Taken Back

by Eric Fahey



  Taken Back

  by Eric Fahey

  Copyright 2011 Eric Fahey

  Her hair was just long enough to kiss the top of her shoulders. She had that classic movie star quality to the way she carried herself. Every guy was in love with her the second they laid eyes on her, every guy except me. I had hated Christine Carlson with a passion. I could never put my finger on what exactly it was about her that rubbed me the wrong way.

  Maybe it was the way she intentionally swayed her tiny hips when she walked?

  Or the way she coordinated her hair with the day of the week?

  I think the thing that bothered me most about Christine was that she always acknowledged me the same way every time we talked, "Heeeey Charles Duff-ay!"

  This was the second week in a row she had been in the ice cream shop every day. She walked back and forth along the display case two and a half times before ordering the same double scoop of vanilla with Oreo crumbs she has every time for the past 5 years.

  As she said goodbye, her southern drawl was as this as the day she moved to Highland Park. It happened to be one of those immortal summer days, right in the beginning of August, when the Carlson station wagon first pulled into the driveway on the corner of Iris and Glenwood. Her graceful figure was revealed to the neighborhood as she stepped out of the wood-paneled wagon. Being right across the street, I was the first one to hear that long, quiet, "Heeeey!"

  With that one word, I noticed her walking right at me. I always hated my mother's "suggestion" to always play outside all day every day and I came to dread it with this blond mystery moving in across the street. She was tall for 14, as she was only 12. I had still hoped she wasn't directing that piercing twang at me, but I never get what I hope for, and this was no exception. I did nothing. I was frozen in a form of intimidation I had never felt before.

  She quickly introduced herself, obnoxiously using her full name. Christine Louise Carlson. I only gave her my first as I stood stunned in fear, until she pulled my last name out from me. Duffy. Only she placed another syllable in it. Duff-ay. She managed to make a little small talk before she admitted she had the difficult task of taking care of her brother while her parents took to the heavy lifting. She smiled though her eyes throughout the conversation and replied in a flutter so slow it could have put me to sleep.

  "My daddy would never make me lift a thing," she said coyly as she started her short walk across the street. I laughed politely and drew a blank, just hoping something would happen to wipe off the awkwardness I found myself soaked in.

  I think I stuttered through something like, "See ya around sometime." I then saw Roger Stephens' ball-like shadow roll over mine. Roger was never any help at all. Awkwardness followed him as the shadow had. He was an oversized 6th grader that constantly smelled like chocolate. Yet, Christine's blue eyes never moved off of mine.

  "Well Charles Duff-ay, you have a nice day. Bye now."

  Ugh! my name was Charles Duffy. NOT Charles Duff-ay. I shouldn't have even said goodbye. She was already halfway back to her car, where her dad cautiously observed our conversation, if you could even call it that. I quickly turned to Roger as if nothing had happened. His eyes burned a hole in the backside of her hips. Roger stared blankly with his eyes swaying to the rhythm of her hips. The drool from his mouth was normal, but his eyes said enough. What was strange about it is that every boy in Highland Park, whether five or 15, had exactly that same expression as Roger Stephens when they saw her for the first time. She had always had the opposite effect on me, until July 4th, 1970.

  I had been working at Kid's Ice Cream on First Street since I was a freshman in high school. Mr. Hebert had paid me well, but not well enough to afford college on my own. I started my summer closing the store with Logan Martin and listening to his stories from school. We were pretty good friends until he left for Notre Dame last fall. Logan would talk to a tree if it would nod and say, "Uh huh."

  As Carlo had shipped out to boot camp a year ago, Logan became my only source of entertainment, that is, while he was home.

  That Friday, we planned to go to the beach after closing, but I had left my towel and wallet at home. We jumped into his car just before 10 to go pick them up at my house. It wasn't too long before Logan started talking again. He was halfway through telling me about one of his wild nights when we passed Carlo's house.

  "So we'd been drinking Jack and Cokes all night, running from sirens behind us. -" With a pause, his head swiveled, staying connected to the front door. "Man, I can't imagine what kinda shit he's in." As quickly as he brought up the subject, he tried to drop it. "Ah, shit, man. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinkin'."

  "Nah, don't worry about it. It'll be over in no time. I still got my fingers crossed," I said. But to be honest, the thought had never left the back of my mind.

  "Good. It's good not to think otherwise." He was chewing gum, quick and obnoxiously as usual. "How bout your Mom?"

  "Well, she can't even check the mail anymore. Every day it's worse, ya know? More crap on the news about all the ambushes and shit. I don't watch TV anymore. My dad keeps telling me to enlist though. Said it'd just get it over with. Says it'd be a real opportunity for me to grow up."

  "Some learning experience that is," he said.

  "I dunno, I'd just as soon wait it out. I'm just an idiot for failing Chem last year. I'm sure I coulda gotten a real scholarship if I passed.." I couldn't finish the thought.

  "Jeez, you're still hung up on that?! You've got more smarts than 75 percent of the chicks at St. Mary's! And you're just wasting your time at Kid's. I'll get some scholarship stuff for ND. Maybe we could get you out to South Bend for fall term?"

  He was trying too hard to be of help, and on any other day, it would have made me feel great. In fact, it did a little, until his car's headlights lit up the red brick of my house.

  All the lights were out except the porch. My parents were never night people, even on the weekends. I opened the door as quietly as I could, leaving it open for a quick exit. My mom hated the idea of going swimming in the dark. But lately, she just let me do as I pleased. I crept upstairs, skipping at least half of of them. I flipped the light switch before I made it around the corner into my room, as I had done a thousand times before. The fluid motion stopped dead in the doorway.

  Everything was sitting on my bed waiting for me: my wallet, my towel, and an envelope with my name on it. I didn't have time to open it, but I did anyways. All I could make of it was "July 5th" and "Fort Sill" as my body quaked and flooded. My face hot with tears, I forced my feet down the stairs. One at a time. Each step felt heavier than the next. I was singing in quicksand before I finally made it to the front door.

  The headlights turned my tears into empty angels as the blinded me from Logan's face. He was halfway out of the car when he shouted, "Charlie? Charlie, is that it? Don't fuck with me. Is that what I think it is?!"

  "Yeah-yeah, this is it...yeah." I couldn't hide the obvious, he knew I was crying. "Um...I don't think I should go to-tonight, I just-just want to go back inside." The words were pulled from my throat. My mouth was dry and my face was soaking wet. I could hardly make out his face.

  He was squinting though the lights, right onto the envelope clinched in my trembling fist. He hesitated, that was all I could see.

  "Okay, alright, um, yeah. Try and get some sleep, okay Charlie? Look, I understand. I'll just see you at work, alright?"

  I knew I wouldn't be sleeping, but nodded my head anyway. As it shook with the rest of my body, I turned my back on Logan and away from the lights. The door closed behind me like a red shield saving me from the beams of his car as it pulled out of the driveway. My eyes had hardly adjusted to the tears, let alone the lights, and now darkness. When the neon blurbs faded, I saw my Mom's
frail figure pensively floating down the stairs. With a voice as soft as skin, she cut through the silence, "How was work?"

  Her face seemed as troubled as mine. Her hair as matted behind her neck, tucked into her white bathrobe. Every bit of fear she had was clenched in her fists holding the collar shut. I knew what she was doing but I wouldn't stand for it.

  "Cut the crap, Ma. I know you saw this. You've been wound up over it for months."

  As if she wasn't prepared for me to reply, she guided her back against the wall and slid onto the edge of the stairs and sat down. After a huge breath, she repeated herself, "How was work?"

  I knew what she was doing. "Mom, I know what you're doing. It says right here, July 5th, Mom!" WIth each word, my mother's face grew tighter and tighter. Her were collected, but I could tell she wasn't.

  "Yeah, July 5th, Charlie." She took a breath that shook her whole body. "What is tomorrow? the 20th? That makes 15 days before you get on that bus. Can't I just have you while you are home? let's leave the worrying and prayers for when you're gone."

  To get myself out of that moment I gave her what she wanted, "I guess." That was the last we spoke of it. Neither of us made eye contact and I swiftly passed her on the steps. It was clear to me then that she had thought about this much more than I ever did. And in wiping the damp evidence of pain from my face, it was no longer about me. I looked out my window, across the street and into the stars, as if to find someone there with an answer.

  When my alarm sounded I was awake to shut it off. I set it early, fully knowing I would be up anyway. I walked down the steps to find my dad fixing a cup of coffee. It had been so long since I had seen his morning ritual I had come to forget it. He turned to face me as the stairs creaked.

  "Charlie, good morning!" Somehow he knew I would be up before my mother.

  "Yeah, sure," I replied with something a little less than indifference. He looked at me witha puzzled drop of his graying eyebrows. It was almost as if he was completely unaware of the news. "Not looking for the act, Dad. This isn't really a pleasant situation."

  "Fair enough. But I think from what your mother told me last night, you could show a little maturity in handling it a bit better. Don't you think?"

  "Ya know, I couldn't care any less about maturity or anything like it right now. I'm worried about me, Dad, and I have a right to. I can't see myself off in the jungle with a gun. I can't picture myself shooting at another person. I just can't"

  I looked at everything in and out of the room except my father. Out the window, across the street, up at the ceiling, it didn't matter where. If I had to look into his dark eyes, I would have started to cry.

  "Charlie...Charlie, look at me." I couldn't, but I did. "This is what I'm talking about. You need to understand something: boys all over the country are getting the same letter you got. I got the same letter when I was your age. Some own up to their responsibilities and others run off because they're scared...and the scared ones that do go, they don't make it. They get shot. They screw up and get others shot. It's just a fact."

  Being direct was always his thing, even though it usually meant coming off like a jerk.

  "Well thanks, Dad!" I couldn't believe it was possible for him to say something like this to me. And yet, he continued.

  "I'm telling you this because I care about you, Charlie. You have some time to channel that fear into strength. I would like to see you grow a little from this experience."

  Right then his eyes focused on my mother drifting down the stairs, doing he best to stay way from the conversation. With that I got up and ran back upstairs. Another second with him would've been beyond unbearable. The bathroom was the only door with a lock. Before he could explain himself the door had been bolted with every bit of frustration I had.

  Looking into the mirror I saw nothing that anyone could want in me. I had nothing. Right then I tried preparing myself for the fact that I was going to die. I was still a boy to my father. I knew I couldn't go back down there as I was still crying. Men don't cry. Men don't cry. It's not about you. Men...don't...cry....It wasn't about me anymore. Nothing I wanted mattered for the rest of my time living in this empty house. In my parents' eyes, I was about to gladly accept my responsibility, and in my own I was already thousands of miles away. I was already dead. I was a ghost.

  * * *

  I stayed at Kid's mostly to have something to do. Mostly to get out of the house. Mostly to keep my mind of leaving. My parents spoke little about anything other than work. Logan continued to tell me more about the joys of college life. Christine kept coming into Kid's. This was a play we acted out every day, the same lines, the same setting, only a different wardrobe. She had on a sleeveless white blouse with a red, white, and blue silk bow resting against her hip. Her honey blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail as perky as her personality.

  "Heeeey Charles Duff-ay," she said as usual.

  "Oh, hi Christine. What can I get you?" I asked, but I already knew. This usually started her on way down the line, back and for and back and forth and back. This day she didn't move. She took three slow steps toward me dragging the bow along the counter. Her hips remained in place.

  "Double scoop vanilla with some Oreo crumbs, please."

  I handed her the cup and rang her up without glancing above the display case. When I finally did, her figure remained halfway out the door. The bells were bouncing off the glass with a sudden slapping halt. I was sure I gave her correct change. I was sure I gave her exactly what she ordered, hell, I made it enough times. But there was something strange about her hesitation.

  "Is there anything else I can do for you?" I said.

  As her ponytail swung around her head in a blur, she looked back at me ready to say almost anything. Her jaw bounced slightly and finally broke open.

  "Yeah, as a matter of fact there is." Her eyes reflected pure disappointment, as mine rolled with indifference. "I come in here every day."

  "Yeah, I've noticed," I shot back with mild annoyance. Going through the motions like I actually had something to do I began wiping the counter.

  "Charles, you most certainly have not. you don't notice the way I look at you, you don't notice the way I talk to you, and you certainly don't notice the way I feel about you." I could blame the shiver that crawled up my back on the freezer, but I would be lying out my ears. I was instantly confused and somehow found something to say to her.

  "I do notice the way you look at me and talk to me...I just don't care."

  "Is there a reason? Because it would be nice to know why, since yer leavin' tomorrow." The spark of blue sunlight highlighted a concern in her silver eyes I hadn't even seen in my own mother's. In that split second I did everything I could to get her to leave. But at the same time I didn't want her to.

  "Since the day we met, you've done nothing but, 'Heeeey Charles Duff-ay' and stroll around in here trying to distract me with your awkward looks. It's-it's annoying! Okay? I find you annoying." The smile on her face was the last reaction I was expecting.

  "That's exactly it. That's my point. I say hello to you and stroll in here to be noticed, to be seen, maybe even be spoken to, and yet you let me slip on by and keep yer distance because you think I'm annoying?! And here we are...Yer headin' off tomorrow and we've said nothing by 'hi' to each other in just about 7 years of being right across the street from each other. I figure I'd try and change all that with the time that's left."

  "What what's left? What is left, Christine? A day! One day!" I shot back in an angry whisper her intentions didn't deserve. "I've got nothing left here. There never has been anything for me in this goddamn town!"

  For the first time, here eyes weren't fixed on me, but out the window. Roaring past it was a fire engine iced in red, white, and blue paper. Flags waved in the hands of innocent children as they cheered and laughed. She glared at me for a moment before resting her i
ce cream on the counter.

  "It just so happens that this one day is the Fourth of July. Consider yourself lucky." She paused to let it sink in. "All I'm askin' for is one night. Hell, it's impossible for anything more. I promise. I'll do my best not to annoy you." She said with a smile.

  "Look...Thanks, but I'm working 'til close. Logan left for Lake Geneva this morning with his family, so there's no one to cover." There was no use fighting, really, but I put one up to spite her. Her lips spread wide again and her eyes lit up and wrapped me in a smile.

  "Well, I happen to know that you close at 9 and the fireworks don't start 'til after 10. So I'll see you at 9?" She said with a grin. As she turned to finally walk out the door, her hips didn't skip a beat as they swayed their way into the crowd. THat was it, there was nothing left to be said. I was going to spend the night by myself as it was, but she had a point. I had nothing to lose in giving her a chance.

  By closing time the floor blended with the grimey sidewalk along First Street. Promptly at 9, the grime was abruptly broken by long tan legs and a bright new pair of Keds. Her hair was down and curled unlike any day of the week. She had changed from the patriotic outfit from this afternoon into a sky blue sun dress that sparked the whites of her eyes and teeth into a bittersweet glow. She stood half-lit in the doorway without making a sound, knowing exactly what I was thinking: Everything I had ever felt about her had just exploded like a firecracker in front of me. I complimented her. IT would've been a sin not to. I then knew why Roger Stephens froze on my driveway seven years ago, along with everyone after him.

  As I locked he doors to Kid's for the last time, she spoke her first words as if I'd never heard her voice before, but she asked in a way as if I had known her forever, "Are you scared?"

  "I'm not quite sure anymore," I replied with little thought. "I haven't felt anything but fear since I got the draft notice, ya know? But I don't think I'm too scared."

  "I didn't mean about that. I meant right now. Are you scared about tonight?" She hesitated as she spoke with a smile. "Charles, you haven't left yet. So don't act like it." As sweet as she said it, it was if it was