Support Our Troops

A Short Story

by Robyn Bradley

Cover art by 1106 Design. eBook conversion by eBook Architects.

SECOND EDITION Copyright 2011 Robyn Bradley

All Rights Reserved

Note: This story appeared on FictionWeekly.com in June 2009. Legal Stuff: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

### Koty, you could talk the balls off a brass monkey. When Wayne first said these words to me, they were wrapped in a chuckle and a whole lot of warmth, pillow talk after making love back when I'd barely graduated into womanhood. I giggled and went right on talking, even though I didn't have a clue what a brass monkey was. Today, after almost twelve years of marriage, he still uses that phrase to describe me, usually to one of his cronies: "Man, that woman could talk the balls off a brass monkey," but it's delivered with a combination of loathing and derision. Thing is, his assessment is no longer accurate: I stopped talking to him a long time ago. He just hasn't noticed. The only thing Wayne does notice these daysor thinks he notices, anywayis patriotism, or people's lack of it. The more the television says that most Americans favor our getting out of Iraq, the more yellow ribbons I'll find tied around the trees in our front yard. I've stopped explaining my side: that we entered this war based on lies, that too many of our men and women are dying with no end in sight, that it's another Vietnam. I was surprised the time he let me get out all these thoughts in one breath while waiting for the inevitable brass monkey crack. Instead, he stared at me in a way that made me wonder if I'd somehow broken through to the old Wayne, the decent young man I'd fallen in love with when I was sixteen. The expression on his face was something I hadn't seen before. Then, he spat two words"fucking idiot"and I realized what the look was: hatred. So Wayne and I don't talk about this war, or his right-wing leanings, or anything at all, really. For a long time, I'd been able to take solace in the fact that even in Granite Creek, our live-free-or-die patriotic New Hampshire town, more and more people were defecting to my side. Problem is, now the tide's turning in Wayne's favor, and all because of this soldier from

IraqJamie Briggs, a hometown favorite who no one gave a rat's ass about, I'm sure, until he lost both arms and both legs to an IED in Fallujah. Suddenly, patriotism has been given a second life in the form of parades and rallies and "Support Our Troops" bumper stickers. Even though the government provides money for injured soldiers' housing renovations, Wayne and his buddies decided to donate their services and help fix up Jamie's mother's house with things like widened doorframes, a wheelchair ramp, and something called a "roll in shower." This way, Jamie could use the government's funds on his future home (in theory). Wayne finished his portion of the install today and tells me all this over dinner. "I guess the guy's been kind of down since he returned home. Depressed even," Wayne says. "Oh, that's too bad," I say, half-listening as I scoop more mashed potatoes onto Rosie's and Iris's dishes and catch a glass of milk before Daisy knocks it over with the elbow she scraped up this afternoon. "His mother is worried about him. Doesn't want him to be by himself during the day while she's at school. Some folks have volunteered to help out and show their patriotism by sitting with him for an hour here, hour there. Talk to him. Keep him company." "That's nice," I murmur, while breaking up a footsie fight underneath the table. "That's enough," I say, mostly to Iris, my middle child and instigator of trouble. The girls giggle. Wayne clears his throat, wanting my attention. "You'll be on the one to three o'clock shift." "What?" "I volunteered you for the one to three o'clock shift. His mother teaches at the high school. She's done at two-thirty, can be home by three."

We stare at each other, and the kids hush up. The only thing his stony face reveals is a slight twitch under his left eye, and that's because I know to look for it. The worse the twitch, the angrier he is. "Wayne, I" The twitch, thankfully, disappears. He holds up his hand, no doubt anticipating my objections, perhaps even hoping for them. "This isn't negotiable, Koty." "But what am I supposed to do for two hours with" "You'll talk to him. You'll listen to him. You'll show this soldier the respect he deserves." I shake my head, my mind still trying to wrap itself around this. Wayne's been obsessed with all things military ever since his older brother, a decorated soldier from the first Gulf War, was murdered over a decade ago, jumped outside of a gay bar. Including me in his obsession, however, has not been part of his usual MO. "What if he doesn't want me there? What if we have nothing to talk about?" For a moment, his eyes flicker, as if he hadn't quite thought about that, as if this boy's real needs might be something other than what Wayne has said they are. Then he laughs, deep and scornful. "I've heard you on the telephone, yapping with your sister for hours. I've had to listen to you yammer on for the last thirteen years. Koty, you can talk the balls off a brass monkey." "But what if he needs to" Wayne pushes his chair back, stands, and throws his napkin on the table. "Why do you always have to make things so difficult? I've let it slide, your lack of patriotism and support for your country, for our troops. No more. You're going. End of discussion." As he stomps out of the kitchen, he calls over his shoulder, "He'll be expecting you tomorrow." #

I arrive with a Bundt cake that I made early this morning, before getting the girls ready for school. Jamie Briggs's house is on the other side of the woods that abut my own, on a quiet stretch called Still River Road, though you could argue most roads in Granite Creek are quiet. Ours used to be a bustling town full of stonemasons who turned New Hampshire's famous granite into everything imaginablestone walls, steps, monuments, culverts. Like so many art forms, however, masonry had fallen victim to mass distribution and cheaper final products. Wayne's great-grandfather and grandfather built many of the legendary stone culverts throughout New England, including in Granite Creek, like the one down from the Briggs's house here on Still River Road. The name's misleading, however, since the "river" isn't anything more than a dried up creek that fills with water only after it's rained good and hard for three days straight. The culvert on the Briggs's street is like the one on mine: nothing more than a high-ceilinged stone tunnel beneath the overpass some twenty feet above. The cavernous passageway is the perfect place for local teens to hang out, drink, and do God knows what else. Because my girls love to roam these woods as much as I do, I always warn them to steer clear of the culverts, unless I'm with them. No need for them to slice their feet on broken beer bottles or worsemy having to explain that the weird balloon-thingy on the ground is a used condom. What I don't tell anyone, though, is that sometimes I'll wander through the tunnels by myself. Their rich scentsmoss, earth, mistare magnificent, other-worldly, even. I mount the steps to the bucolic two-story structure with a farmer's porch. On this porch stands an old woman who seems vaguely familiar, dressed in her Sunday best: white pillbox hat, lavender A-line dress with belt and matching white-trimmed jacket, stockings, and sensible beige pumps. I didn't realize we were supposed to get dressed up, and now I feel self-conscious in my cut-offs, flip-flops, and blue T-shirt, no doubt stained from today's cooking. I'm suddenly aware

of my naked skin and the zit forming on my forehead. At least I showered, although I've resorted to piling my unruly hair high on my head, since the summer heat is still with us, even though it's mid-September. "Hi," I say, as cheerful as possible. "I'm Koty Fowler. The one-to-three shift." "Thank the Lord you're here." The caked-on rouge emphasizes the deep crevices in her skin, and her bright magenta lips remind me of a clown. The scent of mothballs fills the air, probably emanating from the old woman's hat. "Is something wrong?" I ask. She purses her lips, leans into me, and stage whispers, "He swore at me." I swallow a laugh. "He what?" "He took the Lord's name in vain. Now, I understand he's been through a lot, but I will not put up with being spoken to like that." "Well" "And," she interrupts, "he did the same thing to the gentleman who was here before me. He said even filthier things to him." Wonderful. "I'm sorry to hear that Mrs." "Chester. Dorothy Abrams Chester." "Well, Mrs. Chester. Maybe he's still adjusting to all this." "Well, my dear, he's going to be adjusting without me." With that, she marches down the steps and to her car. She gets in, puts on her seatbelt, and backs out of the driveway. I watch until she disappears down the road, knowing it's just me, this house, and whatever waits inside. If everyone is giving up their posts, Wayne can't possibly expect me to keep mine. Knocking on the door, I wait a minute before remembering the kid is alone, in a wheelchair. I

don't even know where in the house he is. Shit. I push the door. "Hello?" I call. Nothing. I stand in the middle of a living room furnished in colors that remind me of a wheat field in August. Not a pillow out of place, not a visible sign of dirt or dust anywhere. The scent of vanilla fills the air, and photos decorate the mantel over the fireplace. I spot one of him, Jamie, expressionless in his uniform. What was he again? A Marine? Soldier? Sighing, I walk down a hallway, sneaking peeks into each room I pass: dining room, study, bathroomall so glistening clean and perfect that I wonder for a moment if anyone actually lives here or if this is, perhaps, a dream. At the end of the hall is a partially open door. I knock softly, push it, and suck in my breath at the vision before me. A guy who is more metal than man sits in a wheelchair by the window that looks out onto the backyard and the woods. His white tank top reveals where his limbs end and his prosthetics begin: above the elbow on his right arm, below the elbow on his left. His "legs" remind me of the bionic man and are thicker than I expected them to be with a pair of white Nikes stuck on the ends. Wayne mentioned that Jamie had gotten quite adept at using his artificial limbs while he rehabbed at Walter Reed, especially his legs since Jamie is considered a "below knee amputee" and using prosthetics is, according to Wayne, a little easier when your knees are still intact. Nothing seems easy about what I'm looking at right now, however. As I enter his room, Jamie doesn't glance in my direction or act as if he even knows I'm here. "Hi," I whisper, and then clearing my throat, I say it louder. "Hi." He turns his head slowly, as if it pains him to do so. He appears older than I thought he would. For some reason, I was expecting a boy, even though I know he's twenty-six, only four years younger than me. His hair and eyes are the color of the cherry wood cabinets my sister had installed in her new kitchen. His hair's cropped short, but his chin has a couple days' worth of

stubble. A deep scar runs from the corner of his right cheekbone to his earlobe. If I could color the aura around him, it would be blood red, black, gangrene. "I'm Koty." I pause. "I made you a Bundt cake." Pause. "Would you like a piece now?" As I say the words, I pray he doesn't say "yes," because it occurs to me I might have to feed it to him. He says nothing and turns back to his window. "Right. I'll put it here." I place the platter on a bureau covered in framed black-and-white photos, including one of a man dressed in army fatigues and a helmet. The backdrop is junglelike, and even though the man appears relaxed, smoking a cigarette, his eyes reveal a darkness that makes me shudder. Wayne told me Jamie's father served in Vietnam. He died over a decade ago of lung cancer, leaving Jamie and his mother alone in this big house. "Koty," Jamie murmurs. "What the hell kinda name is that?" "It's short for Dakota." "Dakota?" "Yep. Means 'friend.'" This is true, although in my case, the name means the place where I was born: Minot, North Dakota, where my dad was stationed in the Air Force. Unlike Jamie's father, he never went to war, thank God. He was a computer geek. Not that it mattered since I ended up losing him to a stroke when I was a kid. "You can call me Dakota, if you want. I like it better anyway." He faces me again. "I ain't calling you nothing since you ain't coming back. I don't need no goddamn charity babysitter." "Right," I say, thinking this is my cue to leave, but something keeps my feet planted to the floor.

"Well?" he yelps. "Well, what?" I fall into a nearby rocking chair. "Go." "I was told to stay." "Fuck whoever told you to stay." "Yeah, well. Easy for you to say." "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" "My husband wants me here." He tilts his head. "What'd you say your last name was?" "I didn't. It's Fowler." He seems surprised, and I wonder what he's thinking. "You're Hank Fowler's wife?" "No. Wayne Fowler. Hank's brother." He blinks. "Well, I don't give a shit who you are or who sent you. I don't need no goddamn" "charity babysitter," I interrupt. "I heard you the first time." "Good." He turns back to his window. Wayne was wrong about my ability to make conversation. I'm speechless. I have no idea what to say to a quadruple amputee. I spy the digital clock on the nightstand, and my eyes wander to it every three minutes, which feels like every three hours. We don't say anything, don't cough, don't sneeze, don't clear our throats. He stares out his window, and I try not to stare at him. Instead, I focus on the items in his room, like his queen-sized bed that's covered in needlepoint pillows and the endless shelves of CDs on his wall, mostly country music, my favorite.

"You like country?" I finally say and wait. No response. "I do, too. It's one of my favorites. My kids think I'm weird, though." I shrug, trying to ignore how odd it feels to be having a conversation this way. "I don't care. Reminds me of my parents and my childhood, you know? They loved country. The good stuff: Mickey Gilley. Willie Nelson. Johnny Cash." Jamie cocks his head, his nostrils flaring and every inch of him alert, and I wonder if he's going to speak. A door slams and a voice calls out, "Jamie, I'm home," and before long a woman appears in the doorway. I stand. "Hi." I smile and extend my hand, but she's watching Jamie, her eyes filled with the kind of hurt and worry that only we mothers can understand. I remember her from high school, the stories about the crazy home economics teacher who went on and on about family values. I never had her, but Katmy sisterdid, and I remember her stories as well my friends' tales of woe that they shared around the lunch table about Mrs. Briggs. "I'm Koty Fowler," I say. She gazes at me, and I sense recognition in her pale blue eyes. Her lips form a smile, but her weathered face stays sad. "Yes, I remember you from school," she says while shaking my hand. Of course, I think. Can't forget the teenager who got knocked up. With that thought, a memory dislodges from my gray matter: there had been a small group of teachers who hadn't wanted me allowed back in the high school when I became pregnant "out of wedlock." Had she been one of them? "I'm Barbara Briggs," she continues as she walks over to her son, puts her arms around him, and kisses his head. My heart aches at the sight, my own mother's death from cancer not even a year ago still all-consuming. "How are you today, handsome?" When he doesn't respond, she sighs and returns to me.

Desperate to fill the air with words, I notice my Bundt cake on the bureau. "Here." I thrust it at her chest. "I made this for you." She takes it from me and inspects it, and I wonder if it's passed muster. "Thank you," she says. "How thoughtful." She heads for the door, and I follow but stop in the doorway. "Bye, Jamie," I say. Nothing. "Thank you again," Mrs. Briggs says when we arrive at the front door. I nod, and it's only when I get back in my car that I realize I've been holding my breath. # At dinner, Wayne asks me how it went. "He says he doesn't want me to come back." "It'll take him some time to get used to the idea of having help. Needing help." "But" I stop when I see the nasty in Wayne's eyes. He's moody and drunk again, upset that the cops aren't following up on the latest "lead" he and Hank have discovered about their brother's murder. "Tomorrow," he says in his don't-argue-with-me tone, "will be better. And the day after that." # Tomorrow isn't better, however. Neither is the day after that. True to her word, Mrs. Chester doesn't return. The town is slowly running out of patient souls since Jamie's foul mouth effectively chases everyone away. "Get outta my goddamn house," he greets me whenever I enter.

"Thank you. And how are you?" I retort before taking up my position in the rocking chair, where I watch him stare out his window. # By the seventh day, I figure I've done my penance. What I need to do is get Jamie to say something so filthy, so offensive, that even Wayne won't make me go back. "So," I begin one hour into my two-hour visit. He startles at the sound of my voice, but he doesn't turn around. "How's the walking going?" "Fuck you." "That good, huh?" I don't feel proud of this, of my smart-ass answer, of being mean to a kid with no arms and no legs, but I'm desperate. Losing two hours of housework has me behind on my chores. These hours when the kids are in school are precious. I can't get anything done with them underfoot. I've spent every afternoon for the last week and a half in this godforsaken house. Enough is enough. He faces me. "You're lucky I'm in this chair. Otherwise I'd come over there and stick this metal arm in your fucking eye." He holds out his fake arm in what I gather is an attempt to be menacing, and I laugh. I fucking laugh at a quadruple amputee. "Look," I sigh. "I'm sorry. You don't want me here. And, frankly, I don't want to be here either." "So go. It's not like I'm stopping you." "My husband," I whisper and, for a moment, I sense understanding in his eyes. "Your husband is the biggest hypocrite of them all. He's hell-bent on this war, and whenever someone tries to recruit him to go over, he sounds like an old lady, making every medical excuse in the book why he can't. If I weren't in this chair, if my legs and arms worked,

I'd kick his sorry ass instead of letting him act all mightier than thou with his so-called charity and patriotism and desire to keep the memory of his faggot brother alive." I sit, stunned. That about sums it up, stated more powerfully than even the conversations I have in my head. Wayne's brother's alleged homosexuality hasand always will bean offlimit topic in my household, even though I'm convinced that's what got him killed. He was jumped outside a gay bar, his head bashed in, his assailantor assailantsnever found. In a strange way, it's a relief to hear someone call it as they see it, despite his ugly language. "You should tell him to go over," he continues. "Maybe he'd listen to you." The truth is a big part of me wants Wayne to go over to Iraq and never come back, at least the Wayne who emerged after his brother's death. But I can't say that. "Well," I say quickly, "if I believed there was a point to this war, I might." Instantly, I wish I could hit rewind and eat my words. He lowers his eyes and shakes his head. "You're honest, at least. I'll give you that." "Jamie, I" "Jesus, don't ruin it by trying to take it back." "Hey, even though I don't believe in this war, I do believe in you and your fellow troops. I support you." He snorts. "It's the truth," I whisper. "Koty, do us both a favor." "What?" "Tell your husband you're done here." #

"You're going back," Wayne says, after I announce that I've had enough. "But" "You can 'but' all you want, Koty. You're going back. It's the right thing to do. You have to support our troops." "If you're so set on supporting our troops, you sit with him." Wayne pauses, his fork in mid-air over his meatloaf. "I work all day putting food on this goddamn table." His voice is a low rumble, like far-off thunder. "What the fuck do you do?" I stare at my plate. I think of the mountains of shit-stained drawers I launder, the floors I scrub, the meals I prepare, the kids I conceive and birth and bathe and dress and watch over and love and read to and worry about, the clothes I iron and sew, the paycheck I stretch to feed five mouths, the smiles I plaster on my face for the sake of my kids, the husband I mournthe good man I married and loved, instead of this person he's morphed into. Part of me wants to scream, "You stupid ignorant asshole! Look at yourself! What the fuck happened to you?" and gather up my kids and take off. I tried that once before, thoughyears ago when it was just Rosie and Irisand the girls begged me to bring them back home. How could I say no? They love their father, and I keep praying the man I fell for thirteen years agothe man who would fully appreciate their love, and minewill return someday. "The kids are in school," he continues. "You'll go. You'll sit. Even if you don't speak one single word, you'll show your support for this soldier, to this country, for this war that they're fighting to protect people like you who don't know the difference between a goddamn terrorist and a mailman." #

The next morning, after Wayne's already left for work, Daisy wakes up with the sniffles, something I'd normally send her to school with, but I keep her home. By eleven o'clock, she's feeling fine, and I decide to have some fun with my little girl and bake some cookies, knowing that I can easily coax her to play sick when Wayne gets home. She's an actress, my little one, forever playing dress-up and creating stories to go along with her latest outfits. We don't call her Daisy Diva for nothing. The phone rings at twelve forty-five. The kitchen's covered in flour and sugar, and pink and blue frosting fingerprints dot the counter, cabinets, refrigerator door, and my white T-shirt. "Hello," I sigh. "You leaving soon?" It's Wayne, and I can hear the buzz in his voice. Never a good sign when he's drinking during the day, something he can easily get away with since he works in the family plumbing business with his brother Hank. "Daisy's home from school. She's sick." "Where is she?" "Bed," I lie while staring onto the backyard where Daisy's playing, right at the woods' perimeter. The only thing I love about this old house is its location. I sometimes pretend the forest out back leads to another life, a fairytale place far away. "Is that why I'm watching her run through the yard half naked?" I whip around and race through the kitchen to the living room. Wayne's pickupthe words "Fowler & Sons Plumbing" emblazoned in black lettering on the sidesits in the driveway. I can't see him in the cab. "She was sick this morning," I whisper, my eyes darting around our front yard. "She's better now."

"Bring her with you. Might do the boy some good." "She's still sniffling. I don't think bringing germs into his house is what Jamie needs." "Bring her to your sister's then," he says, his voice pointed, threatening. In all of Wayne's ugliness, I can't remember his voice ever quite sounding like this. "But, I" "Goddammit, Koty, don't fucking argue with me." His voice is too close now, right behind me. As I turn, his fist connects with my upper lip. The swelling is immediate. I taste blood. For an instant, horror registers in the old Wayne's eyes, horror at what he's done and what he's become, but then he blinks and that man is lost. He walks out without saying a word, the scent of alcohol following him. I don't move until I hear the squeal of his tires, and then, nothing. # When I arrive, Jamie's house is in darkness. The smell of rain is in the air, and all I can think about is the wash on the line back home, Daisy crying as I dumped her at my sister's, the look on my sister's faceAgain, Koty? How long are you going to put up with this?the mess my kitchen is, the mess I am. I climb the steps, open the front door, and jog to his room as if getting there faster means I'll be able to leave sooner. His bedroom door's almost completely closed, and, without thinking, I burst through. His wheelchair faces the bed, and he's staring at the deep blue comforter. I spy tears trickling down his face. And his erection. He's somehow managed to roll down the top of his shorts, his dick standing at attention, waiting for a command from a hand, a tongue, a woman. Only then does the enormity of the situationhis situationdescend upon me. Here's a twenty-

six-year-old man who can't do the one thing he should be doing at twenty-six, what he was made to be doing at twenty-six: fucking everything in sight, not a care in the world. Even during those times when a guy can't find a woman, he can take care of it himself. Except Jamie can't. Up until now, I hadn't thought beyond his four artificial limbs, hadn't thought about what was between his legs and his necka penis and a heart, both alive, both burning, both in need of attention. I shiver in the doorway. I know I should turn around, walk out, pretend this never happened. His dick bends now, wilting under my stare. I walk forward. A Playboy lies on the floor, perhaps smuggled in by one of his well-meaning friends who stopped by to visit. I move his wheelchair back, kneel before him, take him in my hands, and stroke. His breath catches and his trance ends. All the anger and rage I saw in his face on that first day has been replaced by despair. His eyes rest on my bruised and swollen lip, but I don't let him question it. I stroke him harder now, and his eyelids flutter. A groan emerges from deep within his throat. I want to say "it's okay," but I can't manage the words, don't know if they're right, don't know if this is right, and before anything escapes from my mouth, his head dips, and he presses his lips to mine, tentatively, shyly, at first, and then with an urgency that surprises me, exhilarates me, despite the pain from my bruised lip. His stubble tickles my face. I haven't been kissed like this in so long, a lifetime ago. It happens fast. The rain pelts the windowsill; the white curtains billow. When it's over, I hold him as we both breathe heavy, our sweaty foreheads touching. As I wonder who will back out of this position firstShould it be me? Should it be him?he does the unexpected: he kisses me again. He kisses my eyes, the tip of my nose, and my swollen upper lip, lingering on it, licking it, as if his touch alone can heal me. There was a time long ago before

three kids, before Wayne's brother's death, before Wayne turned into the asshole he is today that I'd been kissed like this. At least, I think I did. I'm not so sure anymore. The only thing I'm sure of is this moment with me on my knees, holding a soft penis in my hands, kissing a man made of metal, a man who is not my husband, a man who I want to kiss more, a man who I want to kiss me. My fingers meld to his skin, and my knees stiffen. Without a word, I detach myself, stand, and walk into the bathroom, where I wash my hands and wipe them on the fresh white towel that I use to sponge him clean. I pull up his shorts, and I hold up the Playboy. He juts his chin in the direction of a trunk I hadn't even noticed by his closet, its top open. Inside sits a multicolored afghan, a catcher's mitt and ball, some books, some framed pictures that I don't bother to look at. I grope underneath everything until my hand touches glossy paper and what I suspect to be more magazines. I tuck the Playboy inside, wondering how he got it out in the first place. The buzz of his wheelchair fills the air. He's taken up his perch by the window. I sit in my usual rocking chair, clasp and unclasp my hands, wondering if I'd dreamt what happened. The front door slams. "Jamie, I'm home," his mother sings. I sense her standing in the doorway. I turn and smile, and as I do, I feel the pain and pull from my fat lip. How am I supposed to explain this? Mrs. Briggs doesn't pay me any attention. Instead, she studies her son, her eyes filling with tears. After a moment, she composes herself and faces me. "Hi, Koty," she says. "Looks like rain's headed our way." "Yes, ma'am." I think of my laundry again. "Well. I should get going." She nods.

I nod. I stand. "We'll see you tomorrow, I guess," she says, and I wonder if this is her subtle way of offering me an out. I wait until I know her eyes have focused on mine, on my fat lip. We hold each other's gaze for a moment, until she politely averts hers, and I can almost hear the reasoning going on in her mind: My plate's full; I don't have time to deal with this girl's problems on top of everything else; I have my son to look after. "Sure," I finally say, but I'm not looking at her. I'm staring at the back of Jamie's head. Only then do I realize I'm fingering my swollen lip. I wait, hoping to see a flicker of something, anything, from him. Nothing. "See you tomorrow." # I race down the front steps and realize my breathing sounds hollow, like I'm fighting for air, like I've run a marathon instead of the few feet of driveway to where my gas-guzzling mommobile sits. What happened in there? What was I thinking? I grip the steering wheel, lean into the headrest, and close my eyes. "It was nothing," I whisper. "I was helping him, comforting him. That's all. It will never happen again." Rationalization is an interesting thing. It's where the soul intersects with the brain. Because I could tell myself over and over that I'm a size six, or that Wayne's a good husband, or that I'm happy, but unless my soul believes it to be true, there's no way in hell my brain will accept it. Which is why when I whisper the words, "It will never happen again," a little voice inside my head whispers back, "You're full of shit." ###

A note to the reader: Do you want to know what happens to Koty and Jamie? If yes, you're not the first reader to make that request. When I penned this story back in 2007, I always knew I could write longerthat I had a novel here. After I released the short story in September 2010, I was reminded of this very fact by the readers who reached out to me and said, "I need to know what happens next!"

I'm happy to announce that the full-blown novel is now available. The title is What Happened in Granite Creek, and it's available in digital and paperback formats. Just search on the title and my name wherever you downloaded "Support Our Troops," and you should see it.

What do you need to know before you delve into the novel? The short story you just read is essentially the first chapter of What Happened in Granite Creek, which means you can pick up the novel at Chapter 2 and keep on reading. The only thing you need to know is the short story took place in September of 2008. Other than that, you're good to go. I hope you enjoy the novel.

By the way, I love connecting with readers. My Facebook page is www.facebook.com/RobynBradleyWriter, and you can follow me on Twitter here: www.twitter.com/RobynBradley. Learn more about me at www.robynbradley.com.

Thanks so much for reading my work!

About Robyn Bradley: Robyn Bradley is a Novelist Ninja and Short Story Seductress. She also has an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University. Her work has appeared in FictionWeekly.com, Metal Scratches, Writer's Digest, and The MetroWest Daily News. When she's not writing or sleeping, Robyn enjoys watching Law & Order marathons, drinking margaritas, and determining how many degrees really separate her from George Clooney. Visit www.robynbradley.com for more info.