In The Middle of Middle America Read online

  “Hmmm.”

  “Hmmm…. what?“ I say.

  “Shhh, girl. Let me concentrate,” she says. Then she lets go of my fingers, lifts her crystal ball closer to her face and stares through it.

  “You said you see him right?” I say. “Tell me… is it the guy that I sit next to in class?” She hovers a hand over her crystal ball, but says nothing. “Why don’t you just tell me what he looks like?”

  She closes her eyes. Really tight. Then tilts her head backward as if she was looking up at the top of the tent, even though her eyes are closed.

  “I remember,” she says, sitting back upright. “He had black hair, long at the front; the bangs of his hair hangs over his eyes.”

  “Yes…. Yes!” I say, scooting back my chair. Then I hold my hand to my mouth as I stumble backward. “Holy fuckin’ shit! That’s him you’re describing. That’s really him. That’s Meric.”

  JOHNNY EDWARDS

  It’s quiet. Peaceful. Quaint... All those words everybody associates with the middle of middle America. All the words I used to describe the middle of middle America whenever other soldiers would ask me where I’m from. I used to say, “I was born and raised in Lebanon, Kansas—the very center of the greatest country on this God-made earth.” But given that I genuinely believe this is the greatest country on this God-made earth, right now I think I’d rather be back in Nasiriyah. The sound of another missile crashing into an Iraqi air base would sure beat the hell out of this silence. All’s I’ve heard around here since I arrived back home yesterday is the odd hum of the odd car as it drives down the dirt road past my bedroom window. Then Lebanon falls totally silent again… for way too long. I’m beginning to think I hate quiet. That I hate peaceful. That I hate quaint.

  I didn’t know what to do as soon as I landed my ass back home. Me and Patricia ended things way before I was ordered back overseas. So, I just booked myself into the B&B at the far end of Lebanon and headed straight there from the airport, keeping my head down, hoping I wouldn’t be noticed by any neighbors or family. Not until I was ready. I told myself I’d go see Patricia and the kids first thing this morning, but I think I’ve walked every street in Lebanon, except for the one my house happens to be on. I’ve been to the coffee shop twice, for two separate Americanos. I’ve been to the central monument three times. I’ve walked past the school twice, too. Though only after I knew it had closed for the day and I wouldn’t be bumping into any of my kids. I don’t know why I feel no fear whatsoever when I’m approaching an Iraqi Air Base driving a GBC180, yet when it comes to seeing my family, who I haven’t seen for almost eighteen months, I seem to be shitting me some bricks.

  I think what I fear most of all is the kids thinking I’m no hero; that I am in fact the opposite of a hero. A loser. A man who couldn’t even hold his family together. They’re too young to realize the truth; that me and Patricia just aren’t meant to be together. It took us twenty years to realize that, so I’m not quite sure why I would ever expect two teenagers to be able to compute that in the space of the last year and a half. We got together too young, Patricia and I. That was simply our problem. Well... that and me joining the army. Being away for years at a time, and not being around much to raise the kids, sure does stretch a marriage. Though I have to say, aside from not being home so much, the army changed me in different ways. I take everything way too seriously now. No wonder Patricia fell out of love with me. I used to make her laugh when we were younger. The past five or six years all’s I’ve made her do is sigh. She got sick of me. And I got sick of her getting sick of me. So, when she came to me a couple of years ago to tell me she thinks we’d both be happier apart, I instantly agreed. And I still agree. It’s just… well, back then I had Iraq to go to. Now I got nowhere to go. I can’t keep paying Mrs. Ferguson thirty-nine dollars a night to sleep in her frickin’ bedroom with flower patterns plastered all around it, even if her breakfast is pretty much the perfect way to start a day.

  “Thank you for your service, Sir,” an elderly man says as he passes me on the street.

  I stiffen my lips back at him and nod my head. It’s my go-to reaction every time someone says that to me. I’m not sure what else I’m supposed to do… or even say. You’re welcome? Sounds a bit pretentious, don’t it? Though I have to say, wearing an army uniform could easily raise anybody’s level of pretentiousness. It’s like being a celebrity wearing one of these things. Everyone looks at you when you walk down the street, and everyone has something they would like to say. Two middle-aged women I saw yesterday when I came out of the coffee shop stopped and asked me if they could take a photo of us together.

  “It’s inspirational to know one of our own from little old Lebanon is leading the fight for our nation,” one of them said.

  That’s when I stiffened my lips back at her and nodded my head. I couldn’t think of what else to say.

  You’re welcome?

  I find myself turning on to Oak Avenue, and just as I do, I pause, take in a large breath, and then, ever so slowly, let it blow out through my lips. It helps me to finally pluck up the courage to walk on. And on. This is actually the first time I’ve turned on to Oak in eighteen months. I guess now is as good a time as any. The kids have been home from school for a couple hours. Patricia will have gotten back from work. Dinner will have been eaten. I’m just so nervous… nervous that the kids won’t greet me the way soldier’s kids are supposed to greet their fathers when they arrive home from serving.

  “Come on Johnny, just hug them, even if they don’t hug you,” I whisper to myself as I walk past the Schmitt’s house. Once I’ve passed their house, I can see, just over the top of the fern tree that separates their home from ours, our front lawn. Nothing has changed at all. It all looks and sounds pretty much the same around here as it always has.

  My stomach immediately flips itself over as soon as I step foot on our pathway and it causes me to take one step backward, then one step forward again before I pause and have to take in another one of those deep breaths.

  “Come on Johnny, just hug them, even if they don’t hug you,” I whisper.

  “Dad!” Brody calls out, pulling the front door almost off of its hinges and racing toward me. He wraps his arms around my waist, snuggles his cheek into my chest and when I look down I notice he is grinning from ear to ear. I feel relieved. So relieved that he is hugging me this tight.

  “Look how big you’re getting,” I say, rubbing the sides of his shoulders. Then I lean him away from me a little, so I can stare into his face. It’s like looking in a mirror back in 1980. A reincarnation of me. I just hope the reincarnation makes better decisions in life than the original.

  “Missed you so much,” he says. And I swear I feel the relief totally lift from my shoulders.

  “I missed you too, Mr. Edwards,” a familiar voice says. I look up to see Stevie — Brody’s best friend — hanging out of our upstairs window, his arm waving.

  “The team doing any better?” I ask.

  “Training for the new season starts this weekend,” Brody says. “Think you can come along and watch?”

  “Sure will,” I reply, tossing his hair. And as I do, I notice the door behind him slowly pushing open once again.

  “Welcome back, soldier,” Patricia says, leaning against the frame of the door, her arms folded the way she used to fold them when we would argue. “Figured out where you’re gonna stay yet?”

  KAI CHAYTON

  I take the dress from the rack and then pace as quickly as I can — almost in a jog; my head covered by my hoodie; my face staring down at my muddied Converse sneakers — toward the changing rooms. I have never done anything like this before. I’ve thought about it. Lots of times. But I have never had the balls to do it. Not until today. Not until this dress caught my eye and I decided I simply had to try it on.

  I sweep aside the curtain, to be greeted by a huge reflection of myself frowning in the mirror, before I take one giant step inside and sweep that curtain back closed behi
nd me.

  Then I breathe. A long, deep breath. The first breath I’ve taken since I removed this dress from the rack. I’m really drawn to patterns in summer dresses, but the pattern has to be subtle. I don’t do loud in design. I hate loud. That’s why the yellow roses on this yellow cotton dress caught my eye. They can only be seen if you really look at the dress; if you take the time to study the design. And I love this cut; the classic squared cleavage summer dress cut, with two pretty ribbon bows tied neatly on top of both shoulder straps.

  I tilt my head back, just to listen out for any sound other than the regular hum of the shopping mall, and then when I feel the world outside this tiny changing room is as normal as it should be, I begin to unbutton my shirt.

  This feels so naughty. But I’m getting more and more brave these days. I try on women’s clothing almost every day now. When my parents and brother go out, I head straight into Momma’s closet. And on days when they don’t go out, I wait till everyone’s sleeping. Then I’ll try on whatever it is Momma left in the wash that day. Not her underwear or any of that stuff, of course. I’m not sick. Just her blouse or her dress or her skirt. Whatever she had worn that day. I do hate that the only women’s clothes I ever get to wear belong to Momma, but that’s the way it’s got to be, I guess. I’ve always wanted to do this, though… go to a mall, try women’s dresses on. I wish I lived in a world where I could put this dress on, walk out of this changing room and then further out through the whole mall without one other person snapping their necks to stare at me. It’s depressing that I can’t just be me; be the person I really am. Though I once read an article in a magazine that said nobody is truly who they want to be. But I at least have to try to be… right? Otherwise, what’s the point in living?

  I kick off my dirty Converse sneakers, then pull my jeans down before kicking them off too. When I stand back upright, taking in my long skinny body in the mirror, with only bright white socks, a bright white T-shirt and The Simpsons-themed blue and yellow boxer shorts on, I hold in another deep breath.

  Then I reach down, pull the dress open and step my legs inside it. I hold my eyes closed while I slip my arms between the straps, snapping the yellow ribbons down to both shoulders.

  “Okay, Kai… on three,” I whisper to myself. “One… two…”

  I open my eyes before saying “three” and gasp loudly; so loudly, I have to slap a hand to my mouth. Wow. This is perfect. Literally perfect. And I don’t even have any makeup on. Imagine how good I’d look if I had a touch of sky-blue eyeshadow on my lids, just to contrast the bright yellow of this dress.

  I feel so… so… comfortable. That’s the word. I feel like me. I feel like the me I’m supposed to be. It’s such a shame my whole life isn’t lived inside this tiny box of a changing room; such a shame there’s a whole scary world out there full of folks who would laugh at me if I walked out there looking like this.

  “Wow,” I whisper to myself again as I twirl in the dressing-room. I can’t believe how good I look; can’t believe how good I feel.

  I have to buy this. I do. It’s perfect. Perfect loud color. Perfect subtle design. Perfect fit. If I buy it, I could stuff it under my bed in like a shoe box or something. Momma or Poppa would never look there. Or maybe I could put it in the bottom of my socks drawer. Or in my sports bag. Nobody ever looks inside my sports bag. Not even me.

  I notice, in the mirror, my smile is wider than normal, and I just know, know, that there is no way I am leaving here without this dress.

  “Fuck it,” I say.

  Then I take my arms out of the straps, wiggle my way out of the dress and begin to pull my own boring clothes back on.

  “Relax, Kai,” I whisper. When I go to the cash register, the girl will just think I’m buying it for somebody else. I could say I’m buying a present for my sister or something. Or my girlfriend. Yes! Any normal guy can buy a normal dress for his normal girlfriend, right?

  I fold the dress over my arm, then pull the curtain open a little and poke my head out. Coast clear. But I keep my head down, staring at my dirty Converse, as I walk toward the cash register on the far wall.

  While I wait on the lady behind the counter to finish counting out some bills, I cover the dress with my other hand as much as I can, until she finally looks up at me and smiles, beckoning me to her.

  “Hey,” I say, unfolding the dress onto the counter. “It’s ah… it’s a gift for my girlfriend.”

  “It’s beautiful, huh?” she says. Then she taps at some buttons on her cash register, refolds the dress, stuffs it into a bag and holds out her hand. “Thirty-nine dollars,” she says.

  I shove my hand into my pocket, take out two twenty dollar bills, uncrease them and then hand them over with a nervous smile.

  “Thanks,” I say, gripping the plastic bag she stuffed my dress into. And I’m off, racing out of the shop as she calls after me, telling me I forgot the receipt. I don’t need no receipt. I won’t be returning this dress.

  I feel relief as soon as I step outside the store. I can’t believe how easy that was. I walked into the women’s wear section, picked up a dress, tried it on, went to the register, paid for it. And now here I am… walking out of the store with my first-ever item of women’s clothing. Not Momma’s. Mine.

  “Kai. Kai. Hey.”

  I look down the bottom of the escalator I’ve just stepped onto, to see my cousin Halona grinning and waving at me. I grimace back at her while gripping the plastic bag with both hands as the escalator slowly takes me toward her.

  “Hey,” I say, releasing one hand from the bag to throw it over her shoulder. Then I kiss her on both cheeks—our regular family greeting.

  “Buy anything nice?” she says, immediately. I stare straight back down at my dirty Converse again, saying nothing. “Kai,” she says, “show me… what did you buy?”

  LUCY DECKER

  I drum my fingers against the calculator some more, then place it back down on the table before picking up my pen so I can scribble a number onto my notepad. I’ve been doing this for almost an hour now. It’s torturous work.

  “Fuuuck,” I say after tapping at the calculator again. I scribble down the final figure, then lean back in the chair, interlocking my fingers behind my head and letting out a huge sigh filled with frustration.

  I’ve just calculated it’ll take me almost two years to get my hands on the ten grand I will need in order to undergo IVF.

  “Shitty frickin’ teacher’s salary,” I say.

  I can just about afford to put two hundred and sixty dollars aside from the thirteen hundred dollars I receive each month from the school after tax is deducted. Twenty-three months of saving that amount will take me to the six grand I need on top of the four I’ve already put aside. The only reason I’d put that four grand aside in the first place was for him... or her... or whoever it is my baby is going to be. I wanted to have a little nest egg for the beginning of our lives together. It took me over two years to save that amount, after realizing then that I wasn’t going to wait around for any man to get me pregnant; that I should — and could — do this all by myself.

  I can’t believe it takes ten grand for me to get pregnant when it seems as if every woman around me forms bumps at the sight of another man. I’ve bitten my bottom lip while congratulating my sister twice, as well as almost all of my friends from high school when they excitedly announced their pregnancy news. Even all of the female teachers at the school are mothers by now… well, except for Helen Gregg, but that’s only ’cause she’s just turned twenty-three. I’m always happy for them; always happy when somebody tells me they’re expecting. But that happiness gets instantly eroded by a deep and nauseous feeling of sheer jealousy, and I always fear my fake smiles and congratulations seem transparent.

  I grunt, then sit upright before picking up the calculator and launching it against the wall. I’m so weak that the calculator makes a quiet clang before landing on the floor unbroken, the face of it staring up at me and reminding me of the l
ast figure I calculated. Twenty-three. The amount of frickin’ months it’ll take me to save the money I need to undergo IVF. I’ll be almost forty-three by then, with my chances of getting pregnant dipping drastically month after month while I save.

  “I can’t wait another two years,” I whisper to myself. Then I shake my head and pick up the TV remote control to try to distract myself. I stab at the standby button and wait to see what bullshit the networks are offering up as news today for my distraction.

  FOX is still delving into the private life of Princess Diana four weeks after her death; interviewing a former butler of hers and trying to coax as much juice from the carton as they possibly can. I switch over to MSNBC. No surprises here. They’re moaning again. They spend as much time moaning about the Republicans than they do talking up the party they’re supposed to be seducing the nation into voting for. They’re frickin’ more obsessed with the Red Team than FOX News is. I switch to CNN, to see a middle-aged reporter standing outside the home of a family who have just lost their two-year-old son after he was mauled to death by the family bulldog.

  “Thanks for the entertainment, guys,” I say. Then I stab my finger at the remote control again and see Sarah-Jane Zdanski’s face glowing on my screen. She’s smiling her perfect teeth, teasing these damn exclusive interviews again—as if she hasn’t mentioned them every ten minutes over the past few days. She’s more interested in selling herself than selling any interview. It’s all me, me, me with her. Though, if I looked like that… well, let’s put it this way, I very much doubt I’d have to scrimp and save ten grand over the course of two years just to get pregnant. She has a line of men outside her door daily, I bet; a line that travels all the way down the block.