Heaven Should Fall

sudden noise, you can aim a rifle at it. You’re supposed to be suspicious of everyone you don’t know. Try any of that over here. You just can’t get used to it.” He broke his focus on the TV and met my eyes, his gaze frank and clear. “You know why I had to stop driving? Fucking bicyclists. They come pedaling up alongside my Jeep out of nowhere and I’m ready to kill somebody. And other stuff, too. Motorcycles, road work. The noise. It’s like chaos-noise. It doesn’t match up with what my brain tells me it is.”

I nodded.

He exhaled smoke away from me. “So I stopped driving. Fine. I put my ass in this seat and stay here. And then Candy’s kids come up behind me and try to scare me, or they jump up and down and say the same thing over and over again, or they shriek—you know, the stuff kids do. And I feel like I’m going to beat the living shit out of them.”

“Me, too.”

He laughed a little. “No, but I really am going to beat the living shit out of them. I can feel my muscles pumping up for it. One time, John—the littlest one—came by and knocked over my beer. And I grabbed him by the shoulder and smacked him across the side of the head with my hand. He went running back to Candy crying, ‘Uncle Elias hit me, he hit me.’ She spanked him and told him to leave me alone.” He picked up the beer can again. “That’s when I got my ass to a doctor.”

“Did they tell you it was post-traumatic stress disorder?”

“Nope. Combat stress.”

I frowned. “That’s not what it sounds like to me. My mom knew some Vietnam vets who—”

“Well, I don’t know about Vietnam. But here, now, you pretty much have to point your weapon at your commanding officer for them to decide it’s PTSD. The Prozac helps, though. I don’t feel like hitting the kids anymore. The downside is, I don’t feel anything.” He shrugged and dropped his cigarette into his beer can. “No panic, no excitement. I’m like a ghost. But at least I’m not killing anyone.”

“Maybe they can change your medication. Or your dosage.”

“Maybe. That would require going back to the doctor.” He stretched his leg out and brought it back, gingerly, as though testing it for pain. “I just want everyone to leave me alone. You’re okay, though. If you think I’m a shitbag, it’s no skin off my nose, because I know what you went and did.” He nodded at my belly.

I laughed. “Hey, now. Your mom has declared me Cade’s true wife.”

“Yeah. You’re his biblical wife because he knows you in the biblical sense. Sorry to break it to you, but if that’s true, then your boyfriend’s a polygamist.”

“At college they just called him a man-whore.”

He shot me half a grin. “Fair enough. Say, can you pass me that heating pad over there?”

“Sure.” I handed it to him. “What hurts?”

“My leg and my shoulders. They always hurt.”

I moved behind the chair and let my hands rest on his shoulders. His muscles tightened, but he didn’t flinch, and so I began rubbing them slowly, rhythmically, working my way across his neck and upper back. He let his head drop forward, and so I worked my thumbs along his spine and down to massage his shoulder blades. He groaned, and I smiled.

“Is that better?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. Damn, that’s way better.”

He sat upright again and sighed. Softly I rubbed his temples, the sides of his jaw, his scalp. I scratched his forehead along his hairline, and stroked my fingers back through his buzz-cut hair. He tipped his head upward, eyes closed, smiling.

“Fudgies are probably ready,” I told him. “You want some?”

Without opening his eyes, he asked, “What the hell’s a Fudgie?”

“Chocolate and peanut butter comfort food.”

“Fuck, yeah.”

I laughed and patted him on the shoulders. “I hope you like them. I’m not the most awesome in the kitchen.”

“I have faith,” he said.

* * *

The next morning I awoke, groggy and exhausted from interrupted sleep, to the sound of bacon sizzling in the skillet downstairs. The smell of it wafted into the room, and I was out of bed and dressed in no time. Pregnancy had made me a serious carnivore. In my ordinary life my staples were bread and fruit, but lately I found myself snacking on strips of leftover flank steak, cold from the fridge. I hoped it was helping build the baby’s brain.

Scooter was already in the kitchen, dressed in a white crew-neck undershirt, a Patriots ball cap and a pair of Levi’s thirty-inch-waist extra-longs. He was chugging chocolate milk from a Coca-Cola glass. The beagles licked bacon grease from the floor around Candy’s feet. I could hear Cade washing up in the bathroom, and Dodge sat at the table with his arms folded in front of him, looking more alert than anyone ought to be at 6:00 a.m. He met my eye but offered no greeting. I wondered if Scooter could sense the tension.

“Mornin’, Jill,” said Scooter. He had a milk mustache.

“You guys doing a clean-out today?”

“Nope. The AC’s not cooling the place down like it ought to. Got to try to fix it.”

“It’s at eighty-five in there right now,” said Dodge.

Candy raised the skillet high and carried it to the kitchen island, sending the beagles scrambling. Dodge asked, “You think Elias knows anything about HVAC work?”

Cade walked in from the hallway. “He doesn’t.”

“That sucks. Would make the sumbitch good for something this morning.”

“Easy,” said Cade.

“I am being easy.” Dodge moved his hands to the sides to make room for the plate Candy was setting in front of him, casting a meaningful glance at me before finishing his thoughts. “Boy needs a drill sergeant. Get him to come out and work. Or one of those trainers like on TV, make him run on the treadmill till his ass falls off.”

“He could have run circles around you a year ago,” Cade told him.

“A year ago. Now all he runs circles around is that island right there. Relay races with a box of Ho-Hos.” He dug into his eggs, and I glanced at Scooter, who looked away. “We’re gonna get him straight.”

Cade kissed me goodbye at the door, but I followed him out to the car anyway. The Saturn wasn’t looking its best these days. The white paint above its wheel wells showed splatters of mud, and the backseat was a mess of crumpled sandwich wrappers and soda cups, unwashed laundry and boxes from the copy center filled with resumes. As Cade climbed in I said, “You’ve got to get Dodge to stop saying that crap about Elias. He’s a bully, your brother- in-law.”

“Don’t make a melodrama out of it. It’s just Dodge being Dodge. He’s trying to get Elias working to keep his mind busy, so he means well. I’ll give him that much credit.”

I scowled. Glancing quickly at the house, I said in a low voice, “I think you ought to talk Elias into going back in to get his meds adjusted and to get some counseling. I can’t believe they’d just hand him a prescription and let him go home without any other treatment. He’s twenty-four years old and all he does is sit there all day. I don’t like Dodge trash-talking him, but he needs to get up, at least.”

Cade’s expression had grown peevish. He was in a hurry to leave, and I knew it. “Give the guy a break. He spent three years fighting the Taliban. It’s okay for him to sit down and watch TV for a while. You and Dodge both need to realize that.”

“If you think he’s acting like that because he just wants to relax, you’re off in la-la land.”

He cocked an eyebrow at me. “What I think,” he began, and his voice was cold, “is that people ought to back off and let the guy be. Elias has always been a couch potato. Just give him some space, and stop playing into it by lavishing attention all over him for being lazy. Don’t think he doesn’t love that shit. He knows how to play it. Girls love it when he whips out his Eeyore impression.” He turned the key in the ignition and slammed the door. The window scrolled down, and he added, “I’ll try to talk him into coming with us when we do the gun-club thing with Dodge, okay? Get him to come out and