Toward the Sound of Chaos (3 page)

God
Bless America.

Land
of the free and the home of the brave.

Ellie

H
ell
and damnation
.
Could my luck get any worse?

I
took Spence home and with a lot of struggling, an epic meltdown that I just
didn’t have the heart for, and half a tube of Neosporin plastered all over the
bathroom floor later, I’d cleaned up the scratches on his arm. We’d finally
made it to the market before they closed, though there’d been another meltdown
there about the way Tina Tisdale had stared at him a moment too long at the
checkout, which of course had led to every woman and her dog telling me how I
should raise my child with a firm hand and how tantrums shouldn’t be tolerated.

I
don’t consider myself a violent woman, but I swear if I’d stayed to hear one
more word come out of those uneducated, judgmental former beauty queens’
mouths, I’d yank their lacquered hair from their vacant heads and strangle them
with it.

My
son doesn’t have a behavioral problem, and he doesn’t throw tantrums; he’s just
wired different than we are. They don’t understand that tacos are absolutely
the most important thing about Taco Tuesday, and that we can’t just go without
the refried beans because Mamma forgot to pick them up from the market on
Sunday after church, or that on Tuesdays he wears his Taco-saurus Rex shirt and
he can’t now because it’s stained with blood. They don’t understand that you can
look him in the eye for two seconds, but not three, because three is a number
he doesn’t like. Three seconds makes him so uncomfortable he has no way of
expressing himself but through tensing every muscle in his body and screaming
at the top of his lungs or throwing himself face down on the ground at the
Piggly Wiggly because he don’t want anyone looking him in the eye for more than
two seconds.

They
don’t understand that, but I do. It breaks my heart to see the repulsion on
their overly made-up faces, and today I had no choice but to pick up my
screaming child and carry him to my car with the groceries in tow. I pulled out
of that lot like a bat outta hell so Spence wouldn’t be faced with their
ugliness a moment longer.

At
home, as I juggle the bags of groceries inside behind Spencer, the phone begins
to ring. Olivia’s number comes up on the caller ID. For a moment I think about
not answering it, but Spence hates it when I let it ring three times, and I
can’t afford another meltdown, so I pick it up and juggle the paper grocery bag
between my hand and hip.

“Hey
Olivia. Now is really not a good time.”

“Honey,
Lady died.”

It’s
at this point where my heart breaks in two. If I thought everything that has happened
during the last two days was bad, this is so much worse. The sack of groceries
falls to the floor and I sob into the mouthpiece. “No.”

“She
got out. I’d put her in with Pebbles last night after feeding so neither one
wouldn’t be alone—you know how they get—and I mustn’t have locked the kennel
properly because it was wide open when I came in this morning. Billy Foster
found her by the side of the road out near the Biscuit King Café and called me an
hour ago. I been trying to work out a way to break it to you ever since.”

“This
is all my fault,” I mumble through my tears, thinking of that gorgeous Golden
Retriever and all she’s done for my son.

“Oh,
sugar, how in the world do you figure that?”

“If
I hadn’t crashed my stupid car into that footbridge, you wouldn’t have been
here last night. You’d have been home with her. I am so sorry, Liv.”

“Honey,
it’s not your fault.” She sniffles. “It’s mine. I didn’t double check the gate,
and Pebbles is a repeat escape artist.”

“Is
she alright?”

“She’s
still kicking, if that’s what you mean. Billy said she was huddled in against
Lady’s side; she snapped at him when he tried to lift Lady into the back of the
truck. He wound up putting Pebbles in an empty crab crate ’cause she tried to
bite his hands off.”

“At
least she’s okay.”

“Oh,
she’s fine; it’s me I’m worried about. How am I gonna rehome a Chihuahua with
that much sass?”

“I’m
really sorry.” I take a Kleenex from off the top of the fridge and dab at my
eyes. “I better go break the news to Spence.”

“Well,
I know it ain’t the same because tomorrow is Wednesday and he was expecting to
see Lady.” Olivia’s voice cracks, and she clears her throat. “But if you bring
him by Friday week, I’m taking in a whole litter of Retriever pups from the
Beasleys. We’re training them up as seeing-eye dogs for the center in Mobile,
so you bring that boy by in the afternoon and he can keep them entertained for
a bit.”

“I
will,” I say, and lean my head back against the cupboard. “I’m so sorry, Liv.”

“Me
too.” She chokes up as she says this, and my own tears begin to fall faster as
I hang up the phone and prepare to tell my son the bad news.

As
expected, he does not take it well.

He
cries so hard I swear to God he stops breathing, and just when I think he’s cried
himself out, he cries some more. I don’t know what to do, so I cry with him,
and there in a puddle on our kitchen floor, around spoiled ice cream that I’d
really been looking forward to and the remainder of the bag of groceries spilled
out around us, he climbs into my lap and lets me hold him for the first time in
a long time.

We
cry over Lady, the dog who would have been his Autism assistance dog if only I
could afford to keep one and if Mr. Williams had allowed us to own a pet, and
when Spencer falls asleep and I carry him into bed, I send a silent thank you
to Lady—who I just know is in doggy heaven for all that she’s given to my
little man.

Jake

I
stand with my hands on my knees, my torso pitched forward, and my lungs on fire
as I gasp for breath. I don’t know where the hell I am, and I don’t much care
either, as long as I’m not cooped up in that doctor’s office no more.

Rising
to my full height, I hug my ribcage and wonder if I ran so hard I dislodged a
piece of shrapnel from my side. A beat later the pain subsides, and I call
myself a pussy for the eighteenth time today, and it’s not even noon yet. I
stare at the car window in front of me and see what looks to be a homeless man
reflected back.

Jesus
.
When did I become a fucking mountain man?

I
scrub my hand over my too long beard and then up through my hair. When I was in
recovery in that German hospital after my service, I wanted nothing more than a
hot meal, a buzz-cut and a clean shave. I’ve grown both my beard and my hair
since my return to US soil, but then pretty blondes weren’t exactly lining up
around the block to date me.

What,
like they are now?

I
run over today’s checklist in an attempt to shut that voice in my head up.

Run
with Nuke? Good.

Leaving
Nuke at the house? Bad.

Appointment
with my shrink? Bad.

Wanting
to punch my shrink in the face when he pushed too hard? Bad.

Going
through with it? BAD. BAD. BAD.

I
rake my hands through my beard and step away from the curb, glancing around the
quiet leafy street. Houses line each side. Not grand or overly large, like the
ones on Sea Cliff Drive, but they aren’t rundown either.

Across
the road, a surly old man watches me from his front porch stoop, but they aren’t
the only eyes trained on me. I turn around. The single story Créole-style home
might be a little run down, but she is a beauty. The cream roller shade
covering the glass-paned door moves. It flicks up violently, stunning me and
exposing the small, angry blonde on the other side of it. Painted on the door
between us is a logo that reads
Big Bama Hair
and beneath that in pink
script I can just pick out the words
close shave
.

It
must be my lucky day, after all
.

Ellie
Mason turns and gives me her back as I amble up the walk. I open the door, the
bell above let out a high-pitched ding. Cool air-conditioning wafts towards me
from the vent and it’s a small mercy because my whole body is burning up from
running several blocks in the Bama heat.

“Ma’am,
are you open for business today?”

She
turns abruptly and narrows angry eyes on me. “I was just closing up, actually.”

“How’s
your boy doin’?” I ask, and when her frown deepens and she doesn’t answer, I
bow my head and prepare to get the hell out of there. “Alright. Well, I’m sorry
to disturb you. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“Wait,”
she says, sounding resigned. “Come sit down.”

“I
don’t wanna impose.”

“Don’t
make me ask twice, Jake Tucker.”

“Well
alright then.” I close the door behind me and walk towards her. She pats the
back of a barber chair, indicating that I should sit. I awkwardly fold my body
into the too small seat and stare at the mirror in front of me. My reflection
makes me uncomfortable. Mercifully, my face is free of scars, with the
exception of one very small mark marring my hairline—my neck, however, is not.

“Where’s
your dog today?” Ellie says, as she moves away to grab a black cape.

“Back
at the house.”

“Aren’t
you supposed to take him everywhere with you?” She asks as if she’s genuinely
interested. I stare at her a beat. “Olivia Anders is my best friend. I’ve
helped out at the shelter a time or two.”

I
nod and fidget by running my thumb along the scar on my index finger. It calms
me, until she glances down at my hands.

“What
did you do to your hand?”

It
takes me a moment to realize she doesn’t mean the scars; she wants to know why
my knuckles are inflamed and bleeding. I place them in my lap. It may cover the
blood, but not the scar tissue, because both sides are ruined and were
Frankensteined back together almost a year after the original injury.
“Nothing.”

She
meets my gaze in the mirror and shakes out the black cape around me. I close my
eyes as she lifts my hair from my neck in order to fasten the cape. I’m
breathing heavily. She probably thinks I’m a freak.

The
metal snap of the press studs closing makes me flinch. I close my eyes, feel
the tight pinch of rope around my neck, the shortness of breath as he yanks me
toward him like a dog on a chain.

No!
I repeat that shitty mantra in my head
Every day may not be good, but there
is something good in every day
.
Every day may not be good, but there is
something good in every day
.
Every day may not be good, but there is . .
. FUCK!

“Jake,
are you okay?” Ellie says, looking terrified, as if I’m about to jump up and
slit her throat.

Breathe,
you fucking cock sucker. You’re scaring her.

 I
meet her gaze in the mirror and bark out a gruff, “I’m fine.”

Oh
great, ’cause she definitely doesn’t think you’re Ted Bundy now
.

“We
can stop if you like?”

Sweat
prickles along my spine and over my brow. “I’m fine. Just cut it. All of it. I
want it all gone.”

Her
brow furrows. “You want me to shave everything?”

I
nod.

She
lets out a sigh. “You should keep your hair. With a good cut we’ll be able to
see your eyes, and it will really accentuate your jawline. I mean, you’d need a
close shave for that, but don’t cut your hair. Most men your age would kill to
have this much of it.” Her eyes grow wide in the mirror. “I’m sorry, I didn’t
mean they’d
kill
, kill. It’s a figure of speech, I didn’t mean nothing
by it. I’m sorry. I ramble when I’m nervous. I’ll just . . .” She peters off
and pulls her scissors from the little tool belt at her waist, carefully trimming
the bulk of my beard away, allowing it to fall to the floor.

Once
she’s finished, Ellie pumps the shaving foam into a bowl and mixes the brush
through it. She lifts it to my face. I pull away. “You know it’s hard to shave
your face when you’re moving all about like that and won’t let me get the cream
near you.”

“I
make you nervous?” I ask quietly, meeting her gaze in the mirror.

“Well,
sure you do. You’re jumpier than a jackrabbit.” She touches the side of my face
and I wince. Her expression softens as she meets my gaze. “I’ll be gentle. I
promise.”

She
exhales softly, and her palm on the side of my face holds me steady while she swirls
the soft-bristled brush through the cream and applies it with slow, fluid
strokes. When she’s finished the right side, she removes her hand. She doesn’t
have to hold me still to complete the other. I’m covered head to toe in goose
pimples. It’s the strangest feeling to have a beautiful woman tending to me
with such care. Especially one who I’ve pissed off so recently.

I
wince when she pulls the razor from her sheath and it glints in the bright
lights of the small salon, but I stay as motionless as I can.

“Hold
still,” she whispers. “Okay?”

“Yes,
ma’am.”

Carefully,
as if she were approaching a spooked horse, she places her hand on the top of
my head and tilts it back a little, and then the sharp scrape and zing of the
straight blade over my facial hair fills the quiet salon. My heart races so
fast I don’t know how it doesn’t combust. The sweet scent of flowers mixed with
shaving cream assaults my nostrils, and I have this insane desire to take her
hand and kiss the inside of her wrist, to run my tongue along it, to feel her
softness and taste her perfume.

Ellie
tilts my head further until it rests against the back of the chair. She bends
over to run the blade along that difficult spot where my neck and jaw meet. I
slant my head to the side for her. The blade slices my skin. I grab her wrist—it’s
automatic. Muscle memory. She cries out. I glance down and find I’m holding her
with enough strength to bruise. The blade falls from her hands and clatters on
the floor by her feet.

A
beat passes. My reflection meets hers in the mirror. A trickle of blood, warm
and bright red, runs down my neck and I let her go.

She
gasps, grasping her wrist with her free hand as she takes a step back.

“I’m
sorry.” I yank the cape from my neck. Three strides and I’m at the door. I pull
it open and turn back to face her. She shakes as she picks up the bent blade
from the floor.

I
close the door quietly behind me and use my shirt to wipe off the excess
shaving cream, then I sprint away from her house like a coward deserting his
post. I must look like a madman because everyone I pass stops to stare.

Fairhope
was my home town before I went away to war. I’d deployed four times, and each
time I came back a little less Jake Tucker and a little more of the Marine they
taught me to be. A group of men go to war. They kill, they follow out orders,
they sweat, bleed, and hurt, and they lose brothers. No matter how brave or how
tough you think you are, every man that ever steps into a war zone comes back
different. Some of us with scars you can see and some with scars you can’t.
Others come back in a box. It affects all of us, even those who say it don’t.
They’re just better at hiding it than the rest. This last time, all that
returned of my platoon was the shell of a man, scarred on the outside and
broken within, and this town don’t have a clue what to do with broken soldiers.

The
second I rattle open the screen door with trembling fingers, Nuke barks. He can
tell there’s something very wrong, and as I seek out the corner of my bathroom
and huddle into it, he whines and licks at my face. He nestles himself in
between my legs as I press my forehead against the cool tile.

I
don’t know how long I stay that way, huddled in a corner as if it could save me
from the demons that shadow my every move, but it feels like days and nights
pass. And maybe they do—maybe this is what hell looks like. You wake every day
and do the same thing and expect different results. Only I didn’t do the same
thing. Not today. I pushed my boundaries the way Crenshaw told me to do and I
hurt Ellie Mason because of it. I terrorized the woman—I saw it in her eyes.

I
beat my fists against my head until Nuke paws at me to stop. My ass is numb
from the cold tiles, and my legs and side ache. With a debilitating fear that
almost cripples me, I crawl across the room and lie down beside my bed, hidden
from the harsh rays of the sun that stream through the open window. Nuke
stretches out alongside me. I know I need to take him outside, but I can’t. He
won’t leave me, even if he could make his own way out, so I quietly whisper to
him, “Soon, we’ll go out soon.”

Fear
has other ideas. It grips me by the throat and pins me down to the carpet, and
there we stay until well into the night.

Stupid
.

I’m
a U.S. Marine. Nothing holds us down. Not war, famine, deprivation, and
certainly not terror. When others run from the sounds of chaos, we run toward
it. Me? I ran so far that I became the chaos. I reveled in it, wrought it until
I couldn’t wield any longer and it won.

War
takes little toy soldiers and breaks them. Afterward, we’re glued back together
with pain meds and doctors that shrink our heads. We’re given shiny medals of
honor that are supposed to make the sacrifices of scars, lost limbs, and fallen
brothers worth it. But freedom comes at a price, and it’s rarely worth it. This
isn’t freedom; it’s hell on earth. There’s nothing free about a broken soldier.

Nine
years I fought their war. Now, every day I wake and fight my own. All I have is
my guilt and my dog whose life is dedicated to making sure I don’t lose my shit
and blow my fucking brains all over the walls of my empty house.

All
I have is nothing, and the cost of that was way too high.