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Heading to Celia’s place, she does her best not to anticipate, prepare, or expect. What? She doesn’t know, which is nerve-racking. Surprises and the like are not her thing. Too often, they’re negative: so-and-so died, lost their job, or whatever. It made her feel helpless.

The familiar two-story brick houses seem older than ever with their chipped eaves and cluttered gutters. Though Christmas is long past, a few wreaths still hang on doors. It’s almost noon but many windows have their blinds drawn. Aimless thoughts to still her anxious heart.

The bedroom door is ajar. A wispy cloud of smoke hangs below the ceiling light. Richie sits in an armchair beside the window.

“Hey.” Tears clog her throat.

“Hey, Sister Josie,” he offers without emotion.

She kisses his warm cheek, sees his trembling hand clutch the chair arm, an ashtray and lighter on the sill. He’s in jeans and an oversize black sweater, his hair shorter than it’s ever been. His large dark eyes refuse her reflection.

She perches on the bottom bunk bed, where for years she and Miles read, talked, and horsed around.

“How are you?” she asks.

“Okay, and you?”

“The answer is relative.”

He says nothing.

“Did you receive my letters while in the hospital?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Celia’s at the co-op?”

He nods.

“Has Ma visited?”

“Last evening. She brought dinner but didn’t stay.”

“Anyone else come by?

“Johnny came with a six-pack, hung out briefly. We didn’t talk, not much to say.”

She wants to hug him tightly but senses it wouldn’t be appreciated.

“Did Celia tell you that Melvin took off? That he needs to dedicate himself to the struggle?”

He stubs out the butt of his cigarette, pulls another from the pack with his lips, then reaches for the lighter with his steady hand. “He seemed a devoted guy.”

“Yeah, he was till he wasn’t.”

Silence.

“Is there anything you need?”

He looks at her.

“I mean at the store.”

He shakes his head.

Silence.

There’s so much she wants to know: Is he disappointed to be home? Would he actually have re-upped? Does his body hurt? Does he do anything except sit here? “Richie, how should I talk to you? What’s taboo? What’s okay? Give me a clue. Tell me not to ask questions and I won’t. Tell me you need silence, and I’ll not utter a sound, but tell me. I missed you so much.” Again, tears threaten.

“I freak everyone out, even myself. The grease that eases words is gone, so talking’s a jolt. There’s no familiar. I manage to wait till the afternoon to start drinking. Then who cares?”

“Maybe you should talk to other vets.”

“Maybe I will. Probably I won’t. Numbness is bliss, and it’s what I aim for.”

He lifts one arm with the other and lowers it onto his lap, where it moves of its own volition.

“Can you dress yourself?”

“It takes a while, eating too, yeah, but walking . . . Ever watch a two-year-old cross a room? Get us some beers, Josie, will you? There’s a bunch in the fridge.”

Outside the kitchen window, an empty gray street of look-alike houses. It could’ve been worse, she repeats to herself, the words she heard growing up. Only death was accepted as the worst. And he’s alive and home. Isn’t that enough? But his spirit is gone, sucked out of him. She’s seen it with other vets: alone with nightmares, unable to give voice to the ravages of experience. No wonder conversation is difficult. Of all her siblings, Richie was the most joyful, danced around rooms and laughed easily. It took a lot to get him down, and even then, he didn’t linger there.

She remembers his long phone calls with girlfriends, the mess of a car he careened around in, the radio blasting. The beach, she remembers that too, the heat mixed with the smell of baby lotion. The sandy blankets crowded with friends vying for Richie’s attention. He never minded that she was there.

The high hopes he left with, his dreams of travel, adventure, how he would use the military to fulfill them, she can’t forget that either. He was funny, sweet, sexy, and always someone in the know and nothing like the somber, pale man in that room.

Seeing Richie this way brings the war up close and heart-stoppingly personal. Her friends are right. Thousands of people must show up and bang open the Pentagon doors to overwhelm the officials there and be heard. She’ll do what she can and be there with them; of course she will.

On the refrigerator door, tiny magnets hold photos of grandparents, parents, children, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins. Her family writ large, staring back at her, wanting to know: What is she doing living alone and grieving for a relationship that won’t happen?

Snatching a few beers from the fridge, she rushes back to the bedroom. For the first time in weeks, her energy flows like a storm-driven river. She kneels beside her brother. “Richie, I’m going to find us a two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan. With a cane, you’ll soon be able to walk to a nearby movie, bar, whatever. It’s the boonies here. Stuck inside, it’s awful. Say yes, please.”