Scars, page 13
Ten minutes before going live, Houston and Reid perched atop tall wooden stools, adjusting microphones and chatting with host Buck Freeman while a country hit rode the airwaves.
As the top of the hour approached, bold numbers flashed on Buck’s large computer screen, counting back seconds, and three—two—one.
“Morning, Folks! This is Buck Freeman, and you are listening to ‘According to Buck.’ Today I have two exceptional guests with me in the studio. I’m privileged to welcome Army veterans Houston Miller—who grew up in Oak Creek—and Reid McCabe, who moved to our town from Florence, Kentucky.”
“Thank you for inviting us to your show; we appreciate being here,” Houston answered.
“Gentleman, thank you for your service!”
Humbled, and with an air of unease, Houston and Reid scooted in their seats, heads nodding at once.
Why does everyone thank us for our service? Reid thought. No one forced us to sign up for this; we just did our jobs.
“You’re welcome. Thank you for your support, Houston said.”
“Houston. . . Reid, before we get started, why don’t you tell our listeners a little about yourselves? When did you know you wanted to join the Armed Forces? How long did you serve?
Buck eased into the questions. When he came back on air after playing a patriotic country tune, he went straight to the heart of the program’s topic.
“You established the nonprofit corporation, Heroes Rise. Its mission is to raise awareness to the staggering number of veteran suicides.” Paper rustled as Buck consulted his notes. “Every day, roughly twenty veterans end their lives, according to data from the Department of Veterans Affairs. What does your organization hope to change?”
Houston launched into it with rising passion. “You know Buck, if we can make a difference for only one man, one woman, or one child, the mission will have been a success.”
The listeners couldn’t see Reid nodding, but they could hear the zeal in his tone as he followed Houston’s statement.
“A daughter walking down the aisle without her father, a son growing up without his mother, a wife or husband left behind, struggling for answers.” The mic screeched, and Reid adjusted. “Not because these men and women were killed in action, but because the side of war that’s so horrific that it erodes minds—and we won’t get into that—claimed their lives after they came home. It’s difficult to think about, and in reality, much more complex than this, but in a nutshell, this is what it comes down to.”
“Indeed, challenging to think of it in these terms, to envision the faces of real people behind these numbers. Twenty veterans a day, folks.” Buck let it hang for impact.
“Reid, we’ve also just learned of your injury. You’ve lost part of your leg in a roadside explosion, and you just adopted a three-legged dog. How will you both tackle this year-long walk across America?”
“That’s a good question, Buck. And real easy to answer. My dog, Yard, and I are going to take it step by step. Because, that’s the only way. Think along the line of, ‘How do you eat an elephant?'”
“Definitely. An ambitious goal, and a challenging mission you tasked yourselves with, gentlemen.
The show raced toward its end as Buck led Houston and Reid through the interview.
“We have time for a couple more questions,” Buck said. “Please share with our listeners how you intend to raise funds, and how donations can be made.”
“Yes, fundraising is a huge part of our campaign and ultimate success,” Reid said. “We’re counting on donations from national and local corporations, and support from veteran’s organizations. But make no mistake, we appreciate every donation, and no amount is too small; every dollar counts.”
Reid read the P.O. Box address he’d jotted on a piece of paper, repeating it as he detailed the various ways people could make a donation.
“And if you stop in at Pat’s Place,” he said, “you’ll notice a pair of black military boots sitting in the corner of the bar-top bearing the Heroes Rise logo. And yes, let me assure you, they’re brand-new. So, don’t hesitate to fill ‘em up by throwing your pocket change into them.” And with a grin that could quite possibly be heard on the radio, he added, “More boots will be coming to a store near you.”
Buck gave a thumbs up and closed out the program. “Gentleman, it was my pleasure having you in the studio. We have about one minute left. Do you have anything you would like to add?”
Houston nodded and spoke up. “Thanks for having us, Buck. It was a real pleasure. We have one more thing for anyone who’s listening—every Thursday afternoon at five o’clock we plan to be at Pat’s Place, and we want to meet you. Whether you’re a veteran, spouse, child, or sibling of a veteran, we’re standing by to hear your stories. Come see us.”
“Thanks, guys. And thank you folks for listening to ‘According to Buck.’ Until tomorrow. And, as always, be safe.”
“Great interview, guys.” Buck came around his booth and shook hands with Houston and Reid after the show. “You’re welcome to come back any time. Let me know if you’ve got something you want to get out, and we’ll schedule it.”
The men left the studio, and once outside, Reid let out a breath and rubbed across tight neck muscles. “Wow, this was intense but amazing.”
“Buck’s been doing this for as long as I remember; folks listen to him.”
“Well, let’s see how well they listened to his call for donations.” Reid lightly punched Houston’s arm. “Let’s go rucking now.”
Around noon, the guys returned from their hike in the forest and decided to head into town for pizza.
While crossing over the busy traffic circle around the courthouse, Houston pulled his cell phone out and called the office of Miller’s Construction. The office manager answered on the second ring.
“Alyson, darling. Something came up; we couldn’t make it to the office earlier.”
“I know, big guy. Congrats on the fantastic interview.”
“You know, huh?”
“Well, of course, I do. I’m clairvoyant, remember?” Alyson chuckled; she loved to tease him and could imagine the eye roll. “You better stop rolling those eyes, or you’ll lose them to my marble collection.”
“Ha, you think that’s funny, Aly? I didn’t know you’re listening to Buck’s show.”
“Lots of things you don’t know, big guy.”
“Enlighten me. Reid and I are heading to the new pizza joint. It’s lunchtime; if dad doesn’t keep you chained to the desk, haul your butt over here and bring those brochures. We’re looking at it over pizza.”
“Yes, sir, Houston.”
Alyson bent her head to peek inside her shoulder bag, unsure whether she’d picked up the brochure samples or left them on her desk. She’d just crossed from the other side of the road and was paying little attention to her surroundings when she accidentally brushed against one of the two utility workers walking next to each other on the sidewalk.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, shocked at the hostile vibe skidding up her arm. She clamped a hand around the prickling sensation and rubbed. Phew, she thought, that’s one angry fellow.
It had happened again, at the mere touch—that sudden flash of clarity that gave her goosebumps and a glimpse of a person’s energy or future. Sometimes it was both. She never wanted it to happen, and she never wanted to get used to it. Alyson shivered at the lingering negative energy and knew without a doubt, this man was a hairsbreadth away from a heart attack.
The vision took on an aura of sadness. Yet, relieved not having to spend the next hour in the same establishment, she watched the two men entering the diner next to The Thin Crust pizza restaurant. She wished that bike accident at age ten had never happened. When she awoke from a two-day coma, Alyson was physically unscathed, but she’d woken with a strange case of heightened perception. Shaking off the negative thoughts, Alyson entered the restaurant.
Reid, who met Alyson for the first time as she stepped up to the table, flicked his eyes to Houston in an “are you kidding me” kind of look. From the corners of his eyes, he’d glimpsed a black-haired woman leaving the office of Miller’s Construction the day he’d arrived in Oak Creek. Reid had paid little attention, but he noticed her now.
“Alyson,” he smiled, stood and pulled out a chair. “Great to meet you.” After a few words of small talk, Alyson laid the printed papers on the table. By the time the pizza came, Reid and Houston could visualize the black-and-white print in full color. A tri-fold brochure, a flyer-sized announcement containing contact information, and a tear-off section for donations. A few minor changes and they’d send the order to the print company.
“Houston didn’t lie. I see why he’s been bragging about you.” Reid lifted his glass, peered across the rim. “Excellent work.”
Houston had described Alyson as striking, humorous, and sometimes a little strange. Reid didn’t see strange, but definitely striking.
Next door, in the diner, Bill Schuster’s face turned beet-red as his co-worker, Carl, sang the praises of the two Army veterans on Buck’s radio show this morning.
“Good for them, I’ll say. Damn, if I were twenty years younger, I’d join them, walk with them.” He looked at Bill, took a bite of his burger. “Since I’m not, I’ll take the guys up on their offer to meet. Might stop at Pat’s on Thursday if I can tear my nephew out of his house. He could use some help.”
He noticed Bill’s expression, the creased forehead, and narrowed eyes. “What’s up, Bill? Your meat turn sour, or what?”
Bill’s mouth pinched as he swiped the back of his hand across his lips. “Don’t trust them; that’s all,” he mumbled.
“Now, why would you say something like that? Those boys seemed honest in wanting to help and make a difference. Some of our vets coming back from over there are having a hard time; my nephew’s one of them. A wife and three boys.” The man adjusted the ball cap with the company logo, a sheepish look on his face. “To tell the truth, I’d say he’s come close to ending it for himself a time or two. It might do him good to meet these guys. You should meet them, too.” The man’s voice went gentle, the reference to Bill’s state of mind after Billy’s death remained unspoken. He couldn’t know Reid McCabe was the reason for the mounting pressure in Bill’s heart.
“I might do that.”
Chapter 18
On Thursday afternoon, not knowing what to expect, Reid and Houston had pushed together a couple of tables for the veteran meet-and-greet.
“Think anyone will come?” Reid just asked as a hefty man, wearing a work-shirt and cargo pants, came into Pat’s Place.
“Howdy.” The man seemed skeptical as he approached the table, fiddling with his hat, lifting and adjusting the black ball cap with the utility company’s embroidered logo. “You the guys with Heroes Rise?”
“Yep. That’s us.” Reid pushed to his feet. “I’m Reid McCabe, and you are Tim?” Reid scanned the name above the shirt pocket.
The man’s eyes flitted, scoping out the taproom, but it was early, and only a couple of guys at the bar were watching a ballgame, while others occupied tables in the dining room. “I’m Timothy Cox—Tim.” He pumped Reid’s hand. “I heard you on the radio the other day.”
“That’s great, Tim. Glad you could come.” Reid’s smile aimed at putting the man at ease. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
“I’m not a veteran.” Tim shuffled his feet. A thick, calloused hand lifted to his neck, scratching and lifting the hat, again. “But I wanted to meet you guys, shake your hands. I’ve told Matt, my nephew, about what you said in the interview. That you want to meet veterans from this town. I’ll expect he’ll come.”
“That’s fantastic, Tim.” Houston introduced himself, indicating again for the man to sit. Scooting into his seat, Tim seemed relieved when the waiter came to take his drink order.
“So, your nephew served?” Reid asked.
“Army. He got out after twelve years; he’s had a hell of a time since . . . PTSD. What you said about that suicide rate? I can’t be sure, but I heard it from his dad, my brother. Matt’s wife’s been talking to him. As my brother put it, she thinks he’ll be doing something stupid. He has depression. She says he’s got nightmares, can’t sleep, and the slightest thing irritates the crap out of him. He’s having a hard time adjusting at work. And flashbacks. I guess that’s the worst of it. His wife asked him straight up if he wants to kill himself. And you know what he said?” Tim’s nostrils flared; he was getting angry. He said, “Yes. Every damn day.”
Shit, Reid thought. Tim’s the first guy to meet us, and he brings it home with a sledgehammer. But he could relate. Hadn’t he gone through some of the same? Not that he’d ever considered to take his own life, not even after the leg came off. But this was precisely why he’d signed up to do this walk with Houston. To make a splash in this ocean of sorrow and distress. The edge must have shown on Reid’s face because Houston spoke up.
“I’m sorry, Tim. I know this is tough on everyone. What’s your email address? I’ll send you a list of excellent resources for Matt and for his wife. Pass it on to Matt or your brother. You’re a good man, Tim. Thanks for talking to us.”
Houston jotted down Tim’s email while Reid watched the shadow of despair cross Tim’s face. He laid his hand on the beefy man’s shoulder. “Tim, I know what it’s like.” I’m here, and I’ll listen whenever he’s ready. Tell him that.”
By the time the karaoke band set up at eight, four more vets had sought out Reid and Houston. They’d come because the radio interview had resonated, and curiosity motivated.
Now, with a bucket of beer between them, Reid and Houston watched the band get ready to perform. Alyson, who’d joined them at the table a few minutes earlier, took a chair between them. Since Pat had hired the karaoke band, Thursday nights were immensely popular, and this evening was no exception, as the growing crowd proved.
“What do you say?” Reid shouted above the noise, tilting his head to the stage. Houston’s lips stretched into a wide smirk as he gave a thumbs-up. It would be fun. Not as much as commanding the stage with their own band and their own songs, but it would give them a fantastic way to practice before performing “Boots” the following Thursday.
Reid had selected his song. When he took the stage and lifted the microphone from the stand, the familiar excitement hummed in his chest. The band started up, he cleared his throat, and his amplified voice roared.
Halfway through the song, to the tune of “Friends in Low Places,” and as his gaze swept the audience, he caught her leaning against the bar. Upturned green eyes drew his. With a slight lift of the Miller Light in her hand, she acknowledged him. Reid turned his eyes back to the small crowd thundering along and firing him on. Yeah, Mossy, I do have friends in low places.
Reid didn’t catch another glimpse of Keira; elbowing his way to the back end of the bar room, patrons fist-bumped and high-fived him until he reached the bathrooms.
He’d just zipped up and soaped his hands when an elbow rammed into his back. What the fuck? With the speed of a bullet, he shot around, his mind exploding with scenarios, but he wasn’t prepared when the fist connected with his face, momentarily stunning him.
“’Hero,’ my hairy ass; a goddamn murderer is more like it,” the slurred voice spat venom.
With no intention of getting into a brawl with a tanked-up patron, Reid grabbed the man by his shirt. Disgusted by the alcohol emanating and the animosity in his eyes, Reid shoved the brawny man aside just as the bathroom door opened, knocking him back into the unsuspecting new arrival.
“Hey, watch it asshole,” the newcomer yelled as the drunk crashed into him, but the assailant pushed him out of the way with unexpected strength.
“Murderer!” He spewed out once more and disappeared into the cover of the crowd.
Reid reached up to examining the sore jaw. The hook could have been worst. At least nothing’s broken, he brooded, probably just black and blue by morning.
“You all right, man?” The stranger asked.
“Yeah. Goddam drunk,” Reid said as a way of explanation.
What had that been all about? Why had this man called him a murderer, not once, but twice? Who was he? He looked familiar, but Reid didn’t know him. Besides Houston’s circle of friends, he didn’t know anyone in Oak Creek. Reid breathed in; a drunken mix-up, he suspected.
A clatter similar to someone hitting the jackpot at a nickel machine reached Reid’s ears when he stepped back into the barroom. Coins rolled on the floor, howling and shrieking voices turned the air heavy with tension. The asshole had swiped the donation boots off the counter. As crowded as Pat’s Place was, that had to be the stupidest thing to do. Three men were on him, pushing and pummeling, when security swiftly ended the brawl, dragging the inebriated man to the door and throwing him outside.
The band had stopped playing. Pat stepped up to the podium, took the mic, and ran a steady hand over his bald head. “Folks, drunk or not, what just happened is reprehensible, and disappointing in more ways than one.”
Someone had returned the boots to the bar top, and Pat pointed to the pair now. “Thank you, everyone, for collecting and returning the change to where it belongs. We’re here to have a good time. If you happen to know this bonehead, be sure to pass on that he can make amends by dropping a few bills in here or stay the hell away from our place.”
“Yeah, I’d like to meet him on the other end of this,” a patron shouted, throwing his fist in a punch, and was quickly joined by others.
Pat ignored the comment and secured the microphone back to its stand. The band started playing, the noise level rose and soon, shouting was the way to be heard.
Reid made his way back to the table when he felt a tap on his shoulder from behind. He turned. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was when his eyes connected with Keira’s.
