June, 1973
Mary woke up to the sound of screaming, not her own, but a man's voice; it was cracked, broken, desperate and she recognized it immediately. She gasped his name as she swung her legs off the bed and onto the soft carpet, running from the bedroom and into the tiny living room next door, where her husband lay on the couch. A half empty bottle of beer was spilled on the floor, the blanket pulled up to John's chest was clenched tightly in his fists, and his face was pinched, marred by deep lines as beads of sweat dripped down his forehead.
John was muttering in his sleep, words Mary tried not to hear as she bent over the back of the couch and reached for him, her fingers just brushing his shoulder when he gasped harshly and sat up, his eyes wide and alert.
"Shhhh, John," Mary soothed, keeping her voice low, "it's all right. You're all right. Just a dream." She wished it was true, just a dream, and not a memory.
"Mary?" John shook his head slowly, struggling to regain his senses; he flinched, brought his hand up to wipe down his face, and the humiliation in his voice was evident when he spoke again. "Did I wake you?"
"I had to pee anyway." Mary smirked, and then walked around the couch so she could kneel on the floor beside him; she picked up the discarded bottle and placed it on the coffee table, then took John's hand in both of hers. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
John moved, squeezing Mary's hand before letting go, and rising from the couch; Mary sighed, the conversation was familiar, something repeated at least twice a week since they had moved into an apartment together. When John was in Vietnam, he kept his letters light-hearted, never speaking of any of the horrors he'd witnessed; even when he was wounded, he downplayed the injury, so much that the first time Mary saw the shrapnel scars left behind she was shocked speechless. Then when John first came home, he lived alone, relieving the war in solitude every night, leaving Mary completely unaware of what he was going through.
"Maybe we should go out for a bit tomorrow night?" she suggested, watching John as he stumbled into the kitchen area, sleepily grabbing for a glass and turning on the sink. Mary glanced at the clock. 3:14. "Or, tonight," she amended.
"Out?" John gulped down the water and set the glass back on the counter. "Something going on?"
"Not really," Mary replied, "just thought it might be nice. It's Saturday night, and you're off on Sunday. We could go out for steak, maybe some beers." She smiled, her eyes twinkling in the dim light. "I bet I could still kick your ass at pool."
John smiled half-heartedly, walking to his wife and taking her hands in his own, pulling her to her feet. "Not a chance." He placed a kiss on her forehead, held his lips there for a moment, and Mary closed her eyes. Her thoughts raced, a memory flashing before her eyes: Her father, his stomach covered in blood, snapping John's neck and Mary watching helplessly as he sank to the ground. She remembered vividly those yellow eyes, glistening under the moonlight, her father's voice suddenly so cold and unfamiliar.
"Hey," John spoke, rubbing his hands up and down Mary's arms, "you're shaking."
"I'm okay," Mary said, quickly, forcing another smile when she saw the worry on John's face. "Really."
"We'll go out when I get home," John said, "you're right, we could use the break." He wrapped his arm around Mary's shoulders and pulled her close as they made their way to the bedroom. "And we'll see about that pool game, but loser pays for drinks."
The floorboards creaked beneath them as John and Mary walked hand-in-hand into the bar, the smell of cigarette smoke and grease assaulting their senses immediately; John breathed it in, his shoulders relaxing slightly, his face smoothing, while Mary coughed discreetly behind one palm. "Nice place," she croaked, elbowing John's ribs.
"Give it a chance." John led her to the bar and they pulled up a seat as the aged bartender, Larry, sauntered over, wiping the back of his neck with a rag.
"Hot as hell tonight," he muttered with a scowl.
"Sure is," John agreed, "bring us two beers to cool off?"
"You got it." Larry smacked the counter before walking away. "I'll bring you over two burgers, too."
"Thanks, Mr. Smith," John said.
"Larry," the old man stressed.
The night passed quickly, as Larry continued to bring more beers and the jukebox steadily cranked out tune after tune; John and Mary made their way to a corner table where they could sit closer, speak quietly to each other, talk about their future, and laugh when John recalled an incident at work when his buddy Mike had thrown a wrench at a customer out of frustration. It was a good night, and Mary found herself relaxing for what felt like the first time since that awful night, enjoying the company of her husband, grateful to have him by her side.
That was when a group entered the bar, clearly out of place but unconcerned, and not looking to make any friends; they were five of them, they looked to be around the same age as John and Mary, decked out in fringe jackets and ragged jeans. One of them shouted to Larry to bring them over a pitcher, and the old World War II veteran grumbled as he brought it over and placed it on the table in front of a young man wearing a jacket with the Peace sign embroidered into the front pocket. The young man smiled pleasantly and thanked Larry, then seemed to shush the redhead girl seated next to him, glaring at her.
Mary watched the group intently, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up, and her fingers tingling slightly; she clenched and unclenched her hands, then took another sip of beer as John bumped her gently. "What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing," she assured him, but she could hear the conversation brewing from the other side of the room, and her temper started to rise. "You ready to go?"
"Let's stay awhile," John said, and his smile was so genuine that Mary had to return it.
She was just about to silently scold herself for overreacting, when she heard the redhead's high-pitched voice: "I told my ex, Jeff, when he left that it was stupid. His daddy was in the world war and he thought it was some kind of honor, like he's really doing anything over there anyway. Except murdering innocent people."
Mary gritted her teeth, felt John tense beside her.
"I mean, how could anyone be so stupid now?" the girl continued, "this war's been going on since I was a kid; people need to open their fucking eyes." She threw back a shot glass of amber liquid. "Anyway, I saw Jeff again a couple weeks ago, and you know what I did? I spit right in his face."
Before John could grab her hand and stop her, Mary was on her feet, striding across the floor and stopping directly in front of the girl, who eyed her warily. "Excuse me," Mary made her best attempt at sounding polite, "my husband and I . . . we're trying to have a good time over there, just hang out. Could you keep it down a little?"
The redhead scoffed. "Whatever."
Taking that as an acceptance, Mary went back to the table, not meeting John's eyes as he watched her sit back down. "What are you doing?" he asked.
Mary shrugged. "We don't need to hear that nonsense right now."
"It's not a big deal."
"Well, it is to me."
But the redhead wasn't done yet, and this time she kept her eyes locked on Mary as she nearly yelled: "The best thing for everyone would be if every goddamn killer that went over there came home in a body bag."
Mary saw the look on John's face, the way his grip on his beer tightened until his knuckles were white; he shifted uncomfortably, and the light caught the metal of the dog tags he still wore around his neck. Mary got up again, made the same walk, but this time she didn't stop when she got close to the redhead, who was standing up to greet her. Before she could get another word in, Mary's fist was smashing into her nose, sending blood spurting as the girl crumpled to the floor, crying out and covering her nose with her trembling hands.
"Holy shit!" the young man with the embroidered jacket gasped.
"Mary!" John grabbed Mary's shoulders and whirled her around, shock on his face and in his voice; he waved to Larry, who was doubled over laughing, and rushed them both outside. "What the hell were you thinking? What if they call the cops? You could get arrested!"
Mary stopped moving, forcing John to stop beside her. "I'd had enough," she stated, firmly, "I asked her once, gave her warning."
"You didn't tell her you were going to do that!" John couldn't help but laugh. "Where'd you even learn how to throw a punch?"
Mary smiled, placed the back of her hand and her red knuckles on John's cheek. "I just thought you should know you have someone on your side. I'm never going to sit by and let someone talk like that about you; I don't care if it means I end up in a cop car." She stood on tip-toe and kissed his lips. "I've got your back."
"Jesus, Mary . . . " John shook his head, glancing back at the bar where people could be heard shouting and laughing. "Remind me never to piss you off."
"Oh, I will."
John laughed louder this time, and they started back to the Impala, waiting for them in the dark parking lot; he stopped and watched as Mary continued on ahead of him. "And, Mary?"
"Yes?" Mary stopped in front of the car and turned to look at him.
"Thank you." John shuffled his feet, shoving his hands into his pockets. "No one's ever done . . . anything like that for me before."
Mary felt her eyes sting as she looked at the earnest expression on John's face; he'd never had anyone to stand up for him, his father long gone, his stepfather distant, and his mother as nasty as anyone she'd ever met. He didn't even have any close friends to lean on.
That was all going to be different from now on. She would make sure of it.