An Everyday Hero

by Laura Trentham

  Brash, full of confidence, and all in one piece. If he concentrated he could almost grasp some of his ghost’s magic. Magic he’d lost somewhere along the way.

  His dad disconnected their trucks, and the diesel spooled into silence. Emmett let the Ford run, but climbed out to close the hood and stand in the shade of the cabin, shoulder to shoulder with him.

  “Thank you,” his dad said, barely loud enough for him to make out.

  “I should be the one thanking you and Mom for coming out to help me.”

  “Then thank you for letting your mother help you. That’s all she’s wanted since you came home.”

  Emmett decided to ignore the hint of rebuke in his dad’s voice. Their ultimate goal was the same—to make his mom happy. “I’ll try to be better.”

  “I’ve been at a loss to know what to do. Or say. I’m not sure I’ve done the right things since you got home.”

  While it wasn’t an outright “I’m sorry,” it was the closest brush with an apology his dad had ever had in front of Emmett. “I want you to lay off Greer.”

  “You sure you and Greer are nothing but friends?” His dad turned, but Emmett kept his gaze on the truck.

  “Just friends.” The harshest two words in the English language left a bitter taste in his mouth. “I get that in some misguided way you wanted to protect me, but your call to the foundation nearly screwed up Greer’s ability to get service hours as part of her plea.”

  His dad’s mouth tightened, and Emmett could almost see his straight-arrow opinion notch for release. Instead, he sniffed, scuffed his boot against a dandelion to uproot it, and said, “I’ll make things right with Amelia.”

  First an almost-apology and now an almost-admission that he’d overstepped. It was a banner day in the sensitization of the Lawson family male. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “The boys down at the VFW have been after me to drag you down for happy hour.”

  Emmett knew it wasn’t a drink they wanted to share, but glories of past battles. There was nothing glorious about the heat and filth and death he had experienced.

  At his silence, his dad said, “Come on, now, I know you enjoy a good drink.”

  “I wasn’t hungover the other morning.” Emmett’s defense felt weak considering the number of mornings he had woken up with a blaring headache. He headed to his truck.

  His dad followed. “It might help to talk to men who understand. Men like me.”

  Emmett turned the truck off. “All I’ve ever heard you talk about is how much you miss the service and how good of a sniper and leader and soldier you were. But to me, all those damn medals lined up on the wall represent death and loss and sacrifices no one should be asked to make.”

  “If not us, then who, son? Who is going to protect our country?”

  Emmett let his head fall back as the mother of all curse words reverberated through the trees. “We weren’t protecting our country. We weren’t even protecting the people over there. You can’t tame chaos. Nothing we did made a difference. My men died for nothing.”

  “You can’t think that way.” His dad raised his hand to pat his arm, but Emmett batted it away.

  “I can think however I damn well please. The army trained me, but they didn’t brainwash me.” Resentment and frustration rampaged through him, shredding his previous goodwill.

  His dad stepped away and looked to the porch. His mom had come out of the cabin at some point. “Let’s head home, Judy.”

  She took the steps haltingly, the brief respite from her worry shattered. Although his anger had grown as familiar and comfortable as a favorite T-shirt, the foundation for his emotions had been upgraded from sticks to bricks. Enough to overcome the instability.

  His parents loaded into the diesel truck and backed up. He couldn’t let things end like this. Emmett quick-stepped to knock on the passenger window as his dad shifted into drive. His mom rolled the window down.

  What could he offer? A thank-you? An apology? What did they want from him? “You can leave the gate unlocked and open. Come on back anytime. I’d welcome the company.”

  His mom reached through the open window to hug his neck so tight it hurt, but he didn’t complain. He’d chosen wisely. What his mom craved was access to him. Emmett still didn’t know what the hell his dad wanted. Probably for Emmett to pull himself together and at least pretend to be normal.

  His dad leaned over but avoided catching his eye. “You should come out and check on Eddie. He’s missed you.”

  “Yeah, maybe I will.” He’d avoided going to see his old horse Eddie Munster, named because of the exaggerated peak of the dark forelock on his gray coat.

  His parents disappeared and left him with a newfound restlessness. He played with Bonnie until she got tired and settled in the sun for a nap. He rocked and stared at the tree line, waiting for something to happen. When nothing more exciting than seeing a deer dash past occurred, he grabbed his truck keys and told himself he needed to keep his battery in working condition.

  He found himself driving past many of his old haunts. The high school. The pizza place on the corner that had hosted the football team after home games. The hardware store where he’d gotten his first job stocking shelves. It was all unchanged.

  The red and white whirling barbershop pole had him pumping his brakes. Was Mr. Meecham still cutting hair? He fingered his hair where it spilled over his collar then pulled into a parking spot a sedan had vacated.

  A bell dinged overhead upon his entrance, and Mr. Meecham walked out of a back room, smoothing a clean white apron tied high around his barrel-like waist. The black end of a comb and the silver loops of scissors stuck out of specially made pockets.

  “Well, lookey here. Emmett Lawson.”

  “Hello, sir. I was hoping you might be able to work me in.”

  They exchanged handshakes. “Of course. Have a seat. I don’t have any appointments until after lunch.” Mr. Meecham hit a pedal of the chair with his foot and it lowered to squat on the floor.

  Emmett slid onto the buttery, well-oiled red leather, feeling like he’d stepped back in time.

  “You want it high and tight or something less military?”

  Emmett met Mr. Meecham’s gaze in the mirror. “Less military. I’m out now.”

  “I heard that from your daddy. How’s the leg?”

  “It’s … gone.” An unexpected, slightly uncomfortable laugh bubbled out.

  “Hurt much?”

  Emmett found he didn’t mind the direct assault of questions. “It’s not so bad now, except for the phantom pains.”

  Mr. Meecham merely nodded and ran a comb through Emmett’s unruly mass of hair. Mr. Meecham had served too. Navy, if Emmett’s recollections held true. Mr. Meecham had maintained the same military-style buzz as long as Emmett had known him. He also cut hair with military-style efficiency and precision. He was finished with Emmett in ten minutes.

  Emmett looked at himself in the mirror. His shorter hair threw his cheekbones in sharp relief. As if on cue, his stomach growled. He required cobbler, stat. More important, he wanted some cobbler.

  He followed Mr. Meecham to the checkout counter and pulled out his wallet.

  Mr. Meecham waved him off. “On the house. For your service and sacrifice.”

  Anyone else might have put Emmett’s dander up with such an offer, but Mr. Meecham eyes held a pain he’d never noticed as a kid. Or maybe Emmett had to have experienced loss in order to recognize it in others.

  “Lost my best friend in an accident on board the ship. Lost another one to suicide after we got home,” Mr. Meecham said.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Emmett wished it didn’t sound like such an overused platitude.

  Mr. Meecham gave a dismissive grunt. “You should come down to the VFW some evening. It’s not all old men anymore.” His smile was kindly and crinkled the corners of his eyes.

  “Dad invited me, but—” Emmett shook his head.

  “Your dad has some sad stories.” Mr. Meecham’
s smile flipped into a grim frown.

  “He does?” The surprise must have shown on his face.

  Mr. Meecham narrowed his eyes. “Have the two of you not talked?”

  It was a loaded question. They didn’t talk so much as argue. Arguments punctuated by silence. Emmett ran a hand through his freshly trimmed hair, then lifted it in farewell. “Thanks for the cut, Mr. Meecham. Maybe I’ll see you down at the VFW one night.”

  He had no intention of stepping foot in the place, of course. After a double helping of peach cobbler at the café, he was back in his truck. If he headed back to the cabin now, he would pour a row of shots out of sheer boredom, but for the first time in too long, obliterating his ability to remember didn’t appeal.

  Instead, he found himself pulling onto Lawson Lane, the long, paved driveway leading past the stables and to the main house. Parking in the shade of the horse barn, he slid out of the truck and took a breath. The loamy air settled a deep-seated comfort on him.

  He stuck his hands into his pockets. The chuffs and stomps of the horses drew him inside the barn. He stopped in the entrance and blinked, letting his eyes adjust. It was cooler inside and he took a deep breath. Hay, leather, and manure swirled to tease his senses with memories.

  Good ones of him waking at dawn with his grandfather to shovel manure or feed the horses, when his family would visit over the holidays. His grandfather had bought Eddie Munster for him when he was ten. He’d been a young horse, and Emmett had spent every waking, and some sleeping, hours in the barn with Eddie. Back then, being on the back of the horse was pure magic. Leaving the farm at the end of the holidays to return to the base his dad was stationed on had been gut-wrenching.

  Then, when his grandfather had passed and they’d settled at the farm, Emmett had taken care of Eddie and the other horses before school. Sure, he’d hated life on cold winter days when he couldn’t feel his fingers gripping the handle of the shovel, but even then, he’d felt like he was doing something important.

  The barn hadn’t changed. It was neat and orderly, but Emmett expected nothing less with Alfie Woodard, the longtime farm manager and horse trainer, in charge. As much as Emmett loved Alfie, he was glad the barn was absent its human keepers.

  Grabbing an apple from a sack Alfie kept stashed in his desk, Emmett padded softly down the row of stalls. As if Eddie could sense him, he stuck his head over the top of the stall door and neighed. The familiar dark forelock was curled to the side of his pricking ear, stark against his light gray face.

  A wave of warmth enveloped Emmett as he offered the apple to Eddie. “Sorry I haven’t been out to see you like I should.”

  Eddie neighed and crunched the treat. Emmett wrapped his arms around the horse’s neck, embarrassing tears pricking his eyes. He hadn’t cried before or after his amputation. He hadn’t cried the first time he’d tried to walk on the prosthetic. He hadn’t cried the day he received his discharge papers. But with his face buried in the mane of his best childhood friend, tears leaked out.

  Emmett thought about his dead sergeant. A man who’d trusted Emmett’s orders and followed them without question. Orders that had gotten him killed. Disentangling his fingers from Eddie’s mane, Emmett stepped away, but the horse nudged against his shoulder and snuffled against his neck.

  Emmett closed his eyes. What did he deserve? What was his penance? Was it his leg or did he need to sacrifice more? His thinking was warped. He knew it, yet couldn’t stop himself from spiraling into the darkness.

  He turned his back on Eddie and the barn and walked away. It was only when he was back in his truck jouncing from the grass to the blacktop that he glanced in his rearview mirror. His dad was silhouetted against the house, his hand raised as if he’d been trying to get Emmett’s attention.

  Emmett focused on the road ahead of him.

  Chapter 13

  Greer smoothed her white oxford shirt into her black pants, took a deep breath, and stepped into Becky’s Bar and Grill. Late-afternoon sunlight cut through the windowless room, drawing the eyes of two men sitting at the bar before the door closed. Only the cheap clock above the door gave any indication as to the time of day.

  Although smoking wasn’t allowed by law anymore, the scent had permeated the walls and rugs and maybe even the wood. No amount of cleaner would ever eradicate the smoke. The undercurrents of cigarettes supported the lingering smell of stale beer. She’d spent the better part of ten years in bars not so different from Becky’s and discovered both anxiety and a strange comfort in her surroundings.

  She had texted Emmett her hours but kept herself from begging him to stop by—barely. A friendly smile and some moral support would help her face old friends who had expected more from her than to be slopping beer and Long Island Iced Teas in Madison.

  Why would he subject himself to stares and gossip? Getting him into the store had been a huge victory. His voluntary presence at a central hangout in Madison would be a miracle.

  Becky was behind the bar ticking off items on a tablet. The man across from her swiveled around and patted the stool next to him. Greer smiled tightly, lifted the hinged bar top, and joined Becky on the working side of the bar. A white apron hung on a peg, and she tied it on.

  While her shift didn’t officially start for another half hour, Greer wanted to get a feel for the space and make up for the bad impression she’d left as a customer. “What can I do to prep?”

  Becky looked over her reading glasses and smiled. “Glad you’re here, honey. I hate to throw you in the deep end, but Edgar’s babysitter is sick. He has to wait until his wife gets off her shift. Think you can handle the bar on your own for the first half of the night?”

  “Of course I can.” Her heart kicked a hornets’ nest of nerves in her stomach. She glanced down beneath the bar, her brain inventorying her basic needs. “We’ll need more beer glasses.”

  “There’s a crate in the back.” Becky turned back to the wall of liquor bottles. “You’ll need another bottle of Jack and more Bacardi for sure. I’ll bring that out. Can you check the kegs?”

  “Will do.”

  Greer started moving and didn’t stop. People trickled in at a steady rate and stayed. The noise swelled, but all she could see was the wall of customers standing two deep in front of the bar top. Several old friends lit up when they saw her, but the conversations were thankfully brief due to the crowd and noise. There was no sign of Emmett. Disappointment bothered her like lemon on a paper cut.

  “Hey, Greer!” Ryan Humphries stood at the far end, a grin on his face. “Fancy seeing you here. How’s the kitten?”

  “She’s good. Emmett is fattening her up.” She wiped her hands on the bar towel she’d thrown over one shoulder and sidestepped closer. “What can I get you?”

  “Have you got an IPA on tap?” he asked.

  She nodded, poured a glass, and returned with a coaster. “Do you want to start a tab?”

  He slid over a twenty and winked. “Keep the change.”

  “That’s crazy, Ryan. At least let me save it for another drink.”

  He put his hand over hers and squeezed. It was slightly sweaty. “No, keep it. I can’t have another in case there’s an emergency.”

  She extricated her hand and tucked the money into the pocket of her apron. “You get called out a lot at night?”

  “Springtime is the worst. Calving season. Time waits for no man.”

  She thumbed over her shoulder. “Beer waits for no man either. Better get these glasses filled before there’s a riot.”

  Ryan stayed planted on his corner stool and nursed his beer. Even though she tried to ignore him, every time she glanced in his direction, he was watching her with a goofy, good-natured grin on his face. Hyperaware of his gaze, her scalp prickled with sweat, and she bobbled her next couple of glasses before finding her equilibrium.

  Whenever she moved within earshot, Ryan would call her over and attempt to engage her in conversation. She was too frazzled and overwhelmed to do more than respon
d with a bare-minimum politeness.

  It was a relief when a handsome black man in his mid-twenties scooted behind the bar with her. She had vague memories of him cutting her off the night she’d lost her damn mind with Carrie Underwood. As she filled two beer glasses from the tap, she gave him a grimace-smile. “Edgar. I don’t know if you remember me—”

  “Hard to forget the woman who got in a fight with the jukebox.” His smile was wide, but faded as he scanned the crowd. “Man, it’s hopping tonight.”

  Greer finished pouring the beers, wiped a hand over her apron, and offered it for a shake. “I hope you won’t hold my behavior that night against me. I’m usually pretty chill. Greer Hadley.”

  “Edgar Canterbury. No worries. Let’s get this mass fed and watered.” He moved past her to take orders from the far half of the bar. When she glanced that way again, Ryan was gone. Had he received an emergency call or had her brusque attitude shut down his obvious interest?

  She didn’t have time to worry about it. Even with the two of them, they could barely keep up. “Is it always like this? I don’t remember it being so crazy the night I was here drinking,” Greer asked as they crossed paths at the register.

  “Friday and Saturdays are always crowded but this might be a record. Becky hired a musician this weekend.”

  Greer hadn’t realized there would be live music. A tiny voice inside her head railed that it could have been her if she wasn’t such a coward. She ignored it and concentrated on her job, making two Jack and Cokes and a Tom Collins.

  The strum of a guitar jerked her hand and she spilled simple syrup over the bar top. She bit her bottom lip and wiped up her mess. With sticky fingers she poured two more beers from the keg, the head of foam on the second signaling the keg was on its last beer legs.

  The musician was tuning his guitar and Greer noted his A string was sharp. She waited for the guitarist to fix the offending string, but the next chord hit her as slightly off. Slight enough that no one else was likely to notice, but every strum grated along her internal ear.