Beret (Adult Content)

Illustration by Laurie Lail

Sunny Saturday afternoons are the only times when Dillon is alone in the house to steal away to his brother’s room. On these afternoons his father usually goes for a round of golf, and his mother does the grocery shopping. His brother, Cody, left for Afghanistan two years ago, and hasn’t been back. The room is just as his brother had left it. Except for the occasional letter from Afghanistan, this room was as close to his brother as Dillon could get.

He likes to take his time. Here in his room, quiet, with his brother’s things Dillon could try to imagine Cody’s answers to the questions he wished he could ask. Dillon wondered what Cody would say about this mess with Ashley. Would Cody tell Dillon to cut his losses and move on, like their father had advised, or would he know how to fix things? Cody knew about women. Dillon misses the way Cody could always make their mother laugh until she was gasping for air. Dillon is sure Cody would like Ashley. Cody would know how to make a woman happy. He wouldn’t blow it. Dillon pictures Ashley laughing until she’s gasping for air.

Dillon hadn’t really noticed Ashley at first. She had an average face. It was the way she used her face that made him notice her - soft, shy, curious, sneaky, and when she smiled her eyes would squint into slits. He met her in an English class. When they were assigned oral readings from Canterbury Tales, most of the girls had performed the Nun’s Tale or the Wife of Bath. Ashley had chosen a segment from the Miller’s Tale. She stuffed a pillow up her shirt and made a believable little fat guy. Her face told most of the story. The class had laughed at her performance, and applauded when she finished. She’d made an A; she liked to make good grades and she liked to laugh. Ashley laughed better than anybody he knew. She’d throw her head back and rock with a hand on her chest, and her laugh had a consistent pitch that rolled from her mouth.

 He liked going to the small apartment where Ashley and her mom lived. Her mom sold eyewear for Ralph Lauren and would go out of town for a few days at a time. Ashley would make dinner, load the dishwasher, wipe the counter and fold laundry like she was living there alone. She had been with a guy before Dillon. The guy still liked her, and Dillon knew it. Other guys liked her too, and Dillon could see this. Ashley keeps busy, really busy. She works, studies, keeps house, but she sat with Dillon at school when she could, tried to make all his games, and she’d have him over when her mom went out of town. Simply walking into her bedroom with her aroused him. He had worried that he wouldn’t please her in bed, but she always seemed to like it. Afterwards she would fall over to her side and put her forehead against the side of his face and ask him his thoughts about baseball, school, Cody, everything.

Dillon goes through his routine in Cody’s room. He picks up Cody’s baseball mitt and smells it. He puts his left hand in the mitt and punches his right fist inside it a few times. He runs his fingers over the strings of Cody’s guitar. He looks at the baseball trophies Cody had collected through the years. Cody got his first one when he was five. Dillon runs his finger over the year etched into the base and smiles. Next, Dillon sits down at Cody’s desk; he opens the drawer and looks through a stack of pictures. There are three particular photographs that Dillon always lingers over.

 In one of these photographs, Cody and he are swimming at the lake. Dillon was ten and Cody was fourteen. Off in the background, a motorboat is towing a skier. Dillon is treading water and looking up at Cody as Cody jumps off of the dock and over Dillon’s head. Cody seems to be flying. His arms are stretched out at either side, both legs are drawn up and his head is thrown back. Their mouths are open wide and they are laughing. Dillon runs his finger over the outline of his brother.

They had great times at the lake. It was where Cody taught him to swim, and it was where Cody first began to teach Dillon to play the guitar. It was also where Cody told him about sex. Dillon smiles and shakes his head when he thinks about it.

He was eight, and Cody was twelve. They had hidden behind some shrubs that grew along the lake, and Cody pulled a magazine from their lunch bag that one of his friends had given him. The magazine was full of men with erections fondling naked women, or standing over them or having sex with them. Dillon remembered thinking that everyone’s expressions looked like they’d just stubbed their toe. Cody flipped through the magazine and found a picture with a woman lying back with her legs spread open. “Here.” Cody said, “Look at this. This thing’s called her clit, and right here, this is where you want to stick it. You gotta’ think about sports and stats or something at first and keep your mind off of what you’re doing because you have to keep your hard-on until she moans or something.”

Being with Cody at the lake were their best times, no one to judge them. They could talk about anything when they were alone at the lake. They talked about their father and his war stories and their mother and how she lets their father boss her around and everything they noticed around them. They had free time. There were different rules at the lake, and they were different boys.

 In another photograph, they’re standing in front of their mom’s car. Cody is wearing the uniform from his high school baseball team. He’s on his way to a game, and the uniform is crisp and clean. Cody got his driver’s license two weeks before this picture was taken, and his right arm falls by his side and he’s holding car keys. Cody’s left elbow is perched on Dillon’s head. Dillon is in his little league uniform, the belly and knees of the uniform are covered in dirt, and his arms are folded across his chest. They both have big smiles.

When Dillon looks at this photograph he remembers his brother had began hanging out with his friends a lot when he started driving, and he’d missed him, but Cody had still made time for Dillon’s baseball games and practicing with him. Cody wasn’t like their father. When practicing, if Dillon made a bad swing, Cody would just call out the error and let it go. When Dillon would swing hard and then miss the ball completely, their father would rant about concentration, but Cody wouldn’t say anything. He’d just look at the ground, shake his head, then smile at Dillon and pitch the ball again. Dillon can remember Cody looking down at his cleats, shaking his head and smiling about a million times. Now, Dillon is a hard hitter with a good batting average. His coaches always rub their hands together when they see him headed to bat. They talk to Dillon about scouts, the minor leagues and college teams. When Dillon writes to Cody, he tells him what his coaches say. He wants to tell him about Ashley, but their mother made a rule: Only good news, and hopeful thoughts.

The third photograph was taken two weeks before Cody left for basic training in the Marine Corps. They are at their cousin’s wedding. They are dressed in suits and standing side by side in front of the branches of a maple tree covered with orange leaves. The photograph cuts them off at the knees. Dillon is almost as tall as Cody. Their arms hang straight, and their hands fall at their thighs. They both have smiles that don’t show their teeth. Dillon hates this picture; it was the last one they had taken together. He thinks he might be as tall as Cody by now. He always glances over it for a moment when he’s alone in Cody’s room, wondering if he could have done or said anything that would have changed Cody’s destination.

From here, Dillon puts the pictures back in the drawer and picks up Cody’s guitar. He’s promised to keep it in tune. He plays a song called If Its Love, the last song Cody had taught him how to play.

Cody had been in a band that managed to get a few gigs for money. He was the youngest member of the band, but sang the lead on most of the songs. Dillon and his parents had gone to watch them play. Dillon thought Cody was pretty good, and that he was a natural in front of the crowd. Their mother had yelled over the crowd and asked Dillon, “Did you see how those girls sing along with Cody? They couldn’t take their eyes off of him?” Then she’d asked their father, “David, did you know he was so good?” Their dad had just shrugged and turned up his beer.

That night, Dillon’s parents let him hang out with Cody to help the band pack up. On the ride home, Cody had said, “I want to take a couple of years before I go to college and really pursue this thing I’ve got goin’ with our band. I told these guys I was ready. We have a spot as a house band at Finley’s on the lake. Can you believe that? All kinds of money comes through there. And Jessup, he’s the one with the long black hair. He has us set up to record with this guy that owes him a favor. We’re gonna’ send it to a couple of places he knows about in Nashville. I’ve saved money. I’m gonna’ tell Dad tonight. That’ll be toughest part. I can’t start this semester anyway. I didn’t go down and register for classes; it’s too late.”

Dillon had followed Cody into the living room to watch him in action, but when Cody was face to face with their father, and told their Dad he hadn’t met with his adviser at school, their dad became furious, and Cody had chickened out. He never told their father about the job or the studio. Their father had pushed up from the sofa and propped his hands on his hips and told Cody to, “Take a seat boy.” Their father stood over Cody and said, “What the hell do you mean you haven’t registered at school? I don’t understand you. You make the grades, apply, get accepted and then you don’t register? Do you think they’ll hold classes for you?”

“Dad, I’m not going to college right now. I’ve made up my mind.”

“The hell you’re not. What do think you’re going to do? Fuck around here and make millions at that pizza dive?  Play the guitar and try to get in some girls pants, and where do you think that’ll take you? Are you kidding me?”

Their father turned to their mother who had gotten up from the sofa and stood beside him. “I told you we should have gone with him. He’s too damn flaky to do this on his own.”

Their mother had touched their father’s arm and said, “David let’s be calm, maybe he has a plan.”

Their dad said, “Janet don’t baby him,” he nudged her hand from his shoulder, folded his arms keeping his gaze on Cody. “So? What’s your plan?”

“The band has up booked...”

“The band? Your gonna’ toss pizzas and play around in the band? This is the dumbest goddamn thing I’ve ever heard. How the fuck did you ever get into college in the first place? So, how do make a life from spinning pizza and playing guitar, big man? And what do you do when it goes know where. What can you do to support yourself?”

Cody had looked down at his hands and sat silent. Their father pushed on. “You don’t know? Here’s a news flash, genius, that’s what college would decide for you. I know spinning pizza dough and singing your little songs is a whole lot of fun, but you can’t do anything with it. Now what? Well, big man, what are your big plans?” Cody looked up and fixed his eyes on their father’s and said, “I’m signing up for the Marines.”

Their father hadn’t moved. He didn’t look as though he so much as breathed. He studied Cody without blinking. Their mother said, “No Cody,” and started to cry. Finally, their dad moved enough to touch her arm, but he kept his eyes on Cody and said, “The first time I went to Iraq, in the first gulf war, your mom wasn’t even pregnant with you. She was here alone, with nothin’ but letters and wondering. That’s what she’ll do if you go. You gonna’ do that to her? It’s no game Cody. I’m proud of what I did, but it ain’t a game. College is a cake walk compared to what you’re asking for; you better think about this.”

“Why? You don’t think I can take it?’

“It’s not your best choice, Cody.”

“My choice? Well, since I’m too dumb to make a choice, I guess it’s good I’ll have them to make my choices for me. Hey, that’s what you did. Right? It worked for you. We’ve heard your stories. You did alright.”

Dillon had heard his parents argue that night. His mother kept pleading, “David you’ve got to talk to him, he’ll listen if you say it. Tell him you don’t care about college right now, that it’s okay. He’ll be so far away. He’s only eighteen. For God sakes David, tell him not to join.”

“I can’t do that.”

“What do mean you can’t?”

“Janet, I can’t tell ‘em not to do what I proudly did.”

“Who better? It’s all those damn stories you told him. David, don’t tell me you’re happy he’s doin’ this. You know where they’ll send him, don’t you?”

“I don’t know that and neither do you. He’s eighteen. There’s not a damn thing we can do anyway. Let’s sleep on it. This’ll be fine.”

“David, please.”

“Enough, Janet.”

Dillon could hear his mother start to sob. Then he heard his father say, “He won’t go. Janet, he’s havin’ a pissin’ contest with me. That’s what this is. Now dry up, he won’t go.”

 Dillon squeezed the neck of his brother’s guitar, took a long slow breath and wet his lips then formed his fingers over the frets to make a chord. He doesn’t play as well as Cody, except for one song, the song Cody wrote called Look at Me. Dillon had played it for Ashley, and she had said she really liked the song. Dillon strums through the melody and then gently leans the guitar back in the corner and pushes the pick between the strings and the neck. He looks around at the framed picture of Cody and his band with their arms thrown round each other’s shoulders, the baseball bat in the corner. Then Dillon goes to the globe lamp Cody found at a yard sale and finds Afghanistan, and then leaves his brother’s room.

Dillon walks into the den and plops on the sofa. He picks up the framed photograph from the end table that was taken of his father during Dessert Storm near al Kibrit, Saudi Arabia. His dad is standing with three other guys. They’re wearing camouflaged fatigues and thick green vests. Their helmets have mirrored goggles strapped over them. There is nothing but sand. There are no trees, vegetation or mountains. Only sandy desert can be seen to the blue horizon. His dad has the strap of his rifle over his shoulder; the other two men are holding their rifles in front of their torsos with both hands. Many times his father has pointed to the rifles in this photograph and said. “That’s a m16a2. That’s a hell of a weapon. And a good rifle is a hell of a friend when you’re at war.”

Dillon sits the photograph down and lets his head fall back against the couch. He thinks of Ashley. He thinks of kissing her and the way she moves her mouth. He thinks of her straight brown hair falling just above her breast. He thinks of the way she turns up the corners of her mouth when he teases her. He thinks of the point of her chin. He thinks of the smoothness of her skin and running his hand over her bare thigh. He thinks of her favorite saying, “Life turns out the way you fold it.”

He goes to his bedroom and dresses for baseball practice. He sits on his bed. He had not taken her beret from the box to look at it since he had quickly tossed it in and closed the lid. The same way he’d tossed the ticket stubs from the baseball games in Boston with his dad and the rabbit’s foot his brother had given him before he left.

Ashley wore the beret when she waited tables; it was part of her uniform. He hated the way it covered her shiny hair, and the way it made him think of what Cody’s letters had said. That he felt great to be working for his country. That he wanted to succeed with the Marine Corp. That he might even train hard and try for the Green Berets when the war ends. Dillon wondered if his brother was telling the truth or if he just said what he thought their parents wanted to hear. Maybe he just wanted to one up their father.

Dillon doesn’t open the box. He simply lays back and thinks about the beret in the box under the bed. He likes to know it’s there. He remembers how he’d drunkenly staggered after Ashley in his bare feet, shirtless. When he’d reached her she’d turned and said, “There’s nothing you can say Dillon.”

Her words were calm, but tears covered her cheeks making them wet and shiny. He had felt his throat tighten and he had stumbled when he reached for her and pleaded her name, “Ashley.”

She’d pushed her hands in the sides of her hair up beside her ponytail. Tears dripped from her face and dotted her shirt. She let her eyes meet his and whispered, “No.” She’d turned and dropped her hands. Her beret fell to the ground, and when he’d bent down to pick it up and he’d fallen. She’d ran as he’d called her name again. He watched from his hands and knees as she hopped in her mom’s Toyota and drove away.

Dillon grabbed his baseball bag from the foot of his bed and made sure it had a clean towel and his cleats. He zipped the bag and wondered what Ashley did with the necklace. He had bought a simple mother of pearl necklace for Ashley’s birthday. He’d opened the box, set it on the patio table and pushed it toward his dad. “Think she’ll like it?”

His dad glanced at the box, set his beer down, leaned on the table toward him and recited what he always said when it came to Ashley. “This is it Dillon. You don’t get another chance, grades and stats, you with me? Girls are fun son; I remember, but they can be a big distraction. Remember how Cody taught you that no matter what, to stay focused and watch the ball? You gotta’ do it off the field too.” His father’s eyes sat fixed on him for a moment. Then his father leaned back in his chair, picked up his beer and turned the bottle up to his lips and swallowed. He looked back at Dillon and said, “Your brother knows you’ve got somethin’.” His father gave a soft chuckle then set his beer down and crossed his leg. “Picture this Dillon. Cody comes back from Afghanistan, and he and your mom and I are front row, center field at your college game. That’s a perfect day boy.” He clicked his tongue, winked and said, “A perfect day.”

Dillon had walked inside and his mother was stuffing snicker’s bars into a postal box. She slightly turned up the corners of her mouth to try and offer Dillon a smile and said, “Honey, write a quick note to your brother. Tell him about your game last week. Tell him about that new band you like. We still haven’t heard from him, but I know it’s because he’s busy. We’re going to send him something every day till we hear from him.”

That night after practice, Dillon had gone with his teammates to the restaurant where Ashley worked. He had the necklace in the pocket of his jacket. They had finished their burgers. Ashley was laughing her laugh with the bartender. She was always laughing with that guy. He shoved his hands in his pockets and tightened his fists. A teammate asked, “What’s with the pretty boy?”

Dillon’s chest tightened and he shrugged. “Some Mo she likes to joke with.”

“He ain’t lookin’ at her like he’s a mo.”

Ashley walked over and set the checks down. “So you guys are havin’ a party huh?”

Dillon relaxed his jaw. “Evan’s folks are gone for the weekend. Drive over as soon as you get off, okay?”

“I don’t know if I can make it. I have to finish that paper, remember?”

“It’s your birthday, Ashley, come on.”

“Mr. Watson doesn’t care Dillon. It’s due Monday, and I have a lot of work to do on it. I don’t go anywhere without scholarships, remember?”

His face felt hot. “Yeah, okay, great. Maybe that fucker over there can help you with your paper.”

“Knock it off Dillon.”

Dillon stood and chucked money on the check and spoke a little too loudly. “Fine, happy fuckin’ birthday.”

The manager caught Ashley’s attention by raising her brows. Ashley quickly wet her lips and touched Dillon’s hand. “We can talk later. Okay? Just go.”

He tossed the necklace on the table.

‘Girls can be fun, but they can be a big distraction,” his father’s words had bounced around Dillon’s head as the cool air hit his face when he’d marched from the restaurant.

Dillon lies belly down on his bed and pushes his face into the coolness of the pillow. All Dillon can remember about the girl at Evan’s house that night was full lips and a long neck, and that was it. He doesn’t remember the girl’s name, her eyes, her height, nothing. He knew she’d giggled at his jokes and poured his shots. She’d guided his hand up her shirt and squeezed it against her breast. He remembered that when he’d rolled off of her all she’d said was, “Do you have somethin’ to drink over there?” and then she lit a cigarette. He had sat up to look for a drink and saw Ashley, crying and standing in the doorway.

Dillon rolled on his back and looked at his bedroom ceiling. He thought about taking out the beret and the rabbit’s foot and squeezing them against his chest. They were things he wished he could give back. Ashley hadn’t answer the door or his calls, and probably never would. He wondered what she thought of him. He pictured his brother, in the dessert, in the heat and dust, looking at his boots and shaking his head.