Jim Comes Home

I admire the authors who can write 750 word stories, but I never thought that I'd be one of them. As those of you who have read the rest of my work can attest, brevity is not a virtue I possess. But this one came to me this morning, and I wondered if I could possibly make it work. Here's hoping I did!

As a side note, one of my favorite writers, DTIverson makes a point of writing a story every July for those who have served. In that spirit, I'm submitting this one as an early Memorial Day tribute.

Please let me know your thoughts—and, as always, thanks for reading!

Jim Comes Home

Copyright 2024 by B. Watson

He seemed like a nice young man: Clean and well-dressed, with a freshly pressed uniform. He looked a little like Jim—there was a bit of my ex-husband in the mouth and nose—but while Jim's eyes were sharp and sparkling, this man's were vague. Unfocused. When I answered the door, it was like he saw me, but also was looking past me. Seeing a me who had disappeared a long time ago.

"M-Mary?"

"Hi, Jim."

"Mary, you've changed. You seem... uh... more mature."

I gave him a warm smile. "It's been a long time, sweetie." I held the door open. "Want to come in?"

He nodded and I led him into the living room. Sat him on the couch and got him a glass of water.

The room had changed a lot since he lived here. I'd redecorated after Afghanistan. After I finally accepted that my Jim was never coming home.

There weren't any pictures of my second husband and our children in the living room. I'd learned THAT lesson a long time ago. I'd also made the phone call when I saw Jim on the ring cam. That was another early lesson.

We talked for a while. He was calm—I think the lack of family photos helped. When the men came, he went with them quietly.

I didn't ask what they were going to do with him. It's better not to know.

*

When Jim died, I went through the whole process—wailing and screaming, breaking things and refusing to eat. Questioning whether I wanted to go on without my mate.

My other half.

My Jim.

I met Devin in the waiting room at the therapists' office. He was there for the same reason—his wife had died in Kabul. We helped each other heal. In time, we became something more. A new life. A new family.

A new love.

*

The first time a Jim showed up, I didn't handle it well. Neither did he.

To be fair, from his perspective, he'd just come back from a year in the sandbox to find his wife seven months pregnant with another guy's kid.

From my perspective, I'd spent five years mourning my husband and putting myself back together, only to answer the door to a guy who could have been his brother. Similar eyes, similar features, similar build. A few differences—no scars, nose a little wider, chin a little longer—but close enough that the family relationship was hard to miss.

He yelled and threatened and broke things.

I cried and screamed and passed out.

The MPs showed up and took him away.

That time, I made the mistake of asking what they were going to do with him. I never asked again.

*

I don't know why Jim checked yes on the form that let the military harvest his DNA. Maybe he thought it was for identifying his body. Maybe he just didn't pay attention to what he was signing away.

I DO know why the government made use of Jim's gift: He was always great with languages and was a natural-born athlete. If half of what the men from his squad told me was true, I was married to some sort of super soldier. Given what the government doctors did with his DNA, I assume that they were equally impressed.

About two years after I married Devin, the first Jim showed up. The doctors couldn't—or wouldn't—explain why it happened. There's no reason Jim's DNA should have led his clones to my door. Maybe they were giving these boys something more than just my ex-husband's genetic material. Maybe the love we shared had touched him on a cellular level. Maybe there's no real explanation.

At first, the visits from the Jims happened several times a year, but they eventually tapered off. These days, they're a rarity.

Part of me wishes they would end.

Part of me prays they never do.

Over time, the Jims have come to look less and less like my ex-husband; as I get older, I've begun to imagine them as the children we never had.

Devin and I talked about moving away from the old house, but I begged him to let us raise our family there, and my sweet, compassionate husband gave in. I couldn't imagine the horror of all those Jims knocking on the door and not finding a kind face on the other side. All those Jims wandering the world, without a place to come home.