Page 23 of Road Refugees

“Well,” I said, at the risk of sounding corny, “I finally mustered out of the army after ten years, so I’m just on a road trip to get to know my new self a bit better.” I could feel myself blush, admitting this personal shit to two strangers, but for some reason I kept on. “I was in Syria for a long time. Coming back is pretty strange. Everything is so fast, glamorous, and colorful. And of course, I need to learn the ins and outs with Linus here.”

“He’s adorable,” gushed Heaven, rubbing her face on his ear. “I’d say you are doing a good job of training.”

I sighed. “It’s a process. I know when it’s Linus time. I’ll put on his working dog collar and walk him, and he holds his head up. So far, I’ve been bouncing balls for him off the hallways of my condo. Since leaving Fort Carson, I’ve let him run off-road a few times, and he’s like a furry streak. He enjoys watching YouTube.”

“Seriously?” cried Heaven, hand to chest. “Our dogs never paid attention to a screen.”

“Oh, he follows it avidly! He moves his head in time to the action, barking at the good stuff. Chirping squirrels make him stand at attention. He likes to watch horses run, and he puts his head down like a horse.”

Heaven’s smile was fluid, as though she were on the verge of tears. It was always difficult to tell when my own tears reflected a deeper, ingrained sadness. I cried at sappy things, like the Puppies Behind Bars videos where a scraggly, ill dog gets a bath and is rehabbed into a fluffy pup with a forever home. Was that sad crying or happy crying?

“That’s adorable,” whispered Heaven. Linus agreed, making a “ruff” without even opening his mouth.

There was a clamoring at the front door then, and Bee entered with what looked like a bundle of swiss chard in her hand, a plastic bag of maybe carrots in the other. Sax went to help her, and I was left alone—well, if you didn’t count the dog—with Heaven.

She cut right to the chase. “Why’d they give you a companion dog? Because you limp?”

I had not met many new folks since getting Linus. Just the usual crowd of Joes around my condo, getting plowed like professional juicers. They already knew of my ailments, so I had nothing to explain. I stammered, “Ah, my spine is messed up. Compression on the disks. It affects my left leg sometimes.” I was glad I hadn’t had to use the cane in front of her . . . yet.

Her hands clasped between her knees, eyebrows furrowed, she leaned forward. “How did it happen, though? In the army?”

“Yes.” I paused. Heaven was expecting an explanation. I loathed the way it came back to me, complete with smells and sounds. The burnt body of a boy. The scent of my Syrian cohort’s mango tobacco. I almost shot a man just because he entered an alleyway and I didn’t know him. That’s the sort of thing that mangles your soul, day in, day out.

The cracking of tracer rounds when we were ambushed in the middle of the night. We were in a giant bowl, the indigo sky shimmering with trillions of stars. And there they were, Iraqis peeking over the berm, blasting us with machine guns and heavy munitions from a Soviet tank. We returned fire with adrenaline and exhilaration. Raining rounds from our .50 cal machine gun, our M240s hammering away.

Syria is where I ran up against people I can never forget.

I tried again. “Yes, in the army. I was, ah, heading for the Iraqi border police HQ. From a hundred yards off, their dozen red cigarette tips glowed in the darkness. Twenty tractor trailers were parked outside because the drivers couldn’t finish paperwork, or didn’t have it. The feeling was . . . either boring or sinister, whichever way you looked at it. In Syria, you never knew.” Why was I telling her all this? I didn’t want to bore her to death.

Yet her eyes gleamed with excitement and empathy at the same time. “Oh, no! I have a bad feeling about this.”

I quirked my mouth. “Yeah, well. It was too dangerous to let the truckers stay inside our defensive perimeter while they waited for the office to open. They nodded, flicked out their cigs, and got back into their trucks. This was our nightly round.”

“But then an Iraqi yelled ‘Mushkila!’’ That means ‘problem’ in Arabic. He kept pointing at the rigging behind his cab, in between two trucks. I should’ve known better, I really should’ve.”

“Oh dear God, no,” whispered Heaven.

I nodded. “The second I leaned over to inspect the coupling, someone shoved me from behind, jamming me into the metal and wiring. When I turned, a second man was coming at me with a long knife in his hand.”

“Like an ambush!”

“Exactly. That’s what it was. I call it an assassination attempt. I dodged the knife, and we became locked together like two boxers in a clinch, unable to connect any blows. He stabbed the top edge of my body armor, then tore through my triceps.”

“The actual muscle?”

Instinctively I put my hand over the scar. “Yeah . . . I shoved him off and ripped my pistol from my holster. I shot one round square into his chest. He screamed like a guy going off a cliff in a western movie.” I tried to chuckle. “But then I was falling, the guy with the knife on top of me. I managed to squeeze off two more rounds before my head hit concrete and everything went black.”

“Oh. My.” Heaven, too, fell backward into the luxury of the couch cushions. She exhaled mightily. “Town. You’ve been through a lot.”

I leaned back too, running one arm on the couch above her shoulder. It was a chummy move to make, but fuck, I’d just told her the most monumentally bad day of my life. “Yeah. You, too. How’d you wind up with the Friends of Distinction?”

Bee butted in then, wanting to whisk Heaven off for a shower and clean clothes. Was it my imagination, or did Heaven look back longingly at me over her shoulder?

Sax took over, again offering me a beer from the refreshed pitcher. I was actually tempted for the first time in two months, but my mouth automatically said no. What would be the harm? It’s nine o’clock. Not like Heaven and I are continuing to P and E tonight. How many times had I wondered, when my buddies sat around my condo slamming liquor, whether or not I could take just one or two?

But for now, I decided to keep it safe. I must’ve put the bottle down a thousand times in the days leading up to meeting Linus. I could leave it untouched now.

We went onto Sax’s rear deck, where crickets cheeped in the undergrowth. Linus came with us, lying primly with his couch legs sticking out straight, cocking his ears at the insects. The back floodlight illuminated an open space carpeted with pine needles, and the scent was almost overwhelming, blooming in my nostrils. What would it be like, living with a woman you loved passionately? Would it involve breakfast in bed? Kissing her shoulder while she washed the dishes? Raking the, uh, pine needles? I realized I really had no idea what it would entail. My only concepts of marriage came from observing my parents, and they really weren’t a model I wanted to emulate.