Sacred Sins

mentioning his friends. We didn't know until later that two of his best buddies had been splattered all over the jungle. We didn't know that until he'd come back and started having nightmares. He didn't get killed over there. My mother must have lit enough candles for that, but he died. The part of him that made him what he was died. I need a drink.”
    Before he could rise, Tess put a hand to his arm. “I'll get it.” She left him, and wanting to give him the time he needed, poured two warming brandies. When she went back in, he'd lit another cigarette, but hadn't moved.

    “Thanks.” He drank, and found that while the brandy didn't fill the hole grief had left, it no longer had to bypass that ball of bitterness. “Nobody was giving hero's welcomes back then. The war had turned sour. Josh came back with medals, commendations, and a time bomb in his head. It seemed okay for a while. He was quiet, withdrawn, but we figured nobody could come through that without some change. He moved back into the house, got a job. He didn't want to talk about going back to school. We all figured, well, he just needs some time.
    “It took almost a year before the nightmares started. He'd wake up screaming and sweating. He lost his job. He told us he'd quit, but Dad found out he'd picked a fight and gotten himself fired. It took about another year before things really deteriorated. He couldn't keep a job for more than a few weeks. He started coming home drunk, or not coming home at all. The nightmares got violent. One night I tried to bring him out of one and he knocked me across the room. He started shouting about ambush and snipers. When I stood up and tried to calm him down, he came at me. When my father came in, Josh was strangling me.”
    “Oh, God, Ben.”
    “Dad managed to bring him out, and when he realized what he'd done, what he'd almost done, Josh just sat down on the floor and cried. I've never seen anyone cry like that. He couldn't stop. We took him to the V.A. They assigned him a psychiatrist.”
    The ash on his cigarette had grown long. Crushing it out, Ben went back to the brandy. “I was in college by then, so I'd drive him sometimes when I had a light afternoon schedule. I hated that office; it always made me think of a tomb. Josh would go in. Sometimes you could hear him crying. Other times you couldn't hear anything at all. Fifty minutes later he'd come out. I kept waiting for him to walk out that door one day and be the way I remembered.”
    “Sometimes it's as hard, even harder on the family, than it is on the one who's ill,” Tess said, keeping her hand near his, letting him take or reject the contact. “You feel helpless when you want so badly to help … confused when you need so badly to think clearly.”

    “My mother broke down one day. It was a Sunday. She'd been fixing a pot roast. All of a sudden she just dumped it all in the sink. If it was cancer, she said, they'd find a way to cut it out of him. Can't they see what's inside him is eating him up? Why don't they find a way to cut it out of him?”
    He stared down into his brandy, the image of his mother standing over the sink, sobbing, as clear as if it had happened yesterday.
    “For a while he really seemed to get better. Because he was under psychiatric care and his job record was shaky, it was hard for him to find work. Our pastor applied a little pressure, some good old-fashioned Catholic guilt, and got him a job at a local gas station as a mechanic. He'd had a scholarship to Notre Dame five years before, and now he was changing spark plugs. Still, it was something. The nightmares slowed down. None of us knew he was eating barbiturates to keep them that way. Then it was heroin. That got by us too. Maybe if I'd been home more, but I was in college, and for the first time in my life serious about making it work. My parents were totally naive about drugs. It got by the doctor too. He was a major, regular Army, had done a tour of Korea and 'Nam, but he didn't see that Josh was pumping himself full of smack to get through the night.”
    Ben dragged a hand through his hair before he finished off the brandy. “I don't know, maybe the guy was overworked, or maybe he burned out. Anyway, the upshot was, after two years of therapy, after thousands of candles and prayers to the Blessed Virgin, Josh went up to his room, put on his combat fatigues and his medals, and instead of picking up his syringe, loaded his service revolver and ended