Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Po’, po’ thing,” his granmere would lament from her rocking chair, gazing at him with those same eyes he sees in the mirror, “He already dead.”

His mama would hush her, whispering in a hurried Creole that Merriell can’t quite understand. He thinks Mama doesn’t teach him more so she can say what she wants around him, secret things he’s not old enough to understand at seven years old. 

It’s Sunday after church, and everyone has made the walk to Granmere’s house which has long become too small to fit them all. They strip off their nice church shirts and hang them on the hook at the front door, a habit Mama drilled into them by the time they could walk and one of the few times all seven of her boys listened. They then make their way across the house to where Granmere sits in her rocking chair, smile across her ancient face. She sits and rocks, accepts each boy with a kiss on the cheek, a squeeze to their arm or bare belly, a tsk followed by, “Oh, po’ baby. Anna Mae, you ain’t feedin’ my boy.” By the time Merriell reaches her, he can see her expression change. The smiles fades, those pinching fingers stop their search for flesh.

“Oh, baby,” she says, reaching for the cross around her neck. It’s an old thing, as old as her and the dirt below their feet, made of crude wood. She rubs it and shakes her head, “Po’, po’ thing.”

Merriell doesn’t try to hug her anymore, and doesn’t tell anyone how much it bothers him.

Their jobs begin after greetings, shuffled into a boiling hot kitchen with the rest of the cousins, sitting Indian style wherever they can find a spot. Picking beans, chopping the sausage, whatever task Granmere has delegated to her brood takes up the next hour. Mama and the aunties bustle around the kitchen while Daddy and his uncles sit outside and smoke their cigarettes. Merriell liked Sundays for the most part, aside from Granmere’s unrelenting gaze and worried quips. Daddy didn’t drink on Sundays, so he knew the only beating he could get was a sharp rap on the knuckles for sneaking bites from the pot before dinner. 

“They talkin’ ‘bout you,” Llewelyn says, a finger slick with the grease from the sausage pointing at him before motioning to Granmere and Mama, “‘bout what you did.” Llewelyn knows more Creole than the rest of them combined, on account of being the oldest, a fact he made sure they all remembered.

Merriell lowers his eyes, focusing on picking out each pea from the pod he’s cracked. He counts as he goes, a habit he’s picked up to keep him calm during these very accusations.

“Mama says it not on me,” he mumbles, the same answer he always gives. Mama says it was God that took Vernon, born minutes after him with Merriell’s umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. Mama says God took him straight to Heaven, that he was too good to be on Earth with the rest of them. Merriell always wonders if he was left behind because he wasn’t all that good. He tries to be a good boy, he really does. He listens to Mama better than any of his brothers, and always does his chores without fussing. But he’s not always a good boy. He steals candy from the store by their house, and chases their old fat cat under the porch only to poke at him with a stick while he hisses and yowls. Merriell wonders if God can see him waiting each night for their neighbor Mr. Leconte to come home, sitting on the stoop until he passes by. He always gives Merriell a wink and a wave, something that gets his heart thumping hard. Even at seven, he knows that alone makes him wicked.

Next to him, little Eugene, the only cousin younger than him, pipes up in his soft voice.

“My mama say don’t say that ‘bout him.”

“Your mama ain’t my fuckin’ mama,” Llewelyn spits back, sticking his knife into the next link of sausage. Eugene shrinks back, leaning closer to Merriell. Twelve years younger than Llewelyn’s fifteen, he’d always been scared of the older boy. “We all know it’s true. Ain’t you listen at church? Killin’ a sin. Don’t matter none what Merriell do for the rest of his life; he goin’ to Hell.”

Llewelyn stands with his plate of chopped sausage, handing it off to Auntie Lorraine before exiting the kitchen. He’s about to go stand with Daddy and the uncles, satelliting the outskirts, hoping for an offer of a cigarette and to be included in the menfolk talk.

Merriell keeps staring at his peas, picking away. His mind is far, far away from Granmere’s kitchen. He’s nearly counted to fifty when he feels Eugene’s small hand on his knee. He doesn’t look up.

“I don’t think it, Mer,” Eugene says, barely above a whisper. The threat of Llewelyn coming back, angry at being sent back to the kitchen with the little ones, looms over them. “You’ll be in Heaven with us.”

Merriell doesn’t say anything. He keeps picking his peas, counting, wondering if when he gets to those pearly gates in the sky they’ll be shut tight.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

After the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor, Merriell finally hits his father back.

“I wanna enlist, Mama.” Merriell says around a mouthful of rice, not caring about the small grains that fall out. The first and most superficial reason for his sudden patriotism is that it pays more than his current job. He had managed to graduate high school to the shock of his teachers and himself, tossed his cap and gown in the nearest trash can and found a job before the day was over. It was easy enough and he didn’t need to deal with customers aside from helping the occasional old lady get something off a high shelf. He doesn’t mind being in the back of the store for most of his shift, counting and stacking, stacking and counting the endless boxes, alone with his thoughts. He works the early shift six days a week, only taking Sundays off to pretend to listen at church and endure awkward dinners at Granmere’s. The gatherings have gotten smaller over the years as his cousins have grown up and moved away, his brothers so busy with their own lives that only Merriell, still single and without excuses, can be bullied by Mama into attending. He indulges her wishes, greets Granmere and ignores how she shakes her head when she looks at him, sits out front with Daddy and his uncles to chain smoke and escape the aunts. As months turn into years, his life has become excruciatingly boring, a monotonous thing he must endure. The propaganda of grandiose adventures in far away lands and serving your country with pride seems more and more appealing with each passing day. Along with his listlessness has come an increasing sense of loneliness, creeping under his skin and settling in his bones. His world has become smaller, orbiting around the same people and routines day after day. He no longer revels in the pleasure of having his own bedroom and space and desperately misses his brothers. Francis and Victor rent their own places near the docks now and stop coming home, Willard sends his occasional letter, Arthur is never out of jail longer than a week, Llewelyn is busy chasing kids; holidays are the only time they can be expected to come around and Merriell’s attempts at visiting are often thwarted by busy schedules or whatever plague his nieces and nephews are fighting off. Merriell yearns for their familiar presence, the camaraderie of brotherhood, the feeling of belonging. In some childish way he feels abandoned by them, left to sow the remnants of what was once his family. He hopes that once he joins the Marines he’ll get that feeling back, have brothers again, feel like his life has a purpose.

“Merriell, I won’t have two boys out there. It ain’t happenin’,” Mama shakes her head, tight curls bouncing with the motion. They had last seen Robert at Thanksgiving two months before, back when the talks of war were a distant thunder, lightning not yet striking. He had left the holiday with a promise to see them all at Christmas, sealing the vow with a kiss on Mama’s cheek. Now it was January, two days before Merriell’s birthday, and Robert was out at sea, sailing towards Australia and away from a promise he never could have kept. Mama is quiet tonight; Merriell wonders if she’s thinking of Vernon, who should be turning twenty-three with him, and if the fear of losing another baby is looming over her. He wants to be empathetic, that little part of him that will always be responsible for Vernon’s death groveling within, not wanting to add to Mama’s suffering. But instead he feels his frustrations rising, the familiar ache of being unheard growing in his chest. Besides, if what the newspapers claim is true, the war will be over by Christmas, the Americans avenging Pearl Harbor with ease.

“Ain’t you think it’s fucked up-“

“Watch that language at my table.”

“-messed up what they did? Shouldn’t they pay for it?” 

“Course it ain’t right. But this family been through enough. Your poor Granmere gon’ meet the Lord early if she got another grandbaby to worry about.” Aside from Robert, little Eugene who wasn’t so little anymore had signed up to be a paratrooper. Merriell bites his tongue instead of commenting on Granmere’s age, some mean quip that she should have already met the Lord long ago. He loves the woman primarily out of obligation and is not sure he will feel sad when her time comes; he might feel relieved when her all-seeing eyes close in eternal rest, unable to spy on his thoughts anymore.

“They need men. Mr. Gideon says that recruiters are goin’ into the schools now. His boy gon’ sign up too, once he graduates. C’mon, Ma, don’t you think I’d be handsome in Marine greens? Shootin’ down the enemy?” Merriell gives her a playful grin, sitting up in his chair to give her a mock salute. Mama just shakes her head again.

“War ain’t a joke, boy,” Daddy warbles from his spot, stabbing at his fish with unsteady fork. He's been drunk since Merriell got home from work, only rising from his armchair to stumble over his empty cans to the dinner table. “Killin’ ain’t gon’ make you a man.”

“Who fuckin’ asked,” Merriell mutters, glaring at his old man. The tension had been rising between them and threatening to boil over and spill its scalding contents for weeks. Merriell has a sickening feeling that Daddy knows about him, that dark secret he keeps locked tight. He hasn’t been with anyone since Tom, the shame of their encounter and fear of being caught steering him away from seeking out anyone, ignoring his ache for a hand that is not his own. When the postcard from Maine arrived two weeks ago Merriell hadn’t expected it to bother him so much. Victor and Francis had been invited to Tom’s wedding up in Bar Harbor, leaving the great state of Louisiana for the first time to attend.

“Now ain’t that nice,” Mama had said, showing Merriell the postcard. A picture of a lighthouse was on one side, Francis’ chicken scrawl on the other describing the wedding and weather. Merriell hadn’t replied, just grunted with a nod. For some reason it made him feel jealous, Tom getting married. Jealous of the girl and jealous that Tom had managed to keep up the charade, seemingly able to move past their night together. Merriell had sent many futile prayers to God over the years, begging for absolution, to make him forget; of course he was unable to, as God stopped listening long ago. He looked at the postcard longer than he should have, turning it between his fingers, remembering how those fingers had touched Tom’s body. He felt his cheeks grow hot at the memory and drops the postcard on the table, looking up to see Daddy staring at him, eyebrows drawn together. Merriell had retreated to his room feeling raw and exposed, Daddy’s suspicions burning a hole in his back.

“Killin’ ain’t gon’ make you a man,” Daddy repeats himself, looking back at Merriell with eyes tinted yellow from years of his boozing, cruelty peeking through the haze, “Nothin’ gon’ make you a man.”

“What would you fuckin’ know,” Merriell spits out, digging into his lexicon of family history for what will hurt the most, “you couldn’t serve, you gimp fuck.”

Before he can blink, his father has leapt up from his chair and grabbed Merriell by the collar. He throws him to the ground, Merriell’s head hitting the floor with a resounding thud. Daddy gets on top of him and punches him square in the jaw, the pain making his eyes water. He throws his arms up to cover his face as Daddy wails on him, ignoring Mama’s pleas for peace.

“You think servin’ gon’ make you any less of a faggot?” Daddy growls, another punch meeting Merriell’s jaw. The second that last word slips from his father’s lips, Merriell finds it in him to swing back, fist connecting with Daddy’s nose. The hit takes his father by surprise and his hands fly up to staunch the sudden blood flow. Merriell uses it as his opportunity to push Daddy off of him, kicking and swinging as he goes. Nearly twenty three years of unreleased rage takes him in its dark embrace, hearing and seeing nothing in his primal fury as his fists connect with skin and bone over and over and over-

Mama screaming his name snaps him back into reality, and he comes out of his stupor to find himself on top of his father, fingers wrapped tight around Daddy’s neck. The man’s eyes are closed, and for a moment Merriell is afraid if he’s killed him. He pulls hands that don’t feel like his own away quickly, Daddy gasping for air once his throat is free. His nose looks broken, the blood dripping from it staining his swelling face. In this moment, his children have never resembled him more. 

“Merriell, please,” Mama begs tearfully as she pulls on the back of shirt, “please.” For a second, Merriell hates her too; she never begged for their lives. 

“This the last time you fuckin’ touch me,” Merriell barks, pushing off his father and jerking away from his mother’s grip, “The last fuckin’ time.”

He storms out of the house, body still shaking from adrenaline and the sick thrill of finally giving it back to his old man. None of them had ever hit their father back, too paralyzed by fear. He misses his brothers more than ever, wants to celebrate this triumph with the only people who could understand. Bloodied hands reach for the carton of cigarettes tucked into his pocket and he lights one up as he walks, trying to gain control of himself again. He puffs and walks, counting through this cigarette and the two that follow. His feelings of victory begin to wane and are replaced with guilt, images of patricide rotting his mind like a poison. Maybe his father was right; if he feels this bad for harming another, he is not cut out for the Marines. 

Merriell doesn’t talk about enlisting again, and Daddy never lays another hand on him. He wonders if he’s earned his father’s respect in some antiquated way, proving his worth by means of violence. His bloody initiation into manhood has left them at an impasse, unwilling to speak and unable to avoid the other’s presence. Merriell takes to picking up extra shifts to avoid coming home for dinner, preferring to eat alone after his parents have gone to bed. He knows it hurts Mama, but the thought of breaking bread with his father brings back those memories of rage and shame, hating himself for hurting his father and hating himself more for being unable to finish the job.

One night, unable to bear the thought of going home, Merriell decides to find a bar to make poor decisions in. He is not a drinker, hates what he’s seen it do, but finds himself unable to muster an excuse not to. He’s bored out of his fucking mind, nearly crawling out of his skin with the need to make something about tonight different. He gives most of his paycheck to Mama each week but with picking up extra shifts he has wads of spare cash burning a hole in his pocket. He might as well spend it unwisely, with no girl or friends to blow it with. He misses the bus back home to hop on one that goes deeper into the city, the sounds and sights of downtown New Orleans enveloping him. Mardi Gras celebrations had been canceled the month before but the city was still as vibrant as ever, humming with the sound of endless people bustling through the streets, calling out from their balconies, stumbling out of bars in fits of laughter. Merriell isn’t sure where to go so he joins the throngs of people to see where they will take him.

Merriell weaves through the crowds and watches his feet while he walks, counting each step he takes over the side walk. He has never felt like he really belonged in this world, like he was dropped into it like some alien thing unable to figure out the terrain. He knows he is odd; the way he sometimes stares instead of speaks, his off-color comments and dirty mind. He had given up on trying to be understood long ago, only feeling comfort in the company of his brothers. He is not usually liked by people he meets, tolerated at best and feared at worst. It doesn’t bother him too much; he usually fucking hates them too, hates the phoniness he seems to see in everyone. Maybe because he feels so out of place in his own skin, hates who he is, he can’t imagine anyone else truly being happy.

A familiar voice rings through the crowd and breaks Merriell out of his train of thought, taking his gaze off the ground and turning it towards two women walking a few yards ahead of him. 

“If they don’t play some Louis tonight, I’m leavin’!”

That mouse-like voice can belong to no one but Rita Sharette. She had been in his grade and sat next to him from first grade on, their last names one after the other on every seating chart. They had spoken briefly over the course of their education, mostly when Merriell needed to borrow a pencil or Rita dragged him into some argument. “Tell ‘em, Mer!” She would squeak, pointing at whatever poor bastard she had decided to pick a bone with. He would just roll his eyes and go back to chewing on that pencil she’d lent him, leaving her to fend for herself. Although she would whine about the teeth marks, she never stopped loaning him pencils and he never told her to stop dragging him into shit. Merriell thinks she might be the closest thing he had to a friend, acquaintances amused by each other’s antics. 

Her black hair is shorter than it used to be and slicked tight to her head like Josephine Baker. She almost bounces instead of walks, hands waving all over the place while she talks. Despite being several paces behind her, Merriell can feel the energy radiating off her, the excitement in her step. The feeling is almost intoxicating, inviting him to pick up the pace so he’s only a few yards behind them. Part of him wants to call out to her but he bites his tongue, not sure what he would say after years of separation or if she would even remember him. The woman she’s walking with is tall and blonde and unfamiliar, hands tucked into her pockets and undoubtedly more reserved than her companion. There’s an ease to them that almost suggests sisters, but that wouldn’t be possible. 

“Think Ginny and May will be there?” the blonde asks, leaning closer to Rita’s level. Merriell instantly wants to know why this is privy information, his nosiness bringing him around a slow moving couple to get a few steps closer. A lifetime of eavesdropping both in English and Creole has left his ears quick to recognize things that are not meant for him.

“Oh, girl, you ain’t hear? They ain’t speakin’ no more.”

He turns down the same quiet side street as them, far more invested in this tale than finding a bar. It’s not like he’s keeping anyone waiting, or really wants to be out in the first place. He stays far enough back that if they turn around it doesn’t look like he’s about to pounce on them but close enough to keep eavesdropping.

“No! What happened?” gasps the blonde, grabbing Rita’s arm.

“You not gon’ believe this,” Rita says, her loud voice dropping to a whisper that only the blonde and Merriell’s trained ears can hear, “May found Ginny with another woman.”

Merriell almost stops in his tracks. If this street was louder, he would assume he had misheard her. But as they walk further and further from the noisy crowds, there is no mistaking what Rita has said. May found Ginny with another woman. Merriell has to know more.

“No!” The blonde gasps again, slapping her other hand to her cheek.

“Mmhm! Caught in the act! So they done.”

Rita and the blonde stop in front of a storefront that looks abandoned and pull open a door that has years worth of flyers tacked to it. They slip inside and Merriell is left alone on the sidewalk, contemplating his next move. Rita’s comments have left him too curious to simply walk away and forget what he has heard. May found Ginny with another woman; and they were expected at this seemingly abandoned building tonight. He can hear distant sounds like a band playing, signs of life within this mysterious place.

Fuck it.

Merriell opens the door and steps into the dark. The sound of music grows exponentially, coming from the bottom of a narrow staircase to the left of the door. There are lights on at the bottom and over the music he can hear talking and laughing. Swallowing his anxiety, Merriell makes his way down the sticky steps and into the unknown. The sounds of the band, highlighted by a trumpet, get louder and louder as he descends, reaching a crescendo as he hits the bottom step. He blinks once, twice, almost coughing at the wall of smoke that hits him. The space he has entered isn’t large but packed to the brim, the band tucked into the far corner and a narrow bar immediately to his right. What seems to be a dance floor takes up most of the room, lined by tables and chairs occupied by people. At first, there is nothing amiss about this place aside from the strange way he has discovered it. No one pays him any mind as he meanders to the bar, settling into a stool next to two men seemingly having a heated debate. He nearly falls out of that stool when he shoots them a quick glance and sees the shorter of the two men pull the other down to kiss. He whips his head around, quickly scanning the rest of the bar as everything falls into place. Women are sitting in each others laps, men are holding each other on the dance floor as the band starts up a new song. For a moment, he wonders if he had fallen down those stairs and broken his neck, dead and stuck in some purgatory of his biggest desires and fears. Where the fuck am I, he thinks, turning back to the bar and the men eating each others faces next to him. What the fuck is going on here?

“Welcome,” the bartender says as he passes, busy carrying several mugs to the opposite end of the bar, “Lemme know when you ready to order.”

Merriell just grunts, his shock preventing him from speaking. He looks at the faded labels on tap, squinting through the dim lights, anything to keep him from gawking at the love scene playing out to his left. 

“I knew you was queer, I just knew it.”

Merriell feels his heart stop and he slowly turns around to see Rita standing behind him, hands on her hips. Aside from her hair, she hasn’t changed a bit since Merriell last saw her at graduation. She’s always reminded him of a little dog who thinks she’s big, fur all fluffed up and tail in the air, eyeing him down without a drop of fear. She’s shaking her head but a smile is creeping across her lips, painted red as the blood running cold in Merriell’s veins. 

“Ain’t never talk to nobody, ain’t never had a girlfriend. Merriell Shelton, you are a homosexual if I ever seen one.”

“What is this place?” Merriell asks, ignoring her accusation but unable to deny it, the painful truth that he cannot hide anymore. He feels almost naked in front of her, a wild thing that needs to escape her unrelenting gaze. The fact he didn’t immediately turn tail and run is an admission of his guilt, his desire to understand more of this secret world he’s stepped into; and she knows it.

“This is Heaven, boo. Get you a drink and come meet me over there,” Rita says, pointing in the direction of some couches on the other side of the bar. Through the haze of cigarette smoke Merriell can see the blonde Rita came with sitting with two other women, “Right there, see? We got shit to discuss.”

 Rita scampers off, leaving Merriell alone to ponder his next move. He could turn around and leave, pretend all of this was some weird dream and wake up tomorrow morning with no intention of ever coming back. He could stay at the bar, have a single drink and go home, pretending it fulfilled him and he never needs to return. He runs through the scenarios over and over until a stroke of bravery or stupidity has him waving the bartender over. He orders a beer, shrugging when asked for specifics; he is only familiar with his father’s preferred Dixie Beer. The man rolls his eyes, picks something cheap and slides it over. Merriell leaves some money on the counter and makes his way to Rita and her friends, finishing half of his drink before he gets there in his nervousness.

Rita claps in delight as he approaches and grabs his arm to tug him down onto the cushion next to her. He flops down hard, their knees bumping together and drinks splashing. Rita doesn’t seem to notice and makes quick work of introducing him. 

“Girls, this here is Merriell Shelton. We was in school together,” Rita says, hand waving back and forth as she jabbers. “Merriell, this is May, Edith,” Rita wraps her arm around the blonde woman’s waist, “and this is my girl, Louise.”

“Hi,” is all Merriell can manage to get out. It’s hard to tear his focus away from how Rita’s hand rests on Louise’s hip, that ease he had witnessed between them earlier finally making sense. Maybe Rita’s inability to speak to any of their male classmates without arguing should have been a sign that Rita was…well, he doesn’t know what women like her are called. 

“You a friend of Dorothy, Merriell?” asks the one called May, who apparently also had a girl until recently, raising a thin eyebrow. Merriell turns his attention to her and shakes his head, unsure of what she is asking. He doesn’t know anyone named Dorothy. 

“I don’t-“

Rita pipes up, hands flailing, “Open your eyes, of course he is! I always knew, always.”

“You still ain’t tell me what this place is.” Merriell looks around the bar, that cagey feeling rising within him again. The dance floor nearby is crowded with all sorts, women swaying back and forth together, men with their arms draped over each other’s shoulders. None of it seems real, far beyond his level of comprehension.

“I told you, this is Heaven. It ain’t got a name, but that’s what I call it. Back in the day this was one of them underground bars, y’know, when they banned drinkin’. Was empty for a while ’til a few old queens found it and spiffed it up,” Rita says so quickly that Merriell almost misses half of it, “Only place ‘round where people like us can be us.”

People like us, Merriell repeats to himself, the thought making his stomach turn. He doesn’t understand how Rita can be so brazen, so confident, why she isn't riddled with fear like him.

“I ain’t…” Merriell thinks of Tom, Mr. Leconte, all the men he’s lingered on for too long, the truth he’s tried to gut out and leave for the vultures, “I ain’t like that.”

Rita cackles like a hyena. 

“Boy, who the fuck you think you foolin’?” Rita asks, looking at him with playful eyes. “Have your drink, boo, and relax. And I better see you ‘round again. We gon’ have fun, you and me.” With that being said, Rita and Louise stand up and head towards the dance floor, Edith and May hot on their tail. Merriell is left alone with his drink to ponder this new reality.

Merriell doesn’t move a muscle the next two hours, barely feels the condensation from his half-finished drink slide down his hand and onto the floor below him. His mind spins with the surplus of information he’s been given and is working overtime to make sense of it all. He keeps checking the door, almost expecting Abbott and Costello to pop out and do a bit, this all having been one big joke played on him. They never come so he watches the people around him go about their night, unashamed and reveling in the delight of being with each other, being themselves. Not lying to themselves, pretending to be something they are not; more free than he has ever been. He stays there until the lights come on and the bartender starts stacking stools, giving him the eye. He walks in an almost stupor back to the bus stop, making sure to memorize the path he has taken to reach this secret Eden.

He goes back the next weekend in the cleanest pair of pants he owns and with hair that’s he’s actually bothered to pull a comb through. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, why he is risking going back. He had barely slept that entire week, tossing and turning all night, kept awake by memories of what he had seen. It is all he thinks about, his desire to return, the shameful excitement he feels thinking about walking down those stairs again. He thinks of being there with Tom or Mr. Leconte and holding them on the dance floor, sitting on their knee while they chatted and laughed with likeminded friends. He aches for it, desperate to return to this place where for once in his life he might fit in. He waits until Mama is asleep to head out and gets to the bar before midnight. It is just as busy as it had been last time but Rita and her friends are nowhere to be seen. Merriell had been conflicted about seeing her, wanting her familiarity as a safety net but thankful that she will not spend the night yapping his ear off. He finds the same barstool open as before and leans against it, taking in tonight's crowd. He orders the same mediocre beer as last time and sips it slowly. He isn’t there long before someone sidles up next to him and taps his arm.

“Hi there,” the man says, giving him a mustachioed smile. Merriell takes a deep breath in an attempt to settle his heart rate. “I’m Don.”

“Merriell.” 

“You from ‘round here?”

“Nah,” Merriell half lies. While he couldn’t wait to get back, he’s not about to spill his guts to every Tom, Dick, and Harry he meets. 

“I figured. Haven’t seen you around before, and new guys get snatched up quick. ‘Specially ones lookin’ as good as yourself.”

Merriell doesn’t answer because he has no idea what to say back. It had been different with Tom; there was no talking about it, no pretending this was normal, their conversation veiled. The guilt was palpable in both of them and their hurried encounter didn’t leave time to savor the pleasure beyond their moments of release. Here it felt like just another day, business as usual. It makes Merriell’s skin crawl, waiting for someone to come in and catch him, drag him out onto the street to beat him senseless. Still, despite being surrounded by people Rita claims to be like them, he feels a bit misplaced. He fights through the feeling and gives Don a toothy smile instead, still flattered despite his churning stomach at the compliment. 

“You dance, Merriell?” Don asks, jerking his head in the direction of the dance floor. Merriell just nods and throws back the rest of his drink, trying not to gag at the quick intake. He doesn’t dance, but it seems easier than talking. 

The band is playing some love song that’s got half of the patrons on the floor, held in the arms of their beau. Don leads him there, hand feeling hot as coals on the small of his back. Merriell wants to both lean into it and pull away from it, his body so unfamiliar with the touch of another. Merriell is unsure what to do with his own hands and resigns to bite at his thumbnail.

“Tell me about yourself,” Don asks as he takes the hand that isn’t being chomped on and holds it. Don pulls him so close that their hips are flush to each other, and Merriell could just about hit the floor thinking about what could be pressing against his groin. Like an inexperienced teenager, not far from the truth, he feels his cock betraying him and hardening at the simple act.

“I ain’t much of a talker,” Merriell grunts as he puts his hand on Don’s shoulder, feeling stifled by the intimacy he thought he’d been craving. He’s not unattracted to Don, quite the opposite. He’s a bit taller than Merriell, has that tint of red in his mustache that drives him crazy. He could fuck the shit out of him this moment; but he feels overwhelmed by Don’s kind gaze and desire to know more about him, see him as anything but a body to rut against. Merriell is still not ready to pretend he is happy to be this way and play first date with this stranger. He leans in to whisper in the other man’s ear, almost not believing the filthy words that follow, the real reason he has come back, “Prefer to use my mouth for other things.”

Ten minutes later he’s blowing Don in the bathroom, inexperienced but fueled by enthusiasm and the hand gripping the back of his head. He’s so turned on that it’s impossible for him to be guilty, feel the wrath of some higher being. Don returns the favor after and Merriell doesn’t last longer than a minute, every inch of him shaking when he orgasms. As he gasps for air, he thinks maybe Rita has the right idea; this place should be called Heaven.

He goes back to the bar each weekend under the cover of night, blows his extra money on tips for the band and drinks for other men. Sometimes he sees Don, sometimes he finds some other guy to dance with. With each returning trip he gets more confident, has no problem going up to any appealing body and making his intentions known. It’s earned him one or two shoves from jealous boyfriends but he finds himself loving it and relishing in the fact they will fight about him tonight. Other times he just sits with Rita and Louise, listening to Rita jabber away about people he slowly comes to know. He gets a bit of a reputation as a heartbreaker; aside from Don, who is easy and consistent, he never hooks up with the same guy twice and always refuses to kiss goodnight. It is something Rita teases him about mercilessly. Ditzy, loudmouth Rita, who he quickly comes to consider a real friend. Her mind is just as filthy as his and they make crude jokes together that has Louise disgusted with them, catcalling from their couch and being generally obnoxious. He laughs harder with Rita than he has in years and slowly comes to tell her the circumstances of his life, Granmere's haunting presence and his father's cruelty. She shares her story too, filling in the gaps of what he already knew from their decade of schooling side by side. He makes other friends too, regulars who like him come to the bar to escape the oppressive world just up those stairs, but he holds Rita closest to his heart. For the first time in his life, Merriell feels hopeful, that this cross of immorality he must bear does not need to be a lonely experience. 

This brief period of happiness does not last, as God has long since decided that tragedy must befell the Shelton family, wretched descendants of Cain. On November 13th, 1942 when the USS Juneau sinks in a screaming fury of flames and explosions, Robert is dragged down with it. 

Merriell had been finishing his shift when the telegram came. There was no more work to be done, no extra shifts to pick up, so he resigns himself to taking the bus home and joining his parents for supper. The thought makes his skin crawl but it was too early to go to the bar and he had forgotten to pack lunch. He could endure one night of stifling silence in order to eat sooner rather than later. Thanksgiving is coming up anyway, and he must prepare himself to be around his father for an extended period of time again. He catches the bus home and thinks about if Don will be around tonight instead of what dinner might entail. 

The bus drops him off and he heads home, thankful for the short distance. As his house becomes visible, he can see Daddy sitting on the front steps, head in his hands. Merriell rolls his eyes and checks his watch. It wouldn’t be the first time Mama has kicked him out, leaving him to sleep off his drunkness on the porch. But it’s only five o’clock and Daddy couldn’t have gotten drunk enough in the half hour he’s been home to piss Mama off that bad. As Merriell gets closer, he can see his father’s shoulders rising and falling, hear what can only be sobbing. A shiver goes down his spine; he has never heard his father cry. Utterly confused, he walks faster and second guesses himself until he’s close enough to know the sound is undeniable.

“Dad?” The word is foreign on his tongue after months of avoiding him, refusing to acknowledge his presence. His heart is racing as he reaches the steps and stops in front of his father. Something is wrong, very wrong; he can feel it deep in his bones, wondering if this how Granmere feels when God has told her something terrible, when all she can do is rock and pray. “Daddy?”

His father pulls his head away from his hands and looks up at him with bloodshot eyes that Merriell can tell are not from the beer he has next to him. They stare at each other while Daddy catches his breath, Merriell’s heart beating out of his chest in anticipation.

“Robby died,” Daddy chokes out.

At first, Merriell feels nothing. Robby died, he thinks, what Robby? Robby Thomas from church? No, that doesn’t make sense. Why would Daddy be crying about Robby Thomas. No- not him. The realization hits him like a freight train and the horror sets in, clutching his heart with icy hands and squeezing tight. He feels his hands begin to shake and has to remind himself to breathe. Robert. He’s talking about your brother, Robert. Your brother is dead.

Merriell lowers himself slowly to sit next to Daddy, bringing his hands up to grip his curls. He takes manual breath after breath, mind completely blank other than ‘Robby died’ echoing in his head.

“What happened?” Merriell asks, knowing it doesn’t matter, that Robert is dead regardless. That Merriell will never hear him snore again, never see him walking through the front door, never feel his arm thrown over his shoulder as he teases him. His big brother is dead, torpedoed to shit in some godforsaken ocean across the world. His father tells him what happened but Merriell isn’t listening, grief and rage swirling inside him like a typhoon, barely under control. For the first time in months his desire to join the Marines returns, not for the adventure or sense of brotherhood, but for bloodlust.  I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em. I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em all. 

“Where's Mama at?” Merriell asks, feeling very far away.

“Bedroom,” Daddy mumbles, passing his beer from hand to hand. He holds it out to Merriell, who takes it and downs the contents in one sip. Daddy doesn’t blink when Merriell slams it on the ground impulsively, the bottle shattering into a million pieces. Merriell counts the shards but barely registers the numbers. 

“Llewelyn? He know?”

Daddy shakes his head, “No. Gon’ go down there later. Get Margaret to send some letters out to the boys.”

Merriell grunts in response and stands up to go inside and find poor Mama. While wallowing in his own suffering he had forgotten about his mother, the woman who has now lost two sons before their time.

“Merriell.”

He turns back and sees something that might be love in Daddy’s eyes. 

“Don’t tell her when you enlist.”

For the first time in his life, as Merriell looks at John Shelton, he sees someone resembling a father; someone who understands him, has maybe always understood him and hated him for it. A man who despite all his cruelty sits there and weeps for one son gone and another soon to follow, unable to save him from the rage he has passed down, his genetic marker come to fruition.

Tell me you love me, Merriell wants to cry out, tell me you don’t want me to go. Ask me to stay.

But Merriell doesn’t say it and neither does his father. Merriell just gives him a short nod and walks into the house, leaving Daddy to mourn alone. He follows the sounds of his mother’s weeping to her bedroom, slowly opening the door. Mama is laying on her bed, curled under her blankets. Those eyes she’s given to all her boys are gazing without seeing at the framed picture of Robert in her hands. He’s all spiffed up and handsome in his Navy blues, unsmiling but with a glint in his eyes, a glint that will never shine again. Merriell doesn’t say a word, just lays on top of the covers next to her. They look at the picture of Robert for a good long while, Mama’s thumb wearing a hole over his memorialized cheek. Robert has now been added alongside the unspoken weight of Vernon, another ghost to haunt their lives and make them feel incomplete. Mama clears her throat eventually, wipes the tears from her eyes. 

“Gon’ make pork chops for dinner. You stayin’?”

“Yeah, Mama. I’m stayin’.”

Rita is sitting at the bar when he arrives, jabbering away at the bartender he’s come to know as Irv. It’s early, still dinner time for some folks so the bar is emptier than Merriell’s seen it before. He settles in a stool next to her, greets Irv and asks for a drink. Rita sticks a foot out to kick his shin, drawing his attention to her concerned expression as Irv sets a cocktail in front of him. 

“Why the long face? Sad Don ain’t here? Busy with his fuckin’ bitch wife, I reckon.”

“My brother died.”

To his shock, Rita jams her tiny fist into his shoulder. He had been expecting some sympathy, not to be hit. He dips his fingers in his drink and flicks the liquid at her, his other hand rubbing his sore shoulder.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” he demands.

“The fuck is wrong with you! Can’t just say shit like that outta nowhere! Fuckin’ freakin’ me out…”

Merriell shrugs and sips his drink, some fruity concoction that will give him a headache later. He’s never been good with words, something Rita knows well by now. “I’m enlisting tomorrow. I wanted to say bye, but not if you fuckin’ beatin’ on me.”

Rita just shakes her head and motions to the early crowd, mostly women with a few straggling men. They had seen less and less men come in as the months have passed, most of them enlisting as the war continued to drag on, initials hopes of being home by Christmas long gone. “Figured it was only a matter of time ‘fore I lost you. All the boys are goin’.”

“Yeah…” Merriell bites at his nail, the sentimental words hard to say, “I wanted to say thank you, too. For showin' me this place.” For freeing me. For being my friend.

“Boy, you followed me in here. I ain’t have a choice.” Rita tsks, but the fierceness doesn’t meet her eyes. She reaches out and grabs his hand, holding it tight in her tiny one. “You really gon’ do it, Mer?"

Merriell nods, “I gotta.” He doesn’t have to explain it to her. 

“I’ll tell you what, Merriell Shelton. When you get home, I owe you a drink.”

Part of him wonders if he won’t come home, a possibility he hadn’t quite comprehended until this moment. If Mama and Daddy will have another boy to bury, brains blown out in some far away land. Despite the happiness he has found in this hidden haven, his mind was still a dark place, uncaring and unworried about his own fate, damned since the moment he was born. What happens to him doesn't feel important now. The news of Robert’s death is still ringing in his ears and his only thoughts are of making his brother’s death worth something. 

“Rita Sharette, I’ll hold you to it.”

They don’t hug it out, it not being either of their styles. Merriell thinks maybe in a different life, one where they’re like everybody else, he could marry Rita, raise a bunch of loud children like his nieces and nephews, bitch at each other until they’re old and gray. But that is not the life God has fated them, and he is content to have Rita as his best friend. They drink until the wee hours of the morning, laughing and talking shit, hitting on everyone who passes, Merriell blissfully ignorant of what is to come and the real path of death and destruction God has intended for him. 

Chapter Text

Merriell knows it’s a cowardly thing, not telling his mother, and he tries not to scream as the shame gnaws at his bones.

Mama is blissfully busy in the days following Robert’s death, quickly coming out of her fugue to dictate letter after letter to Margaret so family near and far can be alerted of his passing. Margaret, unable to go anywhere without a child clinging to her skirts, brings the youngest of her brood over every morning to keep Mama company and write out death notices in her pretty script. Merriell is grateful for her presence, both for the comfort it brings his mother and the distraction that is little Cecelia, allowing him to slip away while Mama dotes on her granddaughter. He scrawls out a simple resignation letter in the privacy of his room with paper and crayon swiped from his niece’s little travel bag of activities, doing his best to spell everything correctly, and resists the temptation to ask Margaret to write it for him; he cannot truly trust her, knowing she would surely tell his mother, whose barely contained grief already threatens to swallow him whole.

“Can’t finish the week?” Mr. Gideon confirms the Monday after Robert’s death, taking the crude letter in his meaty hand. Merriell feels a twinge of guilt quitting right before his shift is to begin in an hour, but he knows if he doesn’t do it now he will never muster the courage again; Mr. Gideon has been good to him and doesn’t deserve to be another person he will vanish on without a word, left scrambling for a worker in his absence. The old man looks at Merriell’s chicken scratch and sighs, shaking his head, “See if Ben is around… pretty soon there ain’t gon’ be no boys left in this parish. Know where they gon’ send you?”

Merriell shakes his head, scraping his chipped thumb nail along his canine tooth. The recruiter hadn’t given him much information aside from where he’ll train and what to pack. He was advised against bringing too much which suits Merriell fine as he has few possessions that are solely his own or whose absence wouldn’t be noted. The night after Robert’s death, once he has come home from signing his life away, he makes sure to pack a shirt he knows once belonged to Robert, before it belonged to Arthur and then Merriell himself, holding it to his nose before folding in the half-hearted hope that his scent remains. His smell of his cologne is long gone, but a small stain on the collar remains, a drop of blood that couldn’t be washed out after Daddy broke Robert’s nose. Merriell presses his lips to it, hoping that God is kind enough to let Robert feel it. He gingerly tucks the shirt into his duffel and shoves the bag under his bed, allowing dust to collect while it waits to be slung over his shoulder and carried away, where what is left of his brother remains in unfamiliar waters.

“San Diego first,” Merriell says around his nail after spitting a small piece out of his mouth, ignoring the grimace Mr. Gideon tries to hide, “Don’t know where after.”

“Hmm…heard about Robert,” Mr. Gideon says carefully, like he’s approaching a stray dog, hand extended despite the possibility of being snapped at, “Damn shame. Nice boy. Respectful. Reminded me of my Lester. Gon’ be any services?”

Merriell shrugs and decides not to bite, willing himself to unclench his jaw and take a deep breath. He doesn’t want to talk about Robert; if it were up to him, no one would ever speak his name again. His grief has simmered into a steady pulse, a pounding in his head, something Merriell is unsure will ever leave. It is an ache he has never felt before, far crueler than the fists of his father or the hateful eyes of his grandmother. At least when Daddy and Granmere are dead, there will be peace in his life; Merriell fears Robert will haunt him forever, like Vernon has.

“He doin’ alright?” Merriell asks, more out of need for a subject change than a caring inquiry. A small part of him feels embarrassed, thinking of young Lester Gideon signing up before him, marching down to the recruitment office right after graduating school. Lester isn’t even eighteen; at nearly twenty-four, Merriell knows he’ll be one of the older men at boot camp, unsure if he will be able to fit in with husbands and fathers who have so much more to live for then him. They are men who are fighting so their children can have a future, so their wives don’t need to live in fear; with his younger comrades he worries he may feel a similar disconnect, unable to relate to kids wanting to make a name for themselves and single-handedly save the world. They are not out for revenge like Merriell, fueled by rage and grief and the hope that this may make his life mean something.

“Lester? Doin’ good, real good.” Mr. Gideon makes his way behind the counter, popping out the till from the register. Mr. Gideon loved his only child, proudly hanging a Blue Star flag in the front window of his shop, sharing stories about Lester to anyone who would listen; and Lester loved his dad in return, sending countless letters and souvenirs of his adventures. He tucks Merriell’s note into the empty space before sliding the drawer back in, “Got him in Galapagos.”

“The fuck is Galapagos?” Merriell asks, saying the new word slowly as to not mispronounce it. 

“Some island in South America. Not much to do but hunt lizards and look at rocks,” Mr. Gideon shrugs, “But my boy is safe there.”

He eyes Merriell in a way that might be fatherly, if Merriell knew exactly what that looked like. He has to look away after a moment, unable to take how the sincerity of it makes his skin crawl and counts the cracks in the floor instead.

“Mighty proud of him. Sure your folks are mighty proud of you, too.”

Merriell bites his nail so hard it may as well crack in half like the tile beneath him. He just shrugs, knowing he can’t tell Mr. Gideon the truth; that his mother is unaware and his father has yet to speak a word to him since their brief moment of kinship, there being nothing more to say. 

“Well, when this war is over,” Mr. Gideon pats the register, “Rip up this note and get your job back. Been a good worker, Shelton. Sad to lose you. Best of luck.”

Mr. Gideon sticks out that thick hand, and Merriell stops nibbling his nails and counting to shake it. He clears his throat, raising his free hand to pull at the collar of his shirt in an attempt to soothe, uncomfortable with the words of sentimentality he forces out.

“You…you been a good boss. I’m grateful for what you done for me. Thank you.”

Mr. Gideon smiles at him, crooked teeth stained by years of cigars and coffee flashing out. It’s an ugly smile, but warm, welcoming. Merriell wonders how often Lester thinks about that smile, on that island Merriell can’t remember how to pronounce, and how he was able to leave it behind to fight for some perceived greater good when he had this at home. He wonders if he would have stayed if his own father was capable of loving him as much as Mr. Gideon loved his son; if Arthur would have been able to stay out of jail; if Victor and Francis and Willard would have come home more; if Llweleyn wouldn’t have become a drunk fool; if Robert would still be alive if a life at sea wasn’t better than the Shelton home, condemned by their father’s anger and mother’s subservience. Maybe in another world he would know as he is simply not lucky enough in this one to understand what a father’s love can do.

“Thank you, Shelton,” Mr. Gideon squeezes his hand, bringing Merriell back to reality, “for your service.”

Merriell spends the rest of that day in the city, walking the streets and counting the cobblestones. He spends the next day doing the same under the guise of going to work, and the next day after that, and all the days that follow leading up to his call of duty. He makes sure he is wearing his apron when he leaves in the morning, hiding it under the front porch when he’s sure Mama isn’t looking, shaking it out and throwing it back on before entering the house. He tells his mother Mr. Gideon can’t pay him until the next week, and tries not to feel sick when she assures him not to worry about it, disgusted by the ease of his own deception. He quickly blows through that last hidden paycheck, spending what remains of his money on cigarettes and whatever cheap beer he feels like lugging along on his walks, making sure to sober up before heading home. He has never felt more like his father and he hates every moment he is unable to stop, unable to muster the courage to go home and be honest for once in his life. 

He doesn’t go back to the bar despite his desperation for companionship, having asked Rita to give his goodbyes to their friends. He feels bad for not telling Don, who is the closest thing he’s had to a beau and who has always been sweet to him. He wonders if Don will be sad that he’s gone, in some sick way hoping that he will be, his nagging wife and children at home not enough to keep him satisfied in Merriell’s absence. He pushes the selfish thought away, it only adding to the guilt that is tightening like a noose around his neck; it is easier for him to think that everyone in his life will be happy he is gone, glad to be rid of his twisted jokes and unnerving gaze; that he will fade out of their memory, the mention of his name leaving them with a sense of déjà vu that is quickly brushed away.

As the days drag on and his departure rapidly approaches, as Merriell’s diet of nicotine and booze rots his mind, the reality of what he has done sets in. He doesn’t regret his choice; in fact, it’s the only thing he’s done in his life that he can be proud of. But this newfound sense of pride battles with fear, a feeling that slowly creeps up on him like a shadow, fueled by his self-imposed isolation; he’s scared of what boot camp will be like if he cannot fit in, of what will happen when they ship him off to the jungles of the South Pacific, if he will join Robert in his watery grave. He does not fear death itself, does not worry how it will feel if his body is riddled with bullets or blown to bits; he only fears what will happen after, when he is faced with Saint Peter at the Gates of Heaven, if he will be accepted or turned away. He desperately wishes to talk to Rita, or feel the comfort of his mother’s arms around him while they tell him reassurances, that God will protect him and accept him with open arms when the time comes. But he will not burden them with his fears; this is a punishment he must endure alone, the whip at his back, for all the wrong he has done in his life. It is his penance for the crass words that fall off his tongue so easily, for daring to relish in the touch of another man, for lying to the only person he knows loves him. He hopes God and Saint Peter and Robert and Vernon and everyone looking down at him from the Heavens can see how hard he is trying; he hopes it makes a difference. 

The night before he is to board the train to San Diego, Merriell sits on the couch Tom fucked him on all those years ago, half-listening to the radio as Mama fusses with Robert’s portrait. After much deliberation and prayer, they do not end up holding a funeral. There is nothing to bury, as Robert and his six hundred fellow sailors have been lost to the battle-worn depths of the Solomon Sea, few men surviving and even fewer bodies recovered. Mama makes do setting up Robert’s photo on their mantle and spends her time in between sending obituaries and playing with Cecelia wiping imaginary dust from the glass. He tries to avoid looking at the picture in its simple wood frame, biting at his nails, barely existent now, to distract himself. The rosary blessed by their priest hanging from a corner seem to mock him, glass beads shining in the lamp light, trying to catch his eye and force him to look at the shrine.

“Llewelyn’s boss let him use the phone to call Willard,” Mama says as she licks her thumb, swiping it over some minuscule speck of dirt on Robert’s black and white face, “He comin’ home for Thanksgiving. Victor and Francis gon' make the drive up, too. Ain’t that nice?”

“Real nice, Mama,” Merriell says absently. Llewelyn and his family had joined them for supper that night, Merriell’s growing nieces and nephews nearly eating Mama out of house and home. It had been a nice evening, Llewelyn’s loud offspring keeping everyone thoroughly entertained. It was an evening reminiscent of Merriell’s childhood, him and his brothers scrambling to be heard over each other, ignoring Mama’s reminders to wipe their mouths and keep their elbows off the table. When they had left for the evening, the children even louder and now overtired, Merriell had made sure to give each of them a pat on the head, playfully tugging the soft curls so similar to his own; he hopes they are too young to remember him. He shakes Llewelyn’s hand while Margaret loads the kids in the car, ignoring how his brother’s eyes narrow when Merriell hesitates letting go. If Merriell was a crazier man, he would have hugged him. 

“Night, Llew,” Merriell says when he finally lets go, shoving his hands into his pockets. Llewelyn just gives him a nod before walking down the porch step, not returning the sentiment. He was never close with Llewelyn, preferring the company of Victor who would read him stories or Arthur who he spent years sleeping beside. Being the oldest, Llewelyn got the worst of it, always the first Daddy swung at, mean as a snake to all of them after; but he is his brother all the same, united in blood and tainted childhoods that seem so long ago.

“Gon’ get us a turkey this year, too. We’ll go see Arthur first and then have us a nice Thanksgiving,” Mama scrubs some more before turning to face Merriell. She looks older than her years, large streaks of gray weaving through her curls and face wrinkled by the Louisiana sun and the harsh conditions of the life she has been given. His poor Mama, without daughters, burdened with sons that keep dying, damned with a husband who will never change. Merriell thinks she’s the most beautiful woman in the world and swallows his nausea thinking of how her face will contort into confusion and dismay when she finds him gone the next morning, how she will run her hands through her hair and hold back her tears like she has done so many times before.

“You got it, Mama.”

She covers a yawn with her hand as she walks over to Merriell, bare feet shuffling on the old rug. She stands in front of him and looks down, tired and soft eyes identical to his own, unable to see the truth before her. Merriell looks up at her and tries to suppress a shaky breath as he ceases biting his nails. He thinks back to all the times his brothers had accused him of being a mama’s boy and knows it to be true, resisting the urge to spill his guts and tell her everything and hope that she will still love him after.

“Merriell…ti bebe,” she murmurs, brushing his curls off his forehead, hand settling on the crown of his head. “My last baby. Night, sweetness.” She leans down and presses a firm kiss to his brow. Merriell closes his eyes and squeezes his fists, wanting nothing more than to cry into her skirts like a child again, convinced any hurt can be fixed with a touch of her hand. She pulls away and gently pats his cheek before heading to the doorway. 

It slips out before he can stop himself. “Mama?”

She stops and looks over her shoulder, those big green eyes finding his.

“Yes?”

Merriell takes a deep breath. I won’t be here for Thanksgiving. Come tomorrow I’ll be leavin’ for San Diego, and then across the world. I have to do this. I’m sorry you don’t understand. I barely understand it. Maybe Daddy was right. Maybe I do need to prove I’m a man, that Robert didn’t die for nothing, that I have a purpose in this world aside from sinning. That I can be redeemed, loved by God again, accepted into Heaven. Maybe I can come back to you as someone who deserves to be your son. I love you, Mama. And if I never see you again, in this life or the next, I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry. 

“Night,” he says instead, the word heavy on his tongue.

Merriell commits the smile his mother gives him to memory, nestling it among the few things in this world he cares about, and finds the strength to return it before she slips away. He’s reminded of Mr. Gideon’s ugly yet warm grin and understands Lester a bit more now, how he could risk his life when he’s got someone he loves, someone who loves him back; that love is shielding Lester from ever thinking he could get hurt, like Icarus barely heeding his father’s gentle warnings, reveling in the Sun’s glory. His father’s devotion has made him courageous and foolish and immortal and for just a moment, Merriell falls under that same spell.

I’ll be fine, he thinks, finally turning to look at Robert’s picture, braver than he has felt in weeks. I’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay.

Later, once he is sure his mother is asleep, Merriell tiptoes into his bedroom and pulls his duffel out from its hiding spot. He places the strap over his shoulder and takes one last look around the quiet room, moonlight spilling in from the open window and illuminating the narrow bed. He thinks back to the time where there were four beds and it was never quiet, the room filled to the brim with boys and arguments and laughter and love. He remembers Mama coming to tuck them in with a kiss, making them go back into the bathroom to brush their teeth; he remembers Victor and Francis pinning him down while Willard tickled him, laughing and crying while he called for mercy; he remembers Arthur and Robert sneaking in any frog or snake they found while fishing, scolding their long-gone cat when he came and gobbled them up; he remembers Llewelyn’s last night at home, the way they all gave him the dignity of pretending they couldn’t hear him cry. He thinks about what he would give for one more night with them and wonders if they ever miss it as much as he does, if they will feel his absence as heavily as Robert's on Thanksgiving. No, he thinks, shaking the thought from his head, they won't care. After all, they left me first.

“See ya,” he whispers to the ghosts of his youth. There is no reply; there hasn't been one for a long, long time. 

Merriell slips out the window, not bothering to try and shut it behind him. He drops the short distance to the ground and makes his way to the street, the sounds of crickets and frogs echoing in the night with his footsteps. He keeps his head down as he walks, taking deep breaths as he attempts to keep the tears blurring his vision from falling.

“Don’t look back,” he begs himself, counting each step he takes away from the house he was born, the only life he has ever known, towards the rising sun and the great unknown, “Don’t look back.”

Chapter Text

The year is 1949 and the war is over, so they say.

It’s late now, the waning sun lighting the old house in warm rays of siena through open windows, the curtains still without a breeze. The living room is small, a simple striped couch pushed against one wall with a matching chair across from it, a floor lamp that hasn’t been turned on yet between them. The wallpaper looks new and on the coffee table there are several framed photos waiting to be rehung, beside them a hammer and nails laying next to a doll. Under the table is a basket filled with more evidence of young children in bed at this hour; trains, letter blocks, wooden figurines, a stuffed bear with one button eye. 

Merriell tries to take it all in, shifting back and forth on the couch that is too comfortable, picking at the dry skin on his lips and shivering despite the August heat, tries hard to make sense of the place Romus Burgin has made home; it is so unlike the barracks, muddy foxholes and ripped tents, cramped Chinese hotel rooms they once shared that Merriell cannot understand how Burgie could ever feel safe here. This piece of the world Burgie has settled in, miles from the train station, is too quiet, unnerving, the air lifeless in its silence. 

Through the open door, Merriell can see Florence in the kitchen, busying herself at the stove. The rifle she had pointed at him when he first knocked on the door is at the kitchen table, stark against floral tablecloth, the muzzle still staring him down. If Merriell was a luckier man, she wouldn’t have hesitated; she wouldn’t have bothered to look at his face before firing, gasp and press a shaking hand to her heart; she wouldn’t have put the gun down before wrapping her arms around him, the joy in her voice making his stomach clench when she whispered, “Oh, Merriell, it’s wonderful to see you, darling.”

The rifle still looking at him, Merriell wonders how fast he could get to it, if Florence would turn from her kettle in time to see him stick the barrel in his mouth, if her soft humming would turn to a scream of horror when he pulled-

“Sugar, Merriell?” Florence calls, making him jump, his eyes darting away from the gun to her, now standing in the doorway. She holds up the box of Imperial and gives it a shake.

“Ye-,” Merriell’s voice catches, and he curls his hand away from his cracked lips to cough into it. His stomach is churning, Florence’s gentle voice and his sick fantasy equally making him nauseous, “Yes, ma’am.”

Florence nods and retreats, giving Merriell time to put his head in his hands and take a deep breath.

It’s 1949 and the war is over, but he still counts to ten, quivering fingers stroking along his damp hairline as he attempts to steady his heart rate. He has to do this often now, sometimes all day, since his head no longer pounds from the sound of artillery but from his own twisted thoughts, the whirlpool of images that he no longer can identify as memories or nightmares, things that make him wish he was dead and done under some malaria-ridden canopy instead of at home in a world that is no longer familiar. He reaches ten and begins again, this time in Creole, and then again in Japanese, for the irony of it all. When he’s done he drags his hands down his face, feeling if not calmer at least less ill, opening his eyes to see Florence entering the room. 

“Biscuit, Merriell?” Florence asks as she waddles over, a box of cookies wedged under her arm and a cup in each hand. She passes him the larger of the two, yellow with white paisley, adding, “True blue ones from home, Mum sends us. Chocolate.”

“No, Miss Florence,” Merriell takes the steaming cup in hands that haven’t stopped shaking, will likely never stop shaking, thankful she hasn’t filled it to the brim, “Thanks.”

“My word, you’re awfully skinny,” Florence remarks, finding a spot for the box on the crowded coffee table before she lowers herself into the chair across from him, heavily pregnant belly and cup in hand making it a herculean feat. Merriell knows from Burgin’s letters that she’s due any day now; letters he never replies to, letters that wait at his kitchen table for weeks, taunting him, before he gets good and drunk enough to rip them open and see what the man he once called his closest friend has to say. The latest letter, read a month past it’s delivery, is the reason he has made the journey west, impulsive and fueled by sick curiosity, leaving New Orleans for the first time in years.

Merriell just grunts in response, sipping the tea he hasn’t allowed to cool. It burns his tongue but he pays it no mind, the pain a welcome distraction. 

“I reckon my Romus would be just as skinny if it wasn’t for all the biscuits,” Florence adds softly, nodding to herself, strawberry curls bouncing against her cheeks, “Quite skinny…he send you any photographs of himself?”

Merriell shakes his head, looking back down at the framed pictures on the table. The one at the top of the pile is old, faded with the top corner ripped, showing a woman and a man Merriell recognizes as Burgin’s father, dressed in clothes similar to the ones he wore to the station to pick up his boy. He remembers thinking, knowing, that was the last time he was going to see Burgie, head spinning with all the things he wanted to say to him and was unable to, restrained by time and words that would never sound right anyway. How could he possibly have defined all those years they spent side by side, through boot camp and Gloucester, the haunting buzz of insects and rain that never seemed to end, the violent destruction of all their friends and the rotting stink of the men they killed, fucking Okinawa; there are no words for that. So he settled on a simple thanks, and prayed Burgie knew what he meant.

Merriell thinks of the other man for whom he had no words at all; he thinks of the rifle in the kitchen. 

He blinks and looks away, desperate for reprieve, eyes thankful to catch an ashtray, almost hidden amongst the clutter with a half-finished cigarette poking out. He points to it, “You mind?”

Florence shakes her head and Merriell pulls his own pack out of his breast pocket, a dented lighter following.

“He only sent some of your girls when they was babies,” Merriell says as he lights up, taking a long drag. He takes another drink after, sipping at liquid that is still molten. This is what his diet consists of most days; cigarettes and tea, tea and cigarettes, the occasional chunk of bread ripped off the loaf he’s made for the week, sometimes fish if his jittery hands are able to worm a hook. “None of his ugly mug.” 

Florence laughs, a sweet, girlish sound that she tries to hide behind her hand; Merriell remembers that the most about her, from all those years ago. She was always giggling those few weeks they spent drinking and galavanting with her and her friends, her round cheeks turning pink from their bawdy jokes and the booze and anytime Burgin would reach out and touch the small of her arm or lean in to whisper something only meant for her. 

Merriell blinks and, like they often do, a memory pulls him away. 

He’s drunker than he’s ever been, hootin’ and hollerin’ while stumbling down the streets of Melbourne, obnoxious as all hell and without a damn left to give. The weather is beautiful and the city around them is illuminated with streetlights and the sounds of bustling bars, filled with Americans and Australians alike. If Merriell closes his eyes he’s back in New Orleans, but if he does so he’s afraid he’ll vomit all down his uniform, fresh from the dry cleaners. 

They’ve lost Jay at one bar to a poker game he has no chance of winning and Bill at another to a girl he has no chance of fucking, both adamant they needed to pursue their endeavors followed by a promise to catch up later. Merriell had begged them both to continue on, calling them idiots and suckers, anything to irritate them enough to sway their decision. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Bill to finally get laid or Jay to win some cash that’ll be useless in a week when they ship out; they were just the only distraction from him.

Merriell alternates between watching Burgie and Florence walking hand in hand in front of them and watching his feet, the effort to walk more laborious by the second. He’s got his arm around a girl with face and name he doesn’t care to remember, some poor thing who has been trying to bed him all month and is now keeping him from eating shit on the cobblestone. With his unsteady feet he manages to kick a rock, the hard stone flying upward and nailing Burgie square in the middle of his back. He turns to give Merriell a quick glare and Merriell laughs and laughs, oblivious to the dirty look and the scolding he gets from the girl dragging him along.

“Wasn’t me, she fuckin’ did that,” Merriell ruffles the hair of the girl, ignoring the slap against his chest and the new shrill complaints pouring out of her. She’s nice enough, fine to talk to when he feels like talking, but he doesn’t give a fuck about her; there’s not much he gives a fuck about anymore. 

Merriell looks to his left when he hears, “Think he’s gone domestic on us?” 

(In his memories, Merriell can never see his face, features he desperately longs for lost in his peripheral; only in his nightmares, where he is always dying, is Merriell able to see him clearly.)

“Sure fuckin’ look it,” Merriell spits on the ground, “Our little boy all grown up now. Hear that?” He cups one hand over his ear before letting it flop back to his side, too hammered to make the effort to keep it up, “Weddin’ bells ringa-ding-dingin’, Sledgehammer.”

He’s got his arm around another one of Florence’s friends even though he’s not nearly as drunk as Merriell, and Merriell remembers her name is Anne because he hates her. She has pretty dark hair, big eyes that are gentle and sweet. She’s beautiful and kind and because Merriell is already a bad person, he doesn’t feel any worse for wishing she was dead. 

A laugh, followed by his voice, soft and low, “Guess it’s just you and me then, Shelton.”

Burgie must hear this because he turns his head to look at them, the glare gone and something else in his eyes. Burgie looks at Merriell, and then looks at him, and then back at Merriell. Merriell knows what he is thinking and starts looking for another rock to kick at him, his vision so blurred with booze and tears he’ll never shed the task proves near impossible. He keeps looking, head down, stumbling along, too drunk to count the wobbly steps, and chalks it up to his imagination when he feels a hand brush against his own. 

Merriell inhales sharply, blinking rapidly to push it all away. Put it out your mind, Merriell thinks as he puffs his cigarette, trying to ignore how the tremor in his hand is picking up again, trying to push away the memory before it turns into something else, something spoiled and rotten, just put it out of your mind. He begins to feel hot all over, feels the need to unbutton his shirt but finds himself unable to move, unable to free either of his hands to do so. 

Incapable of escaping his own mind, spinning deeper and deeper into its depths, Merriell thinks about Burgie’s face, handsome and clean and full of pity. He thinks about the last night in Melbourne, watching Anne get a kiss goodnight and wishing the ground under him would crack open and swallow him whole. He thinks about auburn hair, he thinks about hearing him cry late at night when he thinks Merriell is asleep, he thinks about them naked in the ocean, scrubbing their bodies raw with sand like it’ll ever make them clean. He thinks about slamming a rock against a dead man’s jaw to loosen his teeth, he thinks about stepping over the body of a woman with her robes ripped open, he thinks about a kid in a uniform too big dropping his gun and shooting him in the head anyway.

He thinks about the rifle in the kitchen. 

“He looks the same, more or less,” Florence says, sighing as she sips her tea and rubs her belly, leaning her head back against the chair and closing her eyes, unaware of Merriell unraveling in front of her. Merriell desperately wants to tell her to shut the fuck up, to stop talking about Burgie, wants to get up and run out of the house like the coward he is but he is frozen. He shouldn’t have come here; he should have never come back at all.

“I ain’t supposed to be here,” Merriell manages to choke out quietly, meaning it in all senses of the word, but Florence doesn’t hear him. He tries to count the blocks in the basket under the table but he can’t focus, the ringing in his ears growing louder and his vision becoming unfocused. The cup is shaking in his hands and the tea is spilling over the edge, his fingers tingling with a burn he can’t register. Instead he feels the hot tube of the mortar, hears the scream of the shell as it fires out. 

Florence keeps talking as Merriell gets farther and farther away, trying as hard as he can to cling to the present and failing, the world around him slipping away as he’s dragged back and fuck them, fuck them all, the war is far from over.

“Acts the same, if you can’t tell from the letters. He’s still serious.” A bang, Burgin’s face, covered in dirt, blue eyes hard and dead. “Still bossy.” Burgin grabbing his shirt, screaming at him to move, move. "Going a bit gray up top, my Romus. And trying to grow a mustache, if you can believe it.”

A mustache.

The living room around him goes to black; he is lost again in a nightmare disguised as a memory, choppy and dark like waves at midnight, ceaseless and and freezing, beating against the shores of his mind in haunting rhythms. 

Peleliu, early morning, what’s today, who fuckin’ knows, Japs everywhere, always, his feet hurt, Doc says he might lose the toe, Burgie and Hillbilly, he killed a man, screaming and crying, shut up, shut that fucker up, could have been anyone, could have been me, hungry, always hungry, crouched, shaving side by side, don’t want a mustache, what’s the point, shut up, what’s that sound, nothing, dipping rusted razors into dirty water, gonna get an infection, does it matter, the health of the Corps is only as strong as the health of the individual Marine, we’ve gotta get moving, heard Skipper, did you see that, see what, Burgie wincing as he cuts his lip, son of a bitch, fuck, I fucking told you, sniper, go, Gene, go, and then blood, so much blood-

Merriell hears a loud gasp and blinks once, twice, Burgie and Hillbilly and the chaos of it all fading away as he rockets back into reality, head spinning from the turbulence. His mind is no longer in Peleliu but back in Jewett with the rest of him, Florence coming into view while his eyes struggle to pinpoint her, looking at him with concern as she quickly sets her cup down and rises from her chair before she hurries into the kitchen. 

She calls over her shoulder, “Don’t move! Bloody oath, Flo, you fool…”

“I-,” Merriell feels a dull ache and looks for the source, finding it in his hand. There is a jagged, bloody slice down his palm, Miss Florence’s nice cup split in two on the rug beneath him. For a horrible moment he thinks he’s pissed himself until he remembers the cup was mostly full and the contents have ended up in his lap. His confusion turns to shame, the feeling heavy in his chest, only adding weight to the breathing that is still labored. He’s done this before, more times than he will ever admit, come to with something shattered in his hands or crouched behind the counter at work, broom clutched to his chest like a gun. He leans down to pick up the pieces of the cup, gingerly placing them on the table, afraid to break them more, to destroy more of Burgin’s home, the sanctuary he has managed to find far from a war Merriell is still stuck in. 

Florence returns, a wet rag in hand, brown eyes rimmed red. She quickly wipes at them before sitting next to him, Merriell moving away from her without thinking and feeling like a rabid dog, desperate for comfort and terrified of what he may do next. 

“Forgive me, Merriell,” Florence whimpers as she gently takes his hand, holding it close to her face as she inspects and dabs at it. The adrenaline is subsiding and the pain is setting in; the cut is deep and well-deserved. “I should have known. Me and my mouth…”

“I gotta go,” Merriell quickly pulls his hand away and stands, desperate to escape, unable to take the pity in her voice, horrified at the anger he feels from hearing it. Arms still shaking, the cigarette he didn’t realize he was still holding ashes onto the couch with the movement. “Fuck. Fuck! I’m real sorry, Miss Florence.” 

Mind racing, without thinking, he leans down to crush the cigarette against his shoe, tossing it haphazardly onto the coffee table, watches it land on the picture of Burgin’s parents. A new wave of self-hatred crashes over him. You piece of shit, disrespecting his home after all he did for you. Scaring his woman. You piece of shit. Merriell quickly transfers the butt to the ashtray and exits the room, squeezing his cut hand with the other. When he passes the rifle in the kitchen, he’s regretful his hands are occupied.

Florence stands, following him as he hurries to the front door, reaching out to gently touch his back. He recoils, stiffening as he fumbles for the doorknob, her hand sharper than any knife. His hands are slick with blood, making the knob slippery and hard to open, and he’s moments away from kicking the door down. He bangs at it hard in frustration, leaving a bloody print behind, “Fuckin’ door-”

“Your hand,” she says softly, caring about him for some reason, “please let me-”

Outside the door, lost amongst the chaos within, someone asks, “Florence? Florence, you alright?”

Merriell bangs it again, this time with both hands, “Stupid fuckin’ door-”

The door suddenly swings open and Florence screams, the dark wood nearly hitting Merriell in the face before he jumps back. For a second Merriell wonders how he managed to open it before that someone is grabbing his shirt, shaking him roughly, the recognizable cool metal of a pistol pressed to his cheek. 

“What the hell is goin’ on in here?” a familiar voice roars; a voice that barked orders at Merriell more times than he could count, the voice that kept him alive more times than he deserved. 

Cloaked in the red shadows of the setting sun, Burgie looks nothing and everything like he used to. He seems older than his twenty-seven years, worry lines etched into his sweaty brow, skin browned and freckled by the Texas heat, lips a hard line under a mustache that’s barely there. There is gray in his hair, dominant against the dirty blond, still styled like it used to be. His blue eyes are wild, hard, and widening as he realizes who is in his home.

He lowers the pistol slowly and Merriell watches the wheels in his head spin, his face soften in disbelief, thick eyebrows rising as he smiles. The hand gripping his shirt loosens and slides up his chest to squeeze his shoulder, giving him another shake, softer this time. In the back of the house, where there are bedrooms, a little girl starts to cry, woken up by the ruckus. Merriell hears Florence slip away, leaving him and Burgie alone in the doorway. They stand in silence for what might be a minute or an hour, Burgie’s hand still clutching his shoulder, Merriell’s own limp by his side, blissfully still for the first time in years.

Eyes darting around, taking all of him in, making Merriell feel like a bug under a microscope, Burgie finally whispers, “Son of a bitch, Snafu.” 

Snafu. No one’s called him that in so long. 

As if he can hardly believe it, Burgie narrows his eyes and asks, “That really you?”

No, Merriell thinks, wants to weep. He looks at Romus Burgin and sees excitement and hope and a tenderness saved for things that are cared for, things that are good; he feels bile rising in his throat, his mouth watering. No, Burgie. I ain’t been me in a long time. 

Merriell has the decency to push past Burgie and stumble down the porch steps before falling to his knees, fingers digging into the dirt as he empties his stomach. He manages to take a few shaky breaths before vomiting again, heaving and heaving until nothing is coming up, and then heaving more. At some point during all of this, he feels Burgie settle in behind him, hands returning to his shoulders, and press his forehead to his back.  

“I’m here, pal,” Burgie says against his shirt, damp now with sweat, hands leaving his shoulders to meet at his middle; a hug, strong and tight and something Merriell would never admit he needs. He just heaves again and lets Burgie hold him, his aching chest straining against the tight embrace. “I’m here.”

Finally Merriell sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and then another. He feels better, empty and clean despite the vomit on his shirt and the tea leaves on his pants. The sun feels nice against his skin, and Burgie safe and warm against his back. It’s a moment he doesn’t want to end, and he feels he should punish himself for wishing such a thing.

“You gon’ soft, Sarge. Shoulda shot me,” he rasps, spitting one last bit of bile into the grass. He feels Burgie chuckle.

“Plenty of times I shoulda. Right now ain’t one of them.”

Merriell is the one to laugh this time, something he had long forgotten coming to mind; it’s been years since he thought in earnest about boot camp, those months at Camp Pendleton that turned them into weapons; that sweet spot before the war, when he and Burgie were still fools, ignorant and overly concerned with things that didn’t matter, filled with an optimism that would soon be shattered by horrors imperceivable. 

He pats one of Burgie’s hands and opens his eyes, looking over his shoulder where he can see the top of his friend’s graying head from the corner of his eye. “Smashin’ your nose to bits in boot one of ‘em?”

Burgie whistles low, peeling off of Merriell. He shifts until he is sitting next to him, arms wrapped around his own knees now, his shoulder flush against his companion’s.

“Hell, I forgot about that,” Burgie shakes his head, sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose as if the injury is new and tender. “That was probably the first time, now that I’m thinkin’ about it. Fuckin’ asshole you were.”

Merriell keeps looking at him; Burgie was always handsome in that all-American way but it’s different now. The silver looks good on him, the mustache as well despite it’s sparseness. This close Merriell can see the crow’s feet around his eyes, the eyes of a Marine, dull and tired and always somewhere else. He’s far from the twenty year old idiot Merriell met back in 1942, a bossy little thing with a spring in his step and something to prove. The war aged him, the way it aged all of them, in body and in spirit; it is a blessing and a curse that they get to grow old at all, unlike so many men who died in their arms.

“You ever think ‘bout ‘em?” Merriell doesn’t need to specify. 

After a moment, Burgie nods.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think about them.”

They don’t say anything else after that. The sun continues to set, and if they stay there sitting in the dirt until dark, forgoing supper to stay pressed against each other under the moonlit sky a moment more, that is no one’s business but theirs.