Purple Hearts(6)

“The army also builds roads and hospitals and schools. We protect civilians. We protect aid workers.”

I threw up my hands. “Well, good for you!”

He stiffened, pulled out a few bills, threw them down on the bar.

“You grew up with Frankie, right?” Luke nodded toward Frankie, who had meandered over to the jukebox.

“Kind of.”

He stood up, draining the last of the water. “Then it makes sense.”

“What makes sense?” I hated that I had to look up at him, hated that despite my rush of anger, I could still feel some part of me being pulled.

Luke waved his hand toward me, dismissing. “Tattoos, bumper stickers, indie rock, blah blah. Probably a Prius your parents pay for.”

“All right. Number one, you don’t know me. Number two, I wasn’t shitting on you, personally. Or your choice to do whatever it is you do in the military. All I was doing was stating my right to not be called a bitch by your friend.”

Luke jumped on the end of my sentence. “You’re right, we don’t know each other, and what we do know is that you didn’t give a scared kid a chance to sober up, apologize, and spend the night with his buddies, because, what? You want world peace?” He tapped the bar. “Correct? Just so we’re clear.”

“I do know how he acted right here, right now, soldier or not.” I was almost yelling, breathing hard again. “And you can vacate as well.”

“No problem,” he told me, stepping back from the bar. “Have a nice life.”

A few minutes later the whole group stumbled out, Frankie offering a sad wave over his shoulder as they went. There went the possibility of any more tips. I felt my apron. Even after I’d served them two rounds, the wad of bills and receipts was thin.

Frankie stuck his head back in the doorway, giving me a sad wave before disappearing again.

Shit.

Nora sidled up, holding a colorful brochure in her hand. She looked at Luke’s payment. “You gonna take that?”

“Yeah. But part of me doesn’t want anything from that asshole.” I wiped down every inch of the bar where he sat. “Can you get me another Gatorade?” I asked Nora.

“Sure. How many is that? Five?”

I shrugged. I was thirsty. I was always thirsty.

“Anyway, I don’t want this, either.” She handed me the brochure. Go Army, it read. Count the Benefits. “It came with a proposal from Armando.”

“A marriage proposal? Seriously?”

“As serious as a drunk warrior on the eve of battle.”

I shoved the brochure in my apron and pulled out the wad of receipts. “How many more rounds until we can buy another amp?”

“A lot.” She sighed, before pouring two shots. “Cheers!”

“Get back to work,” I said, lifting the little glass to clink with Nora’s, laughing but barely feeling it. I chased the shot with a sip of Gatorade, and tried to shake off a feeling of dread. I wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Maybe it was that soldier, or maybe it wasn’t until now that my unemployment was sinking in. I was really cut loose, a flailing kind of freedom. As I finished clearing the bar of receipts and straw wrappers and soaked cardboard coasters, I found myself suddenly shooting my hand out from my waist, trying to catch a piece of paper as it fluttered in the air. My napkin to-do list, crumpled and disguised, had almost landed in the trash.





Luke


I woke up in Frankie’s guest room under a comforter made out of feathers and the usual invisible elephant sitting on my chest. The lady who led our group sessions at St. Joseph’s had said the “elephant sensation” might be anxiety. The idea of having anxiety just made my chest tighter, so I’d ignored her, but, yes, the elephant made things that were easy for most people hard for me. Things like being nice, enjoying substances or food in reasonable doses, believing the plots of movies, sleeping, making decisions. Never been able to get the hang of those things, even when I was a kid, and maybe never will.

Then again, some things that are hard for most people are easy for me, like waking up early, and running.

I found Frankie’s room because the door was posted with FRNKIE on a Texas license plate. I cracked it open. He grunted. I glanced at the photos on his dresser.

Frankie and his mom and dad, squinting at the Grand Canyon.

Frankie as a toddler in a cowboy hat.

Frankie and a little girl closer to his age, maybe a cousin, sitting in a sandbox.

I looked closer. The expression on the little girl’s face looked familiar, those full eyebrows, and the color of her skin, a shade darker than mine or Frankie’s. Cassie, the bartender. Huh. I didn’t realize she knew him that well.

“Running?” Frankie half whispered when I told him, lacing up my gray-green Brooks.

“Yeah, leave your back door open, okay?” I said, backing out of his room. I’d do six or seven, depending on the heat.

West Lake Hills was all downhill, dark, smooth pavement and giant, quiet mansions trickling by.

I was also good at thinking about things that didn’t necessarily mean anything. And thinking about them a lot. The thoughts usually began with a random phrase I’d heard during the week, passing through my head. Nice shot, Private. Nice shot. Nice shot.

Today it was, Well, good for you!