The Heart You Carry Home (3 page)

“Becca doesn't deserve a life alone,” King had said.

“She's not alone anymore,” Reno told his friend. “You're back, which I gotta say was a shocker.”

But King didn't meet Reno's eyes. They both knew this business of being back wasn't going to last. They knew King's days of living in Dry Hills were numbered.

Ben stirred in the passenger seat and made a familiar, unwelcome sound. Reno pulled over and unsnapped the kid's seat belt. No sooner had he yanked the sergeant's shoulders out of the automobile than Ben vomited onto the grass. “You better not have spilled any of that on my shoes,” he warned. In response, Ben heaved again. “Jesus, boy, what in God's name have you been drinking? I've never seen anything that color.”

Ben coughed, spat a couple of times. “I'm not a boy.” He panted. “I'm—”

He puked again. Reno stood back, chuckling. “Yeah, fine,
Sergeant
. How about
busted drunk
. That title suit you better?”

Ben hung his head between his knees. His skull felt stuffed with cotton. “Where are we? Where's Becca?” He looked around with alarm.

“She's still at King's. Since she wasn't so successful in getting away from you, I decided to get you away from her.” Reno walked back around to the driver's side of the car and climbed in.

“But you took her car,” Ben complained, pulling himself inside the cavernous vehicle. “Does she know that?”

“No. But she didn't exactly put up a fight when I punched you in the face. I think she won't mind.” In fact, after Reno knocked Ben out, she'd said nothing, just disappeared inside the house.

“You wait until she finds out,” Ben said. “You'll have another think coming.”

“You're criticizing me?” Reno shook his head and pulled onto the road.

“Where the hell are we going?”

Reno recoiled from Ben's stinking breath. He rolled down the window and told Ben to do the same. Ben's hands were shaking and he had some trouble gripping the handle. Reno watched, frowning. He was not, as King had suggested, driving the sergeant home. “You're in bad shape,” he said. “I'm going to help you.”

“Like fuck you will.” Ben closed his eyes and pressed his head against the seat. If only he could fall into oblivion. Part of him wouldn't mind if Reno decided to punch him out again.

“I've been worse than you,” Reno said as they sped down the road. “I know you don't believe it. But trust me on this. King yabber-jabbered about your wedding, and the way he explains it, you aren't a lost cause. You showed up that night—now, stay with me, 'cause I'm talking metaphorically. You, Sergeant, were present.” Reno shoved his index finger at his own temple. “Up here,” he said. “And in here.” He beat his palm twice against his chest. “That ain't nothing.”

Ben knew that if he nodded, he'd vomit again. He felt waves of nausea rolling over and over him, in huge swells.

“And frankly,” Reno kept on, “to be in your general condition and
still
to have shown up means—and I have a particular intuition about these things—that you can unfuck yourself.”

“Jesus Christ.” Ben moaned. Reno had suddenly veered off the road and onto grass. They bounced along on the spongy surface before stopping short. Ben threw open the door and retched.

“We're here!” Reno announced.

Ben heard crickets. His vision was fuzzy, but it looked as though Reno had driven them into a field. “Where are we?”

“Get out and you'll see,” Reno said brightly. He unbuckled his seat belt. Slowly, Ben followed. They were in a meadow surrounded by slopes of trees.

“There's nothing here.”

“Exactly. See, on the way out here, I came up with something. It's called the Reno Caruso Veteran-Unfucking Program.”

“What are you talking about?” Ben sagged, nearly fell to his knees.

“Here's what I'm thinking, Ben. You went off and got yourself fucked up. You didn't plan for it. It's not your fault. But you're home now and you're newly married, and it just so happens—and I wouldn't underestimate the importance of this fact—that you love the person you're married to. So now the question is, what part of you is going to win out? The part that's loving or the part that's fucked?”

“Please,” Ben groaned. “Crawl back into whatever hole you came from. Becca's told me all about you.”

“Becca knows me
so
well.” Reno chuckled. “What'd she say? Cavorting, drinking, fucking? Truth is, Ben, I grew out of all that a long time ago. I've got a business. And I've got to look out for your father-in-law.”

“
You're
looking out for
King?
”

Reno nodded solemnly. “He and I were in-country together. You know what that means.”

Ben nodded and the world tumbled over itself. He rested his head against the car and let his body go limp.

“I help him, even when he's not interested.”

“What's that got to do with me?” Ben could barely manage a whisper.

“King believes in you, Ben. He believes in the
two
of you.”

“So do I.”

Reno laughed and shook his head. “I'm going to pretend that we're on the same page about all of this.”

Ben slid his face down to the window. The glass was soothing and cool. He'd be all right if Reno would just shut up.

“Sergeant, we want to give the loving part of you a head start over the fucked part. Welcome to the Great Smokies, Tennessee side. Specifically, to a section of country I like to call the Dry Isle.”

Ben realized how far east they'd traveled, how far he was from Becca, and his heart sank.

“True to its name, the Dry Isle is a thirty-square-mile region where you will not find a single ounce of purchasable alcohol. Trust me on this. No liquor stores, no bars. If you wandered around long enough, you might trip over somebody's still, but I'm guessing you'd get eaten by a bear before that happened, or get shot for trespassing.”

A throbbing sensation suddenly announced itself on the side of Ben's face. He touched the skin and winced. “Yeah, that's gonna be nasty by the morning,” Reno said. “Sorry.”

Ben finally gave in to the pain and dizziness. He dropped to his knees and shut his eyes. He looked like a man awaiting execution. Reno pulled a pen from his pocket and took the cap off with his teeth. Then he grabbed Ben's arm.

“Get off me!” Ben opened his eyes and leaned away, but Reno held tight.

“If I don't write down the instructions, you'll forget.” He yanked Ben's arm straight. “You're gonna head due southeast,” he said and scribbled. “Your destination is a town called Sparta.” Reno wrote this too. “Get yourself to the auto garage. You can't miss it. Introduce yourself to Miles.” Reno wrote
Miles
on Ben's arm. Then he stuck his face right in front of Ben's, so close that Ben could see the stubble points on the older man's cheeks. “Miles'll tell you what's next. Do you follow?”

“No,” Ben moaned. But then, looking into Reno's uncompromising eyes, he realized one thing very clearly. Panic set in. He leaped to his feet, then stumbled from dizziness. “You can't just leave me here.”

Reno felt a tug of pity, but he let it go. Until a couple of months ago, Ben had been on active duty in the U.S. Army. He had two sturdy legs and there was surely GPS on his phone.
No such thing as GPS during
my
service,
Reno thought, taking a moment to muse over what navigational gizmos and gadgets the military must be giving soldiers these days. Not that any of it mattered. War was confusing as fuck.
Different time,
he thought,
same situation.

“Once you get to Sparta, you'll get your wheels back. Then, if you straighten yourself out, you can come get Becca. Sound like a deal?”

“No.”

“Good.” Reno got back in the car.

Ben stumbled toward the passenger-side door but tripped and fell. “Asshole!” he shouted as he heard the car's locks engage. He watched Reno turn onto the road and speed away. “Fuck!” he shouted at the car. “Fuck!”

To say that Reno was unmoved by the image of Ben screaming furiously at him as he drove off would not be accurate. Twenty miles later, he could still hear the boy shouting and see his wide, furious eyes. Reno did not like to hear men scream. He did not like to see men's eyes popping from their sockets. But this action was necessary. Reno wasn't doing this for Ben, really, or even for Becca. He was doing it for King. And there was a chance—the smallest, slimmest chance—that if the kids got their shit together, they could protect King from the madness ahead.

December 13, 1972

Dear Willy,

Durga has been talking to me. Ever since I got back Stateside, she's been whispering directions. She let me know that keeping the heart in my hometown was pointless, that my home wasn't my home any longer, and that my parents were relations only in name. Durga showed me that I'd been reborn. I had new organs—a new heart. So I bought a motorcycle (Durga wasn't vehicle-specific; she simply said,
Get going, Proudfoot!
), and I set out. My mother stood at the end of our block crying as I drove away. I felt bad about that, but what could I do? I haven't been back since.

I bummed around in the upper Midwest, college towns, pretending to be a student. You once told me that the ancient Greeks knew everything there was to know about war. So I went to lectures on Homer and Hellenic warrior culture. I even took language courses so I could read the work in the original, though I didn't get far. In a way, I was trying to finish what you'd started—to go down the path you'd been on until the U.S. government diverted you, brought you to us. To me.

After a few years of this, Durga grew restless, so I trekked over to Washington State and found a job on a dairy farm. I shoveled cow shit. I can't say I liked it much, but I learned humility. I learned to care for creatures who could not care for themselves. I learned to balance the life of the mind with the life of the body. But again, Durga grew restless, so I rode my bike into Oregon. Eventually, I ended up in a hippie commune, where I'm writing you from now. They grow good herb here and this other hallucinogenic they've cultivated from a strain of some South American plant. Willy, the trip from this plant is unlike anything I've ever experienced. Inside of it, you can relive the past—people, events. It's the one place where I can talk to Durga freely and plainly. She allows me to fly, and sometimes she plunges me into the depths of the ocean, which feels like drowning. It's her way of testing me. To make sure that I can still be trusted with her heart, to protect it always. Also, the plant sells. The hippies are raking in some serious cash.

I don't care what anyone says, Willy. They aren't bad people. They know I was in the war and they don't care. I think they feel bad for me, wandering alone. The hippies are smart. They understand that family is about choice. But I wonder if true family isn't really about need. Your family isn't the people you want to be with but the people without whom you would perish. The problem is, I don't know where the members of my true family are. King, Reno, the others who came along after you. We all came back alone, and then we dispersed. Scattered by the wind.

Sometimes I think that I see you, Willy. In a bar or pumping gas. Sometimes, every face has a flash of your face. I don't like to be around strangers, because I worry I'll catch a glimpse of you. And that hurts. I don't mind being alone when I have to, though. Even when I'm alone, Durga's heart is with me.

Currahee!

CO Proudfoot

W
HEN BECCA AWOKE
on her father's couch the next morning, everything was briefly beautiful. Dust motes sparkled in the sunlight, and her pillow was dry. Lately, she'd been crying in her sleep, which she hated. Ever since she'd started running, in junior high, she'd learned to keep her emotions in check, channeling excess frustration into winning races. It was not okay that her feelings were again acting against her will.

She decided that her present sense of calm was a sign. She was right to have left home. Ben's appearance the night before had only strengthened her resolve. Through all his shouting, her heart was numb, anesthetized. If only that meant her bruises didn't hurt. She stood up, trying to reason with her nerve endings. She was sore, but she'd experienced worse pain after meets; she could handle this.

Neither her father nor Reno was around. Her car was gone, which meant one of the men must be driving Ben back to the house. They'd leave him there and bring the Cadillac back to her. Then she could go to Kath's on her own steam.

Outside, Becca squished her toes into the damp grass. The air smelled of hay and honeysuckle and if she did not breathe in too deeply, she could ignore the ache of her abdomen. She sat down in a plastic lawn chair and turned toward the pasture. She imagined her father sitting out here, night after night, his body still as a garden statue, his beard overgrown as the grass. When she was a girl, he had terrified her. Sometimes it took only a single question—
Dad, will you sign this permission slip?
Or
Dad, are you coming to my soccer game?
—to make King breathe fire. Drunk or angry or both, he'd tromp through the house, smashing and screaming. Then one day, when Becca was fourteen, her mother had kicked King out. There'd been neither warning nor fanfare. “I sent your daddy packing,” Jeanine said, and that was that.

In her mother's stolidness, Becca learned a powerful lesson: their kind of women were not victims.