Dwelling (10 page)

“Is that…” Bobby trailed off. He stuffed an Oreo nervously into his mouth.

“Schwing!”
Jake sang joyfully.

“Issue number one?
Score!
” Ricky danced. “Why would lard butt Vince have a comic so…so…so wicked cool?”

“What’s so cool about this one?” Johnathan asked bluntly.

“Dude? You are a serious fart-knocker, you know that,” Bobby chimed, finishing his Oreo cookie. “Suicide Squad is the single most badass comic on the planet, man. All of D.C.’s baddies forced to work as special ops for the government. And because their supervillains and totally expendable, the government can send them on impossible missions.”

Johnathan looked embarrassed. “What, like Rambo or something?” he asked.

“Better,” said Jake.

“Such a fly comic…cool name…” Ricky said distantly, seemingly lost in thought.

“Vince came through, huh Johnny-Boy?” said Maggie.

Johnathan smiled, thankful for not being picked on any further.

“You know,” said Ricky, “we should have a name too, for our club, like in the comics.”

Excitement was building in Bobby’s clubhouse. Conversations blossomed and grew into a feverish pitch. Bobby and Jake were arguing between Marvel themed names,
Avengers
or
Generation X
. Maggie thought
Omega Five
sounded cool, considering there were five of them in the club. Johnathan was set on
Excalibur,
much to everyone’s disgust.

“Why not just…?” Ricky offered the near mint comic above his head. Deadshot, Bronze Tiger, Nightshade, Enchantress, Boomerang, Rick Flag, Mindboggler, and Rustam loomed above them.

“Suicide Squad
…” each whispered in unison. To an outsider, they may have seemed like monks giving some kind of mystic incantation.
“Suicide Squad,”
they chanted together.

The debate was over. In a strange way, it never really began. The group of teenagers, who’d come together back when
Voltron
and
Teddy Ruxpin
were the hot items on Christmas wish lists, and though of differing ages, Bobby and Jake being the oldest members of the group by at least two years, grew closer that day when they identified themselves with the moniker
Suicide Squad
. It wouldn’t be until years later during high school when things began to finally change. Relationships became, complicated. Identities. Love. Distance. It all muddied the water of their friendship. But the real kicker didn’t start when Bobby and Jake joined the service; the real rift set into motion the day they came upon the two-story farm house in Jotham later during that summer of ’95.

Jotham…?

Maggie sat on the couch, fighting the aggravated itch of forgetfulness.
Jotham…?
She struggled to remember. Everything after was so plain. Easy to find. Bobby dropped a ton of weight. He wanted to get into the infantry, and so he did, soon after walking the stage for his average grade point diploma on some other sad summer of June. Maggie recalled all this, but couldn’t recall Jotham, not yet at least. She pictured the day it all ended, the club. Bobby had never talked about joining up. Never mentioned it. He called Ricky the day he was leaving for Basic from a payphone to say goodbye, taking the lonely road to the MEPS center in Houston over near Rusk Street.

She and Ricky had gone on a date that same night, the first of many during that hot sad summer, to the movies, some horror flick,
American Psycho
. But Ricky seemed distant, clouded. Perhaps because he could no longer ignore that the group,
Suicide Squad
, was really pulling apart, and would never be the same, not as it had been. Not like it was.

Never again.

After 9/11, the September terrorist attacks on New York City and the Pentagon and that tragic field out in Pennsylvania, the world changed, and what remained of the group did not go unaffected. When Jake graduated he had started seminary, much to his parents delight. But when the Towers fell, he dropped out and joined the service, with the very same recruiter that had recruited Bobby, much to his folks’ horror. He shipped off a week later. The gang was less worried about Jake. He was going to be a Chaplain’s Assistant. Bobby was one to look out for. He was always so reckless. What would he get into with the infantry? God only knows. He wanted to be in the
shit
, as he’d said over the phone with Ricky.

Maybe he did find the
shit
, or the
shit
found him and that’s why no one’s seen or heard from him…? Maybe.

Eventually, the rest of
Suicide Squad
, Johnathan, Maggie, and Ricky, graduated high school. And they stayed relatively close, working meaningless, unsatisfying jobs in a growing and changing metropolis. The only reason, as Maggie had guessed, why Johnathan had even stuck around was because of Ricky, and because he had started dating her younger sister, Karen. Karen’s longtime ex-boyfriend had split after a pregnancy test came up positive. Johnathan had been in love with her since Middle School, of this Maggie was quite sure. Karen was too proud to ask their parents for help, but Johnathan had swooped in to save her.
A regular Knight in Shining Armor, yuck!
And he stood by her side throughout her pregnancy. Made sure she went to her doctor’s appointments, took her prenatal vitamins, folic acid, mega multi-minerals, C’s, B’s, D’s, the works. He made sure she got rest. He was there with her on every single step of the way.

And then, for some god-awful reason, Ricky got the itch to join the service. Maybe it had to do with all the stories Bobby was sharing of his misadventures in Afghanistan. Or perhaps it was because even mild-mannered Jake had joined, even if he was just a Chaplain’s Assistant. Maggie was never for certain. She had protested. He proposed. She agreed. They were wed. And then he shipped off for Basic, dragging a newlywed Johnathan along with him.
Suicide Squad
became nothing more than a pleasant nostalgic memory. Something brought up only when they were drunk enough to remember, or whenever they were actually able to get together. But no matter how far they fled, how far the world took them from one another, no matter how deep the memory hid,
it survived
.
Suicide Squad
, despite all the years and changes, never really went away. Maggie felt it now. It was buried deep, hibernating perhaps, beneath the surface while the wild wind of modernity blew new acquaintances, new relationships, and new destinations, as fast and furious as busboys hustling tables at a crowded restaurant. She could recall all of this, but nothing of Jotham.

Jotham…?

Maggie came back to reality. Cooper and the crying woman were gone. Another CNN anchor had replaced them. Some short-cropped brunette with blonde streaks. Black-framed glasses and a sharp chin. She was hosting the News Room Hour. Discussing something about the Supreme Court and Same Sex Marriage. Maggie looked for the remote to turn the volume up, but the report had shifted to something about ISIS. Maggie turned the TV off instead. The living room was pitched in a sudden and eerie silence.

Wasn’t Moxie barking?

Maggie turned on the couch, listening. “Moxie?” she whispered.

Nothing.

Strange.
Damn dog must have fallen asleep in Ricky’s chair
.

Ricky—God I miss you…

Maggie did everything she could not to think of her dead husband. But there he was, his face at the forefront of her mind, smiling at her with his nerdy goofy smile. Always smiling, warm and handsome. And then the flames, or how she had always imagined his end, consumed whatever happiness she felt from the intrusive memory. She begged Johnathan to tell her once, over the phone.
“I don’t care about your fucking leg, Johnathan. Tell me! Tell me how my husband died!”
she had yelled. But Johnathan never, could never, say. And so she imagined it on her own, pieced together by the worst newsreels she could imagine. And was that so horrible? It certainly was not difficult. The news can be a good substitute for the truth.

Maggie fought to turn back her thoughts, to find that summer of 1995 in her mind again, to find Jotham. There was meaning there, she felt it, but the more she reached the more her memory slipped away until all she could see was the loneliness that hung over her like a fat angry dark cloud. She put her face in her palms, rocking back and forth on the couch, wishing Ricky’s face would go away, praying the horrible tremors of regret to vanish.

Ricky was so handsome; his voice, comforting, strong.
Suicide Squad
never claimed a leader, but it was a silent agreement. Ricky was the naturally born
Rick Flag
of the group. The others took on varying codenames. Maggie fancied herself as first Enchantress, and later as Harley Quinn (after the animated show made her a popular character). Bobby was Deadshot. Johnathan was Boomerang, no matter how often they told him Boomerang was a pussy. Jake took Tiger Claw. Ricky had always been Flag. And it made sense. But now, she couldn’t see the charming handsome boy anymore, all she could see was what she’d imagined how his face looked when the RPG struck his truck, burnt to a crisp. When the Army had shipped his body back to the states, he had been too far decomposed to see, to identify. And according to his Last Will and Testament, he was to be cremated. Maggie never saw his body. Just the box with American flag draped over the top, rolled down into some boiling crematoria and
conveyored
into the furnace. Anger. Hate. Resentment.

Seeing Ricky in her mind’s eye fell on her like an old misshapen hat. Through all the
“We’re sorrys,”
and
“Things will get better,”
and
“He was so young, I’m so sorry, Maggie’s,”
and all that bullshit, she hated Ricky for what he did. She’d be damned to hell had she ever told anyone, but in her heart Maggie resented Ricky for making that choice, choosing the Army over her.
If he wanted a fucking adventure why did he have to drag me along with him? Now what was she supposed to do?
She said yes and off they went. And now the ride was over and she was left all alone. Just her and Moxie.

Moxie…?

That poor mutt was taking it worse than she was. Always in his tomb, always barking at his picture, sleeping in his chair. At least Maggie wasn’t doing that! She wasn’t giving in to the madness of loss. No shouting at the walls or wrapping herself in his old musty clothes. They were still there, in the closet, but it was only about a year since the cremation. Still the flowers lay crumbling on the table and it had been months since her last visit with the wives of the FRG, but still, she had time.

Maggie surveyed the quaint base house the two—three, if you count Moxie—had shared for a few short years before his deployment. She sneered at the items on the wall. The large, Texas Star bronze sculpture they had bought on a vacation to Galveston. The empty wine bottles saved from a weekend getaway to San Antonio for the Cottonwood Wine Tour. Photos of backyard BBQ’s and family get-togethers. It all seemed poisoned somehow, fragmented by the reality of loss.
God, I hate this place
, she thought.

The silent television sizzled back into life.

What the…?

White fuzz filled the screen. Static poured from the speakers. Maggie turned the TV off, again. The screen darkened.
Strange.
She placed the remote back on the couch.

The TV roared back to life. The same white snow filled the screen. And then suddenly the storm began to clear. A picture of a man came into focus. Maggie readied the remote, but was mesmerized by the man’s rosy cheeked face and warm smile. He was plump country and wore a large brown cowboy hat and a tweed blazer. The screen panned out revealing a pair of too small Wrangler jeans. He was dancing and shouting about something, Maggie couldn’t understand over the static. The man continued dance walking down a dirt road seemingly in Heaven’s backyard. As if caught by a breeze, the static sound drifted away.

The man was making a sales pitch.

“Are you sick of the muss and fuss of city living?” the man from the TV asked.

Who isn’t bub?

“Are commutes to work and home driving you absolutely bonkers?” prodded the man, tipping his cowboy hat up to give the audience a clearer view of his face.

How about memories of dead significant others?

“Are you looking for an escape?”

Yes, yes, oh God yes!

“Well, my friends, look no further. Get out of the city and into beautiful rural living, right here in the friendliest place on earth, Jotham, Texas,” the man smiled proudly.

Jotham?

“Located along Highway 77 and 290, conveniently close to several major cities, including Giddings. Jotham is perfect for anyone looking for a fresh start.”

I could use one of those.

“Traditional values. Southern hospitality. Come home to Jotham, where you’ll find that hometown charm.
Duke
guarantees you’ll love our community.” The smiling, dancing man hitched his thumbs inside his belt loop while the camera panned out revealing for the first time a magnificent white-painted, country two-story home complete with front porch in the background. The man continued his (all too) pleasant grin, frozen in space. The storm returned, pitching the screen back into white fuzz. It roared for a moment and turned off on its own.