Free Stay with Me by Paul Griffin

me drop, breaking my fall at the last second. I’m trying not to be light-headed, but my stomach is still floating up there, and I can’t help smiling. When he puts me down, I shove him away and run for the parking lot. I am not saying good-bye. If I don’t say it, maybe he won’t die.
    I won’t even be able to talk to him for the first couple of weeks, and then only for a couple of minutes on Sundays, if the drill sergeant feels like letting them use their phones. No e-mail either.
    Ma hangs on to Mack’s arm as we walk back to the Vic-mobile. He gets the door for her. “Such a gent, Mack.” She settles in behind the wheel. She’s wearing giant sunglasses, her hangover hiders. You’d never know she’s been crying if you didn’t catch the tear splat on her boob. She’s smiling, but her lips are trembling. “Your ESP giving you anything on this one, babe?”
    I hold her hand. “It’s telling me everything’s gonna be fine.” I don’t tell her that last night I had a vision. Anthony is walking through a busy street and a car parked next to him explodes.
    She nods. “We’re all set, then.”
    “Absolutely.” For the next six months anyway. Till he deploys.
    Ma turns the key and the car won’t start. Mack notices she left it in gear when she parked.
    “Oh.”
    Out on the highway, we get stuck in standstill traffic, and the jets look like they’re going to land on us. I climb out of the shotgun seat and swing into the back to be with my boyfriend. He squeezes my hand. Having him here, right now? I’m suddenly calm. I was spinning so fast when I ran out of the terminal. But he’s given me something to focus on: him. He’s clutching a bunched-up envelope. “Tony gave it to me,” he says. “Feels like there’s a quarter in it.”
    “Open it.”
    “Maybe I ought to read it later.”
    “I wanna see,” I say.
    He hesitates. He pinches his wrist.
    “What’s wrong?”
    He tears the envelope and unfolds the paper, a blank page wrapping a thin chain and a medallion. He spills them into his hand. The medallion is worn down, but you can still make out the engraving, a peace sign.
    “He had that around his neck for as long as I can remember,” I say.
    “Mack?” Carmella says. “Put it on, babe.”
    He does.
    Ma nods. “It looks good on you.”

THE TWENTY-THIRD DAY . . .
     
    (Saturday, July 4, afternoon)
     
    MACK:
     
    The skies clear, the heat drops off, the air dries out, and Tony’s peace medal doesn’t stick to my chest. The restaurant is closed, but Vic and me are in the kitchen spinning pies for Mrs. V.’s barbeque. She comes in to check the eight trays of Fourth of July cornbread she had me baking all morning. “They’re perfect,” she says. “You are the king .”
    “All I did was put ’em in the oven, Mrs. V.”
    “How many times do I have to tell you: Call me Carmella.”
    I nod, but no way I’m calling her that.
    She paints the cornbread with red, white, and blue cake decoration.
    “Icing on cornbread, huh?” Vic says.
    “Never been done before,” Mrs. V. says.
    “No, it hasn’t,” Vic says.
    “Mack, is your father coming?”
    “He has to work, ma’am.” I hate liars, especially when they’re me. I didn’t even ask the old man. I need him getting smashed and talking trash and getting into a drag-out rumble in front of Céce?
    “Mack, get that last round of pies into the oven, and then I need you to come out to the bar,” Vic says.
    “I do something wrong?”
    He taps his temple. “I know what I know.” He checks the pie dough to make sure I spun it okay. He nods, says “Good,” and leaves.
    Vic never finished high school either. He started with a takeout-only window, and he’s in business thirty-five years. Tell you what, I like working for him better than anybody. He’s got me doing a lot more cooking now.
    I check my pies and swing out to the bar. Vic has the radio and TV and computer going with three different news shows, and he’s got the paper out