by Kody Boye
“I won’t,” Dakota assured him.
He opened the door, looked out both ways, then took off into the darkness.
He listened for the fragile whispers behind closed doors. Kirn and Wills, cigarettes and porn; Michael and Dustin, a dead wife and a somber condition; Desmond in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. The walls seemed alive, and if they could talk, they would tell everyone that they were too loud, that others could hear every word they were saying.
Pressed against the wall in the hopes that the shadows would aid him well, Dakota held the two rolls and the plastic cup full of cold, mashed potatoes against his abdomen, silently praying that no one would come out of their room and catch him. So far, he hadn’t found any indication as to where Jamie would be sleeping. The only thing he knew was that he was somewhere on the first floor, alone and hungry in a dark room.
Press your ear to the door, his inner voice whispered, you’ve always had good hearing.
“That’s not going to help me.”
The creak of a cot stopped him in place.
Hairs on end, Dakota prepared to run for the stairway and duck under the small spot beneath it.
A short moment later, a sigh escaped someone’s lips, followed by a low murmur under their breath.
Should I?
“Jamie?” Dakota whispered. “Is that you?”
The door opened. Dakota pushed his way inside before Jamie could say a word.
“What’re you doing here?” Jamie asked, closing and locking the door.
“I brought you food.”
“What?”
Dakota lifted his hands, revealing the rolls and mashed potatoes. “I didn’t want you to go hungry.”
“You shouldn’t have done this.”
“I did it for you.”
The sparkle that overwhelmed Jamie’s eyes lifted Dakota’s heart. The knife in his gut loosened and the tight pain in his stomach ceased to exist, now replaced by butterflies dancing about his chest like fanatic clowns at a carnival.
He’s straight, he thought. You know it.
The tension gone from the air, Jamie stepped forward and took both rolls and the cup of mashed potatoes from his hands. He ate ravenously, like a dog chained in a courtyard who’d just been given a bloody bone, then made his way into a small bathroom and ducked his head to drink from the faucet. The whole while, Dakota simply watched, mystified by Jamie’s behavior and unnerved at the sight of potato in his beard.
“Thanks,” Jamie said, lifting his head to look at Dakota in the mirror. “I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Dakota said. “I was happy to do it.”
“I haven’t had someone do something this nice for me since my mom threw me my twenty-fifth birthday party.”
“How old are you now?”
“Twenty-six.”
Dakota couldn’t help when a tear slid down his face.
Please don’t let him have seen that.
“You ok, kid?”
“Don’t call me kid.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s…not you. Only Steve calls me kid.”
“I didn’t say anything wrong, did I?”
“No. You didn’t.”
“It was my mom, wasn’t it?”
“What?”
“That made you cry.”
“Yeah,” Dakota said. “It was.”
Jamie returned to the bedroom. He seated himself on his cot and patted the spot next to him, but Dakota shook his head, reaching up to brush away the stain on his face with his thumb. He couldn’t imagine the idea of not knowing what had happened to his family, especially the person who seemed to care about him so much. “I’m sorry,” he finally said.
“I have faith that she’s still alive. She was on base by the time the shit went down.”
“That’s good.”
“Are your parents ok?”
“No.” Dakota shook his head. “Mom…she died when I was eleven. Dad ran off on me.”
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“You couldn’t have known. You shouldn’t feel guilty for the way I’m feeling.”
“I know. It just hurts to see someone cry.”
Dakota nodded. “I should go,” he said.
“Thank you for the food, Dakota.”
“You’re welcome.”
Dakota slid the chain off the door and left without saying goodbye.
The following morning, Dakota stood in the lobby looking over an array of plastic bottles, fertilizers and vegetable seeds. His heart still hurt from yesterday afternoon, he busied himself with his work in the hopes that giving life to something new would help relieve the ache in his chest. First he set the fertilizer inside a plastic bottle, the soil from which life would grow, then sowed the seed with a press of his thumb and a brush of his hand. Once the world was made, he made its Heaven and its Earth, the head of a bottle taped to the top. Then he gave it a sun by placing it in the bay window, and thus the universe was made by the hands of a creator.
Am I really though? he thought. Am I really?
He was not a practical God. Given the task of making life in such a bleak situation, he could easily fail. With so few seeds and so many people to feed, the odds seemed stacked against him. There was no Atlas to carry the world, no Iris to offer the rain, no Gaia to protect the innocent. There was nothing, he knew. He was all alone.
“Dakota?”
He turned his eyes up. Steve stood nearby, hands in his pockets and bare arms glorious in the white undershirt he wore. “Steve?”
“Everything ok?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said.
“You were gone a long time last night,” Steve said, stepping forward. “Did something happen?”
No, Dakota thought, but simply shook his head. “Like I said, everything’s fine.”
“Something happened last night, Koda. Don’t lie to me.”
“Not now, please.”
“No one’s going to hear us,” Steve said, stepping up to the window to examine the terrarium Dakota had just set up. “Neat.”
“You wanna help me?”
“What do I do?”
“Cut a plastic bottle in half, fill it with fertilizer, put seven or eight seeds in a few holes an inch apart, then tape the top half of the bottle to the bottom half.”
“Got it.”
Steve took place beside him. A box-cutter in hand, he excised a milk jug’s upper half and began to fill its guts, eyes complacent and hands steady. “So,” he said, poking the holes in the dirt. “Dish.”
“He told me no one’s ever done anything that nice for him since his mom threw him a surprise birthday last year.”
“Is his mom gone?”
“She was staying on a base. He thinks she’s still alive.”
“He asked about your parents, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“And?”
“I told him the truth.”
“Nothing more than you can do than that.” Steve wrapped an arm around Dakota’s side. “It’s tough, bud.”
“I know.”
“I miss my mom and dad all the time. Then again, I had it a little differently than you. Late baby and all.”
“Are you glad that they didn’t have to go through this?”
“You have no idea.”
“When he first said it,” Dakota began, “I started thinking about how it might feel to not know if your mom was safe or if she’d been killed. I didn’t cry, but I did blink a tear out.”
“You’re a good man, Dakota. There’s not many people who have such a kind heart.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
“No problem. Try to cheer up. You can’t worry about what you don’t know.”
“I guess,” Dakota said.
He didn’t bother to mention how hard that actually was.
The day came and went as though it had never happened. One moment it was light, then it was dark. By the time dinner rolled around, Dakota’s nerves were on fir
e and the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end.
“What’s your problem?” Steve whispered, seating himself at the table.
“N-nothing,” he managed. “Just cold.”
The excuse was not likely to work. Though the rain had continued through the night and partially into the morning, it hadn’t continued past midday, when the dark clouds had parted for the rays of golden sunlight. To say it was cold was an overstatement. If anything, it was only partially chilly.
And that’s not because of the weather, Dakota thought.
A lump appeared, then disappeared in his throat as he swallowed.
A door opened downstairs and a pair of footsteps echoed up into the hallway.
“Ah,” the sergeant said, nodding as Private Roberts, in military fatigues, and Corporal Marks, in civilian casual, appeared. “Pleasure to see you, gentlemen.”
“Yes sir,” they both responded.
Dakota wrapped a hand around a cup of water to still his trembling wrist.
You’re going to look like an idiot if you keep doing that.
“I have a cold, that’s what I’ll say.”
“Evening, Dakota,” Jamie said. He smiled, reached forward and wrapped his fingers around the brim of the fold-out chair beside him. “Care if I sit here?”
“No,” he managed, coughing out the word. “Go ahead.”
“Something up?” Steve asked as Jamie seated himself.
“No.”
“Just making sure.”
“Now that everyone’s here,” the sergeant said, standing, “I’d like to propose a brief moment of silence.”
“Sir?” Private Roberts said.
“A moment of silence, Private Roberts, for the men and women who have died in our country.” A chorus of agreement went up around the table. Armstrong raised his hands to silence the voices, then bowed his head and closed his eyes.
Every head at the table fell forward.
Dakota closed his eyes.
What do I do? he thought. Pray?
Whoever said one had to pray during a moment of silence?
Content with the logic behind his notion, he laced his fingers together and breathed in, then out. In the moments that followed, a stream of thoughts entered his mind and blossomed over his darkened vision. First came charity, for her grace of life and her sparkling-red flowers, then came justice with his blue robes and equal ways. White came next, with its pure form and its straight edges, but did little to brighten the stars shining amongst the sky. He felt Jamie breathing at his side and tried to push his anger at the sergeant aside, but couldn’t.
His hand fell. It landed on top of the corporal’s.
“Excuse me,” he whispered, pulling his hand aside.
Jamie tilted his hand up and laced their fingers together.
“Lord,” the sergeant began, “we thank you for the gifts that You have given us, for the lives that You have saved and the grace that You have offered. We offer You our prayers in these dark times and ask that you pity us for the mistakes that we may make. We are only mortal. Amen.”
“Amen,” Dakota said.
Dakota raised his eyes.
When his and Jamie’s gazes met, the man’s lips parted in a smile.
Their fingers broke apart just as Desmond approached with dinner.
“So,” Steve said, seating himself on his cot. “What was up with you tonight?”
“Honestly?” Dakota asked.
“Honestly,” Steve replied.
“I was nervous.”
“About what?”
“Dinner. It didn’t help when Jamie sat down beside me.”
“Why not?” Steve asked, leaning against the wall.
Dakota looked down at his hand. “I set my hand on top of Jamie’s and he laced our fingers together.”
“You a fag?” Ian asked from his corner. Both Steve and Dakota looked over at him.
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t call me that,” Dakota replied. “But yeah, I am, if that’s what you mean.”
“I don’t care. And sorry. No harm intended.”
“None taken.”
“So you guys had a bromance going there,” Steve chuckled. “That’s something.”
“It wasn’t a bromance,” Dakota sighed. “It was…well…I don’t know. This is why I don’t tell you anything!”
“I’m not making fun of you, Dakota. If anything, I think it’s cool that the corporal’s not afraid to show a little affection. It takes a big man to do that.”
“I guess,” Dakota shrugged.
Steve raised an eyebrow. Dakota knew what was coming before it even came out of Steve’s mouth. “You like him,” his friend said, “don’t you?”
“What’s not to like?” he asked.
“Suit yourself, bud.”
“Might not be best to cuddle up to a military guy,” Ian said, stripping his shirt over his head. “Don’t want to get yourself any unwanted attention.”
“You don’t think anyone would do anything to him, do you?” Steve asked.
“I know guys like the deputies. Well, used to, anyway. Let me tell you, they were some mean motherfuckers.”
“You’ve never,” Dakota started, then stopped. “You know…uh…”
“What? Jumped someone for being gay? I’ve done some bad shit in my life, kid, but I ain’t never done that. Kirn and Wills though? They’ve got trigger fever as it is— you don’t want ‘em turning that aggression on you.”
“I doubt the sergeant would approve of that.”
“The sergeant’s buddy-buddy with them. Haven’t you noticed that?”
“No.”
“Well, can’t blame you for not. All I know is that I’ve seen him treat them better than the rest of the soldiers.”
“Ian’s got a point,” Steve said. “You might want to pick your battles here, Dakota.”
“I know,” Dakota sighed. “Besides, I don’t think he’s gay.”
“No?”
“No. I don’t.”
Steve frowned. Ian spread out along his cot and set an arm behind his head.
Pick your battles, the voice in his head said.
Pick them he would.
Voices stirred Dakota from sleep. Half-in, half-out of consciousness, he heard someone say they were ‘going out,’ then the sound of guns being loaded.
Shortly thereafter, he blacked out and fell back asleep.
Later that morning, he woke to the sound of a creaking mattress and opened his eyes just in time to see Steve pulling his pants up his legs. “Hey,” he said, snapping the button into place.
“Hey.”
“You awake?”
“Kinda,” Dakota said, rolling onto his back. “I heard them leave this morning.”
“Them?”
“The soldiers.”
“You hear what for?”
“Probably a supply run. I’m guessing Jamie’s still on house arrest.”
“You going to see him today?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Just wondering.” Steve stretched a shirt over his chest. “Armstrong never said none of us couldn’t go see him.”
“I guess.”
Do I really want to go see him though?
The reality was, he couldn’t allow his feelings to overwhelm his better rationale. On one hand, he could go see Jamie just to offer him company, to talk and to ease the burden of loneliness. On another, though, he could be going for a completely different reason, one that allowed the pleasures of the heart and the comfort of a compassionate human being.
No one’s going to make you go see him. You can decide later, after you’ve woken up.
“Koda?” Steve asked. “Want to see if we can bum a few rolls off Ian?”
“Sure,” he said. “I’d be more than happy to.”
Two knocks and a whisper later, he was standing in Jamie’s room with two rolls and a glass of apple juice in hand.
“They don’t bring you breakfast,” Dakota
asked, “do they?”
“No,” Jamie said, tearing a piece out of the roll. “They haven’t been.”
“I would’ve brought you something if I had known.”
“You’re going to get in trouble if you get caught, you know?”
“I’m not going to get caught.”
“How do you know?”
“I don’t.”
Jamie sipped the juice. His hunger seemingly-sated, he set the half-eaten roll and its complete companion down along with the juice and turned his attention on Dakota. “I really appreciate you doing this for me.”
“I know.”
“I’m serious, Dakota.” He paused. The tone in his eyes changed so dramatically that a pang of confusion rumbled throughout Dakota’s chest. “About what happened the other day…I shouldn’t have dumped that on you.”
“I understand.”
“I hardly know anything about you and you seem to know my whole life story.”
“Not really.”
“Well, it basically goes something like this—I was born in 1986 in Rigby, Idaho. My dad died in the Gulf War when I was five, so, naturally, I was a bit lost growing up. In 2004, I turned eighteen, joined the army, and was immediately sent to Iraq. I was there right up until I came back home four months ago.”
“Eight years,” Dakota mumbled.
“I can’t say it was fun, but I was lost and didn’t know what else to do. I figured I owed it to my dad to serve the country he died for.”
“I can understand that.”
“What about you? Where’d you come from?”
“I was born up the road,” Dakota said. “Lived there until all of this happened. You know the rest of the story—mom died when I was eleven, dad ran off shortly after.”
“Who did you live with?”
“I lived in a foster home.”
“No relatives?”
“Dad’s lived overseas. Mom was the last in her family.”
“Oh,” Jamie said. “You care if I ask you something else while we’re at it?”
“Go ahead.”
“How come you seemed so nervous last night at dinner?”
“It’s not that.”
“You can be completely honest with me. I know some people have problems with soldiers.”
“It’s really not that,” Dakota sighed, sliding his hands into his pockets. “It’s just…I don’t know.”
