Rumble

  I tease. “Don’t worry. Larry,

  Mo, and Curly are friendly.”

  Unless you piss them off, amends

  Jessie. Then he quickly backs off.

  But I told you, you’re safe with me.

  Now, come on inside. Quin doesn’t

  get to play hostess very often.

  Lex decides to chance her way

  past the dogs, who sniff her as she

  walks by. Hope I don’t smell like

  bacon, she says. But she’s smiling,

  and the Stooges go off in search

  of squirrels or skunks, hopefully

  the former. One time they got hold

  of a nest of the smelly critters and

  I’m not sure who got the worst of it.

  The place smelled like eau de stink for days.

  Today, However

  It smells like sautéed

  onions and peppers, stewed

  chicken, and hot corn tortillas.

  “Man, I haven’t eaten homemade

  anything in months.”

  Thank God my lady can cook,

  says Jessie. It’s one of her best

  attributes. He winks at Lex.

  I won’t say just what it is

  she’s better at, but let me tell

  you, she’s an expert!

  Tugging Lex behind me,

  I follow him into the kitchen,

  where Quin is lifting an oversized

  pan from the oven. Quite

  an accomplishment, considering

  she’s barely five feet tall

  and thin as a spring shoot.

  “Need help?” I move swiftly

  across the floor, in case

  she says yes, but knowing

  that’s highly unlikely.

  She thumps the enchiladas

  down on the counter, turns

  to face me. The only help

  I need from you is a hug.

  She pulls me to her, obliges

  herself, then pushes me away

  again. It’s been too long. Why

  don’t you ever come see us after

  you’re finished shredding targets?

  I shrug. “Don’t want to bother

  you. And anyway, how do

  you even know I’ve been here

  and gone without saying hello?”

  Her laugh is warm and throaty.

  I know pretty much everything

  that happens around here.

  Now, who’s this? Your girlfriend?

  Lex and I exchange amused

  glances. But before either

  of us can respond,

  Uncle Jessie says, Not exactly,

  according to Matt, despite

  how things might look. Regardless,

  this is Alexa, and Matt’s teaching

  her marksmanship. Now, how

  about a couple of brewskis?

  The Invitation

  Extends to Alexa and me.

  Our mild protests are brushed

  away like pesky mosquitoes.

  You’re both eighteen, right?

  asks Jessie. If you’re old enough

  to fight for your country, you’re old

  enough to drink a beer or two,

  especially as a complement

  to enchiladas. Nothing beats

  the spice like cold carbonation.

  It’s hard to argue with that.

  Quin abstains, “just in case

  someone needs to play designated

  driver.” I don’t mention I’ve driven

  after drinking more than a beer

  or two, not that it was the best idea.

  We settle around the table, dive

  into probably the best Mexican

  food I’ve ever tasted.

  “You should open a restaurant,

  Quin. Where did you learn

  to cook like this, anyway?”

  I’m one-quarter mexicana,

  gringo, she says, bastardizing

  both languages. Mi abuela taught

  me. She’d be happy you like

  her recipes. Eat up. There’s plenty.

  The revelation is a surprise.

  There’s a lot I don’t know

  about people in my life.

  I suppose I should change that.

  The small talk continues

  for over an hour. We discuss

  Dad, which leads to basketball

  and championships almost in the bag.

  We move on to Mom,

  and I can’t help but mention

  that she’s been staying at Aunt

  Sophie’s a little longer than I expected.

  Problems at home? Uncle Jessie’s

  question elicits a “maybe that’s

  none of our business” glare from

  Quin. He responds, Just asking.

  I shrug. “I talked to her

  yesterday. She says she’s trying

  to get some things straight

  in her head.” I don’t mention

  the precipitating factors.

  Quin inquires about college

  and when I mention my lack

  of concrete goals, Uncle Jessie

  says, Hell, I didn’t have any idea

  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 w
ith 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.

  He Made Me Promise

  To keep my mouth shut.

  I thought it would be better

  to maintain his trust, but

  I only agreed if he vowed

  in return to come to me

  before he made any crazy

  decisions. He gave me his word.

  And he kept it.

  Unfortunately, I kept mine,

  too, and how many times

  have I regretted that?

  Countless! Multiply

  countless by the days

  I’ve got left,

  stumbling through life.

  I’m desperate to escape

  the chest-crushing guilt

  of not speaking up

  when I had the chance.

  I didn’t understand

  the depth of his depression.

  Never believed he’d do it.