by Brad Taylor
He’d figured out early on that the pretender was living on the boat. Something that wasn’t allowed long-term, but the old man said nothing. Working dawn until dusk pumping gas at the marina, the old man had studied the pretender just to break the monotony. Every other day the man would punish himself with a workout routine on the deck of the boat, working until total exhaustion in the South Carolina heat, seemingly trying to kill himself, the sweat rolling off his body in rivers. He would then leave for a run that lasted about an hour. When he returned, the old man would watch him stagger behind the Dumpsters and vomit, sometimes on his knees. He didn’t understand why until the pretender had passed by him finishing a run. The man stank of liquor, the foul smell wafting out of his pores like a fog.
After that, the old man began to lose interest, not wanting to waste his time on a drunk. Then one day the pretender had surprised him. Buying fuel for his boat, he had recognized the U.S. Army Second Division patch on the old man’s hat and had asked if he had been in the Army.
The old man had grown wary, not wanting to be patronized as he had been by all the other rich folks who treated him like a piece of furniture, fulfilling their duty of patriotism with a pat on the head before demanding gas.
He had said, “Yes.”
“Korea?”
“Yes. During some bad times.”
The pretender had nodded with understanding. “Nobody can take that away from you. Even when you wish they could.”
The old man was shocked. He knows.
A long time ago, on another continent, nobody had cared about the color of his skin. Rednecks and racists alike had learned that combat was color-blind. All that mattered was skill, and the old man had found that he inherently possessed something that others did not. Once upon a time he had been regarded as a savior, a man who could keep you alive, if you were lucky enough to be near him. He had been held in awe by better men than those who now demanded his gas. He was reminded of this by the nightmares that still caused him to lose sleep. He both loved and hated that time in his life, and somehow the pretender knew.
He began watching the pretender with renewed interest. The next time they met, he had asked, “Were you in the service?”
“Yes. The Army.”
“Been to Iraq? Afghanistan?”
“Both at one time or another.”
“Seen some bad shit?”
“Not really. The bad shit’s here at home.”
The answer had confused the old man. He continued to watch, waiting on the pretender to do something interesting. Eventually, he began to believe he had been wrong. The pretender held no secret truth. He was simply a drunken loser, dealing with the same demons as the old man. That is until the day the pretender disappeared and the old man had found two dead bodies behind the Dumpster, both killed by hand. That caused him to rethink the pretender’s status for sure.
I WOKE UP IN MY KING-SIZED BED and rolled over to kiss my wife. My arm hit the pylon holding the foldout twin bed, and I returned to the reality of my existence like I had done every morning for the last nine fucking months. Each day, in the brief moment between being asleep and awake, I had one split second of happiness before remembering what had become of my family. If I could bottle each split second, I’d give the remainder of the day to God, or the Devil, or whoever else was having a party out of my pain. Twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes, fifty-nine seconds, and some change for each split second. It would be a good trade.
I relive the grief process every single day, like clockwork. I’m still waiting for it to be a dull ache at the back of my soul, like all the doctors promised would happen. Instead, each morning the pain is as strong as that night in Tbilisi almost a year ago.
I sat up in bed and looked at the picture of Heather and Angie on my counter. I felt the pain begin to turn to rage. That also happened like clockwork. It’s hard to explain the level of the anger. It’s like trying to explain color to a blind man. I’m afraid to really put into words the dark thoughts that come to me. I want to rip someone apart while they’re still alive, to destroy something so completely that nothing identifiable remains. Sometimes the thoughts scare me.
I hate the rage, but there’s nothing I can do about it. It won’t go away. I’ve tried. I’ve seen doctors and gone to support groups, but nothing quenches it. I’ve talked to guys who say they used to be in the same boat as me, who lost their wife to cancer, or their family in a plane crash, and they say the pain will dull, the rage will dissipate. They mean well, but they’re wrong. It hasn’t dulled one bit. I think it’s because they aren’t in the same boat as me. They had their pain thrown on them without being asked. I earned every sorry bit given to me. They lost their family to fate or God. I killed mine.
If I had listened to Heather and hadn’t done that final tour, they’d be alive. Shit, I could have done the tour and simply come home for Angie’s birthday—like I promised—and they’d be alive. Simple as that. Because of it, my punishment is a rage that’s hard to quantify. A blackness that wants to eat me. Wants to eat everything, spreading its rotting hatred until the entire world is burning. I don’t think it will ever go away. It’s hard enough just to control. It sits just below the surface, a beast looking to run free. Sometimes I fantasize about letting it loose, about completely giving in to it. I haven’t yet, but it’s hard. Very, very hard.
My residence is my latest attempt to get rid of the pain. I took our savings and bought a sailboat. An extreme fixer-upper. I had this idiotic fantasy that I’d spend my days sanding wood, working on the engine, and live like some dumb-ass hermit at a monastery. In my imagination, the blackness would slowly dissipate the further along I got, until I was some sort of mystical sailor who finally understood the meaning of life. Apparently, that shit only works in the movies.
So far, I haven’t done a single thing with the boat. Well, at least nothing positive. I have managed to turn the galley into a giant garbage can. There are enough pizza boxes and beer cans to keep it afloat if it springs a leak. Last night, I had decided that today would be the day I would begin work on the top deck, sealing it and doing other maintenance. Now, in the morning light, I really didn’t give a shit about my crumbling deck. I’d rather go get a beer. It was my day off from physical training, so I didn’t have anything I really needed to do. I kissed my finger and touched the picture of my family. Who am I kidding? I never have anything I really need to do.
25
Jennifer and Skeeter, along with six other girls, entered the front door of the Windjammer a little after eight at night. The floor was already crowded, but nowhere near as crowded as it would be in a few more hours. At least at this hour they could move around without pushing and could hold a conversation without leaning in and yelling into each other’s ears.
Jennifer had shown up at Skeeter’s condo on the Isle of Palms a little over two hours ago. Skeeter appeared surprised that Jennifer had shown up, and went out of her way to make sure she was settled in, kicking out the coed currently sleeping in one of the guest rooms and giving Jennifer the bed. Surrounded by the other girls having a good time, Jennifer began to feel glad she had come. Now, standing inside the Windjammer, she wasn’t so sure.
Four frat boys stood in the middle of the large dance floor, loud and obnoxious. Jennifer recognized the ringleader. His name was Tad, and he reminded Jennifer of her ex-husband both in looks and attitude. Great. Just what I need to ruin the evening. Tad himself seemed to think it was his destiny to sleep with Jennifer and came on to her at every opportunity. Just ignore him. He’s not your ex-husband. He’s just a loudmouth. She felt a tap on her shoulder.
“Hello . . . are you listening?” said Skeeter.
“Yeah. Sorry. What did you say?”
“What do you want to drink? I’ll go fight the bar.”
Jennifer laughed at that, because she knew Skeeter’s idea of “fighting” the bar entailed “accidentally” brushing up against a man with her breast, saying excuse-me, then scooting through t
he gap made when the man turned around.
“I’ll come with you. Maybe we can get a stool.”
Skeeter moved through the crowd like she owned the place, using her hand or breast to part the crowd, depending on gender. When she reached the bar only one man separated her from her goal. Seated on one of the few available stools, he was holding a beer and staring unfocused at the bar top, apparently deep in thought. He was clearly easy pickins, as he was here on his own and probably looking for a date. Skeeter brushed his upper arm with an ample breast and said, “Excuse me, can I get in here?”
Jennifer waited to see his reaction when he saw Skeeter. It was always funny watching a man’s face turn from a normal expression to a drooling mass of testosterone upon looking into her eyes.
In this case, the guy looked up at her with no more expression than if he were talking to a cabdriver. Saying, “Yeah, go ahead,” he scooted over, giving her space at the bar. As Skeeter moved forward he locked eyes with Jennifer, nodded, then returned to his beer. His stare made Jennifer want to take a step back. It wasn’t exactly mean, just annoyed, as if they had interrupted something important. Older than most in the bar, wearing a simple T-shirt and sporting a day-and-a-half beard, he had a white scar that ran through his cheek, charting a path through his stubble.
Skeeter ordered a couple of margaritas and moved back from the bar. “What’s up with that guy? He looked at us like he was wondering if we owed him money. I’ve had more interest paid to me by a transvestite. He’d better watch himself, or he’s going to find himself on the short end of the Skeeter Slam.”
“Come on. Leave him alone. He doesn’t look like someone with a very good sense of humor.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s easier to screw with Tad anyway. Let’s go make those guys drool.”
“Can’t we just stay here? I don’t feel like putting up with Tad’s shit.”
“What’s the big deal? He’s just a blowhard. If he gets obnoxious we can leave. How about—”
Before she could finish, they both heard Tad’s raised voice. He and his little group had surrounded another college student and were in a face-off. She heard Tad telling the student to get the hell out of the bar on his own two feet or leave in an ambulance. Friggin’ great. Now there’s going to be a bar fight. Why did I come out here?
From the other side of the group, the man from the bar suddenly stood up and walked over to Tad, saying, “Leave him alone. He’s been sitting there listening to your shit for a half hour. You’re even.”
Jennifer stared at him, surprised. The penetrating gaze was gone, replaced by an unfocused alcoholic haze. She must have been imagining things, because this guy was clearly drunk. No wonder he hadn’t hit on them. He probably hadn’t even been able to focus on them. She knew that he was in trouble, because Tad would kick his ass just to make his night, and no matter how good a fighter the man might be sober, now he was swaying back and forth and would be lucky to land a punch. Jennifer saw Tad look at the drunk, sizing him up. She could tell that Tad had come to the same conclusion she had.
Tad said, “You know what makes me sick? Shitbags like you who come into the Jammer stinking up the place instead of hanging out at the VFW next door with the rest of the winos.”
With that, he threw a hard right punch, catching the drunk full in the face.
To his credit, the man didn’t fall, but he had no coordination to protect himself. Tad waded in, throwing right after left, almost all of them connecting in one way or another. The drunk staggered back, protecting his face and feebly throwing a succession of worthless jabs that Tad batted away. He finally fell over, whereupon Tad set about kicking him relentlessly in the ribs.
Tad’s sycophant friends wasted no time jumping on the other college student, all of them falling to the ground and rolling around. The bouncers came screaming in, focused on the three-to-one fight, flinging bodies left and right to separate them, not realizing there were two fights occurring, and leaving Jennifer to watch the punishment Tad was dishing out. She flashed back to her ex-husband and snapped. Without thinking, she dropped her drink and ran the ten feet to the fight. She grabbed Tad’s arm and jerked him back, screaming, “Leave him alone! You’re going to kill him!”
Tad shook her off, intent on continuing the assault. Jennifer threw herself onto the man, shielding his body with hers. Tad stopped, looking at her in a murderous rage as if he was considering kicking her as well. Instead, he made a hasty exit out the back onto the deck. In seconds, the bouncers had control of the other fight and proceeded to escort the offenders to the door.
Jennifer helped the bloodied, pathetic fighter to his feet, talking to the bouncer headed their way. “I have him. I’ll get him out of here.”
“You’d better. Before I have him arrested.”
She didn’t know why, but she began leading him out of the bar, apologizing to the bartender as she walked. Maybe she saw herself on the floor four years ago. Maybe she just wanted an excuse to leave. Maybe this just wasn’t such a great idea. . . .
Skeeter ran over to her. “Where are you going? You didn’t do anything! You need to stay. All the assholes are gone now and the music hasn’t even started.”
“Skeeter, I appreciate it, but I’m no longer in the mood. I’m going to get this guy wherever he needs to go and head on back to the condo for some sleep. I’ll pack up and go home tomorrow.”
Skeeter watched her leave. Another sorority sister asked, “Where’s she going with that loser? Is she desperate? She can do better than him.”
Looking at her friend, Skeeter replied, “She’s just saving another lost puppy. Like every other time this happens, that puppy is going to end up doing nothing but peeing on her floor. I’ve seen his type. He’ll give her nothing but grief.”
26
Jennifer led the man to her car, a beat-up Mazda RX-7, which she had left at the end of Ocean Boulevard. He shuffled along a half a step behind her, making no effort to talk. She asked him repeated questions, but he just mumbled in response. She couldn’t even get him to tell her his name. Great. He really is a drunk. Maybe I’ll just give him some change and point him to the nearest park bench. When they finally got to her car, he attempted to wave her off, saying he was fine and could get home on his own. She was surprised by the sudden apparent sobriety. He was no longer swaying, and his eyes were fairly clear, although it was hard to tell with the swelling. What was with this guy? He was a drunk one minute, and sober the next? Why fake being drunk?
She said, “Look, don’t act like you’re putting me out. You’re really doing me a favor. If you go off on your own, I’ll have no excuse for not going back in there. I’m headed home anyway, so you might as well let me give you a ride—that is unless you live somewhere other than the Isle of Palms. I’m not running a taxi service to Charleston.”
“I live at the marina, but I don’t need a ride. My bike is down the street. I’m sober enough to drive.”
“Are you nuts? Even if you were stone-cold sober, you’d probably wreck from the beating. Come on. I’m offering a ride for free. No strings attached.”
“I don’t need a ride. Worst case, I’ll just walk. It will do me some good.”
The penetrating gaze was back, forcing her to glance away.
“Walk? It’s like five miles away. Quit bitching and get in.”
He closed the gap between her and the car. With the car preventing her from moving away, he leaned into her personal space.
“Why do you feel compelled to help me out? You don’t know anything about me. The world is full of monsters, why do you think you’re immune from them? Do you think that just because you made some pathetic attempt at ‘helping’ me out I won’t rape you? How long do you think it would have taken the bouncers to get to me? About a half second after you did? Don’t flatter yourself. I didn’t need the help then, and don’t need it now.”
He was towering over her, his eyes radiating anger. For a split second she was afraid, wanting to bolt, wondering i
f she had made a terrible mistake. But her fear quickly gave way to irritation. What the hell was this all about? All she was trying to do was to help him out. He definitely wasn’t a charmer, but he didn’t seem like the type who would smack someone around just for the hell of it. After living with her husband for four years, her antenna for that sort of thing was fairly well tuned. Either way, she’d had enough. Ungrateful son of a bitch.
“Back off! What the hell is your problem? If I thought you were going to attack me I’d have let Tad crush your ass. If you planned on raping me, why on earth would you tell me beforehand? Oh, and yeah, I did save your ass. In case you didn’t notice, Tad was giving you a beating that was about to be the difference between a ride in my car and a ride in an ambulance. Thanks for your appreciation, now get the hell out of my way and start hoofing it to the marina, superman.”
She pushed him back from the door, yanking it open and banging her head as she tried to get inside the small cockpit of her car. She reached over to close the door when he leaned in and stopped her.
“My name’s Pike. Pike Logan.”
“Pike? What, are your parents Romanian vampires or something? Thanks for the information, but at this stage I really don’t give a shit. Please let go of my door.”
“That’s just what I’m called. Look, I apologize. I haven’t had a good day and took it out on you. I could use that ride.”
When she looked back up at his face, she saw the intensity had been replaced by pain and confusion. Maybe shame. She was left with the impression that he hadn’t apologized to anyone in a long time, and he was waiting to see if the gesture was worth it. Shit. I know I’m going to regret this.
“Get in. I’ll take you home.” Once he was settled in the passenger seat, she stuck out her hand and said, “I’m Jennifer Cahill. What’s your real name?”
