Dwelling (12 page)

Augustus had slept the night in the strange, two-story house, half expecting the owner to return, but no one ever did. In fact, the more he ventured into the house, the more convinced he became that no one had resided there in some time. The kitchen pantry was stocked, but the mason jars had a few inches of dust. There was furniture and bedding in all the rooms, but each had an aged, musky dormant smell. Dust also lined the dressers and vanities and counters and tables. There were books left on the bookshelves, most of which Augustus had never read, except for the one short story by Mark Twain,
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
. It was all so strange, as if whoever had lived in the house up and vanished, leaving behind all their worldly processions.
Very strange indeed.
But Augustus pushed away the macabre chill and embraced the glow of the country around him. He would get his answers in town.

Augustus followed the muddy trail into the bustling, albeit undeveloped, town of Jotham. Horse-drawn wagons trotted up and down Main Street, stomping and leaving behind fresh manure in fat piles of steam and flies. The buildings that existed were interconnected. A G.M. Hoover Wholesale Cigar store joined to a General Dry Goods and Clothing store. E. Nolte & Sons Bank sat across the street next door to an Outfitting Store. Tan bricks were made from the same compact sediment dirt found throughout Central Texas. A cathedral looking courthouse was under construction, mule powered pulleys heaving mammoth stone pillars into place. At the center, a grandiose tower clock was being installed between wooden beams and planks that held the men’s feet.

Jotham had the potential for growth, to carve a name for itself as a booming cotton town, if only they could somehow bring one of the railroad stops between Houston and San Antonio through town. All it would take was a little bit of capital.

Augustus prodded his horse farther down Main Street, searching for the wood-painted sign that said
‘Busters & Brothers Law Office.’
It only took him a few blocks before the lawyer’s office was made clear. Augustus left his horse at an adjacent livery stable and asked the proprietor to feed him and give him fresh water and then he limped over to Busters & Brothers. Inside, men in nice suits whispered together in small groups. Others sat quietly by themselves looking sullen and distant. There was a miserable mood here of which Augustus was very familiar with,
too familiar
.

“Excuse me,” inquired Augustus, coming to the closest gentleman who was alone and seemed perfectly content.

“Yes?” asked the man, his balding head reflected some of the light coming in from the dust caked window. His eyes never left whatever documents he was reading.

“Is there a Mr. Williams here?” asked Augustus.
God—I detest lawyers.

“Mr. Williams? Butch Williams is dead, sir. Dead as a door nail,” the thin man said at his desk in a cold monotone.

“Dead?” Augustus was momentarily stunned.

“That is what I said, sir. Dead. Departed. Gone. Fallen. Lifeless. Extinguished. Pushing up daisies. Deceased.
Muerto
.
Tot
.
Morte
.
Plus ultra—
Sir.” The man continued to read, unfazed.

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Last night?”

“Yes, sir. His wake will be held later today at the Catholic church here in Jotham, if you wish to attend.”

“No—that’s okay.” Augustus looked around nervously curious. “Do you know how?” he asked.

The thin lawyer kept his eyes to his desk. “Apparently Mr. Williams hanged himself in the night. His maid found him this morning. Poor girl, I heard she made quite a shriek.”

Dead…?

Augustus wasn’t sure what to say to mourn a man he never knew. Instead, he stood there silently glaring at the small, balding lawyer long enough to force him to finally look up.

“Yes?” snapped the thin man.

“Well, Mr. Williams sold me this bit of land up north here in Washington County.”

“Yes?”

“And, well, I think there’s been a mistake.”

“What kind of mistake, sir?”

“There’s somebody already living there kind-of-mistake.” Augustus was running short on patience. He pulled out the deed and the map he was given and showed the documents to the thin lawyer. “See here, this is the couple acres I bought, but there’s a house already built. There’s also a wheat field and a barn. I was told the land was undeveloped.”

“Let me see…” the lawyer said in a hushed exhale of breath, hardly audible over the sudden sobbing of a large man a few desks across the room. “That’s Mr. Ivering,” said the thin man, noticing Augustus staring over that way.

“I take it he and Mr. Williams were close friends.”

“Not really. Mr. Ivering is just a
roostered
buffoon.”

“Aw—” Augustus noticed the near empty tan Buchanan’s bottle on the weeping man’s desk.

“Is this the property over by Juniper Hill Farm? The cattle pasture up that way?” asked the thin lawyer.

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, this shouldn’t be hard to clear up. Let me see if I have your file. The office has split Mr. William’s clients. I got half. The rest went to Mr. Talbot across the hall. Let’s see,” the lawyer rummaged in his desk drawer. “Ah-ha, here we go. Oh, my name is Mr. Eugene Parsons, by the way.” He stood and offered a hand.

Augustus took it and nodded. The lawyer was tall, more than he had imagined with him sitting behind the desk. His suit was black, his shirt white as pearls. He watched in befuddlement as the giant thin man sat back down, his stump was starting on him again. The pain was rapidly becoming all too familiar.

Parsons did not seem to notice. He gleefully hummed as he went over the documents regarding the land deed and prior ownership. “Well,” he finally said, “looks like the previous owner of the land you bought was one Phillip William Ostwald…but…” he trailed off.

“But what?” Augustus was ready to leave.
Hell, I was ready to leave the moment I arrived in town
.

“But, I do not see any record of construction or any kind of farm development.” The lawyer continued to read silently.

“So—what does all this mean?”

“It means, Mr…” Parsons peaked at the documents, “…Westfield, that the land is under your ownership and everything on it.”

“So—”

“The house is yours, Mr. Westfield.”

“The house is mine?”

“And everything in it.”

CHAPTER 12

WOUNDED

Johnathan

The flight into Washington, D.C. had been more nerve wracking than the time his friends had dragged him into
Astroworld
just before the park closed back in the late ’90s.
Suicide Squad
,
those assholes
! Johnathan could still recall the feeling of being strapped into that old, wooden death coaster called the
Texas Cyclone
. The slow ticking climb upward, stalling at the peak, tasting thin air and feeling his heart thud painfully in his chest, and then finally hurtling back towards the earth.

He hated flying, hated heights. As soon as he’d buckled his seatbelt and the cabin doors were sealed and as the stewardess got on the bullhorn and gave her preflight safety checks, his fists clinched in a cold miserable sweat. In his mind, he’d imagined the worst scenarios, some so bizarre only Rod Sterling from
The Twilight Zone
could reproduce. Rod himself would appear and narrate, addressing some unseen audience
,
talking about fifth dimensions beyond, as vast as space, and as timeless as infinity, between science and superstition. Maybe some invisible camera would pan out and he’d find some creature with bulbous bug eyes glaring at him as it chewed on the wing’s wiring or something that looked vaguely important, something that no doubt was intended to keep the plane in the air. It would turn its greasy black head and smile, its teeth full of sparkling electricity and down the plane would go. Or better yet, for some unexplained reason, the metal structure beneath his seat would fall out, sending him and him alone plummeting some 40,000 feet back to earth, probably landing on some poor fool’s car or something. Maybe he could tape a goodbye note on his chest, like that guy in that one movie.

Though Johnathan never really considered himself a religious man—he’d always left that part up to Jake—regardless, during his flight’s takeoff he prayed, just as he had prayed before every mission in Iraq, before the trucks, the great and mighty convoy, would roll outside the wire, he’d send up a little prayer to God for the
Big Man
—if such a Being existed—to spare him, and if his life could not be spared, to at least make his end quick, to not make him suffer. In a way, Johnathan feared the idea of suffering more than he did death itself, but then again, that’s mostly a human trait, is it not?
No atheists in foxholes, right?
He grinned nervously, whispering to whatever benevolent being there was or might be.

His flight landed at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport on time and without incident. Johnathan made his way through the terminal, past baggage claim, and toward the Hertz car rental service station. The only vehicle ready on the lot was a new Toyota RAV4. Johnathan took the SUV and fled up Highway 1, looped onto Interstate 395, and then made his way to the luxurious Capitol Hill Hotel on C Street in D.C.’s largest residential historic district.
The VA was really putting on the Ritz; no wonder Randall normally did this gig.

After parking the spacious Toyota, Johnathan made his way inside the looming glass-door entrance. The lobby was both ornate and contemporary in design, almost minimalist. He approached a tall, handsome, and highly polished desk. The clerk was an older gentleman, probably in his forties, a strong jaw, yet somewhat slack with grey hair shining along his crewcut, reminding him a little of Reed Richards from those
Fantastic 4
comics he had read as a kid.

“Name?” the clerk asked.

“Johnathan Steele.” His leg was starting to ache. The trip had been a long three hour flight.

“Thank you, sir.” The clerk typed something into his computer and finally placed the electronic card key on the desk. “You are in room 308. Check out will be no later than 11:00 A.M. on Friday. Your Wi-Fi password is on the inside jacket with the keycard. Enjoy your stay here at the Capitol Hill Hotel, Mr. Steele. If you need anything, anything at all, please let me know.”

Johnathan took the key. “Thanks.” He smiled, and then started off toward the elevators, his luggage rolling behind him. His limp was getting worse. He put more weight onto his cane. Gary, his AT from Michael E. DeBakey VA Medical Center, would be pissed to see him using the crutch, but
fuck Gary.
So what if he was still using the damn cane? He hadn’t flown since…since…well, since coming home from the Army medical hospital in Germany, and his residual leg was throbbing worse than normal. The nerves, though healed, danced behind his deformed flesh. The meds he took before the flight, the two magical green Paxil’s, burnt out after seeing his best friend’s corpse walking around the airport terminal. Warning him about…
What was it? What was the word? Nashirimah? What the hell was that about? Side effect, maybe? Combined with stress about this conference speech? Maybe. Makes sense.

Maybe.

The elevator ride was short lived and once Johnathan reached his room he collapsed on the queen-size bed. The smell of fresh linen filled his nostrils. His stump twitched.
Perhaps there’s something about flying that tickled the nerves and veins in the wrong kind of way.
The tight fit of his prosthetic did not help. Every step, from the plane terminal, to Hertz, from the parking lot, all the way to the lobby, it was all agony.

Now, all he wanted to do was unfasten his leg, take a long hot shower, eat something really unhealthy, and get drunk.
Drunk
sounds really good, actually
. He looked for a menu. Spotting a so-so looking double cheeseburger and fries, he searched for a list of drinks, something strong.

Johnathan had grown fond of
Glenfiddich
brand of Scotch, single malt
tastegasm,
as his father-in-law would say, introducing him to a glass shortly after he returned home from the hospital in Germany. Realistically he’d take Johnny Walker in a heartbeat, without complaint. He dialed the room service number. Some young woman answered, cheerfully, and took his order. To get scotch brought to his room, though, he had to purchase an entire bottle—
darn
.

***

The shower was magical. The showerhead was one of those multifunctional sprayers. After washing up, he stood there, balancing against the handicap bar, neck exposed to the heat, eyes to the floor. The steaming water relaxed his scalp, his muscles, sailing his mood down River Relax. All anxiety over the flight melted away. Thoughts of seeing—hallucinating—Ricky, and the growing tension for tomorrow’s public speaking event gone.
Sure, the conference wouldn’t be in front of civilians. They’re easily impressed. No. Tomorrow will be in front of wounded and broken veterans, my people
.
There’ll be no judgement. They’ll be receptive because they’re in ‘the know.’ They understand.

Johnathan, expecting room service to show at any time, jumped out of the shower and dried off. He was attempting to get his boxers on when a rattle knock came from the door.

Shit
.

“Just a minute,” Johnathan yelled. He quickly donned a pair of basketball shorts and an old Army grey PT shirt. With his cane, he awkwardly hobbled to the door, opened it and danced out of the way as a cart came rushing in.

“Come on in,” Johnathan whispered, bemused, and then closed the door. Following the attendant into the main living area, he leaned against the wall.

“Room 308, right? The Tennessee BBQ Burger with wedge fries and a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label, correct?” asked the attendant, a young and vibrant looking woman, girl really, no older than twenty-three. Looking at her, Johnathan felt incredibly old and then incredibly naked when he noticed where her eyes had fallen as she spoke.

“Receipt, please. I can bill this to the room, right?” Johnathan asked in a hurry, wanting her out of his room.

“Umm—” the girl seemed lost in thought, as if caught by some unseen tractor beam pulling her complete attention to Johnathan’s missing leg.
Missing, there’s that strange word again
.

“Bill it to my room,” Johnathan huffed; with his hand he gestured for her to leave. His gaze said nothing short of,
‘Would you kindly get the fuck out?’

“Oh. Yes. That’ll be fine, sir.” The girl set the tray on the bed. Frantically, she pushed the cart out of the room. Her white, flushed face turned a bright shade of pink as she passed him in the hallway of his room. She went out the door and did not look back.

Johnathan slammed the door closed, breathing heavily as he leaned into it. He closed his eyes and fought—fought the swelling birth of guilt and remorse inside, but it was boiling deep and coming up stronger in panicky, thunderous gulfs. Scorching tears flooded his face. The taste of salt was foul on his lips. He punched the door.
Freak! I’m a fucking freak!

Too stubborn to cry anymore, he made his way to the bed. Examining the burger glistening in the glow of the bedside table lamp, he reached blindly for the remote, found some program on the SyFy channel with artists creating special effects and crafting monsters, and grubbed. After his second mouth full of meat, of sweet, tangy barbeque sauce, he uncorked the Scotch and poured half a glass. He sipped it at first and then guzzled it. Pouring a larger portion, Johnathan drank as if it were water. On his third glass, he slowed down, allowing the warm tingle of intoxication to relax his body. He poured a forth glass and looked at his bag sitting on the desk, thought about swallowing some rainbow variety of VA hospital jellybeans.
Maybe a handful, or perhaps a baker’s dozen? Wouldn’t that be a sight for the cleaning lady! Dead and bloated freak in the bed. My, my, wouldn’t that be something to see.

The morning after came with a blissful bolt of pain throbbing against his temple. His gut swirled and bubbled. His lips felt dry. His throat cried for a glass of cold water. The Tennessee BBQ burger lay on the floor, mostly uneaten. The wedge fries were no more, a few meager crumbs. The bottle of Johnny Walker survived, narrowly. Johnathan sat up and immediately wished he hadn’t. His head spun like a cruel merry-go-round from hell. Complete with laughing clown and neighing circus horse. The ceiling fan above hummed. Each turn of its blades sounded eerily familiar.

In his mind, he pictured the propeller of a Blackhawk helicopter floating above a dry and dusty city. Suddenly, blaring through some unseen speaker system, the Muslim call to prayer shrieked into life. He turned over, reaching out desperately for the trash can beside the bed, and ralphed. Stomach acid burned and irritated his throat. His eyes watered and stung. The nausea surged twice.

Finally, the tide relented. Poseidon had his revenge. His pillow smelled like sweat, his skin crawled in goosebumps. Images of helicopters juxtaposed with the ceiling fan vanished. Only the wooden blades loomed above.

Sweet baby Jesus, why did I drink so? Why?
He moaned.
Shower. I must shower. Need water…

Johnathan shifted his leg and stump off the bed. Bracing his face in his palms, he steadied the carousel. His nub tingled as the nerves awoke. He’d have to wait to put on his prosthetic. Carefully, he ventured toward the shower, swearing to God he’d never drink again (
liar!)
He turned on the hot water, waited for it warm up, and then jumped in. He stayed for some time, allowing the steam to wash away last night’s binge.

Finished, he hobbled out, thought about shaving, but brushed his teeth instead.
Maybe it’s time for this crusty veteran to grow a beard. Not sure if Karen will like it, but everyone else seems to be growing one nowadays. Hell, even Randall’s got a chinstrap full of white hair. If I’m going to be a train wreck, might as well look the part, right?
He thought, amused yet miserable. His face glared back at him through bloodshot eyes in the mirror. He spit and ralphed again.

Making his way to the bed, Johnathan finished getting ready. He checked the clock hoping he’d make it for the breakfast buffet downstairs.
No dice
. He looked at the TV and couldn’t recall turning it off.
Must have a timer
. He searched for the remote. Finding it under his pillow, he turned the station to CNN. Some fellow with greying hair and matched mustache was yawning about ISIS, the so-called Islamic State.
Goddamn jihadist fuckwads
. The fellow, whatever his name was, must have been a commentator; Robbins and Margaret Hoover were running the show, nodding mindlessly as the older, well-dressed man droned on with his theorems over ISIS.

“The challenge we face, I think,”
the man said,
“is how we approach Sunni nationalism verses Shiite oppression. With Vietnam, America intervened because of our fear with communism. And now with Iraq, America is obsessed with jihadism and 9/11.”
The man interlocked his hands across his chest, like a pufferfish giving a State of the Union speech.

“I see,”
said Robbins. Her face was full of mocked interest, her eyes dull and corpselike
. “What do you think about this invasion in Iraq now, especially in eclipse with the most recent war in Iraq having ended?”
she asked.