The silence from the gelatinous mass of man on the floor made Jackson look up.
“You know my wife?” Brad said.
“Haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Obviously, if you think it’d be a pleasure.”
Jackson brought his attention back to the phone. “Catholic, Baptist, Lutheran, Jewish, or other?” If Brad were still in, it would be an easy call to his First Shirt. But since he wasn’t, Jackson was turning to the chaplains.
“Atheist, bitch.” Brad gingerly fingered his jaw. “Fuckin’ A, dude. You a Marine?”
“Haven’t had that pleasure either.”
“Fucking hit like one.”
Jackson scrolled through his options one more time, then closed his eyes and hit the screen.
Looked like he was dialing the number for the Catholic chaplain’s office.
The way Brad’s eyes were getting shiny again, Jackson figured the checkout guy at the BX would do for someone to talk to, but Anna said he needed help. Said his wife needed help too, but Jackson was more qualified right where he was.
Got the impression from Anna that helping Brad would help his wife anyway.
Real nice example of solid forever marriage here.
He popped the phone to his ear and listened to it ring. “You ready to man-up and talk to someone about this, or do I have to hit you again?” he asked.
“I don’t need to talk to some fucking?—”
Jackson moved to slug him, and Brad shut up.
But only for a second.
“Can’t make me talk,” he said with a scowl.
“You owe it to Rodney to keep living, man.”
And thank sweet baby Jesus, Brad wasn’t a big enough man to argue with that one.
Later that night,much, much later, flopped out on his own couch with Radish, Jackson had a pounding headache, an empty stomach, and a throbbing in his lower back.
Wasn’t as young as he used to be.
But Brad had thanked him for being a—well, something his momma hadn’t raised him to be, but something he occasionally had to be nonetheless, being male and all. And the chaplain—Father Bob, he said his name was—had thanked Jackson for making the call. Said all the right things about notleaving fellow airmen to suffer alone, insisted he’d stay until the wife got home, talk to both of them. Brad promised not to hit the chaplain, who insisted he could take it even if Brad tried. And Jackson had managed to get through the whole thing without dropping his name, so hopefully Anna wouldn’t get any flack for interfering.
Speaking of Anna—he glanced at the clock. Just 8:43. She’d still be in class.
If it didn’t hurt to move, he might’ve been a big old baby and asked her to come fry him up some chicken. Guaranteed to rile her up and get her into his house fast as nobody’s business, even if he didn’t get fried chicken.
Might play up the pity card to get an answer to that age-old question: Could she make biscuits or not? His supply was drying up since Mamie’d told the Misses he was seeing someone.
A timid knock pulled him out of his stupor. Now 8:44. Early for Anna, but maybe it was his lucky night. “It’s open,” he hollered.
The latch clicked. Anna peeked in. “Coffee and cookies?”
Never thought he was the loving type, but she was making it look damn easy.
That whole broken kidney thing notwithstanding. “You’re an angel, Anna Grace.”
