The Crossing Page 10

  The whip-cracking hell beast roared fire and ash and smoke, but the T-shirt–clad man seemed unfazed. He reached into the rock of the mountain and retrieved a large sword—exactly who had placed it there? I again deferred to the marketing department who were, it seemed to me, just throwing metaphors into a mixer and shaking them around at this point. And with a single swing of the sword, the hell beast was vanquished in an explosion of fire and light.

  And when the light receded, who should be standing there except our hero? But gone now was the ratty T-shirt. He now wore the uniform of a marine. And suddenly, there appeared behind him a long line of other marines. All of them staring straight ahead, past the camera, into that glorious space where legends live.

  The commercial having reached its climax, the superimposed words You Are Not Embers, You Are The Burning Light....Join Now appeared on the screen in front of the soldier like writing on a bathroom mirror.

  So every day after school I watched as Tommy ingested this message about men in T-shirts fighting hell beasts with magical swords found in mountains. And I knew that it was just a matter of time before Tommy got the idea in his head that he could slay hell beasts.

  I tried a few times to help him see the artifice of it all. “None of that is real,” I told him.

  “I know,” he always replied. But he never looked up from the television as he said the words. He only stared ahead, let it wash over him like the tide, and he sometimes looked down at his hands and watched them, as though waiting for some sword to appear.

  By the time he was thirteen there was enough of a foundation built up inside him that he began talking to recruiters at school. When he could, he picked up military magazines—which was a big thing for Tommy since he didn’t particularly care for reading. But the photograph-heavy magazines showed enough guns and tanks and drones and rockets and flame throwers and sniper rifles and exotic pistols and bulletproof vests and land mines and armored personnel carriers to keep a boy his age busy for hours.

  Tommy began carrying the magazines around with him—rolled up like a baton in his hand—and whenever he wasn’t busy he unfurled them and stared at it all. “One day,” I heard Tommy say to himself.

  * * *

  But I knew that the military was simply doing what it had always done to boys like Tommy: made them feel special. I saw the way Tommy seemed to live in my shadow. He had always been there to help me and I had always let him. Maybe I even shared a certain degree of guilt. Maybe I accepted Tommy’s role as the sidekick rather than star a little too often.

  That was the kind of thing that I could barely get a handle on myself, and I was living with it. So I knew that it wouldn’t do much good to include other people in the discussion. Only Tommy had ever really known about it. And while I knew that he couldn’t possibly understand—I hardly understood it myself and I was living with it—at least Tommy had been there for me.

  When I really got down to it, I hadn’t been apart from Tommy for very long. The longest we’d been separated was during that small period of time when Tommy had gotten adopted and I hadn’t. And both times I hadn’t known what to do with myself when Tommy wasn’t there.

  The first time it happened I had barely understood what The Memory Gospel was. Back then, I almost believed that everybody remembered everything the same way I did. After all, it’s only through the slow grind of life that we come to know that others around us are, ultimately, unknowable. So how was I to imagine that it wasn’t the same for everyone?

  It wasn’t until Tommy was taken away from me that I began to understand I was different. It wasn’t until that first night when I curled up in bed and Tommy wasn’t there to take my hand and hold it and squeeze it the way he always did that I finally missed him. I realized then—in one long, sweeping progression of memory—that Tommy had been there for me every single day since the death of our parents. I saw him, that night when I closed my eyes. I saw every version of my brother, day upon day upon day, for years. His clothes shifted and changed and, at the same time, remained constant and unchanged in my memory. I could see his face every day for years, stretched out behind him and in front of him and everywhere all at once. There were thousands of Tommys in my mind. But none of them could take my hand. None of them could squeeze it and say to me, “It’s going to be okay, Ginny.” None of them could remind me of the fact that I wasn’t alone in this world.

  Memory is just another word for loneliness when you get right down to it.

  I didn’t sleep at all while I was away from Tommy. I only lay in bed at night, weighed down by all the memories of him. I watched his entire life like a movie that played on a constant loop behind my eyelids until I was barely able to tell memory from reality.

  Once, during that first night, I sat up in bed and thought I saw Tommy asleep on the floor beside me the way he often did—like some large, hairless dog, guarding me. I immediately knew that he wasn’t really there, that it was just a combination of memories and fatigue. Every time he had ever been asleep on the floor beside me came together in one constant image that lay motionless and perfect, showing Tommy through all of the years at once. Almost enough to make him seem real.

  But he wasn’t and I knew it. Still, I reached out my hand, tried to touch him, failed, and began to cry.

  * * *

  Tommy had watched me every single day and every single night, I realized then. He had seen the way The Memory Gospel began inside of me, the way it shaped me and how I saw the world. He might as well have been given the gift himself. Tommy, in the end, had succeeded in the hardest thing to do in life: making another person feel a little less alone.

  And when I scoured all of the memories, I saw that I hadn’t always done the same for him. Yes, I looked out for him. I tried to keep him from making bad decisions. I solved his math problems for him or I told him the summation of whatever book he was supposed to read but never did. I had done those small things to make his life a little easier, but I hadn’t done anything to make him feel special. I had always treated Tommy like an accessory in my own life rather than the star of his. And that, I knew, was the reason the military was able to get its hooks into him.

  The recruiters began coming by the house not long after Tommy broke into his teenage years. The war and The Disease were ramping up, nibbling away at the gene pool from both ends and Tommy looked like one of the perfect ways to fix it. Genetics and time conspired to broaden his shoulders and thicken his hands and even though there was a bit of awkward gangliness about him, it was clearly only a temporary phase. Tommy would one day become a man people feared or loved because of his physical abilities. He would be a hammer in this world if someone used him properly.

  At least, that was how the recruiting officers seemed to see the situation.

  “You’d be right at home in the corps,” the recruiter told Tommy. It was a Friday afternoon not long after school had gotten out. The recruiter’s name was Mitch—in my head, I called him Mitch the Bitch just because it was an easy way to make fun of him—and he was a tall, dark-skinned man with almost no hair on any part of his body. He seemed streamlined in the way mannequins or racing dogs are. Like he could fall into a placid lake and never make a splash.

  “I tell you, Tommy,” Mitch the Bitch continued, “you’ve got a future in the corps like you won’t believe. We’ll push you in ways you never knew you could be pushed. You’ll see parts of yourself that you never knew were there.”

  “Yeah,” I interrupted, “your intestinal tract. Or maybe your spleen when you step on a landmine somewhere.”

  Mitch, Tommy and Gannon all turned to look at me. Gannon scowled. Mitch just seemed annoyed. Only Tommy seemed to be willing to take it as a joke. “Well, it’s true,” I said.

  “Anyhow,” Mitch the Bitch continued, “you’re the perfect material for the corps, Tommy. You’re just the raw clay we’re always looking to mold into a man. Tell me: Have you ever wan
ted to travel?”

  “Sure.”

  “Since when?” I interrupted.

  “Since a long time,” Tommy said.

  I laughed. “You’ve never said anything about wanting to go anywhere, Tommy. You don’t have to tell this guy what he wants to hear. In fact, it’s the other way around. He’s trying to make the sell to you. It’s in his interest to lie.”

  “I haven’t lied about anything,” Mitch the Bitch said, his voice hard and cold. It was clear that he was used to barking orders and getting his way. Used to being able to snap his fingers and see soldiers or cadets jump ten feet high. A born and bred military man.

  “No,” I said, “you haven’t technically lied. But you’ve definitely omitted key pieces of information and you’ve painted things in a particular light.” I smiled. “But that’s okay. That’s what we all do when we’re trying to convince someone of something. That’s the heart of rhetoric.”

  Mitch the Bitch looked over at Gannon.

  “Virginia,” Gannon warned.

  “What?” I replied. “I’m telling the truth.”

  “Just let the man talk,” Gannon said. “It’s not like Tommy’s going to enlist tomorrow. He’s still years away from going anywhere. You don’t have to get so defensive.”

  “Don’t I?” I replied, looking at Mitch the Bitch. “He’s not old enough to enlist yet but he’s old enough to sign one of those Letters of Intent, isn’t he, Mitch?” I looked at the small briefcase Mitch the Bitch always carried with him. It was full to the brim with Letters of Intent. All of them waiting to be signed by boys and girls like Tommy. People who didn’t know any better. People who had watched the commercials and believed that it was all mountain climbing and hell beast slaying.

  “Even if he were to sign the Letter of Intent,” Mitch the Bitch began, “which isn’t why I’m here, mind you. But even if he were to sign it, he still has the right to change his mind. There’s nothing permanently binding about the letter. It’s symbolic more than anything else. A symbol of Tommy’s willingness to make a commitment. That’s what military service is all about. Commitment. Service. One person’s willingness to put the betterment of their country and their community ahead of themselves.” Mitch the Bitch’s eyes were focused on Tommy. He was in full salesmanship mode now, like a politician or a preacher. “I’m telling you, Tommy,” Mitch continued. “My time in the corps has made me the man I am today. You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but I used to be a little bit of a hell-raiser back when I was your age. Drinking. Drugs. Fighting. You name it, I lived it.” Mitch the Bitch turned introspective and slid into his own memories, like an uncle at a family reunion. “It wasn’t my parents’ fault. Not at all. I had a lot of anger about things that, to this day, I still don’t quite understand. I acted out.”

  “You see what he did there, Tommy?” I asked. “That whole thing about being angry about things he couldn’t understand. By being nonspecific like that, he’s letting you fill in the gaps in your own mind so that you can relate to the story. If he were to say something specific, like how he was angry at his dad for spanking him or that his mom didn’t spend enough time with him, then that would give you something to either confirm or deny. And since he knows our parents are dead he can just leave the cause of his anger blank. That way you can say to yourself, ‘Yeah, I get angry about stuff too.’ Then you’ll relate to him and you’ll sign that paper and he can make his quota for the month.”

  Mitch the Bitch seemed flat-out angry now. Whatever pretenses of being civil and of accidentally saying all the right things that Tommy wanted to hear were gone now. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he turned to Tommy. “Is there any way the two of us could talk without your sister being here?”

  Before Tommy could answer, Gannon stood and said, “Come with me, Virginia.”

  “No,” I said. “He doesn’t get to kick me out just because I’m making a point. Tell me, Mitch, when you talk to my brother about all of the adventures he’s going to have, all that time when he gets to mold himself into something strong and amazing, have you talked to him about the percentage of recruits who find themselves in the basic infantry? And, of those infantry, just how many are sent to the front lines? And, of those sent to the front lines, just how many are killed?”

  “Virginia!” Gannon shouted.

  But I didn’t bother to stop. “And then, even of those who aren’t killed, just how many of them are injured? Maimed? So let’s say they make it back home. What about the percentage with PTSD? What about the number of soldiers who come home and commit suicide within the first two years of being discharged? Have you told my brother all of those numbers, Mitch? Because I know the number even if you don’t!”

  There. I had done it. I had given him both barrels. Right here in front of Gannon. And, more importantly, right there in front of Tommy. I waited for Tommy to turn and look at Mitch. Waited for Mitch the Bitch to give Tommy all of those answers, to talk about the soldiers, the PTSD, the suicides, everything that the brochures for the military service didn’t tell you. I waited for Tommy to say to Mitch the Bitch, “Answer my sister’s questions!”

  I waited and I waited.

  But all that happened was that Mitch the Bitch, Gannon and Tommy all looked at me with a mixture of surprise, anger and pity. Tommy was the one with the look of pity on his face. But whether it was for me or for himself, he couldn’t say.

  “Ginny,” Tommy said.

  “What!” I barked.

  “Ginny...just let him talk.” Tommy’s voice was the softest plea I had ever heard.

  I swallowed. “Okay,” I said. Then I stood. “It’s your life, Tommy.” I left the room.

  Tommy and Mitch the Bitch talked for well over an hour after I left. Even though I was in my bedroom with the door shut I could hear pieces of their conversation. I could hear Mitch the Bitch bring up honor and courage and duty. He was a living, breathing commercial. And every single time I wanted to race into the living room and grab Tommy by the ear and tell him everything that was wrong with what Mitch the Bitch was saying. All of the omissions of fact. All of the numbers that he either wasn’t aware of or simply chose to leave out.

  But I didn’t.

  * * *

  When Mitch the Bitch had gone and the sun had set and the house was finally quiet, Tommy came into my room. I was lying on the bed with my back to the door, but I knew from the soft sound of his footfalls that it was him. I had been lost in The Memory Gospel just then.

  “Ginny?” Tommy called. “Ginny? Are you awake?”

  “You know I am,” I replied.

  Tommy came over and sat on the floor beside my bed. “He...he wasn’t a bad guy. Not really. He’s just doing his job, you know? He’s supposed to say those things.”

  “Did you sign the Letter of Intent?” I asked.

  “Will you just listen to me?” Tommy replied. “It’s not like I’m going in tomorrow or anything. And it’s not like I don’t know that the war is dangerous. I’m not as dumb as you think I am.”

  “I never said you were dumb, Tommy.”

  “You never had to say it,” Tommy replied. “I know what I am. I’m regular. That’s all. Or maybe I’m even a little bit below regular.” He let out an embarrassed laugh. “But I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I’m not ashamed of it.” I knew that was a lie.

  “Did you sign the letter?”

  “No,” Tommy said.

  Finally I sat up in the bed. “Thank you,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Tommy replied. Then he eased down onto the floor and curled up into a ball and, before long, he was asleep. Leaving me to think about what it all meant.

  * * *

  I awoke to the sound of Maggie coming into the house in a huff. “Virginia?” Maggie called. “Virginia, wake up. Tommy’s gone.”

  ELSEWHERE

  It wasn’t that Ke
vin and Marvin were running from the war like so many other Embers. It was simply that the brothers felt the need to give something back at a time when everything was being taken away. They had money and were just old enough to have been missed by the draft and yet were just young enough to still be afraid that things might change and it could come for them the way it had come for the rest of their friends. They wanted to do something but didn’t really know what until the day Kevin had the idea that if the world was going to end it might as well end with a party.

  And that was how the “Drifting Party” started.

  It was a simple idea: a new party in a new town every night. The very first town they pulled into, they rented out a bar and unloaded the speakers from their van and started the music. By the end of that first night the building was filled to capacity and spilling out into the street and the police finally had to come send people away. And when the morning came and Kevin and Marvin loaded up their bus and started off, they found a line of people waiting to follow behind them. It was like a band that was always on tour, and it wasn’t long before their fame spread and the party moved with them.

  It began with Embers. Those staring down the barrel of the war got into the idea of one last party with a mass of people who were also awaiting the end of their world. For a single night Embers could come and they could fall into a well of music and light and writhing bodies—which is the way it has always been with pleasure and music—and they could pretend that the dawn would never come, that the darkness was a home in which they could live.

  So they did.

  And when the dawn came and the party faded into memory and mystique, Kevin and Marvin boarded a large bus—which they had paid for themselves—and started off for the next town. The plan was simple: there was no plan. Just drive and party at sundown and hope that people came and lost themselves for a little while before they went off to the war and lost themselves forever.