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~Modern Day, New Orleans~

WELCOME HOME, ASSHOLE.

I can still hear Jace’s voice and when I turn my head, I almost expect him to be standing there with a can of beer. He’s as dead as I wish I was. Growing up in foster care, Jace and his picture-perfect family were my sanctuary. Now he is gone. It had taken every ounce of my strength to face Amy and the boys... to tell them I wish it had been me and not Jace that had died. He had things to live for. I didn’t.

I bump the driver’s door of my dingy yellow jeep with my hip and the sound of it slamming shut bounces off the house. It makes a hollow sound. An empty building for an empty man.

Retrieving an awkwardly-large box from the back hatch, avoiding the trailer hitch connecting my small camper to the jeep, I stare up at the plantation, seeing what it could be and not what it has become through years of abuse and neglect. I don’t see the peeling paint, the ruined flower beds, or the mostly-rotted front porch. I see hope caged between walls that need my touch. It is still hard to believe that this is my house now. I’ve just come from an attorney’s office downtown. The ink is barely dry, but it’s mine. I begin walking forward. The action is awkward for me, my left leg wanting to get stuck at the knee and not move.

With each step, my vision for the house undulates and tries to separate into tiny pieces. It threatens to show me the actual ruin that I am approaching. The mood swings are a hard adjustment. The ups and downs that wreck my moments like a wrecking ball against a condemned hostel. I force myself back to hope. I force myself to stay looking through the rose-hued glasses. But give it a minute. I’ll see the crap end of the deal once more. It’s inevitable, despite the meds.

I shift ever closer to the house. My right leg is fluid, natural, perfect. My other leg is clunky, erratic, refuses to cooperate. They’ve promised me a better leg, one with a better knee joint. We’ll see how long that takes to get.

Reaching out, I push the broken cast iron gate inward until I’ve made a gap large enough to squeeze through. It creaks and groans. It protests like a dying cat. I know its pain.

I have to stare at the ground for a moment to keep from tripping. The walk is uneven and overcome by tree root. When I feel the grass and weed beneath my feet are level enough to risk looking up, the change is there. The hope is gone. The house is a heap of busted wood and cracked glass.

Years of hazard pay.

No family.

No commitments.

Frugality to the bitter end until I had half down on a ‘historic’ dump. Plus a few outbuildings I haven’t even bothered to explore.

A stable. A servant’s cottage. More work.

I balance the box on the tumble-down porch railing and cross my arms, staring out over the summer-browned grasses.  At least the view is better from this angle, less depressing.

It will be a helluva place, once finished. Worth double my investment, at least. Not that I ever see selling the place. The realtor had taken me to a place down the street three months ago, tried to convince me that it was a ‘more manageable’ a project. She’d looked at my leg when she’d said it, judged my ability. That, more than anything, had taken that house off the list. Then again, it also had a hundred pecan trees on either side of the drive. It was grand by most people’s standards, but I only saw obstacles to mow around. An annoyance though, not something I was avoiding because I was a broken man.

That’s all people saw anymore. They didn’t see the strength in my arms, the steel in my eyes. They judged me in an instant, measured me by the artificial limb that kept me upright.

In the end though, it wouldn’t have mattered if the other house didn’t have the impressive pecan trees. It wouldn’t have mattered if the realtor hadn’t hurt my pride.

No other place called to me the way this place did. This home, in all its rundown grandeur.  I’d answered the call. And it had nearly drained my funds dry.

But I’m in this for the long haul—a last ditch attempt at being useful. I have to do something with my hands that doesn’t make somebody else bleed. I have to be more than a killer. I need to make this property whole in all the ways that I’m not. Maybe I’ll heal along with the joists and beams. Maybe I’ll find new meaning in refinished wood and fresh coats of paint.

Maybe I’ll become human again.

I enter the code into the realtor box hanging from the front door handle. The little door pops open, exposing the key. I could probably break the door down, if I wanted. The hinges are rusted through and only the bottom connection is still hanging on for dear life. I’ll need a new entrance, at least during renovations until I make the front porch area safe.

The Fleur de Lis leaded glass transom and sidelights are dirty, but in great shape. I’ll probably keep them. I want to save as much as I can, a testament to what care can do. Then again, I may not have a choice on what I do and do not refurbish. I’ve already been warned by the realtor that the historical society will be on me in a flash when I start the reno. That’s another reason she pushed the other house on me. It wasn’t on the registry; the city wouldn’t bother me with cumbersome rules and regulations.

But I’m not scared of ink and paper. Little men with little clipboards are nothing to me.

People may say the pen is mightier than the sword. Those are the humans who have never crossed the line into war and madness.

Despite my bravado, there is a small seed of unease in my belly. If this doesn’t work... It’s a fuck ugly thought so I don’t finish it... this time.

I unlock the deadbolt and grab the box. When I slip into the foyer, there’s a cool breath of wind, like a winter sigh down my neck. I press the door closed. The click of the latch becomes the click of the safety on an M4. Instinctually, I find myself closing one eye, staring down the sightline, looking for the target.

And then I hiss at the onslaught of images, because I can’t do this right now. I moved for a fresh start. I wouldn’t let the past cut me down at the moment of rebirth. Shaking my head to dislodge the gunfire, I set the box I’ve brought from the jeep onto the scratched and molded hardwoods of the front foyer. The rest of my stuff will be here any minute. I’ll have to interact with the movers. I’ll have to act like I’m a living thing.

The warped glass of a mirror, original to the home and for some reason left to rot within the walls instead of liberated for preservation, catches my gaze. The cotton tank I am wearing does nothing to obscure the healed wound in my shoulder. It is catching a ray of light now, looking whiter and glossier than the surrounding skin. I have pants on at least, to hide the bionic leg and large scars. I should be thankful that the surgeons were able to save my right leg; it was a miracle. Yet, I feel it often exists only to taunt me, remind me that my left leg will never be flesh and bone again.

I run a calloused hand through my dark brown hair. I’d kept it buzzed short for a long time, militant. It was habit and felt right. But that life was behind me now. Letting the strands grow was an affirmation. For a moment, I am caught in the black pool of my own eyes. They are normally the same shade as my hair, but when I am captured in blood-soaked memory, the pupils expand until I am a demon incarnate.

I stare too long.

The movie begins to play, a reel of scenes in glaring Technicolor overcome me.

A rumble of tires down the drive brings me out of it. I’m on the floor with my back to the door, trembling and drenched in sweat. I do not know how long I have been a prisoner to memory. I count slowly as I work to unclench my teeth and fists. The box is beside me, tipped to the side, its contents strewn over the time-ruined oak floor. I’ve thrashed and hit it in my frenzy. When my muscles loosen, I twist around and peer through the door-length window that frames the front entrance. The logo of the moving company against the dirty white of a large truck peers back. I turn away, facing the sweeping double staircase. The movers can wait. I can’t face them until I’ve fully recovered.

In the adjacent rooms, white sheets drape antique furniture throughout the lower floor, shapes as ghostly as the guys I can’t leave behind. The place came partially furnished, not that any of the chairs and sofas are fit for use. The water district and the electric co-op will be out tomorrow to help me turn on utilities and get my camper hooked into it all. Until then, I’ll be roughing it inside. At least the floor will be relatively even, no rocks and debris pushing into my back.

The air brakes hiss on the moving van followed by the crunch of boots on the ground. I’m functional again, as functional as a man like me can be.  I climb to my feet, making sure my shortened leg is still seated in the prosthesis. It comes loose when I least expect it and when the heat causes swelling, the silicon sleeve that cushions my skin chafes and causes a painful rash. Add that to the phantom limb pain and occasional open sore, I’m exactly what that doctor who amputated my leg said—lucky.

Shaking my pant legs, I watch as the hemlines settle around my ankles—one flesh and one metal. I roomed with a guy back at Walter Reed who would initiate every one of his new nurses by flipping his leg at the knee joint so his foot would salute the ceiling. Sometimes, I found him punch-worthy annoying. Other times... most of the time... I just wanted to be him: accepting of my situation and still finding the humor in life. But we weren’t that different, not really. When he wasn’t laughing and clowning, he was crying. There wasn’t much in-between. That was most of us around there, learning to live with what we’d become.

I haven’t heard from him since I left. Mike was his name. Maybe I should reach out. Maybe I shouldn’t. Beginning my lopsided walk to the front door, I mentally curse the temperamental knee joint. I have a custom one that’ll be delivered whenever the VA gets around to it. It’ll take an intervention from a divine power to get it anytime sooner than five years from now. Banking on the promises of the government is sometimes like pissing in a colander.

The door squeaks when I open it and that weird breath of cold tickles the hairs on my neck. It’s unsettling, like somebody’s watching me from inside the building. But that feeling could be left over from the repeated tours overseas, that sensation of not knowing the enemy’s location. I shake it off. I’m a civilian now. I wasn’t a war machine anymore.

“Hello,” I say. Two muscular men stand at the bottom of the stairs; the one with a mustache is holding a clipboard in his hand.

The one holding the paperwork looks down and uses his left index finger to swipe under some writing. He’s concentrating, wanting to pronounce my name right I’m guessing. I’ve never understood why my surname proves so confusing to people. “Spencer Kilbourn?”

“That’s me. I’m Spencer.”

He steps up one riser and offers his hand. “I think we have your stuff.” He continues speaking as our rough fingers and palms make contact, “If you show us where you want everything, we’ll get started.”

I shrug. “It’s not important. You can just pile it in the dining room. I’ll have to move it all again anyway.” I point through the open door. “First room on your left.”

As they bring in the first boxes, I stand to the side, my body heavy enough to bow down the porch floor. When they exit, the man that seems to be in charge looks at me, a strange expression on his face. “Sure is chilly in there. Straight down to the bones. You’re going to run up a fortune in electric bills against the New Orleans’ heat. My wife busted the bank first year here. I was born and raised here, but I’m damn glad we live up North now. Less hot and less... other things.”

Quirking an eyebrow at the ‘other things’ comment, I’m reminded of the cold kiss of wind I’ve felt twice. It is crazy that the interior of the house is so chilly. “I can imagine someone could rack up quite the bill trying to cool a place this large, but there’s no electrical yet. House must just be insulated well.” Even I hear that there is a lie on my tongue. Yet, I have no idea what I am lying about? I am only making a clear assumption. Aren’t I?

“Sure... insulated well.” He says nothing more, but I can see that he wants to, that there are words prancing inside his mouth, threatening to dance out, but he goes back to moving my stuff.

I could ask, but I don’t give a shit. This is place is life or death for me. My last hurrah at life.

When everything is haphazardly piled inside, I wave the movers off. They finish in silence, proving to be poor company. Not that I wanted companionship. The mustached man’s eyes pierce me as he turns the wheel and directs the truck away.

Strange, maybe, but not high on my remarkable scale. I shrug and turn back to sorting the boxes. I’ll need to take a few into the camper.

And then I’m going to drink a cold beer in the company of ghosts.