She looks up at me, through her spectacles, with curious eyes as I came to a stop and lean against a post in front of her.

“Took you long enough to get around to seeing me,” she said.

I smile. She isn’t angry, just concerned, the way she always has been.

“I just got back this morning,” I say pulling a can of Copenhagen from a back pocket of my jeans.

She looks me up and down, her eyes stopping briefly on the snuff can, then goes back to breaking beans. “I see the marines got you fit and trim, but they couldn’t break you of puttin’ that junk in your mouth,” she says.

I continue to smile as I place a pinch of tobacco between my cheek and gum. It was good to be pestered by momma again. It had been two long years since I’d heard her pesterin’.

“Heck, everybody in the military dips a little, momma,” I say, closing the lid and returning it to my back pocket.

“Even the girls?” she says without looking up from her beans.

“They’re women, momma,” I say, “and no, most of them don’t dip.”

She snorts, showing her displeasure with my eternal bad habit, but keeps on breaking those beans.

“How long you going to be around?” she asks.

I lean a little further into the post, giving it my back, and turn my head to look at the green hills of southern Ohio that surround her home. I picked a good time of year to come back, with the leaves full of color and the gravel roads still dry enough to spread their golden, dusty rain when a truck passes by.

“I’m not sure, yet,” I say, “I’ve just got back. You mind if I stay at home for a while?”

“No, sir,” she says, finishing with her beans, “I could do with the help. Hard to get this yard mowed with my bad back.”

I turn my head to look back at her.

“Momma, you shouldn’t be mowin’ this yard,” I say.

“Who else is going to mow it with your daddy done passed on and you off in the military?” she says, the question rhetorical.

“What about the Kings’ boy in Nipgen,” I say, “he used to mow lawns for people.”

Momma stands and motions toward the kettle of water and beans. “Carry those inside for me,” she says opening the creaking screen door.

I do as she told me and follow her into the house and into the kitchen.

The place isn’t a mess, but it’s not the home I grew up in. There’s dust here and there, and I can tell the rugs on the wooden floors haven’t been swept in at least a week.

“Put ‘em down over there,” she says pointing to the folding kitchen table I’d eaten a thousand meals at.

“That Kings boy charges too much,” momma says squatting to sit on an aluminum chair next to the table, “and besides, I hear he’s gotten into the drugs, like all young fellahs seem to do nowadays.”

I place the kettle on the table.

“You want a pop or something?” I ask.

She waves toward the rusty, dented refrigerator. “Get me glass of water,” she says.

I nod, take down a glass from the cupboard and retrieve the water pitcher from the refrigerator. It’s the same cold, crystal glass pitcher we’d been using all my life. I can remember pulling long drinks from that pitcher after mowing the yard or pulling beans from the field.

“Not all of ‘em are on the drugs, momma,” I say.

“Might as well be,” she says taking the glass I offer, “ain’t no jobs around here no more. All the steels gone out of Portsmouth, and they can say what they want, but the government plant in Piketon’s dead too.”

She takes a drink, a droplet of water at the edge of her lips building into a small stream running down the side of her face.

“What kind of work you lookin’ for?” she asks.

“I’m not sure yet,” I say, “I’ll have to see what’s available.”

“Didn’t they train you for anything while you were away in the marines?” she asks.

This was a question I knew the answer to. Yes, the United States Marine Corps had trained me for quite a lot.

Sniper school had trained me for even more. But blowing out a person’s brains from a thousand yards wasn’t the most marketable of skills in civilian life.

“I’ll find something,” I say.

Momma nods. “Suppose that’s so,” she says.

I look out the back windows of the kitchen and stare at the remains of the tree house my father built for me the summer before the cancer took him.

“How long before you think you’ll find something?” she asks.

I turn my eyes back to her. “I’m not sure,” I say, “I’d like to get around and see everyone first. Maybe somebody will know of a job.”

“That include Holly Dean?” momma asks.

I nod. “Yes, m’am,” I say. Holly Dean was a sore spot with momma. She never had liked the girl.

“I suppose you’ll be headin’ up to Chillicothe to that bar again?” momma asks, knowing the answer.

I nod again. “Likely,” I say, “a lot of the old crowd probably still hangs out there.”

“Jay’ll be glad to see you,” she says taking another drink of water.

“I suppose he will,” I say before I spit tobacco juice into her rusting kitchen sink.

***

No matter how long you’re away from home, some things never change. Taylor’s Stag Bar is one of those things.

As I park in Taylor’s gravel lot beneath the bridge leading to West Chillicothe, I glance at the vehicles parked around me. None are immediately familiar, but I know the types. There are the beat-up trucks and the mid-80s Camaros. There is even an early 90s Cadillac that probably belongs to one of the city politicians or maybe an attorney.

“By Jesus, it’s Troy Moore!” the familiar voice of bartender Bob Kimsey yells as I enter.

Kimsey is behind the bar the same way he’d been when I’d last been to Chillicothe two years before.

A small crowd of folks instantly surrounds me and asks “How you been doing, Troy?” and “They really send you off to Iraq?” and a couple of hundred other questions.

I shake hands and slap backs and slowly work my way further into the bar, past the small dance floor.

A pair of dark brown eyes beneath long, auburn hair brings me to a stop between the juke box playing John Cougar and the end of the bar near the restrooms.

“You lookin’ for me?” Holly Dean asks in her tight jeans and violet blouse covered with daisies.

Several members of the crowd around me chuckle and slap my back some more, but they know it is time to move on now that Holly had made an appearance.

I plant a boot on the bar’s rail and wave at Bob, who begins pouring me a Natty Light from the tap.

My eyes turn back to Holly.

“Why else would I be here,” I say as Bob drops off my beer. “You think I come here for the crappy beer?”

Bob shoots me a half-angry look. He knows I’m joshing.

Holly steps right in front of me, her chest touching mine so I can feel her heart beating. One of her hands with its long, ruby fingernails slides along my arm and slowly lifts my mug of beer.

“I’ve been lookin’ for you,” she says and tosses back half my beer in one swallow.

Her over-painted lips shine from the cheap ale as she sets the mug back on the bar.

For some reason, I think of the last time I’d had a beer. It had been in Baghdad with Sergeant Jimmy Rose. He was dead now. A sniper had taken him out the day before we were to be shipped back to the States.

Holly leans into me and her lips caress mine. I linger, then smother her top lip with both of mine.

She leans back.

“That the best you can do after two years?” she asks.

“Sorry,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “Tired. Just got off the plane this morning.”

She snickers. “You must be tired if you can’t give me a kiss better than that,” she says.

It becomes obvious to me that my conversation with her feels unreal, unnatural.

“How about another beer?” Holly asks.

I look at my mug and see she’s finished it off.

“Sure,” I say, giving her a smile that feels fake.

“That’s my Troy,” she says and laughs as she saunters further up the bar toward Bob.

“Hey, man,” I hear behind me.

I turn to find Jay.

In high school I played football. Jay played Dungeons and Dragons. On Friday nights I was scoring touchdowns. Jay was scoring on the Playstation. However it happened, he became my best friend.

I give a smile, a real one, and grab Jay’s hand and shake it.

“Man, it’s good to see you,” I say.

Jay pulls a thin cigar from the chest pocket of his gaudy Hawaiian shirt and offers it to me.

“Ram Rod?” I ask.

He nods and I smile again, taking the cigar.

He holds out a match and I light up.

“I heard you were back in town,” he says.

“Yeah, went and saw momma already,” I say and puff in the burnt, maple flavor of the cheroot cigar.

“You out of the army now?” he asks.

“Marines,” I say, “and yeah, I’m out. Just got off the plane this morning.”

Jay nods and smiles. He’s as glad to see me as I am him.

“What you been up to?” I ask. “Still at the VA?”

Again he nods. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, “I’m still workin’ night shift. They been talkin’ about making me a case manager, but I don’t want no part of it. Too many rules.”

His smile continues and I grin back at him.

“That’s life, man,” I say, “all about rules.”

“What about you?” he asks. “You got any work lined up?”

“Nothin’ for sure,” I say puffing the cigar again. “Thinkin’ about heading up to Columbus to take a look.”

There’s a crash of glass behind me, toward the front of Taylor’s, and I hear Holly scream.

I spin, removing the cigar and holding it out to Jay. He takes it without asking.

“You son of a bitch, Darrel!” Holly yells.

The front of her blouse is soaked and a puddle of beer is at her feet. Darrel Barnhart is smiling in front of her in his John Deere cap and jean jacket. He leans back on the bar with an empty beer mug dangling from one hand.

Standing next to him are a couple of his buddies, guys with names I can’t remember, maybe Jeff and Rolly or something.

“Damn it, Troy!” Holly yells. “You goin’ to do something about this?”

I glance at Jay, who shrugs, and step toward the group, stopping a little more than an arm’s length from Darrel.

Darrel appears overconfident. He’s had a few beers. He’s almost thirty. He’s easily fifty pounds overweight and hasn’t lifted weights or ran more than ten steps since high school. His two pals aren’t in much better shape.

I’m a couple of years younger than them. I’m in the best shape of my life. I run four miles a day and lift weights for two hours at least three days a week. I’ve been trained in all manners of personal defense.

“Troy!” Holly yells. “Are you going to do something or what? This son of a bitch just poured his beer all over me!”

“Yeah, Troy,” Darrel says pushing away from the bar so he’s standing, “you going to do something or what?”

My fists clench and a half dozen possible moves go through my mind. I could have Darrel on the ground in a second or less. If his buddies move in, it’s a simple matter to shove Darrel aside and deal with them.

I tense up, ready to jab Darrel in the throat with two hardened fingers.

Then I exhale.

The first time I was on a firing line in Iraq, my drill instructor, Sergeant Dan O’Bannon, told us the rule of the samurai.

“Never sheath your sword unless it has been blooded,” he said, “Never draw your weapon unless you have to kill with it. Your rifle is a deadly instrument, gentlemen, just as you are a deadly instrument.”

These men are no threat to me. And this isn’t a situation where a weapon needs to be drawn.

I unclinch my fists and look at Jay.

“Good seein’ you around, man,” I say, “I’ll e-mail you my new address when I get settled.”

Jay gulps and nods back, waving with the hand still holding my burning cigar.

“You’re not going to do anything?” Holly says.

I look at her and feel nothing. She’s no longer the girl I cared for all those years ago and I’m no longer the boy she thinks I am.

“Nope,” I say and head toward the exit.

Darrel slaps the top of the bar and he and his crew erupt with laughter.

“You pussy!” Holly yells at my back. “What’d they teach you in the army? How to be a faggot!”

Her yelling and screaming continue as I walk to my truck and put another pinch of tobacco in my mouth.

It’s Sunday morning when I carry my briefcase out to my truck.

Momma sits on the porch again, breaking up more beans and listening through the open window to her favorite preacher show on the radio.

I get my stuff packed away, put in a dip and sit on the porch at her feet.

“You make sure to call me when you get to Columbus, hear?” she says.

“Yes, momma,” I say, “it’s only a couple of hours drive. I’m sure I’ll be all right.”

“You sure you got enough money?” she asks.

“I’m sure,” I say. The marines hadn’t let me go without a paycheck.

“There’s talk the truck plant will be hirin’ on real soon,” she says, still breaking beans.

I stare off at the hills, watching the morning sun spread its rays across the dry grass.

“And one of the prisons might have a guard opening,” she says.

I look down at my boots, nod and use one of the porch posts to pull myself to standing.

“I’m sure there’s some kind of work around here if I looked for it, momma,” I say, “but it’s just not the same any more.”

I look at her and she looks at me.

“It’s not anything with you or the house or daddy bein’ gone,” I say, “home is still home. But … I don’t know.

The rest of it’s all … different.”

“I understand,” she says.

I lean over and kiss her forehead.

“I love you, momma,” I say. “Tell Jay ‘hi’ for me if you see him.”

She nods and I turn and walk to my truck.

I start the engine, shift to reverse and back onto the gravel road. I glance back at the house and see momma is standing, leaning on a post, and waving.

I wave back, then drive down the road.

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