Charlie

I’VE BEEN SITTING IN the backseat of the Escalade watching the freeway turn into a highway turn into one single main street that runs through the entirety of Maple Grove, Washington. The gray December clouds make it impossible to tell the time of day, but I know it shouldn’t be dark enough for all the streetlights to be on yet. It isn’t raining, exactly, more like the sky is spitting at the car as we crawl down the street. Some hail, some rain, some mist, maybe even a little snow, but not the kind that sticks.

Mr. Jones—Mark, he said to call him—is driving us home from the airport. Well, he is driving his son home. I don’t have a home or a clue as to whether or not I even want one or how to go about finding one if I decide I do. I haven’t stayed anywhere that wasn’t Army issued in a long-ass time. I’m just tagging along for the ride.

Jonesy...no Carter—I am supposed to call him Carter now—has family connections to Stone Jones, a custom garage in Maple Grove that specializes in restoring muscle cars and has a reputation for quality that is unmatched anywhere else in the country. I put in an order for my dream car, a ‘67 Chevy Camaro. Jonesy got me a great deal with the understanding that I would come home with him and spend the holidays with his family. It was a pity-invite, but Jonesy is a good guy and I want that car.

“On your right is my high school, Sarge. Maple Grove only has two schools—K-6 and 7-12.”

I barely remember high school, but there were probably more kids in my Chicago graduating class than in both Maple Grove schools combined. “Not your sarge anymore.” I am officially out now. Retired. Unshackled. Unmoored.

Adrift.

“I don’t think I can call you Charlie,” Jonesy answered. “Too used to Sarge.”

“Yeah, Carter is going to be a stretch for me, too.”

We laugh, and Carter’s dad fills me in on town trivia as we turn onto Marble Mountain Road. I have heard a lot of the stories before. In the sandbox, home is a popular topic for many of the enlisted men.

We pull into the circular driveway of a large log cabin. Huge windows and glass doors make up the front, and a wide porch wraps around the house like a protective embrace. I whistle out a breath. I knew Jones came from a very comfortable upbringing—his dad is a lawyer, his mom a doctor, and his grandparents own the town car lot as well as the custom garage. They aren’t millionaires or anything, I don’t think, but the house is significant and picture perfect. If L.L. Bean wanted to film a commercial, the Jones homestead would be the perfect place for it. I didn’t realize that there are people who live life like the magazines and catalogs show. Not really.

The outdoor white Christmas lights twinkle against all the gray. Huge red ribbon bows festoon the porch rails, but you can’t miss the bigger yellow bow on the door. Carter Jones has been missed. He’s been thought of every day.

The three of us get out of the car as the front door opens and people pour out. Jonesy’s family gathers around him, their voices rising to be heard above the ones just joining. People are still spilling out the front door.

I hang back, allowing the crowd better access to their returning soldier. I inhale deeply. The air smells clean. Fresh. I don’t want to exhale and poison it with the breath from my lungs. I suddenly wish very much to go back to the place where everything is khaki and camouflage. Where a guy like me feels safe.

It is then I notice I’m not the only one hanging back. One woman stands on the empty porch and is leaning against the rail. Waiting.

She is dressed in brown and gray, practically a chameleon against the wood and the weather. I bet that is on purpose. A camouflage like I am used to. Her clothes, the shape of them, the way they hide her body, say she is middle-aged, but having spent too many years where danger comes from people trying to look safe, I don’t stop my inspection there. Assumptions about people based on what they want you to see first can get you killed.

Her face is unlined and fresh, at odds with her clothing. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail or braid, but soft wisps of blonde curls escape and soften the look. She might even be pretty. But it is obvious she doesn’t want people to figure that out on their own. She waits patiently as the mob scene gets louder. When a smile blooms across her face, I follow her gaze to Jonesy.

They share the same smile. She must be Jonesy’s twin. I’ve heard about her. Emily is her name, if I remember right. Jonesy always claimed she was the better half of the duo. He said she is the quiet one, and I can tell by her appearance that is not an exaggeration. What else had he said? That they have a special connection. That ever since they were kids, they always knew exactly what the other needed.

Jones breaks away from the crowd and makes short work of the distance between the car and the porch. Emily’s smile transforms her face, and she takes the steps quickly and launches herself into her brother’s arms.

That smile. God. It’s like looking into the sun.

Jones twirls her around, and when he stops, she cups his face in her hands and weeps while she laughs.

I feel like I should look away. The moment feels too personal. But I am trapped by the scene. Nobody has ever wept for me. Laughed for me. Does Jonesy know how lucky he is?

The pack moves toward me, and Mark begins a flurry of introductions. I lose sight of the twins and put on my game face. Polite I can do. I’ll have to be careful with my language. I don’t expect that civilians would care for the way most soldiers speak their minds. Bluntly would be an understatement. But since I’m not a talkative man, I figure I’ll be all right. And I need to learn to fit in. This is life now.

The family surrounding me is more than nice, and it is easy to play along, but what I really want to do is be alone.

Except that isn’t true either. I have no idea how to be alone. I’ve been part of a team for so long, yet I’d always felt separate. It was easier to deal with the feeling when I had a job, responsibilities. I cared about my men, my team. I’m shocked to find I am unprepared for not having anyone to care about, even if the feelings aren’t returned.

But I am used to feeling lonely even when surrounded by people.