Page 91 of Good Days Bad Days
“You want Hero with you out there. He’ll keep you safe,” a private said, the camera focused on the scrawny twentysomething from Hart, Michigan. “Pulled me out of an ambush last week. I’d be turned inside out without him.” The kids weren’t wrong. Jeremy Lincoln did keep us safe; he tossed his body over O’Neil when a land mine went off. Neither man was injured thanks to his “gut punch.” But I wondered if it only worked to keep others safe, ’cause not long after I got back to the States, his mother sent me a letter, thanking me for the footage of her Jeremy. Said they used it at his funeral. Three purple hearts.
I remember a time when Betty called me a hero, but what did I do? Did I save her? Did I sacrifice myself for her safety? Did I do anything other than fumble around like a lovesick puppy desperate for her regard? I’m no hero.
The cold wooden planks send goose bumps prickling up my legs through my bare feet. I shove on my work boots, keeping a patchwork blanket around me as I stumble groggily down the narrow staircase to the office.
“Hello?” I say into the receiver, my nerves blasting warning alerts through every cell of my body.
“Greg?”
“Betty. Is that you?” I already know it’s her. She said one word, but I knew. The panic grabs my lungs and squeezes till it feels like they might burst.
“I need your help. Please.”
“What’s happened?”
“Don. It’s Don . . .”
She lets out a sob that makes me think of the call she made so many years ago from a pay phone at the Playboy Club-Hotel—a night of blood, broken glass, heartbreak, and, on my part, outrage. It’s risinginside of me again. If he hurt her, I don’t know what I’ll do. I might—I might kill him.
My neck flashes with a heat that fills my face and burns a path to my hands clutching the phone.
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Are you safe?”
She doesn’t answer, and instead she pleads, “Come. Please. Please.”
I look around the room for the keys to the store’s truck, my only transportation option, and lift them off a hook by the door. I’m supposed to sign the truck out when I use it, but in my fury and panic I ignore protocol. It’s instinct, an autopilot system I have little control over.
“Damn it, Betty. Are you safe?” I ask, and she cries again on the other end of the phone. “Listen, hang up. Call the cops and get you and the baby out of the house. I’ll be there soon.”
“Uh-huh,” she says in a small, childlike voice. “Thank you for coming. I didn’t know who to call. I didn’t know what to do ...”
“Call the police. You hear me? Get in the car and park down the street. I’ll be there as fast as I can.” She mumbles a response, and when the dial tone comes through the receiver, it sounds a bit like the heart monitor that flatlined when an injured soldier passed away while I sat waiting for O’Neil to have his leg wound dressed.
Plenty warm now, I bolt out the door, climb into the truck, and toss the blanket I’ve been wearing into the front seat. I have on sweatpants and two flannels over a tattered Beloit sweatshirt. It’s not exactly a knight in shining armor, but the many layers may help in case Betty or the baby need them. Hopefully, the police will be there when I get to the house. Hopefully, she listened and left. Hopefully, Don doesn’t cause a scene. Hopefully, I can keep Betty and her baby safe.
As the heavy diesel engine roars to life, I check Harry’s house across the street for any sign of life or lights but see none. I sneak the truck, lights off, out of its spot, turning them on only after I’ve reached Main Street. Pausing there at the intersection, I lean across the front seat andlift the latch to the glove compartment with one finger. It falls open with a thud, and I reach inside and grab a metal object wrapped in a stained orange rag.
“When you’re carrying cash, you can’t be too safe,” Harry said when he showed the gun to me before my first big acquisition. He clicked out the magazine, checked the bullets inside, and loaded it again. “I’m assuming you know how to use it,” he said, handing me the weapon. I took it and went through the same motions, pretending the cold steel against my skin wasn’t a sickening reminder of the Smith and Wesson 1911 I’d carried at my hip after an attack on the Caravelle Hotel.
“I sure do,” I said confidently, dumping the weapon in the glove compartment as soon as Harry walked away. I hadn’t touched it again until now. I flip back the fabric to reveal the gunmetal barrel, then wrap it up again, placing it on the front seat. Foot pressed against the gas pedal, I speed down the darkened highway. I’m an hour away, at least, probably more, but when I get to Betty this time, I won’t stand by like a helpless little boy like I did the last time she called me for help.
Tonight feels different.
Tonight, I feel different.
Chapter 37
Charlie
Present Day
When I close my eyes, the red and white lights of the ambulance flash against the back of my eyelids. It’s been nearly two hours since the paramedics pulled up to Ike’s, sirens blaring. Betty was crying on the floor, head on Olivia’s lap when they arrived. I knew I should be the one petting her hair, saying calming words, but the dripping wet towel around my burned hand and my guilt kept me at a cautious distance. Once the medics took over, Olivia found her way to my side.
“She’s gonna be fine,” she said, as if she knew I felt responsible and wanted to reassure me.
