I considered the available options, none were as appetizing as whiskey, however. The choice was between a bottle of cheap vodka and a bottle of cheap tequila. Both contained less than a swallow each. Those wouldn't do at all.
I pushed them aside, reached back into the shadows, and my fingers gripped the glass neck of something near the corner. I pulled it into the light.
"Ha!" I smiled at the uncovered hidden gem, an unopened bottle of Disaronno. "Classy."
I grabbed several shot glasses from the dishwasher and took a seat at the table. While I poured the caramel-red liquid into each shooter, I thought about the first time I had played a game of Wishes.
***
Fort Rucker, the month before senior spring break. Taylor dropped a full duffle bag by the door and stared at me with his arms crossed.
"I know you don't have anywhere you want to go," he said. "Come stay at my parents' house."
"No thanks. I'm too busy this week."
"You're full of shit."
"No, I'm serious. I have to study."
"Won't take no for an answer," he said. "They live on Blackbird Bay. We can take the boat out."
"I'm good. Really."
"This isn't a request, Randon. Besides, I can't leave you here alone." He cocked an eyebrow. "Knowing you, you'll hang yourself in the showers. Actually, the depression you're radiating is likely to make everyone kill themselves. I'm tempted to slice my arm open just standing here, so stop being a miserable cunt."
"All right, fine. But I'm warning you, I'm not good at the whole family thing."
"So you say. Now pack. We're already running late."
The trip took three hours. The sun had set by the time the cab pulled into the driveway.
Mrs. Christina, Taylor's mother, ran outside to meet us. She grabbed Taylor before he could even get out of the back seat. She kissed him on both cheeks then pulled him to his feet and took a good look at his uniform. I exited from the other side and walked around the car. Her face lit up when she saw me, and she pulled me in for a hug. The way she held me had made me feel as though I was her son, too. It was a warm, loving embrace. All my hesitation and anxiety melted away, and I felt welcomed.
"Jon," she said, "it's so nice to meet you. I'm Christina, but you can call me Chrissy. Come on, let me introduce you the rest of the family." She grabbed me by the hand and led the way around to the back yard.
Kyle, Taylor's brother stood over a flaming grill. He introduced himself by handing me a cheeseburger on a paper plate. "Enjoy!" he said, then he went back to work flipping the next batch of burgers.
Taylor's sister, Tiffany, swam in the pool with two of her friends. When the three girls saw us come around the corner, they whispered and giggled to each other.
"Tiff, say hi to Jon," Mrs. Christina said. "He's going to stay with us for the week."
"Hiii, Jooon," she mocked, her voice comedic and flirtatious. "You can share my room."
"Tiffany Ann Taylor! Manners!" Mrs. Christina shouted jokingly. "Oh, don't mind the harlots, Jon." She laughed. "Come on, Hunter's on the porch."
I let Taylor and Mrs. Christina take the lead. Once they were in front of me, I looked back and winked at the girls, who then broke out in another fit of laughter.
Taylor looked at me suspiciously.
"Sorry, bro," I said, unable to hide my smirk.
"You're gonna be if you keep it up."
I cleared my throat theatrically then gave the Boy Scout salute. "Yes, sir."
Mr. Hunter sat in one of the oversized picnic chairs, laid back with his arms folded behind his head.
"Boys, take a seat," he said. "Babe, bring a couple cigars? Thanks, love."
"Hey, Pop," Taylor said, "meet my friend, Jon Randon."
"Nice to make your acquaintance, Jon."
I shook his hand. "Nice to meet you too, Mr. Taylor."
"Please, call me Hunter."
"Sure thing, Mr. Hunter."
Mr. Hunter sighed. "My, you two are green as grass, but you'll grow out of it soon." He put a hand on Taylor's shoulder and squeezed. "Jesse, how are things at school? Behaving, I hope."
"Great. Glad we're almost finished."
"You're just getting started. You both realize that, right?"
Taylor and I looked at each other, then back at Mr. Hunter. We nodded.
"Well, you think you do, anyhow." He turned toward the house. "Chrissy! Where are my cigars, woman?"
"Hold your horses!" Mrs. Christina shouted back.
"Bring the Scotch instead! Let's make this a real party!" Mr. Hunter looked back at us and smiled. "All right, boys, I got some advice. Listen closely. Rule number one: Officers should always keep a bottle of high-quality liquor around to share with the enlisted folk. Got that?"
"Got it," Taylor said.
"If you slip 'em a fifth of decent rum and grant 'em a night off-duty from time to time, they'll respect you three times as much, and they'll bend over backward for you when you need them. At least that's how it was back in my day."
"That's good advice," I said.
Mrs. Christina walked through the open glass doorway and set the Scotch on the table. Tiffany followed her out of the house, still dripping wet, and carrying several snifters on a tray. Kyle, now done with grilling, snatched up the bottle and poured a few fingers' worth into each glass.
Mrs. Christina sat next to her husband. Kyle and Tiffany sat on either side of me.
"Daddy?" Tiffany asked.
Mr. Taylor raised an eyebrow.
"Becky and Monica just left. Can I have a glass too?"
"Just a little, if it's okay with your mother."
"Sure, sure," Mrs. Christina said. "Not a peep to anyone though."
We all raised our glasses.
"To the future," Mr. Hunter said. "Salud! "
We drank.
"Jesse," Mr. Hunter said, "your mother is proud of you." He leaned forward and lowered his voice, "You went green instead of blue, but the world needs grunts just as much as it needs airmen, so I suppose I'm proud, too." He laughed, raised his glass, and we all took another drink.
Time flew by as the six of us enjoyed each other's company. At some point Kyle and I knocked Taylor into the pool. As retribution, he threw me in, too. While the three of us goofed around, Mrs. Christina cleaned up the mess, and Mr. Hunter and Tiffany gathered wood for the fire pit. Eventually we all settled down by the warm glow of the flames. We sipped from our glasses and looked out toward the darkness of Blackbird Bay.
"Hey, Jon, where do your folks live?" Kyle asked.
I shrugged. "They're dead."
"I'm sorry." Tiffany said. "What happened…if you don't mind me asking?"
"Well, my father was a banker in New York City. His office was in the World Trade Center."
Mrs. Christina gasped.
"It's okay," I said. "I never knew him. He ran out before I was even born. As for my mom, she raised me until I was thirteen. Then they took her."
"Someone took your mother?" Kyle asked.
"Why don't we change the subject?" Mr. Hunter took another sip. "You're prying into business that isn't ours."
I smiled. "It's not a problem. Even Jesse doesn't know the whole story."
Talking about my family was something I had always avoided growing up; maybe it was the warmth of the fire, or the warmth of the liquor, but for the first time ever, I wasn't afraid to open up.
I looked each of them in the eye, then said, "My mom was different from most of the other parents. I noticed it for the first time when I was four. I asked the question: Where do babies come from? She gave me a very strange interwoven answer, and I knew something wasn't right."
Kyle leaned forward.
I quickly said, "'The Stork. No! Fertilized zygote. Sperm enters the egg creating an embryo and…. No! The stork drops off a bundle onto a doorstep of mommies and daddies and…. No! The cells multiply during the gestation.'"
Jesse's jaw dropped.
I laughed. "It was like t
hat most times I asked her questions. She was fully functional otherwise."
"Wow," Tiffany said.
"By age nine tough, she had developed other…quirks." I took a long drink from my glass. "I came home from school one day and found she had made dinner. It was a feast. A real feast. Plates were laid out all over the house, enough for a hundred people."
"Schizophrenic?" Mrs. Christina asked.
"Yes, ma'am."
"That must have been tough," Kyle said. "How did you two get by for so long?"
"My father had set up a trust account when I was born. I used to get a monthly draw. I don't anymore. I send it all—"
"He took care of you financially." Mr. Hunter shook his head and waved his finger. "But money doesn't replace a father."
The breeze from the bay brushed against my face and carried along with it a gust of guilt.
"Yeah, you're right, Mr. Hunter. Money doesn't replace a father." I lowered my head and sat quietly for a while, hoping someone else would pick up the conversation. No one did.
I cleared my throat. "Anyway, Mom realized she couldn't take care of me anymore and had herself institutionalized. Spring Grove was okay, I guess. I visited her whenever I could…but she died six months after being committed. An aneurism, they said. Officially it was complications with the anti-psychotic medication. But I think it was from a fight she'd gotten into with another patent, some violent woman named Sally."
Tiffany wiped her eyes. "You were on your own?"
"No. Aunt Sara took me in."
Patting my arm, Mrs. Christina said, "At least you have her."
"Actually, I don't. She died during my first year in West Point. She had gone on a cruise, and her heart gave out while trying to scuba. They don't tell you how dangerous that actually is. You'd be surprised at how many people die on a cruise ship." I laughed.
Mrs. Christina shook her head. "Poor thing."
"Hey!" Tiffany shouted. "I'm sorry, but this is really depressing. Let's play a game instead."
"We can go into the kitchen. I got a deck of cards," Taylor said.
"No, we can play out here," Tiffany said, smiling. "It's a drinking game."
Mr. Hunter squared his shoulders. "What do you know about drinking games, young lady?"
"Shush, Dad." She smacked his hand. "It's called Wishes. Everyone takes a small drink then declares a wish. The others decide if it's a real or a fake wish. Once everyone chooses, we tell the truth. If someone guesses wrong, they take another drink…. Now, if a wish is true, and everyone's guess is right, that person vows to make their wish come true. Everyone has to help if they can."
"All right, let's do it." Kyle raised a glass to his lips. "Cheers!"
We all followed his lead.
"I wish I could sing," Tiff sang her wish, badly.
"I wish your father wouldn't snore so loud," Mrs. Christina quipped.
"I wish your mother wouldn't snore at all!" Mr. Hunter shot back.
"I wish I had Monica's number. Tiff, your friend is seriously hot." Kyle nodded.
"I wish I hadn't subjected Jon to this torture." Taylor slapped his forehead.
"I wish all your family get-togethers are as fun as this one." I smiled.
For my wish, everyone guessed true.
It was true.
***
When Taylor and I had first written The Death Agreement, he thought it would be a good idea to include a section on what our last wishes would be so that the surviving party would see them through.
My wish had been simple.
One day I had said, "I want you to deliver a message to someone special. Just go to the address in Texas and hand them a letter…and let them know I'm sorry. Would you do that?"
"Of course. Who's it for?"
I shook my head. "Her name is in my copy of The Death Agreement for when the time comes."
"You're not going to tell me?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Fine." He shrugged, seemingly uninterested. My refusal to tell him had stung, I knew, but even best friends have to keep some secrets from each other.
Earlier, when I said we both never looked back with regret. That wasn't true. The regret I felt about one aspect of my life had been too great to talk about then and even more so now.
Taylor though, he never had regrets, at least none he had ever mentioned to me.
His last wish: Get the family to play a game of wishes. He had said, "I hope everyone plays it straight. I want everyone to share a wish and then I want you all to make those dreams come true."
But corpses don't have wishes. Corpses don't have dreams. As the last man standing, despite only having one leg to stand on, it fell to me to play the game in their place.
Eight shot glasses sat in front of me, filled to the rim. One by one I poured them into my mouth. The liqueur, sweet and heavy, fought to come back up.
"Little Jon wishes he was still alive…." Drink. "Lorie wishes she was still alive…." Drink. "Your mom and dad and sister and brother all wish they were still alive…." Drink, drink, drink, drink.
I threw Taylor's still-full shot glass across the room and it shattered against the wall. After that, I took my own shot, picked up the bottle and let several long swigs slide down my throat, then slammed the bottle onto the table. "True!"
***
I woke to someone pounding on my door.
"Police! Open up."
I cracked my neck and sat up on the couch. My head felt as though it had been hit with a sledgehammer.
"Hold on!" I yelled. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement on my bed. A lock of auburn hair poked out from beneath the blankets, and I nearly screamed.
"Tell 'em to stop banging," a woman said. "I'm sleeping."
I knew the voice: Mary Stallings.
In a state of utter shock and confusion, I stood but immediately crashed to the floor, cracking my head. I looked down and saw I only had one leg.
"Fuck," I whispered, scanning the room while the police continued to pound on the door. My other leg rested against my bed, far out of reach. It must have been some party.
"Hand me that, would ya?" I pointed to my leg.
Mary rolled over, grabbed my prosthetic by the foot and tossed it to me.
"Thanks."
The police banged on the door again.
"Just a second," I called out, then strapped my fake leg to my stub. I got up slowly, unsure of my balance. When confident I wasn't going to fall back down again, I limped into the foyer and unbolted the lock, leaving the chain attached.
I cracked the door open, and instead of seeing the pair of county cops sent by Yang like I had expected, I was surprised to see two military police officers standing at attention.
"Can I help you, Sergeant?" I asked the higher ranking of the two.
"Colonel Litwell wants you in his office at zero nine thirty."
"Colonel Litwell could have damn well called or sent an aide. Why are you here?"
"Do I need to answer that, L.T.?"
The memory of the soldier at the front desk shot through my mind, and I knew that punk had said something about the fax.
"No, Sergeant," I sighed. "I guess you don't."
"You have ten minutes, sir. We'll be waiting right here."
"Thanks, Sergeant."
I closed the door gently and turned around. Mary sat on the edge of the bed. "What's that all about?"
I shrugged. "I have no idea."
"You do look a bit confused."
"I am," I admitted. "And not just about the guys outside my door, either." I scratched my head. "Mary, did we…?"
She smiled. "Not for lack of trying, stud."
I winced. "Oh, god. I'm sorry."
"Relax, Jon. I'm kidding. You were a complete gentleman."
"I remember calling you last night…vaguely."
"You did. A little after 1:00 a.m. Offered to give me the interview."
"Shit."
"Yeah, you sounded like you needed someon
e to talk to, so instead of asking questions over the phone, I decided to come here and keep you company."
I looked into the kitchen. The bottle of amaretto sat drained next to the empty bottles of vodka and tequila. Six crushed beer cans were on the floor.
Rubbing my eyes, I said, "I had way too much to drink."
"You think? We ended up staying awake until four or five."
"Ugh."
"Don't worry, it wasn't all you. I helped, too. You wouldn't let me drive until I sobered up."
"I stayed on the couch the whole time?"
"The whole time."
I shook my head. "At least I didn't make a complete fool out of myself. Thanks for coming over. I need to see the base commander. Please stay as long as you like."
"Is that the loud-mouthed son-of-a-bitch?"
"Yep."
"Good luck." She smiled, then rolled back into bed and covered her head with the blankets. "Wake me up when you get back. We'll get lunch or something."
"If I get back," I whispered and walked into the bathroom.
The shower didn't help clear my mind. I wanted to turn off my brain, but my thoughts kept returning to Mary.
"There's a beautiful woman in my bed. Does it matter how she got there?" I grinned.
That little voice spoke up again: The Death Agreement needed you to speak with her.
The police weren't interested in a detailed history of my friendship with Taylor, and they already knew about the events surrounding his death. Even Yang wasn't interested in the intimate details of his life. All Yang wanted was facts.
If the futures of so many hadn't been derailed, I would've put it all in a letter and handed it out at an after-party to remember the departed—Section VII: Celebrate Life.
It occurred to me then that there would be no party. I couldn't bring myself to share what I knew. It would have tainted the good memories. Taylor would've understood why the party couldn't happen.
Even so, I needed to tell his story and satisfy the first few sections which I had been ignoring. Motives aside, Mary had been the only person to express an interest in Jesse Taylor. She wanted to know about the man he had been and about the monster that he had become. It made sense that I had called her.
I wished I hadn't picked up the phone and dialed her number in a drunken stupor, though. Clearly I had said enough, but I worried that perhaps I may have said too much. Not that it mattered anymore. She came over, we spoke, and those particular terms of The Death Agreement were satisfied.
The Death Agreement Page 7
