A Hard and Heavy Thing (43 page)

When he woke, he typed what he had written, and he wrote again. At some point in the night before—he didn't know when—what he had been writing turned into something more than a simple suicide note. It had turned into a love letter, and he felt like he couldn't stop until he finished. Until he had written every word he had inside him to write, he could not in any way give up the ghost.

He continued his confessional. Each night he returned to the river and thought the same dark thoughts, but he was not yet ready. Each night he returned home to pray the same desperate prayers, and each morning he woke to continue that, or rather this, note. It was in this process that Levi walked, until one night in early July, something extraordinary happened.

He typed his final word. His fingers rested on the keyboard. There was a moment of complete stillness between breaths. There was no clattering of keys. There was no percussion from the club below. There was no conversation in the hallway, no buzzing of electronics, no whooshing of ventilation, and no humming of traffic. Even the wind had stopped blowing. He was done. He had written every word. There was nothing left to be said. For the first time in his life, he was content.

Then he exhaled and the world returned. The smoky stench of the apartment filled his nose when he inhaled again. The fan rattled in the window. Tires screeched and a horn honked. Someone in the hallway yelled an obscenity and slammed the door.

When Levi was immersed in his work, he had felt better. He felt like what he was doing was important. Each word that came out of him made him lighter. Now, he was done.

Levi's heart quickened. He grew nervous. He chewed on a fingernail. He saved the file and sent it to the printer. He stood up and paced as it printed, and when the printer ran out of paper, he refilled it. He smoked a cigarette as he stacked the hundreds of pages and waited for it to quit printing. When it was complete, he picked up the stack of paper and felt the thing that he held in his hands. It was hard and it was heavy and it was just as he had feared.

It was nothing but a stack of paper. Nothing but words. He had begun the process alone and now that he had finished, he remained alone. If he had confessed, if he had explained, if he had said anything of value at all, he had said it only to himself, and that meant nothing.

He paced and he smoked. He rummaged through his cupboards looking for a drink. When he found none, he rummaged through the footlockers under his bed. Finally, he found two single-drink bottles of vodka stuffed inside some toilet paper rolls in his old duffel bag. He slurped them down, welcoming the burn down his throat.

He stood over his manuscript again. He resisted the urge to throw it in the incinerator. He turned to the end and scribbled a final apology note in his own hand. Among other things, he wrote, “I know: too little, too late.”

He wrapped the thing up in a large rubber band, put it in a collapsible folder, and took it out of his apartment.

The night was hot. The air felt full and thick with humidity. Levi began sweating before he had walked across the street to the parking ramp. Once inside his truck, he drove in silence to the north side of town. He wiped his hand against his dripping forehead as he sat across the street from the comfortable home on Liberty Street where his old friends lived.

The lights were off. Levi took the folder from his passenger seat and stepped outside his truck. He left his door open to minimize noise. He walked across the street. He slowly opened the front door that led to the little mudroom between the garage and the house. He set the folder on the mat where someone was sure to see it, and he left.

He felt lighter as he left, but it was not a good feeling. He felt hollow, as if he had torn his own insides out and left nothing but the shell.

When he returned home, he was too tired to follow through with anything but sleep. He lay on his side and put his hands together under his head. He pulled his knees up and imagined himself as an oil painting of an angelic, innocent, and untainted child. He ignored the stubble that pressed into the back of his hand, and he imagined the rosy cheeks of a cherub.

Levi woke to the sounds of the street and of guns. It was a night that sounded like Baghdad. When he peered out the window, he saw that it was early evening, and the rapid cracking of gunfire came from two teenage boys lighting Black Cat fireworks at the edge of the alley near the parking garage.

As a matter of habit, he cleaned himself up, ate a bit of food, and put his feet to the pavement as a way to wake his mind in preparation for the writing he would do at night. But as he moved among the crowds of revelers passing in and out of bars and restaurants in preparation for a wilder celebration that night, he faced the melancholic truth that his writing was done and there was nothing, nothing at all, left for him to do.

Levi made his way to Riverside. Several middle-aged and elderly couples had arrived hours too soon to begin saving their places along the river, but the park was not yet as crowded as it would surely become. He moved south through the park, nearly as far as the big blue suspension bridge on Cass Street. He stopped at a secluded patch of grass where he could be alone to think.

Levi stood on the eastern bank of the mighty Mississippi, his feet planted firmly on the grass in front of the large rocks that led out to the river. The still water sprawled out in front of him like glass. The setting sun reflected brightly in its surface. It looked solid, as if he could walk on it like Saint Peter, if only he had enough faith. An occasional series of cracks or the whistling of bottle rockets floated over from Pettibone Beach on the far side.

He was alone.

The sound of the summer slowly and faintly gave way to that ancient instrument of war, the bagpipes, playing an old familiar song. At first, the notes forcing their way into his consciousness were indistinguishable from the cicadas and their singing tymbals. As the notes came closer, however, they grew louder until the song of the pipes carried across the river, and he had no choice but to acknowledge the melody.

He had heard this same song as the centerpiece of every funeral he had ever attended. Some of the words moved through his head with an involuntary force.
Through many dangers, toils, and snares I have already come.
He took a step closer to the water.

The music grew louder so he turned, trying to find where the notes were coming from. He saw Nick walking toward him from the edge of the open expanse of grass. Levi tried dismissing the music as nothing more than part of a parade or some other part of the festivities of the day, but as Nick grew closer, holding his standard high, looking as though he were walking in perfect step with the rolling rudiments of the snare drums accompanying the pipes, Levi began to think that Nick was somehow bringing the tune to his ears. In a way, it was as if the song were coming from inside Nick himself. He had no beauty or majesty that he should attract anyone, yet there he was, magnetic and glorious, yet terrifying because of all Levi had done to betray him.

He grew closer and closer and Levi watched wide-eyed until Nick stood in front of him. The notes from the bagpipes pierced his ears at such a close range. When it reached the point that Levi couldn't take it any longer, Nick lifted a hand. The music and the drums—in fact all sound—stopped.

Nick reached out his hand and touched his friend. “I've been looking everywhere for you.”

“I didn't want you to find me.”

“Why are you here?” Nick asked.

“I can't carry it any further. Not alone.”

“You can't carry what?”

“My guilt. My failures. This stone.” Levi held up the rock from that day long ago in Iraq.

“Come down to the river,” Nick said.

They stepped along the rocks until they looked down into the water. Nick pointed at the murky waters and their skewed reflection. “Why do you still see us in old clothes?”

In the dark surface, Levi saw himself as he once was. He ran his hand down his chest and touched the brass buttons on his uniform with reverence. He straightened his ribbons and the accolades of that other life he had once known. He reached over and picked lint from Nick's shoulder. He cinched and smoothed his tie. Yet, despite the old clothes with all their superficial pomp, he saw no recognition in the eyes of the soldiers in the water. Their features were less linear. Their jaws were softer. The hair was a bit too long at the ears.

He pulled at the bottom hem of his coat. “We look like we're just playing dress up.” He tried out the position of attention and lifted his chin. He tried to look proud, in control of himself, in command of things. He simply looked tired. “We were just boys playing dress up back then, and we're just playing dress up now.”

“It's never too late for new clothes,” Nick said.

“Didn't you read what I wrote you?”

Nick nodded.

“Didn't you read the end?”

“This isn't some story. This is your life. You don't get to choose when it ends.”

“It's too late,” said Levi sadly.

“It's never too late to rewrite it. It's never too late to rewrite the future.”

Levi shook his head. “That's just wishful thinking.”

“So then,” Nick said. “Why are you here?”

Levi lifted up the stone that he still held. He gave it to Nick. “It would be well within your right,” he said. “To crush me with it.”

Nick took the rock, felt its weight, and looked at the rock as if he didn't recognize it. As if it were something he had never seen before. He reached back and then threw it with great force. It arched high over their heads, above the glassy surface in front of them, and it landed with a small plop in the river. The water rippled and the concentric rings coming from where it landed wiped out the reflection of their old selves. The muddied images were soon invisible and forgotten.

Levi was—for a moment—stung by the fear that there had to be more to it. He looked over at Nick, his countenance unchanged except for a small satisfied smile. “That's it?” he asked him.

Nick nodded. “It's finished.”

“That's it,” Levi whispered in wonder.

In this way, the stone was cast into the depths forever.

“But what about you and Eris?”

“I don't know. I wish I did, but I don't. Only characters get resolutions; real people keep living.”

“I'm sorry, Nick. I never meant to—”

He shook his head. “I know.” He smiled sadly. “Why don't you write us a happy ending?”

Levi nodded. “And then? And now? What am I supposed to do?”

“Walk with me,” Nick said.

The drums rolled. The pipes played. Levi fell in step and they walked together; they walked home.

As they walked, they called to more people, and some of them joined their throng. A float adorned with flags and fighting men fell in line behind them. Cars and fire trucks joined, and more floats too. They walked around town and grabbed people from the bars and restaurants, gas stations and farms. They gathered the children from the Little League games and called to the parents sipping beer on the top row of the rickety wooden bleachers at the diamonds. They pulled the homeless from under the bridges and the forgotten from under their shadows. Soon the trailers and floats were swallowed by the crowd. They called to everyone they saw until they had a full parade.

As night fell, they—that is, we—
we
walked into the park. The music stopped and most found places to sit. We buzzed from excitement, waiting to see the sky light up in celebration of our freedom.

I walked with my friend, my brother, into the park where we found a grassy area next to the creek. We lay on our backs and stared at the clear sky. We felt the prickling of the grass on our bare arms and we smelled the damp must of the mossy trees. The fireworks started with a flash, and we could feel the concussions from the blast deep inside our memories. We watched the red, white, and blue explode in front of our faces. We watched those colors fade to nothing before they ever hit the ground.

1. What's the most remarkable (or unremarkable) thing about Levi's life pre-9/11?
   
2. How much of Levi, Nick, and Eris's adolescence mirrors your own?
   
3. How politically aware was Levi before 9/11? How much of any of his newfound “awareness” was based on serious study and how much was based on the twenty-four-hour cable news cycle? In that way, how much of a stand-in is Levi for the “average” American white male or the “average” soldier?
   
4. His time at war obviously leaves Levi very conflicted, especially as it relates to transitioning back into civilian life. Do you believe that this is a near universal experience for those returning from battle? Is it possible for those who haven't seen conflict to truly understand the challenges facing returning veterans?
   
5. Do you think that the inner conflict Levi experiences has a lot to do with the political leanings of most veterans? That is, do you believe it's easier for many veterans to simply support war because it eliminates the cognitive dissonance they'd experience if they continued fighting in a war to which they were politically opposed?
   
6. If Levi showed up in your neighborhood, how could the civilian population best aid him in processing his experience and integrating back into peaceful society? What can any of us do to help slow down the growing tide of veteran suicides?
   
7. Given what he's learned through experience, if, in the future, Levi had a child of his own who bore witness to an event like 9/11 and was contemplating joining the military, how would he advise his child?
   
8. Where is Levi in ten years? Nick? Eris?
   
9. How does Levi and Nick's faith (or lack of faith) impact their decisions to enlist (if at all)? How does it impact their decisions after leaving the military? How does religion, faith, or lack of faith affect the mental health of each individual?
   
10. Through their own tones as disappointed dad, irritated older brother, and concerned big sister, Levi's family tells him in various ways to man up. How does Levi interpret or misinterpret that message?
    
11. In what ways does Levi's authorial voice change as the book proceeds before, during, and after war? In what ways is his narrative influenced by the narratives that have already been written? How does this affect his own attempts at processing his story?
    
12. Levi, Eris, and Nick all have specific interpretations of their relationships and behaviors through the years. Who sees most clearly? Or are any of their narratives reliable? How reliable do you believe Levi relates to the perspectives of Eris and Nick when writing from their points of view?
    
13. What do you think brought Levi back from the edge? Was it Nick? The writing itself? Something else?