I’ll Meet You There

by Heather Demetrios

  “Now I can be a goddamn pirate or something, right?” he said. “Got the peg leg and everything.”

  “Shit.” Chris breathed.

  Josh shrugged. “Shit happens.”

  I had to tear my eyes away from the metal pole that began somewhere under Josh’s khaki shorts and ended inside a tennis shoe. I was like those drivers out on Highway 99 who felt compelled to slow down and stare when there was an accident. Lookie-Loos. The more gruesome the wreck was, the slower the Lookie-Loos drove, their eyes drawn to the thick pools of blood and shimmering shards of glass that spread across the asphalt like a Jackson Pollock painting.

  I lurched forward and hugged him, holding my breath as his arms went around me. He reeked of whiskey, weed, and rank sweat. It was a stiff, graceless hug—me trying not to accidentally kick his leg, him trying to stay balanced. I wanted to kill someone. Whoever had done this to him, his parents for telling him he should go, the president. It was the sickest thing I’d ever seen, this man-boy whose whole life was screwed.

  “This is so fucked up,” I whispered.

  Words.

  His breath caught, and he let out a raspy “yeah.”

  A bridge.

  We stayed like that for a few more seconds, then I pulled away. Chris was staring at Josh’s leg, and I hoped I didn’t look like him, so shell-shocked. Blake was still pulling at the label on his empty bottle, letting the torn pieces flutter to the dead grass at his feet.

  “So you’re home now? I mean, for good?” I asked.

  “Don’t know.” Josh frowned. “What about you? How’s the motel?”

  “Same, same,” I said.

  It seemed like those long days working together at the Paradise were a million years ago.

  “I believe it.” He turned to Chris, as if he’d noticed him for the first time. “What about you, faggot? You still playing with computers and shit?”

  Chris’s eyes flashed, and he opened his mouth to reply, but then Josh clapped him on the back.

  “I’m just fucking with you, man. You’re all right.”

  I could almost see the debate in Chris’s head: is it, in fact, morally reprehensible to deck a one-legged dude who’s been fighting for his country?

  It got quiet then, the air oozing awkwardness. All I could think about was that leg, blown to bits.

  “You need a drink,” said Josh, pointing to my empty hand.

  He called out to a girl in super short shorts and a crop top—it took me a minute to realize it was Josh’s thirteen-year-old sister, Tara.

  “Baby girl, hook us up with some beers, will you? And put on some goddamn clothes.”

  Tara rolled her eyes and headed over to the coolers.

  I shook my head. “I’m okay.”

  Josh gave his brother a knowing glance. “Ah, still a good girl, I see.”

  “Dude,” growled Blake.

  Our town was so small that even a guy who’d been in Afghanistan knew about our stupid fling.

  “Get your head out of the gutter, Josh,” I said.

  “Um, that’s impossible.” Blake’s lips turned up just a little. Josh snorted in response—for a second, we forgot about the leg. Seemed to, anyway.

  “Josh! Get over here, soldier!”

  He turned around and gave a thumbs-up to a bong raised high in the air. A group lay sprawled on the grass a few feet away, staring at the sky. Josh turned to us and shrugged.

  “Duty calls. See you later.”

  He gave us a lazy salute and then limped away, his fingers groping the darkness, as though he were trying to take hold of the night’s hand.

  Blake cleared his throat and looked away, toward the garage that was filled with guys playing beer pong. I stole a glance at him. For the first time I noticed his tense shoulders and how his clenched teeth made the lines of his jaw sharp and pointed.

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” I said. Josh was nineteen years old. Nineteen years old. I reached for Blake, because right then he looked like a little boy trying not to cry, but Alexis was still staring jealous-girlfriend daggers. My hand dropped against my thigh, slapping the skin.

  “He’ll be okay. He’s tough.” Blake threw his beer in the general direction of the trash cans lined up along the fence. “You gonna be around for a while?” he asked, scanning the packed yard. “I gotta resupply the coolers.”

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty wiped out from the ceremony.”

  Strange. It was only a few hours ago that Mom had given me a bouquet of wilted carnations dyed a bright, unnatural blue to match our school colors. Seeing Josh had turned it into a distant memory. The war had come home, and it was ugly and senseless, and I just wanted to be in my bed, to be anywhere but here, really.

  Blake grunted, and I risked putting my hand on his arm. “When did you guys find out about … you know?”

  “January.” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and looked up at the starless sky. “He was in some hospital in Maryland for like six months, doing rehab or whatever, but he didn’t want any of us to visit him. Then he was in San Diego, doing whatever guys like him do on a military base. He made my mom promise not to tell anyone.”

  “Shit,” Chris said again. It seemed to be his only response.

  “Blake, I—”

  But I didn’t know what to say. It seemed like I should have guessed. How could you kiss someone every day for a week and not know his family was going through hell?

  “S’okay. He’s a Mitchell. He can take it.”

  Tara waved him over from one of the empty coolers. “I’ve gotta motor, but, you know, thanks for coming. I know this isn’t your scene.”

  I nodded, surprised he realized that, and he went toward the house. I glanced at Josh again; I didn’t know if it was because it was so sad—all of it, all of us—but my vision started to blur.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I said.

  Chris’s face was all kinds of relieved. “Lead the way.”

  People were starting to pass out on the grass, and couples were peeling away, leaning into each other as they stumbled to their cars. For a second, I was jealous. I wished I had someone I could lose myself in. I watched Blake maneuver through the crowd, saw Alexis slip her arm around his waist. Pot and cigarette smoke hovered above the party, covering the wasted youth of Creek View with a thick, pungent haze. It was like the whole town was swimming in failure, but no one realized they were drowning. I turned my back on everything I never, ever wanted to be and headed toward the chain-link gate near the driveway.

  “Hell,” Chris muttered. He stopped for a moment and looked back.

  I followed his eyes. “Yeah,” I said, my voice soft.

  I could just make out Josh, leaning on his real leg, surrounded by the bodies of whole people. All I could think about were those words he’d said, just before he left for Afghanistan: This is as good as it gets for me.

  JOSH

  I get that Vonnegut line now, got it after that sniper wasted Sharpe but really get it now—broken kite. This isn’t a man. It’s a broken kite. Flew all the way from Afghanistan and crashed in the middle of fucking nowhere, right back where I started except minus a goddamn leg. Major combat stress. But this is my welcome home party, so I gotta look happy and fuckin’ mingle. This dude I knew in high school comes up to me, and he’s all Hey, man, what’s up and shit, and then we sort of shake hands and drink beer and watch the party.

  So what’s it like over there? You get to kill some Iraqis?

  Afghanis.

  Yeah, yeah, whatever. So … what’s it like, man?

  What’s it like? It’s seeing your friend die and then trying to scrub his blood off your boots except it won’t come out. The water turns pink and your hands are shaking and you’ve got what’s left of someone you were just standing next to under your fingernails and you need these boots for inspection so they gotta get clean, they gotta get clean, and suddenly you’re angry, so fucking angry, stupid bastard had to die all over me, and then you�
��re crying like a fucking baby and the boots are red and there’s nothing you can do.

  But I just say, Crazy, man. Crazy. Then I belch and hold up my empty beer bottle and say, Gotta refuel. I’ll catch you later. Good seeing you, bro.

  Fist bump.

  Clap on the back.

  Exit.

  chapter two

  I only saw Josh once during that first week after graduation. I was at Ray’s Diner, picking Dylan up. I’d just gotten off from the motel and was groggy because Amy had called in sick so I’d been there for eighteen hours and had to deal with one pissed-off trucker who’d gotten a flat, two hippies who I’d caught smoking weed by the pool, and a woman from LA who spent most of the morning complaining about her room. The diner was oppressively hot, and from the fans set up on the counter, I could tell that the air-conditioning had broken again. The blinds were half closed, and flies buzzed around the pastry case, which only had two questionable-looking cinnamon rolls in it. It was just after the lunch rush, so most of the booths were empty. Because Dylan was the only waitress on, everything was clean and organized—you wouldn’t have known it by looking at her, but she was an absolute neat freak. As soon as Dylan saw me, she started taking off her apron and pointed to the back, and I nodded, getting ready to sit at the counter and wait while she sorted out her receipts and tips.

  Then I saw Josh.

  He was sitting at one of the cracked vinyl booths by himself, pushing steak and eggs around on a plate, staring out the grimy window. I remembered he used to come in with his friends, taking up two or three booths, so loud that you either had to join them or find another place to eat. Josh was always between two girls—different ones each time—who he pretty much ignored in order to do the male-bonding thing. The status of guys in our town rose and fell on those nights, and it all came down to who Josh laughed with and who he laughed at. He was never cruel, not the kind of bully they warn you about in school assemblies. He was just the final answer in whether or not you belonged.

  Josh and I had never been what you’d call friends, but I’d worked with him at the Paradise since I was fourteen, and that counted for something. Besides, while Dylan was in the back, I couldn’t just pretend I hadn’t seen him. Creek View’s not that sort of town—it’s what my dad called a “shoot-the-shit” kind of place. I went up to the booth and leaned against the side opposite him.

  “Hey.”

  He looked up, blinking, like he’d been somewhere else and had forgotten where here was.

  “Skylar,” he said, after a moment. “What’s up?” His smile slid all over his face, like it couldn’t make itself comfortable.

  “Not much. How’s it going?” Dumb, dumb, dumb question to ask someone who’d just lost his leg.

  He took a long sip of his Coke. “I’m hot as hell. You?”

  “Same.” I was wearing my usual summer attire of cutoffs, tank, and flip-flops, but I would have joined a nudist colony just to peel them off.

  “You look good,” he said.

  His eyes traveled down the length of me—typical Josh Mitchell move—and when I caught him and raised my eyebrows, his lips twitched and he took a bite of his eggs.

  I swear, the Mitchell boys were raised on Playboy while the rest of us normal kids were reading Dr. Seuss.

  “I look like crap,” I said. “You’ve just spent the past two years with a bunch of dudes. I bet you’d hit on Marge if you had the chance.”

  Marge, our boss at the Paradise, was in her fifties and what you’d call a “large” woman.

  Josh laughed, sort of. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Okay, I take that back.” I grimaced a little. “I really don’t want that picture in my head anymore. Actually, when you think about it—which maybe you shouldn’t—”

  “No, I really don’t want to.” He shook his head.

  “Okay, but if you did want to think about it—like maybe on a particularly lonely night—it’s kind of kinky. You and Marge would make quite an interesting pair.”

  “I’ve been home for, like, two seconds, and you’re already cracking one-legged sex jokes?”

  “It wouldn’t be a joke to Marge.”

  “That’s nasty, Sky.”

  “Although maybe you should wait to hit on her until you get a tan or something. You’re looking kinda pasty right now.”

  Finally, a real laugh. I felt my body relax: shoulders going down, hands unclenching. I hadn’t even realized I’d been tensing every muscle in my body until I suddenly wasn’t.

  He shook his head again, then looked down at his plate and focused on cutting his steak. “Trust me, I look amazing compared to a few months ago.”

  What could I say to that? What were the lines you weren’t supposed to cross in these sorts of conversations? It seemed like there needed to be a whole other language for what had happened to Josh, one that didn’t need words to clog up what you were trying to say. I’m sorry. This sucks. Hang in there. None of it was right. I sat down across from him, folding my legs under me. I couldn’t stand seeing that booth swallow him up.

  “So, what are you up to today?” I asked.

  I grabbed the container that held all the sugar packets and organized them so that all the Sweet’n Lows were together. Then I decided to alternate each packet: sugar, Sweet’n Low, sugar, Sweet’n Low. I kept my eyes on my hands.

  “I was helping out my dad at the shop for a bit.” His father owned the sometimes-open garage just off the highway, a few miles past the Paradise. “I’ll probably go home and … do something, I don’t know. Maybe head to the creek when the sun goes down. What about you?”

  “Pretty much the usual,” I said. “Dylan and I are going into Bakersfield to get stuff at Walmart for her baby. Then we’re meeting up with Chris later.”

  Chris’s mom had taken to cooking massive meals full of his favorite foods because, as she said, “Boston is full of gringos with gringo food.”

  Josh’s eyes widened. “Dylan has a kid?” I nodded, and he shook his head. “Damn. I mean, I’m not surprised, but—”

  My hands stopped organizing packets. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Skylar, don’t get all … I’m just saying, you know, Dylan’s always liked to have a good time.”

  If Chris were here, he’d be giving me shit because I could literally feel my nostrils flare. Sometimes Chris or Dylan would say stuff to piss me off just to see The Flare.

  “Is that your way of calling her a slut?”

  Josh, I could tell, was seeing The Flare.

  “Jesus, Sky.” He threw up his hands. “I’m sorry. You know I’ve always liked Dylan.”

  I grunted in response, because Josh “liking” a girl was reason enough for her dad to buy a shotgun.

  The radio was too loud, so the air was filled with never-ending commercials with lines like “Buy now!” and “Don’t miss it!” The Fresno Tire Center was insisting I go in there right away to take advantage of their fabulous summer savings. A huge Evangelical church was announcing its summer Bible studies, and McDonald’s wanted me to try their new summer shakes. I pushed the sugars against the wall and looked down at the Formica tabletop, tracing my hand along the lines of fake marble.

  Sometimes it was hard to breathe, knowing how small my world could be. Maybe in San Francisco it wouldn’t feel like the universe was conspiring to keep me in a bubble. I looked up, caught Josh’s Van Gogh eyes for a second. God, they were intense. Was it rude to stare when you were staring back at someone? As soon as I tried to hold them, his eyes dimmed, like he’d shuttered them somehow. It was silly feeling disappointed, but I was.

  Josh cleared his throat. “Hey. Uh. Sorry about the other night. At my house. I was pretty wasted.”

  “It’s fine. Seriously. Everyone was off their ass that night.”

  “Not you,” he said.

  I shrugged. “Never me. But I’m, you know, weird like that.”

  “I was being a dick to Chris, and … shit, I don’t even remember m
ost of the night.”

  He let out a slow breath and rubbed his hand over his shaved head. He looked thinner, more vulnerable, with just that brown stubble covering his skull. Why do they make guys shave their heads when they become soldiers? It makes them look like lost kids.

  “I didn’t think it was all that memorable. No offense,” I added, because it was sort of his welcome home bash.

  He shrugged. “It’s cool.”

  “Besides, it was your brother who was being the dick, not you.”

  Josh laughed. “You’re the one who dated him.”

  “Dated is a very strong word.”

  He leaned back in the booth and crossed his arms. “Well, I’ll tell him to stop trying to get in your pants then.”

  “That sounds scary, coming from a Marine and all.”

  “Yeah, I’m terrifying, aren’t I?”

  He tried to make a joke of it, but he spit the words out, like food gone bad. His eyes shifted to the window, and he pointed to the faded snowmen painted on it.

  “Fuckin’ Ray ever gonna clean off this Christmas shit?”

  “I think that’s been there since I was a sophomore.”

  He snorted. “This town.”

  I grabbed the napkin wound around the silverware in front of me because paper was my lifeline and I needed to touch it, to know that maybe when I went home later, I could collage him and then it would all make sense, he would make sense. I hoped my fingers would remember the exact quality of the sunlight on his forehead, the shadows under his eyes.

  “Marge said you’re coming back to the Paradise?”

  I spread the napkin out and began folding it. It’d be easier if it were made of actual paper, but I’d done napkin origami before.

  He nodded. “Yeah. Guess I’ll be a handyman again until I figure out…” He waved his hand in the air. “Stuff.”

  “Good. I’ll have someone to play checkers with.”

  “Oh, I’m a chess man now,” he said. The ghost of a smile played on his face.

  I raised my eyebrows. Josh Mitchell—chess? He was the kind of guy who would have called a “chess man” a fag. “So that’s what’s really going on in the Marines, huh? Bunch of guys just sitting around playing chess?”