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Late in June, Jeremy returned to Houston from the kibbutz and his family held a Welcome Home party for him, inviting all of his friends and the whole of my Houston family.
It was on a Sunday and I was supposed to go with them, but I'd zipped over to the shop to check a grinding noise I'd heard from the rear wheel of my Montesa; Rene gave me the okay to do it, now they trusted me. Turned out Hugo was there, as well, changing the oil on his latest girlfriend's car. So we'd chatted and I'd been late and called to tell Aunt Mari I'd meet them there.
Well, as I rode up, Jeremy came bursting out of the house, crying, "You got a bike!" Then he all but danced around it, still chattering, "It's a Montesa! I never even heard of these till I got to Israel. Lots of guys have 'em--well, bikes like this. Rockin' all over Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, riding two or three on 'em, even. So cool! When'd you get it?! Can we go on a ride?"
He sat on it before I had the chance to respond. So I just slipped my helmet on him, hopped in front and took him for a spin down the block and around. To say I was on alert for anything that might cause an accident is to put it simply. I resolved to get a second helmet to have on hand.
Jeremy wrapped his arms around my waist, to start, then stretched them out as if he were flying.
"Lots of soldiers ride bikes like this," he called as we zipped along, his voice breathless. I didn't bother to mention he'd already said as much. "Two on each, zipping along. Alive and carefree."
"Am I not the first to carry you on one?" I called back.
"Naw. Not even the twenty-third or fourth. Yossi and I rode from Eliat to Jerusalem on his MotoTrans. This bike's a lot more comfy."
"I'm liking it."
"When'd you get it?"
"A few month back. Off an airman returned to the States. Needed some tender care."
"She runs great."
"You want a turn at the handlebars?"
He hesitated then said, "No, no, I never drove one. Just rode. Just rode."
By this point, we were back at the house, so I stopped on the driveway. He hopped off and removed the helmet, and as I sat the bike to park, I saw a haunted, guarded look fill his eyes.
"Good idea to use a helmet," he said, his voice distant and--
Danny started away then turned to look at me and said, "Don't blame me, Bren." Then he vanished into the mist and--
Jeremy's voice was soft and hollow, like his had been, as he continued, "Never know when you might take a-a-a spill. Or you-you never know what, and--"
Danny looked at me as he was getting in the car, his eyes wide with shock and anger and--
"Jeremy!"
We both jumped. It was his mother calling, from the door. "Where've you been. Everybody's looking for you!"
"Yeah, mom," he called. "Right there." Then he cast me a sad smile and said, "Thanks," before he ran inside.
I hesitated then slipped a fresh pack of Marlboros in my back pocket and followed him in. I had a feeling one particular cigarette in it would come in very handy, later.
Was this a massive affair! There was barbecue in every form imaginable, both in the house and on the patio. Baked potatoes. Ears of corn. Steaming bowls of beans. Salads and casseroles and desserts and breads and muffins, all well dug into. Once I saw it, I was put in mind of Da's wake and wasn't so sure how to work my way around it.
Through the night I saw that no matter where Jeremy was, he was thronged by people. Talking. Laughing. His hand being shaken over and over and over.
Now perhaps it was because I hadn't seen him since Christmas--or to be honest with myself, had ever really known him--but to me he seemed...I don't know how to put it...even though he was there in body, he was really elsewhere. Changed even more, from Hanukkah. Quieter. Careful. And there was one moment when I caught him looking at me and I smiled back, but I caught hints of horror in his eyes.
An expression I'd seen far too often, in Derry.
He was dealing with some terror from the Yom Kippur war and was trying to put it aside in honor of the celebration, for he'd come home without injury. To his body, at least. And his mother was beside herself with joy. No need for a strange Irish lad to make a wreck of that.
He was given pride of place throughout the night. His uncle, a charming man closely resembling him but near bald, drove in from Austin with his family of three daughters. Jeremy was even shown deference by his father, and his two brothers and sister. But he never rose above this quiet, careful calm.
As the night wore on, I found it more and more troubling. Like at Da's wake, everyone talked about his greatness and glory in ways that seemed unreal. Refusing even a word that might be contrary to their praise.
Finally, I had to get off to myself in corner of the back yard. Get away from the ghosts surrounding me.
I knew that I'd been fortunate in that none of my close friends had been killed in the battles around Derry. Nothing till that bloody fucking bomb. Before that, so many I'd known--well, was acquainted with--had been. People who vanished from your thoughts the moment they no longer lived. Who counted only as memories, anymore. And my melancholy rose at knowing I was, effectively, one of them.
That simple lad, Brendan, gone and soon forgotten.
Another ghost of the many in Ireland.
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