Fives and Twenty-Fives (42 page)

Inside the terminal, I checked the departures board. My flight stood out in ominous red. Canceled, along with a dozen others. The woman at the ticket counter couldn’t help me. Some sort of bad weather in Chicago had backed up connections west of the Rockies. None of the airlines had an available seat on a flight to Birmingham, or anywhere else, until morning.

Everything I owned was already in transit. Worse, I hadn’t taken the time to replace the phone I’d deactivated before deployment. Not wanting to bother Cobb or invite another heartfelt good-bye, I had my ticket transferred to a morning flight, and I entered the concourse to find a secluded spot where I could stretch out and sleep. But I owed my sister, and maybe my parents, a phone call. So, I wandered over to the USO.

The airport USO was principally used as a gathering spot during pickup periods, when Marine recruits from around the country arrived in the middle of the night for boot-camp induction. Mercifully, the Recruit Depot was between cycles, and I had the small alcove to myself. An old man sat behind the volunteer desk, his arms crossed and his chin resting against his chest. He wore a Marine Corps ball cap and looked old enough for Korea.

Wondering if he was asleep, I approached him softly, my head down and tilted to the side.

“Need some help, young man?” he asked, wide-awake and perfectly still.

“Oh. Sorry for sneaking up on you, sir,” I said, taken off guard. “Just wondering if there’s a phone I could use?”

“Over here.” He nodded, stood up, and gestured for me to follow as he shuffled on short legs over to a table piled high with beat-up cell phones. They looked donated. He grabbed one and stared up at me, apparently waiting for a number.

“Sir, I can dial the phone myself. I’m just looking to make a quick call.”

He shook his head. “No, no. You have to mash a special code. Better let me.”

“One second.” I dropped my bag, unable to remember my sister’s phone number offhand. I knew I had it in an address book at the bottom of my duffel, but I didn’t want to dump the whole thing and root through my underwear in the middle of the USO to find it. My parents’ home phone number, the first I’d ever memorized, came to the front of my mind.

“Dial area code two zero five . . .” I watched his odd, stubby fingers at work.

“Okay. Two zero five . . . and?”

“You know what, sir”—I picked up my duffel—“I really appreciate it, but on second thought I’d rather not disturb them.”

“Your folks?”

“Yes, sir. It’s a few hours later there.”

“You sure? Bet your mother wants to hear from you.”

“I’m sure. But I appreciate your help, sir.” I turned to leave.

He stopped me. “Where you coming from?”

“Pendleton.”

“Not what I mean,” he said with a knowing grin. “Where you coming home from?”

“Iraq.” After a moment’s hesitation I added, “Recently returned from Iraq, sir,” in an attempt to make it sound routine. Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Well then, welcome back.”

He offered me his hand and I shook it, realizing for the first time why I’d noticed his stubby fingers. They weren’t just odd; they were absent. Save for his thumbs, most of his fingers were missing beyond the first knuckle.

He caught me looking down at them. “Chosin Reservoir. A hundred thousand screaming Chinese couldn’t touch me, but that cold, boy . . .” He chuckled and shook his head. “That cold was one mean bitch. Ate my fingers right up. Lucky to have what I kept. I’m Tippet, by the way.”

“Oh. Pleasure to meet you. Peter.”

“Well. All right then, Peter,” he said with an air of inevitability. “Let’s go get us a beer.”

He waved his arm toward the sports bar across the way and indicated that I should follow as he ambled out into the concourse.

I scrambled after him, trying to decline. “I appreciate it, sir. But really, no thanks. I’ll just find a patch of carpet where I can rack out for the night.”

“Well, that’s horseshit,” he said simply. “You’re drinking a beer with me, Peter. I got an ugly wife at home and it’s quitting time.”

“Again. Sir. I appreciate it.” But then I realized that we were already at the bar. Tippet had covered the distance with surprising speed using his awkward but determined shuffle.

He called out to a waiter and pointed at the nearest tap with the nub of his index finger. “Two of these, Mark,” he said, hardly taking note of the brand he’d selected.

I surrendered. “Just one beer, sir.”

Tippet laughed. “Call me sir one more time and you’ll eat your teeth.”

“Okay. Thank you, Tippet. Just one, though.”

“You’re a lieutenant, right?”

“Until a few hours ago, yes. How’d you guess?”

“Not a guess. You got the stink on you, son. Hard to miss. More important, though, is that the lieutenant doesn’t skip out after the first round. You got the next one. So that’s two, at least.”

We found an empty four-top in the corner and sat down as our first beers arrived. A pint glass for me and a mug for Tippet. He slipped his mitt inside the handle and locked his thumb around the top, well-practiced.

“To our Corps,” he said, lifting the glass.

“To our Corps.” I let the first sip dance across my lips. The alcohol bit into my tongue. Beer tasted so much better than I remembered.

We completed the first round inside of five minutes, and much to Tippet’s approval I ordered a second round without hesitation.

“Sure aren’t putting up much of a fight, are you, Lieutenant?” He laughed.

“First beer in a while. Might as well enjoy it, right?”

“Damn straight. You’ve earned it.”

The second round arrived in the same configuration. A pint glass for me and a mug for Tippet. I watched him wrap his truncated fingers around the glass, and I knew for certain that I hadn’t earned a goddamn thing. But by the end of the third round, I didn’t care. The beer in front of me had ceased to be about what I’d earned, or what I deserved. It was about the weight of my eyelids, the numbness in my legs, and how it was all starting to feel so much better.

“You got a young lady waiting for you, Lieutenant?” Tippet asked as we each finished our fifth.

“Not presently.” I searched for feeling in my cheeks.

“Hell! Let’s get you one.” Tippet stood and disappeared into the suddenly crowded bar. I didn’t follow him, but it didn’t matter. He returned to our table when I was already halfway into my sixth, flanked by two young women.

They were tall brunettes, both about my age, and each with a glass of white wine in hand. They wore heels, perfectly pressed slacks, and silk blouses. They smiled, apparently taken in by Tippet’s charm, and they looked down at me showing what seemed like a fifty-foot wall of white teeth.

“This is the young man I was telling you about. This is my friend Pete, just home from Iraq. And, boy, wouldn’t a few minutes of your company cheer him right up.”

“Oh, wow,” one of them said, pressing her wineglass against her cheek.

“That is really just so amazing,” the other said. “Thank you for your service.” She held out her hand in a strange way. I wasn’t sure whether she wanted me to kiss it or shake it. In my growing stupor, I pulled her hand toward me and pressed it against my forehead.

“Ha! Hey now, Pete.” She laughed. “Had a few?”

“A gentleman stands,” I heard Tippet say in a stern tone. “A gentleman stands, Lieutenant.”

I let go of the brunette’s hand and pulled myself up, out of what had become an impossibly comfortable chair.

The brunettes introduced themselves, but I couldn’t process their names. They reminded me of girls I’d known in college. Perfect and put together. They’d both be married any minute, and the conversation we were about to have would become a story at cocktail parties. They’d stand next to their husbands and tell the story of the Iraq vet they once met. How he was drunk beyond belief in the airport.

The nausea crept into my mouth. My tongue swelled, and the brunettes laughed at something Tippet said.

“I’m sorry.” I pushed between them, dragging my duffel by its strap. “I’m sorry.”

I searched for some place, in lieu of a bathroom, where I could throw up without attracting too much attention. A trash can. A janitor’s cart. The nausea abated slightly as I careened through the concourse, and it occurred to me that I might just need some air. The concourse exit materialized in front of me. Beyond it, I knew, was a door to the outside, to the cool San Diego night, and to the ocean air wafting from the bay across the street.

I doubled my pace, kept a straight line, and managed to leave the terminal without vomiting. I crossed the street and moved toward the smell of ocean air until I found a empty bench next to the bay. The world spun out of control, and I passed out with my head resting on my duffel.

I woke as the sun rose and rolled over to find a bay full of sailboats. A few were on their way out to sea, showing all canvas and heeling slightly with a westerly wind. Free.

A gentleman stands, I thought.

Sitting in my car, on the side of a Dallas cul-de-sac, I think about my father. We could talk about nothing at all and I’d be grateful for it. We could talk about football. He could tell me how many bales he cut from the fields. Square bales or round bales. I could play with my nephew and give my brother-in-law a firm handshake.

I don’t deserve all that, but I want to. And I certainly don’t deserve Paige, but I take out my phone and dial her anyway.

She answers on the first ring.

Zahn—Thanks for the heads-up about the lieutenant
. I checked in on him and he seems fine. He's an idiot, of
course . . . But he's good to go.

So it's okay that I come visit? What if
I feel like staying for a while? I need a change in scenery, if
you got a place for me. —Doc

Floorboards

I stayed at the lieutenant’s place for about a week. I lost my job, but no harm done. I got enough money saved to live without a problem for about six months, I think.

The lieutenant talked to me about his visit with Sergeant Gomez and her sister, and he kept apologizing. I told him to stop. Then he asked if I had a way to get in touch with Dodge, and I lied. Told him I had no idea.

Dodge’s gone dark, anyway. He hasn’t replied in a week and seems less and less interested in catching up. He doesn’t even mention his visa anymore. Just news from Tunisia. I can’t follow everything he’s talking about, but I still liked hearing from him.

The lieutenant also told me about some of Zahn’s troubles. Like he was telling me about a Marine in the platoon with bad foot rot, and implying I should go take a look. Maybe offer some antifungal cream and give a quick class on the importance of changing your socks. Like he thinks I’m his corpsman again, or like he wants me to be.

Then he introduced me to this pretty college girl I think he’s dating, and she seemed nice. I used my truck to help them move this wreck of an old sailboat into a covered workspace near the harbor. She reminded me of Gomez a little bit, with her hair tied back in braids and covered with a red bandanna. While we maneuvered the sailboat into place, she offered me all kinds of advice about Lizzy. Said I ought to drop in on her just to clear the air. The lieutenant said the same thing. But I told them it would have to wait. Some other time. I had to get back down to Houma to see my dad.

I’m in my bedroom now, packing. It’s a haul up to Missouri to see Zahn, and there’s no coming back if I forget something, so I’m making sure I have everything I need for a long visit. My dad’s out in the hallway, right outside my door. I can feel him there, thinking about whether to knock. He’s pulling out all the air, just by standing there. The room is shrinking. I feel the door straining at the hinges, ready to break into a thousand splinters.

He walks away, and the floorboards talk about it as he passes.

He goes out to the porch, and as the screen door bounces shut, I feel the house tilt in his direction. This is a house full of gossiping ghosts and I’m fucking tired of it.

He walks out across the lawn, out to the shed to work on his tractor. It’s too cold for that nonsense, too late at night, and for some reason I finally have it in mind to tell him so. So I march outside. I’m halfway to the shed before I notice the trauma bag in my right hand.

I drop the bag, leave it where it is, and wander over to the oak tree to have a quiet sit. The lights are on in the shed, and I listen to my dad work. A little after midnight he comes out, wipes his hands on his pants, and starts toward the house. He stops when he sees me and squints to make sure. He waves, stiff and awkward, before walking up and standing over me with his hands on his hips and his dark eyebrows furrowed. He doesn’t say anything.

“Wanted to make sure you were okay,” I tell him after a minute.

“I’m fine, Les.” He sits down and puts his hand on my shoulder. He inhales deep and holds it, like he’s gonna say something. But he doesn’t. He just lets it out and sits there with me.

“He stayed on the ground for six hours, Dad,” I say after a while. “He laid there, and no one could get to him. They had to call in another team and use line charges to clear a lane twenty meters wide. Bombs everywhere.”