While He Was Away (12 page)

Once David and I even shot paintballs at an Iraqi artist through his website. “Shoot the Kaffiyeh,” the website was called. It was anti-war, I know. But David and I didn’t talk about that. We just thought the site was interesting. Cool. At first. The artist was wearing one of those patterned, fringed scarves a lot of Muslim men wear—a kaffiyeh. He was sitting on a low couch in front of a coffee table in what looked like a simple little living room—other than the fact that everything, including the artist, was splattered with red paint, and there was a paintball gun mounted in one corner.

As we watched, the artist picked up a newspaper and started to read. The newspaper was printed in strange script. The artist took a drink from a glass of water. Then David clicked on something and,
wham
, fired a paintball. The paintball struck the edge of the newspaper, ripped the newspaper from the artist’s hands, and exploded in red against a wall.

“Holy crap,” David said. He laughed nervously. He said it was my turn. “Come on,” David said. “Just think about 9/11. Shoot him.”

The artist was bent over, collecting the messy shreds of newspaper when I took my shot. I aimed off to the side, but even when the paintball just burst bloodily against the floor, I practically hyperventilated.

“I don’t like this,” I said.

David stuttered around for a little bit—9/11 this, 9/11 that. Finally he said he didn’t really like this either. Not really. The guy reminded him too much of Ravi. David rolled his eyes then. “Total stereotyping, right? Seen one, you seen ’em all. God. I sound like my worst enemy.” We left that site then and went somewhere else where we shot droids, not humans.

“You kids learn a little history then, over at the high school?” Tom is asking. “You got something out of that class. What did you call it?”

“Current Events. I didn’t really like it, just took it for the credit.”

There’s a commercial on the TV now. A butterfly flits across the screen, advertising a sleep aid.
Check
with
your
doctor
for
possible
side
effects.

Caitlin points her straw at the door. “First customers. Or as
Linda
likes to say, ‘guests.’”

A family has entered Red Earth—four bickering kids, probably under the age of ten, and a mom and dad who look less than happy.

“Good luck.” Caitlin gnaws at her straw as she watches the kids barrel toward a table. “It’s a war out there.”

•••

Two hours later I’m hiding in a stall. The bathroom is the only place that’s halfway quiet. Red Earth is packed—every table full and a line at the door. Caitlin’s given up on her cold, hard cash. She and Linda have spent the night covering my butt.

I can’t do anything right. I mix up orders or forget them entirely. I spill drinks and tip plates. I don’t clear tables fast enough. I’m not working the register or the credit-card machine or making change correctly.

I suck at this.

Tips are next to nothing. Free meals by way of apology to disgruntled “guests” are one too many.

Caitlin and Tom made do okay the first hour or so, just giving Linda these looks like
What
were
you
thinking?
Then they started to let me know they were a little ticked. “First night and everything, but get a brain, kid,” Tom said, and somehow I think he’s not just talking about my service-with-a-smile skills; he’s also talking about my understanding of Current Events.

Isaac’s pissed too. He glowers across his gleaming stainless-steel
Order
up!
counter. He’s practically broken his little silver bell, slamming his palm down on it and trying to get someone’s attention so the food won’t go cold.

Minutes ago I splashed hot coffee on a man.
A
few
drops
. Linda overreacted, I think, maybe just a little. After she swaddled the man’s wrist in a bag of ice, she told me to “go to the bathroom and come out a different person.”

So here I am, perched on the closed toilet lid, breathing into my cupped hands. Trying not to cry. Trying not to think about the twisted Hummer, the bodies in the road, the soldier carrying the limp boy, and all the others with guns. Trying not to think about David—or at least the space all around me where he once was. Trying to become a different person.

Time passes. I know it’s passing. I’m just trying not to think how long it’s been since David’s been gone—how short it’s been since he’s been gone, really.
Remember?
I make myself think instead.
You’ve got the long, strong arms of love. You can hold on across continents and the oceans in between.

So this is war-love.

Justine
, I think.
Remember Justine
.

Remember her, maybe. Just don’t
become
her. I can almost hear Linda’s voice, saying this.

I wonder if Linda’s right.

I open the stall door. I step out, blinking against the harsher light.

Linda is bracing herself against the sink. Her face is flushed and damp with sweat. Her arms are covered with little red welts from the hot rims of plates.

“I can’t even believe you’ve been in here this long,” she says. “We’re practically dying out there, and you’re sitting in here.”

“You told me to,” I mutter. But then I glance at my watch. It’s been close to twenty minutes that I’ve been in here.

Linda must be too wiped out to yell. She speaks softly. She sounds discouraged, not mad. Disappointed.

“I want this for us this summer.” She plucks a paper towel from the dispenser, turns to the sink, runs cold water over the towel, swabs her face, and dabs at the welts on her arms. “We need this, you and me. And it’s not just about money or discipline, Penelope. We need to make something work
together
again.” She stuffs the paper towel into the overflowing garbage can, then snags another paper towel and holds it out to me. “Wipe your face, and get back out there.”

I’d say something if I knew what to say. But I’d be talking to a swinging door.

Already, Linda’s back out there.

My first official shift ends with a bang, not a whimper, at 10:45 p.m. when I drop an entire tub of dirty dishes on the kitchen floor.

Isaac stares at me like I’m a cockroach lurking in his daily special. Caitlin swears a blue streak under her breath. Linda says, “Go. Home. To. Bed.” her hands pressed to either side of her face. With her mouth open in horror, she reminds me of that famous painting
The
Scream
. But Linda doesn’t scream. Not right now at least. She just says,

“Tomorrow?” Caitlin, Isaac, and I groan in unison.

Linda plants her hands on her hips. “Oh, we’re not getting off that easy. We’ll make a waitress out of Penelope yet.”

Then Linda gets to work cleaning up my mess. I offer to help, but she practically shoves me toward the door.

“Take the VW,” she says. “Isaac, you’ll give me a ride home?”

“You bet,” Isaac says grimly. “If it’ll get her out of here.”

“Now, now. That’s my daughter you’re talking about,” Linda says, but she sounds grim herself.

As I flee, I hear Caitlin and Isaac laying odds on my failure. Caitlin gives me a week, tops. Isaac, three days. I’m nobody’s favorite except Linda’s, who says with hesitation that I’ll be fine. We’re cut of the same cloth.

I’m at the back door when I remember my bag. I go back inside to get it, skulking past Linda, Isaac, and Caitlin. I left it under the bar, I remember. I slink through the dining room and duck past Tom, who’s still busy eyeballing the TV. I grab my bag, then turn to leave again.

That’s when I see her, hanging where only Tom typically looks.

Justine.

In the photograph nailed there above the upside-down wineglasses, she stands at Red Earth’s bar beside a guy I think might be a much younger version of Tom. In his white T-shirt, he looks like a sweet greaser, giving my grandma a big, adoring grin. She is looking straight into the camera, forcing a tight, weary smile. Her hair has been whipped into a Jackie O. flip. Only Justine’s widow’s peak keeps it from being solid Jackie O. There are dark circles under Justine’s eyes. Her heart-shaped face is sunken now, and lines etch her mouth. She
is
Justine—I think I’d recognize her at any age, even eighty years old. But she
is
not
Justine too. At least she is not the same Justine that sits at the dressing table in my photograph at home. This Justine is miserable.

From the hairdo, the sheath-like style of Justine’s dress, and the swelling in her belly, I’d say this picture was taken in 1969, just before Linda was born.

“Tom?”

He turns from the TV. He frowns, seeing me. “I thought you were gone.”

“Almost.” I point at the photograph.

Tom flicks his eyes where I’m pointing. Then he fixes his gaze on the TV again.

“A real lady,” he says gruffly.

I clench my hands and wait for more. But Tom won’t look at me. From the set to his shoulders, I know not to push it.

I stumble off to the VW. I back out of the parking lot. I drive toward home, speed through the dark, cooling night. I try to remember how easily David drove his scooter, how it felt to hold on to him so tightly while he did.

Home, I park the VW in the garage.

Inside the house, I realize I haven’t eaten since mid-afternoon. I’m bleary and numb. Except for my feet. They’re like burning-hot bricks. I drag off my Doc Martens, collapse into a kitchen chair, and prop my feet on the table. Now what? Is it exhaustion or adrenaline or anger that’s making me vibrate?

Somehow I’m on my feet again. I stuff my face with dry cereal. Drink a large glass of orange juice, then another. Eat a few tablespoons of peanut butter swiped on a bruised banana. I try drawing a portrait of Tom, but all that comes out are two eagles that look like buzzards on Popeye-like arms.

I stagger to my bedroom and drop down at my desk. Open my laptop.

I catch my breath.

There’s an email.

Hey there, Penna.

I don’t have much time. I just want to give you this little look into my life, since you want to know. Get this. My bunk is really uncomfortable, you know? If I weren’t so beat from the heat today, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Even beat, it’s hard. But at least lying there I can look at your pictures. I’ve got this wall beside me, and I’ve covered every square inch with you. You’re the last person I see falling asleep, the first person I see waking up. You get more beautiful very day. You’re beauty, Penna. Just like I always said. Remember that, no matter what happens. I still believe that.

And there’s an attachment. A drawing.

There he is—sketched in black marker, a mix of fine point, medium weight, and broad stroke—my favorite superhero, David’s manga look-alike. He’s wearing camouflage and (as if he’s been talking to Ravi too) a billowing superhero cape. His hair is thick and curly again. He kneels over two little vines, just planted, it looks like, from the way little mounds of dirt are sketched up around them. Manga David is twining the vines around the bottom rungs of an old ladder, which is propped against the side of a tent.

David always helped Bonnie with the little garden she kept in their backyard. Tomatoes, cucumbers, green beans—it’s hard to tell from the drawing which vegetable these little vines are. But it looks like David is trying to bring a little bit of his backyard to Iraq.

I rattle off an email. I tell him I love his email and drawing. Draw more, I beg. I tell him about Red Earth. It’s not so terrible, I say, which I probably wouldn’t have said if I hadn’t seen David’s drawing. When someone you love plants vegetables in the middle of a war zone, how can you complain about your job? I tell him I can’t wait to hear his voice. I miss him. I love him. All that and more.

I press
Send
, and the email whooshes away into the great beyond.

I throw myself on the bed, then. I smell like the daily specials. I cover my nose with Plum Tumble and try to breathe through my mouth. I can’t stop thinking about David’s drawing. I feel guilty and hopeful and inspired all at the same time. I feel such love for him, a love that’s getting stronger because of all this, not weaker, the way I was afraid. There. I’ve said it. I was afraid of that—being weak—almost as much as I was afraid of David getting hurt, or worse. Almost. But in the middle of the night, at the darkest hour, this is what it’s coming down to inside me: love.

•••

I can’t sleep.

I get up and sit down at my desk again, open a new document, and start typing.