Fly Me to the Moon

by Mindy Klasky

  The receptionist sifted through the pages like she’d seen them a thousand times before. Which she had, he knew. Not his papers, but papers from men like him, men who had served.

  She shuffled a few pages, moving one from the back to somewhere in the middle. She shook her head when she reached a particular document, setting it on her desk and reaching for a pen. “You forgot to sign this one.”

  He could do this all online, he knew that. But he hadn’t done it online, not in all the months he’d had. The Army had given him instructions—fill out this form for health benefits, that one for job placement. Keep a copy of this document, submit that one for filing. Make sure you have multiple copies of the official discharge, because employers might ask to make them part of your official file.

  He’d had all the instructions, but he hadn’t completed the forms. Because once he signed on the dotted line, he was done. Free.

  Alone.

  On his own.

  He signed the form now because the receptionist couldn’t stay patient forever. She took back the page and said, “Perfect. I’ll submit these this morning. But we officially close at noon today for the holiday, and we won’t reopen till Monday.”

  Christmas Eve. Christmas. Then Saturday and Sunday and all the rest of his life.

  “That’s fine,” he said, even though he wanted to complain. “No rush.”

  She reached for a familiar paper, the folded brochure he’d memorized in the truck. “Of course, the Veterans Administration isn’t your only source for assistance as you make this transition.”

  Assistance. She’d read his forms. She meant Alcoholics Anonymous. But she was taking the Anonymous seriously, not saying the word out loud. Not that there was anyone listening, not here in the social work office.

  “I’ve got one of those,” he said. And without planning to, his hand slipped into his pocket. His fingers closed around the white token, the blank poker chip that proved he’d gone to his first meeting the day before. “I know where to find meetings.”

  She smiled like he hadn’t just admitted he was a failure.

  No. Not a failure. He needed help. And he deserved it.

  It felt strange to think the words. But he’d better get used to them. He had to make his peace with everything Lexi had said—not just that he was a coward. But that he was kind. Good. Or at least that he acted like he was. It wasn’t a weakness to be those things for himself. He deserved that, that’s what the social worker said. Finn had completed his mission and served his nation well. And his last operational task was building his place here, back home.

  “Excellent,” the receptionist said, obviously unaware that he’d been replaying yesterday’s session in his mind. “We’ll be in touch, then, after your paperwork is processed. But don’t hesitate to call if you need help with anything. Anything at all. Our emergency line is staffed twenty-four, seven, three sixty-five.”

  He thanked her and walked back to his truck, feeling lighter than he had since his military transport had taken off from Germany. His good mood lasted until he found J-Dawg sitting in the passenger seat.

  “Dawg,” he said after he’d closed his door, because he had to say something.

  His buddy only looked at him. The Dawg was still fucked up, the way he’d been since Finn’s fight with Lexi. And he still didn’t say a word, none of the old joking, none of the bullshit. Instead, he just raised a bloody hand and pointed toward the parking lot exit.

  “I’m going, Dawg.” Finn proved it by turning the key.

  And that was enough, as they hit the highway. The ghost didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything as the black road rolled under the truck’s wheels. Finn hummed to himself, trying to ignore the apparition. He stopped, though, when he realized he was repeating Lexi’s old Sinatra song, the one line, over and over again. Fly me to the moon.

  The drive was easy enough with the roads nearly empty. After the past three days, the truck practically knew the way itself. He pulled off the interstate and onto the county road. He slowed down to 25 when he got to the edge of Harmony Springs, even though he couldn’t imagine one of the town’s three cops ticketing him that morning, Christmas Eve day.

  J-Dawg leaned forward as they approached The Christmas Cat. Finn downshifted, ready to pull into the space he’d left before dawn. Before he could complete the maneuver, Dawg’s arm shot forward. One finger, pointing, commanding.

  “I’m fine here, man,” Finn said.

  But the finger merely shook, urging him back onto Main Street.

  “I just have another hour’s worth of work to—”

  The finger left no doubt.

  Swearing a blue streak that would have left the old J-Dawg laughing, Finn slammed the truck into gear. He followed directions like the soldier he was, turning right onto Fourth, left onto Elm.

  He knew his destination before he got there. He’d driven by the house every single morning since he’d arrived in town. He knew the manicured lawn, brown from winter. He knew the mailbox, standing like a sentinel by the driveway. He knew the kitchen light and the shapes that moved back and forth inside, a man and a woman, alone inside their home.

  Finn parked the truck just past the driveway, taking advantage of the empty curb on the residential street. He closed his door quietly, reluctant to upset the calm of the winter morning. His footsteps rang like shots on the flagstones as he walked the path to the front door. J-Dawg kept pace beside him, matching his left, right, left like they were on a parade ground.

  He paused when he reached the steps. He thought about going back to the truck, getting in and driving away, traveling north until he got to Boston, to family, to home. But Boston hadn’t been home in years. And family was what he could make for himself. That was the point of the papers he’d walked in to the VA in Winchester.

  J-Dawg matched him step for step as he made his way to the front door. The bloody ghost loomed beside him, staring intently at the brass knocker. Finn slipped his right hand into his pocket, closing his fingers around his white chip. With his left hand, he raised the knocker and let it fall three times, crisp and clear.

  A deadbolt slipped open, and a man’s voice called to someone back in the house, “I don’t know who it is.” The doorknob started to turn, and Finn saw a flash of light out of the corner of his eye.

  He turned, his old wariness bringing his hand to his missing sidearm, but there was nothing beside him. Nothing at all. J-Dawg had gone, disappearing into the morning glow.

  Finn turned back to the man who stood in the doorway. “Mr. Dawson,” he said, extending his hand. “My name is Tom Finnegan, and I served with your son.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The Fête wasn’t as horrible as Finn had thought it would be.

  Yeah, there were dozens of people who shook his hand, who thanked him for his service. But a lot of them followed up the rote gratitude with real questions, asking where he’d served, how long he’d been back, whether he needed anything as he settled in. The routine thanks became the beginning of conversations, instead of the end.

  Finn needed those beginnings. He needed a chance to talk about men like Jon Dawson, men who had willingly made the ultimate sacrifice because they believed they were building a better world. He needed a chance to think about how much he, Finn, had changed, how he’d never be the same guy who’d gotten on that first transport, who’d set out from home ready to do whatever it took to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic.

  He managed to pull back the black velvet that covered the plaque J-Dawg’s parents had commissioned. He’d been embarrassed as hell when Mr. and Mrs. Dawson asked him to stand front and center. But if they wanted it, he’d do everything in his power to do it.

  At least he didn’t have to speak to the crowd. Mr. Dawson took care of that, and J-Dawg’s old football coach—short and sweet recollections, followed by a moment of silent prayer.

  After that, everyone scattered around Harmony Park. A
bonfire blazed wicked hot in the center of the field. Some vendors sold hot apple cider; others had coffee. One booth was doing a brisk business in doughnuts, scooped hot from a pot of boiling oil and rolled in cinnamon sugar.

  The smell made Finn’s teeth ache. Automatically, he looked for Lexi. She must love the sweet treats.

  Of course Lexi wasn’t there. A woman who couldn’t manage a candle on a restaurant table wasn’t about to stand with her back to a raging bonfire.

  At least J-Dawg wasn’t anywhere in sight either. Finn was pretty sure his ghost was gone forever, now that Finn had finally followed orders. Plunging his hand into his pocket, he rubbed his thumb against the edge of his white chip.

  Once a soldier, always a soldier: He walked the perimeter of the park. Little kids were taking their chances at carnival booths. Four policemen took turns manning the spit for the pig roast. Chief Carter was sharpening a carving knife, ready to serve up the main attraction.

  The scene looked like it belonged in a goddamn Norman Rockwell painting—perfect in every way.

  Except it wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t perfect because Lexi wasn’t there. And even if she had been, she wouldn’t be talking to him.

  He squared his shoulders and left before anyone else came up to tell him he was a hero.

  ~~~

  Lexi looked around the park. It had been thirteen years since she’d attended the Christmas Fête, but memories came flooding back. The perfume of cinnamon wafting off hot apple cider, the heavy sweetness of fresh doughnuts, the meaty smell of roast pork… Lexi remembered trying her hand at the game booths, coming home with pockets full of stickers and plastic toys, prizes she’d treasured until the next Fête rolled around.

  “I’m glad you came,” Anne said, handing over a cup of cider.

  Before Lexi could take the drink, a massive log on the bonfire shifted. The crowd cried out—surprise that quickly turned to laughter as harmless sparks flew into the nighttime sky. Everyone’s chatter seemed louder after the fire had settled, more enthusiastic.

  Lexi realized her fingers had curled into fists. Her nails were biting deep into her palms. But nothing had happened. No one was in danger, not with every firefighter in town standing ten feet away.

  She forced herself to take a deep breath. Another. A third.

  And because she was the new Lexi, the Lexi who had cooked herself dinner on a gas stove, the Lexi who was moving forward with her life instead of languishing in the past, she took the cup that Anne still held. She swallowed the sweet cider, letting it carry her back to a time when she was safe and happy.

  “Thanks,” she said, and her voice was perfectly even. And then she clarified. “Not just for the cider. For being on call the last few days. For putting up a sign at the store.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  Before Anne could complete her sentence, Lexi was folded into a bear hug from behind. She shrieked as her feet swept off the ground, and she pounded ineffectually at the arms that gripped her waist. “Chris!” she shouted, because she recognized her brother, because he was the only one who treated her that way, like she wasn’t made of glass.

  “Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, after he finally decided to stop torturing her.

  “Likewise,” she answered. “How’d you get off Christmas Eve?”

  Chris shrugged. “I told them I’d handle brunch tomorrow. Keep me company on the drive back tonight, and I’ll make it worth your while with Butterscotch Sticky Buns and Glazed Almond French Toast. Save you from Pop-Tarts and cold cereal.”

  “I’ll have you know I cooked scrambled eggs last night.” She couldn’t keep the pride from her voice, even though it was silly, even though every grown woman she knew cooked eggs without thinking about it.

  And she was rewarded by the look of astonishment on her brother’s face. Before Chris could recover, Anne asked, “Really?” And when Lexi nodded, her best friend folded her into a hug.

  They knew her. They understood. They got what she was saying the way no one else in the entire world would.

  No one she was talking to anyway. No one who was still in Harmony Springs.

  Lexi told herself to stop thinking about Finn. He’d had three days to call her. Three days to come by the house. If he’d had any intention of patching things up after their fight, he would have acted by now.

  The bonfire shifted again. This time, one of the main logs burned through, crashing to the ground and carrying a quarter of the structure with it. Smoke roiled out, carrying sparks as high as the stars. The crowd oohed and aahed like they were watching a fireworks display, and one little boy jumped up and down, crying, “Do it again! Do it again!”

  But Lexi didn’t want anyone to do it again. She’d proven to herself that she could attend the Fête. She’d stood there, surrounded by the smell of the fire, eyes burning from the smoke. She hadn’t collapsed in gibbering fear. She hadn’t ranted like a maniac. Enough was enough.

  “Okay,” she said, after a long, steadying breath. “Time for me to head home.”

  Chris looked at her sharply. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. And she was. She really was. But she was also exhausted, especially after her late night grocery trip to Winchester the night before. “But I’ll pass on that trip to DC. Even if that means skipping Christmas Day brunch. Rain check?”

  “Sure,” Chris said.

  “I’ll walk you home,” said Anne.

  “No. You stay here. You haven’t had a chance to eat any of the pork. And you have to check out the dessert table. See if you need to hire any local bakers to supplement your offerings at the diner.”

  “I’d never—”

  Lexi laughed at the disdain in her best friend’s voice. “Go,” she said. “Both of you. Compare chef’s notes or something.” And she hugged Anne and kissed Chris on the cheek before she headed out of the park.

  One block, two, and the noise of the Fête had faded almost completely. Lexi was left with the feeling that she was walking inside a tunnel, sheltered inside a cocoon.

  No. Not a cocoon.

  Just thinking the word carried her back to the shop, to her fight with Finn, to everything she’d tried to ignore for the past three days. She’d have to clean up the flooded back room. She’d have to chuck the ruined boxes. In fact, she owed it to Chris to take stock of the situation now. If she worked quickly enough, she could tell him the bad news face to face. That would be better than a phone call, a text.

  Fighting the curl of dread in her belly, she turned around and forced her feet to carry her to the store. There it was—the familiar plate-glass window, filled with holiday good cheer. The streetlights flashed on ornaments, forcing her to smile as she fitted her key in the lock.

  The door swung easily, barely jostling the “Closed” sign in its window. That was strange. Anne must have come by after shutting down the diner, taking away the note she’d promised to post, clearing the way for Lexi’s return after Christmas.

  Well, that’s what friends are for. Lexi shrugged, purposely keeping her breath shallow. The books in the back room were probably starting to mildew by now. It would take her months to get that smell out of the shop.

  She didn’t bother turning on lights in the front. She knew her way past the display trees, down the main aisle. She didn’t have to think as she tossed her keys on the counter beside the register. Her feet automatically counted the paces to the back room, and her arm reached around, finding the switch on the wall.

  Light flooded the room, and Lexi could not believe her eyes.

  There, on the walls, were eight deep ranks of shelves. The mahogany stain was fresh, sharpening the air. The room smelled of paint too, and Lexi quickly saw that the back wall had been rebuilt, smooth drywall fitted in to match the undamaged sections. A new window sill gleamed, its planed surface stained to match the book shelves.

  A rough cot crouched in the corner. A blanket was tucked in with perfect precision. A small pillow was centered at the to
p.

  There were fewer boxes than she’d seen the last time she stood in the room, but all the ones that remained were sturdy and dry. The Battle of Cedar Creek tableau rested on sawhorses, angled in a corner, inviting closer inspection. Another display was half-completed, topography set, but no soldiers nestled on the grass beside the stream.

  A lawyer’s bookcase was centered behind the armchair. A couple of dozen books were displayed on one open shelf. Neon stickers blazed from their spines, and Lexi crossed the room to read, “Store Copy. Not For Sale.”

  “You’ll have to order additional stock, once the shelves are dry.”

  Lexi started at the words, but of course she knew the voice. “Finn,” she said, turning slowly, overwhelmed by everything he’d done. Because there was no doubt in her mind that Finn was the one who’d built the shelves, who’d repaired the wall, who’d sorted out the flood-damaged stock. “When did you do this? How did you find the time?”

  He shrugged. “I used the power tools at night. When I didn’t have to worry about hearing customers in front. I could paint during the day, though.”

  “Customers…”

  “All three days were pretty good. I totaled up the sales, but didn’t make any deposits. I picked up a strongbox for the cash. It’s in the bottom of the closet.” He nodded toward the corner. The door was open, displaying a tangle of cleaning supplies. A square mirror reflected back her astonished face.

  “I thought…” I thought you’d given up. I thought you could never forgive me for the terrible things I said. I thought you’d left me forever.

  “Lexi,” he said, before she could force words past the lump in her throat.

  And then his hands were tangled in her hair. His lips were hot on her throat. She leaned into him, not trusting herself to stand.

  And all the time she tried to tell him the horrible things she’d thought, he was whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have said… I didn’t mean…”