The Right Kind of Wrong (13 page)

"What exactly is hash?" Vince croaks.

I hold up a bowl of raw meat and potatoes and shove it into his hands. "Dog food," I say with a straight face.

Vince looks in the bowl. His face is pure disgust and it's delightful. I get so much pleasure from his discomfort.

"Vince, I'm kidding. It's ground up hamburger and potatoes. Pair it with a couple eggs and you have a cheap meal that is wonderful. Grandma used to make it all the time."
 

He doesn't look convinced.

I set the table and take the opportunity to probe my grandmother.

"Grandma?"
 

"Hmm?"
 

"Did Grandpa have any siblings?" I'm not sure how to even approach the subject of my grandfather's potential-but-not-likely twin.

"He had two sisters and an older brother. "

"I forgot all their names."

"Well, there was Johnny, Martha, Lila and—" She stops herself. "—that's it."
 

The hesitation in her voice isn't lost on me. "Did you know Grandpa kept a journal?"

There's a beat of silence. "No, I didn't know that. Where was that at?"

"It was in a one of the wooden boxes he made with a bunch of other stuff. We found his uniform too, but we left that upstairs because it smells terrible."

I watch my grandmother carefully, her movements are rigid and cautious. She laughs but it's jagged and unlike her. "Oh, he was so particular about those things. Never would let me wash that smelly uniform. I tried to help him organize that box once, but he just shook me off." She changes the subject quickly. "Anyway, your father called while you were upstairs, I told him I didn't know where you ran off to. He's traveling in South Dakota this week but, he said he'd like to hear from you."

I grunt. "What he wants, and what he's getting are going to be two different things. He should know that by now."

My grandmother looks like she wants to say something, but we've had this same conversation so many times, she knows it's not worth it. Under normal circumstances, she'd try to weasel out my feelings and shit, but she refrains since Vince is here.
 

"So, how's the project coming together?" Grandma sets a plate in front of Vince.
 

"Slow.” I answer. “It's harder than I thought it would be. Especially without Grandpa here."

Vince shoves a spoonful of hash in his mouth. "Boring so far."

I roll my eyes. "Vince isn't used to such boring topics like World War II veterans and survivors. He's used to meth heads blowing up their houses to hide the evidence of their lab. Small potatoes, ya know?"
 

Grandma chuckles. "Well, I'm sure you'll find something interesting when you get more into your research."

"Maybe we have and just don't know it yet." Vince takes a swig of his sweet tea and I narrow my eyes at him, willing him to shut the hell up.
 

Grandma doesn't seem to notice.
 

"We could talk to some of the guys who knew Grandpa at the retirement home? I'm sure they have plenty of stories. Aren't there some veterans there?"
 

Grandma's smile is terse. "I don't know, dear. Some of those men aren't as kind as others. There are a lot of things about the way your grandfather grew up that you don't know. I don't want you to be disappointed if someone has nothing good to say about Wesley."

I raise my eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
 

"Well, your great-grandfather, James, wasn't a nice man. He was smart as a whip and his business skills made him successful, but he didn't accomplish things the way most people did. He was cunning and sneaky. Being James' son, Wesley got the backlash for carrying his name, though he was nothing like James."

Vince pushes his plate forward—it has been wiped completely clean— and clears his throat. "Makes sense. I bet some of them were pissed off that he lived while other people died. Did Wesley have PTSD or survivor's guilt?"

I cringe. Vince isn't aware of the no-airing-your-dirty-laundry rule.

Grandma's face turns beet red. "Good Lord, no. Wesley was just fine. I never understood when people would talk about those diseases. I, for one, don't think they exist."

Vince and I share unconvinced expressions. I'm pretty sure that my grandfather
did
come back with some form of PTSD. His freaking tank blew up for Christ's sake. That has to do something to a person.

The silence between the three of us is awkward. My grandmother seems preoccupied with her thoughts. She makes a move to pick up Vince's plate but I stop her.
 

"I got it. You shouldn't have been slaving over the oven for us anyway." I carry our plates to the sink and drop them in scalding water. I hear her shuffle toward the living room and turn on the T.V. extra loud. Apparently, you lose all hearing when you're old.
 

When I was growing up, I stood in this exact spot, telling myself I'd never buy a house without a dishwasher. I'd never wash a damn dish again! But now that I'm back, the soap suds cling to my hands like silk and I look out the window at the setting sun. It's like I never left. Part of me wishes I hadn't, but then I remember what my life would have looked like if I'd stayed.

 
I'd probably be in this exact spot by a sink, somewhere in a nice house with a dainty ring on my left hand. Barefoot and pregnant.

I shudder, not because it's a terrible image, but because it's not who I am. It's not what I want.

"Whatcha doing?" I jump at Vince’s whisper near my ear. He barely shifts away and when I turn, we're so close his lips almost touch mine.
 

"What does it look like I'm doing?" I say, breathless.
 

"Need some help?"
 

"No, I got it. Can you take that box upstairs? I'll come up when I'm done." He's still uncomfortably close to my face. His smile widens.

"Sure." He moves and the excess air in my lungs deflates. He picks the box up and turns around. "By the way, you may or may not look adorable all sudsy and shit."
 

I don't realize what he says at first and then it clicks. My face is as hot as the dishwater. I can't tell if he's being facetious or honest. I zone in on his smirk and I'm tongue-tied.
 

Except, I don't get tongue-tied.
 

I muster a, "whatever," but the corners of my mouth lift against my will.

I place the last dry plate in the cupboard with the rest of them. Faint snoring drifts into the kitchen. Guess Grandma didn't make it to the bedroom. I stand in the living room entrance. She cradles the remote in one hand and a picture of Grandpa in the other. My eyes well but I pull myself together and race up the stairs to Vince's room but I stop when I hear he's talking to someone. I lean against the door. His voice is animated and I catch a few words here and there.
 

"I can't wait... It's going to be amazing. Talk to you soon... Bye."

The curiosity tugs at me in the oh-so-familiar part of my brain. The part that usually get's me in the most trouble. The angel on my right shoulder flicks me in the head.
Kara, it's none of your business.
The devil on my left flicks me harder.
You're an investigative journalist for Christ's sake, of course it's your business. Everything's your business.
I don't have to listen to them duel because the door opens wide with my head still leaning against it.
 

"Ah!" My body falls into Vince's. I scramble away and stand up. His surprise matches mine but he puts two and two together and his eyes darken.

"What were you doing?"

"I was coming to see if you wanted to go through the box. But you were on the phone and didn't want to interrupt." I say this with confidence though I waiver between embarrassed and curious. Not to mention that my entire body was just on top of Vince's.

"So you decided to eavesdrop instead of knocking?"

"Not eavesdropping. Artfully overhearing."
 

"It's the same thing."

"Whatever. Are you going to help me or not?"

He nods and steps out the room. "You could ask who I was talking to."

"But I don't care."

Lies. I do care.
 

He leans close. So close, I back into the door. His mouth is near my ear.

"I'm not Kyle. I know a good thing when I see it."

He tosses me his phone. He left the screen on the last call conversation.
 

Chris Sanchez's name and number are loud and proud on the screen. I hang my head in shame.

Way to fuck it up again, Kara. One of the downfalls of being a reporter is constantly crossing the line between curiosity and nosiness. You forget the meaning of privacy..
 

"So, where do you want to start?" Vince startles me by asking.
 

"The journal."
 

I sift through the container until I find my grandfather's wooden box. I grab the journal. Vince lies down on the bed, the pictures in his hand. I plop next to him. We're so close, the heat of his skin shocks me. I cast him a furtive glance. He's looking at the pictures but I know he's aware of our proximity. His cheeks are several shades pinker than normal.

 
I'd guess he's actually enjoying it—which puts a small smile on my face. It's not like I care how Vince feels about me. He certainly doesn't care how I feel about him.

"Ready for this?"
 

"Sure."

The brittle edges of the journal crackle when I open it to the first page. The ink is light gray against the yellowing page. It's hard to read.
 

"Just start at the beginning, and we'll see how far we get."
 

I move the journal between us and read,
 

“April 25th, 1943

I've left my home behind. I couldn't bear to look back at Elaine after she began to cry. She begged me last night not to go and as much as I love that woman, I fear my country needs me more. I trust that Charlie will take good care of Elaine while I'm gone. He's promised to be the man of the house while I'm away. I told him not to get any ideas about passing himself off as me like we did when we were younger. I don't know what is ahead for me but I trust the lord will help me through it. First stop—Texas. They say it's hotter than hell there. I'm missing my Iowa summers already.
 

I run my finger across the date and the image of a young Wesley Pierce comes to life. I imagine he wrote this on the way to Texas, his body pressed up against some other soldier desperate to help his country. I begin the next entry.
 

May 5th, 1943

It has only been 10 days and I already wish I was back home, wrapping my arms around Elaine. Everyone talks funny down here, all their words drawled out. I sure hope we get better food soon. The disgusting pork loaf makes me crave Elaine's roast with potatoes, carrots and onions grown in our garden. My mouth is watering now. They are calling us out of the bunks, I will try to update later.
 

"I didn't know your grandfather went to Texas for training?" Vince digs in the container. "Look at this," Vince points to a picture of my grandfather after he returned from war. He's adorned in medals and ribbons. "See that arrowhead patch?"

"Yeah."

"I think your grandfather was in the 36th Infantry."

"How do you know that?"

"I just read about it in one of the books we got from the library. You know what that means?"

I arch my eyebrows.

"It means your grandfather was a fucking badass. He was one of the first to shoot up the Nazi's and shit."

My heart swells with pride and I wish I had talked to my grandfather when I had the chance.

"I'm going to keep reading.
May 17th, 1943

I know I haven't been as thorough as I said I would be but we've been in training 12 hours a day. I hope to hell these things don't blow while I'm inside.
 

July 21st 1943

I hate it here. I shouldn't hate it—the sea is the color of Virginia bluebells and it reminds me of Elaine. Lord, everything reminds me of that woman. I wonder what she's doing right now? Doing the washing, maybe. Fixing to make a meal, probably. Thinking about her calms me after a night of standing guard in this barren landscape. Soon, we will move through to Germany."
 

"Can you tell where he is by that description? And Virginia Bluebells? Could he be anymore vague?" I wonder aloud.
 

"I'm not sure he could talk about where he was. They monitored the letters home, but I don't know about journals."
 

It irritates me how much Vince knows about all of this. I want to be the one giving answers.
 

Vince smiles as he takes his cell phone out of his pocket. He scrolls and starts laughing. "I love Google. You can find anything."

"Um, okay?"
 

"Sicily. Your grandfather was in Sicily in that last entry. All I did was cross-reference the date of his entry with his infantry. It popped right up."

"Are there supporting data to back that up?"

"Well no, but—"

"Until you find empirical evidence to back up your claim it's not valid."

Vince snorts and tugs the journal from my hands. "Jesus, no wonder you're going to get the best stories. You won't stop irritating people until you get what you want."

 
"Just keep going," I growl.
 

“September 12th 1943

I've not written since I was in Sicily, but we have been busy. We saw our first action with the Germans the other day. We prevailed. I am sure now that America is the best country in the world, and I will fight to my death for it. Elaine says things back home are fine, but quiet. Most of the good men have enlisted."

After Vince reads the last sentence, his lips curl into a smug smile. "See, I told you he was in Sicily," he says before he reads the next entry.