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Chapter two

Levi

Somebody is playing “Mack the Knife.”

I look back at my phone. It’s still too early for lunch with Kevin, so I’ve got a couple of minutes to check it out.

These are my last few days in DC. I can already taste the rain in the air, and I’m kind of out of sorts. My lease came up before the new one starts down south, so everything I own is in storage or locked in the cab of my F-150. It’s just me, the truck, a motorcycle, and a duffel bag. And, for the first time in a really long time, time to kill.

Last week I was Sergeant Knight, 92Y Unit Supply Specialist, assigned to the J4 logistics directorate at the Pentagon. Had a place, had a purpose. Waiting to ETS. Could account for every piece of gear down to the last fucking button. Most E-5s could only dream of finishing out their service at the Pentagon, and when I called home to tell my folks, so proud I could barely get the words out, Daddy said, “Huh,” and Momma asked if that meant I’d be home for Thanksgiving.

Now, I’m just… Levi, and I’m not sure who that is. No rank, no unit, no boyfriend.

It’s been a funny kind of day. There was a moment about fifteen minutes ago, while I was checking my phone, when I could have sworn somebody was watching me. Not a creepy feeling, more like a pull, a prickle between my shoulder blades. Part of the reason I want to backtrack, just in case. Maybe whoever was staring at me is still there. Might be someone I know from the Army. Weirder things have happened.

The song has ended by the time I trace the music back. There’s a crowd gathered now that wasn’t there when I walked by. From here I can see the coffee shop on the corner, and across the street, one of those trendy clothing stores with ripped jeans in the window. The song is now “In the Mood.” There’s a pianist now, and he and the trumpeter are going to town on that piece.

I scan the crowd, but they’re all looking at the musicians. Two couples have started swing dancing on the sidewalk. I look up and down the street, but have the disappointing feeling that I’ve missed something.

“What’s our next song?” the man at the piano cries out, looking over his shoulder at the crowd. I stare at him. He’s wearing a bright pink shirt and torn, tight jeans. His forearms are corded. He has olive skin, dark hair, and dark-framed glasses. He’s turned away from me now, so I get a chance to do a little ogling without guilt.

“Maple Leaf Rag!” someone calls out.

“Bring it, Canada!” the man shouts, and enthusiastically launches into the song. But he doesn’t play it like I’ve heard it. He plays it like it’s some kind of twenties speakeasy hit: syncopated and bouncy. The dancers whoop and twirl on the concrete. The pianist laughs. I’m drawn to him, but he doesn’t look up, so I just content myself with watching him. He looks so joyful, and I’m kind of turned on by his competence. For the first time, I regret having lunch with my best friend, even if he’s about to go back to Japan and I won’t see him for a long time.

“Last song, for me,” the pianist says. “For my friend Robby. Wherever you are, I hope you remember that every story needs its punch line. ‘On the Sunny Side of the Street,’ just for you.”

The trumpeter takes the first notes. I look at my phone. Fuck. I’ve got to get to the restaurant, and if I don’t head out now, I’m going to be late. I look regretfully at the musician, but he hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction.

I sigh and turn away. My bike is parked at a meter a few blocks over and I need to get it into a parking garage before the rain hits.

The first rumblings of thunder ripple just as I’m pulling out the stub for the parking garage. I think back to the musicians. The piano guy said that was his last song at least twenty minutes ago, so wherever he’s gone to now, it’s probably not far. That block was small enough to see end to end.

I take the stairwell and am just about to exit onto the street when my phone rings. I look at the time. I’m seventeen minutes early, and for Kevin to call means one of two things: he’s either going to be really late, or he’s not coming at all. I hit the answer button.

“I’m sorry,” Kevin says without preamble. “There’s been a family thing. I can’t make it.”

I try to hide my disappointment.

“No, it’s okay,” I lie. “We can grab lunch another time. Not a big deal. It’s your family. Go. Remember me to your mom’n’em.”

“My what?”

“Your mom and them. I keep forgetting you’re practically a Yankee.”

“Oh. Yeah. Love you, buddy,” Kevin says.

“Love you, too.” The line disconnects. I pocket my phone and exit the garage onto the street. And just like that, my afternoon is wide open and empty. I start walking, no destination, just moving because standing still feels worse. My feet carry me back the way I came, past the spot where the musicians were. But the piano is silent now and the crowd has dispersed. Everyone around me is moving with purpose: briefcases, umbrellas, someone talking into a phone about dinner reservations. Everyone has somewhere to be, someone waiting on them. Except me.

Kevin’s lucky, having family that actually wants him around. Hell, if my folks acted like they gave half a damn when I showed up, I’d probably already be on the road back to Peterboro and not using every excuse to dawdle around in DC. Last Christmas, Daddy barely looked up from the TV long enough to ask if I’d “seen any action over there” like I’d been on a hunting trip. When I said yes, he nodded, and that was it.

The sky goes dark quick as someone flipping a switch. I look up, almost grateful for the distraction. Then the heavens let loose. Rain comes down like God Almighty’s got a grudge.

An explosion cracks off the government buildings. Everything in me goes solid. For a split second, I’m not in DC anymore. It’s like somewhere else has gotten layered over top of it. The world narrows, tunnels. My chest tightens as if someone’s standing on it. Rain follows the thunder, hard and insistent, drenching me in seconds. Training kicks in: identify cover, establish position, execute movement. There’s a door to my left, the coffee shop from before, the one I passed on my way in. I yank it open so hard I’m surprised the hinges hold, and stumble across the threshold. From just inside the door, I watch civilians scatter for cover, shielding themselves with copies of the Post and whatever makeshift umbrellas they can find. My heart hammers against my ribs as I try to steady my breathing.

In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.

The thunder isn’t artillery. The rain isn’t danger. I’m in Washington. I’m fine.