In Truth and Time
The Empire Hotel becomes home. It should, Nate realizes, not be his home. The epic monument to sons conquering fathers is not where he belongs, not where he should reside. He was made for colonial homes with classical Corinthian pillars, and history running through the wood panels, and battle scars. He wasn't made for the new age and iron wrought structures where promises are made and almost always fulfilled.
But it is where he is taken, where he heals, where his heart and arms grow strong again. Where his almost brother, the all but King of the island, watches him with calculating eyes from the bar across the living room; where the King's bride, in everything but name, directs his every movement with an iron tongue and loving sentiment.
The brownstone, his childhood home and once refuge, now again in his name, is left alone. It withers with oppressive memories and forgotten, discarded familial ties. Blair hires an interior decorator, one who strips down the old wallpaper, moves out the long-standing furniture, takes down the stale photographs and replaces it all with vibrant wall colors, modern eclectic sofas and arm chairs. There is artwork hanging on the wall that Blair herself went to the Brooklyn gallery to find. It could easily be on the cover of New American Living.
His mother would be appalled if she ever saw it, all the old, wooden fixtures straight from the Mayflower gone.
Nate, though he doesn't bear to say it out loud, misses his mother. Sometimes, some days, he hopes she'll call. He's surprised when she doesn't contact him after the ceremony, going on about the family name like all the other relatives do. But nothing. Safely hidden away in a resort in Arizona, the beautiful Mrs. Archibald weeps away her misguided love and the shame that comes from it all. Her elegant handwriting scripts him a well written convalescence card that is delivered in the heat of his fever.
But Nate has no time to wallow in family angst. Instead, Nate heals.
There is PT with a beautiful brunette named Chloe who Nate would flirt with constantly except for the fact that she utterly terrifies him. Nate was never a very muscular boy growing up, more inclined to fall into the skinny but pretty category than anything, made for the runways if it wouldn't disgrace the family line, but after joining the Army, things had changed. He had begun to develop muscle in his arms, medium size bulges that still from time to time he'd look at and just stare, his eyebrows furrowed and forehead crinkled. They were strange, these new found things on his body. But he slowly grew used to them, going from getting freaked out by them daily, until they were just once again, his arms. But then it happened [with fire and blood, and Micah, oh God, Micah], and then there were bullets and surgeries and slings and lost muscle mass and dexterity.
But Nate has Chloe. Who scares him. A lot. And whose very small hips are way too unproportional to the mammoth size of her arm muscles. Muscular Nate would be jealous of Chloe. And Chloe wants to help get muscular Nate back.
Chloe is, in the nicest, more gentlemanly way possible, crazy. She has ways of torturing Nate that even the Taliban would call foul at. Her perky eyes and carefree smile had lulled him in, Nate imaging massages and "you poor baby." Instead he had gotten a drill sergeant that rivaled in force the Sarge from back over-there. Nate tries several times to give up, to live with a bum arm, encased in a sling, to never have to do another stinking minute of physical therapy, but one look, one small look from Chloe makes him do another rep.
"That a boy, Nate." She says. Every time she gets her way. "Pretty soon you'll be lifting babes over your head."
He rolls his eyes. Even if he wanted to ever do that, a "wench press" as Johnson had once called it when describing a summer job at a renaissance festival, he wouldn't. He's been home for weeks now, months even, and still no word from Serena. Her fleeting blonde hair has become just another memory from a time before: before he became who he is now, a knight, a solider, perhaps even a man.
Chloe's laugh is nothing special. It's light with a hint of a chuckle most days but he never wants to close his eyes when he hears it. Never wants to day dream away to a beach with golden sand and azure skies, frozen drinks and carefree breezes. But it's a nice laugh. Micah [oh, god, Micah] had said once that he had a girl waiting for him back home, with hair that was like the oaks on the farm he used to work at. Micah [the blood and the grey, and oh god] never got to tell her he loved her.
Nate has told Serena he loved her too many times.
"Chloe," he said one day, his arm muscles shaking as he releases the ten pound ball and watches it fall to the floor. It bounces away, blue and free. "Will it ever be good again? Like it was, you know, before."
Her smile faltered as her brown eyes stared at him. Her fingers, well manicured and muscular, softly twitched as she touched his arm. They've had this conversation before, her and him.
"Nate," she sighed, rubbing down his quivering limb, "we've been over this, a couple of times. You didn't just loose muscle mass. You lost muscle. You had nerve damage. The scar tissue alone…" she begun again, this old song and dance coming in time with the kneading of her knuckles along the surgical scar line on his shoulder. It twinged.
"But I'm better now, stronger, even more so than I was a month ago. I mean, look at me. I'm all the way up to ten pounds now. Hell, Chloe, I might be ready for the twelves." He wants, no, needs it to be back to the way it was. Without it, he's a solider without a company, a man without a cause. His ship has sailed, he knows, he knows.
There was the honorable discharge earlier in the month, with shaken hands and awards pressed to chests, mentions of the family name and the hero legacy making him ill. But it doesn't mean that he wants to believe it. He just wants to go back. And like everything in his life, as soon as Nate realizes he loves it, cherishes it, it is swept away from him, locked away never for him to touch again.
He doesn't know whose idea it was, the honorable discharge. But he knows how it ended up looking. Proud, and powerful, the family dynasty reborn, a war hero for the new age. His future has never looked brighter in politics, and Nate grows queasy at the sight of D.C.
2.
Blair handles the return, and the injury, and rehabilitation as usual, with grace and tact. Blair does as Blair has always done. She hears that there will be ceremonies, that there will be cameras and people of quality, and she drags him out shopping, tsking at his changed body. More muscle here, leaner there, new suits to match the new him. Chuck comes with, sympathy for Nate and fear of Blair's wrath obvious in his gait.
There are suits bought to highlight new muscles, summer shorts with clinched belts to show off that the last of the baby fat has fallen away. Blair has arm slings customized, a black silk one for fancy events on the Upper East Side: the one for balls and galas and museum exhibit openings. Nate likes to call it the awkward moment sling. Every time he wears it, at those galas and balls and openings, he's left in these awkward situations. Slings, somehow, to the Upper East Side, end up being conversation starters.
There was the time he was at a ball for some ceremony, some fundraiser (where putting on the ball cost more than the money the event raised). His black Armani suit, tailored to his new dimensions looked amazing on him (so Blair had decreed), the scar on his forehead was less noticeable, less angry and less red.
"Oh good." Blair had said. Her hands held a bottle of very high end cosmetic concealer "None for you" she had smiled, her painted on lips jovial and kind, wary eyes marking his every move, ever shaken hand tremor, every late night scream.
And at the ball that night, Chuck had taken him around, introducing him to new business partners and investors. Nate had shook hands with all he had met, the awkward hand shake of a right handed person shaking with his left tripping up men who had always appeared so smooth. Some, with more guts and bravado than they should, asked him how he had been hurt (as if they hadn't know, as if they hadn't watched the 5 o'clock news, or the 10 o'clock news, or Good Morning America, where Tripp had appeared with misty faux sentimental eyes, and lofty words about his family's dedication to the country they loved.)
Chuck had managed to maneuver conversation away most of the time well dressed men will ill manners brought up Nate's injury. At one point though during the gala, Nate had been left alone with a Fortune 500 investor, who had looked Nate up and down the same way Blair must have looked at the freshman bait back when she had been a trivial queen instead of almost a real one.
"So Nathaniel," the man had said; his lips greedy over his full name. Only Chuck ever calls him by the name. It is known throughout the Upper East Side. Everyone has always obeyed. He may only be a soldier, but he is the son of a dynasty and the brother to the new king. The rules should be followed. The man starts with small talk, how Chuck's new company is going, the stunning beauty of the woman whose grace is unparalleled, before, as always, it turns to him. "I see you've been hurt. I hear the slopes this time of year can be deadly. Far too rocky, not enough snow yet. Very reckless if you ask me."
Nate hadn't asked. "Actually sir," Nate, always the gentleman, always proud and tall, "I got this overseas."
"Ah, yes. Then the alps? Or something a little more east? The weather over in those parts has been more appropriate for a long weekend, I agree."
Sometimes, Nate wonders if people can be this stupid. But he's grown up in this world after all, and he knows that answer better than anyone. He wonders if he was ever that stupid, if he was ever that dull.
"Father east, actually. In Afghanistan."
The man nodded, absently, distracted by a passing waitress dressed in a Greco-Roman toga. This particular event had been thrown for a museum opening of a new exhibit on late Bronze Age pottery found in Pylos. Johnson had loved this shit; he was always going on and on in the barracks about early century pottery and the Corinth pottery and how it was one of a kind; the script and the artwork and everything in between; Nate had always wondered why a kid that invested in history would come overseas to fight a war so non-historical, so unromantic in comparison to the wars of academia.
"I'm sorry Nathaniel; I seem to not have heard you correctly. I believe you said Afghanistan, but that must be incorrect, I dare say."
Nate had had no answer for that one. What would he say? That he hadn't been skiing, hadn't been blowing his trust fund like all the other children do? That he'd been in the dust and the sand [sticking to him even now, behind his eyelids, can't he see it? Can't he see it?], fighting for something he's not sure exactly what it was? That he lost a friend [oh, god, the blood. Sarge, he's gone Sarge, he's gone]? That he had become a man [almost, maybe, if only his mother would return his calls]? That Nate Archibald was lost in the desert and someone else came out, a little wise, a little stronger, but a trite bit more fragile and protected by the King and Queen of the island where they all resided?
But Nate had said none of that.
He didn't have to.
Chuck, like Chuck has always done, had come to his aid, wheeled him away, to where Erik was standing, a scotch in his hand [mini Chuck in everything including name].
"Told you he's a dud," Erik had commented, sipping the scotch like it's something he's always done; like he was born to it [hail the heir to the throne]
"That man is the head of a multi-billion dollar company. I almost invested. You were right. He couldn't even pass the sling test."
"Told you." Erik had smirked
"What?" Nate had asked, taking the tumbler from the younger boy's hand.
"The sling test," Erik had replied, bright eyes watching carefully as the solider takes a swig from the glass, "are you even supposed to be drinking?"
"Are you? And stop changing the subject. What's the sling test?"
Chuck had smirked, though he wouldn't meet Nathaniel's eyes. Erik smirked, nimble fingers deftly reclaiming the scotch, "the sling test, also known as who can make proper conversation and who is just looking for glory."
"Basically Nathaniel," Chuck had cut in, "we use the sling to see what people do; if all they can do is fixate on it, then we have no care to do business with them."
"Or for that matter help them with a nasty affair they may have fallen into." Erik had said, mischievous eyes grinning.
"You read the file then?" Chuck had asked
"Yes, and I had a plan all ready to go. But then no go on the sling test."
"How unfortunate."
And after all the times Nate has been used, by his family, by Blair, by the media and by the war, Nate couldn't get mad at them. They weren't using him, not by any stretch of his imagination. It was protection in the crooked way he had grown so used to; slightly distorted, off tilter [like those fever dreams that rampaged his nights for so long] but for his good.
Blair bought him other slings. A navy blue one, with heavy padding for traveling. "I've seen the way you sleep Nate," she smiled once; "it's for that arm's own protection."
And then there is the nylon blue one, like you'd see any commoner wearing. Blair had appeared one day with it, eyes that shone with understanding, even before he knew where he'd be wearing it to; before the idea even came to fruition in his mind.
And then the idea comes to him. And so he leaves the city that never sleeps and boards a plane to land so strange to him. He goes to Georgia, where words are spoken slowly; where fallen heroes' portraits are still framed in store front windows on Main Street; Main Streets that haven't been taken over yet by corporate America; where the sun sets on wrap around front porches; where Micah had been buried.
He boards the plane with no real plan in mind, other than he never got to say goodbye to a friend. Right before he leaves he realized that in his duffel he's still got one of Micah's old t-shirts that he had let the golden haired, New York boy wear once and he'd never returned ["you look good wearing the red and black pretty boy. We'll make a bulldog out of you yet"). He hastily packed it for the trip to Georgia. Thought about laying it at the grave; thought about returning it to the family; thought about washing it.
It's hot still, in the south. Mid October, and the heat still felt stifling in a way Manhattan had already given up on. He sweat lightly as he navigated a cemetery where they had laid Confederate boys down and now lay soldiers of the Union to rest as well.
Micah's grave is down near a river, etched stone that leaves Nate reeling. He had known, hadn't he? That Micah was really dead, was really gone, that the body he'd carried had no beating heart? ("Sarge, he's bleeding, Sarge!") But now it's real, now there's a dying bouquet of flowers resting against marble, now there's a birth stamp and death stamp proving to the world that boys are still dying far too young.
He was going to lose it, Nate realized, here in this quintessential grave yard, with mossy trees and a swaying breeze and a goddamn babbling brook. He was going to lose it. His hands are clenched and he just keeps rocking back and forth on his heels, staring down at the stone. What if he had been faster? What if he hadn't stayed up late the night before writing a letter? The medal they had pinned to his chest and that is now in his underwear drawer back home calls him a hero; but this gravestone reminded him that he was. that he is. a failure.
He was going to lose it, break down, here again, but there are footsteps behind him. He turned, battle training turned on so quickly it's like he was back over there. Appraising calculating eyes surveyed the environment, the threat. It's a young girl, no, woman, holding fresh flowers and a wary expression, a hint of fear bleeding from the corner of her eyes.
"Sorry, sorry," Nate mumbled out, backing away for her and from Micah. "I was going, sorry."
"It's.." she started, but Nate has no time to talk to a sweet little southern girl whose probably come to lay flowers at her grandfather's grave.
"I'll leave you, sorry…my friend…I…Sorry." Nate had never been so flummoxed. How dare she see him at this moment, how dare she interrupt him saying goodbye.
"Mr…" Nate is already walking away, head down, arm pressed close to his side, his heart beating erratically, his breath in gasps. "…Archibald?"
He frose. His back was still towards her ("Stupid private, you'll get yourself killed that way!")
"That's who you are, isn't it? Nate Archibald?" She continued, her voice willowy and strong, "You were over there, weren't you? With Micah? You were the one who…brought him back?"
Nate turned, out of an instinct so innate he could never try to control it. She was not even looking at him, though she continued to talk to him; she was picking up the dying bouquet of flowers and placing the fresh ones down, tracing the name on the stone quickly, like ripping a Band-Aid again and again until she withers and dies and can join him.
"I, uhh…" What does he say? What can he say?
"It's just; we watched it when you got the award, the medal. We were invited to the ceremony, but we couldn't go, Ally had to get her appendix out because she's a brat, but we watched it on TV. You looked like a real American Hero, Mr. Archibald, even Momma agreed."
She stood up and turned towards him, brown wavy hair that was breathing in the humidity of the day; Nate could not breathe at all.
"You looked real sad though, during it, Mr. Archibald, face hanging. Kind of like how you look now," Nate glanced at her, a small smile playing across her face.
"Nate," he gasped out, "call me Nate."
She smiled again, brighter, "Well then Nate, come with me, it looks like you could use a drink."
3.
Her name is Caroline. And she is the perfect embodiment of everything Nate has ever thought of when he's thought of the South. She twangs her words to a melody and has sweet tea in a pitcher with ice cubes that bob up at the top of the tawny drink. She wears a cotton sun dress that shows off shapely legs and wears a necklace with the letter "M" around a pale white neck.
She's Micah's oldest sister, six months out of high school and home for fall break when he arrived in her town. She was the one who'd sent care packages to the sand box filled with things that no one but Micah thought were good, candied peaches and orange soda. Two summers ago she was a baby; the sister Micah feared wouldn't go to senior prom because of some high school drama that Nate knows of all too well. She does go though, and Nate can still remember that relief that had washed over his friend when the news had come in.
"It's why were fighting you know. For shit like that. High school proms where girls drop hundreds of dollars for three hours and a thousand pictures for Facebook"
He would have said more, but Nate had asked what Facebook was. Micah, of course had been incredulous. Nate had shrugged; why would he want people to know what he's up too? Gossip girl did that for him and it's a pain in the ass. Micah couldn't believe that a thing like Gossip Girl existed. "Like Paparazzi? But for you guys? Dude. That's sick."
Nate had happened to agree. He had also agreed that girls should always be able to go to Senior Prom, and he had added it to the list of things he was fighting for.
It was right under golden, tanned skinned wonders who leave before they can be hurt; brunette ingénues whose only wish is a crown; mischievous, calculating eyes that appraise scotch and stocks with the same mindset; blonde waifs that just need someone to listen and to keep them from buying too much eyeliner; and authors who think they could change the world if they could hold a pen for just a little bit longer every day.
He had fought for the Met steps and yogurt and headbands (because B would kill him personally if those were ever taken away). He had fought for three little sisters in Georgia who lost a big brother in a fell swoop of devastation: Caroline, Mary and little Allison.
But Caroline isn't so young anymore; grown up by forces she could never control, now the eldest, shouldering her own little world. He'd offer to help her, he really would, but he's got a bum shoulder and grey scale view of the world.
She lead him back to her home, a house with a wraparound porch and hospitality leaking out from every crevice and window pane. He wanted to turn back as every step lead him closer and closer to the wooden porch but he doesn't. Perhaps it's the training, all those years of etiquette -bread plate on his left, water glass on his right; perhaps it's the solider, never standing down from a battle; perhaps it's because he's Nate, who could never resist a pretty girl with a sweet smile and sad distant eyes.
The drink she offered him is sweet tea. His face scrunched up at the first taste of it, and she laughed, her face breaking into a smile that just looks right upon her face (he hates that for so many nights she must have frowned, must have sobbed into lilac scented pillows and crushed her face down, away from the world).
"Don't like it?" she asked, pouring her own, the glasses already sweating in the southern heat.
"It's different. And honestly, when you said I needed a drink I thought…,"
"That it would be gin and tonics?" Again a laugh (if only he had run faster) "true, you could probably use one of those drinks as well, but sweet tea will do in a pinch." She leaned forward, a playful smile on her face, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Besides, momma still thinks that at school all I do is study. Thinks these are lips that have never tasted alcohol, that I don't even know what it is. You wouldn't want to ruin my image would you Mr. Archibald?"
"Nate. And I guess not." He replied, her southern twang making him smile despite the situation, despite the circumstances that have brought the Yankee son and the daughter of the South together.
"Good, then, it's settled," she said, taking a long sip from her own glass. Water sweat down the side of his, making his palms wet with condensations.
"You know," she started, breaking a silence that teetered between comfortable and uncomfortable. "The summer I was six, Micah decided that he wanted to make some money, so we could all get into the fair that comes at the end of July. Course, we could have just asked Momma for the money and she would have given it to us, but Micah didn't want to do it that way, so we had to earn it ourselves." She laughs at that, shaking her head, "He was always so stubborn, even at eight."
Nate remembered Micah stubborn too, never backing down when he thought he was right, even to the Sarge one hot night back when.
"So we decided in the way that only two brilliant elementary school children could decide that we were going to sell lemonade. We figured; hot Georgia, cold drink, instant success. Except neither Micah or I knew how to make lemonade. We just squeezed a couple of lemons into some water and poured sugar on top of it."
She pointed to the end of the driveway, "we set up shop there, the worst lemonade ever made, going for $1 a glass. 'Course we only had one glass too, but we figured people wouldn't mind. Sharing is caring and all. I don't think a single person came by. Not one. Until my father came home. He must have had an iron stomach, because he drank enough to ensure that we had $20, an ample amount to get into the fair."
Nate thinks of the Captain, and how when he had been young, he was always escorted out of the room when company came over, or told to smile at the guests but not to talk. And how when he got older he was told to always say Dartmouth.
"Micah saw through Dad right away though. I'll never forget it. He turned to me, the most serious expression on his face, and says, 'Caroline, tomorrow, we'll sell popsicles instead. Nobody ever messes up popsicles." She laughed, but it turns into a quiet sob. His head turned to catch her gazing out at the front lawn, her eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
A moment passed, as the sun begun it's slow descent in the west, a bleak hue of blood red seeping across the dimming day. She turned to him, eyes still wet, but bright, shining.
"Did you know that he joined the military because he wanted all us girls to go to college? He knew that would be a stretch for Momma and Dad. Four kids to send through university would have been impossible. So he went and enlisted, so they'd be able to send us. Our parents tried to talk him out of it, but he had made up his mind. He just wanted to see us graduate."
She was silent. "He was always so god damn stubborn." She said.
Nate joined the army to escape. To get the hell out of dodge, away from patriarchs and stone set paths. He joined to get away. To become his own person. Micah joined to protect his baby sisters.
Their home is everything Nate has ever pictured when he pictured the south. Wrap around porch and a weeping willow in the front yard, wooden swing swaying in the wind: all of it so picturesque, so idealistic, it made his very bones ache.
Micah should have been able to come home to this, to quintessential southern charm and sweet tea and baby sisters. So much more to this Georgia town than there is on the Upper East Side. So many more people left hurting with Micah's departure than Nate could ever bring.
Two steps forward. One step back.
He leaves Caroline and her southern twang and her hospitality and her charm.
Headed to a hotel in the heart of the city, a good thirty miles from that wrap around porch and that wrap around guilt.
Bought bourbon, only to pour it down the sink.
Ordered room service only to throw it up in the bathroom.
He falls apart so well.