“—I said, you’ve been sitting here awhile. Do you want another?” There was a hand on his arm, but only for a moment, because his arm reacted, snapping from the table like a live wire. He barely registered the arm as his own, but it must have been, because the waitress was stumbling backward. She collided with a table, her tray toppling. “What’s wrong with you?” She rubbed her back where it had struck the table edge. “You’re fucking insane.”
One of the insomniacs rushed over to help the waitress up.
“You touched me,” Ben spat.
“You oughta leave,” said the man.
The guy wasn’t so big and he had a belly. Ben could take him. But he wasn’t looking for a fight. “I’m just sitting here having a drink!” he protested. “And then she comes over and puts her hands on me. I didn’t do anything.”
“Out,” the insomniac said, thrusting his thumb toward the door like he was a goddamned umpire. Now two additional bodies appeared, their faces bug-eyed, like cartoons.
“I’ve been serving for you all for fifteen fucking months! And you’re kicking me out because I don’t want some dumb bitch touching me?”
Fifteen months forced a brief pause in the bar and the man who’d originally helped the waitress took a step back. “Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s go, son.”
Ben stood, knocking over his empty bottles. “I’m not your fucking son and I don’t want your pity. Do I look like an invalid?” He stomped out of the bar and, after a couple of jabs at the keyhole, managed to unlock the Cadillac.
Back home, he ran into the house calling Becca’s name. He paused at the open door of her childhood bedroom, saw his father’s fiddle lying in splinters on the floor. What happened here? In a moment, he remembered and shut the door. Frantic, he called for her again.
In the silence that followed, Ben knew she might be gone—as in left him gone—and the house spun madly around him. Without her, there was nothing. He rushed into the master bedroom and saw her phone on the nightstand. If she had left for good, she would have taken it. He called some of her friends; they hadn’t heard from her. Finally, he called King. “King can’t talk now,” said a grubby voice on the other end.
“What about Becca?” Ben demanded. “Is she there?”
There was a brief pause and then the dial tone buzzed in his ear. Ben grabbed the keys and took off toward the town limits.
Ben had been to King’s only once before, on a sunny afternoon before the wedding. Then, the house had looked peaceful, almost quaint. Now, well past midnight, as he pulled up the dirt drive, he saw the place as a booby-trapped cabin out of some horror movie. He thought about the homes he’d staked out on nighttime missions, the sand-colored world seen through his night-vision goggles, cast in a sickly green light. He wished he had his NVGs now. He wished for the protection of his body armor and his weapon.
He charged up King’s front steps and banged on the door. A thin rectangle of light glowed behind the picture window. And then King appeared, his belly pressed to the screen-door mesh.
“Ben,” said the old man gruffly. “It’s late.”
“Where’s Becca?” Ben was breathing heavily, as though winded from a long run.
“I know you two had a fight,” King said. “But it appears you haven’t calmed down yet.”
“I’m calm,” Ben said. “But I need to talk to her.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m fine,” Ben said. He grabbed the handle of the screen door and pulled it back. It was far lighter than he expected, and the door banged violently against the side of the house.
“What’s that fucking racket?” said another voice. That grubby voice from the telephone. A short, sinewy man with thinning hair appeared beside King. This must be Reno, Ben thought; he’d heard plenty about the guy from Becca. “Aw, fuck,” Reno said, as though Ben’s presence on the doorstep were a personal affront. “You’re the sergeant King’s been blabbering about all night.”
“I want to talk to my wife,” Ben said.
“He’s drunk,” King said to Reno.
“You think?” Reno said.
They were talking about him like he was an animal under observation and the two of them were goddamn zoologists.
King looked suspiciously at Reno. “You been drinking too?”
“Just your sissy diet soda.” Reno smiled, flashing metal.
“What is this bullshit?” Ben said. Who were these men, the fucking odd couple? “Becca!” he called. “Becca, we need to talk!”
And then she materialized from the gloom, hair mussed and eyes squinting with sleep. She wore sweatpants and a worn-thin army T-shirt that revealed the shape of her small breasts. He felt a deep flush of desire for her, then tenderness.
“Becca, how’d you get all the way out here? I’m so sorry about the car.”
She didn’t respond. She just stared.
“I think you’d best leave,” Reno said. “And leave the car. It’s not yours to take, and you’re in no condition to drive it.”
“Becca!” Ben kept trying to see her behind the men, craning his neck until he was sure it would snap. She looked sad. Was she crying? He needed to get closer. “Becca,” he pleaded. But she seemed to float away from him, to fade into the darkened living room. “Why did you come out here?” he asked, but King and Reno were like a wall that his words couldn’t breach. Why wouldn’t they let him in? Just to talk. That’s all he wanted. “I came back!” he cried. “I came back for you and you were gone!”
Was he wearing his body armor? He felt so heavy. Heavy enough to knock through the men in his way. He lunged.
In the next instant, pain exploded in his face. It was less of a feeling than a sound: a bubble of white noise, like a broken television set. Then Ben was weightless. He reached his arms out as though to grab Becca’s T-shirt. But there was nothing to hold on to as he flailed and fell. His body hit the ground, his head knocking hard against the earth. Then he didn’t see or hear anything.
3
RENO HAD REACHED the Smokies and still no sign of life from Ben. He peered at the inkblot bruise between the kid’s eye and upper cheek; he hadn’t intended to knock him out cold, but the sergeant had come at him like a bulldozer. At first, Reno worried King would be furious. But King said only “Better you than his own father-in-law” before lifting Ben baby-like into his thick arms, buckling him into the Cadillac, and telling Reno to drive him home.
Reno hoped Ben didn’t have a concussion, hoped that the punch combined with the booze had just temporarily carted the sergeant off to la-la land. And he was grateful for some quiet time to think. All night, right up until Ben showed up, King had been talking his ear off about the wedding. Reno couldn’t quite get his head around the thing. Not the wedding itself—he supposed kids did much dumber things than get married just weeks after coming home from war. But the way King had been all mushy about the event—now, that was odd. He’d insisted on describing Becca’s dress, waving his meaty hands in the air in a futile attempt to convey a sense of its shape, beaming at how she’d sewn it herself.
“Was it silk?” Reno had asked, trying to be helpful. “Satin maybe? How about chiffon?”
King shook his head, helpless. “How do you know what chiffon looks like?” he demanded. But he’d pressed on. He said that his heart nearly stopped beating when Becca appeared at the top of the aisle. And not just because of how stunning—how glorious—she looked, but because of the expression on her face. She’d looked at Ben like she couldn’t believe her luck. “Like she’d won the Powerball jackpot!” King exclaimed. And when the music started—Becca’s cue to walk—she didn’t move. She just stood there, her eyes locked on Ben, the two of them laughing hysterically. It was awkward, King said. People grew restless. But he understood that his daughter and her intended had been transported to some other, secluded place. Their bodies were only decoys, keeping the secret of their private communion.
Still, King worried. Ben was twenty-five. Becca was barely d
rinking age and had another two years of college ahead of her. Maybe that was normal here. Even late, compared to many of the guests, who weren’t in college and never would be. But King knew that as soon as Becca started down the aisle, time would begin moving again. Her joy, frozen and pure, would begin to thaw.
Hearing this, Reno, who’d been King’s own best man many years before, said, “You sure you’re still talking about them?”
“That was a different time,” King said. “Different circumstances.”
Different time, same circumstances, Reno had thought. But he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Becca doesn’t deserve a life alone,” King had said.
“She’s not alone anymore,” Reno told his friend. “You’re back, which I gotta say was a shocker.”
But King didn’t meet Reno’s eyes. They both knew this business of being back wasn’t going to last. They knew King’s days of living in Dry Hills were numbered.
Ben stirred in the passenger seat and made a familiar, unwelcome sound. Reno pulled over and unsnapped the kid’s seat belt. No sooner had he yanked the sergeant’s shoulders out of the automobile than Ben vomited onto the grass. “You better not have spilled any of that on my shoes,” he warned. In response, Ben heaved again. “Jesus, boy, what in God’s name have you been drinking? I’ve never seen anything that color.”
Ben coughed, spat a couple of times. “I’m not a boy.” He panted. “I’m—”
He puked again. Reno stood back, chuckling. “Yeah, fine, Sergeant. How about busted drunk. That title suit you better?”
Ben hung his head between his knees. His skull felt stuffed with cotton. “Where are we? Where’s Becca?” He looked around with alarm.
“She’s still at King’s. Since she wasn’t so successful in getting away from you, I decided to get you away from her.” Reno walked back around to the driver’s side of the car and climbed in.
“But you took her car,” Ben complained, pulling himself inside the cavernous vehicle. “Does she know that?”
“No. But she didn’t exactly put up a fight when I punched you in the face. I think she won’t mind.” In fact, after Reno knocked Ben out, she’d said nothing, just disappeared inside the house.
“You wait until she finds out,” Ben said. “You’ll have another think coming.”
“You’re criticizing me?” Reno shook his head and pulled onto the road.
“Where the hell are we going?”
Reno recoiled from Ben’s stinking breath. He rolled down the window and told Ben to do the same. Ben’s hands were shaking and he had some trouble gripping the handle. Reno watched, frowning. He was not, as King had suggested, driving the sergeant home. “You’re in bad shape,” he said. “I’m going to help you.”
“Like fuck you will.” Ben closed his eyes and pressed his head against the seat. If only he could fall into oblivion. Part of him wouldn’t mind if Reno decided to punch him out again.
“I’ve been worse than you,” Reno said as they sped down the road. “I know you don’t believe it. But trust me on this. King yabber-jabbered about your wedding, and the way he explains it, you aren’t a lost cause. You showed up that night—now, stay with me, ’cause I’m talking metaphorically. You, Sergeant, were present.” Reno shoved his index finger at his own temple. “Up here,” he said. “And in here.” He beat his palm twice against his chest. “That ain’t nothing.”
Ben knew that if he nodded, he’d vomit again. He felt waves of nausea rolling over and over him, in huge swells.
“And frankly,” Reno kept on, “to be in your general condition and still to have shown up means—and I have a particular intuition about these things—that you can unfuck yourself.”
“Jesus Christ.” Ben moaned. Reno had suddenly veered off the road and onto grass. They bounced along on the spongy surface before stopping short. Ben threw open the door and retched.
“We’re here!” Reno announced.
Ben heard crickets. His vision was fuzzy, but it looked as though Reno had driven them into a field. “Where are we?”
“Get out and you’ll see,” Reno said brightly. He unbuckled his seat belt. Slowly, Ben followed. They were in a meadow surrounded by slopes of trees.
“There’s nothing here.”
“Exactly. See, on the way out here, I came up with something. It’s called the Reno Caruso Veteran-Unfucking Program.”
“What are you talking about?” Ben sagged, nearly fell to his knees.
“Here’s what I’m thinking, Ben. You went off and got yourself fucked up. You didn’t plan for it. It’s not your fault. But you’re home now and you’re newly married, and it just so happens—and I wouldn’t underestimate the importance of this fact—that you love the person you’re married to. So now the question is, what part of you is going to win out? The part that’s loving or the part that’s fucked?”
“Please,” Ben groaned. “Crawl back into whatever hole you came from. Becca’s told me all about you.”
“Becca knows me so well.” Reno chuckled. “What’d she say? Cavorting, drinking, fucking? Truth is, Ben, I grew out of all that a long time ago. I’ve got a business. And I’ve got to look out for your father-in-law.”
“You’re looking out for King?”
Reno nodded solemnly. “He and I were in-country together. You know what that means.”
Ben nodded and the world tumbled over itself. He rested his head against the car and let his body go limp.
“I help him, even when he’s not interested.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Ben could barely manage a whisper.
“King believes in you, Ben. He believes in the two of you.”
“So do I.”
Reno laughed and shook his head. “I’m going to pretend that we’re on the same page about all of this.”
Ben slid his face down to the window. The glass was soothing and cool. He’d be all right if Reno would just shut up.
“Sergeant, we want to give the loving part of you a head start over the fucked part. Welcome to the Great Smokies, Tennessee side. Specifically, to a section of country I like to call the Dry Isle.”
Ben realized how far east they’d traveled, how far he was from Becca, and his heart sank.
“True to its name, the Dry Isle is a thirty-square-mile region where you will not find a single ounce of purchasable alcohol. Trust me on this. No liquor stores, no bars. If you wandered around long enough, you might trip over somebody’s still, but I’m guessing you’d get eaten by a bear before that happened, or get shot for trespassing.”
A throbbing sensation suddenly announced itself on the side of Ben’s face. He touched the skin and winced. “Yeah, that’s gonna be nasty by the morning,” Reno said. “Sorry.”
Ben finally gave in to the pain and dizziness. He dropped to his knees and shut his eyes. He looked like a man awaiting execution. Reno pulled a pen from his pocket and took the cap off with his teeth. Then he grabbed Ben’s arm.
“Get off me!” Ben opened his eyes and leaned away, but Reno held tight.
“If I don’t write down the instructions, you’ll forget.” He yanked Ben’s arm straight. “You’re gonna head due southeast,” he said and scribbled. “Your destination is a town called Sparta.” Reno wrote this too. “Get yourself to the auto garage. You can’t miss it. Introduce yourself to Miles.” Reno wrote Miles on Ben’s arm. Then he stuck his face right in front of Ben’s, so close that Ben could see the stubble points on the older man’s cheeks. “Miles’ll tell you what’s next. Do you follow?”
“No,” Ben moaned. But then, looking into Reno’s uncompromising eyes, he realized one thing very clearly. Panic set in. He leaped to his feet, then stumbled from dizziness. “You can’t just leave me here.”
Reno felt a tug of pity, but he let it go. Until a couple of months ago, Ben had been on active duty in the U.S. Army. He had two sturdy legs and there was surely GPS on his phone. No such thing as GPS during my service, Reno thought, taking a moment
to muse over what navigational gizmos and gadgets the military must be giving soldiers these days. Not that any of it mattered. War was confusing as fuck. Different time, he thought, same situation.
“Once you get to Sparta, you’ll get your wheels back. Then, if you straighten yourself out, you can come get Becca. Sound like a deal?”
“No.”
“Good.” Reno got back in the car.
Ben stumbled toward the passenger-side door but tripped and fell. “Asshole!” he shouted as he heard the car’s locks engage. He watched Reno turn onto the road and speed away. “Fuck!” he shouted at the car. “Fuck!”
To say that Reno was unmoved by the image of Ben screaming furiously at him as he drove off would not be accurate. Twenty miles later, he could still hear the boy shouting and see his wide, furious eyes. Reno did not like to hear men scream. He did not like to see men’s eyes popping from their sockets. But this action was necessary. Reno wasn’t doing this for Ben, really, or even for Becca. He was doing it for King. And there was a chance—the smallest, slimmest chance—that if the kids got their shit together, they could protect King from the madness ahead.
December 13, 1972
Dear Willy,
Durga has been talking to me. Ever since I got back Stateside, she’s been whispering directions. She let me know that keeping the heart in my hometown was pointless, that my home wasn’t my home any longer, and that my parents were relations only in name. Durga showed me that I’d been reborn. I had new organs—a new heart. So I bought a motorcycle (Durga wasn’t vehicle-specific; she simply said, Get going, Proudfoot!), and I set out. My mother stood at the end of our block crying as I drove away. I felt bad about that, but what could I do? I haven’t been back since.
I bummed around in the upper Midwest, college towns, pretending to be a student. You once told me that the ancient Greeks knew everything there was to know about war. So I went to lectures on Homer and Hellenic warrior culture. I even took language courses so I could read the work in the original, though I didn’t get far. In a way, I was trying to finish what you’d started—to go down the path you’d been on until the U.S. government diverted you, brought you to us. To me.
The Heart You Carry Home Page 2
