7. Mondays at Ethel’s
Mondays at Ethel’s
Bo
I'm on the sidewalk outside Jerry's, grocery bag in one hand, and Pearl's list in the other.
She'd called early this morning and asked if I could run a few errands.
I went by Falon's to see if she needed anything, but she was already out in the far field, driving the truck slowly along the fence line while the Heelers worked the edges.
She was spreading hay, a chore easier done with two, but doable, and by the looks of it, practiced.
I watched for a minute from the gate. She didn't see me, but watching her was fascinating.
She knew exactly what she was doing, and it showed.
In the meantime, a few morning errands in town couldn't hurt, right?
Besides myself, there were seven cars in the lot this early. I pulled out my keys, and suddenly, a truck door slammed three parking spaces down. A kid screams, and just like that, panic sets in.
My body freezes and reacts. Everwood disappears, and I'm back in the bunker.
Bombshells explode just yards away, scattering concrete dust thick enough to taste, the acrid smell of burning metal and something worse.
Captain Morris slumped against the wall, his breath coming in wet, shallow pulls, reaching for me.
My heart pounds and I'm frozen in place.
I blink hard. Once. Twice.
The bunker dissolves. I'm back on Main Street in Everwood, Montana. Morning sun. Clean air. No dust. No blood.
But my hands are shaking.
I force myself to breathe in through my nose, count to four, and out through my mouth. One of my commanding officers taught me that one. It helps. Sometimes.
I can hear the bag crinkle in my grip. Eggs. Coffee. Bread. Normal things.
My pulse hammers anyway.
"Son."
The voice is calm and steady. It cuts through the noise in my head like a blade.
I turn.
An older man stands a few feet away. His hands are loose at his sides, and his posture is relaxed. He's maybe seventy, gray hair buzzed military-short, wearing a faded Marine Corps cap and a flannel shirt that's seen better decades. His eyes are sharp, and he knows exactly what just happened.
He just nods once and offers me a knowing smile.
Growing up in Everwood, I'd known Sam. He'd never minced words. He was a straightforward man and told it like it was.
"Hey there, son," he says. "You need a minute?"
My head screams to run, but my legs are still locked, and Sam's already moving toward the bench.
I follow him to the bench, and we sit. Molly, his dog, settles next to him. He doesn't talk right away.
"Truck door?" he asks.
I nod.
"Loud noise'll do it." He shakes his head. "Got a dog down the street that sets me off every time it barks. Sounds like mortar fire if I'm not paying attention."
I glance at him. He's not looking at me. Just watching the street like we're two guys passing the time.
He's been in my shoes before.
"I was in a bunker," I hear myself say. "IED hit close. CO didn't make it."
Sam nods. "I'm sorry."
That's it. Sam didn't ask questions or offer me pity. It was just those two words, and they meant more than anything else could.
We sit in silence for a minute. Maybe two. My pulse starts to even out. My hands stop shaking.
Sam pats Molly on the head and ruffles her ears. "You know the five-four-three-two-one trick?"
I nod, but Sam keeps talking.
"Grounding technique," he says. "When your brain tries to pull you somewhere else, you bring it back. Name five things you can see. Four, you can hear. Three you can touch. Two you can smell. One you can taste."
I test it in my head. The bench. The hardware store sign. Molly. A truck is driving past. Birds somewhere overhead. The rough wood under my palm.
It's simple. But it works.
"Thank you," I say.
Sam stands and picks up Molly's leash. "A few of the guys and I meet up on Mondays. Seven o'clock over at Ethel's Diner. Coffee, Danishes, bad jokes. No speeches or therapy circle. Just vets, and a few stories."
He pauses. "Started doing this about thirty years ago when I got back and realized sitting alone wasn't working. A few of us old-timers keep it going. You're welcome anytime."
He tips his cap and walks off before I can respond.
I sit there for another minute, watching Everwood move around me. Nothing has changed besides a few new cars, but that was it. Everwood hasn't changed, but I have.
Then I pick up the grocery bag and head back to the truck.
I wrestled with the Monday group for a few days.
The constant triggers every time Falon dropped a bucket in the barn, or the slamming of a screen door on my morning runs, sometimes they were more than I could handle.
Falon saw me jump a few times but didn't say anything.
They were small, but Falon noticed everything.
There were a few days when I just stayed home and tinkered with things that needed to be done. Fixed the leak in the bathroom sink, oiled the squeaky back door, and scraped a few windows that were painted shut.
By Sunday afternoon, I finally decided to drop by on my way home from my run, just to pick up a coffee and check it out.
Monday morning, I walk into Ethel's Diner around six thirty.
The heavenly aroma of coffee, bacon grease, and something sweet baking in the back drifts past me. The place is full but not packed. Booths line the windows, tables scattered through the middle, a long counter wrapping around the kitchen.
Sam's in the back corner booth, waving me over like he knew I'd show.
There are four other guys already sitting. Various ages, various branches, but they all have the same aged look. They're alive and proud of their service. As they should be.
"Gentlemen," Sam says as I approach. "This is Bo Gates. Marine pilot. Just got back."
One of them, a guy maybe forty with a graying beard and a Navy anchor tattoo on his forearm, nods. I'd seen him around town, but didn't know him personally. "Name's Jake. Sit down before Ethel yells at you for blocking the aisle."
I slide into the booth.
Ethel appears almost instantly. She’s short, older, with her hair pinned up and an apron around her waist. She sets a mug of coffee in front of me without asking.
"New blood," she says. "Good. These old goats need fresh material."
"Ethel, you wound me," Sam says, pressing a hand to his chest.
She snorts. "You'll live." Then she's gone, moving through the diner with efficient ease.
The conversation starts slowly. Nothing heavy. Someone mentions a truck repair. Another guy talks about his grandson's science project. Jake complains about the price of hay.
It's normal. Easy.
A guy named Levi sat across from me. He was in his mid-thirties and enlisted a few years before me.
We'd grown up in the same school since I was eight.
Levi clears his throat. "Trash truck came by at four in the morning last Tuesday.
Loud metal crash. Startled me badly enough, I didn't sleep the rest of the night. "
No one jumps in with advice or tries to fix it.
Sam just nods. "That's a hard one."
Levi exhales. "Yeah."
That's it. The acknowledgment is enough.
The conversation drifts again. Someone mentions a fishing spot. Jake argues about the best brand of motor oil.
And somewhere in the middle of it, I realize my shoulders have dropped. My chest doesn't feel tight.
I'm not performing. I'm not pretending to be fine.
I'm just here.
Sam catches my eye and gives me a small nod.
I nod back.
After breakfast, the others filter out one by one. Jake claps me on the shoulder on his way past. Levi nods.
I linger, and Sam stays behind, Molly lying calm and steady under the table near his feet.
"You met Molly the other day," he says.
I nod. "Yeah."
"Best thing I ever did for myself," Sam continues. "Had a litter a while back. Lost most of them, but one pup survived. Rowdy. Little guy's got his mama's temperament, steady, smart, doesn't miss a thing." He pauses. "Been waiting to find the right person for him."
Something in me stirs. "I don't know if I'm?—"
"You don't have to decide now," Sam says. "Just think about it. Dogs don't fix everything. But they help."
I nod slowly.
Sam stands and drops a few bills on the table. "See you next Monday, Gates."
"Yeah," I say. "See you."
He leaves, Molly walking quietly beside him, and I sit there for another minute, staring at my coffee.
A dog. A Monday morning booth. A grounding technique that works.
Small things. But maybe that's how you rebuild.
I drain the last of my coffee and head out.
By the time I get back to the ranch, Frank is already announcing my return from his fence post before I've even cut the engine.
Dispatch doesn't look up from the hay bale.
I can hear Falon before I see her, humming something off-key, the clatter of grain buckets, the low murmur of her voice talking to one of the horses.
I pause in the doorway.
She's in jeans and a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair pulled back in a ponytail that's already half-undone. There's a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and she's scratching the nose of the bay mare.
Old feelings resurface, and my heart skips a few beats. I'd been here before. Watching her in the barn after I'd enlisted, wanting to tell her but knowing I couldn't.
She glances up, catches me watching.
"You're back," she says.
"Yeah."
"How was town?"
I think about the truck door. The bench. Sam's steady voice. The booth at Ethel's.
"Good," I say. "It was good."
She studies me for a second, like she's trying to read between the lines.
Then she nods. "Hungry? I was going to make lunch."
"Yeah," I say. "I could eat."
She smiles, and it's small, but it's real.
I follow her out of the barn, back toward the house, and somewhere in the quiet space between us, I think about what Sam said.
You stop carrying it alone.
Maybe that's what this is. Maybe that's what I've been looking for all along.
Not a place. Not a plan.
Just someone who makes the weight a little lighter.
And maybe, just maybe, that someone has been here the whole time.