by R. R. Banks
I'm not the kind of guy who enjoys wading too deeply into the emotional waters though. In fact, I'd probably enjoy a colonoscopy without lube about as much as I enjoyed sharing my feelings. But Rick's parents deserved it. They deserved an explanation.
Sharing that much though, left me feeling awfully thirsty and feeling like I need a little liquid therapy. I climb into the car and point it back toward town. All I want in that moment is to have a drink and be alone.
Chapter Fourteen
The bar is quiet and a little seedy – exactly what I was looking for and exactly what I need. I'm feeling a little overwhelmed by all the old faces I'm seeing, not to mention that marathon emotional purging session I just had with Rick's mom. It's something I'm really not used to and something I really don't dig very much.
Yeah, it's not quite noon yet, but fuck it, I need a drink.
I sit at the bar, looking at the flat screen TV hanging on the wall across from me. It's muted so I can't hear what the two anchors are saying, but I don't need to. I don't really care. I'm content to just sit there, sip my drink, and watch the silent highlights from all of last night's sports action.
Not that I'm particularly a huge fan of sports. I just want to shut the brain back down and stuff all of that emotional garbage that leaked out back into its box where it belongs – deep in that dark attic in the back of my brain.
There's another stop I want to make today – one that I'm dreading beyond words. But one I almost feel obligated to make. And for that, I think a little liquid fortification is probably wise.
At this time of the day, the bar is pretty much empty. Just me and a couple of old guys sipping beer and arguing loudly about everything from sports to politics. Yeah, I'm sure they're a blast to have at a party.
I glance at my watch and realize I've been sitting there nursing my beer for the better part of an hour. I know I'm just trying to put off the inevitable. And I ask myself once more why I feel like I have to go run this errand. And once again, I have no answer for that question other than I feel compelled to do so. No logic, no reason, no nothing other than it just feels like a loose end I have to tie up.
With a sigh, I push myself off my stool and drop some money on the bar. I nod to the bartender as I wander out into the early afternoon sunlight. The sunlight is bright, so I slip on a pair of sunglasses and walk back up to Main Street. If there's one thing I love about Sheridan Falls, it's that even on bright, sunny days, the temperature is mild. Unlike Southern California – when the sun's out, it's usually pretty damn hot. And personally, I had enough of the heat back in Afghanistan.
I'm walking down Main and see a cute little blonde heading in my direction. She's about five foot two and has some curves that are sexy as hell. There's something about her that rings that bell of familiarity in my head – it's faint, but it's there.
I quickly write it off though – being back in Sheridan Falls is throwing me for a complete loop and I'm seeing familiar faces everywhere. Even though I realize the city has grown so much, I know far fewer people than I think I do.
Still, there's something about the blonde that I can't quite shake. She's looking at me though and I start to think that maybe she could be a very good distraction for me this afternoon. Something to pass the time with until I'm supposed to meet everybody at the Wagon later this evening.
We're within ten feet of each other and the blonde is giving me a serious up and down look. I'm pretty sure this one is in the bag already. I figure all I have to do is smile real nice, throw a little charm her way, and those panties will practically fly off.
I figured that at least, until she stops right in front of me and speaks.
“Caleb?” she asks, her voice filled with disbelief. “Caleb Tirico?”
I look at her and can't place her. Instinct – or maybe, just a keen sense of self-preservation – told me to deny that was my name, turn around, and walk the other way. But a morbid sense of curiosity in me wanted to find out who this hot little blonde was and how she knew me.
“You don't remember me, do you?” she asks.
I frantically run through names and faces from my past in my head. And nothing is coming to me. I'm drawing a complete blank. A complete and utter fucking blank.
I give her a big grin. “I'm sorry, doll,” I say. “I haven't been in Sheridan –”
“For about twelve years now,” she says. “I know. And yeah, call me doll again and I'll stab you right in the eye.”
I laugh and shake my head. The girl is feisty. Another quality I like in a woman. But for the life of me, I can't place her. She looks at me with an expression that is somewhere between amusement and irritation. You'd think I'd remember somebody like this.
“To be fair,” she says. “I was a kid the last time you saw me. I was what, thirteen or so?”
And when she says that, I suddenly realize who she is and feel a jolt of adrenaline course through me. Holy shit. I know exactly who she is.
“Brooke?” I say. “Brooke Greenwood?”
She nods and gives me an uncertain smile. “In the flesh.”
“Wow,” I say, looking her up and down. “You – grew up.”
“Yeah, that happens as the years pass.”
“Still a smartass I see.”
“Like that's ever going to change.”
I mentally smack myself for giving her the once over again. I know she's an adult now, but there's something about sexualizing somebody you knew when they were a kid that just feels wrong. Perverse. She's grown into a gorgeous woman, no question about it. But learning who she is suddenly killed the desire to get her into the sack.
I remember her being a kid – a young, goofy kid who had ears too big for her head, a chest flatter than a table top, and a complete disdain for boys. But looking at her now, I can see that she's – well – blossomed. Blossomed very well, actually.
I mentally kick myself again, pushing all of those thoughts out of my head.
“So, how have you been?” I ask.
I force myself to look her in the eye, trying like hell to keep my gaze from wandering down to the full, perky tits straining against her shirt. It's a Herculean fucking effort though. Brooke has an amazing body – as much as I want to kick my own ass for thinking so.
“I'm doing good,” she says. “Running the store now.”
“Wow, you're the big boss, huh?”
She nods. “Yup. Sure am,” she says. “But that's not really the important question right now. The important question is – where in the hell have you been for the last twelve years?”
I cleared my throat. “I've been – away.”
“Yeah, obviously,” she says. “But where?”
I scratched at my beard. I wasn't here for a lot of reunions. I was here for Rick's funeral and after that, I was getting the hell out of Sheridan Falls again. I didn't owe anybody any explanations. I didn't owe anybody shit. Least of all, Brooke Greenwood.
But I also know that if I blow her off, she's going to keep annoying the piss out of me. That's how she'd been as a kid and I can tell by her attitude, that she hasn't changed all that much.
“I – joined the military,” I finally say.
“The military?” she asks. “As in – the army or something?”
“Marines, actually.”
“And you couldn't call, couldn't write, couldn't do – anything like that?”
I shrug. “I just thought it would be better that way.”
“Better for you maybe.”
I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “Look,” I say. “I'm just back here for Rick's funeral. Sorry if my going away caused you any sort of hurt – not that it should have. I needed to do what was right by me and I don't owe you an explanation, Brooke. But don't worry, after the funeral, Sheridan Falls is in my rearview mirror again.”
She gives me a long, level look. “It's not me you need to apologize to,” she says. “It's Abby.”
“Yeah, well, that's a little difficult when she's in New Y
ork.”
Brooke gives me an inscrutable expression, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. She looks smug. Like she knows something I don't and is lording it over me.
“What?” I finally ask.
“You really don't know?”
“Obviously not, Brooke.”
“Abby moved back about a year ago now.”
I look at her, completely dumbfounded. The adrenaline that shot through me before seemed like nothing compared to the absolute stream of it tearing through my body at that moment. Abby is in Sheridan Falls? Fuck. She is about the last person I want to run into while I'm here.
“She is going to shit herself when she finds out you're back,” Brooke says.
“I'm not back,” I say, my mind racing in a million different directions. “I mean, I am. But only for a couple of days.”
She shakes her head. “Do you even know what you vanishing like that did to her?” Brooke asks, her eyes narrowing, her face a mask of anger. “Do you even fucking care?”
“Of course, I care,” I say – or at least, I did care.
“You absolutely devastated her,” Brooke says. “She was wrecked for years, you insensitive asshole. You may not owe me an explanation, but I think – no, I know – you owe her one.”
I can't believe what I'm hearing. The last I'd heard – the last thing Rick had told me – Abby was married and living in New York. I figured she'd moved on with her life and was happy – and that's all I ever wanted for her, to be happy. And happiness was something I knew she wasn't going to have with me. Her father had made that abundantly clear.
After finding out she was married, I never asked about her after that. But I would have thought Rick might have mentioned the fact that she'd moved back to Sheridan Falls.
“Listen, Brooke,” I say, still trying to gather my thoughts, “she can't know I'm here. Please, don't tell her.”
“What, you don't think she's going to see you at the funeral?”
“She's going?”
Brooke gives me a look of pure contempt. “Yeah, probably. Rick was her friend too, you know.”
“Great,” I say and run a hand over my face.
“Maybe it's time you man up and give her an explanation, Caleb.”
I look to the sky, at the white, fluffy clouds drifting by overhead. If I hadn't already spoken to Rick's parents, I might just pack up and go right now. Maybe I could talk to them, explain the situation, and slip out of Sheridan Falls anyway.
I didn't want to face Abby. Not after what I'd done. The last thing I want to do is cause her any more pain than I already had.
“Yeah, maybe you're right,” I say, trying to buy myself some time to figure out what I'm going to do. “I owe her an explanation. But, can I ask you for one favor?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, that look of contempt still on her face. “You can ask.”
“I just need a little time,” I say. “You're right, I owe Abby an explanation. And I'll give it to her. Just – let me do it in my own way. Just don't tip her off that I'm back in town for now. Please.”
She let out a small snort of disgust. “She's my sister, Caleb –”
“I know,” I reply. “But don't you think she's been through enough already? Don't you think that dropping something on her like that might hurt her? I think it's better if I talk to her face-to-face.”
Brooke shakes her head. “Yeah, maybe,” she snaps. “Fine. I'll keep your secret. For now. But you had best talk to her, Caleb. Before the funeral.”
“I will,” I say. “I promise.”
She looks at me for a long moment and shakes her head. “Unbelievable,” she says.
Without another word, she turns and walks off, shaking her head in disgust the whole way.
“Yeah, that went well,” I mutter to myself.
My mind is awash in emotion and I'm having a hard time sorting through it all. Honestly, I don't even know where to begin. With a sigh, I turn and head for the car. Focus on the task at hand – and that's completing this errand I have even less desire to take care of now.
Chapter Fifteen
I'm standing at the two small, simple headstones that bear the names of my parents. Obviously, they hadn't been able to afford anything nice – not the polished marble or smooth granite headstones that filled the cemetery. No, my parents were off in a corner of the graveyard, their headstones small and unremarkable.
It was rather fitting for how they lived their lives, actually.
I squatted down before the two headstones and looked at the names and the dates of their deaths that had been carved into the rough, coarse stone. I hadn't been here when they died – I'd gotten word while over in Afghanistan, of course. I was offered bereavement leave to come back for the funerals, but had declined. What was the point? It wasn't like I had any special affection for either of them.
My father had been a drunk – a vicious drunk at that. He'd often used me and my mom as a punching bag whenever he felt wronged by life. And he felt wronged a lot. My mom hadn't been as vicious as he was. At least, not physically. My mother's particular skill was using her words – and she could use them in a way that made me wish for a physical beating from my father instead.
Cuts and bruises healed – the impact of my mother's words had a longer lasting effect.
I looked around at the other graves and noticed that most of them had flowers or some small token from a loved one. There were obvious signs that the people who resided in those graves were missed. When I looked down at the plain plots that housed the remains of my parents, I saw that there was not one flower and not one token placed upon them. They quite obviously, were not missed. By anybody.
“To tell you the truth,” I say to the two graves, “I don't even know why I'm here. It's not like we ever got along. And it's not like we ever had a family bond or anything.”
Honestly, I really have no idea why I'm here. Maybe, it's to confirm the fact that they really are dead. Maybe, this is some way to provide me with some sense of closure in my life. Back in the Corps, I'd met with a shrink a few times. He'd told me that I would never truly be able to move forward in my life if I hung on to these things from the past – these things that caused me pain. Namely, the relationship with my parents.
It was his belief that I needed to confront my past, make some effort to come to terms with it, and then let it go. He said that I needed closure on that chapter of my life. Only then, would I be able to move on from it and move forward unhindered.
Yeah, my relationship with the shrink didn't last very long.
I preferred life in the military. It was simple. Orderly. I knew what was expected of me. I could just go out and do my job. I didn't have to worry about stupid concepts like closure or moving forward. My job was simple – see the bad guy, shoot the bad guy. It doesn't get any easier than that.
But for whatever reason, almost the minute I hit the town limits, I felt compelled to visit the graveyard.
“Maybe, that shrink was right,” I say. “Maybe, I did need to see this. To know for sure that you're dead, gone, and not coming back.”
I stand up and turn to leave, but then pause. I look out at the sea of headstones, at the riot of colors from the flowers placed on those graves. And although there is a part of me that feels badly that these two people had so little impact on the lives of others that nobody bothered to even put a flower on their grave, the other part of me feels somehow satisfied by it. Part of me feels like in death, they are getting what they deserve for what they wrought in life.
I turn back to the two graves. “Actually, before I go,” I say, “I just want to get a couple of things off my chest.”
A soft gust of wind blows across the cemetery, sending dry leaves skittering across the grass. The sudden breeze made me think the spirits in the graveyard – my parents in particular – were trying to communicate with me. Although, I don't know what my parents would be trying to communicate. Would they be asking me for forgiveness? Or would
they simply be launching another verbal assault from beyond the grave.
Knowing them as well as I did, I suspected it would probably be the latter.
“I guess I just want to say that I hope you two are rotting in hell,” I say. “For eighteen years, you made life beyond miserable. You twisted me in knots that I'm still trying to untie. Believe me when I say that you two fucked me up but good. I'm glad you're both dead.”
I stare down at the graves as if expecting an answer. Obviously, none is forthcoming. Which is fine. I have a little more to get off my chest and I hate being interrupted.
“As parents and as human beings, you both failed. Miserably,” I say, “The fact that they dumped you two out here in the corner of the boneyard, all by yourselves – it says a lot about the both of you. All of it well deserved. I made something of myself, you assholes. You did your best to tear me down. To make me a useless piece of trash like the both of you – but you failed at that too. I did something with my life. Unlike the both of you.”
I open my mouth to speak again but find that – I'm done. I'm surprised to find that I have nothing else to say. It strikes me as incredibly odd given that I had so many years of rage built up within me. So many years of pain. And because of that, I thought that I'd be standing there throwing verbal grenades at them for hours.
But the desire to do that simply – evaporated.
Maybe, that's what closure feels like – the need to exact a pound of flesh simply disappearing. I'd said my piece and maybe now, it's time to move forward.
The only problem is that I've lived so long with that weight on my shoulders and that rage within me bubbling just below the surface, I'm not quite sure how to live without it. That dark anger – in a way – defined me.
It's one reason I was so effective in the fields of Afghanistan – I could actually kill without the barest shred of remorse. My anger and my rage made me a better soldier. And if the anger that had sustained me for so long did simply vanish, I wasn't sure how I was going to manage to live without it.
But, that's a discussion better left for another day. I'm so screwed up in the head right now that my old familiar companion – the rage – might still actually be somewhere deep down inside of me. Might not have gone away at all. Who knows?