Jerry Mars was coming home. After six months of grinding sand and
grueling sun of the Arabian desert, he was coming home, and in one piece
except for two holes in his left leg, one where the bullet went in and
another where it came out. A thick white bandage, stained pink,
was wrapped tightly around his leg. His limp was barely visible.
It
was two days past his twenty-second birthday when he signed the
enlistment papers that made him the property of the U.S. Army. He
had signed up at the spur of the moment, didn't tell anyone. He
wanted them to hear about it and wonder why.
They
would say that he couldn't hold a job, didn't like school, lived with
his parents, wasn't really good at anything, had nothing to show for the
last five years of his life except a high-school diploma, stashed in a
moldy cardboard box in the basement.
He
was spending most of his time alone, thinking, about girls, about doing
things with them, about finding someone like him, someone who would only
see the good in him, see him for who he really was. All that
wasted time was piling up like a stinking mound of dirty laundry.
He
wasn't particularly patriotic. His father wasn't in the military.
Actually, his father was a pacifist, an old hippie, one of those Sixties
left-overs who didn't think there was anything worth fighting for,
certainly nothing worth dying for. He wasn't the hero type,
wasn't out to change the world, had no righteous indignation. It
could have been just plain boredom.
Jerry
put his signature on those documents with a trembling hand, one eye
stuck shut like he was taking aim with the pen. The next thing he
knew, he was in the back seat of a Hummer, his boyish face tanned a
yellowish brown from the desert sun, the stubble of hair on his head
faded to blond. He could still feel that intense heat creeping
over his skin, growing, like an infection.
His
two best friends met him at the airport, planned a little welcome home
weekend at the shore, just the three of them, like old times.
Jerry didn't like the idea but he had a couple hundred bucks in his
pocket and a couple weeks to kill.
*
* *
Bobby
Shea owned a blue Cadillac, a Coupe Deville with a white vinyl roof and
white leather seats. Jerry rode shotgun and Tommy Boyle sat in the
back with a cooler full of beer and a pack of cheap cigars. Tommy
twisted the caps off the cold bottles and passed them around. He
broke out the cigars and they puffed and drank and cruised like it was
Saturday night at the senior prom.
Jerry
took the last slug of his beer and looked out the window at the Jersey
landscape, the city fading away, the air getting lighter. Bobby
had the Caddy up to eighty-five. Jerry sank into the leather seats
like he was on his living room couch, waiting for the phone to ring,
watching the world go past on a nineteen-inch screen. He leaned
back, closed his eyes, pretended to enjoy the ride but was someplace
else, on the other side of the world, blinded by the flash of roadside
bombs and the smell of burning flesh. He flung the lit cigar out
the window, watched it break apart on the road, glowing red ashes dying
in the wind.
“I
can't believe you actually signed up. I knew you thought about it
but I never thought you'd actually do it,” Bobby said, a cigar hanging
out of his mouth.
One
hand stiff-armed the wheel while the other dangled out the window, his
hand cupped against the wind.
“Why
did you do it, Jerry?” Tommy asked.
“I
don't know. What the hell does it matter?”
“It'd
matter if you came back in a fucking body bag,” Bobby said.
“Matter
to who?”
“You just snap your fingers and sign your life away? You should
have your fucking head examined,” Tommy said.
“Too late to worry about it now.”
“You're fucking crazy,” Bobby said, pointing a finger at Jerry, the
cigar waving like a conductor's baton.
They
hit Wildwood around dusk without a place to stay, running low on gas.
Bobby pulled the car down a side street and parked by a four-story
hotel. A pink neon flamingo simmered in the window. They
kicked off their shoes and ran onto the warm sand, Jerry limping behind.
The beach was deserted. They dove into the water, swam out beyond
where the waves crested and floated lifeless on the surface of the
water.
They
rode the waves into shore, crawled out of the cold water and collapsed
on the beach. They lay on their backs, their eyes closed,
breathing heavily. Jerry could taste the salt water in his mouth.
He dug his heels into the sand until his feet were buried to the ankles.
The sun lowered behind them, casting long dark shadows over the weather
beaten hotels like fingers reaching toward the ocean.
Jerry
dozed off. When his eyes opened he was shivering, chilled by the
cool ocean breeze. Darkness had settled over the sea. A
bright clear moon struggled to emerge on the horizon like it had fallen
from the face of the earth.
Bobby
and Tommy were by the car. The trunk lid was open and they waved
for Jerry to join them. He rubbed the sand from his eyes and shook
it from his hair like a wet dog. He saw Bobby and Tommy clink
their bottles together and heard their laughter. His legs felt
weak, plodding barefoot over the sand.
“There's
something not right about him,” Tommy said. “He always thinks
he has something to prove. That's probably why he signed up.
Remember how Billy Krieg teased him in front of everybody, called him
queer? He just sat there, didn't say a word. I thought he
would cry. Billy once spent the whole night bouncing a ping-pong
ball off Jerry's head. Pretty soon everyone at the party was
tossing that ball at Jerry's head.”
“A
couple days at the beach ought to do him some good,” Bobby said.
“Did you ever go in that hoagie shop his mom ran on Pettibone St.
The place was always packed, guys from the neighborhood mostly, on their
lunch hour. There'd be a dozen trucks in the lot. She'd be
making hoagies in a skimpy little tank top, a pair of cut-offs crawling
up the crack of her ass. She'd make Jerry work the counter while
she put on her little show. I felt sorry for him,” Tommy added.
Jerry
dragged himself up and they went suddenly silent for a moment.
“Hey,
sleeping beauty,” Bobby said, his tongue thick with booze.
“I
could use about ten more hours. I'm beat.”
“You
can catch up on your sleep back at the base, soldier. Next time, I
take a nap and you run for beer,” Tommy said, sounding more like Bobby
with every beer.
“Yes
sir, Major Asshole,” Jerry answered, throwing himself into the role.
“That's
insubordination soldier. I'll have you court-martialled.”
“Fuck
you, sir.”
“That's
better.”
“Will
you two shut up and check that out,” Bobby said, getting serious in a
hushed voice, pointing down on the beach at a girl walking along the
water, alone in the enveloping darkness.
She
was like a ghost, her features hidden in shadow, a silhouette visible
under the reflection of moonlight on the rolling water. Her hair
flew wildly in the wind. Her long, dark legs moved lightly over
the sand. She carried a pair of sandals in one hand and pushed the
hair from her face with the other.
Jerry
and Tommy watched her fade into the darkness, the outline of her body
blurred in the distant blackness. Bobby raced after her, kicking
up the wet sand. He caught up to her quickly, walked beside her
and spoke to her in low, pleading tones.
She
wasn't frightened by Bobby's abruptness. They turned around and
walked back, emerging from the shadows at the same point they had
disappeared. Bobby ran ahead of her, unable to contain his
excitement. He caught Jerry by the arm while she waited at the
water's edge.
“She's
all yours pal,” Bobby said, sweeping his arm toward the ocean.
“What
the hell are you talking about?” Jerry asked.
“She
wants to meet you. I told her all about you, about joining the
Army, about going to war and getting wounded, about the kind of person
you are. I told her this whole thing was my idea, that you didn't
know anything about it...a welcome home present.”
Bobby
was all smiles, full of himself, magnanimous.
“This
is a joke, right?”
“No
joke, soldier. You better get your ass down there. She won't
wait forever.”
“This
is unbelievable, Bobby.”
“Believe
it, man, and this girl is fucking gorgeous. So don't screw it up
and make me regret not grabbing that for myself.”
*
* *
Her
name was Windy. She told him that she walked along the shore at
night, listening to the sound of the crashing waves and breathing the
salty sea air. She said that the ocean breeze blew from across the
world, from places she would never see. She liked the way the sand
felt gritty between her toes and the cold water washed them clean.
She felt at home there, and when she died, she'd be cremated and her
ashes cast out over the water.
She
spoke in a whisper and Jerry hung on every word. Not that he
believed everything she said, he just couldn't take his eyes off her.
Her
hair was light brown with golden streaks from the sun. Her skin
was bronze like a statue, her figure equally smooth and flawless.
She wore a white oxford shirt, unbuttoned and tied at the waist, over a
red bikini top. A pair of tight red shorts covered her narrow
hips, revealing lean muscular thighs.
Her
face was chiseled from stone, her eyes wide and dark, her nose perfectly
straight. She had thick alluring lips and a brutally serious mouth
that never seemed to smile. There was something elusive and
unpredictable about her and something cold. She didn't possess
that teenage melancholy he was used to from the girls at home, the
pretend sadness they used to get what they wanted. It was more
than that, deeper, unfathomable.
She
told Jerry that her boyfriend had drowned right there, swimming with her
on a hot summer night exactly one year ago. She returned every
night and listened to the ocean whispering to her on the wind. The
sea had taken away the only thing she ever loved. She said that
was the great mystery of the sea. It was like a jealous lover. It
could bring you tremendous happiness or it could destroy you.
“How
did it happen?” Jerry asked.
“How
does anything like that happen? It just happened. He must
have been caught in a riptide.”
“Could
he swim?”
“Of course he could swim. He was more at home in the water than
he was on land. I was never so scared in my whole life. I
looked for him. I dove under the water but I couldn't find him.
I left and got help. When I came back, he was there, face down in
the sand, the water running over him like the ocean had swallowed him up
and spit him out.”
They both stared blankly into the clear night sky, at the stars frozen
in orbit. She slid a little closer to him and her eyes widened.
“Let's
not talk about it anymore. Let's go for a swim!” She said
it with an excitement that took Jerry by surprise.
“Now?”
She
sprinted toward the water, throwing off her shirt along the way.
Jerry trudged along at a slow gallop behind her, in anticipation of a
cold slap of water against his face.
* * *
They
took a slow walk to her beachfront condo, a duplex of weather beaten
wood shingles with a second floor deck overlooking the water. They
sat on the deck and smoked cigarettes, dropping the butts into an empty
tin can. They looked into the blackness where the water and sky
touched.
Windy
moved to a lounge chair, lay on her back and blew clouds of blue smoke
into the air. She tossed the cigarette onto the sand and rolled
onto her stomach, her face buried into her folded arms, her hair flowing
over the side of the chair.
Jerry
watched her as if he was looking at a painting on a museum wall or a
lion in a cage or a car wreck on the side of the road. She rolled
onto her back, untied the knot in her shirt and let it fall from her
shoulders.
She
clung to him, her fingers digging into his back. He winced from
the initial sting of her nails. Her soft moans were hypnotic.
She bared her teeth, bit his ear and whispered his name. Her touch
was like ice. He felt trapped in her arms. He was burning
up. Sweat poured down his face. He felt as if his mind had
left his body. The voices in his head weren't his own. His
desire turned to humiliation, frustration and then rage.
He
tried to tear himself away. He thrashed uncontrollably. The
sunburned skin on his back crawled as if thousands of biting flies were
eating him alive. His hands went to her throat. Windy had
played games like this before but it was always just a game. Her
breath came in short gasps. Her mouth hung open. Her eyes
bulged under the pressure as though they would pop out of their sockets.
He released his grip just before she lost consciousness.
He
ran inside, into the bathroom and slammed the door. He heard her
choking coughs subside. He jumped into the shower and let the cold
water run against his neck. He was tired. He stepped onto
the deck, a towel wrapped around his waist, still dripping wet, the
night air cool against his skin. Windy leaned against the wooden
ledge, her back to him. She was still naked.
“I'm
sorry.”
“Are
you crazy? Bobby said you were a little strange but he didn't say
you were psycho.”
“Maybe
Bobby's right?”
“Let's
just forget it. Light me a cigarette.”
He
struck a match and held it up in front of her. She bent toward
him, the cigarette dangling from her lips. Jerry's eyes were
transfixed, trance-like, drawn to a single point of light where the
flame seemed to leap from his fingertips, throwing shadows across her
face.
“Why
do you let Bobby talk that way about you, tell you what to do?
You're the war hero, not him.”
“Does
a war hero shoot himself in the leg with his own gun, shoot himself in
the leg because he doesn't have the guts to put one his brain?”
He ambled slowly back inside, dragging his bandaged leg. “The Army
calls it a self-inflicted wound. I'm not a coward. I'm not.
I just wanted to come home.”
She
followed behind him, talking at his back.
“Then
why did you go in the first place?”
“I
thought if I could get away, do something big, it would change
everything, change the way people saw me, the way they treated me.”
He
collapsed and curled up on the mattress. Windy threw a blanket
over him and shut off the light.
* *
*
He
slept late but couldn't shake the lingering fatigue. The morning
light streamed through the windows, magnified by the thin glass.
His eyes slowly adjusted. He looked around the room, at the bare
walls, at the watermarks where the ceiling had begun to crumble, at the
burn marks on the carpet and on the bare mattress flat on the floor
where he'd slept. Windy was gone.
He
checked the deck, the kitchen and bathroom. He looked for a note.
He went room to room calling her name like a kid lost in a department
store. His pants and sneakers were on the deck, drying in the sun.
He slipped them on and got the hell out of there.
He
went out the back door and down the narrow path to the beach. The
sand was hot against the bottom of his feet. He limped along the
edge of the surf where the sand was cool and flat, marching the mile to
where he'd agreed to meet Bobby and Tommy. The sun was already
high and getting hotter, a great yellow eye staring down from a
cloudless sky.
Jerry
saw them before they saw him. Bobby and Tommy were lying face down
in the sand like a couple of beached whales while Windy danced around
them, animated and electric, like she was telling her life story and had
only a minute to tell it. She was wearing a black bikini and a
baseball cap. Her hair was tied back into a ponytail that bounced every
time she did. Bobby couldn't take his eyes off her.
“I
figured you'd show up sooner or later,” Bobby said, speaking to Jerry
but still looking at Windy. “It seems like you're always half
asleep.”
Bobby
laughed and Windy giggled as if what he'd said was actually funny.
Jerry
didn't say a thing. His heartbeat was in his throat, pounding in
his ears.
“I
just meant that I wouldn't let this thing out of my sight for very long
if I was you.”
Bobby
pointed to Windy, his outstretched index finger moving slowly forward
until it poked her lightly above the navel. Windy giggled again,
louder this time, and pushed his hand away like a little girl pushes
away her dessert because her belly is already full.
“Let's
take a walk, Windy.” Jerry took her hand and pulled her toward
the water.
She
wrenched her hand away and cocked her hip, her toes tracing an arc in
the sand. “Hey, I thought you guys were friends.” Windy made
the statement sound like a question.
Bobby
concocted a curt apology for being such a wise ass and Windy forgave him
for everybody. She invited them to a party at the far end of North
Side Park on the bay. She looked at Bobby. “Pick me up at
my place at eight o'clock, ok?”
The
three of them were still nodding when she pulled off her hat and threw
it at Bobby. She ran for the water and dove into a cresting wave.
Her body arced over the water like a dolphin before it disappeared
beneath the surface. They watched her emerge from the murky water,
the surf following behind her. Glistening beads of water
dripped from her hair and clung to her skin. She turned and ran
down the beach until she was out of sight, her footprints vanishing
behind her in the soft shifting sand.
Bobby
stuck the hat on his head. He sat down next to Tommy, who hadn't
moved a muscle, and dug a bottle of Tanqueray out of the sand. He
took a sip and held the bottle out to Jerry. Jerry looked at it as
though it was poison.
“What's
your problem?” Bobby asked.
“What did you say to her?” Jerry asked, a note of desperation
seeping into his voice.
“I
didn't say nothing to her. She just showed up, said she let you
sleep. Why are you so uptight?”
“I
want to know what you told her about me.”
“I
told her you were a soldier, that you fought a war and might have to go
back. What's wrong with that?”
“What
else Bobby?”
“What
do you care?”
“I
want to know!”
“Ok,
if you want to know the truth. I told her you were a miserable
guy, didn't know how to have fun. I said that you were a lonely
person that couldn't relax, that you never really grew up. That
you didn't have much experience with women. That the only
girlfriend you ever had dumped you and that was why you joined up.
Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“That
had nothing to do with it.”
“You're
getting upset over nothing, Jerry.”
“Anything
else I should know since you're in the mood for honesty?”
“Well,
since you asked, I told her to go easy on you. A girl like that
will have you wrapped around her little finger and I didn't want you
leaving with another heartbreak on your hands.”
“You're
not funny, Bobby.”
“At least I didn't tell her how your mom dressed you up like a girl
until you were ten years old, grew your hair long, made you wear a
dress. That would have been funny.”
“That's
nobody's business. Just shut up”
“You
hated her, didn't you, seeing all those different men, coming and going.
It drove you crazy, didn't it?”
“I
said shut up!”
“Whatever.”
Bobby's
famous last word but Jerry didn't stick around to hear it. He was
already up on the boardwalk, moving away, melting into the flowing mass
of people.
He
stopped at a refreshment stand and bought a cup of cold lemonade.
He sipped it through a straw. He tightened the bandage around his
leg and walked down the long wooden track toward the pier, spinning
lights from the amusement rides alive in the distance. Gulls swept
in and out, hovering overhead, picking trash, lying in wait for someone
to drop a French fry. They squawked and fought among themselves
for every stray morsel.
A
variety of competing aromas drew his attention. He found a pizza
shop that wasn't too crowded, with picnic tables outside and a walk-up
window. He sat down with a couple of slices and watched the crowd
flounder past.
Rows of well-greased tourists moved like ants in an endless flow of
people. Fat suburban parents fought with their spoiled blue-eyed
children. The sun burnt their noses and fried their toes.
Jerry finished his lunch. He kept walking, reached the arcades.
Groups of teenagers gathered around the glittering machines.
Colored lights and loud music charged the atmosphere. Jerry was
dizzy from the heat and the noise.
He stopped in front of a dart game, balloons pinned to a blue board.
A middle-aged man with shoulder length hair sized him up from behind the
counter. He was thin in a white tank top and cut off shorts,
trying to look half his age, a dirty apron around his waist stuffed with
dollar bills. Jerry handed him three dollars and took aim.
Three
in a row would have won him an oversized stuffed animal or a big balloon
on a stick. He managed one hit and tried again. He coughed
up another three dollars and then three more. Before long, he was
down to his last dollar.
He
walked away empty handed and sat on a row of weatherworn benches next to
a guy in a confederate hat, a frayed suede jacket and cowboy boots.
He played the guitar and tapped his foot in time. Sweat poured
down the guy's face. His body odor was stifling. Jerry
dropped the dollar bill into a tambourine at the man's feet.
He
wandered aimlessly into a darkened pool hall, the clutter of balls like
a hundred ticking clocks. He walked across the slanted wooden
floor, looking for the men's room. He felt sick.
He
saw the sign over the door and went in. A rusted toilet and sink
stood side by side in the corner. The door creaked shut. It
wouldn't lock. He could still hear the music, the screaming kids,
voices behind the warped plywood walls. He noticed a narrow space
between the rough boards. He peered through the opening.
The
ladies' room was adjacent to the men's, a cubicle with the same rusted
toilet and sink. A cloudy mirror on the opposite wall held the
image of a girl sliding into a bathing suit one thin leg at a time.
Her blond hair hung loose over her bare shoulders. She pulled the
tight yellow fabric high on her hips. She ran her hands lightly over the
thin material, pressed it smooth against her breasts, reached over her
head and tied it behind her neck. She couldn't have been more than
seventeen.
Jerry
held his breath. He couldn't pull himself away. He moved
silently, opened the door slowly. She smiled when she first saw
him, like it was an accident, like he opened the wrong door and would
just turn around and leave. He looked so innocent, so harmless.
He slapped his hand over her mouth and pushed her head back against the
broken mirror.
He ripped away the thin material and fondled her small breasts.
She squirmed under his grasp and tried to bite his hand. He
grabbed her by the throat and pushed her to the ground. Her head
cracked against the toilet and her eyes rolled. He saw the blood
dripping down the white porcelain and the growing red stain on the
floor.
Jerry ran, back onto the boardwalk, back into the flowing tide of
tourists. He picked a half-empty bag of popcorn from a trashcan
and tossed them one at a time to the circling gulls. They squawked
hilariously, diving around him in a mad frenzy. He dumped the rest
of the bag on the ground and watched the birds battle it out.
* * *
The
sun was sinking fast by the time they rolled up in front of Windy's
place, Bobby and Tommy in the front seat and Jerry in the back.
Bobby leaned on the horn and Windy was out the door and down the steps
like it was her first day of school. She wore white shorts, a
white halter and white sneakers. She was all in white.
Jerry
slid over to make room for her but when Tommy opened the door and
stepped out, she slid across the front seat. Tommy slid in next to
her and the car was rolling before the door slammed shut. Jerry
gazed out the small side window at the heavy Saturday night traffic.
The sky was almost purple and the headlights lit the street.
She
directed them to a secluded strip of coastline that jutted out into the
calm waters of the bay, to a small park and an abandoned playground.
The swings hung silent and still in the moonlight, their heavy chains
throwing shadows over the sand. The glow of a smoldering campfire
shimmered against the opaque landscape. Silhouettes became
visible. The music grew louder.
Bobby
parked the car and they walked toward the crackling fire. Windy
ran ahead. The sand looked like a bed of black powder under the
shifting light. The water on the bay was quiet, no crashing waves,
no roar from an angry ocean.
Bobby
and Tommy helped themselves to cans of cold beer. Windy was
dancing near the fire, her movements wild and contorted.
Jerry sat on a log in front of the fire, his eyes riveted on the glowing
coals deep inside the circle of flames. He watched as the wood was
consumed and converted to white ash.
Bobby sat down and slid his hand over Jerry's shoulder and brought the
beer to his lips.
“Hey,
Jerry, are you and Windy still together? I mean, it's hard to
tell.”
Jerry's eyes never left the fire. He didn't answer. He
didn't move.
Bobby threw his head back and roared with laughter. He chugged the
beer and strode confidently alongside Windy. He moved behind her
and slipped his hands around her waist, their hips grinding in unison.
Her head fell back onto his shoulder.
Jerry looked at the deep sharp lines behind Bobby's smile. He
looked at Windy, her eyes closed, her face a mask of sensual pleasure.
The wind blew in off the bay and stirred up a plume of curling gray
smoke that caught in Jerry's throat and stung his eyes.
He buried his head in his hands but he couldn't bury the haunting memory
of what he'd seen, of what he'd been made to do, of what he'd become.
He couldn't forget any of it. It was like trying to put a lid on a
volcano.
He reached his hand out into the fire, at the screaming faces frozen in
the flames. His skin crackled, turned black as coal, sizzled like
a pig on the spit. His shirt caught and he was on fire. He
jumped to his feet, the fire crawling all over him, in his eyes, in his
hair, burning his face.
He lunged at Bobby and they tumbled toward the water. They
disappeared for a moment beneath the black surface, Jerry writhing with
Bobby underneath him, his legs churning the water into a white lather.
He fought against the burning in his lungs. He couldn't hold his
breath any longer. He inhaled the warm salt water and his body
rolled, limp in the gentle tide.
Bobby crawled back through the thick sand on his hands and knees.
He glanced up at Windy. Light from the fire lit half her face, the
other half in darkness. She was frozen, as still as a model posing
for a painting, her hands together in front of her like she was praying
or applauding.
Copyright 2007 by
Keith Gilman
Gilman
is a cop that writes crime fiction. Catch him in Thuglit,
Demolition and Orchard Press Mysteries. His flash fiction appears
in DZ Allen's Muzzle Flash and is coming soon in MFOB.
