He wore his desert camouflage BDU trousers and boots with a clean, plain t-shirt. You didn’t want to look too combative. Something about a blue t-shirt said “at-ease” to people with a little change rattling around in their cup holders. His sign told a simple story too: WOUNDED VETERAN. HONORABLY DC’D. SOBER & DRUG FREE. ANYTHING WILL HELP. GOD BLESS! Although he didn’t have a faith to speak of, he knew that he had to offer something in exchange for people’s money. A smile, grati-tude, and an assurance that people were getting a reward for their change. They were being good Americans giving thanks for service rendered to the nation. They were doing good for someone who’d fallen on hard times. They were earning favor with The Big Guy. Marc made no pleas for mercy or offers to Work For Food—no one believed that line anyway. Only one man had ever stopped to offer Marc work and was such an asshole about it, it was clear he was just trying to prove a point to his passenger. Marc wasn’t looking to barter, or for confrontation. Jobbing as a day laborer might not net him enough to eat well through the day if the boss was a cheapskate and it would burn up all his available time to make ends meet before he had to head “home.” It was in by eight p.m., out by seven a.m. at the Night Mission. There he was guaranteed a shower twice a week and, if he was sober, they would rent him a locker in which to keep a few possessions. He used the shower as often as he could, but didn’t take them up on the locker. Too many got broken into by other guys. Instead, he kept everything he needed—two changes of clothes, a travel mug, a can opener, his favorite book, and his DD 214 discharge certificate in a protective plastic sleeve—in his tan, pixilated camo rucksack.
At the far end of the underpass stood a lonely roadside memorial. It was a chintzy Styrofoam cross with a bunch of plastic flowers stuck on with wire. On the ground around the cross lay a few weather-beaten toys. Stuffed bears and dogs with floppety ears. The laminated card pinned to the memorial read: Andrew Ballard. 11/25/1990 – 01/01/2012. Marc guessed he died in a car crash. Like Marc’s friend, Nat Coleman. And Norman Steahm. And Dimi Walter. He stayed as far as he could from the memorial. Not only did it distract people from his sign, it also just didn’t feel right to him to beg for money on the same ground where someone died. It felt exploitative. Other people might not care, but he did. He gave the kid respect and distance.
The light turned red and Marc stepped out into the street, walking down the meager row of waiting cars, holding up his sign. Most people just stared straight ahead, watching the light, keeping an eye on him with their peripheral vision, wondering if he was going to knock on their window. He tried to make eye contact with everyone but didn’t force it. Ahead, he saw a car window slide down and a hand with a dollar bill reach out. Marc jogged up and said “thank you” before reaching for the cash. The man behind the wheel smiled and told him to stay strong. Marc said, “I’m trying.” The window slid back up with a low hum and he cut across back to the sidewalk, heading for the other angle of the intersection that would soon be stopping. Turning around, he saw someone had parked a minivan up on the sidewalk while he was grabbing his dollar. That sort of thing could put a real hurt on his earnings. If it looked like he could afford a car, he didn’t need to ask for pocket change. Beyond the minivan he saw a man walking under the bridge toward his rucksack. Marc got that feeling like he did back in country right before climbing into a helo to fly out over the darkened mountains where the hajjis waited with their surface-to-air rockets. If he lost that bag, he lost everything.
He didn’t want to fight this man, but he would to protect his last remaining things. He’d fight for that bag and the DD 214 and the well-worn copy of Eddie Bunker’s Dog Eat Dog. Everything else he could replace. But the bag and the paper were his lifeline—they got him in places and occasional discounts on food and clothes. And the book. Well the book was the last thing he owned that he didn’t need to survive. Stay sane, yes, but not to survive.
“Hey!” The man from the minivan stopped and turned. Marc slipped his hand into the back of his belt, trying to look like he had the tools to protect his things. It was a bluff. He’d long ago sold his .45 so he could afford to get that bad tooth pulled. Someone else had stolen his C.K.R.T. knife while he slept at the Mission. They should have done me a favor and slit my wrists when they took it. He squinted to see what he was up against. The man was armed with a . . . stuffed bear.
The man held up his hands. “Sorry. Is this your stuff?” Marc closed the distance, letting his empty hand fall back to his side. “I didn’t mean to worry you or anything, I’m just here to . . .” The man trailed off.
“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize . . .” The man stared at Marc for an uncomfortably long time with glistening, wet eyes. It had been almost eighteen months since Andrew Ballard had died, but Marc knew better than most how the ghosts of the dead stuck with you. They rode along just out of sight only speaking up when the comfortable silence let you think you could let your guard down and forget how much you missed them. Right when you thought you’d left them behind, they pulled up to the corner in the passenger seat of some stranger’s car. Their laughter carrying over the sound of idling engines as you walked back to beg some more.
“You . . .”
Marc held up his hands. “Look, I’m just trying to get by. I never touch . . . those things.”
“You look just like him. A little more tan, but you look . . . just like my son.”
Marc stared down at his boots. He supposed as often as he heard how he resembled this person or that one, that he had “a familiar face.” But he didn’t want to look like this man’s son. He just wanted to collect enough quarters to go get something for lunch.
“It’s like you’re—”
“I’m sorry,” he said as he folded his sign and stuffed it into the rucksack. “I’ve got to go.” He hadn’t let anyone run him off his corner before, but he couldn’t face this man and his grief. He zipped up the bag and shouldered it, turning to leave. The man caught him by the elbow. Marc pushed down his first inclination to yank his arm free and shove—the conditioned response once you’ve spent a night or two on the streets—and paused instead. “I’m really sorry for your loss,” he said.
“My name’s Ron. Could I buy you lunch?” Marc felt like his boots had sprouted roots. His stomach growled audibly. “Come on. Let’s go get something to eat,” Ron said, guiding him back toward the minivan.
“Don’t you want to leave that over there?” he said, pointing behind them at the memorial.
Ron looked at the stuffed bear still in his hands. He shrugged and said, “I can drop it off when I bring you back.”
Marc’s stomach felt so empty, so hollow. He stopped walking. “I . . . No offense, sir, but I don’t usually go places . . . with people. I’m . . .”
Ron laughed quietly and held up the toy. “It’s weird, right? It feels kind of strange for me too. I really just want to buy you lunch. Honest.” He turned the bear over in his hands, absently waving a stuffed arm up and down. “I’ll bring you right back here when we’re done. I promise.” Marc hated to watch the man beg. He’d made peace with his own pride, or had at least sublimated it so he didn’t feel its sting every single time he asked if someone could spare some change.
When Marc didn’t reply, Ron offered more. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you’ll just spend an hour with me in a public place. Get a hot meal in your stomach and some money to spend however you like. Up front.” Shifting the bear under his arm, he pulled out his wallet and counted out five twenties. Holding them out, he said, “It feels better than leaving another stupid bear on the corner.” Ron looked at the toy in his other hand. “He was a grownup. I don’t know why I keep bringing him this shit.”
Despite his reticence and the feeling that this wasn’t going to go as easy as a simple lunch, the sight of a hundred dollars got Marc’s feet moving again. He took the cash and walked around to the passenger side of the van. He looked in the windows before opening the door. Guys had tried to pick him up before. He never wen
t. But this one—Ron—doesn’t want a blowjob; he just wants to spend a little time with the ghost of his kid. It’s not going to go the way he wants, but I could use that hundred bucks. I could use it to get a haircut and a shave, maybe buy a nice button-up shirt and a tie and try to fill out a couple of job applications. A hundred dollars could be just what I need to get a fresh start. Marc decided that he could be a ghost for an hour and climbed into the van.
Ron stared at Marc across the table while he ate. Marc wanted to ask if he could have the untouched food on Ron’s plate, but he reckoned it wouldn’t be polite. Not with one burger already in his belly and a bunch of twenties in his pocket. He polished off the last of his fries and wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin. It had been a long time since he’d eaten anywhere with a cloth napkin. Ron had offered to buy him a beer but Marc declined. Ron took a drink of the one he’d ordered for himself as he slid his full plate across the table. “Here,” he said. I’m betting you wouldn’t mind helping me finish this. I’m not all that hungry.” Marc thanked him and dug in, trying to ignore the man’s stare. The more he focused on the food, the more he could pretend that he wasn’t on display.
“I’m real sorry about your boy,” Marc said, setting down the burger. “I’d like to see a picture if you’ve got one. You know, since we look so much alike.” Ron had balled up his fists and it looked like it took some concentration to open them up and lay them flat on the table. “Look, I’m really sorry,” Marc said. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” He hadn’t asked to do a side-by-side comparison to remind Ron that he wasn’t actually the dead boy. But then, the guy looked like he might need reminding.
“No. It’s all right. It’s just . . . hard, you know?”
“Yes, sir, I do. I lost some of my brothers when an I.E.D. took out our transport.” He left out the part where he drove right past the suspicious wreck on the side of the road because they were all anxious to get back to their racks after a long night.
“Andrew turned twenty-one the month before and he wanted to go out with some friends on New Year’s Eve and celebrate. They say they didn’t see him leave the party.”
Marc reached across the table and touched Ron’s hand. The man didn’t look like the sort who worked with his hands. His clothes and haircut and car all said accountant or insurance adjuster. The scrapes and yellowing bruises on his knuckles said something else. Marc couldn’t think what’d make those marks other than combat, but Ron seemed too nice to be a brawler. Don’t pry. Who knows how he deals with grief. Who’d have thought what it did to you? “I’m really sorry. You don’t have to—”
“Impact threw him out through the front window. We had to have a closed-casket funeral.” Ron gave Marc’s hand a squeeze and then dried his eyes with his unblemished napkin. “What I was saying before about saying goodbye—you know they talk about ‘closure’ and how it’ll help you heal? We couldn’t even see our son in the morgue. There wasn’t enough left of his . . . he was unrecognizable. We described a tattoo he had on his shoulder to the police and they confirmed it was him. We took him to one of those um, reconstruction guys. You know what I’m talking about. But they said it’d be better to just leave the coffin closed before we buried him. They said he’d never look the way we remembered.” Ron shut his eyes. For the first time that afternoon Marc felt like he wasn’t on display. Instead, it was like he was seeing a show. He wanted to get up and walk out while the man couldn’t see him go. Just slip away and skip the end. But he’d made a promise.
An hour in a public place.
Ron opened his eyes and folded his hands like he was about to say a prayer. “My wife and I . . . we, uh . . . Marc? I really appreciate you coming out to lunch with me. It’s been . . . nice.” Ron cleared his throat and looked Marc right in the eye before he said, “Could I convince you to come home and have dinner with us?”
Marc sat up straight in his chair. “Oh, I don’t think so.”
Ron reached out quickly and caught both of Marc’s hands in his. “Maribel. My wife, Mari. She cooks like a whiz and I know that this has helped me a lot. I’d just like her to get the chance to see you and fix you a meal and say goodbye at the end of the night. Tell you what, I’ll double your money and get you a nice hotel room wherever you want. I’ll even call you a cab to take you there. Come for dinner and you’ll never see us again. I promise. It would mean so much to her, I know.” Ron sat up and smiled weakly. He pulled his hands back and rested them in his lap. “I must seem so desperate. I’m sorry. I know you’re not Andrew and it’s not fair of me to ask you to do these things. You just finish up your burger there and I’ll take you back to the underpass.”
Marc thought about all his dead friends. None of their families had the chance to say goodbye either. One day they were video-chatting with their boys half a world away and the next they were getting a knock on the door from a chaplain. Gold Star Families. Like it’s some award that’s given out for giving up your kid. You get a gold star! He faked a grin and said, “It’s been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal.”
“You can’t even imagine how happy she’s going to be to see you.”
“I hope so.” Nerves got the better of Marc and he lost what was left of his appetite. “I guess I’ll take that beer now.”
The Ballard house sat at the end of a long, secluded lane lined with old growth trees. It was completely unlike the places Marc had always lived growing up in the city. They pulled into a long driveway and Ron shut off the ignition. “We’re home!” Marc thought it was a weird thing to say since he’d never been there before, but let it go. He was just glad to get out of the van. The air fresheners hanging from the rear view stunk the thing up. Something else lingered underneath the fake pine perfume. At the same time, Marc was sure that he didn’t smell all that great after three days of whore’s baths in the 7-Eleven bathroom sink.
“This place is really out here.” He felt like saying something when Ron took the on-ramp for the highway, but didn’t. It didn’t seem polite.
Ron jingled his keys with excitement and said, “I suppose I should have mentioned that.”
Marc was already thinking of making his escape. He was pretty certain that an invitation to stay the night was coming next. He resolved to hold firm to the offer of the cab and hotel. Don’t get taken advantage of. You got two hundred dollars, a hot shower, and a private bed coming. Dinner is all you owe. Still, he figured there would be other offers. Hey! I’ll triple your money if you come out in the back and play a little touch football after dinner. Stay for breakfast? Another hundred if you come visit grandma in the home. Nope. This is it!
Ron hopped out of the car and practically floated up the front walk. He opened the door and shouted inside, “Mari! We’re here. Did you get my text?” Despite losing his son in an accident, he seemed to have no qualms about using his phone behind the wheel. He stepped through the threshold and moved aside, swinging his arm to say come-on-in. Marc followed him into the house. The pleasant aroma of roasted meat floated down the hallway, eddying in the foyer around them. Ron shut the door and flipped on a light. A woman’s voice carried through the house.
“I got it. I made a pork roast. I hope your friend isn’t a vegetarian.”
Ron winked at Marc and shouted back, “I’m pretty sure he isn’t.” He hung up his windbreaker next to a navy blue jacket with a crimson letter B embroidered on the back. Ron took that one down and held it. “Heh! Andrew loved baseball. He played in high school.” He got a mischievous look in his eye and offered it to Marc. “You want it?” he asked. Marc held up his hands to ward off the jacket. Ron stepped forward with it. “It’s not quite summer yet, and it’s better than just a t-shirt.” Ron raised his eyebrows as if to say, It’s harmless. Putting on a dead man’s jacket won’t kill you. Marc took the coat. He thought about stuffing it in his bag, but decided to play along instead and slipped it on. Although it was a little snug in the shoulders, it fit well. Ron practically beamed at him for a moment, then took Marc�
�s elbow and led him down the hall.
The kitchen was immense. Mari stood at the sink at the far end with her back to them. She turned her head slightly and said, “There’s beer in the fridge. Or, if you prefer, I’ll open a bottle of wine.”
“Beer’s fine, ma’am.”
“Ma’am? Just who in Creation did you bring home, honey?” She turned with a knife in hand, wiping the other on the front of her apron. Mari’s mouth dropped open and the knife slipped from her fingers, spearing the floor in front of her feet. Marc felt blood rush to his face.
I never should have put on the fucking coat.
“Right? Can you believe it?” Ron asked.
Mari stood staring at him. “It’s you,” she whispered.
Ron walked over and took her hand. “Mari, this is Marc . . . uh. Jesus! Look at me. I don’t even know your last name.”
Marc held out his hand. “Marcus Welsh, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.” Ron gave Mari a gentle shove forward. She took Marc’s hand in both of hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s very nice to meet you.” Marc tried to pull his hand away, but Mari wouldn’t let go. She turned to her husband and said, “Dear, would you grab the skillet and sauté up those mushrooms? I’m going to take Marcus to open a bottle of something special.” Ron nodded and grabbed down a pan hanging from a hook over the sink.
“It’s Marc, please. And a beer is just fine.”
She smiled. “Let’s go in the other room so you can make yourself at home.”
Marc intended to ask to get cleaned up before dinner as Mari pulled at him. He was interrupted by the ringing of the pan that made the floor pitch and rise up.
13 Views of the Suicide Woods Page 23
