Something Like Normal(15)

I follow her to the garage. “You know I’m going to kill him, right?”

A ghost of a smile plays across her lips as she starts the Suburban, as if she can imagine it and she likes the idea. Then her face rearranges into something more Mom-appropriate and slightly disapproving. “Travis, he’s your father.”

He doesn’t get a free pass because we share DNA. If anything, that’s even more reason to kick his ass. “You can’t let him get away with it, Mom,” I say. “Just because—”

“Let’s talk about something else.” Her hands grip the steering wheel with such ferocity that she could probably rip it right out of the dashboard. Subject closed. I guess that’s only fair. She’s been artful at avoiding the subject of Afghanistan, and I suspect it’s because she read an article somewhere on the Internet that said I’ll talk about it when I’m ready. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready, but I guess I owe her the same respect.

“None of my clothes fit and I need new shoes,” I say.

Her smile shifts to wide. “Now, that I can do.”

On San Carlos, we pass a veterans’ club. It’s a sketchy little place not affiliated with any other club in the country, but there are always cars in the lot. Pops, who was a Marine with the 3/7 in Korea, brought me there once for lunch when he was down from Green Bay for a visit. “Hey, um—do you want to get some lunch?”

I’m not really the type to join a veterans’ organization—especially since I’m still active duty—but I could use a beer and… I don’t know. Maybe I won’t feel so out of place there.

“Here?” Mom eyes the place skeptically. “Um—sure.”

Inside, the veterans’ club is more of a dump than I remember. The walls are painted with emblems from all the armed forces branches, only they’re amateurish and out of proportion. The tables wobble and the chairs don’t match, but the bartender gives me a membership application he calls a formality.

“Iraq?” he asks.

“Afghanistan.”

“Marine?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Semper Fi, son.” He shakes my hand and I see his Death Before Dishonor tattoo. Kevlar got one exactly like it on his back after he graduated boot camp, and the saltier Marines in our platoon ragged on him mercilessly about it. “You’re welcome to stay for lunch,” the bartender says. “The special today is fish sandwiches with fries and coleslaw.”

I order two sandwiches and a pitcher of beer, which he draws for me without so much as blinking.

“Travis.” Mom frowns as I pour the beer into plastic cups. She leans forward, keeping her voice low. As if we’re doing something naughty. “You’re not twenty-one.”

“I am a veteran of a foreign war.” I hand her a cup. “More importantly, I’m thirsty.”

At first we don’t talk about Dad. We don’t talk about anything, really. We drink beer, agree the fish sandwiches taste good, and speculate on what kind of fish it is.

“I’ve been thinking about seeing a lawyer.” Mom refills our glasses. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and she hands me a paper napkin. Dining room manners tend to lapse when there’s no dining room—or even a table. Most of the time we ate sitting on the ground, where there was no lack of places to sit, and “Hey, save me a seat” was a running joke between me and Charlie.

“Yeah?” I ask.

She nods. “I’m—I’m kind of scared.”

“Why?”

“We’ve been together a long time,” she says. “I don’t know how to be alone. Or what I would do with myself.”

“You could go back to school.”

She gives me a wobbly smile. “Maybe you and I both could.”

I have three years of active duty left, but she thinks I’ll use my GI Bill to get an education. I don’t tell her I still have no interest in college. I can’t envision myself as a teacher or an accountant or a lawyer. Or even married with kids.

Charlie always knew what he wanted. Some nights in-country, we’d lie on our backs on the ground with our boots propped up against the schoolhouse wall, pass a cigarette back and forth, and he’d talk about how he wanted to go to culinary school when he got out of the Marines.

“I want to be a chef, Solo,” he said. “But not like those pretentious guys who make teeny-tiny dishes no one can pronounce, you know? I want to have a restaurant where regular people can try gourmet food without feeling stupid or wondering which fork to use.”

I never pointed out that most regular people aren’t all that interested in trying food like that, because it was his dream and who was I to stomp all over it?

“What about you, Trav?” he asked.

“I don’t know, dude,” I said. “Maybe I’ll go recon.”

He laughed because we learned real fast that you always make fun of the hard chargers who talk about reenlisting or going recon. Reconnaissance Marines are specially trained scouts. Elite. A lot of guys join the Marines wanting to go recon because they think it’s cool, but they go through some seriously rigorous training. I was only a year out of high school and no closer to knowing what I wanted to do with my future. I was only joking with Charlie but now—I don’t know. I think I could do it.