Dwelling (4 page)

In the photo stood five teenagers. Bobby stood in the middle, short and still pudgy. Jake stood on Bobby’s left, tall, thin, a little lanky, but with warm and kind eyes. Johnathan was on Bobby’s right, the most average looking boy Maggie had ever known. He had always looked at her shyly…
well, until Ricky and I started going steady. Then he started looking at Karen.
Ricky stood next her in the photo, though at the time the two cared for each other only as young friends could, any other thought or suggestion would have made them blush and the boys would probably ralph, or pretend to at least.

The boys. My boys. My Ricky.
Maggie remembered the photo. Karen had taken it during a summer trip to their grandparents.
That’s right; this picture was from that little town. Sleepy little place. Jotham…wasn’t it? Just a short bike ride north from Memaw’s and Papa’s place. We were all there…

Somehow, Maggie had been able to convince her parents to allow the boys, her best friends, to come along with the family. Karen was always around, somewhere, but she was too young, or too annoying more like, to join the club, the
Suicide Squad
.

“Why would I want to join your dumb club anyhow,” Maggie could still hear her sister saying just before storming off to rat her out to mom. Maggie also recalled the last time the gang was together in one place. Many, many years down the road from when this picture had been taken. And many terrible things had happened since then.

Just before Ricky deployed they had a backyard BBQ at their quaint housing in Hood. Bobby was back from deployment, for good apparently. She had heard Ricky whispering with Johnathan about it. Something had happened, but she couldn’t hear exactly what that something was. When she asked, the two changed the subject. Johnathan was in Ricky’s company, in the same platoon, and even in the same squad.
I was always thankful for that. They would keep each other safe…they were
supposed
to keep each other safe
.

Jake was there also. He seemed in high spirits. Jake was back on R&R.
Ricky had called him something, teasingly of course. What was it? A POG…? Whatever that meant
. Jake had always been real religious, but when he joined the Army instead of finishing seminary, his parents nearly had a heart attack. Jake wanted to serve, especially after 9/11. To ease his parent’s malcontent, Jake had signed up to be a chaplain’s assistant. This way he could still serve by serving the troops in a spiritual capacity without breaking any vows. They all had fun that night. Bobby was eerily quiet, but he drank and seem to open up a bit. There were lots of drinks—too many, perhaps. But they were together. And together is where they all felt the safest.

“Moxie, come on. Let’s go watch
Doctor Who
or something,” Maggie called again.

Moxie whimpered, but did not move, nor did her eyes fall from the photo she had been staring at. The dog shifted her weight. Eager. Alert. As if waiting for something to happen.
But what?

“What is it?” Maggie asked. Her eyes drifting to the photo Moxie was longing at. It was a headshot of Ricky back when he first enlisted, the ones they take during basic training.
God he looks so young in that picture. Scared and alone.
Maggie took the photograph in, every detail. His blue eyes. His recently shaved head. The scared look he so desperately tried to mask.
Trying to look tough
. His uniform looked two sizes too big. The voluminous red framed bottle cap glasses inched down his nose.
What did Ricky call ’em? Birth control! That’s right!
She smiled at the joke Ricky had shared with her after basic. She smiled at the memory of her husband.

Moxie began to growl.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Maggie.

Moxie continued to growl.

“What?”

Maggie returned to the picture. The room grew cold, frigid. She could see her breath in front of her. The door slammed closed behind her, extinguishing the light from the hallway. Shadows danced on the walls. The wood in the floor moaned. An unsettling feeling fell over her, as if there was someone—something—here struggling to make itself known or seen. Maggie felt as if she’d shrunk in an oversized room. The furniture seemed impossibly large.
Something’s…here
. She gazed at the photo.

The frame cracked.

She jumped.

Moxie began to bark.

CHAPTER 4

JOHNATHAN STEELE

Johnathan

Johnathan slept, as terrible and frightening as that sounds. He dreamed, and on most nights, he’d awake with no recollection of what dreams he had.
Thank God.
He’d drag himself from bed, hobble toward the bathroom with the use of his cane, urinate, shower, shave, pull on his sock and fasten his prosthetic leg, get dressed, eat breakfast, drink coffee, read his emails, and check on his
Twitter
feed, just like any other
red-blooded
American.

However, tonight was not one of those nights. Tonight, Johnathan awoke in a cold shiver. His skin crawled with goosebumps, all but for his stump, which burned hot white. He winced.

Tossing the covers, he rubbed at the twitching gnarled nerves throbbing and pulsing beneath the remains that had once been his leg. The memories came at him, too fast. He could taste sand in the back of his throat. In his mind’s eye he saw Humvees, trash, and dust covered shanties, and Ricky, smoldering black as coal and reeking of singed hair.

“Jesus!” he cried, tottered and then fell out of bed. He hit the floor with a loud thud. “
Shit
,” he moaned, holding to his residual limb. The skin was just starting to smooth over, the swollen yellow-red softening to a malleable fleshy color, reminding him of some awful watercolor painting.

“John? Honey? Are you okay?” called Karen from the other side of the bed. She sounded half asleep.

Am I?

“Johnathan?”

“Yes. Fine,” he said indifferently, rubbing the still throbbing nerves along the leg that once was. The taste of sand and ash clung stubbornly to the back of his throat.
You’re home, you idgit. You’re home. It was just a dream. You’re alive. He’s dead. Ricky’s still dead—ain’t that some wonderful fucking news.

“Do you need help, baby?” asked Karen leaning over the edge, her hair looked like a birds nest.

“No,” answered Johnathan shortly. He shifted his weight, held his breath, took a fist full of mattress, and then heaved himself back up on the bed. Winded, he slumped down on his still wet pillow, soaked with bad dreams, taking in deep languorous breaths of air.
There’s scotch in the cabinet…maybe a drink will help you sleep?

“Did you have a dream?” asked Karen. The tone of concern was hardly masked. She looked over at him with sad understanding eyes.

“Just a dream. Nothing more,” Johnathan huffed. Sweat beaded down his face. His shirt was matted to his skin. His hair stuck out like an aged punk band. He fought to regain control and closed his eyes. He couldn’t look at his wife.

“You want to talk about it?” she asked. Tenderly. Lovingly.

“Not really.”

“You sure? You can. If you want.”

“Yes, Karen, I’m sure.”

“Okay. I’m here if you want.” Karen adjusted her sheets.

Johnathan opened his eyes. His breathing finally under control, he looked at his wife. “I know—I know…” he paused, amazed at her beauty, her patience, her
amare
. “ I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to help, but seriously, it was just a dream. Nothing I can do about it,” he lied.

“Okay, hun.” Karen hesitated, her gaze prodding the pool of his faded hazels.

“Seriously, I’m okay,” Johnathan insisted.

“I love you,” said Karen sweetly, almost in a whisper.

“I love you too.” Johnathan smiled unconvincingly, but it must have been enough. Karen rolled back over and was quickly asleep once more. Johnathan flipped his own pillow over and nestled back down.

Why didn’t you just tell her, you idgit? Tell her it was about Ricky. She’d understand. He was family for crying out loud. Ricky was your best friend. Not to mention her sister’s husband. She’d understand the dreams. And the pain. She’d understand. So why didn’t you—

—You know why.

Eventually, you’re going to have to practice what you preach.

—Eventually.

For a moment, Johnathan thought of Ricky before pushing the face away. The handsome one in the group who married Maggie, another of Suicide Squad
. Suicide Squad. Haven’t thought of the club in years!
And here he was, a lifetime since then, thinking of his childhood friends. The boys joining the service, though Bobby and Jake had joined years before he and Ricky had, just after some jerkoffs decided to fly a couple of planes into the Twin Towers in New York.
Bobby? Where the hell has he been?

Johnathan vaguely remembered the last time he saw Bobby. He’d heard he was at Ricky’s funeral. Not that he would know for sure. Johnathan had been laid up in an Army hospital in Germany when they put Ricky in the ground. When he got home, he couldn’t face anyone. Just Karen and Tabitha. No one else. Not family. Not friends, not even childhood friends, and especially not the wife of the guy he was supposed to protect. He needed to be alone.

I hope he’s okay, wherever Bobby is, I hope he’s safe, the shit.

Why can’t we get together now? Am I ready? Can I face them? Not even Jake?

He thought of Jake. The tall lanky seminary student on his way at becoming a full-fledged minister. The respectable member of Suicide Squad. Well, before 9/11 changed all that.
That day changed a lot of things, I’d imagine.
Jake wanted to sign up. Infantry, or so he had said. But his parents had not been as thrilled with the idea of their only child rushing off into
some
war
. Despite the feverish patriotism of the day, the thought of losing their boy was unimaginable, or so Johnathan assumed of Jake’s parents. Jake said he promised to sign up as a Chaplain’s assistant. They reluctantly agreed.

And Mags…? How I can I face her? What if she hates me…? Hates me for ignoring her calls, for Ricky?

Johnathan could picture Maggie easily enough. The image he loved the best was of the Nirvana t-shirt wearing girl in a club of four boys…the girl he had a crush on for years, ever since third grade, back when they were still
just
kids.
Hard headed tomboy was kind enough not to break my heart. Strange world we live.
He looked over at Karen as she snored beneath the covers.
Ended up marrying her little sister! Who would have predicted that? Never gave her the time of day back then.

But it worked out for the best. Mags never liked me the way I liked her. I was just a kid then. What was love? Puppy-love more like. And Karen…she’s been my salvation in all this fucked up mess. And Tabitha, her sweet little girl, I’d do anything for her.

Despite his best efforts, his thoughts lead back to Ricky, like the stink of something rotting left in the trash, his face wouldn’t go away. Johnathan rolled over, facing away from Karen. He could feel hot tears itching behind his eyes. His stomach quivered. The grief flowed steadily, tickling down the side of his face.
Fucking Ricky. Why did you have to die? Why? You couldn’t have…done something, anything? You just sat there and waited for it? Selfish asshole. Now Mags is alone. Won’t talk with any of us for more than five minutes, not me, not even Karen. Hope you’re happy, dickhead
.
I hope you’re happy you son-of-a-bitch…God I miss you. I miss you, man. You were my brother. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please…just know that I’m sorry. It was my fault…God help me…

Johnathan cried as silently as he could, stuffing the fat of the pillow in his mouth. Eventually he fell asleep and dreamed, as terrible and frightening as that sounds, he dreamed.

CHAPTER 5

JAKE WILLIAMS

Jake

The moan of the mattress springs was a testament of the hotel’s age and typical clientele. Jake was surprised the damn thing hadn’t collapsed entirely from the ruckus they were making, he and…
what’s her name
? The box spring bed had no label to identify the country of its origin, not that it mattered any. The bed was not designed for sleeping. The pine headboard sounded a hollow thud against the wall, doing some rather impressive damage to the once white plaster, stained yellow with cigarette smoke, and the black trail of what Jake could only assume to be roach turds. A new crack appeared with another rhythmic thrust. And with each thrust, the girl—whatever her name was—some pretty thing, or at least
bar
pretty, the kind of pretty after a few bourbon and cokes, he found sitting all alone at this piss hole called
The Cockeyed Seagull
, moaned, allowing her legs to dangle over his shoulders, in erotic shrills from the pleasurable pain of drunken angry penetration.

He didn’t mind the noise. It sounded better and more honest than most chorus hymns of born again believers. Here, in the thrusting upward momentum, he found the battered truth in things. The world, according to Jake Williams, was so full of false pretenses and pomp an honest man could no longer see past his own lie.
Pleasure is unquestionably one of the purest and highest truths in human happiness
, he often lamented.

Feeling the climax rushing through him, Jake hardened his pace, ready to be finished. The girl dug her heels into his back spurring him on. Sweat came off him in tidal waves. Flesh slapped together as the mattress springs cried out. Jake glanced into her face. The woman from the bar was biting her lower lip; doing everything she could to mask her own breathless moans. He squeezed her breasts hard as he pushed deeper inside her. Her skin felt tight and hot. A subtle scream escaped her lips as he moved his hand and pinched the tip of one of her nipples. Her legs spasmed. She clinched harder around his cock.

Fuck. I’m going to cum.
Her thin arms flew to the side, fists full of linen sheet. Jake felt the warm inferno rush through him. He thrust inside her one last time in a quick meaningful exertion. His eyes went white, collapsing on top of her, skin coated slick and wet, and rolled to the side.

Out of breath, he fumbled for the pack of smokes on the nightstand. He found the Camels and puffed grey clouds in deep languorous whiffs. The taste was awful, albeit divinely phenomenal.

“Pass it over, preacher,” said the woman who refused to cover herself.

Jake had nearly forgotten she was there. He looked at her, searching her face for familiarity. “Do we know each other or something?” he asked, without any care of sounding like he was rude. His erection fell flaccid as he prayed silently she was not one of his parishioners.

“Not really,” said the strange woman. “I’ve been to your church, once or twice. You work at that Presbyterian church over near Clear Lake, right?” She reached across the bed and plucked the cigarette from his mouth.

Shit! Okay. It’s okay. Play it off.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was passive. Calm. A real cool guy.

“Sure you do. Saint Hubert’s, right?” the woman pressed. She smiled wirily, keeping the cigarette inches from her mouth between two fingers. One arm across her chest, the other bent upward holding the smoke, her eyes watching. She reminded Jake of the cat his parents used to own, the one who loved leaving dead mice on the back stoop.

Jake stood up leaving behind the squeaky springs and lit a new Camel. Taking a drag he searched with one eye open for his purple Hanes underwear. He did not respond to the woman; he couldn’t respond. He had tried to play it safe by going to some no name bar on the other side of town.
Should have driven further out.
What if she says something? Or does something during worship? What if the elders find out? Or worse, everyone else? I’ll be outta a job. Ruined reputation. The end.

And?

Do you really care?

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to ‘out’ you or anything, Padre.” The stranger remained on the bed, naked, exposed, watching Jake rush for his clothes. There was laughter behind her eyes. Yellow smoke hung in the air around her, giving the woman the appearance of some malevolent
djinn
let loose upon the world.

She gave me what I wanted. Now I’ll pay the price
. “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” retorted Jake, mocking annoyance, masking embarrassment.
Game over, bro—she knows, preacher man. She knows you. She’s been to your church. Probably sits on the front pew holding the red hymnal book beneath her cleavage. Do you think she’s heard one of your sermons on modesty? Do you think she takes the Eucharist? Has she tasted the Host from your hand?

Jake zipped his fly and looked at the naked woman on the bed, sweat still glimmering off her sultry thighs, searching desperately to place her.
I don’t know you!
Praying to God somehow she was just messing with him. She smiled back, flicking a mile high stack of ash into a motel foam cup. Jake blinked. The booze was wearing off and the woman was losing her appeal.
Not bad for a bar called
The Cockeyed Seagull.
She’s no Malin Akerman. No Mila Kunis or Bar Refaeli. Hell, she ain’t even a close second to Scarlett Johansson. But not bad for a weeknight in some piss hole. Not bad. Not bad at all. And she was a good distraction.

Yes, the stranger at the bar may have looked a little thinner with a few burning drinks down the hatch, but Jake had seen worse with sober eyes, and at the very least, she had filled the void of silence. For this failed and miserable preacher, to ask for anything more would be presumptuous.

Jake watched her in silence for a moment longer. He admired her sandy, near red hair that floated around her bare shoulders. Her skin, despite the sweat, looked tender with a few small pimples around her inner thigh, which Jake could still see as clear as day. He couldn’t remember her eye color, but from where he stood they looked brown. Her hips were wide and inviting. Her pubic hair was darker than on top. Her vagina looked swollen and pink. He could feel himself getting hard again. Looking at her, he imagined going down on her. He imagined taking her from behind, imagined his thighs slapping against her voluminous bottom. He could picture the ripples spreading up to her lower back. He could imagine her screaming. He could imagine grunting, thrusting, pounding.

“What?”
asked the woman, noticing his sudden renewed interest. “Ready for round two, big boy?” she smiled, opening her legs further. She massaged herself.

For moment, Jake nearly unzipped his fly, but thought better of it.
Quit now. Walk away before this becomes a thing. You gave in already once—twice. Third time is not the charm.
“No,” he finally said. “I need to get going. Room is rented for the night. Feel free to stay, if you want. Check out is around noon, I think.” He moved toward the door. His back turned to the girl.
In another place and time she might be worth knowing.

“Got a hot sermon to get ready for, Padre? Maybe I’ll come and check it out.”

Guess not
. Jake ignored her and opened the door. The humidity hit him like a wave. “You can keep the smokes,” he said over his shoulder.

“Gee, thanks,” the woman scoffed.

Jake disappeared into the swampy Houston night.