Hope in the Shadows of War

by Tom Reilly

  “Sure.” Frank was the least of Timothy’s concerns now.

  “Do you want to come over later for dinner? You don’t have to be by yourself, you know.”

  “Thanks, but I think I’ll stay here. This place feels pretty empty right now, and I better get used to it.”

  “Okay, but if you change your mind—”

  Timothy wanted to change the conversation. “Where is Frank staying?”

  “He’s got a hotel room.”

  “He could’ve stayed here with me,” Timothy said.

  “I think he felt awkward since he never called much.”

  “That’s a shame. I’m sure he feels this in his own way. How could he not? This was his mother that died,” Timothy said.

  “Yes, I’m sure he does in his own way.”

  “Tomorrow, we have some things to take care of at the funeral home and church. We should probably start at church and then go to the funeral home. How about we meet at the rectory after Ike gets Frank?”

  “Okay.” She paused for a long moment. “I can’t believe she’s gone, Tim. I didn’t see this coming.”

  “None of us did, Sis. Let’s talk in the morning, and don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” Timothy said but didn’t believe it. He hoped he sounded confident.

  Timothy went to the refrigerator for a beer. He popped open a can of Pabst and returned to Mom’s rocking chair. This first beer went down smoothly and quickly. He decided to have another and a third to keep the second one company. Time of day meant nothing to him at this point. He liked the way it soothed his pain. If one is good, two is better, and three’s not enough. Cheryl hates that saying. The doorbell rang, and he answered it.

  “Oh, Tim, I’m sorry,” Cheryl said. “Why didn’t you call me from the hospital?”

  “I’m sorry. I should have. I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking real clear. I was kind of in a fog. Still am.”

  She leaned forward and hugged him. He hugged her like a stiff tree. She cupped his face in her hands and looked into his moist red eyes.

  “You look sad.”

  “I feel sad. How did you hear? Leslie, right?”

  “Yes, she’s worried you want to be by yourself. That’s why she called.”

  “I have this great big hole in me right now. I’m empty. There’s nothing here,” he said, pointing to his gut. “It’s like there’s a part of me missing. I hurt when my dad passed but not like this.”

  “It’s different when your mother dies. At least, that’s what people tell me,” she said.

  “I feel like I’ve lost my biggest fan in life.”

  “You still have a pretty big fan in me,” she said.

  “Thanks.” He kissed her forehead. “Let’s go sit. Want a beer?”

  “No, I’m fine,” she said. “How many have you had?”

  “Lost count after the last one.”

  “Is it helping?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  They spent the next couple of hours talking about nothing in particular but Mom in general.

  Cheryl was a good listener. Patient. Nonjudgmental. Accepting. He laid open his grief the way a repentant sinner seeks forgiveness in a confessional. She offered an occasional smile and nod, enough to encourage him to continue.

  “You probably didn’t want to hear all of this,” he said.

  “I want to hear anything you have to say.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Okay, I wonder who this is,” Timothy said as he walked to the door and opened it.

  Scoot stood on the porch. “Hey, bro. I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks, Scoot.”

  They exchanged a male hug—close but not weird.

  “Come in. Cheryl’s here.”

  “I know. She called me earlier.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Timothy said.

  “You probably will be.” Scoot couldn’t resist.

  “Want a beer?” Timothy asked.

  “Always.”

  “Hey, Cheryl. How’s it goin’ girl?” Scoot said as Timothy went for the beers. Cheryl hugged Scoot.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she said.

  “Me too,” Scoot said.

  Timothy returned with a couple of beers, which they quickly drained, and went for a couple more. They sat for a while and told Mom stories. They told war stories. They told Bobby stories.

  “Time for a girl to leave, boys,” Cheryl said.

  “Thanks. This means a lot to me you came over.” He kissed her.

  “I know. I’ll call you later. See you later, Scoot,” she said.

  Scoot nodded and held up his can.

  Timothy and Cheryl hugged and kissed and said their goodbyes again. He returned and sat across from Scoot.

  “You gotta good woman there, man,” Scoot said.

  “I know. Probably too good for me.”

  “Probably.” Scoot smiled again.

  “Scoot, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I want to run as far and as fast as I can and keep running until I’ve got nothing left. I feel like I’m ripping at the seams.”

  “Dude, you said the same thing when Bobby went missing. It’s your life unraveling. At least, you think it’s unraveling.”

  “That’s exactly what’s happening. It’s coming apart a thread at a time. I want to run away from it all. Take a break. Have no responsibilities.”

  “Hell, that sounds good. We can take a couple of shop bikes and split this summer for a while. I know a place in the hills of South Dakota that don’t put up with foul moods. They heal ya real quick. Let’s get another beer,” Scoot said. He often said there were few things in life another beer couldn’t fix. They were about to test out how true that was.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  TIMOTHY WOKE SLOWLY and painfully. Cotton mouth. Head vibrating like a jackhammer. Stomach raw as a fresh abrasion. He dreaded the morning after a night of drinking. That’s why he often said, “The best part of staying sober on Saturday night is Sunday morning.” He managed to sit up on the side of his bed. How much did I drink last night? Too much.

  He smelled coffee, which his nose liked but his stomach didn’t. He ambled toward the kitchen trying to muffle the sounds of his footsteps. Any noise was too much. He stopped for the necessary relief at the bathroom, and even that was too loud.

  “Morning, sleepyhead,” Scoot said with a smile.

  Timothy grunted, “How?” pointing to the coffee.

  “I had to go to the store this morning. Don’t you ever go shopping? I got us some doughnuts and orange juice.”

  The thoughts of doughnuts and orange juice turned Timothy’s stomach, and he wanted to empty its contents, though he’d failed to fill it with anything other than the liquid that gave him this hangover. He didn’t respond, fearing he might bring up more than words.

  Scoot handed him a glass of fizzing water. “Drink this. It’s Alka-Seltzer. Got that at the store, too.”

  Timothy grunted and gulped the bubbling contents. He stared at Scoot, who gobbled his second doughnut and washed it down with juice. Timothy never saw Scoot hungover. Regardless of what he drank the night before, Scoot had this enviable ability to get up and function the next day. Most people saw this as an admirable trait, but a couple of years of working in psych units caused Timothy to think Scoot operated as a functional alcoholic. Timothy would settle for functional this morning.

  “How do you do that?” Timothy asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Eat and drink like that the morning after.”

  “It don’t bother me. Guess I’m used to it. Here, coffee’s done. Drink it.” He handed a large mug to Timothy.

  Timothy smelled it and sipped it like it was a spoonful of hot soup.

  “Man, you threw ’em back last night. Kill any pain?”

  Timothy shook his head carefully. “Created more than it killed. Traded one pain for another.”

  “Yeah, you needed that. Got a lot out
of your system. You always need alcohol to loosen your tongue and your grip on stuff.”

  “So, how bad?”

  “Oh, you said plenty of stupid stuff, but, dude, you get a pass on that. Your mom just died. That’s a get-outta-jail-free card any day.”

  Timothy nodded.

  “The only thing you said that bugged me was about Cheryl. You talked about taking off and leaving her here, saying she’d be better off without you—that she deserves someone better than you.”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Hell no. You said something about some people at work getting ready to bolt for a few weeks, and they asked you to go with them. You said it sounded good to get away from all this shit.”

  Everything started to come back to Timothy as Scoot talked. Though most of it made sense to Timothy, he regretted saying aloud what he thought privately. He learned long ago that he shouldn’t make public stuff that ought to stay private.

  “Yeah, I’m a lousy drunk.”

  “I heard that. I can tell ya, if you’re thinking about ditching Cheryl, there’ll be plenty of guys lined up to take your place, like Jodie back home,” Scoot said.

  “Did I talk about that, too?”

  “Yep. You talked about some asshole coming to the lot to show off his car. You called it his latest trophy. I didn’t get it all, but I suspect it had something to do with that broad that Dear Johnned you in Nam. Am I right?”

  Timothy shook his head as if to rid himself of that memory. “Yeah, but there’s nothing there. Just a few unsaid things that would make me feel better.”

  “Yeah, you need to release your grip on that, too. You carry too much shit around with you. That load gets heavy, don’t it?”

  “Yeah, too heavy at times. I wish I could let go of some of this stuff. It would lighten my load. That’s for sure.”

  “Look, man, there’s all kinds of shit floating around your head right now. You don’t never make decisions about life when life is this messed up. The bottom line is you’re gonna feel like shit for a while and then you won’t.”

  Timothy knew Scoot was right but didn’t show it.

  “Here’s a prescription from Doctor Scoot. You can’t run from this crap. It’s traveling with you. You ain’t leaving it in Saint Louis if you take off with a bunch of kids. It’s gonna follow ya. And then what? You’re a thousand miles from home and still feelin’ like shit. You can’t travel away what you’re feelin’. You gotta stay here and face it like a man.”

  Timothy managed to nod.

  “You need to come home every day to this empty house and feel empty sittin’ here. Then, one day when you ain’t feelin’ empty, you’ll begin livin’ again. In the meantime, have a couple of beers or joints, whichever gives you less of a hangover.”

  “That’s pretty good advice, mostly.” Timothy managed a slight smile.

  They sat and drank coffee for a while.

  “God, what did you make this with? It tastes terrible.”

  “Hundred-weight. No weak coffee for you, bro.”

  “Okay.” He sipped. “About your truck.”

  “Man, don’t even think about that. Keep it until you can figure out somethin’ else.”

  “Thanks. I’ll get through the next few days and then we’ll talk about it.”

  “That’s cool. I gotta go. Got an engine waiting for me to do a Lazarus move on it. You take care today, and I’ll check back on you later.”

  “You’re a good friend, Scoot. You’ve always got my back.”

  “Brothers forever, right?”

  “Forever.”

  Scoot left. Timothy sat at the kitchen table, drank the motor-oil-weight coffee, and stared at a plate of doughnuts. Even though they still turned his stomach, he grinned, thinking of the nickname he and others gave coffee and doughnuts in Nam— “slop and slugs.” His head cleared enough to realize there were some things the family must do today, hungover or not. He mentally made a short list, which was all his throbbing head would allow. Item one, Excedrin. He walked to the cabinet, opened a bottle of the painkiller, and downed three of them with the heavy coffee. God, this is terrible slop.

  Leslie called and told Timothy that Frank would arrive at her house soon and they should meet about noon to discuss everything they needed to do today. They could all drive together to take care of things. It sounded like a good idea to see Frank at Leslie’s house before they went to the rectory and funeral home, just in case Frank wanted to act like his normal obnoxious self. They could get that out of the way. He showered, dressed, and drove to Leslie’s house.

  She greeted him on the front porch with a hug.

  “How are you doing today?”

  “Functioning. How about you?” Timothy asked.

  She studied his face. “About the same as you. Looks like you had a rough night.”

  “Yeah, Scoot came over and, well, you know.”

  “I know. Cheryl called and told me. I figured you two would—”

  “Yeah, we did. Get any sleep last night?”

  “A little. I was up with the kids until midnight trying to get them settled down. They are struggling with this, as you might guess. Come on in. Ike’s in the kitchen with Frank.”

  Timothy followed Leslie into the kitchen where Ike and Frank huddled around a pot of coffee.

  “Hey, little brother.” Frank stood to greet Timothy with a handshake. They gave each other a perfunctory hug, like the type of hug strangers would offer under these conditions.

  Frank stood six-foot-three, towering over his younger brother. He exploited the age and height difference every chance he got and had done this from the moment Timothy became aware he had a big brother. Timothy appreciated this toughening up the way a patient appreciates a good drilling from the dentist. Timothy knew this treatment made him tougher. The only thing Frank ever gave him was a hard time.

  “You finally woke up, huh?” Frank said.

  “Yeah, tough night. You?”

  “I slept pretty good. I was tired from the long flight and the time difference, but I’m good this morning.”

  “Right,” Timothy said.

  “Tim, want some coffee?” Ike held up the pot.

  “Sure. Scoot made coffee this morning, and it tasted like motor oil. How long you here for, Frank?”

  “I figure we bury her on Monday, and I can get the red eye for Tuesday.”

  Timothy had no energy for this. Normally, he would have seized on his brother’s cavalier attitude but not today. Leslie shot Timothy a look begging him not to go after Frank. He understood the look and honored the request. Not here. Not today.

  “Busy, huh?” Timothy said with no particular interest.

  “Oh yeah, lots of irons in the fire at work, and Mary is still struggling with her recovery, but I think she has things under control. I’m proud of her. It’s a whirlwind, I tell you. But thanks for asking.”

  Timothy thought, Can he be this self-consumed? Yes.

  “How do you guys think we should handle all of this today? It seems like there are a lot of moving parts to this.” Frank sounded like a mid-level business manager in a staff meeting getting ready to delegate to his subordinates. He automatically assumed the role of the older brother.

  “All of what, Frank? Do you mean Mom’s wake and funeral?” Timothy said. His face reddened and tone sharpened.

  Leslie looked at Timothy again with her pleading look. As usual, Frank sat tone-deaf to these types of things.

  “Yes, of course. That’s what I mean,” Frank said the way a politician corrects the record or clarifies his position.

  “We need to go to the funeral home at one-thirty to meet with the manager and make arrangements for the wake and funeral.” Leslie entered the conversation. “We don’t need to go to the rectory because I’ve already talked to a lady at Mom’s church, and she told me ten on Monday morning was good for the Mass.”

  “Good,” Timothy said.

  “Yes, that works for me, too,” Frank said.
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  Timothy ignored this, and Ike rolled his eyes.

  “I contacted the funeral home Mom used for Dad,” Leslie said.

  “Which one was that, again?” Frank said.

  “That’s right—you weren’t here for that, were you, Frank?” Timothy said, and Ike smiled.

  “It’s Blauman’s, and they said Sunday evening is fine for the wake,” Leslie said. “This gives us enough time to contact everyone. The only out-of-towner is Bill, and I called him yesterday. He’ll be in tomorrow. We’ve still got plenty of time to get the obituary in the paper.”

  “Thanks, Sis. It sounds like you’ve got things under control,” Timothy said.

  “Yes, thanks, Leslie. We appreciate all of the hard work you’ve put into this,” Frank said.

  This is a fucking committee meeting to him. He cannot be this detached from reality.

  “We can get all of this done this afternoon,” Leslie said. “I’ll swing by the house later today or tomorrow to pick out a dress for Mom.”

  “It sounds like we have a plan. When do you think we should read the will and check the insurance policies?” Frank asked.

  Timothy felt grateful for his hangover because it kept him from leveling his brother. Though, if Frank kept this up all weekend, the tide might change to a storm. That possibility made Timothy grin.

  “I already checked the insurance policy, and you’ll be relieved to know it will cover the funeral expense. As far as the will is concerned, how about we take care of Mom’s arrangements first? We can read the will tomorrow,” Timothy said.

  “Splendid. Yes, that makes sense,” Frank said.

  “Ike, can you drive us?”

  “Sure, Tim.”

  They left the house and took care of the wake and funeral details. Frank had little to contribute except for his annoying habit of stating the obvious. It was his lame attempt to sound relevant. A few hours with Frank reminded Timothy why he was glad Frank lived on the other side of the country.

  Timothy spent Friday evening with Cheryl at her parents’ home. He stayed late and sober. Cheryl listened as her typical understanding self. She said she understood he had to cut loose with Scoot the night before. “Best friends do some things better than anyone else.” Timothy appreciated her understanding.