Jesse Goolsby - I'd Walk with My Friends If I Could Find Them

She descends the stairs and Dax turns off the Tennessee game, expectant.

“He needs money,” Nicholle says. Dax’s head is already in his hands. “Five thousand.” They don’t have an extra $5,000 anywhere. “Let’s give him what we have. It’s serious and he’ll pay us back. He says he’ll pay us back. I know what you’re going to say. It’s not Vegas. Please. He wouldn’t ask unless he needed it. I know. He can’t go to Dad. I know.”

Dax has prepared — the phone call had to be about money, and he has decided not to say a thing.

“He’s desperate, and we can cash bonds if we have to. Say something. We need to be together on this.”

Dax knows she’s near tears. The pleading hurts her, but Dax remains parked on the couch. He leans back into the cushion. He wants this to sting a bit, and his reclining works. He guesses what is going through her mind— we’ll never see a penny back, we can’t afford it, you despise me for asking —and yet here she is. Sim, her brother. Dax tells her he wants Sim to drive up so Dax can see him face-to-face when he hands him the check. Everyone agrees, but two weeks later Nicholle puts the money in the mail and talks to Dax about the price of gasoline.

Although they understand that there’s never a perfect time to start a family, Nicholle and Dax have thought about it for some time, and agree on a Tuesday night in April to make love without protection for the first time. After he comes she raises her legs, grabs the backs of her knees, and pulls them to her chest. “Gravity,” she says.

Years of teenage warnings and general fear of accidental pregnancy trump the stats that tell them it will take time to get pregnant, and for the first three months they approach the pregnancy test with expectant glee. They’re both healthy, but after six months Nicholle is not pregnant. Their conversations about sex lead to arguments, so they decide to lie to the doctors, tell them they’ve been trying for a year so they can get an appointment to figure out the issue. One of the first things the doctor has Dax do is provide a semen sample. He complies with the request in a specially furnished hospital room with clear plastic on the couch and recliner and drawers full of oddly titled pornography ( Brick, Lemon People ).

Soon they learn that his sperm have “square heads,” that this could be an issue going forward. When they get the news, he pictures mini hammerhead sharks swimming around in his testicles. He says, “Like mini hammerhead sharks?” but the doc shakes his head and Nicholle cries into her palms so he shuts up. It’s in this moment that he realizes Nicholle wants this more than he does, or at least is more serious about everything. He wants to be a dad, but he isn’t sure why, outside of the fact that he thinks he would be a good father. He visualizes Little League games and bike rides, skinned knees and good-night stories, but this optimistic collage is all he has, and he worries that it may not be good enough.

Dax reaches over and rubs Nicholle’s back underneath a painting of cherry trees in bloom. The doctor lets her cry for a while before telling Dax to avoid saunas and hot tubs and to eat more fruit and test again in six months.

Nicholle and Dax fight and stress, and making love morphs into an exercise of forced monthly routine over the next year. In that time he takes a job as a rep in a pharmaceutical company — a favor called in by Nicholle’s dad — selling various pieces of medical equipment. The company wanted veterans and the money is better than at the collection agency, but he travels frequently.

Dax is sitting down to eat inside a Taco Bell in Jacksonville when Nicholle calls. He shifts the greasy bag to his right hand and answers the phone.

“You’re going to be a father,” she says.

“Okay,” he manages. “What the hell? My God, Nicholle. I wish I was there. I’m coming home.”

She cries over the line and he wants to, but contrary to all things he thought he might feel when they eventually received the news, he imagines the future drive home from the hospital with their newborn child in the back seat. He thinks of all the new drivers, the drunk drivers, the red-light racers. He relives the painful surprise of talking to Torres after his accident, hearing his words, “I never saw the car.”

“We need a car seat,” he says.

“I love you,” Nicholle says.

He loves her too, but he says, “Does this mean we don’t have to steal a baby?”

Five weeks later he’s standing on the sidewalk outside the VA hospital in Charlotte when Nicholle phones and lets him know there’s trouble. He hears the words ectopic pregnancy, not sure what that means. Mid-July and dust swirls in the sky, and as she explains, he thinks of their growing child in her right fallopian tube, budding bigger and bigger, slowly killing his wife. She says the doctors are going to take care of everything the next day, and they do. He flies home and he and Nicholle rest in their living room, Nicholle’s head in his lap, and he rubs her back, then reaches down and strokes her legs. She hasn’t shaved them in eight days and he feels the bristles on his fingertips. He can think of nothing to say.

“We have to wait three months,” she says. “We’ll try three months from now.”

The ceiling fan spins above them, but the rushing air does little to help the thick humidity. He studies her body from her head down to her hips and bent knees and tucked feet. Slowly she uncoils. She has yet to tell her parents — which surprised Dax — but as she heads upstairs and closes their bedroom door, he knows she’ll reach for the phone. He hears Nicholle’s muffled voice through the ceiling. There’s nothing her mother can do from that distance, but he knows there’s a safety in that bond that he’ll never be able to join.

Downstairs and alone, he turns on the television, then turns the set off. He sees his reflection in the blank screen. He waves at himself and stares at the reflection of his living room furniture. Nicholle’s building cries travel through the ceiling and he considers the disproportionate pain of their situation, how he does hurt but mainly by proxy, how Nicholle bears the brunt of everything. Is all this part of my penance? I don’t have to bear the pain full on. A life for a life? Am I even with the universe? The pain of losing something sight unseen seems a reduced sentence somehow, losing something not even named. Is this just the beginning? The ceiling fan turns overhead and Dax stands. The room has an eight-foot ceiling, and the fan’s blades whip inches above the top of his head, the cool air on his shoulders. A person in a fallopian tube. Replaying the Afghanistan checkpoint, he sees the shawled girl curled up, an embryo. His girl. Her bare heels digging into the dirt. He named her long ago, and tonight he hears it in his ears: Courtney. It’s a lie, an impossibility, an American name, but he doesn’t care. He hasn’t met a Courtney since. She’s the only one.

After a second miscarriage, Nicholle becomes pregnant again. Seven months along, with a big, beautiful belly and a dark line bisecting her bulge, she and Dax ride in a city bus on the way to a Tennessee Volunteers’ game in Neyland Stadium. Dax can’t stop touching her, his fingers on her thigh, his palm on her belly.

Across from them sit four men in turbans and orange shirts with capital T ’s on them. Logically Dax knows that these men aren’t terrorists, they’re probably not even Muslim, but he’s nervous. The men speak a mix of English and a language Dax can’t decipher and appear to be joking with one another, but one of them gazes over at Nicholle, at her belly, and stares. His brown face goes slack, trancelike. Dax wonders if this is the moment: This man will make a move toward them. The friends will hold him down while the man struggles with Nicholle. Dax may survive the attack, alone. When that flurry of images passes, he imagines the man flying a plane, a single-prop Cessna, over their neighborhood. The front-yard hawks are up and circling high in the sky. The man brings the plane into a dive, tears up the birds, heads straight for their shingled roof, but before Dax can complete the daydream, Nicholle reaches for his clenched hand, unfolds it, and intertwines hers. The man stares unflinchingly.