Army Boy: Chapter 3 (DRAFT)

(BEFORE YOU READ: The third chapter of my book, taking place in late 1940's Georgia. Arthur Collins, after suffering a life-altering injury just before the end of the war, is brought back home and is now a shell of what he once was; disabled and viciously depressed. His mother is overwhelmingly desperate for her boy to be happy again, and his father can't even face him. However, everything changes once a new family moves into the empty house across the street; a mother and father, with a beautiful daughter he couldn't stray his eyes from. Arthur's quiet solitude outside is now replaced with a picture perfect family across the street, haunting his every escape out of the home. And if his mother had anything to do with it...They wouldn't be strangers for very long.)

Chapter 3: Dinner

It was like nothing had ever happened. The muffled voices of the couples joyfully conversing slowly grew clearer as Arthur made his way over to the back door. He huffed, gripping the door knob and ripping it open. He was hit back with the nearly-foreign scent of a large meal as he stepped inside, along with the unfamiliar sound of a full house as he limped his way back to the dining room. Once close enough, he immediately gazed at Charlotte who now avoided his gaze instead of being drawn to it.

“Now weren’t my flowers so pretty?” Adaline asked out as she smiled hopefully, pouring her good wine into glasses as she looked in between the two.

“They were real pretty, Mrs. Collins.” Charlotte spoke out before Arthur could part his lips.

Slowly, he lowered himself down at the dinner table, his dark eyes burning into her own. His seat was right across from her own, a very likely coincidence if his mother had anything to do with it.

“If only the lord could have blessed me with a girl to appreciate such things.” Adaline teased, nudging at Arthur to get the others to laugh.

“Now, just having ladies all the time’ll drive an old man nuts.” Thomas spoke up, Margaret laughing as she sipped at her glass.

“How do you have the time to tend to a beautiful home and two boys, Adaline?” Margaret asked.

“Oh now! My boys ain’t too much trouble.” Adaline joyfully replied. “My sweet Arthur don’t bother me a dime.” Her voice practically glowed with a forced, fragile pride. “Always been such a quiet, respectful boy. My husband says he got that from his grandfather.”

“Mm.” Eugene only hummed, drinking down his wine a bit faster than his wife would have preferred

“Now, Arthur, how long have you been home?” Thomas asked, a big prideful smile on his face.

Adaline tensed a little, eyes gazing over at her son, yelling a desperate, silent plea to just behave. A small moment would pass.

“Bout a year.” Arthur finally replied.

“Oh, Adaline, you must be so happy having your boy back all safe and sound,” Margaret delightfully cooed, clasping her hands. “With the world the way it’s been, it’s a miracle of the lord to have him sitting right here at this table.”

Arthur’s fork scraped harshly against the china—a sound like a scream in the quiet room.

“Oh, goodness. I couldn’t think that more.” Adaline pridefully sipped at her glass, shaking her head.

“Safe and sound!” Thomas echoed, nodding vigorously. “And a hero to boot. Why, Arthur, you must have been there for the liberation. Did you get to see Paris? I always heard the French girls would throw flowers at the tanks.”

Arthur’s fork paused halfway to his mouth, a dull throb in his shin that seemed to mock the word liberation. He could feel the weight of the room shifting, his mother’s breath catching as she waited for him to play the part.

He didn't look at Thomas. He looked at the tablecloth, tracing the fine lace with his eyes.

"I didn't see Paris, sir," Arthur said. His voice was quiet, stripped of the bitter fury from the garden, leaving only a hollowed-out truth. "I was already in a ward in England by the time the girls started throwing flowers."

Thomas’s smile faltered, his eyebrows knit in confusion. "Oh. I thought... well, a four-year man, I figured you were there for the big push."

Arthur didn't look at his father’s wine glass or his mother’s trembling smile. He looked directly at Charlotte. "The war ended for everyone else in May. Mine ended on a Tuesday in March."

The table went quiet. It wasn't the dramatic silence of a movie; it was the heavy, uncomfortable silence of polite people who had accidentally stepped on a grave.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. That was the part that bit the most. He’d done the time, survived the mud, and marched across half a continent just to be sent home in a crate while his unit was still moving forward. He didn't get the parade. He got a morphine drip and a surgeon telling him he’d be better off with one leg.

"Well," Thomas cleared his throat, his energy finally deflating. "The important thing is you're here now. Sitting at this table. That’s the best kind of victory, I’d say."

"Yes!" Adaline jumped in, her voice sounding like it was about to break. "The very best kind. Charlotte, dear, would you like some more gravy? It's Arthur's favorite."

Charlotte, struck by Arthur’s fiery gaze, quickly blinked and turned away, leaning over to grab the gravy boat. “I-I’d love some, actually.” She nervously poured the rich liquid over her steaming meal. “Thank you.”

“Such a lovely young lady you are, my dear. How’s town treating you?” Adaline was hoping to bring back up the mood, anxiousness lacing her tone.

“Oh, it’s lovely here, Mrs. Collins.” Charlotte said. “I know it’s only been about a month, but I’d be lying if I said it wasn't a little lonely.” She slowly lowered the gravy boat with a small clank.

“I told her, I said why don’t you join the neighborhood ladies club? Wouldn’t go. Just a lot of older ladies our age.” Margaret let out a soft chuckle.

“Oh, nonsense! That’s why you’ve got my Arthur here.” Adaline chirped, giving a little pat to Arthur's shoulder that instead felt like a punch to the gut.

“Ma,” Arthur snapped his head up, his tone filled with warning that his mother ignored with ease.

“He knows this town like the back of his hand. He used to be everywhere—dances, the soda shop, every football game from here to Atlanta.”

Every single one of those things sounded nearly foreign to him at his point. He hadn’t gone out in ages. Barely had the energy to take a bath anymore, let alone go out and put himself on display in public.

“It’d sure be something to have our girl finally hanging around someone her age.” Thomas added, nudging at a now-uncomfortable Charlotte. “Can’t be good hanging around old kooks like us all the time, am I right?”

Arthur’s eyes widened, his jaw clenching. His mother was trying to drive him insane. That’s what it was. She was trying to meddle with a life that had already long ended. At least to him. He didn’t need this, he didn’t need anything or anyone. His mother just refused to listen.

“Oh! You know, there’s that drive-in theatre all the kids go to. I remember, Arthur used to go with his boys all the time! Didn’t you, Arthur?” Adaline turned to look at her son, her hand nudged at his tense form. He stared her down, jaw clenched.

“A drive-in?” Margaret gasped. “Oh, Charlotte loves the movies! That’d be just perfect.”

“Just twenty minutes downtown. I think my Arthur could manage that.”

Behave, Arthur told himself.

“Oh, Mama, it’s really alright. I don’t mind just staying home–” Charlotte warily spoke out, attempting to intervene.

“How ‘bout tomorrow night? Could take the ol’ wife out to a nice dinner. Try some place in town.” Thomas was very quickly in on the idea. “Been so busy putting the house together, we haven’t gotten to explore town much at all.”

“Wonderful! It’s settled, then!” Adaline beamed brighter than the sun, clasping her hands together.

Charlotte grew pale, and Arthur burned red. She dared to take one glance at him, but the moment his eyes full of fury met with hers, she quickly turned away.

The table was full of cheerful, excited voices for the rest of that evening, though there remained a tense air between the two. Charlotte hardly looked up from her plate, and Arthur remained deathly quiet, barely touching his food as he gripped at the fork in his hand in an attempt to ground his emotions just enough until the Ellsworths were ready to leave. The voices slowly fell to nothing but a muffle until the screech of the chairs pushing outward from the table brought him back to life. As everyone began to slowly shuffle out from the table, Arthur remained. He did not wish to get up again, to see those pitiful looks on the faces of their guests as they gazed upon the walking corpse that he was.

“Well, this has just been great!” Thomas cheerfully stood to his feet, wasting no time in shaking both Adaline and Eugene’s hands. “Next time, you come on over to us. You haven’t had nothing like Margaret’s chocolate cake.”

“Momma’s famous recipe.” Margaret smiled as she walked over, nudging her husband’s side.

“How about next weekend?” Adaline had sparkles in her eyes. She had gotten what she wanted. “Is next Friday alright, Eugene?”

“Fine by me.” Eugene gave a small nod.

“And what’s a good time for Charlotte to come on over here tomorrow? Six?” Thomas reached out for his coat and threw it over her shoulder.

Their parents were too far gone in their thoughts for her to intervene. It was settled and clear that the decision has long been made for them. She stood quietly, putting on a polite smile. Her parents were so happy to have friends after the long move, and she’d be damned if she ruined that for them. Though she couldn't help but let her eyes stray back to Arthur who remained sitting at that table, his head turned away from them; a ticking time bomb ready to implode any moment.

“Six is fine. Arthur’ll be ready for her.” Adaline assured, satisfied.

When the Ellsworth’s said their polite goodbyes, the heavy oak door finally clicked shut, sealing the humid Georgia night outside. For a heartbeat, the house was silent—a ringing, unnatural quiet that made Arthur’s chest feel like it was about to burst.

Adaline leaned her back against the door, letting out a long, theatrical sigh of triumph. She looked like she’d just won a war of her own. "Weren’t they just the loveliest people? And that girl... she’s a jewel, Arthur. A real jewel."

Eugene didn't answer. He gave out another small hum, picking up a stray wine glass from the hall table. Arthur didn't move from his chair. He gripped the edge of the mahogany table until the wood groaned.

“Are you happy now, Ma?” Arthur seethed, gripping his cane as he shakily raised to his feet. “Got what you wanted?”

Adaline stopped halfway to the kitchen, her back still to him. Her shoulders slumped for a fraction of a second before she turned around, her face resetting into that mask of artificial brightness.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Arthur James," she said, her voice trembling as she began to stack the unused bread plates. "I simply made plans for my son to have a nice evening out. Is it a crime for a mother to want her son to see the sun once in a while?"

“You know damn well what im talking about.” Arthur’s voice cracked, the Click of his cane sounding like a gunshot in the quiet house. “Parading me like some zoo animal. You think if you just push me into a car with a pretty girl, I’m gonna wake up tomorrow and run a dash?"

"Arthur, stop it," Adaline whispered, her eyes darting toward Eugene.

"Stop it? Stop it how, Ma?" Arthur’s voice was a low, jagged rasp, vibrating with a heat that felt like it was charring his throat. He threw his weight forward, the mahogany table groaning under his palms.

"I'm a ruin," he hissed, his eyes bloodshot and wide with a frantic, ugly light. "I’m a mangled piece of scrap, and you want to dress me up like a doll? You want to parade me through town so everyone can watch me drag this dead weight into a theater? So they can pity us? Does that make you feel like a good mother? To have them look at me and see a charity case?"

He let out a sharp, breathless laugh that sounded more like a choke.

"You saw their faces! You saw how they looked at me the second I came down the stairs! Why can’t you just say it?" He slammed a hand against the table, the silver rattling like bone. "Say the word, Ma! Say I’m a cripple! Say your son is a goddamn wreck!"

"Arthur James, that is enough!" Adaline’s face turned a blotchy, desperate red. She poked a trembling finger into his chest, right over his pounding heart. "Don't you dare use that word in this house! I have spent a year on my knees on these kitchen tiles until they went numb, begging the Lord for a sign! I asked him for a spark—one damn flicker—to show me my boy was still in there! And then the Ellsworths move in—a godsend, Arthur. Someone to remind you that you’re still breathing."

"You think God's really listening to you, Ma? He wasn't listenin' when I was screamin' in the mud, and he sure as hell wasn't watchin' when he let my friends get torn to pieces right in front of my eyes," Arthur snarled, his voice shakin' with a raw, ugly heat. "He’s the one who destroyed my leg and left me a goddamn cripple, so don't you dare stand there and tell me he sent some girl to fix what he chose to break for sport."

The kitchen went dead quiet, the only sound was the frantic ticking of the stove clock. Adaline looked like she’d been struck, her face pale and her hand trembling against her apron. Arthur’s chest heaved, the steel in his leg thrumming with a dull, sickening ache that reminded him exactly who won that war.

"You are going," Adaline said, her voice dropping to a low, dead tone that stopped the air in his lungs. "You'll put on nice clothes, and you'll drive that car, and you'll be a gentleman if it kills you. I have carried the weight of your silence until I am bent double. You owe me this, Arthur. You owe me one night of pretending my life isn't a funeral."

Arthur grit his teeth. “Ma–”

"Boy," Eugene’s voice unexpectedly cut through the air, heavy as a lead pipe. He finally stood, his eyes hard and hollow as flint. "Your mother’s asked for one night, and you’re gonna give it to her if it kills you.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Arthur didn't say another word—he couldn't. The weight of his father’s disgust was heavier than the iron in his leg.

"Fine," He finally rasped. "I'll go. I'll be your little miracle."

And that was all there was to it. He turned toward the stairs, the Click-Drag of his retreat sounding violent in the quiet house. This time, he had lost the battle.