Page 95 of Agency
“He’s just always been Jericho,” Morgan replied. “I think it starts with an ‘M’, if that helps.”
“He’d have told us if he wanted us to know,” Andrew said. “But, he didn’t, so I never really pushed.”
“Same here.”
“But thanks,” Andrew said with a chuckle, “because now you’ve got me wondering.”
Jericho opened the passenger’s side door and climbed in. “Follow the road,” he said, his growling voice an echo of the gate bottom’s earlier grating. “Gonna take us straight up to the house. Can’t miss it.” His words were like coffin nails for the briefly lived conversation and we rode in silence for the rest of the way. Rows of passing corn stood as silent mourners along our path, while tire-kicked gravel played a syncopated dirge against the Durango’s undercarriage.
Soon, the glow of our headlights illuminated an old, two-story clapboard farmhouse, complete with peeling paint and an ever so slightly off-kilter front porch. The whole building seemed to stare through dusty, heavy-lidded eyes with a surly, drunken malice, like Jericho’s father home from a weekend binge.
“What a shithole,” said Andrew, stating what we all were clearly thinking as Morgan pulled to a stop in front of the sullen structure.
“Why do you think I preferred Iraq after high school?” Jericho replied, already going to get out. “We should unload here, then pull the truck around back. Been a while since I was here last, but there was an old pole-barn-styled carport out there that’ll provide cover from any aerial surveillance. Should still be standing.”
“Roger that.” Morgan put the truck into park. Climbing from the steaming warmth of the Durango and out into the bitingly cool air, we joined Jericho on the gravel.
We opened the back hatch and grabbed our packs from the cargo area. I went to lift one of the duffels, but Andrew waved me off. Shrugging, I took only my own pack, and followed Jericho’s limping form up to the front of the house.
“How long since you were here last?” I asked as we approached the front porch.
“When Gramps passed,” he replied, already clumping up the groaning steps. His voice was heavy as his bootfalls, and he seemed to be in the last place he’d ever want to revisit. “Careful. This porch doesn’t seem to be in that great of shape.” He stopped in front of the door to fish keys from his pocket. “Farm’s in a trust, though, and there’s a caretaker who comes by to ensure the water runs fine and everything is still standing.”
“Electricity?”
“Generator. We’ll get it running in the morning.” He slid home the key, and the lock turned without a hitch. “See?” he asked, glancing over at me with a smirk that seemed too lighthearted for his heavy, contemplative features in that moment. “Just fine.”
He pushed open the door and led me within, the floorboards creaking with every one of our steps.
Inside, the house was cold and dark. I followed Jericho into the living room on groaning boards, backpack slung over one shoulder. The moon’s dim rays streamed in through gaps in the boarded-up windows like a hundred spotlights, and floating motes of dust danced in inscrutable choreography for the assembled audience of ghostly, sheet-clad furniture.
“It’s nice,” I said after a moment, unsure of what else to add.
“Kitchen is through there. Upstairs, we’ve got some bedrooms. Bathroom off the entry, another one upstairs. Made sure everything was packed away when I was on leave for the funeral, so linen should still be wrapped up in the closet. Might be musty, but it’s been sealed and cleaned. We’ve got a camp stove in one of the packs. Should be enough to heat up some MREs for tonight. Get some real food in town in the morning.”
“Right.” I swallowed hard as I looked around. Not sure of what exactly to say to him, I shuffled my feet a little bit as I tried to think of something–anything really–that would make this moment a little less uncomfortable. After all, here I was: a woman he’d fucked, a woman he’d taken prisoner, a woman who’d saved his life, a woman whose life he was currently saving. And where was I?
In the home he’d spent his adult life trying to get as far away from as possible.
We looked to each other in the silent darkness as, outside, the doors closed on the Durango. His eyes looked hurt, showing signs of almost physical pain as he held back the welling of emotions he had to have been feeling right then.
This called for me to say something authentic. Something deep, and from the heart. Something personal, truthful, and, above all, honest.
And I was absolutely not the person to deliver that kind of message.
Luckily, two sets of boots sounded on the porch out front, and then the guys came bustling in.
“Holy shit!” Andrew called, breaking us from our long look. “You sure this place isn’t haunted, Jericho?”
And, apparently, neither were the other two guys…
“Fuck off, Andrew.” Jericho rattled off a truncated version of what he’d already told me, and the guys busied themselves with moving bags to different rooms.
That done, Morgan disappeared back outside as Andrew, Jericho, and I unpacked, and soon the Durango was grinding along the side of the farmhouse to the rear carport Jericho had earlier mentioned. By the time Morgan was coming back in, I was upstairs and trying to find the linen for my chosen bedroom, which had no more than a simple single mattress. I unzipped the sheets from their plastic sheathing and began to put them on as, downstairs, Jericho and Andrew argued about food in the kitchen.
Andrew was saying he was starving, but couldn’t cook without the lights. Jericho was telling him to shut the fuck up, and there was plenty of light from the candles they’d found and lit. That if he couldn’t find a “rock, or something” to lean his MRE pouch against, he was still young enough to become a Marine and develop a taste for Crayons and Elmer’s.
Suddenly exhausted, I laid down on that shitty single bed as soon as I had the fitted sheet on. I knew the hour wasn’t late, not by my normal standards, but this had been an exhausting day. And, regardless of my being unable to muster the words to tell Jericho, I couldn’t help but smile as Morgan joined in on the pointless three-way argument. Because, at their core, they were soldiers. And, even with as hard-edged and well trained as they might be, the banter was equally part of that existence. Any military would crumble without its banter.
