A small television sat atop a small bookshelf filled with war memoirs—Erich Maria Remarque, Ernie Pyle, Philip Caputo, Tim O’Brien, Nathaniel Fick. Facing it was an ugly plaid armchair that was wide enough for Jimmy and looked pretty comfortable. In the corner, a small maple desk.
There was a closet with wash-worn shirts and pants on plastic hangers. A bathroom was shared with the neighboring apartment. The window looked out to the backyard and alley. No lights to be seen. It was dark as death out there.
For a kitchen, Jimmy had a short counter, a bar sink, and an old chrome single-coil hot plate that belonged in a museum. Atop a clean dish towel stood a shining plate and bowl, a mason jar doing duty as a glass, a green ceramic mug with U.S. MARINE CORPS on the side, and a fork, knife, and spoon. No piece matched any other, but each was clean and at rest in orderly progression.
Peter thought of Dinah’s description of Jimmy asleep on the couch with the dishes still dirty from breakfast.
Maybe he didn’t want his wife to see how he was living. But the man had nothing to be ashamed of.
Shelves held cans of soup, spaghetti, pork and beans. Store-brand coffee in a half-pound tin, nearly empty. Salt and pepper shakers. Under the counter, a mini-fridge with a folded dish towel laid over the door to keep it from closing. It was empty, clean, and unplugged.
This wasn’t how Jimmy had lived every day, not with his fridge unplugged. He was preparing for something.
He’d told his landlady he would be gone for a while.
He’d paid his rent three months in advance.
Peter thought about how Jimmy had made a point of saying please and thank you. Thanks for the coffee, brother. Please pass the hand grenades. It was funny, and Jimmy knew it, but he was serious about it, too, schooling the younger guys. A real man treats others with respect, and demands respect in return. It was an odd habit in a war zone, but because of Jimmy’s natural authority, it was also contagious. They had the politest platoon in the war.
Maybe Jimmy was the polite kind of suicide.
The kind who cleaned his apartment and paid his rent first.
Because he didn’t want to inconvenience anyone.
Oh, Jimmy.
—
The dog nosed at the kitchen cabinet. It was still disconcerting to see him without the stick tied into his mouth, but Peter was getting used to it. He opened the door and found a few pans and an old coffee percolator, and two big metal bowls stacked atop a sealed plastic bin with a few cups of dog food scattered on the bottom. Peter set out the bin for the dog, who immediately hoovered out the contents, licked his sizable chops, looked at Peter, and whined.
“It’s okay, Mingus,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”
Mingus went to a worn corner of the carpet, turned around twice, and lay down, nose to tail, watching as Peter went through the closet. There was nothing in the pockets of the hanging shirts or pants; nothing slid between the jeans and sweaters folded on the shelf. Nothing was hidden in the old black suit that Jimmy would have worn to weddings and funerals. Underwear folded neatly in a shoebox, socks paired up in another. Peter emptied the boxes but found nothing but clothes.
The static had begun to crackle and rise, and his shoulders were getting tight, but Peter put each item back the way he’d found it. The man was dead, but it was still his home. And Peter wanted Dinah to see it the way Jimmy had left it.
There was nothing hidden under the bed or under the carpet. Jimmy had taped snapshots of Dinah, Charlie, and Miles to the wall by the bed, but there was nothing hidden behind them. There was no access to the attic or the knee walls where the roof slanted down.
He went through the desk last. It was small and its finish was peeling, but it was made of actual wood, from the days before particleboard turned furniture into disposable objects. The top was empty. There were three drawers down the left side. The bottom drawer was empty. The middle drawer held pens, a scattering of plain envelopes, a half-sheet of stamps. The top drawer held a big manila envelope from the VA, with a thick sheaf of papers. Peter pulled the envelope out to take with him.
Under the manila envelope was a yellow paper flier. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN? Looking at it, Peter thought it was the same as the flier folded up in Jimmy’s belt when he died. The photo showed a very young man with cropped black hair, smiling for the camera. He wore a striped button-down shirt. It might have been a high school graduation photo.
This time, Peter read the smaller print. “Felix Castellano, decorated Marine, missing. Please contact his grandmother, Aurelia Castellano.” It gave a phone number and date, just a few weeks before Jimmy’s death.
There was something about this flier. Peter felt it in the pit of his stomach. The urgent growl of pursuit.
But he didn’t know why.
He was down the stairs and out the door with the VA papers and the flier in a paper bag, the key in the lock, the dog crowding him on the stoop, the white static dissolving in the relief of the open air, before he realized it.
It was more than a flier. Jimmy was trying to find the missing Marine.
It was part of Marine culture, part of the lore.
You pick up your wounded.
You carry the dead.