Joyce Byers

There wasn't much to tie up, according to the commissioner who had been called when the mail began to pile up, James Sr having kicked the can doing what he most loved, apparently, slumped in an armchair in front of a static-y TV tuned to ABC, likely for Monday night's Maverick, a half-drunk can of Schlitz in hand. James Jr himself was notably changed, tireder, less care-free, his famous smart-mouth silenced long enough for the will to be executed – straightforward, the cabin and everything went to Jim – and the funeral to be had. The cabin was left, Jim had little intention of doing anything to it except the most rudimentary of cleaning, and he used the money left from the sale of the fairly well-preserved Chevy 3100 to purchase a trailer set up on the southeast of town. There he apparently took a respite for the duration of his stay, leaving just before Christmas.

“Christmas in New York is really something,” he was heard to say at the funeral, regarding his plans “But I got some things to do here first.”

Joyce Byers, née Horowitz attended the funeral, Lonnie Byers too, as did a good portion of Hawkins, because while nobody had really known James Hopper in a number of years, it was disrespectful not to attend, especially with young Jim back from the war. “Such a shame,” most of the conversation went. “And Johnson is touring the orient doing God knows what.”

“How are you holding up,” Joyce asked, making her way over during the reception, an event comprised of every shade of black, hot coffee and stale shortbread cookies. She offered a concerned look to her tall companion, black dress simple and fitting, throwing her fair skin and red lipstick into sharper relief. Lonnie hadn't said a word about the lipstick despite it being new, and Joyce suspected there was much more to this Kathleen who was supposedly playing middleman for a big pro ball manager than he let on.

“Holding up,” Jim returned, lifting his coffee in silent thanks to the Driscolls as they took their departure, Jack having slipped him a card with a five-dollar bill in it with explanations that he'd owed it to his father. He hadn't, James Sr never lent anything to anyone, but the gesture was kind nonetheless. “Better than wading through swamp grass taller than you.”

“Is it bad over there?”

“Terrain is rough. Foxholes are rougher.”

“God.”

Across the room, Lonnie was fully engaged in some sort of discussion with the minister, and based on the animation on his face and intrigued responses of the others nearby, he was discussing his sporting prospects. Joyce shook her head just as Jim spoke.

“Lonnie doing well for himself?”

“He's sure trying,” Joyce murmured. “Gone almost every night of the week with some new potential connection. Latest is he might get to play for the Orioles.”

“The who?” Hopper returned, cocking a brow, and that was the closest thing to the old Jim that Joyce had seen since he'd gotten back.

“I'll be glad for him if it comes through. Something's gotta give after all this time.”

“What about you, weren't you supposed to be doing something big, weren't you going to be a photojournalist or a novelist?”

“I still write, but you can't let on,” Joyce replied lowly, stepping in close as laughter lifted from the corner of the room where her husband had amassed a small crowd. “I'm supposed to be a homemaker now.”

“Dinner on the table every night when he comes home?”

“He doesn't always come home.” Eyes somber, she sipped her coffee and eyed the red imprint on the rim of the cup with an unreadable look. Jim nudged her with his elbow.

“Am I allowed to pop a cap in his ass now.”

“Not til I can prove something. He talks endlessly about Kathleen. I found -” Observing the minister was still fully occupied, she added “I found someone else's garage door opener in the floorboards of the car.”

“Jesus. That's proof right there, Joycie.” The nickname had slipped out unwarranted and he stopped there, the color flaring to her cheeks the proof that she'd heard him. “You don't deserve that.”

“Maybe I do.” Angling a look up to him that held something he never wanted to see again, Joyce replaced her cup on the lace-covered table and offered a rueful smile in the general direction of the tall young man. “Who is to say.”

“Joyce -”

Cut off by the approach of Donald and his wife, Jim had to leave that searching thought for another time, watching as the short figure of Joyce Horowitz – damn, Byers – mingled again amongst the small gathering. The evening darkened, the trailer closed in, and Jim eyed the phone for at least an hour before finally giving in and dialing the number she'd left with him last.

“Hello?”

“Joyce, it's Jim.”

“Jim.” There was a smile behind her voice in spite of herself. “Let's try this again. Are you okay?”

“I'm okay. Are you?

“Lonnie's not here.” A long pause, and then the full admission. “I'm... not okay. It's a sure thing with Kathleen, I asked him.”

Jim's eyes pressed shut, and he let himself slump back into the couch. “What're you gonna do?”

“What am I supposed to do.” The defeat in her voice was palpable. “Besides, we're supposed to be talking about you. There's a goddamn war and you just lost your father, my husband's cheating isn't that important.”

“Come over.”

Startling in the silence, his invitation hung over the airwaves. Fearing she'd missed the implication, he elaborated, “You just said your husband wasn't that important. So come over. Comfort a bereaved friend.”

“Hop.”

“I mean it. Nothing crazy, just a couple beers between old friends.”

“Is that what we are?”

“It has to be, hasn't it?”

Perhaps it did, and perhaps they were, but nevertheless Joyce Byers née Horowitz did come to the trailer approximately an hour after their phone call concluded. Fussed about how bare it was, rummaged in his empty cupboards for cups, and ended up drinking straight from the can like they were back in high school. They reminisced about the quarry, about the bleachers, everywhere he'd tormented her and everywhere she'd admired him. Somehow their laughter filled the place, the cans accumulating beside the couch, and it was a much better memorial to James Sr. than the actual ceremony, Hopper taking it upon himself to drive her home thanks to her blown pupils and ready laughter, and the promise they'd catch up again before he left.

A few weeks passed, Joyce's shifts at the general store keeping her busy and as the snow began to accumulate outside just before Christmas, a tall figure blustered through the door to salute Donald and deposit something on the counter in a crumpled brown bag in front of Joyce. She wrinkled her nose.

“What's this?”

“Lunch.”

“Are you sure? Smells like an MRE.”

“Take what you can get, times are hard,” Jim grinned, sobering quickly. “Kathleen?”

“Kathleen,” Joyce murmured, distaste coating the name. “Last night I tried to bring it up again and he left in a big rage. He's still gone.”

“You can always call,” Jim added lowly, leaning over the counter, and eyeing the lack of shoppers, before lifting his voice. “Donald? You have a backroom or break room or somewhere Joyce can take this?”

Lifting a brow, Melvald gestured to the back door. “Broom closet. Lunch is better on the bench outside when there's no snow.”

“I'll sometimes sit in the car unless Lonnie takes it,” Joyce began, picking up the bag and rummaging the contents. “Why are you being so nice?”

“I'm leaving tomorrow.” A pang, a coldness settled over her, something Joyce hadn't expected, but she tipped her chin up nevertheless.

“New York at Christmas?”

“We may get shipped out soon, so I've gotta live while I can.”

“Don't talk like that,” Joyce murmured as they walked together past the shelves of q-tips and paper napkins. “It's gonna be fine, next election will change it all.”

The door opening to the storeroom squeaked and Joyce cursed under her breath, the words muffled as Jim swiftly snatched the sack lunch and tossed it on the nearest shelf, hand encompassing her face and pressing their lips together, Joyce responding instantly in a whelm of desperation, fingers tangling in his hair, one arm behind his shoulders as he lifted her up.

“Donald -” she whispered, breaking momentarily away.

“It's fine,” he returned, and the crash of whatever canned goods currently occupied the space behind them had Joyce burying her face in his shoulder and taking in a deep and trepidatious breath.

“If you don't want this -”

“I do, god -” Joyce panted, eyes desperate as he kneed the supplies to the side and found a bare stretch of wall, pressing her shoulders there and lowering her legs slowly, hand stroking her dark hair back.

“How long's it been -”

“Ages,” Joyce breathed and was claiming his lips again, his mouth plundering hers, hands under her thighs hiking her legs around his, fighting through woolens and at last finding smooth, satin skin. It was wrong. It was oh-so-wrong but it felt like high school again, Joyce losing herself in the roam of his warm hands and Jim drowning out memory of machine gun fire and the shudder of every explosion with the breath leaving her lungs and the sweetness of her lips. Somehow, Lonnie didn't matter here, somehow the war, the memories, bereavement, shouting, bad decisions felt redeemed by one more bad one, the scent of his aftershave blocking everything else as he surrounded and overwhelmed her, filled her and consumed her, and Jim knew somehow that even though he'd done some mightily wrong things before, this was the kind of wrong that was right, holding her close as she trembled against him, drinking her in and plying her with heavy, desperate strokes.

At last, spent and gasping, he leaned into her against the wall, feeling her legs slowly settle on either side of him, easing her gently down the wall and pressing his lips to her forehead, waiting for his vision to clear and the room to stop weaving around them. A clumsy hand came to her hair, settling it there, as he took her in, loose-limbed and satisfied, lips were kiss-swollen and her clothing disheveled, before pulling himself regrettably away and making himself decent. Handing her her things, Jim lingered in the low light with the cold pervading the walls to search for her eyes, catching them at last as she finished buttoning her cardigan and looked up.

“Joyce.” The rumble of his voice around her name never failed to send warmth to her very toes. “You gotta promise that you'll get out if it gets bad.”

“What is bad,” she murmured, reaching to settle his collar, a somber look on her face. “Cheating?” There was a touch of irony there and he felt it.

“Shouting. Throwing things, hurting you. Treating you like you don't matter.”

“He's just stressed about his career.”

“And you still make excuses for him.”

“I gotta be loyal at least a little.” Shining up in the dim light, her eyes were two dark, unreadable orbs.

“Write me?”

“I better not.”

“You better.”

“You'll be busy. You'll meet a nice girl and start your life.”

“I'll be back in the summer for sure, sooner if I can. There's a surveyor that's gotta look over the land by the cabin, and by then Kathleen will have been sent packing... and this will all be in the past.”

Joyce couldn't help but wonder even after he left, after he pressed another fervent kiss to her cheek and stepped out of the backroom, waving at Donald and saying Joyce was just taking her lunch early, if there was any truth to that. The past was high school and yet here they were. Summer shouldn't make much difference but a lot could happen between then and now, and she most definitely didn't intend to write. The sandwich wasn't terrible for how squashed it was, and Donald sticking his head in some minutes later didn't even startle her as she sat on the crates and managed a smile around the imitation cheese.

“So young Hopper is shipping out again, he said.”

There, she sobered, and swallowed her bite. “He didn't say.”

“He just told me. Headed back to New York as we speak, and from there they are going to Da Nang. Short assignment, he said, but still. God help 'em.”