Home to Stay by Maryann Jordan
2
The SUV rumbled along the coastal highway. It was only a rental from the Portland Airport, but the last thing John had wanted when he finally arrived in Maine was an ordinary midsize sedan. The pickup truck he’d driven between missions had been his pride and joy, but he’d sold it when he left North Carolina. Now, with one hand on the bottom of the steering wheel and the other wrist resting on top, he appreciated the handling and decided this was the next vehicle he’d purchase as soon as he was settled.
Settled. Whatever the hell that means.Settling implied having a place to go home to every evening. Settling implied having a steady job. Settling implied he’d know what he was going to do the next day instead of waiting to see what mission came down the pike.
Following the curves of the road, he snorted. Truth was he hadn’t been settled in years, even though he’d considered his team to be his job, his family, and his home. Now, with all that gone, he had no idea what settled meant anymore.
Rounding another curve, the ocean came into view and all thoughts of his vehicle or settling left his mind. Sucking in a quick breath as an ache pierced the left side of his chest, he was grateful to see a place to pull off to the side of the road. Parking, he shut down the engine and climbed out, walking around the front. His gaze stayed pinned to the coastal view, so different from many other places that peered out over the Atlantic Ocean. Leaning his back against the side of the SUV, he stared, willing his body to drag in enough oxygen to keep him upright. Clean, crisp air filled his lungs, and the scent of ocean spray mixed with spruce and pine met his senses.
He’d traveled the world, telling himself that home was wherever he lay his head. Staring out at the waves crashing upon the huge rocks of the coast, the blue sky in stark contrast to the deep green forests, he sucked in another deep breath, a sense of peace easing the tension that had filled his neck and shoulders. Home was still a nebulous concept, but at least this was familiar.
Lifting his chin, he allowed the bright sun’s rays to warm his face against the spring chill. North Carolina was already warm and muggy this time of year, but Maine was a cool, refreshing balm. Having been stuck in the Atlanta airport for almost thirty hours, it was nice to be outdoors again. Although his time there had not been unbearable. As he cast his mind back to those hours, he had to admit the layover had been good. Blessing had not brought anyone else into the library, so in between snatches of sleep and decent food, he’d continued to converse with Cam, Jaxson, Kyle, and Sebastian. Never one for conversation with strangers, he’d found a simple camaraderie with the other men much like him. They’d even gone so far as to trade cell phone numbers, something he would’ve scoffed at before their time at the USO.
Another vehicle approached, pulling off to the side of the road near him, a vacationing family spilling from the sides of the minivan. With the quiet reverie broken, he climbed back into the SUV and pulled out onto the coastal road. He passed by several massive million-dollar homes perched on the rocky coastline. Another snort escaped as he thought of his grandparents’ house. The house he’d spent years in might have a million-dollar view but was a small, somewhat ramshackle house that his grandfather had barely kept up after his grandmother passed. Some would’ve been surprised that his grandfather wouldn’t have taken the offers that came in for the land around it, but John knew Gramps would never give up that little slice of the Maine coast.
The road turned through thick forests, tall trees on either side. The wall of pine, maple, beech, and oak trees with their branches stretching overhead created a tunnel of green. The area was now familiar, and he turned by the mailbox that was leaning even more than the last time he’d visited. No reason I can’t help the old man out. He added repairing the mailbox to the start of a mental list of things to do—at least, things to do until he figured out what the hell the next step of his life was going to be.
The winding gravel lane emerged from the woods, exposing a grassy knoll in front of him. And sitting at the end was the gray clapboard house. Three years. That was how long it’d been since he’d laid eyes on the old homestead when he’d come home to visit. He pulled to the front and parked to the side near the garage where the grass had long since been worn down. Climbing from the driver’s seat, he grabbed his bags and walked around the back of the SUV toward the door leading into the kitchen.
His grandmother had been gone for almost ten years, but the whitewashed stones that had lined her flower bed still sat in a semicircle by the side of the house. Now faded and more gray than white, the stones brought back memories of a burst of multi-colored blooms from spring to fall. A few blooms now managed to struggle up through the weeds, still offering an occasional dot of red or yellow.
He lifted his hand to knock, then hesitated as more memories washed over him. Letting out a deep breath, he rapped his knuckles on the wooden doorframe. Turning the old, rusty knob, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The pale yellow walls of the kitchen appeared even more faded, the bright curtains his grandmother had hung long since taken down. A frying pan coated in grease sat on the old stovetop and the scent of strong coffee still filled the room. A few dishes sat soaking in water in the sink, and any remnants of dishwashing bubbles had disappeared.
An oak table sat near the back of the kitchen, the top scarred and worn. He remembered his grandmother telling him that the table was a wedding present from her family. She would scrub it daily, polishing it often, keeping it clean and bright. Now, crumbs battled with dust to cover the top.
The small house was built long before the open-space concept was developed, and he stepped through the narrow doorway leading to the living room at the front of the house. His gaze landed on his grandfather sitting in an old cracked-vinyl recliner, the small flat-screen TV blaring in the corner. His hair was now white, there was less of it, and what was on top stood straight up. His wrinkled clothes appeared clean, but he still had a napkin tucked into the neck of his shirt and draped over his chest. A small tray sat next to him, a now-empty plate resting on top.
As the grey eyes in the weather-lined face looked up at him, John’s heart stuttered slightly, and he dipped his chin in a low-voiced greeting. “Gramps.”
His grandfather narrowed his eyes before snapping the recliner down, his feet thumping onto the wooden floor. “Huh. Well, boy, you’re back.” The gravel in his voice gave evidence that he’d probably not spoken yet today… or maybe several days if he’d had no visitors.
John’s lips twitched. “Yes, sir, I am.”
Gramps’ gaze started at John’s head and dropped to his booted feet, then slid to the side where the bags had been deposited. As his head lifted again, his gaze landed on the scar by John’s eye, and he tilted his head to the side. “You visitin’ or home to stay?”
Swallowing deeply, John hesitated. The answer was on the tip of his tongue and yet so difficult to produce. “Home…” He cleared his throat. “I’m home to stay.”
Silence crept into the room, but he held his grandfather’s steady gaze, not releasing his breath until the older man’s head nodded.
“Well, good.” Gramps placed his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed himself to standing. Stooped, his tall frame was diminished but still wiry. He walked toward the kitchen but stopped right beside John and placed a rheumatic hand on the doorframe. “Room’s same as always. Guess you can find your way. Figure we can use a cup of coffee.” With that, he disappeared, leaving John standing alone.
Climbing the stairs, John glanced at the few pictures still hanging on the wall from when his grandmother had lovingly filled five-and-dime frames with snapshots or his school pictures. He shook his head at the scrawny-bodied, geeky-faced boy that peered back at him. “You’ll grow into that body, boy. Be just like your dad.” His grandmother’s words had given him hope and turned out true. He’d grown into his large hands and feet, his stature working in his favor in the military.
At the top of the stairs, he glanced to the right into his grandfather’s bedroom, seeing it unchanged from the last time he was here. Looking over his shoulder, he stared down the steep staircase and wondered if Gramps had difficulty navigating around. He’d bite my head off if I asked. Turning toward the left, he moved into the other bedroom, deciding he’d keep an eye out to see how Gramps handled the house.
His lips quirked upward again as he stepped into his old room. Yep. Same as always. The only improvement had been the double bed he’d bought to replace the small twin bed he’d had through high school. Gramps had thought the expense was unnecessary, but his grandmother had heartily approved. “Rupert, he needs to sleep comfortably when he comes home, so let him have the bed he wants.” She’d covered it with a homemade quilt, and as he stared down at the faded colors, a rush of emotion slammed into him. This was no visit. I’m really home this time.
The furnishings consisted of the bed, a chest of drawers with a small mirror hanging on the wall, and a wooden high-back chair in the corner. Now that he thought about it, it was the same type of chair that Gramps insisted on having in his room as well. “Man’s gotta have a place to sit when he puts on his shoes and socks.”
Dumping his bag onto the floor of the small closet, he walked over to the window and peered out at the coastline in the distance. As a child visiting his grandparents, this view held almost magical power to soothe when thoughts of his mom leaving threatened to overwhelm him. As a teenager who was living here after his dad died, this view simply made him desperate to leave, itching to find his own way outside the little Maine town.
Over the years, he’d spent time on many coastlines and always compared them to this view. Now, he wondered how he’d ever look out this window without thinking of all the places he’d been.
“You comin’, boy?”
Blinking out of his reverie, he scrubbed his hand over his face and stretched his back, as usual hearing his vertebrae pop. “Yes, sir. Be right down.”
He made his way into the kitchen, finding a freshly poured cup of coffee sitting on the table. Gramps had poured another one for himself and had already taken a seat. Settling into one of the chairs, John took a sip of the hot, strong brew and grinned. “You always knew how to make a hell of a cup of coffee, Gramps.”
His grandfather chuckled. “Your grandmother used to chase me out of the kitchen saying I couldn’t boil water. But she had to admit that I could make a cup of coffee.”
They sipped in silence, his grandfather’s fingers sweeping a few of the crumbs on the tabletop to one side. “‘Fraid I don’t keep the house up as good as she did.”
“Don’t worry about that, Gramps. I’m home and have nothing but time right now. I figure there’s a lot I can do around here.” His grandfather held his gaze, and John braced for the question he knew was coming.
“I thought you had a few more years to retirement.” Gramps inclined his head toward John’s face. “That scar by your eye have something to do with you showing up here, getting out early?”
His forefinger lifted, barely skimming the puckered skin. Sighing heavily, he nodded. “I wasn’t ready, but I can’t do my job and protect my team if I can’t see from one side.” The silence remained, something he was used to from his grandfather. He shrugged. “Got a medical discharge. Decent benefits. I can go to the Togus VA Hospital close by when needed.”
“You got plans?”
He stalled, taking another sip, then shook his head. “No. Not anything definite. Up until about two months ago, I was fine. Took a hit and the next thing I know I’m in surgery to repair my eye. All went well except for the peripheral vision on that side. Spent my final weeks in North Carolina with most of my team but figured this was home. Guess I couldn’t see going anywhere else.” He drained his cup, then said, “Thought I’d help out around here while I figure out what I’ll do next.”
Gramps looked out the window as the sun set and nodded. “Good place to find yourself. Or lose yourself, whichever needs to happen.” He pushed himself to standing and clapped John on the shoulder, his bony fingers digging in slightly as he passed by. “See you in the morning, boy.”
Leaning back in the chair, John shook his head, a grin playing about his lips. Gramps was a man of few words and most of those came out gruff, but he didn’t doubt the old man’s affection. Casting his gaze around, he moved to the sink and washed their cups, then he cleaned the frying pan and brought the plate from the living room into the kitchen to wash it as well. Wiping down the table, he grabbed the broom from the corner and swept the floor.
The sun had dipped into the horizon but it was still early. Watching TV held no appeal, so he climbed the stairs and went into his room, already hearing the snores coming from across the hall. Taking a quick shower, he shoved several pillows against the headboard. Grabbing his backpack, he tossed it onto the bed before settling against the pillows. He pulled out the latest novel he had been reading but found it difficult to concentrate. Tossing the book to the side, he reached inside his pack and pulled out the letters from the kids again. Searching through them, he found the one he was looking for—the class picture. Not formal, the kids were centered in a group in the middle of a classroom, an older, silver-haired woman standing to the side, smiling. Flipping the photo over, he read the now-familiar words:
John, the kids wanted to send you a picture so you’d have smiling faces to carry with you.
Ms. Carrington
Ms. Carrington had said that his name came up from the local American Legion, and since the kids wanted to correspond with a local soldier she hoped he was able to accommodate. His teammates had laughed, telling him to man up and write them back. He had no idea what to say. Hell, I’d never even written my grandparents while serving. But one letter led to another—and then he’d started looking forward to them. What he’d said to the men he’d talked to in the USO was true. The kids’ letters made a few shitty days better.
He climbed from bed and slipped the photo into the edge of the wooden mirror frame before returning the letter back into its envelope and setting the whole pack on his nightstand. Turning out the light, he figured it couldn’t hurt to drop by the school sometime to thank the kids and Ms. Carrington. Rolling over, he punched his pillow. Right after I fix a few things around the house while looking for a job.
