Divided We Fall (2 page)

“Leave me out of this, Eric,” JoBell said.

“Okay, kitten,” Sweeney said.

She turned around in her seat to face him. “Call me any more sexist names, Eric, and I’ll make sure you never ride in this truck again. I have some pull with the owner.”

Sweeney grinned and put his hands up in surrender. JoBell really didn’t like the nicknames that Sweeney often made up for her, but at this point her anger and even Sweeney’s sexism was mostly an act, a game the two of them had been playing for years.

After we dropped Timmy, Sweeney, and Becca off, I pulled the Beast over in front of JoBell’s big brick house. She squeezed my hand. “Wish you didn’t have practice again tonight.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s the last two-a-day, though.” I looked down. “Last two-a-day of my whole life.”

She put her fingers under my chin and made me look at her. “You sound all sad, like one of the old-timers at the coffee shop who sits around reminiscing about the ‘good old days’ of high school.” She leaned forward and we kissed. I could taste her favorite spicy gum on her tongue. She kissed my cheek and then my neck, and tingles rippled all the way down my body. “But these
are
the good times.” She gave me a quick kiss on the lips again and kept her face close to mine. “And they are never” — kiss — “going” — kiss — “to end.”

I looked into her warm, happy eyes. “I love you,” I whispered.

“I love you more.” She unbuckled her seat belt. “This is senior year and, yeah, lots of things will be changing. But this” — she pressed her hand over my heart for a moment and then held my hand over her own — “is forever.”

I laughed a little and gently slid my hand up her neck and around the back of her head to pull her close one last time. Then she climbed down out of the truck and pulled her duffel from the back. I watched her jog up to her porch. She stopped at the door and waved, then went inside. My chest ached the way it did whenever JoBell left, but I started the truck and drove to the shop.

I parked off in the grass like I usually did to let customers use the driveway. The faded sign squeaked as it swung in the breeze. I could hardly read
SCHMIDT & WRIGHT AUTO
on it anymore. It probably hadn’t been painted since before Dad died. I dropped three quarters into the old pop machine that sat between the two open garage doors, hit the button, and pulled a Mountain Dew out of the slot.

“Look who finally shows up!” Schmidty said. I laughed. He spun away from the desk in his dusty old swivel chair. My dad’s longtime business partner — now my partner — was taking his lunch break with his daily ham sandwich and iced tea. He took a drag on his cigarette. “How was practice? Coach still bustin’ your balls about not being in his precious weight room this summer?”

Coach had been kind of a dick when I first started practice because he had this idiot idea I hadn’t worked hard enough at Fort Leonard Wood. “Naw. I’ve been blasting right by all the best guys.”

Schmidty raised a bushy eyebrow as the Buzz Ellison talk show music came on the radio. “Is that right?”

“I even laid out TJ today. You should’ve seen —”

“Hang on now.” He flicked his cigarette ash in an old coffee can. “Shut up, and let me enjoy my show in peace.” He pointed to the Honda Civic GXE in the far bay — a natural gas/electric hybrid with solar assist. Someone had some money and really cared about cutting emissions. “You want to get started?” Schmidty said. “Oil change and tire rotation.” He called cars like this “dirty hippie cars.” Wouldn’t touch them.

I went over to the far bay as Buzz Ellison returned from a commercial break.

Buzz faded into the background as I went to work. Schmidty and Buzz got all fired up about politics and how Democrats, liberals, and the government were supposedly destroying America. JoBell sometimes argued the exact opposite. I mostly let them all spin on. Politics weren’t my thing.

“Yeah, Buzz! That’s exactly what I’ve been saying!” Schmidty spat out bits of his sandwich as he yelled at the radio. I had to laugh. I’d told him over and over that he should have his own show. “Are you listening to this?” he asked me.

I hadn’t been, but I paid attention now.

“Yeah! Give ’em hell, Buzz!” Schmidty shouted. Buzz rolled on.

Schmidty stood up and stretched, his stained T-shirt rising to expose the bottom flap of his big sagging belly. He downed the rest of his iced tea and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t know why you signed up with the National Guard. This ain’t the same country that your father died defending.”

This was like the hundredth time he had said something like that. I don’t know why he didn’t get it. As soon as I’d heard that a kid could join the Army National Guard at seventeen, I begged Mom to sign the permission form so I could enlist right on my birthday and ship out to training two days later. It was the perfect deal. The Guard would pay for all the auto tech classes I needed to really expand the business, even the advanced tech stuff for working on these newer hybrids, compressed natural gas vehicles, and second-gen solar-assist systems that Schmidty couldn’t stand. With my Guard pay from the summer and the money I’d been saving, I’d be able to buy Schmidty’s half ownership of the garage when he retired in a couple years and set up a real future right here in Freedom Lake.

More than the money, though, it was an honor to be a soldier and serve my country like my father had. Standing straight at basic training graduation, saluting the flag while the national anthem played, I knew I was part of something important. I loved my home and I loved America, and I was willing and ready to fight to defend them, to defend freedom and protect the people I loved.

I went back to work on the oil change. Buzz Ellison went on arguing with callers and complaining about the president. Schmidty worked on a pickup and argued with the callers as well. “Dumbass hippie protestors!” he yelled once.

That was classic Dave Schmidt, never happy unless he had something to be mad about. Still, he seemed worse than usual. Business had been bad lately. With gasoline prices so high for so long, the people who couldn’t afford to switch over to electrics or to cars like this Honda were actually driving less. Less wear and tear on cars meant less repairs meant less money. But that was pretty much the same story everywhere, and this old shop had never made Schmidty or Dad rich.

I sighed. No time to worry about this stuff now. All I could do was get a little good car work done before I headed back to school for afternoon practice.

*  *  *

Practice that afternoon was rough. It was like Coach Shiratori was mad that he couldn’t have practice on Saturday and Sunday, so he worked us extra hard to cram three days into a couple hours. TJ made sure to pair up with me for tackling drills, trying to get even for the way I’d smoked him that morning. I wouldn’t say I beat him in the drills. I fought him to a good draw, though.

After practice, at home, I hurt everywhere while I showered and dressed. Then I drank a huge glass of cool water, trying to get hydrated for the night’s party. Leaning back on my bed, I picked up a photo from my nightstand. It was taken last summer after I’d won first place in the senior high school division for bull riding. In the photo, me and JoBell were leaning against a white wooden fence, my arm around her. I’d been riding so much that summer that my brown hair was bleached nearly blond. I was sweating a little and there was a streak of dirt on my cheek, but JoBell just smiled at me.

I carefully put the photo down and opened the drawer to my nightstand, reaching all the way to the back until I found the little black box. For about the millionth time, I looked at the golden ring with its single diamond. It was a whole quarter carat, and it cost a fortune, but JoBell was worth it. I knew we were way too young to get married, but maybe in a year or so we could get engaged. Then, when I had enough money to buy the shop from Schmidty, I’d be making enough for us to live on. It could work. It really could. I ran my finger down the glass over JoBell’s image.

Hank McGrew cut into the silence from my COMMPAD, an older Samsung Cloud II.
“Hey, partner, you got … a text coming in from JoBell.”
Hank’s digi-assistant app didn’t run so well on a measly three gig and cellular. I picked up the comm.

“Hank, put it up.”

In the window at the lower right corner of the screen, the image of Hank McGrew gave a thumbs-up and then disappeared. The text blinked on-screen:
Hey babe. Becca and me are at the lake. Where are you?

From outside came a high-pitched noise and the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. I hoped that wasn’t Mom’s car. From the squeaking sound, it needed something. Hopefully it was only belts.

I looked out my window and sighed, then tapped the
TEXT
button and said, “At home. Mom just got here.” I tapped
SEND
.

Yeah. Hurry up. I want to have fun tonight.

I grinned.
Keep your panties on. I’ll hurry.

Her text came back.
No panties tonight. Only the bikini. Come get it.

“Danny?” Mom called from downstairs. Nothing to calm hot thoughts about JoBell like Mom shouting. “Danny? Where are you?” The shadow, that panicked disconnect from reality, was creeping into her voice worse than it had in a long time. Mom didn’t handle stress very well, especially when she was away from home. I always helped her relax when she got here. I’d have to move quickly.

“Yeah, Mom —” I started to yell when Hank came back on my comm.

“The National Guard’s calling, buddy. Thanks for ser … ving your country.”

What could the Guard be calling about? Drill wasn’t until next month.

“Danny!” I heard a glass break downstairs.

“Mom, hang on! I’m here!” I shouted as I tapped in to the voice call. “Hello?”

“Danny!” Mom was nearly to shriek mode. The shadow almost had her now.

A deep voice came from the comm as I reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Private First Class Wright?”

“Yes,” I said. Mom had her hands up in front of her chest, picking at the skin around her fingernails and taking little steps as she shuffled around the living room. The shards of one of her ceramic horse knickknacks littered the floor by the end table. “This is Wright,” I said into my comm.

“Oh! There you are.” Mom rushed over and hugged me tight. I slipped my arm around her and rubbed her back in the way that sometimes calmed her down. “At first I didn’t think you were here, and then I started to get nervous so I accidentally knocked the horse off —”

“PFC Wright, are you listening? This is Staff Sergeant Meyers.”

The voice came louder over the comm. I turned away so Mom couldn’t hear Meyers and held the comm away from my mouth. “I have a call, Mom,” I said to her. Into the comm I said, “Roger that. Go ahead.”

“Rattlesnake. Rattlesnake. Rattlesnake.”

Rattlesnake. Three times. The phrase was only used for one purpose. It meant our Guard unit was being activated.

My heart thumped heavy in my chest. Getting this code now didn’t make sense. My unit, the 476th Combat Engineer Company, was already deployed to Iran. They left before I even went to basic. The only soldiers who drilled at the 476th armory outside of Farragut Falls were new privates like me and prior service transfers from other Guard units — soldiers who had moved to the area and switched to our company after most of the others had shipped out. They couldn’t be mobilizing us now.

I slid out from Mom’s hug, smiling and pretending I was almost happy, like I was talking to one of the guys. “Go —” My mouth suddenly felt dry. I licked my lips. “Go ahead,” I said to the sergeant. I covered the mike on my comm. “Mom, have a seat in your chair. I’ll make you some tea.” A hot cup of chamomile tea always helped relax Mom’s nerves. She shuffled to her recliner as I slipped into the kitchen.

“Private Wright?”
said Sergeant Meyers.
“You there? Prepare to copy.”

“Yeah. Go ahead. I’m here, Sergeant.”

“This is your mobilization call.”

I wedged the comm between my ear and shoulder as I filled the teakettle and put it on the stove. “Iran or Pakistan?”

“Negative,”
Sergeant Meyers said.
“By order of the governor of the state of Idaho, you are hereby ordered to report to your duty station, 476th Engineer Company armory, no later than eighteen hundred hours this evening.”
He sounded stiff, like he was reading from something.
“Uniform will be MCU — Multinational Combat Uniform. You will receive further instructions upon reporting for duty.”