A Hard and Heavy Thing (37 page)

Nick's voice remained calm. It provided a soothing counterbalance to Levi's manic pacing and packing. “I know you didn't shoot her, Levi. But you could have. You probably didn't mean to pull a gun on Eris, a friend of yours; but you did.”

Levi gritted his teeth and finished closing up his belongings in the two footlockers. “I do exactly as I'm trained, exactly as the two of us did for years—assess the threat and control my fire—and you act as though now all of a sudden carrying a gun is dangerous.”

Nick waited in silence. Eris wiped her nose and pressed her cheek against the doorjamb. Finally, Levi threw a hand in the air. He yelled quickly, with passion, and without taking a breath. “You think I don't know it's dangerous? You think when I woke up, when I realized that I wasn't on top of Sperwan Ghar, when I realized it was your wife, that I didn't almost vomit right there from the sickness of it all?” He moved in front of Nick and spoke lowly. “I'd rather put that thing in my own mouth and blow my own brains out.” He stood there with his fists clenched, staring down at Nick on the bed.

Eris turned, crying, and sat on the step.

“It's okay,” she heard Nick say. “It's okay to cry.”

When she stopped her own crying, she still heard shaking sobs coming from the other room.

“It's okay. It's okay to cry. We can talk. You don't have to leave. Let's just talk.”

The sobbing stopped. Levi cleared his throat. His voice was suddenly cold. “We're going to talk? And what are we going to talk about? We haven't talked for months and we've lived in the same house.”

Eris listened to the silence.

“That's what I thought,” Levi said. “I do my lurking in the basement, Nick. I don't live in a vacuum, and I don't live in outer space, contrary to what you and Eris might think.”

“What do you mean?”

“You think I can't hear what goes on in this house? The things that are said?”

“Levi—”

“Stop. It's cool. I know I'm not Mister Congeniality lately, okay? And don't think I don't appreciate the help you've given me. But—”

“But what?”

“But you and Eris have made a life for yourself. She's right. We're not eighteen anymore. This isn't a commune. And maybe I have been taking advantage of you. Hell— Hell. Hell. Hell.” Levi laughed. “Maybe I should just join the army again.”

Eris scooted to the side as he carried his first footlocker up. She sat with her chin in her hands as Nick stood in front of her looking up the stairs. She tried to curl into herself as Levi came stomping down to get his second trunk.

Levi put his hand on her head before he walked up for the final time. She flinched.

“Eris,” he said. “It's not you; it's me.”

She felt Levi's gravity diffuse into her through the palm resting on her head, and she could not get up when Levi dragged his trunk up the stairs to leave.

Levi's father stared ahead at a 19-inch television screen playing the soundless Opening Day Brewer's game. When Levi slid onto the stool next to him, his father popped up from his chair to give him a hug. Just like when Levi was a kid, his father hugged like he was going to crush ribs, and he held on far too long.

“Mom coming?”

“No. No, she couldn't make it; she was busy.” The white lie sounded slow and strange coming from his father's ethical and well-guarded tongue.

“I meant to call her. Or to visit.”

His father let the silence hang.

“And so,” his dad said eventually. “How goes it?”

“Oh, don't worry about me. I'm fine.” He felt disloyal to Nick, bellying up to the only other bar in town.

[You know, my dad doesn't even like baseball. And looking at him there? I felt embarrassed for him. The lines around his eyes ran even deeper than the last time I had seen him. His coarse gray hair fell further down his neck. The flecks of pepper had long since disappeared and he now wore a closely trimmed beard that held only salt. He had grown old on me. Looking back, I think I just felt embarrassed for myself. Probably ashamed is a better word. Even after he kept calling me every single week and getting rejected every single week, he wouldn't quit calling, wouldn't quit offering me a place at home, a place at work. And sitting there with him, I felt ashamed that the distinguished old man would humble himself to show up in the kind of mindless holes that I frequented because it was the only way to reach me.]

The bartender walked over and slung a towel over his shoulder. “Kevin,” he said. “You didn't tell me Levi was in town.”

Levi and the man shook hands.

“How long you been back now?”

“Little while, I guess.”

His dad said, “It's been over a year now.”

Levi spread his hands out in front of him and felt the familiarity of a two-part, clear polymer epoxy resin bar top. He did the math in his head and realized his father was right. It certainly didn't seem like it had been that long since his triumphant return. It had been nearly eighteen months since he had spent four days in PAX terminals on his way back to Fort Drum from Panjwai Province, Afghanistan, nearly a year sooner than expected. All the memories were still so vivid. The humiliation so fresh. The wounds not yet scabbed.

The bartender poured Levi a beer. “You won the Silver Star, right?”

“That was a long time ago.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket. “Can I open a tab?”

“Put that away. The first one's on me. It's not every day I get to serve a war hero.”

“Thanks,” Levi said.
Thanks for thinking some bits of string and steel actually mean something,
he thought. He put his wallet on the bar without opening it. “But really. I can pay.”

“I insist,” said the man.

“I appreciate your generosity.” Levi hoped to create distance with his formality. He lifted the glass a few inches off the bar in cheers before turning his attention back to the game.

The man remained, hands on the bar. “So was it in Iraq? Where you got the medal?”

[I mean, you had to have dealt with the same kind of thing, right? I had four choices as I saw it: The first was to tell the guy bluntly that I appreciated the beer but didn't enjoy talking about my time in the army; the second was to play it cool, nod when appropriate, and hope the guy just got the hint; the third was to engage, tell some stories, read the man's cues to get a feel for his political leanings, rant about the current or former administration, shake my head when talking about the media, give him the stories that he wanted instead of the truth he didn't, and collect free beers all night; the fourth would be to describe in detail what it feels like to grasp the power of having another man in the sights of your M4, describe the adrenaline rush of pulling the trigger after higher gives you the okay, make him feel the overwhelming satisfaction of removing evil from the world as you watch the enemy crumple to the dust from which he came knowing that you just kept a bullet from going into your gunner's brain or you kept an IED from being planted beneath your buddy's truck, and then as the bartender leans closer and his mouth opens a little wider—devouring every salacious word that comes from my mouth—I could tell him about the dump truck load of bricks that drops in your stomach when you stand over the dead man realizing that he wasn't in fact armed, that the Kalashnikov you saw against the pickup from a hundred meters away was really nothing more than an axe, and what you thought was a shovel was just a pitchfork, a simple farmer's tool.

I chose to sip my beer and nod.]

“Been to Afghanistan too?”

Levi nodded again. He felt like one of the Bobblehead dolls they were probably handing out to the fans at the baseball game on TV.

The Brewers had never won the division during Levi's lifetime and had only made the playoffs once. But the thing he loved about baseball was that it was so different from life. It was a metaphor for how life could be, or at least should be. At any time, things could change for the better. Every season was a fresh start. Maybe this year they could turn it around. Maybe one solid game could end the drought. Maybe one quality start at home could turn the tide and carry them through the long season. It could happen.

“So what was it like over there?”

Levi looked down into his beer, which was nearly empty. “Can you believe this? Just when you think we can contend again.”

The bartender turned and looked at the screen. “Oh yeah. I'll tell you what; I can't watch anymore. Not since the strike and then all that steroids business.” The man took Levi's glass and walked away.

“You know,” his dad whispered. “He's just trying to make conversation.”

“What'd I say?”

“All these people here in town, Son. They remember you kids from when you were little. They all know and remember you more than you remember them, that's all.”

Levi pulled out his pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke.” It wasn't a question.

The bartender brought back a full glass of beer with an ashtray. He set the beer and the ashtray down and hovered. “Pretty bad then, huh?”

Levi looked at his dad. His eyes silently nudged him forward. “All right. You want to know what it was like over there?” He took a slug of beer and the man leaned forward. “Your wife ever take you shopping? Mall of America? Valley View, wherever?”

“Sure, yeah.”

“Afghanistan was like that. You walk around all day and you don't have a single clue about what the hell you're looking for.”

The man threw his head back in a hearty laugh. “That's great. I guess that's about what my dad said about the European front. Hurry up and wait, right?” Satisfied, the man walked back to his post near the taps.

“Happy?” Levi whispered. “I don't even know this guy's name.”

“Hey, Brad. Think we can get a few more?” While Brad poured new beers, Levi's dad whispered back, “Happy?”

The men watched the game. Between innings, the bartender would bring Levi another beer and empty the ashtray. As he brought Levi's sixth beer, Levi's dad said, “You mind bringing me a plate of that roast beef special, Brad?”

“Sure. Levi? Hungry?”

Levi shook his head. He tried smiling to show the man some semblance of warmth, but after downing several drinks in quick succession, he felt his face was as distorted as his thoughts.

“So,” his dad said.

“So.”

[Ya know, by this point, I should have felt ready to loosen up, start buying shots, start riffing and having a good time. This was usually the point when life stopped being so drab, but the silence was oppressive. The ice machine rattled and the Miller Genuine Draft sign buzzed, sure, but they only made me more aware of the silence. Kind of like when you notice no one is talking at dinner and suddenly it sounds like your chewing could be heard in China. The things is, I had seen my parents like a handful of times, maybe, since I got back, so what did I have to say? And even if I could think of something to say, I wouldn't feel comfortable saying it because the longer I stayed away and the longer I didn't talk to anyone, the more guilty I felt about not talking to them, and then the more guilty I felt about it, the harder it was to open up and talk about it. It was, and is, this self-perpetuating problem.]

“Work things out with your sister?” said his dad.

“Mmm. She told you about that?” He sipped his beer. “Yeah, anyway. I acquiesced. No sense keeping up a fight over something dumb. She's fragile.”

“Not as fragile as you think. She stands up to you, doesn't she?”

Every time she called Levi on the telephone, she spoke in low hospital-bed tones. The week he had moved out of Nick's and into his own apartment, she stopped over to drop off a casserole. To be specific, she had stood there smiling—she was always smiling, even when he knew she must be revolted at the smell of cigarette smoke and the shredded commercial carpeting found in the hallway of the industrial building offering studios for less than 300 bucks a month—and she had said, “I thought you might like something low maintenance to heat up in your bachelor pad and all.” All white teeth and bubbles. “It's a duck cassoulet with artichokes. And then this Tupperware here doesn't even have to be reheated. This one is a chilled beet soup with crème fraîche and dill. It's so yummy. Your nieces love it.” He invited her in, but she stayed in the hallway as if she were scared to go in, like if she went into his apartment she might find the bodies of dismembered hookers; or at the very least, she'd find the dried-out ears and fingers of enemy combatants.

For a year she'd been doing the same thing as his dad. She'd been calling him every week, begging him to come over for dinner, forcing him to talk, to engage with her for full minutes at a time. Finally he accepted, almost as a last-ditch effort to be left alone for a while. It turned out to be as bad as he'd anticipated. When he arrived, she escorted him into the living room to see his nieces and nephew. She stayed close as if he were a rescued dog, ready to latch onto an internal jugular at any moment. She said, “Hey guys,” and she moved like an inch a minute because sudden movement might have startled him. “Do you remember your Uncle Levi?”

The kids looked up at him, excited, but his mood had already soured. Of course they remembered him. He had seen them when he came home and he had seen them once a year every year he wasn't deployed. And it's not like he had any control over the rest of the missing time. Something about two wars, three deployments, the exigent scheduling of the military industrial complex, and the vicissitudes inherent in weaving that blanket of freedom under which she loved to sleep.

Her husband Chris had offered him a drink on the patio, and then he offered a few more. The switch had been flipped. That was it.