George Pelecanos - The Turnaround

“You’re late,” said Alex as he neared.

“I was just -”

“I got eyes. You have dishes to take care of. Go on, Rafael, move it. Get on your horse.”

Rafael nodded and motored in through the front door.

“He’s a good worker,” said John.

“They all are,” said Alex. “The best crew I’ve ever had. Look, you don’t make this possible and neither do I. The help does. You gotta take care of’em, John. There’s gonna be the occasional slow week; bills are going to come due. There are times when you might not be able to pay yourself. But even if it comes out of your own pocket, you’ve always got to take care of the help. Make sure they’re compensated in full on payday. Give them loans when they need it. On holidays, put extra in their envelopes so their kids and grandkids can have nice presents.”

“Yessir.”

“I’m giving Darlene a bump in pay.”

“Absolutely. She deserves it.”

“One more thing: I expect you to keep making the run to Walter Reed. The contact woman is Peggy, out at the Fisher House.”

“I’ll leave some nice desserts with her after I get off work. I’ll do it every night if you think I should.”

“The soldiers like sweet stuff. Peach pie, cherry cheesecake, things like that. Don’t get too fancy.”

“Got it.” John looked at Alex sheepishly. “Dad?”

“Yes.”

“If you’re turning it over to me, I’m going to want to, you know, modernize the look a little bit. Make some alterations in the decor.”

“I expected that.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Two things I’m gonna ask you not to change,” said Alex. “First one is the lights over the counter. I know you don’t like them. But your grandfather and I hung those lights together, many summers ago. Those lights mean something to me.”

“All right.”

“And the sign. The sign stays.”

“I wouldn’t touch it, Dad. I’m proud of it.”

“I am, too.”

John Pappas’s eyes were heavy with emotion. Alex slid off the ledge and stood before his son.

“What is it?” said Alex.

“I’m going to get my own place to stay,” said John. “An apartment or a condo. I think it’s time.”

“If you’d like.”

“I’m twenty-five years old. It’s not cool that you’re still waiting up for me at night. I see the lights going out in your room when I pull up in front of the house.”

“I can’t help it, Johnny. But listen, if you want to move out, I think you should.”

“I’ve been considering it for a while. I didn’t do it before because I thought it was best to stay with you and Mom. That you would want me to stick around, after Gus died.”

“I know.”

“You were so crushed. Because Gus was… well, I know that Gus was the most important person in your life.”

“John, don’t.”

“It’s all right for us to admit it. He was special. It’s okay to say that he was.”

“John -”

“So I thought it was important that I stay with you and Mom. The truth is, I needed you guys as well. I was pretty sick inside. I loved Gus, too, Dad. Gus was my kid brother.”

“I know. But we’re better now. We’re going to be.”

John took a step toward his father.

Alex pulled his son into his arms and hugged him tightly. They held each other there beneath the sign.

Alex drove back out to Maryland. He stopped at the property once more to check on some questions of space and feasibility that had been nagging at him since the morning. When he was done measuring and eyeballing the interior, he was satisfied that his original instincts were sound.

Going through Wheaton, heading for the nursing home where Elaine Patterson stayed, he thought of his son John and the pain that he’d been in since Gus’s death. How inward and selfish Alex’s focus had been. It hurt him that Johnny knew that Gus had been his favorite. Alex had not denied it, and this was something that John would carry, perhaps for the rest of his life. There would come a time when they could talk about their relationship more freely. For now, turning the store over to him, a gesture and an affirmation, was a start.

But we’re better now. We’re going to be.

It was not completely a lie. Alex was better than he had been. He had come to terms with his sadness. He’d become resigned to the knowledge that he would never be cured of Gus’s death. That he would grieve for Gus until his own passing.

But he had Vicki and he had John. The wounds he’d suffered at seventeen were beginning to heal. A new challenge lay ahead. There was room for grief, and good things, too.

Lady, the brown house dog at Walter Reed’s occupational therapy room, trotted across the carpeted floor to Sergeant Joseph Anderson, who sat snapping the fingers of his right hand. The Lab came to him and smelled his hand, licked it, and allowed Anderson to rub behind her ears. The dog closed her eyes as if in pleasant sleep.

“She digs it when I rub her there,” said Anderson.

“And she doesn’t even have to guide you,” said Raymond Monroe.

Sergeant Anderson’s left forearm was flat on a padded table. Monroe sat beside him, kneading his muscles. This arm ended with a prosthetic hand that was decorated with a continuation tattoo, the word Zoso spanning flesh and synthetics.

“I don’t like it when a woman tells me where to put my hand,” said Anderson. “I like to find that spot my own self.”

“You’re into the challenge, huh?”

“When they get to moanin, it’s like, yeah, I just did something special. Like the sign said: Mission Accomplished.”

Monroe said nothing.

“Do you think I’m gonna do all right, Pop?”

“What do you mean?”

“With the women. Am I gonna be hittin it when I get out of here?”

Monroe looked into the young man’s eyes. He pointedly did not look at the raised red scars crisscrossing the left side of his face.

“You’re gonna do fine,” said Monroe.

Lady broke off and walked across the room to a soldier who had said her name.

“I’m not exactly what you’d call handsome anymore, am I?”

“I’m no Denzel, either.”

“No, but I bet you were plenty handsome when you were young. You had your strut in the sun, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. And so will you. Women gonna be all over you, boy. With that personality of yours. What do they call that? Infectious. You’re gonna do fine.”

“We’ll see,” said Anderson. “Still, I been feeling like, you know, the best times are behind me. You ever get like that?”

“I do,” said Monroe. “But that’s part of being a middle-aged man. You’re just getting started.”

“It doesn’t feel that way, sir.”

“Maybe you ought to talk to the shrink about all this.”

“It’s easier talkin to you.”

Monroe rubbed his thumbs deeply into the brachioradialis, the major muscle of Anderson’s forearm.

“It’s funny,” said Anderson. “People think we were in some kind of living hell over there. Make no mistake, it was rough. But alongside the confusion of war and the general shitstorm we were in, there was also… well, I was at peace. Strange to say that, I know, but there it is. I woke up every morning knowing exactly what my job was. There wasn’t any doubt or choice. My mission was not to liberate the Iraqi people or bring democracy to the Middle East. It was to protect my brothers. That’s what I did, and I never felt so content. Don’t laugh at me, but that year I spent in Iraq was the best year of my life.”

“I’m not laughing,” said Monroe. “They say men are goal oriented. You had your mission and it made you feel right.”

“That’s what’s got me down, Pop. I should be back there, with my men. Because I didn’t finish. I wake up in the morning now and I feel like there’s no reason to get out of bed.”