Dwelling (17 page)

“No, it’s not going to be easy, but you cannot deny it’s there, showing itself when you least want it to. You’re not alone.
You are not alone
. We all answered the call to go to a foreign land, and when we came back, nothing was the same. But the more we share, with each other, and with our families and friends, the more of
home
we can get back. There is life after the military. There is life after war.”

Life…how’s that working out for you?

So, please, I want to encourage each and every one of you to share your story with someone you love, someone you can trust.
(Who can you trust, Johnny-Boy?)
Write it down, at the very least. Get it out. And if you feel like there is no one you can share your story with, call me. Call the folks with the Wounded Warrior Project. We are made up of people just like you. And we want to hear from you, we want to help your recover in any way we can, if it’s just listening to whatever you have to say, to helping you find a place to live, or even finding employment. We will be there.” Johnathan turned and looked at the dark space behind the curtain, signaling for the liaison to take over.

“Okay, veterans, I’m going to be in town for a few days. I’m staying at the Capitol Hill Hotel. I’ll leave some flyers and brochures here for you to take a look at. The WWP has a great peer program. Trust me, I’ve been with them for a while now, and it has helped me reconnect in ways I thought I’d never get back. Thank you,” Johnathan concluded, waving one hand and with the other handing the mic over to the liaison that had made his way on to the stage.

The auditorium slowly erupted in applause as Johnathan limped toward the curtain.
Hope I did good, Randall
.
I kept most of it in. I didn’t tell them the worst, only the parts they would expect. I didn’t mention seeing the Devil, that insectoid bastard. How could I? Would they have seen
It
too? No, of course not. Why would they? They haven’t gone batshit crazy like I evidently have. Just like how I didn’t mention the trip to see the wizard on the fifth floor while I was laid up in Germany either, huh? No. No. We sure as shit didn’t mention that. They wouldn’t look at us as someone who could help, but as someone that needed help. Telling stories only Strange Tales would care to hear of, fantastical creatures from other dimensions where the thermostat is set real-real high. A creature from that Meat Puppets song, a place where folks go to die in a ‘lake of fire and fry.’ Oh, no. No. No. I certainly didn’t say a word about that, now did I.

Johnathan met a few from the crowd in the lobby, chatting of deployments and scars and family and promises to get help. Promises to call the Wounded Warrior Project, to get a sponsor, a peer buddy; promises to start opening up and talking with someone. But no one ever mentioned seeing monsters or other mythical creatures. No one mentioned any man-like insects.

Walking back to his car, Johnathan had never felt so disingenuous, so much a fraud, in all his life.

Drinks are on me, tonight. Care to join, Ricky? Drinks are on me.

CHAPTER 15

EVICTION

Maggie

“What do you mean, one month?” Maggie screamed into the phone.

“Ma’am, you were given notice over eight months ago that you’d have until the end of the year to vacate base housing,” answered some pretentious prick on the other line, some asshole that worked with Hood’s base housing.

“This is complete bullshit and you know it,” hissed Maggie. “What am I supposed to do, huh?”

“Mrs. Smith, you have our deepest condolences for your loss, but the Housing Office has been very clear regarding housing benefits after the death of your husband, Specialist Richard Smith. You have until the end of the month to vacate the premises,” said the housing liaison.

“Bastard!” Maggie yelled. “My husband is dead and you all are hounding me about moving out?”

“We’re very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Smith, but—”

“Great…” interrupted Maggie, “…just fucking great. Thanks for that. Thanks for making me feel like shit, you
fuckwad
.”

“Ma’am…we can arrange movers for you. It is part of your husband’s death benefits,” reported the trite housing liaison.

Maggie hung up the phone. Her thoughts reeled.
Dog and Pony Show, that’s all it is. They make you feel looked after, they tell you how sorry they are, they tell you you’re a part of them now, and you’ll never be alone. But then the calls come less often. Eventually, people stop coming by altogether. You’re no longer invited to the FRG BBQ’s, the unit bowling tournaments, the spouses’ functions because no one wants to see the bereaved except for when it’s convenient. When the cameras are out and the base newspaper or maybe even Killeen Daily News or whatever, then it’s easy and people check in on you. But it fades.

Their pain is comical, fake. They lost nothing but a name they once knew. And then base housing starts sniffing around wondering why you haven’t vacated the premises.
‘You had a year, Mrs. so and so,’
they’ll say. But what’s a year when you lost everything that ever mattered. What’s a year? How long is too long to grieve? When should I get over Ricky? Hmm? What’s the fucking answer? Is there a formula, a magic reset button? No. No there isn’t one, you fucking pigs.

Her phone went off again, vibrating on the couch. Maggie quickly sent the caller to voicemail. She tossed it over the couch. Never in her life had she felt as abandoned as she did then.
Never
. She never wanted Ricky to join the Army, not in a million years, but when he pressed the issue, she gave in.
Shouldn’t have backed down
. She went along with it and was now left to pick up the pieces.

Rationally, she knew other wives had it worse, the ones with young children were especially tragic, but that didn’t make her situation any less painful. And the worst of it was being left behind by not only her dead husband, but by her so-called family. Johnathan never returned to base housing. The Steele family closed shop without so much as a second thought. He still had to make daily trips to the VA hospital in Houston, or so Maggie had been told from Karen whenever it was when she called, but as soon as he hit stateside, they were gone. It felt as if Karen had already packed everything up prior…
and she said nothing of it, never mentioned it. My sister was there at the funeral, dressed in black and crying like the rest of them, but just like the rest she abandoned me. She had her own husband to worry about, her living breathing husband, while I had nothing left to care for, but Moxie.

Moxie?

Maggie listened carefully for a bark, a sound, a whimper, but there was nothing. Only silence.
Must be asleep in Ricky’s chair again
. And then her thoughts shifted abruptly back to her problem. Moving out. The image of the dancing realtor cowboy from the other day flashed across her mind
. The dancing fool, what was his name? Selling that bit of land with that familiar house in Jotham.

Jotham…?

Maggie was well acquainted with the area south from Jotham. When Papa and Memaw were still alive, she and Karen had spent many a summer visiting. And she most certainly remembered the summer
Suicide Squad
made the trip together.
The summer of 1995. A damn good summer
.

Duke! That was his name, Duke!

Maggie went to the kitchen table where her laptop sat dark and unused. She turned it on and while she waited for the computer to hum back to life, she fetched a glass of water from the sink. Returning, she Googled:

Duke Real Estate, Jotham, TX.

The listing for ‘
Butters & Sons’
came up, the only real estate in Jotham. She clicked the link. A picture of a swelled, jolly, cowboy-looking feller flooded the screen. His grin was ear to ear and his teeth perfectly white. His eyes blue as early morning sky gleamed with some kind of exuberance only politicians could afford. His hair, just visible beneath his large cowboy hat looked peppered with grey and brown. Below was his headshot and the header:

Duke Butters, Realtor, Realtor for Butters & Sons Real Estate Office, Jotham, Texas.

And below that, a number. She went for her cellphone, lying on the floor behind the couch. A fresh crack along the screen. It still worked. She dialed the listed number from the website.

The phone rang for what seemed an incredibly long amount of time. The metallic blue bird song kept rattling rapidly through the speaker. Maggie was about to hang up.

“Butters & Sons Real Estate Office, this is Betty, how can I direct your call?” came a sweet and gentle hum. It was obviously the voice of some young girl,
his niece, or daughter perhaps
.

“Hello, I’m trying to get a hold of Duke Butters, please,” said Maggie, as polite as can be.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Butters is on a conference call at the moment. Can I have him call you back?” said Betty.

“Do you know how long he’ll be? I want to talk with him about this house on his commercial.” Maggie scrolled through the website, trying find the address for the old white two story house, the old creepy house set in a haze from her childhood memory.
Had it really been that creepy?
She tried to recall. The house was there, but blurry.

“I’m not sure. I can place you on hold, if you want. It shouldn’t be too long. Mr. Butters hates conferences. I think it’s with someone from the tax office. If that’s the case, it’ll be
real
short. He
hates
the finance depart—Oh! I shouldn’t have said that,” chirped Betty, her embarrassment bleeding in her voice.

“It’s okay. I won’t tell, if you don’t,” teased Maggie. “You can put me on hold, I’ll wait.”

“Thanks, ma’am. I’ll put you on hold now,” said Betty.

There was a muffled click and then country music started to play, some song about a woman loading her shotgun and waiting on a porch with a cigarette. It played for a while before another round of clinking sounds.

“I forgot to get your name, ma’am,” said Betty with another rush of embarrassment in her voice.

“No problem. It’s Smith. Maggie Smith.”

Who are ya, James Bond?
she could hear Ricky teasing her.

“And…you’re calling about the house on…Oak Lee Road, is that correct?”

“Yes. It’s still for sale, right?”

“Oh ya, that spooky place—shoot! What I meant is, yes the house is still for sale. You ought to get a good deal from Duke. He’s been trying to sell that place for years—oh! I probably shouldn’t have told you that…please excuse me. I’m going to place you on hold again, okay?”

“Okay.”

Another click and the country twang was back on. The same song about the woman and her shotgun. Another song started to play, a Reba McIntyre ditty, “The Night the Lights Went out in Georgia.” Maggie wasn’t much of a country fan, but she did enjoy this song. It was a remnant of the 1990s, a part of the nostalgic currency she kept in her heart, including Ricky’s
secret
favorite song, “Kiss from a Rose.” Reba was just leading into her chorus about trusting souls in back woods and something about southern lawyers and judges with bloodstains on their hands, when in her mind she began to wander. She was still on the website, looking at the house, matching the picture to the faded memory that somehow slipped over the years.
Twenty-something years is a long time, but how can so much of that summer remain and not this house?
She leaned forward in her chair at the table, peering closer, her nose inches from the brightly lit screen. “Ricky stood right there—but didn’t we all? Or was it just him? Jesus, I can’t remember,” she whispered.

The other line began to click again.

“Hello? Mrs. Smith?” asked a booming deep southern voice, steeped in a not so obnoxious drawl.

“Yes, this is she,” said Maggie, shaking her head, tossing away the cobwebs of the past.

“How the heck are you? I’m really glad you called. Betty said you saw my little TV-ad and are interested in the country, four-bed, three-bath, two-story home over on Oak Lee, right?” Duke shot out.

“Yes, I am. You’re commercial was…
captivating
,” said Maggie.

“
Captivating
. That’s one word for it. Told those damn producers and marketing quacks that I just wanted something simple, you know something…” Duke stopped, seeming to be on the hunt for a word.

“Quaint?” offered Maggie.

“Yes, quaint. Something like that. Real homely. But oh no. They got me dancing on stage like some nut who’s lost all his marbles in a game of scratch.”

“Scratch?”

“Mancala.”

“Oh. It wasn’t that bad, I thought.”

“You’re too kind, Mrs. Smith, too kind. Bless you. But you’d think if I was going to spend some money on a big fancy commercial, I should get a big fancy commercial, right?”

“Well, I think part of it is selling the person, not just selling the product…or, that’s what I’ve heard anyway.” Maggie and Duke were strangers, yet, in a strange way she felt connected to him, or at the very least she liked him in that small town charm kind of way. Most salesmen she’d had the displeasure of talking with seemed so presumptuous that you were going to buy whatever it was they were selling without taking the time to make the sell, to make themselves be known. They wanted to take you to bed, forget the foreplay, and forget dinner. But not Duke. He seemed the kind of guy that would show a lady a proper time before trying to
cop-a-feel
.

“You might be right, Mrs. Smith, you might be right. But if you are…what does that commercial say about me? To sell old Duke Butters you gotta dress me up like a rodeo clown dancing the Texas-two-step?”

“I liked it.”

“Well, ain’t you just a peach, dear,” Duke said, his smile coming across the phone line.

“So, down to the nitty-gritty,” Duke continued. “You’re interested in the property on Oak Lee, 1475, right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Hell—let’s make a sell, shall we? When can we schedule a walk-thru for an open house?” Paper rattled on the other end.

Maggie did not hesitate. “How does tomorrow work?” she asked.

“Tomorrow?” Duke almost shouted. There was a short pause. More pages rattling. “You know, I think I’m all booked up tomorrow. Shall we say,
noonish
the day after?” he asked. The papers stopped rattling, his pen probably posed like a coiled snake readied to strike ink.

“Sure, sounds good,” said Maggie.

“Okay, Mrs. Smith. I’ve got you down for Friday at noon. Let’s meet at the property, 1475 Oak Lee Drive, here in beautiful, family-friendly, Jotham, Texas. Will it take you long to get here?”

“Not much, I’ll be driving south from Hood.”

“Hood? Are you in the service? Your husband, maybe?”

Maggie paused.

“Mrs. Smith?”

“Not anymore. See you Friday, Mr. Butters.”

“Please. Call me Duke.”

Maggie said goodbye to Duke and then hung up the phone. She looked at the house on the website, the white house from the glimmer of memory she still retained as a kid.
The price is right. Been on the market for a while. Looks just how I remember, though, if not better. Why Jotham, though? Why there? Not Houston, certainly not. No family in Jotham, that’s a plus. Hmm…Fuck it.

She dialed the base housing office and booked
(demanded)
movers to arrive tomorrow afternoon, much to the housing liaison’s distress and Maggie Smith’s pleasure.