A Hard and Heavy Thing (35 page)

“So what about Nick? Think he'd be interested in being my drinking partner?”

She looked up at him. “Nick? Who's Nick? Name rings a bell. If you ever see him here, you can ask him.”

Levi turned and walked back to the kitchen. He returned with a large jug of sangria and two plastic cups. “Well if he's not in, you'll have to do.”

She tucked her legs beneath her and stuffed her book between the cushions.

“What are you reading?”

“I'm not telling.”

“Why not?”

“You'll make fun of me.”

“Will not.”

“You're a book snob.”

“Am not.” He poured a cup of the red wine.

“I'm not drinking,” she said.

“You're not drinking?”

“I don't drink anymore.”

“Why not?” he asked as he poured himself a glass. He sat back in the recliner.

“Nick doesn't like me when I drink.” She shook her head. “I don't even like me when I drink. Let's just say it's caused a few problems in our marriage.”

“Suit yourself.” He sat back and quickly drank one cup down. He took a sip from the second and leaned his head back. He closed his eyes and smiled.

The silence made her feel uncomfortable, as if she were required to give a better explanation. “Did Nick tell you?” she said.

“Tell me what?”

“We had to get counseling, you know.”

He said nothing, but shook his head ever so slightly.

“Marriage counseling.”

He took another sip but did not open his eyes. His smile had retreated.

“It was with this really old pastor from across town, not with like a real psychologist or anything. He was some friend of Uncle Thomas's. He was a real Bible thumper,” she told him.

He opened his eyes and finally acknowledged she was talking to him. “Well I would imagine so, if he was a pastor.”

“No. I mean he literally thumped his Bible. It sat on his desk and he'd smack it with an open palm. Or he'd pound on it with two fingers when he was trying to make a point.” She puffed her cheeks out and lowered her chin into her chest. She tried speaking in a deep voice to imitate him. “The way this works,” she mocked, “is the way God says it works, right here in this book right here. She beat down on the worn leather Bible that Nick kept on the side table.”

Levi leaned forward, but let the silence prod her on.

“I don't know how it could properly be called counseling. He lectured us. Seriously. He went on and on and on. How can it be counseling if neither of us says a single word?”

Levi sipped. “I wouldn't know.”

She grabbed the bottle and poured herself a cup. Levi raised an eyebrow at her but remained silent. She drank half of it in silence as she looked out the window at the street, at all the vehicles passing her by, and then she refilled it.

“Did you know Nick called me a whore?”

“He did not.”

“He did. He said I should pity him because he married a drunken whore.”

“That doesn't sound like Nick.”

She took another large drink. “Of course,” she said, “it's all about what I did wrong. How I'm the alcoholic. How I was the one who said hurtful things. Forget his own response, which was what? To nearly drink himself to death for three straight days. Of course he failed to mention the hurtful things he said and did.”

She felt disloyal for telling him all of this. She felt dishonest as well, because the truth was, they gave their marriage a second shot only because Pastor Bartles was a genius, because he thumped his Bible, because he had little patience, and because he only told them what they needed to hear and never ever what they wanted to hear. But the wine was sweet, and it made her feel warm, and Levi listened to what she said.

“That's not the whole truth either,” she confessed.

“No?”

She shook her head, took another sip, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I know I'm not perfect. I did some bad things—”

“Like what?”

“Like what does it matter? But I told him as much. Explained how I knew I was to blame, and then the next thing you know I'm weeping on the floor of this pastor's office. There I am on my knees, practically begging my husband to stay, like some archetypal helpless damsel, or worse, the scarlet harlot in some bad romance novel written by a man. I mean, who does that?”

“That doesn't sound like you,” he said.

“No, it doesn't, does it?”

They sat in silence again for a few moments.

“After it was all said and done?” she said. “Pastor Bartles—that was his name—he thumped his Bible again. Tapped on it, really. He assumed this light, natural tone as if we were at the bar, as if those fiery outbursts had never even happened.” She lowered her chin again. She lowered her voice and said, “Here is the blueprint, the design, the example. Simple as that.” She shook her head, as if it were all so stupid. “I did everything I knew how to do to make him happy. I bought a beautiful wooden plaque that had been detailed with a wood-burning pen. It had flowers and gorgeous scrollwork. It said, ‘The Couple That Prays Together Stays Together.' I hung it up above the bed.”

“But did you actually pray with him?” Levi asked skeptically.

She leaned forward and pushed his shoulder playfully. “Whose side are you on here?”

He looked away from her for the first time. “I didn't realize there were sides to take here.” He swirled the sangria in his hand. He looked down into the glass as if he might find what he was looking for in the bottom.

“And so, that's enough about me,” she said, embarrassed now. “I filled you in on my life, now you fill me in on your life since—what? Christmas 2004? Was that the last time I saw you before now?” She had tried to say it lightly, had tried to sound cavalier, but she felt the air shift as well as he had.

He shook his head. “I don't think I'm qualified to pick sides.”

“Forget about that,” she said. “Tell me about what you did the past few years. You played video games, you slept, you waited for phones to ring. What else?”

He picked up the jug of sangria and stood. He looked down at his own glass and frowned. He looked down at hers.

She felt naked. She set down her cup. He set down the jug, poured her cup into his own, and he picked up the jug again.

“What else?” she whispered.

“That's it. There's nothing else. I have nothing else to tell you. I'm sorry.”

Levi's sleeping hours were dominated by the green glow of night-vision goggles; surreal images of rooms full of teenagers and young men with sandbags over their heads and flex cuffs around their wrists; and intense close-quarter combat in which he'd be face-to-face with another man, close enough to count the hairs between his enemy's eyebrows, only to wake covered in sweat because no matter how hard he tried, his finger had frozen, and he could not pull the trigger on his rifle.

On several occasions, he had spent the entire night behind the wheel of a Humvee driving down the same stretch of Tampa alone. No traffic, no bombs, no gunfire, no donkeys, no mindless chatter. Just an endless stretch of road, the grasses and squat palm trees moving past him, and the
cri de coeur
of the engine trying to move the weight of all the extra armor.

Some nights it was Afghanistan. The long hikes on cold mountain passes or the slow methodical movement through dry desert wadis. He often felt that he wasn't sleeping alone, but that he was surrounded by the dozen brothers who would die for him and the two dozen Afghan National Army soldiers who wouldn't. Sleep doesn't come easy when your bunkmates may want to kill you.

[I'm sorry, it's just, the thing I want you to realize is this: Once sleep becomes an issue, it's like everything becomes an issue. The real truth is that most nights there were no dreams at all. Most mornings I woke with an aching head and a sore jaw from clenching my teeth while I slept. Each side of my tongue had painful sores from where I bit it during the night. That is, if I slept at all. I think I've made it pretty clear that I was drinking a lot. Far too much, really.]

Each moment awake was a moment in which he wished he could sleep. Every moment he slept was a moment in which he wished he could wake up and get on with his life.

One late Friday afternoon, Nick left the pub in the hands of his bartender, Shirley, so he could drive back to La Crosse. He wanted to catch Levi awake and present during normal hours just to say hi, just to talk. When he got home, Eris lay on the couch watching the local news in a pair of yoga pants and a long-sleeved sleeping shirt. “A little early for pajamas, isn't it?” Nick asked her.

“You the clothing police now?”

“Seen Levi?”

“Nope.” She didn't take her eyes off the television.

“The truck's here. Is he here?”

“Dunno.”

“Have you heard him down there? Has he come up to use the bathroom?”

“Nope.”

Seen him at all during the rest of the week?”

“A little.”

Nick walked over and turned off the television. Eris showed no reaction. “I'm trying to talk to you.”

“I'm answering.”

“So a little like how? Like what? Like does he come up and watch TV? Eat dinner? Take a dump?”

“I dunno. A little, I guess. Like he comes up and goes to the bathroom sometimes, sure. Then he stands there at the edge of the room just lurking like you're doing now. He's like, ‘Hey, Eris.' I'm like, ‘Hey.' And then he goes back downstairs to do his lurking there.”

“Just hey? You don't even make small talk?”

She sighed. “How long is he staying?”

“I don't know. As long as he wants. Why? Is he bothering you?”

“He'd be bothering me less if he weren't just the ghost in the basement.” She looked down at her hands. “I think he's depressed.”

“What, did he tell you this? Are you two sitting around having heart to hearts?”

She rolled her eyes. “No. I never even see him. He never comes up. It's weird. And it's scary.”

“Maybe he just feels awkward having to stay here?”

“I think he's taking advantage of you.”

“Cynical much?”

“Why does he need to stay here? Why doesn't he just get an apartment or something?”

It was Nick's turn to shrug. “I don't know. He's incapable of being alone? He's all PTSD-ed out? He's broke? He doesn't have a job? He has a drinking problem and no responsibility? He doesn't know how to interact with normal people anymore? How should I know?”

“So talk to him then,” she said, pulling the throw blanket over her shoulders before reclining again.

“And say what?”

She picked up the remote from the floor. “We aren't eighteen anymore? Things change? Hey, dude, this ain't no commune? Get a job? Go to school? Go live with your parents? Go to counseling? Or like, if you can't interact with normal people and carry on a normal conversation, go back to the army?” She flipped through a few channels while Nick stood at the edge of the room. “Just go down there and give him the old fail safe.” She craned her neck and looked up at him, resting her head on her left palm. She smiled. “It's not you; it's me.”

Nick couldn't help but laugh at that one. It was a loud and hearty laugh that carried through the house.

He went back to work, having gained nothing from his trip home. He didn't return until late. By then Levi was gone again, out who knows where.

After coming home from the hospital in early 2006, Nick had set himself to working hard, to praying hard, and to ignoring every reminder that Iraq had ever existed. The few dreams that plagued him in the burn ward had vanished, and he couldn't even pinpoint when it had happened. He could, however, pinpoint exactly when they returned.

That night, the start of his dream was pleasant. He and Levi had been playing basketball on a concrete pad in the middle of O'Ryan. The land was flat and there was sand, but the ground sat low so there were tall grasses, vegetation, and mosquitoes. Massive concrete trapezoidal ammo bunkers dotted the horizon of the small post. They were joking and laughing when the distant concussion of an unseen mortar caused them both to freeze in their tracks. The second concussion was much louder, and they both dropped to the hot concrete, covered their heads with their hands, and opened their mouths to protect against the coming blast waves. The third concussion grew closer, and Nick felt more helpless.

Taking direct fire is one thing. Adrenaline and anger and inhumanity charge through blood vessels so quickly that fear transforms into oppositional reaction before it even registers as fear. Indirect fire, on the other hand, is a terrifying beast in which only the strong of faith come out psychologically unscathed. The adrenaline and fear have nowhere to go, no action to take, and the only option is to hit the deck in submission to the advancing explosions. The impossibility of action during accurate and prolonged indirect fire forces a position of prayer. The saying that there are no atheists in foxholes is, of course, rubbish. Atheists abound. But to the terrified soldier lying humble and prostrate on the ground in utter submission to forces greater than self-reliance, each explosion is its own sermon.

It was this kind of fear and humility that now gripped Nick. Reverting to what he had known since infancy, he whispered a petition in which he gave himself up to the mercy of his creator.

He then opened his eyes and listened. He heard another thud, but now that he had woken, he recognized it as the basement door slamming. The other thuds must have been the car door slamming, the front screen door, and the door from the foyer to the kitchen. Nick listened to Levi tromp down the stairs. He heard a stumble and a few more steps until, once again, silence filled the house.