Damascus Road (12 page)

She looked right at me and I say her grey eyes fix on me,
narrow, then look away. She walked quickly, her heels making a rapid retreat
toward the chapel. I stood unsteady. It happened so fast, had I seen her? Or
was it a trick of the mind?

I walked back to the chapel and was greeted by the throng
and a cascade of well-wishes.

“Sorry about your dad, James,” more than one person said to
me. I nodded but couldn’t help trying to look past them, over them. Then I saw
her. She stood by his coffin, looking in. Then she looked back in my direction
and her face was unmoved. No smile, No frown.

She walked to the side exit and opened the door, slipping
out.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “There’s someone that I really need to
catch. Sorry.”

I disengaged myself from the group and walked quickly down
the aisle. I did not look at him. Could not look at him. I hit the side exit
and pushed the door open. A short flight of stairs down and out through a
security door. The exit opened onto a courtyard formed by hedges I saw her
then, at the edge of the lamplight. I called out after her, hoping desperately
that she would stop.

“Mom?”

She stopped, but did not turn. She kept her back to me,
keeping me at bay. I feared that if I approached, she would vanish and I would
lose her into the night again, lost in the wide world without a hope to find
her.

“Jimmy?” she said, her head tilted slightly.

“Yes, it’s me.”

She was my mother. Her name was Elizabeth. My father called
her Liz. But I had always called her Mom and that’s what she would always be to
me.

“I didn’t think you would come,” I said.

“Neither did I,” she said, more easily now.

She turned to face me, and I could see her gray eyes in the
lamplight. She was not afraid of me. She had tried to evade the conversation,
but now that it was there, since we were face to face, there was no sense in
hiding or postponing it any longer.

“I’m sorry that you lost him,” she said.

“You too,” I said. It sounded awkward, but she nodded.

“He was lost to me a long time ago, Jimmy.”

“Mom…you were lost to me,” I said. “I lost you. I haven’t
known where you’ve been for years.”

I took a step forward, tentative. Fearful. I dreaded that if
I moved too fast, the illusion would explode, and I would lose her again, like
an apparition. But I had to finish the thought.

“You left us.”

She did not deny it or run or laugh or cry. She opened her
purse and pulled out a cigarette and a lighter. She put the filter of the smoke
to her lips and cupped her hands, thumbing the flint and lighting it. The
gesture was so out of character to her appearance. She was a vision of maternal
beauty, but lit up like someone who lived with rough trade. In retrospect, I
guessed that she had.

She drew deeply on the cigarette, watching me, then blew a
plume of smoke before walking toward me.

“You do remember your father, don’t you?” she asked.

I nodded.

“And you ran at the first chance you got, didn’t you?” she
continued.

I saw where she was going with this.

“Mom…”

“Can you blame me?”

“We were kids,” I said.

“Ellis had commanded young men for almost two decades before
we had you boys. You were in good hands. Besides, Jimmy, you know you were
always his favorite.”

“He hated me,” I said.

“He never hated you,” she said as if this was obvious and
hardly something she even needed to bother to convince me of.

“Thomas joined the service to be closer to Dad,” I said,
swallowing hard at that last word. “They served together. I ran away from
home.”

“Ellis wished you would have joined the Army,” she nodded.
“He wanted that to be you. He wanted you under his command, Jimmy. Not Thomas.”

I had never heard any of this before.

“What happened with him?” I asked.

“Ellis? Oh Ellis was always that way,” she said, drawing
deeply on her smoke. “His way or the highway.”

“No, no, not Ellis,” I said. “Thomas.”

She considered that for a moment, took her time to compose
herself before she answered. She flicked her cigarette ash on the sidewalk and
stepped on it with her strappy heels.

“Thomas chased after your father’s love,” she said. “And it
killed him. Come on, Jimmy. You know the story. The war. Does it really matter
how? A bomb…a bullet…in the end, my son came home to me under the United States
flag. And I could never look your father in the face. Not until today.”

I saw it then. That look in her eye. Something I’d never
seen in her before: Malice. I’d seen it in myself, seen it in the mirror, but
never realized where I got it from. Never realized that it was in my blood
until that day.

“Your father was a coward, Jimmy.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

She was staring me down, lighting another, holding the
smoldering cigarette between her fingers as she watched me.

“I’m five and a half feet tall, and your father outweighed
me by a hundred pounds, but he was afraid to face me. Do you know that?” she
asked. “He was afraid.”

“He led men into combat. He was decorated for bravery…” I
said. I knew my father’s record by heart.

“He was afraid to face me after he got Thomas killed,” she
said.

I opened my mouth to defend him, but was at a loss. My mouth
went dry; I had nothing to say. My mother walked up to me.

“You know, Jimmy,” she said. “You have a wife, too.”

“Mom, don’t…”

She was completely unafraid of me. Suddenly, I was six years
old again in my momma’s kitchen being scolded.

“Have you talked to her?”

“Stop.” I turned away.

 “Jimmy, have you talked to her?”

“Stop it.”

“I’m serious,” she said.

“So am I,” I growled. “Stop it now. You don’t know me, and
you sure as hell don’t know her.”

“I know you, James Marlowe,” she said. “And you are your
father’s son.”

I could not meet her eyes. I rubbed my hand over the nape of
my neck. My collar was too tight. I pulled at the tie and loosened it, pulled
it off and undid the top button. I blew out a harsh sigh.

“What…what…” I huffed, trying to find the words. “Mom, what
do you want from me?

She took my face in her hands. I felt my beard stubble
against the soft flesh of her hands.

“Jimmy, go find Grace,” she said. “Go find your wife and
make things right with her.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. My heart ached.

“Go and make things right, before she’s standing over your
grave, wishing you had been there for her.”

I nodded, unable to find the words. She hugged me then,
smelling of cigarette smoke and perfume.

“I love you, son.”

“Love you, mom.”

She left me there then, gone as quickly as she’d appeared. I
looked around and could not find her. I didn’t want to go back inside. I didn’t
have any interest in being present for any of this. I didn’t care about the
mourners inside. No one would miss me or blame me if I didn’t come back.

“I am my father’s son,” I said out loud. “…fuck.”

I walked around the building, gathered my thoughts, wiped my
tears. I breathed in the night air and finally, when I could go back in without
losing it, I returned. I slipped inside and found a seat.

The evening passed without incident. The preaching was mild,
without brimstone or recrimination. Platitudes about a life of service and a
waiting reward. I wanted to object, but lacked the strength or the interest. I
sat back and waited for it to be over. It did not take long.

When the pallbearers came to remove the casket. I did not
look over. I couldn’t. I stared straight ahead and breathed in and out until
they moved down the aisle. I would not make it through the funeral if I started
to get emotional. I thought of my mother and the things that she said and tried
to dispute them. I argued with myself, with her in my imagination of how the
conversation could have gone, trying to find fault in her logic and losing the
battle over and over again.

“Are you ready, James?”

I looked up and saw Blake Harrison. He looked concerned, and
I smiled reflexively. Behind him was Wallace. He was a squat man to begin with,
but the suit and tie made him look like a bodybuilder struck with dwarfism. I
nodded, numb to the conversations around me of the mourners.

We rode back to the garage in silence. I saw Blake look at
me a couple times from my peripheral vision. He wanted to say something, but
couldn’t bring himself to break the silence. When we arrived at the garage, I
got out only remembering after to thank him.

“Blake, thank you again for all this.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know… but thank you anyway.”

“The commitment service is tomorrow at 9am,” he said.
“Should I pick you up?”

“No, no thank you,” I said. “I’m going to drive myself.”

He had given me the name of the cemetery and it was the
largest in the area. I couldn’t miss it. I felt compelled to finish the thought
though.

“Blake, I’m leaving town.”

“Oh.”

“The funeral made me realize something,” I said. “I need to
mend my own fences while I still have time.”

Blake’s face brightened at this.

“Well, that’s probably for the best then,” he said. “You
have to promise to stay in touch.”

“Blake, you’ve been a friend to me when I didn’t deserve
one. I was starving and homeless and you fed me and gave me a place to stay.
‘Thank you’ just doesn’t cut it.”

“It’s what the good Lord would want,” he said.

I kept my face blank until I could muster a grin. I couldn’t
tell him that the same God that he praised and loved and emulated had thrown me
to the wind and snatched my father from me before I had a chance to know him. I
didn’t know how to tell him that I was battling with God over this and that I
saw no peace on the horizon, had no peace in my heart. And yet…

“I think you’re right,” I said.

“See you tomorrow, James,” he said.

“See you.”

I walked away from the car, turning back to wave. Blake’s
car pulled away and I took my time walking to the garage. I hoped that my mom
would find me again and we would be able to talk. I had not seen her in so long
and then to have her there… She was a military wife. That perfect blend of
woman and steel. I missed her.

The key was under the mat, just as Wallace had promised. He
stayed behind to talk with people at the funeral home. I suspected Blake was
returning there to do the same. It was not my scene and I gladly left them to
it.

I opened the door and the garage was silent. I put the key
back under the mat and began to wonder what was in the fridge.

I never saw the attack coming. I only felt the body slam
into my back, knocking me out the door and spilling me onto the lawn behind the
garage. I rolled, trying to get distance, but my attacker was on me already. I
felt a fist collide with my shoulder, glance off and cuff me on the ear. I
raised my guard and avoided a flurry of blows. I threw a kick at his midsection
and hit nothing but air.

That’s when I saw him. He was my height, but dressed in grey
clothes, dark enough to camouflage him, but not black against the night. His
face was covered with a balaclava ski mask, but I saw his eyes and they were
smiling at me.

“James, brother of Christ,” he said, taunting me.

“Nathan…” I breathed.

I came at him then. I lashed out with a roundhouse kick that
he dodged, but followed with a straight punch. He parried and backpedaled. I
sent a sidekick to his gut and he brushed it aside. I’d had enough.

I ran for him, trying to get close. I hooked a punch that
connected high on his head, then swung my elbow but hit nothing but air. My
knee came up, and I heard the wind rush from him. I was ready to pound him with
my fists like a barbarian, when he came up under my chin with his head. My jaw
clicked shut audibly, and he punched me in the face, knocking me to the ground.

He danced back, light on his feet like a boxer.

“You seem so angry, James,” he said. “I know you could
finish me. If you were able.”

It was the play on words. If I were able. Abel. Nathan…
Cain, the name from the driver manifest for the truck… Cain. The biblical
brother who murdered his sibling because his heavenly Father appreciated Abel’s
sacrifice more than Cain’s.

And then I saw it. I saw it all. I got to my feet slowly.

“Thomas?” I said. My hands dropped to my sides, and stared
at him.

For a moment he didn’t move. Then he pulled the balaclava
hood from his head and I saw him. Thomas Marlowe. My brother.

“I’m surprised you got that,” he conceded.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “What have you done?”

“You never appreciated what you had, James,” he said.
“Ever.”

“You killed Chris Beck…”

“In all fairness, I was trying to kill you,” he said.

“You killed Dad.”

“Did you think he was so innocent? So pure?” Thomas asked.

“You killed him!”

“Ellis Marlowe killed thousands of people, James,” he said.
“I did the world a favor.”

I screamed and clenched my fists. I rushed him, my face
flushed with anger. I wanted to smash his face in, to crush him, silence him.

I never got the chance.

Thomas spun and caught me in the ribs with a vicious back
kick. It knocked the wind out of me and took me off my feet. I fell hard,
unable to breathe. I tried to draw a breath, but my lungs were unwilling. I
cursed, hating myself for being so weak.

“You were a bad son, James, and he loved you anyway…”

He was whispering to me, his face close to my head. I lashed
out with the back of my fist and connected with something, but his boot came up
under my kidney and I screamed.

“You were a bad husband, but I’m going to take care of that
too.”