Maggie studied him for a moment. She looked curious albeit satisfied with some internal thought. “Okay, Bobby,” she said finally. “I’m just glad you’re here. I’ve missed you.” She looked at Jake. “I’ve missed you both.” Again her smile looked strained, her eyes dull, her body malnourished and pale.
And Jesus, that grin of hers was faker than a two-dollar bill. “Maggie…is everything okay?” Bobby asked. He whiffed the air, being careful not to draw attention in doing so. Behind the curtain of sizzling meat from the kitchen and the spruce that hovered in the living room behind her, he could faintly smell something strange emanating off this woman he once knew as the girl with the tattered jeans and Nirvana t-shirts who’d bloomed at an early age and fell in love with his other best friend, with Ricky. He could smell something that reminded him of death.
“Yes. Everything is great, now that you two are here. Now the party can start,” she beamed eerily and moved to let them in.
Bobby watched Jake fidget uncomfortably through the door. He forced his own legs to move. Every fiber told him not to go inside. Run! Run! But why? Why? Every instinct, even the ones he hardly trusted anymore, sang and screamed in his ear. Run! But he ignored them all and stepped inside. And as Maggie shut the door he could feel his heart sink into the floor.
CHAPTER 12
FEAST OF FRIENDS
Johnathan
At first, the four surviving members of Suicide Squad, plus Karen and Tabitha, said nothing of Ricky. It had been a year, almost to the day, since he died, yet the wound was still fresh for them, especially for Maggie, or so Johnathan had assumed, and likewise assumed everyone else felt the same. However, it had been Maggie who broke the silence, speaking of her late husband without pain or sorrow or regret or anger. Nothing. She was emotionally mute on the subject when she mentioned his name once, and only once, as if nothing had happened at all, as if he’d never died, as if perhaps he was simply late to the party. God…what if he shows up? Johnathan shuttered with the uncomfortable idea of Ricky sitting at the table, worms and beetles crawling in and out of his mummified grey flesh.
“Are you okay, hun?” asked Karen, leaning in to whisper in Johnathan’s ear. Any sign of disappointment had vanished entirely from her kind voice.
He nodded, smiled, and took a drink of water from his glass that sat on the table. He pushed the image of Ricky away and all thoughts of dementia that followed. The others hadn’t stopped their conversation to notice Johnathan’s sudden distress. Talk had shifted from a litany of topics. From politics—God help them—to movies—some talked pleasantly of the so-called Golden Age of superhero flicks, others cared little—to the strangely mild winter to favorite bands to newly discovered music. Karen spoke up about getting into this new folk trend. Bobby of course professed his enjoyment of the classics, Led Zeppelin, Tool, Johnny Cash, and of course Nirvana. When Tabitha asked who Nirvana was, the group beamed at one another with smiling sadness. Talk had even drifted oddly to war and deployments; though the conversation remained on the surface without any depth regarding personal grief. Maggie said nothing during this bout. When Johnathan took a peek she seemed strangely passive, almost uncaring to what everyone was saying. In fact, Maggie didn’t have much to say at all. Perhaps she was simply enjoying the company. Or perhaps…what? I don’t know.
Johnathan found it odd. The way everyone spoke the war could have been nothing more than a movie or a poorly written television show or something gleamed from a book, a pop fictional wonderland. Nothing was said of actual value, from his perspective at the table, except for the teasing and hazing and the mild laughter surrounding the word fobbit. He was not without blame. Johnathan himself mentioned nothing of RPG’s or IED’s and death. Jake mentioned nothing of mortar rounds and eviscerated boy soldiers. Bobby mentioned nothing of his exploits. Maggie said not a word of dead husbands. It was all chow hall talk, surf 'n' turf, ridiculous KBR salaries, and the poorest of bootleg quality DVDs.
Finally, the discussion shifted to talk of childhood high jinks, each poking fun at the other. Jake snipped at Bobby for his obsession with that one NIN song, “Hurt.” Johnathan made a quip about Jake’s forced rich-boy dress code, his blue polo’s and crisp dress pants. Bobby fired back regarding Johnathan’s nervous predisposition as a teenager. Johnathan retorted with a not so kind word about Bobby’s boyhood weight. But everyone snickered. There were no hard feelings, not yet. Karen said nothing, but laughed a few times. If it was genuine or not, Johnathan could not tell. ‘Boys will be boys,’ he imaged his wife thinking.
“Remember Ricky’s strange obsession with Val Kilmer?” Maggie said, coming in through the kitchen door, carrying two large plates of cornbread and biscuits and setting them on the table next to a bowl of steamed broccoli, which sat next to a serving dish of mashed potatoes and ladle dipped in gravy, in turn beside brown pinto beans and bright green and white minced coleslaw, then the largest dish—a heaping portion of succulent pulled pork.
Bobby stroked his apostolic-looking beard, gazing at the food as if he hadn’t eaten this good in years, and perhaps hadn’t, but remained quiet, saying nothing of Maggie’s inquiry.
“I’m not sure if it was more of a Batman Forever obsession than a Val Kilmer obsession,” said Johnathan amused from the remembrance of days past, of the summer of 1995 and Ricky’s insistence they all go and see the movie. He recalled having to mow his parents lawn to procure the four dollars and thirty-five cents plus additional popcorn and soda costs after blowing his normal allowance on comics and CD’s, one of those being a Hootie and the Blowfish album. An album he’d never in his lifetime confess to owning. Jake mentioned he had told his folks they were going to see the new Ben Kingsley movie, Joseph. Bobby said his parents didn’t seem to care. Maggie said nothing. It was Karen who mentioned their parents forcing her to take her along. There were more movies that year. After Batman Forever, it was Mortal Kombat, and then Se7en, and then GoldenEye, and somewhere in-between, the adventure of riding bikes through the aging railroad sections and farm lands of Jotham, Texas.
I miss being a kid. Johnathan smiled fondly at the obvious warmth hovering between them, over the table as the conversations came and went. Plates and dishes were passed. If there was any thought or question why they’d all remained apart for so long it was forgotten, at least for this one joyous night. Johnathan took a dish and scooped out a heaping spoon full of mashed potatoes. With the ladle he covered the White Mountain in brown gravy. Next he took the pulled pork and covered the lower quadrant of his plate. When the cornbread made its way around, he grabbed two rolls of the golden fluffy disks. The hearty fragrance filled the dining room causing a ravenous lust for the meal. Each took more than one helping. Conversations came to a halt. Only the sound of sipping and chewing and smacking could be heard. All but for Maggie, who silently watched them eat.
Johnathan chewed and glanced with warm affection across the table. He looked at Jake who seemed happier than he had a few months back at the bar. Whatever was causing his…hallucination seemed to have been cured. Maybe I should ask him his secret? He was befuddled for a moment, and then looked at his plate and smiled, distracted from his woes. After another bite, he gazed at Bobby who sat beside Jake. They hadn’t had much time to talk since he’d arrived with Jake about an hour ago. Bobby had brought in his ruck and headed up to catch a shower before dinner. His features were thinner than Johnathan remembered last, which in itself, the fading memory felt like an eon ago. Bobby was no longer in the Army, of that he was certain, though the state of his discharge was unknown. His freshly shaved head and long beard reminded him of something belonging to a monastic order, Franciscan, Benedictine, or what have you. Even Bobby’s clothes looked like bedlam; his skin, even after a wash, was dark with grit and looked sun worn. Given his appearance, it would seem that the rumors were true. And the thought of a friend being homeless caused a great swell of grief in Johnathan’s heart. Perhaps when this weekend is over we can help Bobby somehow, if he wants i
t. And why wouldn’t he?
Johnathan smiled at his own providence and took a heaping bite of mashed potato. Smacking his lips he looked back to his friend filled with a sudden desire to chastise, thought he had no idea why. It was like an itch between his toes. An itch he couldn’t ignore.
“So, Bobby, what’s this Jake tells me about you not liking “Hurt” anymore?” Johnathan smirked, taking another forkful of potatoes. “I thought you liked Cash?” he mumbled between bites.
Bobby looked up from his plate frowning. “I don’t know. I just don’t. Why?”
“But didn’t you have a NIN poster in your room?” smirked Johnathan, stabbing the air with his now empty fork, looking into the air as if collecting some big important thought. “When your parents gave you that turd-brown Ford Aerostar, you played that damn CD nonstop. How’d it go? Something about crowns and hurting himself…how’d it go?”
“Something, something…” chimed in Jake, half-singing, half-giggling, reaching across the table for a fresh roll of bread. He licked his lips.
Johnathan started playing an invisible keyboard on the table, thumping a single beat, da-da-da in slow taps.
“Why did we like this song, again?” Jake laughed loudly.
“Who knows? We were teenagers. It was moody.” Johnathan said, still thumping the table to some silent song.
“It was about drugs, right?”
“I thought it was about suicide.”
“Maybe both.”
“Which do you like best, Trent’s or Cash’s?” asked Jake.
“Neither.”
“Neither?”
“It’s just a song.” Bobby grunted, picking at his food without eating, his face looked red beneath his scruffy beard.
“Sure, Bobby. Whatever you say. It’s just a little weird. You used to play that song all the time, every damn day, and now all of a sudden you don’t like it anymore? And didn’t you just mention that you still listen to the classics?” Johnathan rebuffed, the smile no longer friendly, if it ever had been.
“Just don’t,” whispered Bobby.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Does there need to be a reason? Do you still listen to the same crap music you listened to back in the day?”
“Crap? Like what?”
“Do I even need to say it?”
“What?”
“Hootie and the Blowfish, you fag!”
Johnathan almost spit his food.
Bobby grinned, looking satisfied.
“You listen to Hootie?” asked Jake, befuddled, taking a mouth full of pulled pork.
“Not anymore,” Johnathan huffed, embarrassed. How did he know? That son-of-a-bitch! He oddly had a sense of how a balloon at a children’s party felt. Why are we even arguing over this? Who freaking cares, right? Why am I getting so upset? God, it’s hot in here…He wiped the sweat from his face, hot, his mind deluged, unfocused. Almost drugged.
“It was the ’90s, dude.” Bobby sighed. “Everything’s changed.”
“What about Def Leppard? Anyone still listen to them?” Jake inquired.
“The Army ruined it,” said Johnathan. Bobby nodded his approval, but said nothing.
“The Army? How’s that?”
“Well, not the Army per se, but every single strip club outside of base was constantly playing “Pour Some Sugar On Me” over and over. Hearing them now makes me want to ralph.” Johnathan caught the ramifications of what he said a little too late. He could see Karen in his peripheral, gazing at him sternly.
“Been to many strip clubs at Hood?” Karen asked. Her eyebrows sharp, eyes penetrating, fork aimed.
Johnathan swallowed loudly. “Well…from what I’ve heard, baby. Not that I’ve been to many strip clubs personally.” He gulped.
Karen nudged him hard in the ribs. “Right. Big liar.” She smiled and went back to her plate. Bobby and Jake giggled. Maggie said nothing.
Tabitha looked at her mother queerly. “Mommy, what’s a strip club?”
The group looked at one another, and then burst out laughing. Karen looked at her daughter apologetically. The others wiped tears from their eyes with napkins already soiled in pig grease and crumbs.
“Honey,” she started. “It’s…a place…umm…” Karen glanced at her husband with eyes that implored support.
“It’s a place where desperate women dance and lonely men tip dollar bills, sweetie,” chimed in Johnathan.
Karen glared at him, not so kindly.
“What? That’s a better explanation than—”
“Okay!” Karen huffed.
Tabitha still looked puzzled but asked no more on the subject.
Maggie stood up from the table then. Eyes immediately followed her. “Would anyone care for a beer?” she asked.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Bobby said. He cupped his mouth suddenly, looking at Tabitha, and then at Karen. “Sorry,” he whispered.
Tabitha pulled on her mother’s sleeve. Karen leaned over to listen. She smiled and then leaned back up.
“Tabitha would like you to know, yes a bear does potty in the woods, just like any other critter because they cannot use toilets.”
Tabitha pulled on her mother’s sleeve. Again, Karen leaned over and listened to her whisperings.
Leaning back up Karan said, “Oh and Tabitha says a bear could use the potty on a toilet, but only if the bear were a circus performing bear and had been properly potty trained.”
Everyone smiled. Even Maggie, though hers looked less genuine than the others, forced almost, and creepy. No one paid any attention, or so Johnathan assumed.
“That’s good to know. Thanks, Tabitha,” said Bobby, grinning at the young girl. He blew her a kiss.
Tabitha hid her face behind her mother’s shoulder. Karen patted her hair.
Maggie cleared her throat. “Anyone else?” she looked to Jake.
Jake raised his hand.
Maggie lingered on Johnathan.
Johnathan stirred uncomfortably. “I better—”
Karen squeezed his hand. Johnathan looked into her face. There was no judgment there. Only trust. Trust that he could have a beer. That he would not overdo it. Not here. Not tonight. He looked at his wife. She looked back at him. Words exchanged without lips. Her eyes told him everything he needed to know. She trusted him. It was okay.
“Sure, Mags. I’ll take a beer. Thanks.” Johnathan smiled weakly at his wife who returned the gesture.
“Karen?” inquired Mags.
“No thanks.”
Maggie nodded and headed through the door leading into the kitchen. A few moments later she returned with four sweating 16oz cans of Miller Lite. Johnathan watched her as she passed out the beer. His throat felt dry and itchy. His stomach growled. For reasons unbeknownst to even himself, he remembered suddenly the attic and the discovery he wanted to share with everyone. Shit! Damn near forgot!
“I’ll be right back,” he whispered to Karen. He took his cane and then limped quickly from the room.
The others popped the tops to their beers and drank heavily. Johnathan returned a moment later, propped his cane against the table and fell into his chair. In his hands he held a comic book. The smile on his face was intoxicating.
The others joined his mischievous grin unaware that they were doing so. Except for Maggie, who did not drink nor did she eat much food. She eyed him closely.
“Whatcha got there?” Bobby asked.
Johnathan was practically dancing in his seat. “So, while we were waiting for you two to show up,” he looked at Bobby and Jake, “I did a little exploring.” He looked to Maggie, “I hope you don’t mind.”
Maggie said nothing. Her lips leered slightly on one side in a very odd way.
“Sorry…Anyways, I went into the attic and found of a bunch of Ricky’s old stuff.” Again he glanced at Maggie. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be nosey but there was this weird sound and I went up to see what it was.”
“Okay. Okay. So you were rifling t
hrough Maggie’s things. We already know you’re a creep. What did you find?” Bobby did nothing to hide his spirited impatience.
Johnathan blinked with exultation, even Bobby’s quip could not bring him down. Slowly he moved the comic up so everyone could see the near faded black cover with the eight silhouetted headshots and the title, Suicide Squad, printed in bold orange and reds at the top.
An excited hush fell over the table, like a fog rolling into a bay. Bobby and Jake froze, their beers halted midair. Johnathan beamed. He passed the comic over the table to Bobby, who took it carefully, tenderly in his hands. Johnathan popped the top to his beer and took a lustful sip.
Karen shifted in her seat.
Tabitha looked utterly confused. “It’s a comic book?” she said, truism stuck in her throat.
“Yes, but it’s a special comic book,” said Johnathan leaning over so he could see his daughter.
“How so?” as she spoke her quizzical mind.
“Well—”
Smiles abounded in every direction mixed with faint laughter of memory from a day long past. It’s strange. How quickly time goes by yet how slow it seems at times. It could have been yesterday when we were all huddled in Bobby’s clubhouse, hunched over the box of comics I blackmailed from my brother. As if from now to then there’s this string and if it could be pulled on hard enough maybe we could relive those precious childhood moments. I could be a teenager again, as terrifying as that sounds. I could be whole again, as wonderful as that sounds. Ricky would be here, alive. I wouldn’t be with the WWP, wouldn’t need to go to the VA. Bobby wouldn’t be homeless. Maggie wouldn’t be a widow. Jake wouldn’t feel whatever it is that’s going on with him and his church. Do I dare pull on that string? Can we be new again? Can we be young? Can all our woes vanish, just like that, in a blink of an eye?
Simple.
Painless.
“Well…?” asked Tabitha again.
Emerging (Subdue Book 2) Page 10
