Justifying Jack (The Wounded Warriors Book 2) (2 page)

Steeling himself, Jack limped further into the room, wishing he had left his cane in the car, not wanting to look more broken than he already did. His awkward gait and the burning pain, which set his entire leg on fire, was more than enough to remind him of his dependency on the stupid thing. He sighed deeply, both in frustration and acceptance.

“There he is!” shouted a female voice, and the assembled congregation turned as one and greeted him home with a round of applause.

Jack plastered the most genuine smile he could muster on his face, but he still felt like a fake. He couldn't stifle his negative thoughts from chastening him.
What do they see when the look at me? Certainly not a hero! I didn't do anything heroic and I don't feel like I saved anyone either. All I gave to the cause was a pound of flesh because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I didn't give my life bravely the way Jorge did or to save another the way Radar did. I went. I fought. I got hurt. I came home. I'm not worthy of their kindness.
But he kept his smile in place and his bitter thoughts inside his head, where they wouldn't hurt anyone, save himself.

“Let's pray.” His father's booming voice cut through the din, and as one, the young mothers grabbed unruly children by the shoulders. Heads bowed. Eyes closed. The conversation died down to a few whispers, and Malcom Nelson intoned solemnly, “Dear Lord, we come before you today in thanksgiving for bringing my son, Jack, home safe from the war. Please heal his injuries and help him to adjust, making him a useful member of our loving community. Lord, we pray your protection for those who remain in harm's way all over the world. Please comfort those who have lost loved ones, heal the injured, and bring peace to those warring nations so no more of our people suffer. In Jesus' name, Amen.”

“Amen,” murmured the congregation in unison.

Without waiting for an invitation, the hungry diners made their way to two long tables set up at the front of the room. A grand display of steaming crock pots, bowls filled with an assortment of chips, and platters of cheese and fresh vegetables filled the room with tempting scents. Jack's stomach growled at the smell of some of his favorites. Five alarm chili. Spaghetti with meatballs. Enchiladas. But he made no move towards the table.
Let the families go first, before the hungry urchins start to riot.
He smiled as a mother ushered two excited children past him.
There's plenty there to feed an army.

Despite the expressions on the faces of the growing collection of mothers, herding their children into serving lines, the hungry kids continued to engage in loud discussions and silly antics. Though Jack recognized the weary annoyance the mothers exhibited, he couldn't bring himself to see the children as anything other than cute and funny.
If I had kids, I'd never let them get me down. I'd laugh all day long, thankful for the blessings they are.

The sound of little shoes pattering on the tile drew his attention away from the tableau of gluttony and towards a small girl with hair like coffee and medium brown skin, whose striking hazel eyes seemed to capture his. Something about the child seemed familiar, but he couldn't seem to identify what it was he recognized.
Is this Anita's daughter? What was her name again, Rosie? Wait. How old would she be now?

“Are you Jack?” she asked in a nervous, hesitant voice, and her little hands twisted in her orange skirt.

He nodded, not sure what to make of the little girl.
No, this can't be Rosie. I think Rosie is a little older than this little darling. This girl must be… what, five, maybe?

“Elena,” a female voice called, pronouncing the name with more than a hint of a Spanish accent, “I told you not to bother him!”

Elena? Could this be THAT Elena?

Jack raised his eyes to take in the approaching mother. The slender woman with shoulder length hair, light brown in color, looked to be in her early 20s. Her vibrant hazel eyes matched the little girl's and only the chubby cheeked toddler perched on her hip, giggling as he reached towards his sister, could call his attention from them.

“Marithé?” he asked, arrested by the sight of her delicately arched eyebrows, her smooth, light skin, her full, curving lips.
I never realized she was beautiful. Actually, I never thought about what she might look like. Wow…

She nodded, seemingly unable to speak. Without a word, Jack stepped forward, ignoring the protest in his thigh, and extended a hand in greeting. His eyes followed her as she set her son, Andres, on the floor and then touched her palm to his. The warmth of the touch seemed to electrify him, and she must have felt the sizzle too, if her stunned expression was any indication. He blinked in awe.

Suddenly, a sharp pain jolted him back to reality. Little Elena, impatient and no longer willing to wait for her friend's attention, had wrapped her arms around his bad leg. She hugged him tightly, looking up at him in earnest, a bright smile warming her angelic face. He gently peeled her off and knelt before her, ignoring the pain reminding him he was due for another dose of his Tramadol, and gave the little girl a proper hug.

“I'm so happy to meet you all,” he said, pleasing Elena and making her smile grow. Glancing over at Andres as he moved to offer a hug to Jack, imitating his older sister's actions, Jack filled with warmth like he'd never known before.

I'm home,
he realized at last, letting it sink in.
I'm finally, truly home.

Jack woke to the sizzle of frying eggs and the smell of bacon permeating the house. Gingerly opening his eyes, he could see his mother moving about the kitchen through the door of the little room he was occupying. He smiled, anticipating the meal.

Yawning, he stretched his body out along the single bed. He couldn't suppress the groan that escaped his lips when his hip popped and his damaged leg protested his careless movement. The acute pain which gripped him encouraged him to climb out of bed, address his personal needs, and dig out one of his pain pills. The rich scent of the dark roast coffee his mother had brewed only helped to encourage him in his endeavors.

“Good morning,” Jack greeted his mother groggily.

“Oh, good morning,” Shonda smiled in salutation. “I hope you're hungry. I made a big breakfast, just like when you were younger.”

“Mom, I appreciate it, but you didn't have to go to all that trouble just for me.”

“I told her that,” Malcolm croaked without looking up from his paper. “She didn't listen.”

Excitedly, Shonda added, “The bacon and hash browns are ready. Get your coffee and I will make your plate just as soon as your eggs are done.”

Jack shook his head indulgently.
Nice to see some things never change.
“Do we have cream?”

“Of course, dear,” Shonda replied, pointing to it on the table. “I've already set it out for you.”

“Never did get a taste for black coffee, did you?” Malcolm remarked with a smirk. Jack ignored his comment and sat in the chair beside his father, mixing his coffee with cream and sugar as his dad folded up his paper and sipped from his own mug. Shonda approached the table with two hot plates in hand, heaping with food. Sliding one in front of her husband, Malcolm offered her an appreciative grin, saying, “thank you.”

“Yes, thank you,” Jack remarked as his mother slid a similar plate in front of him. “It looks and smells great!”

“Of course, it does,” Malcolm boomed and Shonda rolled her dark eyes in mock irritation as she turned to make herself a plate. “Your mother made it.”

Jack sighed, saying nothing as he reached for the ketchup bottle his mother had placed in the center of the table. Patting on the bottle to cover his hash browns in the red sauce, his father tsked at him. Closing his eyes a second and trying to contain his building frustration, he heard his mother say, “Malcolm, please.”

“Please, what?” Malcolm ignored his wife's request. “He's ruining his meal by slathering it with that crap. I would have thought he'd have developed a more sophisticated palette by now. Ketchup indeed.”

“Malcolm, it's the way he likes to eat it,” she protested, trying to reduce the tensions, regarding her husband with stressed eyes. Turning to her son with an embarrassed expression, she apologized by saying, “you eat it the way you like, honey.”

“Don't tell the boy that, Shonda,” Malcolm bolstered. “Your cooking doesn't need all that crap distracting from it.”

“Dad, I'm not a boy,” Jack snapped. “I'm a man. I've been a man for a long time now.”

“If you're such a man, why are you living with your parents again?” Malcolm scowled. “Huh? What are your plans now,
man
?”

“Malcolm! Enough!” Shonda shot to her feet. “He's just gotten home!”

“No, Mom, it's okay,” Jack rose and placed his hand softly on his mother's shoulder. She gave him a pleading look, worry rolling off of her in tangible waves. “Really, it's fine.” Jack waited for his mother to relax and take her seat again before he turned to address his father, whose indignation was etched in his impatience.

“Why is it your mother always seems out of sorts whenever you're around, huh?” Malcolm growled. “We never say a word in anger unless you're involved.”

“Look, Dad,” Jack tried to stay calm, drawing on his military leadership training for control, “I don't want to fight. I've had enough fighting to last a life time, and I'm not moving in here.”

“What
are
you doing, Jack?” Malcolm couldn't hide his surprise from showing, but Jack wasn't sure if his dad was surprised to hear he wasn't moving in or at Jack's audacity in confronting him.

“As I explained to Mom, I only plan to be here until I can get a place of my own. I'm meeting with a local VA rep about my disability compensation and I'm looking for a job. As soon as I have some sort of income in place, I'll get a place of my own.”

“So, you do plan to work?” Malcolm asked.

“Don't sound so surprised, Dad,” Jack scoffed.
Wow, what does he take me for? Does he really think so little of me?
“It's nice to know you think I'm so lazy. Thanks.”

This time it was Malcolm's turn to flush and his cheeks burned with shame. “Son, that's not what I meant.”

“What did you mean then?”
That nothing I do has or ever will be good enough for you and now that I'm less than a man, you've simply given up on me, expecting me to do the same?
He tried to keep the resentment from bubbling up inside of him, but he failed.

“All I meant was I've seen a lot of people succumb to their challenges in life. You're stronger than yours and I… well, I just wanted to be sure you knew that.”

“I knew you didn't mean to be so harsh,” Shonda's loving expression almost made him gag.

He doesn't deserve you, Mom
, Jack thought, but all he said audibly was, “I know. I appreciate your concern, but I'm capable of taking care of myself.”

“Well,” Malcolm took on a slight air of smugness. “In case you're not, I thought I'd mention there's a position opening up at the church. It's only part-time, but it's a start.”

“Oh, right, the groundskeeper is moving back to Mexico to care for his ailing, elderly mother,” Shonda gushed, holding her hands to her heart to indicate how touched she was by Alejandro's gesture of love.

“Groundskeeper,” Jack repeated cautiously. “What does the position entail? You know I can't perform a lot of the physical jobs I used to be able to do.”

“Well, most of the time you'll be able to spend in the office, coordinating with different vendors and scheduling events, soliciting volunteers for various projects,” his mother chimed happily.

“You might have to do a few small maintenance jobs here and there,” his father announced. “But even you can sit on a chair and paint or screw something in, right?”

“I'm sure I can,” Jack replied tersely. “I'm not dead, just limited.”

“This job will be perfect for you with your leadership training,” Shonda reassured him, ignoring the slight hostility in the air.

“Of course, we'll have to let the board vote,” Malcolm reminded him. “We can't just extend the job to you simply because you're our son. Everyone has to agree to offer you the position.

“I never expected you or anyone else to hand me anything,” he answered. “Just tell me what I need to do to apply.”

* * *

Climbing into the passenger seat of his mother's car, Jack wondered how wise it was to apply for the groundkeeper position.
Do I really want to work with my father? It's bad enough I'm living with him, no matter how temporary the situation is.
Jack sighed, relieved to be at the church with his mother.
At least I don't have to spend his day off with Dad.

“Are you okay?” Shonda eyed her son suspiciously. “You seem rather pensive.”

“Oh, yeah, I'm good. I was just thinking,” he replied.
Though, I don't want to tell you about what. I mean, I don't want to offend you.

And the dreaded question came anyway. “About what, dear?”

He sighed and flubbed his answer a bit to spare his mother's feelings. “Well, I was thinking I might need to get another car now that I'm home again.”
I was so glad to have sold my little S-10 pickup when I got my orders to go overseas, but now it kind of sucks not having my own wheels.

“Oh.” His mother contemplated his answer. “Do you have the money for a new car?”

“Mom, I'm not broke,” he reminded her. “I just can't sign a lease until I have a stable income again.”
The question you should be asking is can I still drive? With my injury being on my right leg, I just can't be sure anymore. I wonder if I'll have to get hand controls put into the car or if I ought to just take a cab to get around…

“Well, if you need it, you can always borrow one of our cars until you find something nice,” his mother offered, thoughtful and generous as always.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said with sincere gratitude.

“Say, I need to head out or I'll be late. Do you mind locking up?” she asked.

“Yeah, go, go!” Jack waved her off nonchalantly. “I'm slower than I used to be, but I'll make sure the car is secure. I'll come find you at the office when I get in.”

“Thanks, honey,” his mother beamed brightly, leaning in to kiss his forehead before she climbed out of the car and trudged into the building, lugging her heavy purse with her.

The morning was dismal. Dark clouds converged over San Antonio, shrouding the city in a damp and chilly rain.
This kind of weather always makes me feel like shit
, Jack thought as he slowly exited his mother's car. He clutched his jacket tighter around the bulky muscles of his chest and arms.
It's worse now that I have this gimpy leg.

As if in complaint for the slanderous comment, his leg ached fiercely, radiating a throbbing burn through his unhealed limb. The weakened and traumatized muscles were tight on a good day, but they screamed with tension in the cold moisture which dominated the atmosphere. Gritting his teeth, he forced his recalcitrant leg into action and limped painfully through the drizzle into the foyer of the church.

Typical,
he thought as the door swung shut behind him. Heat belched from the radiators, assaulting him with such force he waited to see if steam would rise from his garments, like a sauna.
It's freaking Texas. There really don't need to be heaters.
Shaking his head in hopes of ridding himself from his pain and weather induced grump, he hobbled toward the stairs. Though he despised his cane, wishing he didn't need the wretched implement, he knew there was no avoiding it.

Though he could maneuver well enough in small quarters without it, he could barely walk without it on a day like this.
Good thing it's Thursday. Wednesday nights are busy enough, but with last night's festivities, there shouldn't be anyone around but Mom.
He wrestled his bum leg down the hallway, swearing under his breath, convinced God would forgive him, even if the parishioners wouldn't.
Thank you God for not zapping my sinful ass right out of the church,
he thought, ending up in the office, not really paying attention to his surroundings.

“Mom, I…” He stopped dead. Instead of his mother, a beautiful Hispanic woman looked up from the desk, meeting his eyes with a captivating hazel stare. For one moment, awareness sparked between them, and then, as though a blind had been pulled, Marithé cut off the intimacy. Her eyes returned to the impersonal pleasantness she'd shown when he had entered.

“Mr. Nelson,” she began, and the sound of his name spoken in her warm and sweetly accented voice had such an impact on him, he had to tug his jacket a little lower around his hips.
Glad I didn't take it off.

“Mar… Mrs. Dominguez.”
She wants formality? I guess it's her call.
Ignoring his pang of disappointment, he returned to the business at hand. “I'm here to turn in my application for the groundskeeper position.”

She nodded with a bland smile and held out her hand. “I'll be sure it gets turned in to… the associate pastor. He's, ah… he's in charge of the interviewing.”
Dad? Of course, he's in charge of the interviewing.

He placed the sheaf of papers in her palm, admiring the long, slender fingers and the thick gold wedding ring she still wore. He lifted his eyes to hers and quirked one eyebrow.

“I'll always wear it,” she said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “I'm a widow, not a divorcee. It's only right that I continue to wear the symbol of my vows to Jorge.”

“Someday, you might want to date again,” he said, taking a chance, “and that might be a bit off putting.”

Marithé shook her head. “I don't see myself doing that ever again. No, my life belongs to my children now.”

Jack felt a pain of sadness. “I… I don't mean to pry, but I honestly don't think Jorge would want you to -”

“Jorge was my soulmate,” Marithé stated firmly. “He was and always will be my one true love. Besides, he's the father of my children. Dating after being married to him seems… ridiculous.”

“You're pretty young to give up on men forever, don't you think?” Jack commented, trying to ignore the discouragement and sorrow her words caused to rise within him.
I wish a beautiful woman like Marithé could love me with that sort of passion.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “It's not a question of time. Who could compare to my Jorge, Mr. Nelson? Should I be so willing as to accept just anyone? I know what
real
love is and I won't accept anything less.”

Jack closed his mouth with a snap.
What are you doing, man? You barely know this woman. A handful of letters about her dead husband doesn't equal a relationship. And she's only been widowed a few months. Of course, she's not going to be interested now. And with your… problems, you wouldn't even be a consideration.
“Of course not, I'm sorry. And you're right, you shouldn't settle for anything less. Please forgive me if I came across wrong, Mrs. Dominguez. It's the weather. It brings out the ass in me.”

She turned up the corners of her mouth, amused by his flagrant use of profanity in the church, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. She turned to regard the gray, drizzly day outside the window. “I can understand that,” her soft voice was like music to his ears, sweet and inviting. “It's certainly 'warm blanket and old movie' weather.”

He raised one eyebrow. “You do that too?” She turned, regarding him with surprise as he asked, “What's your favorite classic?”

She met his eyes and this time the sparkle had returned to their hazel depths. “
The Wizard of Oz
. You?”