Rumble (23 page)

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 with 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.