her.”

  “I can’t just say it. Maybe I’ll write her a note.”

  Chorch laughed. “C’mon wuss. Don’t be a gallina.”

  “I’m not a gallina. It’s...I think that it sounds stupid to say that to a girl.”

  “No fear, mano. No fear and no regrets. Don’t think about it, just do it.”

  They had walked as they talked and Joaquin found himself staring at Lizzy’s beige front door. “Fine.”

  He approached the door, squeezing the bouquet of weeds, his palms sweating and his mouth dry. He knocked. The mother answered and Joaquin did his best to hide the bouquet behind his back.

  “Is Lizzy here?”

  She left and Lizzy appeared seconds later, dressed in shorts and a flowery t-shirt.

  Joaquin didn’t say anything, only held out the flowers.

  Lizzy stared, cocking her head. After an awkward pause, she took the bouquet. “Um, thanks.”

  Joaquin turned and walked away. A few houses down the road he found Chorch hiding behind a tree.

  “What did you say?” Chorch asked. “I couldn’t hear you talk.”

  Joaquin shrugged.

  Chorch laughed. “How do you feel?”

  “That was awesome!”

  A few days later, he received a note from Lizzy. And a few days after that, he kissed her on the bus. Chorch had led him straight.

  Since then, every time Joaquin faced something hard, something scary, he’d hear his brother’s voice, “No fear, mano. No regrets.”

  The memory faded, replaced with songs from the play Les Miserables. Cossette sang something quite similar.

  4

  “You’re filing bankruptcy?” read the text from his mom.

  Jared’s thumb ached. It had split, cracked, and he’d pulled away the flaked skin, leaving a tender sore. Why did she always have to get involved? He hadn’t told her, but her finding out had been inevitable—her spies were everywhere.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he typed, but didn’t send. “It’s none of your business,” also deleted. “I’m a big boy, I can handle myself,” only a thought.

  He pocketed his phone without a reply. She probably meant well, but he couldn’t handle her antics right now. He needed peace. He needed creativity instead of anxiety.

  The phone buzzed. “I always knew this would happen. I told you not to buy that house.”

  This is why he avoided conversations with his mom. She cared more about blame and appearance than solutions. She had to recuse herself from his mistakes, make it known to all that if her will were followed with exactness, terrible things like bankruptcy would be avoided.

  She’d selectively forgotten that it was her who’d convinced Jared to buy the place because his family needed a large home and that his cousin Ryan with only two children had recently bought an even bigger house. She’d forgot that she’d lent him the down payment and that it had been her who’d talked his wife into the aesthetic upgrades.

  But he wouldn’t blame her. It wasn’
t her fault—it was his. He took the risk and lost.

  Jared had just watched a Facebook video by Terry Crews where he discussed the faults of victimhood and challenged others to be a “King” instead of a victim or a fool. This resonated with Jared, who had been a fool in buying the house and a victim in blaming the bank and the economy and his mom for losing the home. Now he would man up and be the king. He’d own his mistakes and their consequences. He’d never file bankruptcy again.

  “I told you to become a therapist,” came another text from his mom.

  “Now you hate my profession?” He deleted it before finishing the text.

  She didn’t mind his job when he helped her make an extra fifty grand off her alimony savings. She had wanted him to become a therapist, and Jared started that direction, but his senior year in a personality theory class, he realized how abnormal his mother’s antics had been and unofficially diagnosed her with narcissistic personality disorder and figured she qualified as a waif type with borderline personality disorder. The revelation settled his need to do everything his mother asked, and turned his attention to law school. After awhile he found his true passion in numbers.

  Jared dialed his wife.

  “Hey, babe.” She always sounded so pleasant. Though he couldn’t imagine the day she must’ve endured, shuttling five kids to and from school and lessons and sports. And somehow she always had time to talk with him.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “How’s your day?”

  “Fine, you?”

  “Oh, good.” She sounded busy. Probably helping the kids with homework while making dinner. “So get this. I told the kids that we were eating baked potatoes for dinner and they were so excited.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, because it’s Martian food.”

  Jared laughed. They had watched The Martian a few weeks before.

  “So,” Jared said, “I’m going to quit my job.”

  “It’s about effing time,” she said.

  Her surprising response choked Jared up. He fought back the lump in his throat. She trusted him unconditionally. She didn’t think little of him for filing bankruptcy. She didn’t try to point out his weaknesses. Instead she cheered him on. She rooted for his success and had confidence in his ability. And she usually didn’t swear. “Effing” let him know that she had some stronger feelings about the issue.

  “Thanks, Em.”

  “Anyone will hire you for double what those bastards pay you.”

  “Whoa, Em. You’re pretty pissed off about this.”

  “Sorry, but yeah. They used you and screwed you over. Quit and let’s go get a real job.”

  “I will.” Jared smiled. The idea invited relief.

  She was so brave. Most women would fret, even get angry, but not Emma. She had her southern-Baptist faith in God and her unconditional love for him.

  “I’ve got some ideas,” he said. “And I promise I won’t quit until I have something lined out. I just wanted to make sure you were alright with it.”

  “Hey,” she said. “I got your back.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh,” Emma said. “Your mom texted me about the Bankruptcy. Said you were ignoring her.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told her to go to hell.”

  Jared laughed. “I so love your beautiful black ass.”

  “Well, get that cracker-butt of yours home and show me.”

  Anxiety dissipated. Jared was king. And he had done at least one thing right in marrying such an amazing woman.

  His mother had disapproved of course. Though she’d never admit it, she had concerns about Jared marrying a black woman. Later she claimed that she didn’t care, but only worried for the children who’d grow up in a world of black oppression.

  Even though she lived a couple thousand miles away, she still tried to involve herself way too much in Jared and Emma’s life.

  On the corner sat a gruff looking man with a camouflaged backpack. He held a sign that read, “Disabled Veteran. Please Help. God Bless.”

  Jared looked around the car for some change, but his twelve-year-old son had cleaned it out.

  Jared rolled down his window and called out. “Hey, want to get something to eat?”

  The man seemed awakened from a daze, then looked surprised, and then excited. He nodded big.

  “Get in.”

  The man opened the back door of the sedan.

  Jared laughed. “No man, come up front.”

  The vet did though he seemed embarrassed at his presence.

  “I’m Jared.” He extended his hand.

  “Robert. Robert Bruce,” the man said, accepting the handshake.

  “Like Braveheart,” Jared said but his new friend didn’t seem to get the reference. Jared left his window down. It smelled, but he didn’t want to make Bruce uncomfortable.

  “What sounds good? Mexican? Chinese?” Jared asked.

  “Hey, man, if your buying, I’m eating.”

  Jared knew he had about fifty dollars in the account. He would receive his final paycheck tomorrow, five grand that would have to last the month. His mom’s voice called from the back of his conscience telling him that he was an idiot. Em would praise him for being a kind idiot. His family would have enough to eat and Bruce was in a much rougher spot than Jared would ever be. His mom could go to hell.

  Down the road, on the corner, Jared spotted his craving. Burger Supreme, run by a Mexican family, had a fantastic reputation for good food. He hadn’t eaten there for some time while trying to save money and eat healthier.

  “How’s this?” Jared turned into the worn parking lot.

  Bruce only nodded.

  “Their green chili burger is amazing.”

  That prompted a smile from Bruce. His teeth were yellow with one missing.

  They entered the restaurant and approached the counter. The diner had a 1950s meets Mexico feel and that about described their menu. Burgers and cheesesteaks were topped with Mexican flavors like chile verde or chile rojo.

  “Jose.” Jared tried his best to pronounce the name with a Mexican accent.

  “Mr. Jared. Where’ve you been? Long time no see.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I’ve been dieting a bit lately.”

  “Oh, so this is a special occasion,” Jose said.

  “It is. I’m out with my buddy Bruce.”

  “Ah, Bruce. Good to meet you. You have a good friend with this one.”

  Bruce brushed the front of his t-shirt and lowered his gaze.

  Jared didn’t even look at the menu. “Let me get a double green chili, fries with your sauce, and a Dr. Pepper.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “The same,” Bruce said then left toward the bathroom.

  Jared took a seat in the corner with their drinks and Bruce arrived a moment later with his face cleaner and hair matted.

  “So, did you serve?” Jared asked.

  Bruce nodded. “You?”

  “No.” Jared wanted to, but mother had dissuaded him. No. That would be a victim statement. Truth was, Jared had been afraid to serve. “Where?”

  “Afghanistan. National Guard. I was a medic with a small squad. Did two tours.”

  “Did it mess with your head?” Jared surprised himself at his direct question.

  “Uh huh. But I’m fine with it now. I self-medicated for awhile.”

  “Heroine?”

  “Oxy.” Bruce shrugged. “Then heroine. Did some time for possession. Ninety three days sober.”

  “That’s great. Are you looking for work?” Jared asked.

  “Not really. I get by though. When I work, I get stressed and that’s a trigger. Truth is, I’d reenlist if they’d let me but now with my prior, I’m out for good.”

  Jared’s mouth instantly watered when the food arrived. He started with a french fry while Bruce went straight for the double patty, charbroiled burger. Green chilies mixed with cheese and pork draped over the edge. With two hands Bruce lifted the burger
and shoved it into his mouth.

  Jared sliced his burger in half and started in on one side. After swallowing he said, “What about being a security guard somewhere?”

  “Maybe.” Bruce spoke with a hand covering his full mouth. He swallowed and wiped. “I’m not sure I could do it, though. I haven’t had real structure in like five years.”

  “I’ll keep my eyes open for something simple. I appreciate your service.”

  “I appreciate you appreciating my service.” Bruce held up the almost depleted burger before finishing it off.

  5

  After a fear-filled moment at takeoff and another at landing, the flight hadn’t been much different than riding a prison bus.

  Joaquin followed his mother and the crowd that maneuvered through Ronald Reagan Airport and settled around the baggage claim. Joaquin hadn’t checked any luggage, just carried a duffle bag with nearly everything he owned. His mom, however, had checked a garment bag and a large suitcase and she carried a purse. She fidgeted with her phone and her eyes darted around the crowded room.

  “Estás bien, Ma?” Joaquin put his arm around her shoulders. “Why so nervous?”

  “This brings back a lot of memories of Chorch and...”

  He cut her off, “There’s your bags.”

  He left her side and collected the baggage. They found a tall, bearded driver, holding an iPad illuminated with the word, “Maxwell.”

  He introduced himself as Omar and took the baggage from Joaquin. The Maxwells followed Omar to a running car outside. Joaquin noticed the diplomatic plates.

  “Would you like the fast route,” Omar asked, “or the scenic one?”

  “Scenic.” Joaquin hadn’t ever travelled outside of Arizona. The thought that he would sleep on the other side of the country fascinated him. He wanted to experience as much of it as he could.

  They left the airport on a road that flanked a wide river.

  “That’s the Potomac.” Omar pointed at the passenger window. “And across it is the heart of Washington D.C.”

  “Lobbyists?” Joaquin quipped.

  Omar chuckled. “Well yeah, I guess they are over there.”