Jason Koster

New York is always an option. I hate Manhattan, but I could live in a borough. I could blend into city life and disappear among all the other ghosts donning black clothes that inhabit the area. I pass the exit, the city no longer a choice, and keep driving south.

I never felt like I belonged there anyway.

I’ve traveled this country from Maine to Los Angeles, Alaska to Key West. I stayed a few days in a motel outside of Atlanta. Swam in the gulf along the Mississippi coast. Drank whiskey in the freedom of Joshua Tree, and slept under a blanket of stars in Texas.

I lived.

I survived.

Yet, all roads seem to lead me here.

My jersey number still graces the beat-up old sign along the highway. The billboard is just before the exit that leads you to a one-traffic-light town with a pharmacy that still serves ice cream at the counter and Wilbur Macy still sits in a rocking chair at the corner of Main and First Street.

It’s the kind of place where you’ll find the whole town at the stadium on Friday night and then in church on Sunday morning, not leaving much time to sin. Although we always managed to squeeze a little in.

I laugh when I spot the sign I use to shoot my BB gun at while driving by: This is God’s country. Don’t drive through it like hell.

This time I actually slow down. Might be the first time. I don’t want the attention, much less Jeffrey Whaley, the town deputy, pulling me over. I’ve managed to avoid the law for some time now, so there’s no need to cause trouble in my hometown, especially when I’ve earned a few new scars and inked my skin. I know he’ll have a problem with a tattoo. He’ll judge me from that alone, but I also have a backpack full of memorabilia. I don’t want to explain, much less talk about where I’ve been the last three years.

Unfortunately, I have to cruise down Main to get home.

Home.

My home was never a place, but a person. It’s funny how time changes things. I don’t think about Delilah as much anymore. I’m really good at pocketing those disconcerting feelings away, but damn if being here doesn’t drag them all back to the surface.

As familiar as this place feels, it doesn’t feel like home.

Glancing down First when I pass under the green light, I’m tempted to cruise by her house. I wave to Wilbur instead—glad to see he’s alive and still rocking on that corner—and keep driving. I should really say hi to my mom, but my throat is dry, so I pull into a parking spot a few down from Red River—the main bar here. Don’t want to see anybody I know, but I will, so I might as well get it over with.

I pull open the door and walk inside. It’s dark and my eyes aren’t adjusted, but I know this place by heart so I keep walking until everything comes into view.

Front door. Top half glass.

Back door through the small kitchen in the left corner. One large window.

One window in the men’s and two smaller windows in the women’s restroom.

Five booths.

Six people.

Ten barstools.

Five taken.

Nodding to the bartender standing by the far end near the three beer taps, I take the one vacant place at the end of a row of occupied barstools. Looking down, four guys stare back at me.

“Daryl and Billy. Should have guessed you’d be taking up space here.”

The bartender, McGilley, swings his towel over his shoulder and rests two hands on the bar top in front of me. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. If it’s not Mr. Eight himself, Jason Koster. What do we owe the pleasure, your high and mighty-ness?”

“I haven’t been that number or guy in a long time. How about a Heineken?” That entertains the guys, and they start laughing, mocking me. “Never mind. How about a Budweiser?”

McGilley asks, “You sure about that? That’s a working man’s beer. Might be hard on your stomach.”

“Serve the fu—” I catch myself. I can’t talk like that around here. I’ll end up in a fight and spending the night in jail. “I think I can handle it.” I put a ten on the counter. “Keep the change.”

“Big spender. So where’ve you been that you decided to come home and spend money like it doesn’t matter?” Daryl asks.

Daryl Satters—grew up down the road from me. One year ahead of me in school. Got a job at the plant out of high school. All-around asshole. I’m not surprised to see him here. I figure his ass is parked on a barstool at Red River by five each night, drinking his sorrows away just like his dad. Once dreamed of being a pro-baseball player, but that took a dedication he never had for the game. Ironic how he’s worked at the same industrial plant for eight years. That takes dedication.

My beer is set down, the money swiped from the bar. I take a long pull before answering. “All over.”

Billy lines up and fires his question next, “What have you been doing for work?”

I always liked Billy Langston. A tick older than me, we were in the same grade. At one time, I called him one of my best friends. He always had my back.

“It’s good to see you, Billy.”

“You too, Koster. Rumors have been flying for years about what happened to you. Did you return to put ’em to rest?”

“Nah. Let them gossip.” I down my beer and set the empty down when I stand up. Not looking to entertain an interrogation, I’m ready to go. This might be a record. Ten minutes and I’ve already had my fill of this town. Or maybe it’s these two in front of me. They look the same, talk the same, give shit the same. But I know I’m not that same guy they used to know. The darkness I carry hangs heavy over my head. My carefree football days are long gone. I don’t need to be here any longer. “I’m heading out.”

McGilley asks, “Going to see your ma?”

“Heading there now.” I tap the bar top and head for the door. “See you around, gentlemen.”

The sun is setting when I head down Main Street and take the curve out to the house where I grew up. It’s dark when I pull up the dirt drive and cut the engine. I’m surprised the sound of the Harley didn’t drag my mom to the window. The lights are on inside, a few of the shades still open. The TV is muffled but heard through the thin walls of the old house. It needs some care. If I stay more than a day or two, I can help her around the house, make sure things are in good working order.

I think about walking in the back door like I always have, but decide against it. She hasn’t heard from me in a few months, much less seen me for years, so I head to the front and knock.

The door opens and she pushes the screen door with her hand before leaning against the frame. A mischievous smile appears, tipping up one side. I’ve been told I smile the same way. Guess I learned from the best. Her hair is pinned back but some strands from a long day of work have fallen. She’s dressed like she has someplace to go, but I know better. She’s a homebody by choice. Meredith Koster just likes to look good. She crosses her arms, and says, “Well, if it isn’t my long-lost son. What brings you to town, kid?”

The kid reference makes me smile. Also makes me miss the innocence that the name suggests. “Just thought it was time for a visit.”

She drops the hard-ass act and opens her arms. “Come here.” Hugging me tight, she adds, “I have missed you so much. I don’t know why you like to worry me like you do.”

One front door. Two deadbolts. One chain. A screen door.

Back door. Three small windows. Two locks. A screen door.

Fourteen windows total.

It feels good to hug her again. I’m way bigger than she is, outgrowing her by eighth grade, but she still hugs me like I’m her baby. Backing into the house, she says, “Get on in here and close the door behind you. You’re letting bugs in.”

The screen door screeches closed and I shut the front door, locking it behind me, even though I’ve never considered myself the paranoid type. I probably should be, considering what I’ve been up to, but I never felt unsafe at home.

She moves into the kitchen as I drop my backpack on the floor. Peeking out, she says, “You sure are traveling light these days.”

“A few changes of clothes. The basics are all I need.” I start for the kitchen but get sidetracked by the framed photos on a bookcase. My graduation photo is too large to enjoy. No one needs to see an eight-by-ten in a cheap brass frame, highlighting a bad haircut. There’s a photo of me as quarterback senior year of high school and one from my little league days. The baby pic of me with my face covered in cake is humiliating, so I don’t linger too long on that one. That seems like a lifetime ago, and a broken arm in college ended my glory days.

Bending down, there’s a smaller five-by-seven from prom night. Delilah Noelle. The belle of the ball. The queen of my heart. The town darling. We made a good-looking couple, a match in every way. The head cheerleader who fell for the football star. So unoriginal. People said we were so sweet we gave them a toothache.

It was real.

We were real.

Looking over my shoulder, my mom says, “I can’t seem to pack it away.”

A lot like my feelings for Delilah, despite how hard I’ve tried.

I stand up and turn to my mom. I take the offered mug of tea, not wanting to talk about the girl in the photo or the woman across town.

Sitting on the couch, Mom asks, “How long are you staying?”

“How long will you have me?”

“As long as you need.”

“I’m not hiding out.”

“Okay, as long as you want then.” She sips her tea and I do the same. “I’ve cleaned your room, and you have plenty of clothes in the closet and the dresser. I can take you out shopping tomorrow for anything else you might need.”

“I don’t need you to buy me things. I can afford what I need.”

“How is that exactly? What do you do, Jason?”

“Odd jobs. Here and there.”

She knows when to stop pushing for answers I’m not going to give her. Standing, she asks, “Are you hungry? I was just about to make grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup.”

“That sounds incredible.”

“You go settle in and clean up, and I’ll make dinner.”

I grab my bag and head down to the hall but stop when she adds, “It’s good to have you home, son.”

Home.

There’s that word again. It’s a word I haven’t known in some time. Am I home? I’m not really sure anymore, but my mom has always been a haven, so she deserves to hear that from me. I smile and say, “It’s good to be home.”