Meet Me Here (13 page)

Ray and Phil both laugh, slap the table. “The worst,” Ray says.

As he says it, Jake puts his head down, and for a second I’m worried he’s going to fade out. That he’ll ruin this, too. But when he looks up, he’s laughing. “So anyway, we come up on this pool in the back of an old hotel. And it’s perfect. The water all clear and bright. In the middle of this shithole, this pool.”

“He didn’t,” Phil says.

Jake nods enthusiastically. “My buddy Donnelson is whispering in his ear the whole time. Telling him how good that pool would feel. How it’s not against regs for him. Especially now. All the fighting was done, we thought.”

Phil downs his ’shine, motioning for Jake to continue as he pours another shot.

“Next thing you know, the reporter is stripping off his suit, dropping everything in the dirt,” Jake says, laughing. “And he just goes running. Sprinting toward that pool. I’m still surprised he didn’t yell out, ‘Cannonball!’ Everybody on the team was yelling like crazy.”

Ray and Phil are both shaking their heads, and Jake is laughing even harder, all of them tied to something I can’t know. On its face I understand the story. I understand why
it’s funny and ridiculous that this reporter would drop all his gear and get in a pool during the middle of a war. I get that. But there’s something behind the laughter, something that none of them can, or probably would, explain to an outsider.

For a second I want it again. I want this brotherhood, this ability to look another man in the eye and know that you have a shared experience. A connection that no matter what else you do in the world, how many times you fail or fuck up, you’ll be able to measure yourself against. Something you’ve given your entire life for. A purpose. A meaning that’s greater than nearly everything else in your life.

“I swear to God,” Phil says. “If that happened in my corps, I’d kill the dumbass.”

“Let’s just say it was the last time the reporter went on patrol,” Jake says. They all laugh, and Phil pours another round of shots. Wayne downs his; so does Sinclair. I lift mine to my lips but don’t drink. I’m still reeling from the first ill-advised drink.

“You’re the kid from the paper,” Ray says, stopping every conversation in the restaurant. Or at least it feels that way to me. My chest tightens, and I’m afraid to move. To speak. I almost down the liquor until Jake nods.

“Yep.”

“This is that kid they’re naming the bridge after,” Ray tells Phil. “Remember?”

“Holy hell,” Phil says, standing up and saluting. There isn’t a more earnest or genuine gesture I’ve ever seen. When he sits back down, he says, “They don’t name a goddamn bridge after just anyone. Hell, no.”

I search Phil’s face for a hint of sarcasm, but there isn’t a trace of it. Even wobbling, Phil is like my dad in his sincerity when it comes to honor and respect. When it comes to having a bridge named after you. Maybe it’s the liquor, but I laugh.

Phil glares at me, like I slapped the waitress. I apologize immediately. “I’m not used to this stuff,” I say, pointing at his jar. He doesn’t lift his stare, his dark brown eyes serious.

“It’s fine,” Jake says. “Like I said, he’s shipping tomorrow morning.”

Phil’s still staring at me when Ray asks: “Marines or real military?”

“Boy, you’re pushing buttons,” Phil says, reaching over and pretending to put Ray in a headlock. “By the look of him, I’d say that’s a soldier all day long.”

I’m not sure how to take that—compliment or slight—so
I don’t say anything, and they both laugh. “He’s messing with you,” Ray says. “So, Fort Jackson or Fort Benning?”

“Jackson, sir,” I say. The
sir
to impress them. The lie, a jab to my ribs.

“Lord, this kid’s so green he’s growing roots,” Phil says.

“He’ll do all right,” Ray says, winking.

The waitress brings a pot of coffee, then dumps and fills the mugs scattered across the table. Phil tries to object, but she holds up a hand and says, “I’m not hearing it. Drink the damn coffee, Phil.”

“How come you don’t have a boyfriend?” Phil asks the waitress.

“Because all the men I meet are drinking ’shine at the Waffle House,” Doreen counters. Phil holds his hands out to us like: What can you do?

“I’ll quit drinking, quit running around,” he says. “No more fun, just for you.”

Doreen laughs, head back. “Wonderful. Let’s run away together right now. I’m sure you’re going to take care of my three boys, too.”

They share a smile as she fills up his cup. “I’m too old and tired anyway,” Phil says. Then he points to Jake. “But what about the young buck here?”

Doreen gives Jake a once-over, then glances at me. “I forgot to add: boys fighting in the parking lot. Another immediate turnoff.”

“Blowing off some steam, that’s all.” Phil downs his coffee, and she fills it up. Doreen laughs, this time more to herself. She looks at Jake one last time and says, “I’ve got work to do, but y’all have fun.”

When she leaves the table, Phil watches—not creepy, but like a proud father—and then turns to Jake and me and says, “Well, she does have a point. You two fighting and carrying on in the parking lot is about as stupid as it gets.”

My words are knee-jerk and familiar. “It’s nothing. We were only messing around.”

“Shit, boy. You think I’m stupid?” Phil turns to Ray. “He thinks we’re stupid.”

“I’ve seen messing around,” Ray says, pointing at Jake. “That wasn’t messing around when you grabbed that backpack. That punch was real.”

I stare at Jake, who isn’t reacting to any of this. I wait for him to respond, to give any kind of defense. But he just sits there, like always, letting me do all the answering. All the work.

“Just brother stuff,” I say, touching my eye.

Phil considers me for a long time before he says, “Uh-huh.”

We’re standing in a half circle around the back of Wayne’s truck in the parking lot, talking. Wayne and Sinclair aren’t saying much; it’s mostly Ray and Phil alternating jokes with advice for my first day in basic.

“In my day you had something to worry about,” Phil says. “But now, hell. They about hold your hand and help you wipe your ass. And they wonder why people are trying to push us around.”

I’m supposed to tell them I’m not scared, but I don’t think they’d hear me. Phil’s slam on the army has Jake and Ray on fire, calling him an old man and laughing at his threats. Jake looks comfortable. These men bring something out of him, a vitality I’ve wanted to believe was still inside him. I soak in the normalcy, if only for a minute.

“Damn, you look like the world’s ending,” Ray says to me. “You okay?”

“He’s going to be fine,” Jake says, without the smallest glance in my direction. “He’s almost ready.”

“You got, what? Two? Three hours? Ray looks at his
watch. “You probably need to get home and get some sleep, brother.”

“What he needs to do is go get his damn truck,” Sinclair says. Wayne hits him. “What? It’s just sitting out there. A man doesn’t leave his truck behind.”

“What’s that mean?” Phil asks. “Where’s your truck?”

“Stuck in some Sherrills Ford trailer park,” Sinclair says, before I can make up an answer. I don’t want them to know the hows and the whys of our being there.

Phil turns to me, his eyes on me like spotlights, the way my dad looks at me when he wants an answer. But unlike my dad, whose eyes are always filled with accusations and limits, Phil’s are gentle but wild. As if he knows something. Even when Sinclair tells the story, Phil only nods. When he gets to how they cut the tires, it’s Ray who turns to me.

“They cut your tires? Why?”

I hesitate. “I don’t know.”

“And what did you guys do?” Phil asks, looking at Jake.

When Jake doesn’t answer, every bit of life draining from him once again, I speak.

“He pulled a knife on us,” I say. “We couldn’t do anything.”

They don’t ask why we were there, but I can tell Phil
wants to know. He looks from me to Jake and then finally back to Ray, who nods.

“Let’s get that truck back,” Ray says to him. They slap hands and then the tailgate of Wayne’s truck, making plans and building up steam, as Jake continues to fade away.

“We don’t have any tires,” I say.

“I can get you tires,” Ray says dismissively.

“It’s five in the morning,” I say.

“His dad owns Ray’s Tire downtown,” Phil tells me. “Next to the Chinese buffet?”

And then it hits me: I know who Ray is. His picture is on every wall of that place, and when I was growing up, whenever Dad needed to get the tires rotated or replaced, he and Ray senior would talk and boast. I wanted my dad to talk me up the way Ray senior would. I’d stare at those pictures of Ray, young and serious, and just wish. The Ray in front of me rubbing his eyes is a ghost of the kid on that wall. But back then he looked like he could walk through a building.

“I mean, you’ll have to pay for them eventually,” Ray says, pulling a key out of his pocket. “But seeing as it’s an emergency, I’m sure we can get you rolling.”

Wayne steps forward, like he’s afraid to ruin the good times. “They’re not telling you the whole story. These guys are—” I shoot him a look, shake my head. He sighs. “They’re not good dudes.”

“Well, they sound like a bunch of fuckups to me,” Phil says, turning to Ray. “Go get the truck. We’re doing this.”

Wayne turns to me. “I can get your truck tomorrow. They sleep half the day. I’ll go around ten and get it. I’ll bring it back to your house, and it will be there when you get back from basic. But man, you know we can’t go there.” He looks over at Jake, who’s fiddling with the straps on his damn backpack.

“As I live and breathe,” Phil says. “Is there a sack among you boys? This is what’s wrong with your generation. You’re off watching videos on the damn computer and not getting out there and kicking ass. Fuck that. We’re going.”

Wayne groans, but Sinclair, despite everything, actually looks excited. Phil turns to Jake and says, “What do you think? You ready to see how a marine handles his business?”

“I’m not going,” Jake says, flat. Still playing with the backpack.

“What do you mean you’re not going?” Phil asks.

“I’ve got something to do,” he says, glancing at me.

“Something to—this is your brother, man! Hell if you’re not going.” When Jake shakes his head again, Phil says, “A bunch of damn pansies, as I live and breathe.”

Jake’s leaning against Wayne’s truck like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. I don’t care if he comes, but I have no idea how to explain that to Phil and Ray. How to be indifferent to what should be an absolute. And I understand his not wanting to go back to Clem’s, especially with Phil. The questions would come. Why were we in a sketchy trailer park? Who are these guys? But I need my truck, and right or wrong, I’m not going to let covering for him ruin this, too.

“We don’t need him.” As I say it, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t look at it, just at Jake. He won’t meet my eyes.

“Hell, no, he’s coming,” Phil says. “We don’t leave men behind. Or trucks. I swear, where did you boys grow up? New York City?”

“I’ve got something to do,” Jake says again, and Phil looks ready to tear his head off. He takes a step toward Jake but stops and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he speaks slowly and calmly.

“If you’re anything like me, there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for your brothers, right?” Jake nods, but not as quickly as I expect him to. “This is your
brother,
but soon he’ll be one of your brothers, too. So peddle that bullshit somewhere else, boy.”

Jake gives me a long look before finally nodding.

Wayne follows Ray’s truck the mile and a half to his dad’s store. Sinclair is in the bed with Jake, both of them flanking opposite sides of the truck. Even if they were talking, we couldn’t hear. Wind whips through the windows, my hair. Nobody says a word. Wayne sighs deeply every few minutes.

When we get to the tire shop, Ray pulls up to a locked chain-link fence and hops out to open the gate. As we drive through, Wayne says, “Why are we doing this?”

“You know why,” I say.

“We got off light. You don’t realize that, but it’s the truth.”

“So I let them keep my truck? Fuck that.”

Wayne shakes his head as he stops the truck, just behind Ray. Phil is already out and staring at us as Jake and Sinclair jump out of the truck and start casually picking through the stacks of tires.

“They won’t keep the truck. They’re just talking shit.”

“What am I supposed to do? I need my truck.”

“You’re leaving in like three hours, you said. You don’t need it.”

I’ve already told Mallory; but this seems more difficult, and I don’t know why. The words stumble out of my mouth.

“I’m not going to the army.”

Confusion covers Wayne’s face. “What?”

“I’m not going anymore. And I need the truck so I can get out of here.”

Wayne blows air through his lips and opens the door, chuckling. I stop him and say, “Really.”

“C’mon now.”

“You saw Jake,” I say, nodding toward the group. When I do, Sinclair yells to hurry up. “I’m not letting that happen to me.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket again, but I’m too
exhausted to look. To be reminded that Mom and Dad are waiting for me. I fall back into the seat, close my eyes, and say, “So it’s got to be now.”

Wayne doesn’t say anything for a second. He spins his key chain around his finger, the soft
tink-tink-tink
the only sound in the truck. “Damn, son. That’s serious shit. Will they, like, arrest you or something?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Well, I don’t know. It’s not good, but what else can I do?”

“Does your dad know?”

I laugh. “No.”

“Jake?”

“Just you and Mallory,” I say. Sinclair calls out to us again, followed by Phil: how we’re being pansies or something. Wayne looks at them and sighs one last time.

“You owe me so bad,” he says. “You know that right?”

“Trust me. I know.”

Wayne hits the steering wheel once and pockets his keys. “Well, shit. Here we go, I guess.”

We hop out of the truck, and everybody’s standing in a circle. Ray asks what kind of truck I drive, and he tells us the tires we’ll need. It doesn’t take fifteen minutes to find four tires, each one more worn and bald than the last,
but they’re good enough to get me out of the state. We load them into the back of Ray’s truck as Phil goes around to the side of the shop and returns with a jack, some tire irons, and a power wrench, which Sinclair snatches up like it’s candy.

“Hell, yeah,” he says, torqueing it once.

“We don’t use that unless we have to,” Phil says. “Otherwise, we’re in and out, quick and silent. Any questions?”

Nobody says a word, and Phil claps his hands together once. “All right then. Let’s do this.”

We park fifty feet from the entrance of the trailer park and start walking, tools in our hands and the tires on our shoulders. Phil leads us down the driveway, stopping when a car tries to start in the distance. Then we move again: ragtag and hobbled.

I can barely keep up with them, and even Ray is moving faster than I am. When we get to the truck, my phone buzzes again, and Phil gives me a look that is impossible to misunderstand. I reach into my pocket and silence my phone as he whispers instructions.

“Jake, you and Ray take this side. I’ll take Sinclair and
do the other. Wayne, watch the house.” He points at my leg. “You stand there and try not to hurt yourself.”

Sinclair snorts, and Phil gives him the same look. “Okay, one, two,
go
.”

They try to remove the lug nuts, but every one of them is stuck. Sinclair puts all of his weight against the small tire iron and says, “Damn. What did you do to these things?”

Phil gives it a try; but nothing happens, and he comes up cussing. Ray tries another nut, grunts, and then quits. He stands up and stretches his back. “I didn’t think we’d need any WD-40, but these things are rusted like nobody’s business.” He shakes his head at my inability to care for the truck. “Can we call for a tow?”

Wayne gives it a go with the tire iron; but it bests him, and he sits down, breathing hard. “Might as well put a spotlight on us while you’re at it,” he says, throwing the iron into the dirt.

“We could pull it out,” Ray says. “Got any chains, Phil?”

He shakes his head, and Ray bites his bottom lip, thinking. Sinclair steps forward with the power drill. “I can get those tires off in less than a minute.”

Ray laughs, and Phil says, “Son, don’t let that hooch
get you thinking you’re Superman.”

“It’s too loud, Sin,” Wayne says.

“It won’t take but a second to do each wheel,” Sin says. “You know I can do it.”

Ray shakes his head. “I think we should stick with the irons. A lot less noise, and if you drop a nut, we’re never getting this truck out. At least not today.”

Sinclair looks offended. “I’ve never dropped a nut in my damn life,” he says, turning his cap backward, the NASCAR logo showing, and before any of us can stop him, he makes the drill sing. The first tire is off before any of us can stop him.

Phil looks at Ray, shocked. “Well, shit. C’mon then.”

The three of them work like machinery as Jake and I watch, but Sinclair is the star, moving around the truck like a ballerina, pulling wheel after wheel off and putting new ones back on. The drill is loud, too loud, but they’ve almost got the last tire on before Jerry Lee comes out of the trailer cussing. When he sees us, he jumps off the porch and yells, “Clem!”

Clem comes to the door, catching up to Jerry Lee. Phil taps Ray on the shoulder, and they walk to meet them. To my surprise, Jake joins them.

“Look at this,” Jerry Lee says, laughing and waving his knife for emphasis. “Soldier boy went and raided the goddamn nursing home.”

“How’d you like it if I took that knife and stuck it straight up your ass, boy?” Phil says.

“Perfect,” Wayne says as they all start yelling about who’s going to stick what, where. Wayne tries to stop me, but I walk toward them. “We just came for the truck,” I say.

“And I told you to stay away,” Jerry Lee says, pointing the knife at me.

“Raise that knife again,” Phil says, “and you’re not going to like how this ends, boy.”

“Call me boy again and let’s see,” Jerry Lee says.

Phil smiles. Jake speaks.

“We’re taking the truck,” he says. “There’s no problem unless you make one.”

Clem steps forward and says, “That’s where you’re wrong, Jake. The problem is all these people coming here. It’s the fact that the truck was
ever
here in the first place. So why don’t you go fuck yourself and let these fine people come along for the ride?”

Jake doesn’t respond; he’s staring at Clem like a dog at
the end of his chain. Ready to snap.

“We’re leaving,” I say, reaching out and tapping Jake on the arm.

When I turn to go for the truck, Clem takes a step toward me, only to be met by Phil, Ray, and Jake. He laughs to himself, shaking his head.

It happens quickly. Jerry Lee lunges forward, and Phil dances sideways. Before I know it, Jerry Lee is on the ground and Ray is struggling to restrain Clem. Phil twists Jerry Lee’s arm behind his back, all of it over in a matter of seconds.

“Get in that truck and get out of here,” Phil says to me.

“We’re not leaving you,” I say.

For the first time Wayne agrees with me. “Jerry Lee, why do you always have to start shit?”

“I’m going to beat your ass, you little—ah!” Phil jerks Jerry Lee’s arm up toward his shoulder blade.

“Don’t you worry about these cheesedicks,” Phil says, making Jerry Lee scream again. “And those tires are on me, okay? I’ll settle the finances with Ray tomorrow. You and your friends get out of here.”

I don’t move. A quick look at Phil, and you’d think nothing was different from earlier this evening. He’s
smiling. His face is soft, almost relaxed. But there’s something behind his eyes—a wildness—that I’ve seen too many times with Jake. It’s how he looked right before he punched me. How he looks whenever somebody spends too much time asking him about the war, about how he’s doing.

Before I can say anything, Clem breaks away from Ray and rushes Phil, knocking him over. As he goes down, Jerry Lee’s arm snaps. He’s screaming as Clem falls on top of Phil, punching him twice. Ray tries to get to Phil, but Jake is there in a flash. He pulls Clem off and holds him in the dirt, his forearm on Clem’s throat.

Wayne and Sinclair pull Phil off the ground. Once up, he pushes them away and tries to go for Clem before Wayne grabs him.

“Take him back to the truck,” Jake says, picking Jerry Lee’s knife off the ground. “I’ll take care of this.”

Nobody moves, but alarms are going off all over my body.

“Big mistake,” Clem says, and Jake pushes his forearm harder against his throat, choking away whatever else he’s trying to say.

Jake looks at me and says, “You, too. Get your truck out of here.”

“Jake, no.”

“Get in your truck, Thomas.”

The weird thing is, Jake looks more present right now than he has in months. Like he is in complete control of the fury that’s gripping his body. I’ve never been more scared of him.

“Just leave it,” I say. “Please.”

“You don’t understand,” he says, pushing harder against Clem’s throat as he holds his knife in his other hand. I say his name again, but he’s leaning close to Clem’s face, spitting as he talks. “You don’t stand for shit. You know that? You don’t stand for
shit
.”

“Whatever you say, tweaker,” Clem manages to say. “Good luck getting through the day after this.”

I imagine Jake in the bright county jail suit, standing before a judge. The newspaper articles painting him as the villain. A trial. Having to visit him at Central Prison. Everybody will say they didn’t see it coming.

“Bennett,” Phil says, “you don’t want to do this.”

“He’s a piece of shit.”

Phil laughs. “Well, that’s true. But taking care of a piece of shit ain’t the mission. We got the truck, and these little pissants know exactly what will happen if they come looking for more.”

Jake doesn’t move, and Phil reaches out and touches him on the shoulder, just barely. “It’s done.”

Jake nods first, then slowly lifts his arm from Clem’s throat. When he stands up, Clem doesn’t move. Phil steps over him and says, “I swear, God as my witness, if you come near any of these boys, I’ll break your goddamn neck. You understand me?”

Clem rubs his throat but doesn’t say anything at first. Jake still hasn’t dropped the knife. Phil carefully takes it and puts into his waistband, turning his attention away from Clem, who crab walks backward a good ten feet before he says anything.

“I’ll kill you fuckers,” Clem says, but it’s toothless. It bounces off Phil and Jake like a toy dart. And right then I finally get to see Jake the same way as everybody else. The way I always had before. The kind of guy who’d walk toward hell because that’s what’s right, that’s what’s expected.

He looks like a hero.

As we head to my truck, I expect Clem to stand up and chase us down. To do something. But all he does is lie in the dirt and yell.