Some Go Home

by Odie Lindsey

  “No, I mean us. Like, a girl’s trip somewhere.”

  Deana thought for a second. “Sure. Whatever. Deal. How about the coast? You been down there lately?”

  “I’ve never been at all.”

  “What? To the Gulf? It’s only, like, six hours away! But okay, whatever, yes. Yes. After you win we’re headed to the coast. A girls’ trip. Yeah?”

  Colleen nodded.

  Deana turned to the room, announcing, “We’ve got ourselves a beauty queen!”

  The hair and makeup strategy sessions had commenced within minutes. Colleen let Deana shampoo her, the kneading fingers and organic herbal scent shooing away the hangover. The parlor crew buzzed with talk of the sponsorship, ball gown to makeup, posture to proper manners. They called Colleen “our hero,” and claimed she’d be a beacon to all women in Pitchlynn. They ordered her to get her teeth capped at the VA—something she had to do anyway, as she could no longer bear the post-powder pain—and to sustain a training ritual of diet, exercise, and beauty pageant binge-watching. From there, she was instructed to get out of their way, to let them do their job on her body.

  “Sergeant Strawberry!” one of the women exclaimed.

  “Corporal Cuteness!” said another.

  The door chimes jingled, breaking up the bull session. A collective gasp hit the room. Deana stopped kneading Colleen’s scalp and called out, “Hey, Derby.”

  He was out of place, fidgety. He nodded at Deana, then bit back a smile when Colleen leaned up from the washbasin. A few ladies scrambled to cover their roller-dense hair, and the stylists stopped snipping and gawked.

  “Hey, uh, well,” Derby said. “I think I need something for the sun. You know?”

  “How’s that?” Deana asked.

  “You know? Like, I’m in the sun all day. A lot.”

  Colleen cut in, “They call it suntan lotion, dude. You get it at the Walgreens.”

  Deana pinched Colleen’s neck. “Good for you, Derby. You’re right, you do need somethin’ to protect that face. But suntan oil’s too perfumy for a man like you.” She described some men’s botanical product; they didn’t carry it at the salon, but the Sally Beauty store over in Batesville stocked it.

  “Thanks, Deana.” He looked to Colleen. “And, um. Would you maybe wanna—”

  “Huh-uh. Nope,” she said. Deana pinched her neck harder. “Ow! Shit. I mean, no, thanks.”

  “But maybe we could just—”

  “Hey, I appreciate it.” Colleen cleared her throat. “But how ’bout you just get on now? Find your lotion.”

  The room cracked up. To his credit, Derby did, too. He shrugged his shoulders, winked, and looked at Deana. “Can’t say I didn’t try.”

  “That you did, bud,” Deana replied. “And extra credit for doin’ it in here.”

  “Ladies,” Derby said, and walked out.

  Colleen whipped around and glared at her friend.

  “Save it,” Deana ordered, and moved on to conditioner.

  7

  The summer sun slapped her. Belted her, bronzed her, blazed. She was bloated. She was on her period, and felt like a bloated maraschino under a cafeteria lamp. A buffed-up, pickled cherry atop a box pudding pie. The Corvette she rode in on, a ’67 convertible, 427 cubic with Rally Red paint, did not have a backseat, so Colleen’s ass was plopped on the metal of the trunk, her high heels dimpling a folded dish towel on the shotgun seat leather. It was oven-hot June. Her pantyhose constricted, and the sash sawed at her neck.

  There were American flags of various sizes, in hands and on lampposts and picketed into the ground. Colleen waved at the crowd and they all waved back. Lap after lap, the ’Vette cruised around town square, the aroma of cotton candy and hot funnel cake wafting. Deana had ordered Colleen not to touch her face, her makeup. Rather, Colleen had to fan it with only her fingertips. Her dress was short and shiny, made of spangles. Felt shrink-wrapped. Laps and laps around the courthouse square, past strawberry kiosks and strawberry hats, and white paper plates of real strawberries dolloped with Cool Whip. The banner above was the same from years past, proclaiming the annual Strawberry Festival. Colleen had no idea if they even grew strawberries on a commercial level in Pitchlynn, Miss’ippi, but she was positive that these berries had come from somewhere else, given that nobody’s garden ever produced any after April.

  There were Mexicans in town now. Maybe not Mexicans, but Colleen believed them to be Mexicans. Their children spoke with redneck accents. They were nice enough folks. Save for the church or the store, they pretty much kept to themselves, though here they loitered in groups at the edge of the crowd; ’round and ’round they came, in jean shorts and T-shirts with their own American flags. Whenever the car idled, the hot exhaust caked up in the still air. The driver had to keep the ’Vette moving, Colleen thought, crawling along, He has got to keep up the breeze. At every lap of the square she looked for Deana. Deana, who chatted folks up, bragging, probably, on behalf of the beauty shop’s ringer-contestant. Now and again Deana looked back and smiled, thumbs-up. For Colleen, this made it all okay.

  Susan George Wallis and a few others, in fine linen and seersucker, had congregated in the half shade of the crepe myrtles by the courthouse. (Between pageant grins, Colleen couldn’t help but glare at them. These people were just too smug, too at ease, too . . . immune.) She circled the white-pillared courthouse at the center of the square. Folks were gathered by the Confederate statue, the white marble soldier who stood at attention with rifle, facing south. She had seen him all her life. They all had.

  Colleen figured she’d won the pageant because she was a veteran. She hated that she was a veteran. She was proud and guilty and confused by being a veteran. She so wanted these folks to understand what it was like. Yet knowing they never would, and that maybe she never would, she wished she had signed up to extend her tour, had at least re-upped to Germany or Korea, or anywhere else, forever.

  ’Round came Deana again, thank god. She and Colleen would hit the coast soon enough. Drink boat drinks and sleep late, embalmed in suntan oil and frigid motel air-conditioning. Salty ocean skin and sand in carpet. Colleen would at last see the shore!

  That guy came around, too, the cute guy, Derby Whatever. (Deana said it’d been Hobbs but was now something else). Grinning. She saw him cut to the front of the crowd. She looked away from him, the Corvette exhaust clogging her nose, the sun swallowing her.

  A veteran. A woman. A southerner. High school grad. A number of things, and now the Strawberry Maiden of Pitchlynn, Mississippi. A PA system announced her name again, then fitted the breadth of her deployment into a half sentence. Strawberries and melted whipped cream dripped from white paper plates. She was sustained by the fact of the prize money for her parents, and for a motel room at the Gulf.

  Only three more laps under the banner and sun, past that stupid, cute Derby, and to Deana again. Only . . . Deana was now talking to her soon-to-be-ex-husband. She laughed with him, her arm swatting his shoulder. Volunteers in red T-shirts handed out paper plates of strawberry goo to visitor, old townie, and new Mexican alike, and mostly to the children of all of these groups, kiddos clumped up in a pack, their faces a smear of cream and delight. The PA announced the lineup of tonight’s free music on the square. Funnel cake fryer oil and sweat shaped the aroma. Colleen’s ass seared against the hot metal hood of the ’Vette. She was desperate for a beer.

  When the parade was over, the Corvette’s driver helped Colleen out and into a designated “Cool Zone”—a signing booth at the back of Tudor’s Hardware Store. A few townsfolk followed her in and took photos with her, against the backdrop of copper and PVC pipe. Someone brought her bottled water. She asked for a Miller instead, and everyone laughed and nobody got her one.

  Deana came in. Hugged her. Really held her tight and went on about how proud she was. Deana’s husband stood behind them, offering a dopey wave and a congrats.

  “We did it, Dean,” Colleen said. “You had better get packed and get ready for—�
��

  Deana cut her off. “I found a lost tomcat on the street. Maybe you recognize him?” She stepped back from the well-wishers and dragged Derby over by the hand. He was tall and musky, and he held that charged grin. Colleen lilted, sank, and lilted again. Where in the heck was that beer?

  “Hey,” Derby said. He offered his hand. Colleen shook it, but it was awkward, more like holding a rag. She looked at him cross—What, you can’t shake a woman’s hand like a man’s?—then turned back to Deana, who was framed by mousetrap and rat trap and spider trap and d-Con, and she started yapping on about the pageant, the heat, and, most importantly, their trip. A minute later, Derby got a word in edgewise. He just had to.

  “I’m afraid I’ve gotta get on,” he said. “But I just wanted to revisit our, my, question about maybe getting a bite or something? Like . . . lunch.”

  “Nice try,” Colleen said. “I mean, thanks, but . . . naw. I don’t do lunch, man.”

  Deana shook her head and put her hand on Derby’s back. “The heat and high heels have wilted her brain.” She ushered him toward the door, whispering, “I’ll work on her.”

  Derby exited via the pest control aisle, chuckling to himself about this being the third time he’d laid eyes on his future wife.

  8

  Colleen tugged at the camouflage miniskirt and white satin sash, and insisted, again, that she wasn’t going to make it. Back at the beauty shop she had thrown up repeatedly, with Deana on hand to hold back her perfect hair. The two of them now sat in Deana’s car in a parking lot.

  “I can’t,” Colleen repeated, her face leached of color.

  But she had to. That was the deal: a Strawberry Maiden made public appearances, promoting Pitchlynn, the region, and the people. To ditch an event was to ditch the crown—and she didn’t even have the prize money yet.

  “Suck it up, troop,” Deana said. “You’re tougher than this. You have to be.”

  Colleen listened, and nodded as she stared out of the car windows.

  “Besides,” Deana added, “this is your turf. You own this.”

  As if striking out a light, Colleen tried to find her drone mode, a mindset she hadn’t occupied since deployment. She yanked on her white hose, stepped into ruby heels, and donned the bedazzled, dress blue service cap (lightly, so as not to crush her lifted ’do).

  “Go,” she ordered herself, her eyes lifeless. She threw the car door open and marched toward the building.

  The National Guard armory was a construction of beige paint, tan bricks, and polished cement flooring. At the back of the building was a motor pool of sand-colored vehicles, Humvees and Emergency Comms, artifacts now, stationed behind chain link and razor wire.

  On that day, however, news trucks littered the fire lane and parking lot, their color-pop logos and satellite feed antennas stabbing the sky.

  Colleen got sick on the asphalt, then cursed herself.

  “Okay, so you’re ready,” Deana assured, rubbing her back. “If things get that bad, I’ll pull you out myself. Now charge, girl. Charge!”

  Minutes later, Colleen took the makeshift stage in front of nearly two hundred battle-dress-clad former comrades. The majority lofted cell-phone cameras, egging her into the spotlight. Others sat and stared, wondering why in hell they’d been assembled for this bullshit.

  Colleen was introduced by the local pageant chair, and then by her former CO. When the latter handed her the microphone, the soldiers went wild, dog-barking, whooping, their fists ramming high.

  The fluorescent lights sheening her nylons, the title sash mapping the valley of her breasts, Colleen gazed out at them, these troops she had camped with, slept beside, showered near, or shat among in DIY plywood latrines. Suddenly it was as if she could see inside those who didn’t care about her, and those who resented her presence; inside the fatherly types who had sat with her at chow, offering advice or witticism, as was generally coupled to Bible verse.

  Frozen onstage in ruby heels and short skirt, Colleen saw inside those who still wouldn’t think twice about a little grab, or a too-deep tickle, or who could peg her to a wall with their own bodies. She could see inside those who had done so.

  She locked eyes with Van Dorn, her minder from the Bradley vehicle on the night of that close-quarters op. He smirked, then spat on the floor.

  The formation’s barks grew louder, their fists pumping like pistons. There was further onstage introduction, and then Colleen read flatly from a prepared statement: an appreciation to all for their service and their heroism, alongside a promise that neither she nor the rest of the community would ever forget the unit’s sacrifice for our nation. She rolled her eyes and took a few steps, then turned and twirled, as per the appearance instructions. The boys went ballistic.

  Then, as quickly as it had started, the event was finished. She had survived the battle, again. Colleen pageant-waved a goodbye and turned to walk off the stage. She paused, and gutted out a passing tsunami of shame, then hurled her own fist upward, and started to bark. Because this, too, was a part of her. These gestures were a part of their insiders-only ritual. She sneered at the troops as she marched down the stage steps, flicked them a double-bird, and hollered out, “Fuck all y’all, my dogs!”

  Offstage, she signed a headshot for her old CO. She saluted him, walked outside, lit a smoke, and ordered Deana to get her the hell gone. It was the last time Colleen would ever see her old unit, or anything formal of the United States Army.

  Fifteen minutes of back road later, not a word between them, Deana and Colleen pulled into a cinder-block diner north of Coahoma. The gravel parking lot was packed with trucks and beater cars. A yellow message-board sign promised both the BEST SOUTHERN BREAKFAST and the FRESHEST CABBAGE ROLLS.

  “I shouldn’ta done it,” Deana said.

  “It’s okay, girl,” Colleen replied. “In a way, I needed to see those guys. Needed to say goodbye.”

  “Good on that,” Deana said, patting Colleen’s thigh. “But that’s not what I’m talkin’ about.” She cut the motor and motioned to the front of the diner, where Derby sat alone on an old wooden bench.

  “Jesus, Deana. You kiddin’ me?”

  “He’s a good dude. I just thought—”

  “I don’t care what kinda dude he is. It’s not your place. It’s just not.” Colleen threw the car door open, kicked her legs out, and stomped the gravel. “Good dude,” she huffed, walking into the restaurant.

  She spoke nearly six words to Derby while they waited on a table, then gave a grunt or two more when they were seated.

  “I need kibbe,” Deana offered the silence. “I mean, I need it.”

  “Fried chicken for me,” Derby replied. “Though I’ll trade you a drumstick for a grape leaf.”

  “Maybe.”

  The place was packed with all hues of country folk, and the servers drew from a bottomless well of sweet tea. Thanks to the generations-old Lebanese legacy in Mississippi, the trio ate chilled tabbouleh with warm pita strips, wrapped grape leaves and kibbe balls (both baked and fried), a bulger crust with a core of molten minced lamb, pine nut and cinnamon and pepper and chopped onions . . . and, for Derby, that side of expertly fried chicken.

  Despite Colleen’s protest, Derby had paid for all before she even asked for the bill. As the trio loitered in the parking lot, Deana said she had to call her husband. She stuck her tongue out at Colleen and paced away, phone to ear.

  The gray afternoon clouds hung heavy with coming rain. Colleen kicked at the ground.

  “So how ’bout this, Colleen?” Derby began.

  “Not interested.”

  “How about in a couple weeks, soon as I finish my renewables course, we take a drive up to Oxford? Hit the best restaurant in town—on me.”

  “Nope,” she replied.

  “Dutch treat?”

  “No way.”

  “Okay, got it. Screw Oxford. Too fancy-pants. Instead, how about we pick up a couple of beers, then go eat some . . .” He cocked his eyebrows, inviting
her to finish the sentence. “We go eat some . . .”

  She glared at him. “Thai.”

  “Thai?” he echoed. “Sure, yeah. I know the perfect spot. Thai works for me.”

  “Then deal,” Colleen said. “But a one-time-only deal.”

  Derby nodded his compliance. He had no idea of where to find Thai food, let alone what the Thai ate. But he couldn’t kill his grin. “It’ll be the fifth and final time I ever bug you.”

  9

  A couple of nights later, a few beers in, Deana and Colleen were splayed out on the apartment sofa, watching a PBS doc on Gertrude Bell. Deana was rapt, her empty ice-cream bowl on the side table. Colleen was stretched out in full, her feet propped up on her best friend’s thighs.

  “Hey,” Colleen said at the conclusion.

  “Hey, back, girlfriend.”

  “You know, I’m almost mad about it.”

  Deana raised her eyebrows. “ ’Bout what ‘it,’ exactly?”

  “You know,” Colleen teased. “About your setting me up with Derby and all.”

  “Well, you weren’t gonna do it for yourself.”

  “And?”

  “Were you?” Deana pinched Colleen above the knee, eliciting a jerk. “Are you?”

  “No.” She replied. “I guess not. But Dean, what if I don’t want a boyfriend? What if I don’t want anything to change? What if I have better plans than that?”

  “Better plans? Like watchin’ this tube all day and night? Drinkin’ beer?”

  “Like, you know what. Like, hey, let’s plan our trip. You’ve spent more energy fixin’ me up than you have on the beach party. We’re supposed to celebrate, and I need to move forward!”

  Deana looked from the television. “We gotta speak about that for a second. So focus in, okay? I need you to really listen. Please?”

  “Oh shit,” Colleen said, sitting upright.

  “Now, first . . .” Deana exhaled. “Where to start? First, you’re gonna be able to drive to the coast, or anywhere, anytime you want. Because I am giving you my car.”