Dwelling by Thomas S. Flowers

the here and now. Karen loved him and so did Tabitha. Not many of his comrades could say the same thing, those who lived, that is.
    “I love you,” Johnathan said, and though the phrase seemed to spring from him without much thought, he meant every single word.
    “I love you too,” said Karen, beaming at him from across the kitchen island.
    “Don’t make me barf,” said Tabitha, her small delicate voice came off as both disgusted and equally amused. Johnathan could feel her smiling from behind the cartooned pirate. Underneath the facade, he knew the little girl loved seeing her mama happy. Karen winked at her, coming to the table, placing a plate full of eggs, bacon, and burnt toast in front of Johnathan. She stooped and tenderly kissed him. He eagerly returned the gesture.
    “Oh! Gross, you two!” Tabitha protested, mocking lurching motions.
    “Hush. It’s perfectly normal for a mom and dad to kiss each other.” Karen went to sit, teasing her daughter with kiss-fish face. “One day, you’ll have someone special you’ll want to give a smooch.”
    “Not on my watch,” interjected Johnathan, doing his best to sound stern, yet smiling underneath.
    “Yuck! As if, Mom,” said Tabitha, returning to whatever was so interesting behind that cereal box. Johnathan said a silent prayer of thanks that it would be a long time until talk of boys. Secretly he wished it never would. She was his step-daughter, but she felt more kin than the most of his biological family. He watched her for a moment; strong profound love came on him almost overwhelmingly. Johnathan spooned a mouth full of eggs to avoid an emotional outburst. Tears were inching dangerously close. If he wasn’t careful, he could get carried away and start sobbing at the table. Karen would worry. And he would feel ashamed. He struggled. Too often his positive thoughts would intermingle with his negatives ones of friends lost, parts of him lost forever, and not just his leg.
    “When’s your flight, hun?” asked Karen, tending to her own plate of eggs and toast. She didn’t seem to notice the moisture building on the surface of his eyes.
    He had nearly forgotten about his trip. “2:00 p.m. I’ll need to leave by noon. I’m flying out of George Bush. Security normally takes longer there, nowadays at least.” Johnathan took a deep chug of hot coffee, grateful for the burning warmth pouring into his belly and for the calming effects of caffeine and for the distraction. Maybe I’ll get something stronger at the hotel, later tonight .
    “When will you land in D.C.?”
    “Itinerary says 5:30 p.m., but we’ll see I guess. I’ll call once I get to the hotel.”
    “Please do.”
    “I will.”
    There was a momentary silence. The only sounds were the clanking of forks and plates and the suckling of milk from behind the Cap’n Crunch cereal box. Johnathan surveyed his trip. Tomorrow he would play the part as guest speaker for the Wounded Warriors Project at the Washington D.C. VA Medical Center.
    Randall was supposed to go, but something came up. Or the old geezer wanted me to get my feet wet and decided to purposely sit this one out. God, am I ready for this? Can I really give this talk in front of a crowd of veterans? I can sell this positive attitude bullshit to a crowd of civilians, but wounded veterans? Civilians are easy. Veterans can smell dishonesty. How can I feed them hope when I’m not even sure what that is?
    Johnathan tore a chunk of golden-brown toast and began to munch. He reached for the mug to wash down the dry scratch at the back of his throat. Just below the surface of the rippling dark roast, he could see old faces. He saw the dark face of Private Mooney, the gunner from Charlie team who always watched those old ’70s Blaxploitation flicks, or at least the bootlegged DVD’s he’d somehow find at the Haji -Mart back on Victory. God, what was that one movie he was always watching? Blacula, was it? It was either that one or Blackenstein