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Show 162 He waited a second. "I don't want to get into it too much, but I'm not sure if I really like where I'm heading. I'm not saying the Marines is going to fix any of that." "Where do you want to be heading? What do you want to do?" Another pause. "I just want to be a good Christian," he said, without sarcasm. I said, "What?" even though I understood what he meant. Steve looked off the bridge in silence and then he said, "Nice night." When I got the phone call from Jeff, I pictured Steve jumping off a bridge and being carried downstream by water. The call came at night, around 8 PM, close to the time the emergency personnel would have been lifting Steve's bulky body out of the salt and the sand. Steve's truck was reported by someone at the train station around four PM, his body found around 7:30. His track windows were down, there was no sign of alcohol. There were fresh shells on the ground and plenty of unused ammunition in the tmck. Steve was tall. He was strong. He was 23 years old. For a few hours he was just lying there, face down, same as the salt, the thick water, and the afternoon sun while the distant traffic zoomed past him. After the funeral, Tamara and I left, still in our church clothes, to see the place for the first time. |