Sons of the 613 (31 page)

“All right, then,” he says, and climbs back in the car, and they drive away for good, all of it ending like every conversation I've ever had with Josh: unfinished, incomplete, the most important parts left unsaid.

The person who comes to your door is called a Casualty Notification Officer. He is accompanied by an Appropriate Member of the Clergy, which in this case was a rabbi in military dress uniform.

It was dinnertime. It was Lisa who answered the door. She came back into the dining room, carrying with her a swirl of frigid air from outside, the January cold sticking to her like an arctic forewarning of the news that was about to be delivered. She told my parents that there were two army men who wanted to talk to them. My mother and father looked at each other across the table for a very long moment. Then my father put his fork down and stared at his plate as if gathering himself, stood, and left the room. And I knew.

“Stay here,” my mother said, and followed him.

“What's going on?” whispered Lisa after they were gone. “Isaac! What's going on?” she said again.

I put my elbows on the table and buried my face in my hands and just sat there, because I couldn't talk.

 

As far as I know, Josh sent exactly three e-mails after leaving home. The first was that he was in basic training and it was fine. Then it was that he was being sent to Afghanistan, and it was fine. Then, he's in Afghanistan, and it's fine. Except I knew it wasn't fine, because I knew which Marine unit he was with and I read an article about them, about how they were in combat almost every day. He got a Purple Heart from some earlier combat mission, but he never mentioned it. We found out about that after he died, killed by an IED that also killed two other Marines. I try very hard not to think of his indestructible superhero body being torn apart by an explosion.

Lesley didn't come to the funeral. I didn't expect her to. Patrick came, though. I didn't cry at all during the ceremony. Patrick cried like a baby. My mom comforted him. Then they both went outside and smoked cigarettes in the subzero temperature.

Two weeks after the service I was gathering the mail and froze in place, a chill up my spine. There was a letter addressed to me in Josh's handwriting.

I had a moment of thinking,
He's alive. Josh is alive. They were wrong. It was someone else.

But then I thought,
No. They don't make mistakes like that.

I don't know why, but I took the envelope back to my room. I didn't tell anyone about it. I held it for a long time, looking at the envelope, the stamp, the address in his handwriting from a base in Helmand province. But I didn't open it for weeks. I couldn't. I finally opened it on March twenty-third, Josh's birthday.

It was handwritten on thin paper in his bad script.

 

Isaac,

I asked a buddy of mine to send this if I was KIA. So if you're reading this, I'm dead. Which sucks, but whatever. I knew that was part of the deal when I signed up.

Good luck with everything. Take care of Lisa.

I want you to know that I love it here and love what I'm doing. Mom and Dad will never understand this, but this is what I was born to do.

I also want to explain why I put you through what I did.

The world is full of assholes (people like me). People like you are rare. You're smart and you're hard working. You think about things and care about them, and you can make the world a better place.

I just don't want you to get eaten up by the bad people. I wanted to show you that you're tough enough to stand up to them. Because the world needs you.

You know I have a hard time saying things. I wasn't able to say this before I left, and I guess I won't be able to tell you this in person. But I want you to know: I'm proud of you. You're already a better man than I ever was.

Josh

 

I read the letter, and then I read it again, and then I read it ten more times. Then I read the last two lines over and over again, trying to experience them anew with each and every repetition. I didn't cry during the funeral, but I read that letter and sobbed for an hour. Then I folded it up and carefully put it back in the envelope and put it in my dresser. And then took it out and read it again.

 

Summer is coming. I'm going to be fourteen. It's nearly a year since my bar mitzvah. Eric and Sarah are still going out, and suddenly he's cool, because there are rumors that they've done it. I still hang out with Danny and Steve and Paul, but I was right, things are somehow different. I thought they'd be my peeps forever, but I wonder—ask me in a year, and maybe we'll all have moved on.

A few times now Patrick has stopped by unannounced. Just showed up, knocked on the door, and hung around. Once my parents even let me go play pool with him. I saw Durwin there. He came over and said he'd heard about Josh and he was sorry. I said it was okay. I told him I was sorry I thought he was a drug dealer. He said that was okay too.

I haven't seen or heard from Lesley since the day I invited her to my bar mitzvah.

No one bothers me at school anymore. Now I'm The Kid Whose Brother Was Killed in Afghanistan. A genuine war hero. There's a plaque with his picture on it in the trophy case, next to all the awards he won for the school over the years.

Sometimes I use product in my hair. When I'm old enough, I think I'll get that tattoo Josh described, the dragon on my forearm. Maybe I'll put his name on it.

I've started to spend time in Josh's room, going through his things. I found a book on his shelf, a collection of Zen stories. He had dog-eared one. It was about a demon who cuts off his horns, like Hellboy, and files down his fangs and joins a monastery and tries to lead a virtuous life. Except of course after a while he can't bear it any longer and ends up devouring everyone. Because that's his essential nature. It's who he is. I didn't need any explanation as to why Josh had bookmarked that particular tale.

“So foolish,” my mom said about Josh. “So foolish.” My dad said, “Isaac, I pray to God you never have to go to war.” I told my mom, “It wasn't foolish, it was who he was.” And to my dad I said, “I hope so, too. But if I do, I pray to God I have a guy like Josh next to me.”

My dad thought about that a long time in silence, and then just got up and left the room. I thought he was angry with me. Instead he came back a few minutes later and his eyes were red. He said, “You're right, Isaac. You're right.” And he said, “Thank you for that. That makes me feel a bit better.” Then he squeezed my shoulder and left again.

 

I take Josh's letter out and read it almost every morning before I go to school, a little ritual that connects me to my brother, and to the two weeks we spent together. Two weeks that changed me in ways that I'm still trying to figure out.

I started those two weeks as a boy. When I emerged on the other side I wasn't exactly a man, but I certainly wasn't a child anymore. I was transformed. Maybe not in the way that Josh intended or hoped, but transformed nonetheless.

Don't get me wrong: I'm still me. I don't think it works like that, that you have one big experience and suddenly you're brand-new and totally different. I still get nervous and anxious and think too much about everything and see consequences and worry. I guess those thoughts and feelings are part of who I am. They might be pains in the ass, but I went on a very intense journey with them as very close traveling companions, and along the way I got to know them better and maybe even appreciate them a bit.

Josh once told me that his heart rate would actually drop before he got in a fight. I'll never be that guy. I'll never be the guy who thinks it's fun to run and jump off a cliff. But I know that I can, because I did. I also know what it's like to be in a pool hall and a topless club. I spent the night in bed with a woman. I made friends with a stripper and a semiharmless drug dealer. I've shot a gun and crashed a motorcycle and gotten beat up and beat someone up, and I've been in a real live, honest-to-God bar brawl.

I'm not saying I recommend those things as healthy pursuits, exactly. But they did whack me around and open my eyes, and I guess I have Josh to thank for that. Also for pushing me too hard and making me do more than I thought I could. And for setting the scene so I could fall in love, and yes, get my heart stomped on, which is probably one of those horrific lessons everyone just has to experience. At least I got the first one out of the way early on.

If I'm honest with myself, I'd have to say that it wasn't just him making me do everything. If I'd really wanted to, I could have put a stop to the Quest at any time. Despite all my complaining, I was a willing participant.

 

That last time I saw Lesley, she said, “Josh knows how to be a man. But he doesn't know how to be a
Man.
You know what I mean? A grownup? I wonder if he's scared to be.”

I've rolled that around in my head a lot. I always thought it would be hard for
me
to be a man. But maybe Lesley was right. Maybe it was even harder for Josh. I mean, think about it: What would Conan the Barbarian do these days?

It made me start thinking about my bar mitzvah speech. I wish I could give it again. Because now I think I have something worthwhile to say. Not that I'm any sort of expert, but I'd talk about becoming a man.

I'd say that I think there are different ways to be a man, that sometimes it means being brave and strong and aggressive, and sometimes it means thinking and caring and being responsible and seeing consequences. And everything in between all that. Knowing how to play chess
and
do a double-leg takedown. You don't just say,
I'm
this
sort of guy, so I can't be
that
sort of guy.
Maybe you can't be all those things, but you should at least know about them and respect them and try to experience them and have as many bits and pieces of them as possible be part of you. Because I think a real man is all those things.

I would also say this—and again, I'm no expert. But I bet that you probably never quite get there, that becoming a man is something that never, ever stops, and all you can do is just keep trying. Maybe that should be number 614.

I almost forgot: I finally spoke to Patricia Morrison. One sentence. Done. Check it off the list.

It was the Monday after the party, the bar fight, everything. There I was, walking by the trophy case, and there she was, walking toward me. There was a moment when her eyes flickered randomly over to look at me and lingered, no doubt needing a moment to let her brain assimilate my novel appearance: exhausted, two black eyes, bruises, scrapes, stitches. In other words, totally cool.

“Hey,” I said, and her eyes widened more realizing I was addressing her, “you missed an
awesome
party.”

MICHAEL RUBENS
was a producer for several years for the award-winning
Daily Show
with Jon Stewart, writing and directing field pieces with Stephen Colbert, Rob Corddry, Samantha Bee, Ed Helms and other
Daily Show
correspondents. In addition to his work with the
Daily Show
, Mike has also been a host, writer, and producer of several programs on the Travel Channel, including
Eclipse Chasers: Ghana
and
Drew Carey's Sporting Adventures: World Cup
. Michael has also written and produced for CNN, Oxygen and other networks. He has appeared as a guest commentator on VH1's infamous celebrity-bashing programs. His first novel,
The Sheriff of Yrnameer,
was published in 2009. This is his first book for young adults. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.