(2008) Down Where My Love Lives by Charles Martin Read Free Book Online Page A

beer.

    His usual sundown activity is to sit in the bed of his truck, drink beer, and watch the same old movies by himself. He owns hundreds of reel movies, of which his favorites are John Wayne Westerns. Normally at a drive-in, a moviegoer sits in the front seat of the car and hangs the speaker on the window. But Bryce's truck window is broken, and he can't fit his cooler in the front seat, so he backs his truck up front and center and spreads out on a lawn chair in the bed.
    Most of the speakers in the parking lot are broken and dangling from frayed wires, so he starts the movie and then drives around until he finds one that works. When he finds a live one, he duct-tapes it onto the tailgate or the handle of the cooler. That often takes a while, because Bryce is usually so drunk that he can't remember where he last found one that worked. In his speaker search he has run into or over most of the speaker poles, which presents a bit of a problem to the exterior of his truck.
    But that's not a concern to him, because he hardly ever goes into town, not even to buy groceries. He does most of that on-line now, which is odd if you think about it. As drunk as he stays, he can still find the computer when he needs it, and he can usually make it work. In about two days, a white delivery truck drops a half dozen boxes at his gate. An exception to the no-town rule is if he runs out of beer before the truck arrives.

    Some folks think he's a rebel or some sort of burnt-out Vietnam kook. Bryce is no rebel. Different, yes, and in a world of his own, but he quit rebelling a long time ago. He has no one. No family. No wife. No kids. Look up "alone" in the dictionary and you see a picture of Bryce. As best I can gather, he dropped out of high school, lied about his age, and got shipped off to Vietnam for his senior trip.
    They put him in a Special Forces unit, and from what I eventually gathered, they kept him busy. In the bottom of his closet is a fifty-caliber ammunition can where he keeps all his medals. All seventeen. He brought them out and showed them to me one night while we were watching The Green Berets. He was quick to tell me that five of them weren't his. They belonged to a buddy who didn't come back. That meant Bryce had been awarded twelve. Twelve medals. They were all colors, purple, bronze, silver. Mostly purple.
    Like most boys, Bryce came home different, and he's been the same ever since-living alone with his beer and his bagpipes and his movies-and his trust fund.
    So occasionally, ever since that first night in the amphitheatre, I check up on him. I'll sneak up the path to the parking area of the drive-in, and there stands Bryce. Front and center. Butt naked, except for his boots. Blowing 'til his face looks like a glow plug. Drunk as a skunk. Rattling off "Amazing Grace," "A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall," or "Taps."

    We usually end up watching movies together. We'll drink beer and sit in the silence, or if we can find a speaker that works, listen to the static spewing from the box between us. The poor audio doesn't seem to bother Bryce. He knows most every word of every film by heart.
    SHORTLY AFTER THE DAY MAGGIE TACKLED ME OFF THE front porch and shoved the pink line under my nose, we climbed the hill and knocked on Bryce's trailer door, because we figured he'd want to know. Ever since I first introduced him to her, he'd shown a special affection for Maggie. I guess after so much killing, Bryce is attracted to things that are tender and full of life.
    Hand in hand, we knocked and listened while Bryce cussed and tripped over the empty beer cans on his way to answer the door. He greeted us wearing nothing but his boots and a straw hat. When he saw Maggie, he slowly reached behind the door and grabbed a framed poster of John Wayne to cover himself from belly button to kneecap.
    I nudged Maggs, and she leaned in on her tiptoes and whispered in Bryce's ear, "Dylan's gonna be a daddy."
    It took a second to register,