by Lloyd Aquino
Greek sits alone at the bar, minding a glass of something foul-smelling, trying his hardest not to mind any of it, not the smell, not the chatter going on behind his back.
“—you’re crazy. Give me a Viper any day. These new rides are too sleek. Can’t even feel the Gs—”
“So I tell her if that’s the way she wants to play it—crazy chicks, am I right?”
“—isn’t that whatshisface? That psycho who crashed his plane? Whatshisname? Anyway, I hear that guy is nucking futs.”
“Greek.”
Darren “Greek” Ember smiles at the bartender frowning down at him.
“You gonna drink that or just keep spilling it all over my bar?”
Greek looks down at his glass hand and feels the liquid staining it, the glass vibrating in his grip. He mutters, “Sorry, Oscar,” just before the washcloth smacks his face, all cleaner and faint vomit stench. Wiping up his mess, he asks, “You afraid this stuff’ll burn through the counter or something?”
Oscar shrugs, and it takes his mass a few seconds to go inert again. “Ha fucking ha. You ordered the rocket fuel.”
Greek keeps wiping in small circles until the work goes from slick to stiff, the power chords of AC/DC making even the voices behind him nothing more than a low humming now.
“You’re a goddamn child,” Oscar says, his voice straining as he maneuvers his whole body to pick up the washcloth Greek tosses in his general direction. “Anybody ever told you that?”
“It rings something vaguely resembling a bell,” Greek says, tapping the bar. “Give me another.”
Even with Oscar’s back turned to him, Greek hears the sharp hiss of escaping air, sees that massive head shake back and forth. Accepting the new glass, he inhales the stench, but doesn’t drink.
Oscar notices. “Your shit gets real old real fast,” he says, lumbering away to the other end of the bar before Greek can give another retort.
Oh, well. Plenty more opportunities for that.
Right on cue, a hand crash-lands on his shoulder, gives it two slaps that could be interpreted as friendly. Possibly. Greek wheels around on his stool, and the stench of the man’s breath hits him before the actual words register. “Hey, buddy, settle a bet for me and my friend here.”
Greek looks the both of them up and down, smiling, waiting. Mouth-breather has that preppy look, the kind Greek admired as a child, envied as a teenager, loathes these days. The blond hair and blue eyes, two perfect rows of white teeth, right down to short-sleeve collar shirt, all of it a sharp contrast to Greek’s dirtier features. Now the glass is vibrating in his hand again.
Mouth-breather’s friend is all brick shithouse wrapped in green flannel and blue jeans. The next wave of halitosis comes from him. “We were wonderin’…you’re one of those pilots, right?”
Mouth-breather snickers.
“First Lieutenant Darren Ember, Edwards Air Force Base, at your service.” Greek gives a little salute, but they don’t notice. Too busy giggling at each other.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Mouth-breather says, trying his best to wave his hand dismissively and failing. “What’s your call sign, First Lieutenant?”
“Greek.”
“See? I was close,” Mouth-breather spits at Shithouse before turning his attention back to Greek. “How’d you get that stupid name?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Greek sees Oscar’s slouch disappear, but the bartender keeps his distance for now. That’s good. Greek likes the odds just fine the way they are.
“That’s a funny story, actually,” he says. “You gentlemen have time?”
Both men pull up a stool on either side of him. Greek begins, “Either of you ever been to the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs? No? Well, it’s pretty much in the ass-end of nowhere. Anyway, that’s where I went to school. Boring as fuck, so naturally, a man’s gotta find ways to amuse himself. Fortunately, the academy is co- ed. Also, all those beer commercials about the Rockies? Not a lie. So, you put two good things together—
“So it’s my sophomore year, and we’re running flight simulations, and this one chick—green eyes, red hair, you guys know the type, I can tell—she fucking bombs. I’m talking Chernobyl meltdown. No? Never heard of it? Well, anyway, she runs out crying, and it’s all anyone on campus can talk about for days.
“Weekend comes, so I head to the local hotspot—a real dive but the alcohol’s cheap—and within seconds, I see that red hair, those green eyes. For some reason, she welcomes my company. We drink. And drink. And drink some more.
“Somehow, we make our way back to campus in one piece. Like a gentleman, I take her up to her dorm room. We make it to the stairs before she whispers the magic words.”
Blank stares and silence follow. Greek turns up the wattage on his smile. “You boys know what the Greeks are famous for inventing, right?” Pause for effect. “Ass- fucking.”
While Mouth-breather and Redneck catch up, Greek lines up his targets, waits during all the guffawing and high-fiving that follow for the perfect moment to pull the trigger.
“But I don’t have to tell you fine boys anything about that, do I?”
It’s over quickly. At least that’s the impression Greek has when he regains consciousness, picking himself up off the ground. The bar is emptier and an awful lot brighter now, Oscar’s face somehow fatter as Greek drags himself back onto his stool.
“Feel better now?”
Spitting blood into an empty glass, Greek says, “Nope.” He pinches at throbbing forehead, taps the bar again. “Give me another.”
* * *
The receptionists are talking about him again.
“I think he’s sexy.”
“You would. I heard he picked a fight with some townies, then he didn’t even throw a punch. Textbook cry for help from a textbook bad boy.”
“He looks so sad.”
“Well, memorize that face. That way when you see it in the mirror after he’s done with you, it won’t look so strange.”
If Greek could crank up the volume on his iPod higher, he would. As it is, the ear buds already feel like they’re rearranging the molecules inside his ears. Finally, one of the ladies says, “Dr. Paulsen will see you now.”
It’s a short walk, three doors down the hallway. Greek doesn’t bother knocking. In fact, he’s half-tempted to kick in the door.
“Have a seat,” the woman behind the desk says. Surrounded by all the antique furniture, she looks out of place in her white smock. When Greek doesn’t move from the doorway, she doesn’t bother to repeat herself, just glares at him with those green eyes from above her spectacles.
He slouches into the chair, is about to put his feet up on her desk, but she says beneath the hand that’s suddenly covering her mouth, “Jesus, Darren.”
Just like that, all the orneriness goes out of Greek. She sounds so concerned, his reply lacks the usual bite. “Nice office.”
“It’s one of the perks,” she says. “Actually, it’s the only perk, far as I can tell.” She places the spectacles on her desktop, hangs the smock on her chair as she stands, and takes the chair next to him. “You look terrible, little brother.”
Greek seizes up a little as she places her hand on his, but neither of them pull away. “I’ve got it under control, Emily.”
“No, you don’t. And that’s fine. So what if it’s been—?”
Gritting his teeth, Greek says, “Three weeks tomorrow.”
“Right.” Emily leans in a little closer, makes him meet her eyes. “What you’ve been through—it’s going to take time.”
Greek leans in, too, to give her a better look at the bruises and cuts all over his face. “I got these last night, actually.”
Emily sighs. “I wasn’t talking about anything physical. Although at some point we’re going to talk about all this mess, whether you want to or not.” She squeezes his hand hard as she says that last part. “A long recovery period doesn’t mean you’re weak. None of what happened makes you weak.”
It’s at that moment that Greek becomes aware of the buzzing. Immediately, he assumes it’s coming from the desk lamp, but no, it’s off, all natural sunlight careening in from outside. It’s another few seconds before he realizes that outside is exactly where the sound is coming from, a few seconds more to identify the sound itself.
“Boeing seven-forty-seven,” he mutters to himself. Heading northwest towards LAX, he doesn’t bother adding. Emily doesn’t hear, is still going on about whatever the hell. He cuts her short, jerking his hand away. “I didn’t come here for a pep talk, big sister.”
She waits.
“I’ve got another week before I meet with my superiors and they decide whether or not I’m still fit to fly. And no, I’m not asking for a recommendation from you or any of your doctor friends.” He swallows before continuing. “I want to visit Dad.”
The faint buzz of the 747 fades.
Emily says, “Oh, Darren.”
It’s incredible how even now she can make him feel like a lost little boy without even trying. He takes a deep breath to regain focus. Then another.
“Hey, anything would be better than sitting on my ass for another week, right?” he tries joking.
She stands like a rocket launching into space, is already leaving atmosphere, already orbiting her desk and approaching the sun at her window. Greek watches the back of her head, and it’s all too easy to picture what her face looks like at that exact moment. Even though they are separated by eight years, even though she’s a doctor and he is—was—a pilot, they are so alike in a way that only nurture, not nature could devise.
“Why?”
Expecting the question, he still finds it difficult to answer. “Unfinished business.”
When Emily laughs, there is no joy in the sound. “That old bastard’s nothing but unfinished business. Just leave him be.”
“You mean, ‘Just let him rot away in that home for useless old vets.’”
“You’re damn right.” In one smooth motion, Emily puts the spectacles and smock back on. Like a soldier putting on body armor before the next battle, Greek thinks. “And Mom would tell you the same.”
Greek can think of nothing to say, and for a long while, there’s nothing but the static of silence.
Emily is looking at him over the spectacles again. “So now I’ve told you what a spectacularly bad idea this is. When do you leave?”
“Ten hundred hours, tomorrow.”
“You need a ride?”
“Nope.”
“You need money?”
Greek shakes his head.
Emily crosses to the other side of her office, holds the door open for him. “Then godspeed, my deluded little brother.”
Maybe it’s his imagination, but getting up from that chair seems to take a little extra effort. As he’s leaving, Emily asks, “What are you going to tell him?”
Over his shoulder, Greek says, “I’m going to ask him why he killed Mom.”
He doesn’t look back, but he imagines Emily, white as the smock she wears. Not just Emily as she is now, but Emily at seventeen, driving that rickety old Volkswagon van of hers, rocking in her seat, white-knuckling the steering wheel. And him in the passenger seat, crying. He couldn’t stop crying.
And that fire in the distance, growing brighter by the second.
* * *
It still smells of gasoline and dirt. Greek feels sick to his stomach, but he can’t help himself, still picks it up, slips one arm inside, then the other. It fits better than expected. Just a little tight around the shoulders. A mirror sits above the sink, and Greek adjusts the collar, tugs on the left cuff. Perfect.
The room is silent except for a short cough coming from the bed every now and then, just enough to tell Greek that his father is still alive.
“What time is’t?”
Greek takes off the bomber jacket. Laying it back on the same wooden chair where he found it, he says, “Time to get up,” yanks the threadbare bedsheet off his father’s withered husk, waits out all the groaning and cursing.
The old man creaks into sitting, and Greek watches, half-wanting to help him up, half-revolted by the thought. Twenty-four years—there is nothing in this mess that resembles the man he remembers.
Then the old man opens his eyes, unfurls a scowl, says, “Whaddaya want?”, and suddenly Greek is nine again, and there is that fire in the distance.
He says, “It’s me, Dad.”
If the words are missiles, they go wide of the target. His father glares at him, no signs of recognition in his face, the angry wrinkles in his eyelids and forehead contrasting with the vacant emptiness of his pupils. Then everything goes blank.
“Darren?”
Hearing his name makes Greek stand a little taller.
“Jesus Christ.” His father tries to get to his feet, straining. “Let me get a look at you,” he says, holding out a hand.
Greek doesn’t move. There’s an uncomfortable tightness in his abdomen, wrenching. He thinks about why this is and decides it has nothing to do with this father-son reunion. He has neither eaten nor slept since yesterday, not even during the flight. That’s it.
The old man lets his hand fall. Suddenly, he’s chuckling, wiping the back of a hand across his mouth as if to wipe away drool. The one-two combination of actions clenches both of Greek’s fists, but he does not to move.
“Stop,” he snaps.
And the old man does. “So that’s why you finally come to visit. Teach your father a lesson. Get on with it, then. What the hell do I care?”
Now one fist becomes an open hand to flex and unflex, anything to keep it from striking the old man’s face. He could kill him, right then and there. Smother. Choke. Beat to a pulp. Hurl him out the third-story window. Listen to the scream before the moment of impact.
Greek blinks, breathes, remembers why he is here.
“My son, the fighter pilot,” the old man goes on, his voice dripping even more venom. “All that time trying to prove you were better than me, and for what? That’s what you’re thinking, right? How—”
“Quiet.” Two short, precise syllables, all that military training coming to bear. The old man before him shrinks down to that pathetic husk again, just like that. Greek says, “If you’re afraid I’m here to—”
“I’m not afraid of—”
“Shut up.” Again, the command works. “I didn’t come here to yell at you like I’m sure Emily has.” Greek watches his father’s frown grow. “And I’m not here for some heartwarming reconciliation. I’m going to ask you some questions, and once you answer them, I go back to my life, and to hell with you.”
Eye contact, and the old man blinks first.
Greek is ready for anything: mocking laughter, tears, stubborn defiance, even the slight, slow nod that actually comes. Then the first question hangs there, just as it has for the last twenty-four years, all that time with Emily standing between the question uttered and the answer. And he loves her for that. But he hasn’t flown halfway across the country to lose his nerve.
Greek says, measuring his words, “When did you know Mom had followed you into the garage?”
“Not until it was too late.” The words fly from his father’s lips like a flurry of defensive punches, wild and flailing.
“So when you started the fire—” Greek can’t form the question around the lump that swells in his throat.
“If I’d known—” the old man says, and his mouth and eyes look sad. He shakes his head like he’s trying to shoo away flies. “I loved your mother,” and it sounds sincere.
Again, Greek nearly chokes. “So it was just supposed to be you. Right?”
A single nod.
It’s what Greek always suspected Emily was protecting him from, and he knows he should ask why his father ran from the fire, why he hadn’t saved the woman he loved. But instead he asks, “Why did you do it?”
A shrug. “Read this book about the Vikings once, years ago. Got the damned fooled idea it would make things better somehow. Better for everyone, I mean.”
Greek can hear a metal cart being wheeled outside in the hallway, squeaking as it passes the door to his father’s room. Greek listens to the sound fade and lets the answer sit there like an old bomber jacket a father who worked as a mechanic would wear to impress his son. Greek stares down at it and remembers again that night, Emily driving breakneck, and him all wrapped up in his dad’s jacket. How it swallowed him up even as the car came to a stop and Emily ordered him not to leave the car, and he did even though he couldn’t see much, straining his neck to see out the window. He remembers feeling the heat through that window, and how the fire sounded like screaming.
“Son?”
Greek bats the word away as if it were a hand reaching out to him. He tries to control his muscles, but he can’t stop shaking. Now he knows the truth, and he can’t find warmth. And the jacket seems so out of reach.
He thinks about asking his father why he didn’t try it again after the trial or the transfer from the prison to this veterans’ hospital. If he was so damn sure it would change things for the better, why didn’t he try to kill himself again?
But he stops himself.
Then Greek thinks about telling his father about the events that led to the crash. The maneuver that took his wingman by surprise, that nearly killed the both of them, that the investigators called reckless and impulsive. The tailspin and the way consciousness was nearly yanked out of him upon ejection. The long way down, face to face with the sun the whole way. How cold it was as he fell so slowly. Colder than he could have imagined.
He considers telling his father about the thought that came before all of that, the one that said to let go of the stick, close his eyes, and wait. He considers telling his father that he did just that, just for a moment, but long enough.
But when he looks at the old man, all he wants to do is say goodbye. But even that is too much, so he says, “Bye,” quickly and awkwardly, leaving the jacket laying on the chair, leaving his father sitting at the edge of his bed.
Greek doesn’t sleep the whole flight home.
* * *
The seat beneath Greek lurches, and he grits his teeth, his hands and feet clenching like muscle cramps. A dull rattle fills the air, then fades. Everything goes black. It’s a long time before Greek realizes he’s closed his eyes shut.
Ping.
When he opens his eyes again, Greek is looking at cloudless sky. It’s nearing dusk in Nevada, so the panorama is all primary colors, and when he looks down, he can see the rest of the spectrum in neon lights. Greek guesses it must be the stateline, Nevada becoming California and only a few hundred miles away from home.
Ping.
A flight attendant passes by, and Greek holds up his hands to show that, yes, his seatbelt is securely fastened. She doesn’t bother to smile, just moves on to the next row.
“Folks,” says a burst of static above Greek’s head, “we’re just about to make our final descent into Los Angeles International Airport. We should be landing in about twenty minutes, right around 6:35 p.m.—”
Greek ignores the rest of the announcement, focuses on the view outside the window. He wonders which city’s lights he is flying over now, if he knows anyone in this city or the next or the next. The plane rattles to a landing some time later. Greek tries not to white-knuckle the arm rests and fails. He tries not to breathe a sigh of relief as his feet touch solid ground again and fails. As he enters baggage claim, Greek doesn’t see any familiar faces, and the letdown he feels surprises him.
Then he hears her. “Well? You going to keep standing there like you got stood up for the prom or what?”
Greek turns and smiles. “You’re late, Sissy.”
Emily glares, but she’s smiling, too. “Call me that again, and I swear I’ll break my Hippocratic oath.”
They make small-talk while Greek waits for his duffel bag to appear, then walk to Emily’s car. It’s humid tonight, and before long sweat breaks out across Greek’s brow. He lets it trickle down, savoring the coolness.
Emily asks as they get into her car, “How did it go?”
Greek gets into the backseat and tries to sound casual. “Fine.”
The way Emily stares through his skull is telling. “Right,” she drawls. “Once we get a little alcohol in you, you’ll be telling me all about the happy reunion.”
“Pass.”
“See, now I know something happened. You never turn down a free drink.”
Greek says nothing, and Emily doesn’t press. The 405 is clogged as always, stop-and-go for the first thirty minutes. Neither of them speaks over the car radio until Greek asks to roll down the window. Even the California summer air feels good. Greek props his feet up on the ledge. He sees Emily staring at him through her rearview, but she says nothing.
As they pass through Irvine, Greek asks, “Remember Big Bear?”
Greek hears Emily’s grip on the steering wheel contract rubber, but she keeps the car straight and steady. “Of course I remember. Why are you bringing it up?”
The wind rushing past drags Greek’s feet to the edge of the open window. “I was just thinking about it on the flight back. Your Celica, right?”
Emily scoffs, “Hated that piece of shit. Remember what I called it?”
Greek blurts out, “Dizzy,” and the wind blowing into the car from Irvine mingles with their laughter.
Emily gasps between breaths, “We must’ve spun ten times. At least!”
When everything settles again, Greek says, “I have to tell you something.”
And he tells her. All of it. Right down to the moment of weakness. One. Only one.
When he is done, the car is silent.
Then Emily asks, “Have you thought about trying it again?” And the question is a blunt instrument, wielded so expertly by a trained hand that Greek can’t help but be impressed by its precision.
He pulls his feet off the ledge, sits up tall across from his sister, and tries to match Emily’s tone. “No. Not since.”
“And tomorrow? The day after that? Or after that?”
Three more cuts, and Greek feels every one. He swallows hard, practices the words on his lips before saying them. “I don’t know.”
The rest of the drive passes. When Emily parks in front of his apartment complex, they say their goodbyes, nothing more. Greek watches her go, resisting the urge to run after, to accept her offer for dinner. Then it’s too late.
The apartment stinks like two-week-old garbage, and the refrigerator is worse. Greek cracks open every window and turns on every fan, but it’s useless. He collapses on his couch, but it’s useless. He goes to bed. But.
He makes a phone call.
She picks up after two rings. “What do you want?”
He was expecting that kind of greeting and moves past it. “Just letting you know I’m back in town.”
“So?”
“So I just realized I’ve got nothing in the fridge, and I’m starving. I was thinking maybe the steakhouse on Lucklow. Wanna come with?”
“In your dreams.” Only now there’s a smile in Hannah’s voice.
Greek bites back the cool reply that comes to mind so easily. They could always do this so easily, this back-and-forth mixture of flirting and arguing. He used to believe it was a sign that she was the one, that it was all they needed. But she left him weeks ago, when he needed her most. Because she was scared. That’s what she had said, bags in hand, car packed.
As he is pondering what to say now, Hannah speaks first, her voice softer. “How is everything? Are you—?”
“Flying?” He thinks about the hearing, still a week away, and before that, the last of the psychiatric evaluations.
He says, “No. No, I’m done with all that.”
“Really?” She sounds skeptical. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine,” Greek says, and the next words are out of his mouth before he realizes. “But I really don’t want to be alone tonight.”
He doesn’t have a chance to regret saying it.
“Meet me at ten?” Hannah asks.
When Greek steps outside his apartment, walking towards his car, the night air is rumbling like rolling thunder. Greek doesn’t look up once.
Originally published in Rind Literary Magazine — Issue 1 (August 2012).
Vox Inaudica 