Morth, maybe. Or West. Haven't decided yet. Just seeing the country. Margaret nodded.
On the wall behind her, family photographs hung in mismatched frames. You have family? He asked. Margaret's expression softened. Three children, all grown and scattered.
Jenny's in Seattle, runs a bookstore. Paul teaches at a college in Vermont. She paused and something shifted in her voice. And Thomas, he was my youngest. The past tense hung in the air.
I'm sorry, Jackson said. He was 22. Full of dreams and plans. Margaret's voice grew distant. Sometimes I still catch myself setting four places at the table instead of one.
Jackson thought of his own daughter, Clare. 28 years old now. When had he last spoken to her? 3 years? Four.
You have children? Margaret asked. A daughter, Clare. Haven't seen her in a while. Margaret waited, but when he did not elaborate, she simply nodded.
Children have a way of breaking our hearts and mending them all at once. They sat in comfortable silence. Jackson found himself relaxing in a way he had not in years. There was something about Margaret's presence that made him want to lower his defenses. You're not from around here, Margaret observed.
California originally, been riding through the Northwest. Pretty country up here. Peaceful. It is that Robert and I moved here in 1978. He was a carpenter.
Said he wanted to build us a life where we could see the stars at night. Robert was your husband 45 years. He's been gone 3 years now. Heart attack while working in the garden. Margaret touched the thin gold band she still wore.
The doctor said he didn't suffer, but I still talk to him sometimes. Jackson understood that kind of solitude. Must get lonely sometimes. But lonely and alone aren't always the same thing. She smiled.
Tell me about yourself, Jackson. Where did you serve? The question landed hard. How did you know? My Robert was Navy Korea.
You have that look. The way you stand, that's military training. Jackson exhaled slowly. Marines, four years, 1989 to 1993. Vietnam, Gulf War, Operation Desert Storm, Saudi Arabia, then Kuwait during liberation.
I was 19, fresh out of boot camp. Thought we were going to stop Saddam Hussein. Make the world safe. And did you? Jackson's laugh carried no humor.
We stopped him, liberated Kuwait. Mission accomplished, they said. But some of us brought the war home anyway. Margaret did not interrupt. Just listened with patience.
Got hit by Iraqi artillery shrapnel near Bazra Highway. February 91. Took metal in my back, shoulder, left leg. They pulled out what they could, but I've still got pieces setting off metal detectors. Jackson touched his shoulder reflexively.
Three months in Naval Hospital in San Diego, learning to walk, learning to live with pain. In the pain pills, Jackson met her eyes. Saw only compassion. Started with Percoet, ended with anything I could find. By the time they released me, I was hooked.
Couldn't hold a job. Couldn't hold a relationship. Your wife left, Linda. Yeah, she tried for years. We had a daughter, Claire, born in 96.
I was 24. Thought fatherhood would fix what was broken. But the pills, the anger, the nightmares. Jackson's voice dropped. Linda left when Clare was 12.
Said she couldn't watch me destroy myself. Said she wouldn't let me destroy our daughter, too. And she was right. Margaret refilled his coffee in silence. My Robert had nightmares from Korea for 40 years.
The men who came home from those wars, they carried weight no one else could see. The Hell's Angels, Jackson said. After Linda left, I was lost. Met some guys at a VA bar. Ex-marines, all broken.
They wore leather vests. Said they were the only family we'd ever need. 1998, I joined the Riverside chapter. For a while, it felt right. Brotherhood, purpose, code.
But something changed. Jackson nodded. Started running drugs, collections, intimidation. The Brotherhood became a prison. What made you leave?
Three months ago, the president wanted me to beat up a guy who owed money. Guy was 65, veteran, terminal cancer. I told him I didn't survive Desert Storm to become the enemy. That's when I knew I had to get out. And here you are, Margaret said softly.
Here I am running again like always. Or maybe you're not running anymore. Maybe you just haven't realized you've been looking for a place to stop. The words hit Jackson like physical impact. He took another bite of pie and for the first time in three decades tasted something that felt remarkably like hope.
Jackson did not leave that day or the next or the one after that. 4 days later, Jackson returned with groceries. Coffee, flour, sugar, the good butter. He found her in the garden. Time slowed.
Margaret knelt between tomato plants, one hand pressed to her chest, the other reaching for her walking stick beyond her grasp. Her face had gone gray, lips tinged blue. The basket of tomatoes lay on its side. Red fruit scattered like blood drops. Jackson's training kicked in.
He vaulted the fence, knee screaming protest reached her in three strides. Margaret, stay with me. Eyes on me. Her eyes found his unfocused. Can't breathe right.
Jackson's hands moved with automatic precision. Checked airway clear. Breathing shallow. Pulse weak but steady. His mind ran through possibilities.