The Hardest Thing

“Let’s get you home.”
    “Home.” His voice wobbled. “Yeah.”
    And so we tottered slowly along the sidewalk, Jody leaning into me, sniffing heavily, occasionally groaning. I felt nothing—cold, empty, not even disappointed. Closed down. The dream that I’d chased out of New York had disappeared, just another mirage. Martin Kingston was a fool. The world didn’t work the way he wanted it to. Repentant hookers didn’t fall in love with battle-scarred loners. The ghosts of dead young marines didn’t organize happy endings for the lovers they’d left behind. All we had was survival and the endless quest for money. Everything else was just dick in ass. Friction. Temporary relief from loneliness. Illusion.
    I got Jody to bed.
    “You tired?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Think you can sleep?”
    “Mmm-hmm.”
    Neither of us looked at the other.
    “Okay. I’ll just…” I didn’t complete the sentence. I’ll just what? Be downstairs? Fix us some food? Put up some more shelves, clean out some more cupboards? What for? I’ll just get the first train out of here, don’t care where. Steal a car or hitch a ride, hit the road until the road runs out.
    I crept quietly down the stairs, as if silence would make it easier to leave.

    And here the story might end. Two losers going their separate ways, like a million other losers every day. There was nothing to keep me in Ann Arbor. Steve could take care of Jody; there was no point in me hanging around doing my handyman act. I was an embarrassment to both of them. I didn’t much like the idea of going back to New York. I’d pick up a few belongings from that flat in 109th Street, but there was no way I would ever live there again. I was finished with New York. Maybe I should do what Jody had done—pick up the threads of my life, see if there was any family left back in Massachusetts who had any use for an unemployed, disgraced ex-marine with a history of violence and a recent involvement with organized crime.
    It was too late to think about going anywhere tonight. I still had enough money to check into a hotel; it would make a nice change from being eaten alive by the bugs that shared the sofa at Steve’s place, no matter how much insecticide I sprayed. Maybe I’d find company in one of the bars, some student or factory worker who was willing to stick his legs in the air for me. It was a long time since I’d fucked anyone—and the last time, I was shot up with tranquilizers and being filmed by a psychotic gangster who then tried to kill me. That kind of thing could put a man off sex.
    So why was I still walking up and down Main Street, talking to myself? Why wasn’t I at the train station, buying a ticket? If I felt nothing, if my heart was dead, why was the damn thing beating so hard?
    Because, damn it, fuck it, fuck it, fuck it , because I cared about Jody. It was nothing to do with what Martin had said, it was nothing to do with Will Laurence and
what happened in Afghanistan; this was about me and Jody, Jody and me, and it was real and it hurt. It hurt because I wanted him and he didn’t want me, I loved him and he didn’t love me, all he wanted was his two hundred-grand and he’d forget all about us; I could go on pretending that it didn’t matter and it wasn’t happening, I could run back to New York and it would still hurt. I could get over it—of course I could, I’d got over worse. Wounds always heal, and I have so many scars that one more won’t make much difference.
    But this time, I didn’t want to walk away. I didn’t want to get over it. I wanted Jody so much—even if he’d lied to me and used me, even if he’d sold me down the river for a few thousand bucks and the lies that Marshall and Ferrari told him—I still felt the same way I felt when we were on the road, or when Martin was driving me up to Ann Arbor, when I was sitting by that hospital with Steve, waiting for Jody to come around.
    I felt something. And whatever it was—love, disappointment, anger—was better than the big fat nothing that I’d have if I walked away now. Maybe we’d just fight, we’d say bitter things and I’d leave in even worse shape than I already was. Well, hell, someone would take me in. Martin, my family, someone. Wouldn’t they?
    And there would be others.
    Yeah. There would be others. Better than this. Guys who didn’t lie, who didn’t steal and blackmail and deal drugs.
    Come on, Dan. Get a train out of here, anywhere, fast. One foot in front of