Bottom Feeder Page 28

  “Does she kiss you, too?” She asks with concern on her small face.

  Beraz laughs at the absurdity of her question. I mask my grimace with a cough.

  Cecilia’s mother enters the living room, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Beraz greets her like they are old friends. She nods to me in greeting and pulls an envelope from behind a picture.

  “For Maddy,” she says, handing the envelope to Beraz. “From the Suit.”

  I turn to Beraz, whose eyebrows are raised so high they almost touch his hairline. Cecilia’s mom shrugs and thanks us for bringing the boxes.

  “You can start writing letters in reception,” I remind Maddy for the fifth time. I write my address in a book the kids from the youth center gave her. “If you write with what phase and week you’re in, I’ll write back to give you a heads-up on what to expect.”

  “You writing other guys?” Beraz asks playfully. He wraps his arms protectively around her. “I’m not sure if I like that.”

  “You have got to be kidding me with this macho BS.” Maddy rolls her eyes. “Boys.”

  “Beraz is obviously the boy in this scenario.”

  “Kiss my ass, Monroe.”

  “See what I mean? Boys!” Maddy laughs. “Tell you what. Jackson covers the army stuff. Dixon will cover the best friend stuff. And you, Dom, can cover the mushy boyfriend stuff. Extra corny, please.”

  “I can do mushy,” Beraz says and kisses the top of her head.

  “I can do army stuff.” Could I ever do mushy boyfriend stuff? Probably not. Maybe.

  Beraz and I plan to leave at noon for the ten hour drive back to North Carolina. I tell him to text me when he finishes saying goodbye. I don’t want to witness whatever they might be doing to, er, say goodbye. Which, really, I don’t think is anything past a PG rating. But still.

  I walk to Milk and Sugar and talk to Maddy’s former manager, Peggy. I remain there until the lunch rush arrives and she threatens to put me to work. I walk back to the apartment building, where I make small talk with James. News on the doorman front is Sonny quit his job to handle a family emergency in the Midwest somewhere. Who knows if that’s far enough away from Cordell’s reach.

  With nothing else to do, I sit in the BMW, waiting. The car doesn’t have the same feel as it did the first time I drove it with Maddy in the passenger seat. Something doesn’t feel right, like part of the car is missing. I decide to ask Beraz to drive.

  When he finally enters the garage, he moves as if someone removed a vital organ from his body.

  A little over an hour later, we take a very long detour into Trenton, New Jersey where Beraz takes the laptop into a pawn shop. Three hours later, I walk into a pawn shop in Capitol Heights, Maryland. The man behind the counter writes a ticket for Maddy’s tablet. Beraz stops for lunch at a soul food restaurant up the street. I flush the ticket from the pawn shop down the toilet.

  Another two hours and 37 minutes later, Beraz drives into a small community tucked inside Prince George County, Virginia.

  “This is horror movie shit,” Beraz says, taking in our surroundings.

  “This car is too noticeable here.”

  Every quarter-mile is dotted with a small farmhouse. Each yard has a staked sign that reads JESUS SAVES. A single whitewashed fence connects the houses together. A large, tanned-brick church stands proudly in the center of everything. It is the only building without the whitewashed fence. Instead, it is surrounded on three sides by a cemetery. Every empty spot of land is dotted with fields of cotton, peanuts, and tobacco.

  “Do you think all this belongs to one family?” I ask Beraz.

  He shrugs, looking as uneasy as I feel. “This town creeps me the hell out.”

  I glance over to Beraz, with his black Misery Loves My Company t-shirt, ripped jeans, Adidas Superstars and tattoos inked like accessories to match his ensemble. I look at my white t-shirt, ripped jeans, and beat up Chuck Taylors.

  “Beraz, we look like we’re about to bring sin to this community.”

  “I think this community is full of sin already,” he says glumly.

  Silence floats through the open windows. Even the birds are too bored to chirp out a song.

  Beraz makes a left on a gravel road. More signs are tacked to the trees.

  POSTED: NO TRESSPASSING

  GOD LOVES YOU

  TRESSPASSERS WILL BE SHOT, SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT AGAIN

  JESUS IS WELCOME HERE, YOU ARE NOT

  “We’re going to die,” Beraz says.

  “Stop being a drama queen,” I reply, though I feel the same.

  The gravel road abruptly comes to an end at a large farmhouse, surrounded by a wood post, no-climb fence. A few feet inside the no-climb fence is another, more decorative whitewashed fence that mimics the others in town.

  “Those are hot wires on top,” Beraz points out.

  “I think all the layers are hot wires.”

  An old Chevy pickup approaches the inside fence. A man, about sixty years old steps out. He is dressed in overalls, plaid shirt, and tan work boots. Strands of gray stick out from beneath his green John Deere cap. He unlocks both fences and waves Beraz through.

  “Follow me,” he says when Beraz pulls next to him.

  We follow the man down a trail, to a clearing in the center of a patch of woods behind his home. He motions for us to get out of the car. We do. Reluctantly.

  “Get your things outta there,” the man says. We grab our bags and strap them to our backs.

  Another man we didn’t see before exits the truck. He looks to be about our age.

  “Clear it, Ezra.”

  Ezra sits in the driver’s seat of the Beemer and pulls out a device that is smaller than a tablet, but larger than a cell phone. Whatever it is, it doesn’t look like it belongs in this sleepy town. He turns the car on, taps the screen on the Beemer’s navigation system and works quickly until the screen goes blank. He taps on the device’s screen a few times and the car suddenly cuts off.

  Ezra exits the car and begins walking towards the farmhouse.

  “Take the truck,” the man says to me. “Drive the speed limit the rest of the way. Don’t draw any extra attention. Don’t stop unless you need gas. When you get to where you’re going, park it somewhere it won’t be noticed for a few days. Like a big box or grocery store. Wipe the inside and outside of the truck down and take the license plate off before you leave it. Toss the plate in the trash somewhere and forget where I live. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Beraz and I reply at the same time.

  “My wife made y’all some food for your trip. It’s on the seat.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Beraz and I reply at the same time.

  The man pulls a few containers of liquid out of the back and begins pouring it on and around the Beemer. It doesn’t smell like gas, but I can’t pinpoint what it is.

  “You boys might oughta get on down the road. Ezra’ll close the gates behind you.”

  Weirdest. Day. Ever.

  Just a few miles outside of Smithfield, North Carolina my cell phone beeps with a text message.

  I glance down at the screen, but since I’m driving I pass the phone to Beraz.

  “Who is that?” I ask.

  “It’s just a number,” he says. “No name.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “What’s wrong? Is there something wrong with Maddy?”

  “No,” he replies. “It says, ‘We need to talk. Soon. Cordell.’”

  Shit.

  I slump in the seat and bang my head against the steering wheel. Anger cuts through the pit of my stomach. I want nothing more than to protect her. More than myself. More than my country. More than anything and anyone else in the world.

  Being in love sucks.

  Because I do.

  Love her, that is.

  God, I love her.

  EPILOGUE

  Maddy

  Fort Jackson

  Columbia, South Carolina


  Reception.

  Three days of endless paperwork, issuing and receiving uniforms, vaccinations, memorizing acronyms and the SmartBook, memorizing more acronyms, and filling out more paperwork. The SmartBook has become a vital part of me, an extra limb I did not know I needed.

  For seventy-two hours we ate like royalty on three full meals each day. As new recruits we did not participate in Physical Training (PT). Oddly enough, any kind of PT was forbidden. Drill sergeants (DS) did not yell.

  They were almost, dare I say, nice.

  If Jackson and Dom had not warned me, I would wonder why everyone doesn’t join the army. It just seemed so easy.

  But this was only Reception. Basic Combat Training (BCT) had not officially begun and the nice drill sergeants and hefty meals were only subterfuge.

  Red Phase

  We are loaded on a windowless bus to ride ten minutes down the street. Ten minutes takes an hour. We sit on the windowless bus for another hour.

  This is the type of waiting that teaches patience, Jackson’s voice echoes in my head.

  No one dares to speak. I hear broken sobs somewhere behind me. The poor girl is breaking down from the anticipation.

  Me? I breathe and wait.

  Drill Sergeants charge the bus, screaming like archangels sent to smite every last one of us for breathing their precious air. More people begin to cry. Through their tears, the weeping recruits cannot see to walk straight, causing a series of stumblers to perform an impressive domino effect of more stumbling and more yelling. During the chaos, a girl falls on me and surreptitiously wipes her tear-streaked face and snotty nose on my t-shirt. I’m too shocked to be grossed out by this.

  We stand in a line, arm’s length apart. Drill Sergeants scream orders over the top of one another, confusing everyone. More crying, some giggling. I don’t know which is worse. Everything is yelled at.

  My face is expressionless as I zone in a little on each demand and realize the drill sergeants are saying the same thing: line up in alphabetical order. In thirty seconds. Not an issue for a five people, right? Right. To a group of more than fifty strangers, however, this poses a problem.

  We fail, of course.

  Jackson warned me about asinine tasks like this that are meant to be impossible to complete. Still, within the first five minutes, I am made to feel like a failure.

  Once we’re told how much of a “fucking soup sandwich” this group is, they teach us how to march, how to stand in the position of attention, how to stand in formation, and do not speak unless spoken to while standing in formation. The guys are marched to the barber shop for fresh, military-issued haircuts, while the girls are marched to a bay where we will spend the next ten weeks of our lives. The large, open room is also where we are assigned our beds and battle buddies.

  The point of having a battle buddy is to learn to look out for your fellow soldier. Mine is Anna Martinez, the snot wiper who hyperventilated on the march over here. This does not faze me. She and I are in this together. I may not cry, but if she cries, I am part of those tears. I am responsible for how Anna acts, looks and performs. And she is responsible for me.

  I am no longer “I” and “me”. I am “we” and “us”.

  I will have to make sure I keep extra tissue tucked in my uniform somewhere.

  We learn how to make our bunk with crisp hospital corners. Jackson taught me basics like this, but not wanting to miss anything vital, I listen and watch with intent.

  “The drill sergeants are there to break you down,” Jackson said in one of his attempts to prepare me, “so you can be built up with a stronger foundation. You know better than anyone, Maddy, that sometimes you have to fall completely apart—crumble into a million tiny bits—in order to be put back together as something stronger; reinforced piece by tiny piece. The tasks they give you are meant to teach discipline and order, not because they really like those tight hospital corners.”

  I am the first one finished making my bed. I didn’t plan on being the first at anything here. Who wants that kind of attention? But here I am, standing at the foot of my bunk awaiting inspection.

  “Finished so soon, Sweet Pea?” the Drill Sergeant yells. The name on her uniform reads Downing.

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant,” I yell. My new military pitch sounds funny with the cuts on my lip.

  It’s been two weeks since Larry’s attack. After Jackson and Dom left for North Carolina, I gathered Mama’s boxes, my backpack with clothes and identification, and left the City. I paid cash for a cab to the lawyer’s home in New Jersey. She placed the boxes behind a hidden wall in her wine cellar.

  I purchased a sleeping bag and pillow—again, with cash—when I left her house. I took a separate cab into New Jersey and spent the next two weeks nursing my wounds and bruises in a self-storage unit in Westwood. Breakfast, lunch and dinner consisted of protein bars and fruit. I slept during the day and bathed in a laundromat bathroom at night.

  Sergeant Davis was the only person I saw and talked to during this time. He never believed my sales pitch about being mugged. Eventually he accepted it.

  “Let’s have a looksee,” DS Downing says with saccharine sweetness.

  She inspects the bed. I expect her to flip the mattress. She flips the mattress.

  “Outstanding job, Sweet Pea,” she says, standing beside me. “Now do it again.”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant,” I yell and quickly move to remake the bed. She stands over me, very much in my personal space.

  Picking up the edge of the sheet, I make a diagonal fold and lay it on the mattress. I tuck the hanging part of the sheet beneath and drop the fold, pulling it out smoothly and tucking that part under the mattress. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. I turn the top of the sheet over the top of the blanket, where my head will rest, and place the pillow under the blanket. I finish by pulling the sheet tight.

  I rush past the Sergeant Downing, making sure not to touch her, and stand at the foot of my bunk. This time, I don’t hear the mattress flip. I release a breath when she walks past me to inspect the rest of the beds, flipping mattress after mattress.

  An immeasurable amount of time later, she stands before me. And stares. I look straight ahead. She stares. I do not flinch. Never let them see you flinch.

  “What happened to your face, Cupcake?”

  Before you wonder, no, the nicknames do not offend me. They say this to everybody, including the guys. The only time I almost giggled today is when a drill sergeant called a guy, who was over a foot taller than him, Sugar Britches.

  I resist the urge to touch the ugly yellow-brown bruises on my face. My lip isn’t healing quickly enough for me to be comfortable talking, but I yell, “Fell on a fist, Drill Sergeant.”

  “Looks like you fell on it a few times, Cupcake.” I can feel the warmth of her breath on my cheeks. It chills me to the bone. Or maybe it’s the recollection of how many times Larry’s fist connected to my face.

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant.”

  “You fall on a lot of fists, Cupcake?”

  Guess this nickname is going to stick. Better than Sugar Britches, I guess.

  I almost say no. Jackson advised me to never say no to a DS unless it is for moral or safety reasons. “Only one pair of fists, Drill Sergeant.”

  “You gonna be my problem, Cupcake?”

  “No, Drill Sergeant!” Crap.

  “You calling me a liar, Cupcake?” She yells next to my ear. “Aren’t you my problem right now?”

  “Yes, Drill Sergeant!”

  She moves on to a round of speeches about how “This ain’t your mama’s house” and “Jesus can save your soul, but not your ass from Victory Tower” and “Your recruiter probably lied . . .”

  The next morning we put on our PT uniform—gray shirt with ARMY written in black across the front and black shorts with a reflective ARMY etched on the bottom left the thigh—and head outside for, well, PT. The shorts reveal more bruises from my scuffle with Larry, but I have no way to hide them.

  “
Another pair of fists, Cupcake?” DS Downing yells like she is pissed off that I am taking up too much of her time. She is so close I can tell her breakfast consisted of orange juice and a jelly doughnut. Raspberry with powdered sugar.

  “A pair of boots, Drill Sergeant.”

  No one else sees her brow furrow. Good thing she only has to yell at me and not ask questions. She moves on.

  I do my best from the first full day forward to fly under everyone’s radar and under DS Downing’s scrutiny.

  I perform well in all the physical aspects. The classes are moderately interesting. I am too antsy to sit still in a classroom for an extended amount of time and actually pay attention. This is the reason I had to study for hours outside of school to keep my grades up.

  For the first week, I fidget relentlessly. DS Downing makes me stand, which causes me to fidget more. I do more pushups and flutter kicks than I thought were physically possible. On the eighth day, I finally get it. I learn to control my body.

  At night I listen to my battle buddy cry herself to sleep. She misses her boyfriend and her family. I try comforting her, but I’m not good at that sort of thing. Call me selfish, but I’ve got my own demons to deal with.

  I write letters to the youth center kids, along with Dom, Dixon, Violet and Jackson. I tell Dixon every detail of what happens because he says he wants to know. I tell Violet about everything that does not involve the army. Since the army now consumes my life, I ask her a lot of questions about the shop, about Chris’s, Jeremiah’s and Lamont’s condition. I also tell her about Dom.

  I write Jackson about my daily life and how excited I am about entering the next phase of BCT.

  Call me crazy, I write, but I kind of like this army thing so far.

  I tell Dom how much I love him. How much I miss talking to him. How much I can’t wait to read a really corny letter from him. My letters give me a sense of individuality. I am not we or us, I am me. And I am learning that is okay.

  Letters from Jackson and Dom arrive the same day. Jackson’s is filled with advice on the upcoming weeks. It’s like he is stage right, whispering lines in my ear so I do not blunder my performance.