TW ! Warning, this chapter deals with sensitive subjects such as war, violence, abuse, sexual assault, death, and suicide, you have been warned - happy reading.
This morning, Eddie didn't have time to have his coffee or eat anything solid. As soon as he returned from the hospital, he escorted Buck back to his apartment, listened to him complain about the boredom he already felt barely arrived, and let him rest.
He returned around midnight; Carla was giggling in front of Desperate Housewives, trying to be as discreet as possible, while sipping on a glass of rosé she found in the fridge.
"I didn't want it to go to waste," she had said when he questioned her from the kitchen, where the remains of the Indian takeout she had brought for his son still sat on the table.
"Your son wanted to eat it all, but I convinced him to leave you some. You must be starving, and I know you haven't had time to sit down for five minutes," she whispered after turning off the TV and joining him in the kitchen.
He thanked her extravagantly, thanking God for putting her in his path, and she didn't miss the chance to remind him that in this case, God was Buck.
"How's the little one?" she inquired. "Already thinking about when he'll go back to work?"
Eddie rolled his eyes, exasperated. Carla chuckled silently.
Eddie offered her another drink, which she declined, explaining that her husband would soon return from his shift, and she wanted to be there when he arrived. So he thanked her again for looking after Christopher, kissed her on the forehead, as usual, and made her promise to come to the next barbecue at the Grant-Nash's. She agreed, on the condition that she could bring widjila.
Eddie didn't sleep much. Carla's departure had woken Christopher, who had slipped out of his room and knocked on his father's door. Despite being almost thirteen, Chris still had a bit of trouble sleeping in an empty house. Now that his father was back, all he wanted to know, at one in the morning, was if his best friend and uncle were okay.
"He's fine. You know how Buck is, he doesn't like doctors. But he still talks a lot, and he's still as annoying," his father smiled, inviting him into confidence.
Christopher laughed, then hugged him before returning to bed to finish his night. Eddie took a shower, long and hot, during which he was conscious half the time.
The other half, he spent thinking about a bunch of things.
His son, Shannon, Marisol, Carla, his rear right tire that he needs to change before the end of December, and the rug in the living room that he's been thinking about moving for some time. Then he thought about his captain, what he should bring to the next barbecue next week at his and Athena's house, and about that promotion he mentioned to him three weeks ago, without anyone knowing. Should he take the exams to become a lieutenant, or should he just stay where he feels comfortable, in his comfort zone? As always, he doesn't find the answer as quickly as he would have liked, and soon his thoughts turn to his best friend, imagining him pacing around his apartment, wondering how to convince his doctor and his superior to let him return to work. He realizes he spent a good half hour under the water when his phone rings, and he rushes out, nearly stubbing his little toe against the edge of his shower and hobbling with his towel to his bed. It's almost one in the morning, and on his phone, it's an Amber Alert that jolts him out of his stupor.
So he spent most of the rest of his night trying to close his eyes, thinking about Jill Rollins, who is missing in Wiltshire County, over three hours' drive from Los Angeles.
So this morning, when he got up to go to the Thursday meeting, he realized he was late when Christopher knocked on his door, past nine-thirty. He was already dressed, had already eaten a stale pancake, a half-opened orange juice that had been sitting for three days, and a bowl of cereal that had lost its crunch.
Now that he was standing in front of the shelter door, he felt like a steamroller had run over him.
In the room, Nagel, Lana, Gordon, Louis, Herschel, and Drew (the second time Eddie's seen him) were already there. Eddie discreetly advances, hoping his lateness goes unnoticed, but that's without counting on Gordon, who nods in his direction while tapping his wrist, where a watch should be.
"Looks like you fought with a horde of monkeys," Lana greets, leaning back in her chair.
"Or rather mice. I'm sure you're afraid of mice," jokes the boy with the phantom arm.
"My son had a nightmare, and my buddy had a little problem; I had to drive him to the hospital," he explains to Gordon, who nods without much interest.
As soon as the veterans' attention turns away from him, Eddie leans towards Lana's ear, who is browsing the homepage on her phone.
"Where have you been? When I came back down with Buck, you were gone," he whispers.
She closes her phone, turns it face down, and pivots towards him.
"I recognized someone in the street. An old friend of mine that I hadn't seen in years. I figured you didn't really need me, so I offered to grab a drink with him while you dealt with your friend."
"You could have let me know; I was worried."
She rolls her eyes, hurt.
"I'm not a helpless little animal. Just because I don't have legs doesn't mean I can't handle myself. On the contrary, I'm sure I could kick your butt anytime."
She gives a mischievous smile, and he shakes his head, amused. Nagel and Louis are deep in conversation. Even straining his ears, Eddie struggles to understand the subject of their discussion; however, he allows himself a small pleased smile as he notices the old man in the baseball cap finally engaging in conversation with someone other than a bottle. Gordie taps his foot nervously. He clutches a coffee cup in his hands and observes the walls of the room, thoughtful.
Drew stares at Eddie. He's probably thinking that he's barely integrated into the group, and vice versa. Drew is young. Maybe he hasn't even reached his thirties yet. He doesn't look like he's been injured in combat, or maybe he's hiding it under his gray sweatshirt and cargo pants. Half-sprawled in his chair, he looks like he's drowning in his clothes. His complexion is hollow, pallid, and Eddie can almost smell the cigarette fumes mixed with other things. There's not the same clarity in his eyes as in Gordon's, who revealed to Eddie that if he came, it was to get out of his house and see Lana, more than to listen to Ronnie's advice.
"Where's Ronnie?" Eddie asks, realizing that the mentor wasn't behind his table as usual, nor on his chair or anywhere else in the room.
"Late," Nagel chimes in. "Who would've thought," he adds sarcastically.
"He's never been late," Louis remarks, his cast noticeably yellowing over a week. "It's strange."
Eddie turns to the door he emerged from just a few minutes ago. He hadn't encountered anyone, hadn't even noticed Ronnie's car's absence in the parking lot. He takes out his phone, opens his messaging app, but finds no messages from him. He questions Lana; she shakes her head.
"He might be stuck in traffic. With the detour on Hamish, traffic's a mess," Gordie declares, also having checked his phone even though he knew he'd be last on Ronnie's emergency contact list.
"Ronnie lives less than fifteen minutes from here. He doesn't even go through downtown, Gordie," his friend informs him.
He shrugs, nonchalant, and refocuses on staring at the ceiling.
"Maybe something happened to him?" Herschel interjects, once he's snapped out of his thoughts.
"No need to speculate," Eddie says. "If he's not here, then we'll just have the meeting without him. He'll arrive later, otherwise, I'll stop by his place to make sure everything's okay. Sometimes he oversleeps; don't forget he's human, just like us, and with two kids, there are always unforeseen circumstances."
They almost all nod, except Nagel and Drew, who gaze at the void left by the empty chair like a bad omen.
Eddie stands up. When he sits in Ronnie's place in the circle, he doesn't really expect them to let him. But apparently, he was the only one worried about the mentor's silence because as soon as he crosses his arms over his chest and looks up at the group members, silence falls, and their attention is fixed on him.
"I have no idea how we're supposed to do this," he begins, "but I've attended military gatherings after op briefings, and it looked pretty much like this," he twirls his finger in the air.
"You're the leader now," Nagel grumbles, looking grumpy. "You decide."
Louis lightly elbows him, almost imperceptibly, and gives a small encouraging nod towards the firefighter. Lana smiles gently. Gordon tilts his head to the side, Drew hasn't moved, and Herschel just uncrosses his legs to cross them the other way.
"Alright," Eddie starts with little assurance, "since I've only been here for three weeks and you've been absent, I don't know you," he addresses the youngest member of the group. "Would you be willing to tell me a bit about yourself?"
He doesn't know how Ronnie does it. He never lacks confidence, speaks without stuttering, and leaves no room for contradiction. He uses the exact words, for the right person, and manages to find the right timing. He just feels like he's talking to his seven-year-old son.
Lana leans forward in her chair.
"Eddie, Drew doesn't speak," she explains. "I thought Ronnie had told you."
No, he hadn't, and now he feels like the biggest fool. His ears burn with shame.
"Oh. Alright. I didn't know. I'm sorry, Drew."
He nods conspicuously, eyes him up a bit more, and Eddie regrets not taking the time to have a coffee.
"Well, let's move on to something else... Tell me about your comrades in battle. Those who are alive, as well as those who stayed."
Nagel raises a disheartened eyebrow and shakes his head, squeezing his arms tighter around his chest, as if it were possible.
"Louis? You're probably the oldest veteran in our group; you must have had plenty of comrades. Do you want to tell us about one of them?"
Louis, whose index finger mechanically scratches the underside of his knee, where the plaster that has encased his leg for weeks begins, looks up at him. He nods.
"There are a few that come to mind," he admits in a jocular tone. "But if I had to talk about one of them in particular, it would probably be Elton. That wasn't his real name, but since he was a fan of Elton John, everyone called him that. Like Freddie, too, who got his name from the Queen singer."
Louis straightens up in his chair. Gordon leans forward, and Lana clasps her hands on her thighs. Eddie smiles. He hit the nail on the head. Maybe he wasn't so bad at this game after all.
"Elton was a stubborn son of a gun, but worse, he'd sing his heart out all day long. He spent his time butchering the greatest classics of the time, and the general often thought about cutting out his tongue," he smiles. "But he never did, because it was illegal, of course, but mainly because Elton was the only African American in our little group of tough guys. If he had shut him up, it would've made waves all the way to Washington. I'm damn glad he never did," he adds, suddenly less jovial. "When we found ourselves caught in one of those traps the Japs set for us, we were in a bad way. No more bullets, no more grenades, no more bayonets. Seven of our guys had already bit the dust, and two had just lost fingers in the explosions. It was just me, Elton, Freddie, George, Johnny, and Smitty left. Six guys, fifty-five fingers, eighteen bullets, and three knives. In a war like that, it's better to shoot yourself than to face an army that only thinks about one thing; the funniest way to kill you. Those guys, they weren't even human. They were goddamn war machines.
His voice seems to drift away, not even reaching them. As if carried away by a wind blowing in the opposite direction.
"Freddie died early on. Trying to crawl out of his hole to find a better hiding spot, he got his head pierced by a nine-millimeter. He was dead before he even hit the ground, and I'm almost sure he saw his reflection in his exploded eye. George and Smitty got skewered by the blades on the ends of the Jap's guns. They were reloading, but those sneaky bastards slither everywhere. Like eels. Johnny, that idiot, stepped on a mine. He exploded into a thousand pieces, like a jar of spaghetti sauce bursting from the inside. It was just Elton and me left, and I can tell you, I had already resigned myself to die, but not him. He was scared. I can understand, he was barely thirty, he planned to propose to his girl when he got back, he'd even planned the place and the moment. He just needed the ring. I should've stopped him, but when he realized I had a kid, and he didn't, he figured Sally might not even say yes. She was a rich girl, he was a stranger given a pass to war. He knew his parents hated him for his skin color, and he knew he'd hate himself if he didn't make something of his life. So, this kid stood up, grabbed his gun, grabbed a Molotov cocktail, and started running towards them. He screamed like a madman, singing the refrain of Rocket Man until he blew out his voice, and he charged at them. The cocktail exploded in the face of one of the Japs, who started squealing like an idiot. Elton was thrown into the trees, and maybe it was God who was on my side that day, but the Japanese forgot their own trap and went to mingle with the guts of Johnny and my buddies. The distraction Elton gave me allowed me to run and regain Allied ground. After that, they sent me back home, and I went back into the field three months later, because those guys couldn't have died for nothing.
Eddie blinks. He now understands how easily they all talk about death as if it's part of their daily lives. It wasn't a part of it; it was their everyday life. Their shadow, their best friend, and their worst enemy. Their confidant and the little devil on their shoulder.
Louis once again wears the peaceful, joyful smile Eddie had always known him for. And all he wonders now is how a man like him, who had faced death head-on and lost his entire unit in one night, could look so happy, so alive?
Lana must have heard this story before; she nodded along the whole time, in agreement with his account. However, she lost some color in her face, and Gordon massages his temples, trying to stave off an urgent urge to vomit. Herschel remains impassive. Throughout, he had perked up a sleepy ear and grimaced whenever the word "Jap" was mentioned. Nagel, on the other hand, scowled the whole time; however, Eddie caught him making a disgusted face at times. He was even almost sure he saw compassion in his smile. But it might have been a hallucination. What wasn't a hallucination was how Drew stared at the wall, as if he had witnessed the whole scene from his chair. It's only Nagel's throat clearing that brings everyone back into the room, back to earth.
"It's not that Louis's story bored me," he explains as he stands up, "but since Ronnie still isn't here, I suggest we get out of here and go grab a beer."
Eddie was about to protest, but he too feels an odd urge to bring up last night's Indian meal. Damn, he really should have had a coffee before coming.
"I agree," he manages to articulate. "Anyway, given the traffic and the time, it's better to postpone all this until tomorrow. I'll go check on Ronnie, and we can meet him next week."
They all nod. Gordie concentrates on not losing his lunch. Damn, he shouldn't have drunk so much coffee.
Lana helps fold the chairs, as does Herschel, and Eddie thinks about having one of those gross coffees they offer at the bar across the street. But he doesn't want to waste too much time chatting with others and decides to head off to the colonel's place before the road becomes completely impassable. Lana and Gordon head back to the car, Louis greets an old woman parked on the side, and Eddie guesses it's his wife. Hershel and Nagel cross the street and enter the bar. As for Drew, he's already disappeared, without saying a word during the entire meeting. Eddie knows he can speak, but he doesn't want to. He's seen that often in war-traumatized individuals. They come to the meetings, listen, but never participate. That's what he calls the souls. Ronnie calls them the roamers.
****
As everyone has noticed since this morning at eight o'clock, the traffic is hellish. The detour on Hamish forces most residents of Conway and Jamieson to take Grand Rue, which is already a mess without the ten thousand inhabitants of the wealthy neighborhoods having to use the same routes as the poorer ones who go to work every day in these more than miserable conditions.
Under a bus shelter, five people have been waiting for the passage of line seven for twenty-four minutes now. The sign shows a delay of three minutes, for the past fifteen minutes.
Just a few meters from the Target in old Torrance, the street is blocked, overrun by vehicles that are getting louder and louder. Somewhere, someone is listening to the latest release from the Rolling Stones, with the window open.
People are getting impatient, the traffic jam isn't moving. The police cars have been abandoned at the station, and the motorcyclists have been working overtime.
The bus that was supposed to pass by the Target never showed up.
Two of the people waiting had given up a while ago and started walking, convinced they'd make it home before the third car in the right lane reached the traffic light. The other two people, after grumbling and cursing the entire city, state, and country's road system, ended up calling a taxi, which like many others, quickly found itself caught in the snarl of Grand Rue. The fifth person, a twenty-six-year-old man, waited for a long time hoping to see his bus turn the corner. Realizing he wouldn't be able to go home immediately, he crossed Grand Rue amidst the stopped cars rumbling and emitting foul-smelling smoke.
He steps onto the sidewalk on the other side, bypasses a woman pushing a stroller with one hand, holding her phone with the other, and enters the small store. The air conditioning broke down last month, and the owner hasn't had time to fix it yet, so it's hotter inside than outside. The man heads to the back, where the bottles are kept cool. He grabs a beer can, thinking of his father who couldn't hold back his blows after drinking two, who couldn't refrain from assaulting his mother after four, and who couldn't resist threatening his son with his gun after downing the whole pack. Fortunately, he often fell asleep before reaching the last one.
He didn't inherit that affection for alcohol and sex, but he did enjoy getting wasted occasionally, alone in his apartment, before visiting his mother, who could smell the remnants of tequila on his shirt despite changing it. Today, he can't go see his mother, so he can drink if he wants to. Anyway, he knows he won't do much with his day, so he takes two. He opens one even before reaching the counter and throws two crumpled bills and three small rusty coins onto the counter.
"I still need to see your ID, young man. And if I see that you started drinking in my store when you're not even legal, I'll have to call the police."
He makes sure the total is correct, grabs a chocolate bar, adds a few more dollars, and waves his middle finger in the air. Before the old man has time to get out from behind his counter, he walks out into the street and turns right.
He walks for about ten minutes, tosses his first empty can into a trash can around a corner where he encounters an old man who sizes him up before rummaging through the same trash can. He crosses the entire street, heading towards the outskirts, and observes the irritated drivers, some of whom have abandoned their posts to get coffee and something to quell their hunger.
Soon enough, the buildings are replaced by smaller structures, and he soon reaches the end of the traffic jam, where there's still time to turn back and go home. He won't turn back. He's done it too many times before today, and it's cost him too much.
He passes through a broken gate and enters the property of an abandoned junkyard. He walks around the building, leaves his second empty can on the ground, and slips under the rusty fence. His sweatshirt catches on one of the protruding metal bits and tears. Once, when he was in high school, he would have been upset about that. He would have grumbled, he would have even demanded that his mother buy him a new one. Today, he doesn't care. He couldn't care less that his favorite sweatshirt is torn. Anyway, he'll never wear it again. In fact, no one will ever wear it again.
Behind the junkyard, a slope, littered with trash, old tires, remnants of a squat, cigarettes, and syringes, provides access to the road above. He could have taken the long way around, it's nice out, he has time, but he's lazy. So since he knows this path, which he discovered on an expedition with his high school friends five years ago, he decides to take it. And just like his sweater, if he cuts himself on the broken glass, or if he ruins his pants on the brambles, he couldn't care less. Anyway, no one will wear those either.
He steps onto the road, takes the small chocolate bar out of his pocket, and opens it. Snickers has always been his favorite. Even when he was a kid and his mother ordered him to hide them somewhere his father wouldn't find, he always ate the Snickers first. He'd leave the wrappers lying around his room, and when his father sneaked into his room at night, lifted his sheets, and put his hands into his pajamas with the little red cars on them, he'd step on them without even realizing. It made him laugh because his father tickled him, it felt good, and he felt like they were playing hide and seek.
He'll never find his candies.
Never.
He never found them, and his son, now thirteen, stopped asking his mother if he could have a little sister, even though he always wanted one, even today.
He steps onto the road, cautiously walking along it, and looks up at the bridge where another road was built passing in the opposite direction. Under the structure, there's a door that's never closed, allowing access by using the service and maintenance staircase. Very few people know about it, but he does. It's because he's been there several times before, and he's seen a guy in a fluorescent vest come out of one of the pillars once, carrying his toolbox. So, as he learned at the academy, he picked the lock and entered. Since then, someone had kicked the handle so hard it broke. And Los Angeles had better things to do than pay for repairs.
Once under the bridge, he enters through this door and takes the service staircase that winds up. He breathes slowly, calmly, even whistling a little tune. He reaches the top barely more tired than before and steps onto the metal bridge walkways. There's nothing special about it, it's just a typical bridge, like everywhere else in the city. He spots the surveillance camera, ignores it, closes the door behind him, and closes his eyes. The noise is much less deafening up here. The cars are moving a bit better, even though everything is slow. He walks along the bridge, whistling his tune and eats the last bite of his Snickers. He chews slowly, lets the wrapper fly away. Anyway, he doesn't care. He takes out his phone, dials his mother's number, and waits to reach her voicemail.
He steps over the walkway, moves to the narrow side where only technicians are allowed to walk, and smiles.
"Hey mom, it's me. I know you're working today, I hope you had a good day and that I'm not ruining it too much. I just called to tell you how much I love you, and how proud I am of you. I also wanted to tell you that my comic book collection is worth a lot more than a hundred dollars, so don't let those who try to rip you off fool you, you can at least get a thousand dollars for it. Tell Aunt Annie that I love her and tell Rosie that her cousin will come visit her sometime soon."
He thinks for a long time about what else he could say, but he really has nothing else to say. Then he doesn't care.
"Well, that's it for me. You can read my journal in my bedside table at home, but the key must be somewhere in my apartment. I don't really remember where, so worst case, the police can help you with that. Kisses. I love you."
He hangs up, puts his phone on the ground, sheltered from the wind, and climbs onto the railing. He's never been afraid of heights, with the army, he couldn't afford to be. So he doesn't hesitate, and he jumps.
Anyway, no one was ever going to wear that sweater again, so he doesn't care.