Sometimes, Hoot was there, painting the barn or chopping winter wood or tending the fields – always in either faded-to-hell overalls that barely fit his bulky frame or in shorts so frayed they were indecent, bare chest bronzing in the heat of the sun. When Hoot was there, he'd welcome Matt with a nod, offer him a beer and comfort and his bed, offer his body and his silence. He'd put Matt to work during the day, driving a tractor or baling hay or herding cattle until Matt was tired enough to pass out, and, if he wasn't, then Hoot would fuck him or allow himself to be fucked until they were both exhausted enough to sleep without dreams. Sometimes Hoot was gone, and Matt would take care of the house, take care of the cattle with the other farmers that lived up the road. When Hoot was gone – on missions that Matt never asked about and Hoot never brought up – Matt would sit in Hoot's easy chair, drink a Miller Lite in Hoot's stead (even though Matt preferred Heineken), and sleep on Hoot's side of the bed. When the nightmares inevitably came, Matt would jerk himself off with the same gel he and Hoot used for sex, stroke himself to the point of coming, then slow down, then start again, until he couldn't stand the pressure. The orgasm was always enough to send him back to sleep, but it didn't compare to Hoot's body giving him peace. *** When it came time for Matt to re-enlist, he gave his recruiting officer a long, level look before gazing down at his hand and Jamie's class ring, resting comfortably on his index finger. He politely replied that he would re-up for the rest of his life if they could promise not to send him back into combat. Five months later, he packed his duffel bag and drove away from Fort Benning for the last time. He didn't look back. *** Hoot was up on the roof, battered John Deere cap pulled low to shade his eyes, chest and back bare, slick with sweat, jeans and work boots spattered with dust and tar. When Matt pulled into the graveled driveway, Hoot straightened, pushing his hat back from his angular face. Matt was too far away to see the expression in Hoot's eyes when Matt pulled out the duffel bag and set it on the ground. He waited, hands in his pockets, leaning against the sun-warmed hood of his car, until Hoot climbed down and walked over. Hoot didn't even give the bag a look. "Think you could use a hand up there?" Matt asked, now close enough he could count the flecks of gold in Hoot's eyes. "Yeah, reckon I could." Hoot took a swig of water and spit it on the parched earth. "Got someone in mind for cheap labor?" "I might." "Then stow your gear and come on." It was hard, dirty labor, but Matt relished every back-breaking moment. No other therapy could come close to honest work, honest sweat. He and Hoot worked silently beside each other, pausing only to take water breaks. The sun beat unmercifully overhead and Matt had long since lost his shirt, sweat rolling between his shoulderblades as he slid the tiles through slick tar into their proper slots. Matt lost himself in the simple act, felt the same satisfaction he used to when he and his chalk executed a perfect drill. It had been a long time since Matt had allowed himself to feel satisfaction with anything. *** "That's it for today." Hoot and Matt looked down at the shingles, gauging their work. "Got some steaks thawing if you're up for making the salad," Hoot continued. He settled his hat more firmly on top of his head and wiped the worst of the sweat from his eyes, tossing Matt the towel. "Think I could be up for it, yeah. Shower first?" It wasn't until they were both under the unrelenting, hot spray that Matt allowed himself to touch Hoot, to cling to strong shoulders and surrender. Water washed away all sins and maybe, if he stayed here long enough, he'd be cleansed. "Stop thinking." Hoot murmuring low in his ear, pressed close and tight and slick against him. "Can't." "Sure you can." The scars on Hoot's stomach were vivid-white slashes, contrasting grotesquely against tan skin. Matt traced the ridges, relearning each one, even though he knew Hoot by heart. "Where'd you get these?" It was the first time he'd ever asked. Hoot's eyes were kind as he cupped Matt's chin. "Sure you want to know?" Matt shook his head. He didn't want to know, but thought that Hoot probably already knew that. "Tell me." "After dinner." And Matt might've thought about arguing, but Hoot pressed him against the tiles and distracted him with a hard, unrelenting kiss. *** One of the things Matt loved most about Hoot's place was the veranda that ran all the way around the house. Perfect place to sit and think and listen to the crickets or the corn growing or whatever else and just be. This far off the main road there weren't any sounds of civilization of traffic or horns or people. Just nature and its infinite capacity for renewal. If only everything was so simple. The steaks had been grilled to perfection and Matt had made a pretty decent salad and, during the meal, they talked of the harvest and how the local minor league ball team was doing and whether Hoot should plant the back field or leave it fallow and buy a few more head of cattle. The evening was nice, atmosphere almost picnic-like. Matt didn't know anyone that went on picnics anymore, and the thought made him sad. He glanced down at the ring on his finger, wondering if Jamie had ever gone on one. "Gonna kill you, y'know." When Matt looked up, Hoot was just looking at him. "Yeah, I know," Matt answered. He didn't know what else to say. "And I don't think you're finding what you need here." The thought that Hoot might be denying him had Matt's belly clenching. "That's not true." He meant it with every fiber of his being. "So why you can't forgive yourself?" "Because I think I could be happy here," Matt whispered and his heart spasmed in fear. "Oh, man...Jesus." Hoot clutched Matt's hand across the table, thumb rubbing over Jamie's ring, tracing the grooves. He was silent for a long time and Matt found himself absurdly grateful for the gift of touch. Hoot was still real; they were real. "I got the scars in Panama," Hoot finally said. "Norm, man, you don't have to –" Hoot continued as if Matt had never spoken. "I was covering point during the insertion and we had to secure this building. I was first in. They didn't even move until we were almost on top of 'em and it was impossible to get a shot off for fear you'd hit one of your own." Matt nodded. Yeah, he knew all about that. The dirty and hard tactics of close combat. "He was quick and desperate and I thank God every day for my K-bar. I got lucky. Two members of my team didn't." "Jesus." Matt squeezed Hoot's hand in sympathy. "Ain't saying this to change things," Hoot continued. "You gotta work through your shit just like I did. But I think a lot about those boys, and I still see 'em. I lived; they died. And I had to come to peace with that." "The first ones are the hardest," Matt murmured. Hoot nodded. "The first ones are the hardest." "Yet you re-upped. Why?" Hoot shrugged, the motion tugging his t-shirt across broad shoulders. In the twilight gloom, his eyes looked almost black. "My way of honoring them, I guess. Saving more men." "I couldn't." "You don't have to." Hoot's voice was kind. "No one's making you go back out there. You did your part." Matt nodded and cleared his throat. "Being a soldier's all I know how to do." "Then we'll work on that." "This isn't just because of what you told me that first time, is it? Why you're doing this, I mean." Hoot didn't back down, didn't look away. "We both know why we're here." Forgiveness. Refuge. A new start, a place to heal. And maybe they did heal each other, Matt didn't know. All he knew was this was the only place he felt safe. "Might be here awhile." "I need the help. Long as you're here when I go away and when I come back." "I'll be here," Matt promised. He'd be here for the both of them. They smiled across the table, understanding reached. The breeze carried with it the scent of azaleas from the side garden and maybe, just maybe, Matt thought things might be alright.
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