Hold Fast (12 page)

The long sleeves of Sean’s plaid flannel shirt are rolled up almost to the elbow, and through the colorful ink on his skin I can see lines of scarring. I trace a finger along one of the worst ones. His words now take on a whole different context.

“You-- have personal experience with this.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah.” Now it’s Sean’s turn to look away.

“But how? You were in the Navy.”

“The Navy’s not all ships and submarines and Maverick and Goose and Iceman, Courtney. I was a SEAL. A Naval Special Warfare Operator.”

“How long-- I mean, how much time…” I don’t know what words to use, but he understands.

“Out of the last eight years, I spent five, five and a half, in-theater. Not a lot of down-time, because there’s never enough SEALS to go around, and there’s always some important
mission,
somewhere that some important
person
needs done.”

“And when you came back home?” The emptiness I’d felt is filling in. I’m not alone.

“Yeah. Adjusting. Being back in The World, where nobody’s shooting at me. Where I don’t have to look behind every rock for an RPG team. Where a patched pothole in the road is just some new asphalt laid over a frost heave, and not camouflage for a bomb to kill me. Where a fluttering curtain just means someone wanted a breeze in their kitchen.” He sighs. “It takes time, Courtney. You get through it, though. I promise. And talking, that can help.”

“Will you be there? With me? I don’t know if I can make it through this alone, Sean.”

He doesn’t answer in words, but instead reaches across the gap between the seats and hugs me. It’s awkward, with seatbelts on and the center console in the way, but it’s so comforting.

“Let’s work on the first part of our recovery together, now,” he says, putting the truck in gear after the embrace ends. At my questioning look, he just smiles and puts on his blinker, pulling into the Subway. “It’s a little early for lunch, but we can save leftovers for later.”

No sandwich has ever tasted so good to me.

“Warn me,” I tell him, “before we see a McDonald’s, okay? I haven’t had chicken nuggets and french fries in
forever
.”

We drive for another good hour before we reach the hunting camp. I gasp when we enter the cabin.

“I’m sorry about the place,” Sean says. “It’s not much, but we should be safe here.”

“No, it’s not that, not at all!” How do I explain to him that this place might as well be a palace, spacious and open, compared to what I’ve been used to? “It’s beautiful, Sean. It’s wonderful.”

The cabin is really an old summer cottage on the lake. It’s rickety and drafty with rattly antique glass windowpanes and a creaky floor. All the furniture is mismatched and mostly homemade, and yet it’s so cozy and adorable. I love it. And there’s plumbing! I squeal with delight at a sink where I don’t have to carry water from a well, and
omigod
, no midnight trips to the outhouse! There’s even a shower right here, and nobody to share it with! A wicked thought crosses my mind, and I turn my head to keep my grin to myself. Nobody to share it with… unless I want to.

Settling in is quick. I have brought nothing with me. Nothing but the clothes I’m wearing which I would gladly set on fire.

“Is that the bed?” I ask, pointing to a bare wooden platform in the corner, too low to be a table. “It looks about as comfortable as what I’m used to.”

“I’ve got an air mattress in the back of the truck, and some sleeping bags.” Sean laughs. “You’ll be comfortable, believe me. I could dump out a whole bag of peas on that platform and you wouldn’t feel a thing, princess.”

There’s a stand by the bed, with a book on it. While Sean brings in the last few things from the Blazer, I have a look at the book. Rather unexpectedly, it’s poetry.
A Choice of Kipling’s Verse
, edited and annotated by TS Eliot. It’s quite old, well-worn and dog-eared, and has notes scrawled throughout. There is a reddish-brown stain on the cover, and along the edge of the pages as well.

“That’s your father’s,” Sean says, putting down his load.

“Poetry?” I never remembered my father as a big reader, but when he did pull out a book it was Tom Clancy or something similar.

Sean smiles faintly at my question.

“Most people, when they think of Rudyard Kipling, only remember
The Jungle Book
, and the cartoon movie, or if they took some lit classes in college they might have read some of the more controversial stuff about colonialism, imperialism, that sort of thing. But he wrote a lot of poetry about war, about war in Afghanistan in particular, and about soldiers. There’s a lot of military folks that read his work.”

“He never talked about it. I never saw him with anything like this.”

“He wouldn’t have.” Sean takes the book gently from my hands, handling it reverently, like a saint’s relic. “This would be a very personal thing for him. These stains? He had this book with him that day. In Fallujah.”

“How do you know?” I ask. “Has he talked about it with you?”

“No,” Sean answers, shaking his head. “I’m making some guesses there, but I don’t think I’m wrong. My father had the same book, carried it with him everywhere when he was at war. It came back to us with his personal effects, after he died. The medics wanted to destroy it as a biohazard, but Dad’s platoon leader knew how important it had been to him, and he made sure it came home.”

“Where is it now?”

“In my sea bag.” Sean nods toward a green canvas bag, a fat sausage form with shoulder straps. “It’s in pretty bad shape. The stains are worse than your father’s. Some pages are almost unreadable, and… I’ve added a few stains of my own to it, too.” Sean’s eyes are far away, clouded by some memory of pain and blood, but he shakes it off, looking back at me with tender eyes. Caring eyes, so at odds with the brutal scars, I don’t have the courage yet to ask about, or the vivid, brilliantly colored tattoos that wind around his arms and onto his shoulders.

“Tell me about my father?” I ask softly. “Please?”

Sean tells me all that he knows about the man that my father is today. How he’s moved in with Sean’s mother, married her even, and I’m so happy for them both. Unlike my mother, so obsessed with purity and sin, and who spent most of the time in an imaginary world of her own making, Sean’s mom is a caring and down-to-earth woman. Even in the depths of grief for her own lost husband, she was still able to be kind to me.

Sean blows up an inflatable bed and we lay side by side as I tell him about my life in the community. Even though he tries to hide it, I see the rage boil inside him. His fists are tight and his shoulders tense up when I tell him about running.

About how the State Police found me, a sixteen-year-old runaway. There’s no way I could have been telling the truth about the abuses that I’d seen and suffered, and returned me straight home. There’s no way I could have been telling the truth, they said.

I tell him about the beating, the bruises that took weeks to fully fade, but which left no permanent damage, and about the week I spent in the penance box.

I fall silent after that, unwilling, perhaps unable, to tell more; to tell him about my
second
run. Sean’s hand on my knee gives me strength. The warmth and caring in his eyes lends me courage.

“I ran on foot that time,” I begin in a voice so flat and dead it could be coming from beyond the grave. “I left from the compound, in the middle of the night.” I’m hardly even in my own body anymore as I recite the rest of the tale, or at least as much of it as I can force myself to remember.

Running away on foot in the middle of the night, fleeing through the woods toward the main road. Standing on the side of the road, thumb out to every passing vehicle and praying for one to stop, but cursing God when the truck that stopped was the wrong one. Sobbing as Brother Lucas and Jeremiah got out of it, trussing me up for the ride back to the compound.

The next day, when Father Emmanuel stood in judgement over me. When my own mother begged for harsher punishment, but in the end, even she blanched at his eventual decision.

I know, intellectually, what happened that sunny afternoon. I
know
that my own mother helped to hold me down for it. I remember the horror in her eyes, and how it changed to righteous rage when Father Emmanuel touched her shoulder and an engine sputtered to life. I
know
that something was driven over my leg to break it, but mercifully, my mind won’t let me face the rest. There’s only a vast, misty gray area after that.

What little I can remember is bad enough, though, and heaving, racking shuddering sobs take away my voice, but Sean’s strong arms ground me and bring me back to Earth.

“And this,” he says, in a voice as cold and implacable as an avalanche rolling downhill, “is how they taught you a
lesson?”

“Yes,” I reply in a tiny voice. “It
drove
the point home, don’t you think?” It’s the standard thing I say, bitter and cynical. It’s a terrible joke. I know it’s a terrible joke. I can’t help it, though. I giggle, and I hate myself for it, but the giggling turns wild and I can’t stop.

Sean’s chest rises under my face as he takes a deep breath in preparation to say something.

“No,” I say, cutting him off before he can speak. “No, no,
no.
Do
not
tell me that it’s normal to laugh about that.” I’m still breathlessly laughing about the terrible joke. Drove the point home! Hyuk-hyuk!

“It is, though.” Sean’s eyes are far away. “It
is
normal. The worst things in life? The hardest things to live with? Those are the things we
have
to laugh at. If we can’t? They’ll eat us alive. Destroy us.”

After that, what else is there to say?

The hours tick away. I’m wrung out, completely. Adrenaline and emotion have left me absolutely drained.

Day fades to dusk, dusk to night, and through it all I stare at his face, studying every detail. Memorizing it. There are so many lines that weren’t there before. Scars. Wrinkles. I wonder if I’ve aged as much but am unable to see it. Somehow time is always gentler with men, it makes them look mature.

It’s been an intense day and despite all my efforts to stay awake and savor it just that little more, I feel myself drifting into sleep.

I don’t fight it. I know I’m safe.

Sean is watching over me.

* * *

L
ying in the shadowy cabin
, watching the last pink glow of sunset fading, I know I’m not going to stay awake for long. I don’t need to. I just need to stay awake until Courtney is completely asleep. It’s been a long day for her, stressful, so she should be deeply gone before too much time passes.

I’m not too worried about any of the assholes from the compound finding us and kicking in the door. There shouldn’t be any reason for them to suspect that I’m involved in this. They might go and have a look at home back in Portland, but there won’t be any sign of Courtney there, and even if they talk to Bill he won’t have any idea what’s going on. Regardless, I sleep lightly enough, wake quickly enough, to deal with any threat that might come through the door, and the big Beretta is close at hand.

Behind me, between me and the wall, Courtney’s breathing is slowly settling into the deeper rhythm of sleep. That’s good. I’m going to be off again soon for my nightly visit with my brothers, and with any luck, I won’t wake her.

The thin walls of the cabin don’t filter out many of the sounds of nature. Crickets chirp, and the bullfrogs from Tilden Pond are particularly loud tonight. Trees whisper to each other, rubbing their leaves and branches together. An off-season spring peeper tries out its voice, heedless of the bats and owls that hunt by ear. A dog barks somewhere as I trudge along that empty street in Sadr City, and the nighttime Iraqi sun beats down on me.

Shit.

I’m not going to bother counting them this time. It doesn’t do any good. Even if they vanish, they’ll still be back just in time to get shot to pieces.

“Smart one, you are,” Saggy approves. “You’re learning.”

When we turn into the alley, I’m point. The guys stack up behind me. I’ll go first. Tinkerbell is behind me, then Mullet and Saggy. Meat follows last with the SAW. I don’t bother with proper clearing procedures, sweeping from right to left while keeping as much cover as possible. Slicing the pie, it’s called. I’m being sloppy. I know better, I know it’s the sort of thing that gets you killed, but I’ve been in this alley so many fucking times that I know exactly where the threat is.

“Lock it up, asshole.” Tinkerbell smacks me in the back of the head, and my boonie hat doesn’t insulate the blow like the Kevlar helmet would. Saggy spits in disgust.

“
G
uys
, just cover me, okay? I’ll give her the target she wants. You guys light her the fuck up. Try not to let me get killed, okay? Stay back here where there’s cover.”

“Fuck it, whatever. Why not? We’ve tried it just about every other way.” Meat is just as philosophical as always.

Once they’ve taken cover as well as they can, I start down the center of the alley. The butt of the M4 is pulled tightly against my shoulder, and as always, I’ve got the red dot centered on the rough-spun black curtain. The thought idly crosses my mind that I wish I had a grenade. Ah, well. Maybe next time I can put in a requisition. No point. It won’t matter.

The curtain flutters again, and the muzzle of that fucking RPK pokes through. I know that when I pull the trigger nothing will happen, but I do anyway. The old Soviet-built machine gun barks and I’m on the ground again with the same two holes in my chest, right through the armor.

My brothers aren’t in their cover anymore either – they’re laying shattered and bleeding where they always are. The same half of Meat’s head is missing, sprayed all over the dusty alleyway.

“C’mon, man,” Meat says, then coughs wetly. Bubbles of blood form on his lips. “You know that nothing ever changes here. You can’t change the past.”

Fuck it. I don’t even bother reaching for the SAW this time. Just let the insurgent girl with the machine gun take me. What the fuck does it even matter? She’s shifting targets now, coming back to me. My brothers are all dead, and I’m the last living thing in this shithole.

My eyes are closed against the brutal sun, and I lie on my back, waiting for the bullets to hammer me into oblivion. It’s no use, I can’t change anything. Why bother trying anymore? When the machine gun fires, I tense in anticipation of the impacts that-- never come. I smell the acrid cordite over the blood and filth of the alley, but now there’s a faint whiff of something else overlaying it – lavender, perhaps, and wildflowers.

The bullets I’m waiting for are deflected away from me. The
spang-ziiiiiip
is the sound of a ricochet off armor. What the hell? There’s no cover here that could stop a BB, never mind bullets. Opening my eyes, the light around me has changed. It’s not the harsh spotlighting of the nighttime sun anymore, leaving stark sharp-edged shadows everywhere. It’s a soft light, filtered through translucent snow-white… feathers? Wings? The firing has stopped, finally.

“Sean?” It’s an angel’s voice. It has to be. Wings, protection. What else could it be?

“Sean, you’re safe. It’s okay.” The wings retract, folding up, but her arms are around me and the angel’s face comes clear. Sun-bleached hair, freckles, bright blue eyes huge with worry. She’s shaking me. What the fuck? You’re not supposed to shake someone with chest wounds. What if shattered ribs puncture a lung, or worse, the heart? “Sean, please wake up!”

T
he nighttime
Iraqi sun winks out, and the bloody alleyway fades again into the darkness of the cabin. The barking dog is gone, and only the crickets and frogs remain.

The angel is still there, though, still with her arms around me.

“Sean? Are you there? Are you okay?”

Shit.

“Yeah. I’m fine. I’m sorry, Courtney. I…I’d hoped that it wouldn’t wake you.” I hate to leave the warm comfort of my sleeping bag. Of her arms around me. I need light, though. I unzip the bag and regretfully pull free of her. The Coleman lantern and matches are by the bed, and a couple pumps and a match bring an actinic white light. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I hear the zipper on her bag open, and the mattress shakes as she moves to sit next to me. Her hand is soft and warm on mine.

“Adjustments,” I say in a shaky voice. “We both have them.”

“Does this happen every night?” There’s no pity in her voice. Only concern. Caring.

“No. Not every night. Most, though. Usually right when I fall asleep, then after that I’m okay.” I scrub at crusty eyes, push a button on my phone to see the time. It’s just past one in the morning.

Courtney squeezes my hand, then her arms are around me again. “When we were little, you were my hero, Sean, and later too, after my father came back from Iraq. After yours…” Her voice trails off, her eyes sad with the memories of those long-ago losses. “And you still are now.
Especially
now. Especially
today
.”

I nod, but with her face pressed into my shoulder I know she can’t see it.

“I’m not a hero, Courtney. I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

“But you’re doing it for
me
. Who else would?” She’s looking at me, all earnest bright blue eyes. Serious eyes. I don’t answer, just look away. She’s seen the weakness now. I’m not supposed to have weakness, not like that. Hold fast indeed.

“Sean. Look at me.” Her voice is forceful, and when I don’t immediately obey her command, she forces compliance with strong fingers. “Do you remember when my dad was in the hospital and I’d stay with you guys? And there were monsters under my bed or in the closet?”

I can’t help but smile at the memory of a much younger Courtney, terrified of monsters. On those long nights when her parents were at the VA hospital, I’d be exasperated at having to hunt monsters, but I did it for her. Every time.

“Yeah, I remember,” I say with a grin. “I never missed one, either – you’re living proof I used to be good at it, but--” My smile fades, I look away. “I don’t think you can just jab a broomstick under my bed to get rid of mine.” And you’ve got a whole new set of your own, too. What kind of asshole would I be to ignore that?

“Maybe not, but I can try. You quieted and stopped thrashing when I touched you. Lie down. Try to get some sleep.” She scoots back to her side of the bed, tugs at my tee shirt to pull me down beside her, to make me the little spoon to her big spoon.

Courtney’s breath is warm on the back of my neck, her arm strong and tight around my chest after she pulls one of the unzipped sleeping bags up over us as a blanket.

“Leave the lamp on. We can get more fuel tomorrow.”

The rise and fall of Courtney’s breasts against my back as she breathes drives home that the little girl I knew is a woman now, and reminds me of the fact that this is the first time I’ve been in bed with a woman for any reason in a very long time. I stuff those thoughts down: only danger lies on that path. Even if she does want to go there, we both have demons we need to deal with.

“Tell me about the monsters, Sean,” she says. “If I’m going to hunt them down, I need to know what they look like.”

I smile at the memory of our old game. She’d describe fearsome creatures with horns and glowing yellow eyes, fur of purple and gold with pink scales. Fangs the length of your arm. One night, she assured me with solemn and serious eyes that there was a monster with twelve mouths in her closet.

May God and Archangel Michael, patron saint of warriors, forgive me, but I tell her. My voice is rusty, hoarse as I speak for the first time to another living soul about the places I’ve been, things I’ve seen. Things I’ve
done
. Things that I’d never expected to talk about to anyone but a brother SEAL, but even then – why would we ever need to talk about it? If he’d been there he’d already know the story. But after the stories she’s shared earlier? This is a strong, tough woman.

I tell her about boot camp at Great Lakes. About my first two years in the Navy as a deck seaman, earning my rate as a Bosun’s Mate. The traditional Navy: knots, boats, the boring stuff like chipping away rust and then repainting, polishing brightwork. Two years of boredom before I got my dream shot: a spot at BUD/S, the US Navy’s Basic Underwater Demolition School at Coronado, California. Basic training for SEALS.

My first tour with SEAL Team THREE as a NUB, a non-useful body. Combat in Iraq and Afghanistan. Kicking doors, never knowing whether there was a family eating dinner inside or a bomb-making factory rigged to explode. I tell her about the RPG explosion that seared my forearm and slashed my cheek, rocket attacks. Patrols. Hunting insurgent leaders in Iraq, and Taliban leaders in the tribal areas of Afghanistan and Pakistan. I tell her about five combat deployments in six years, about three Bronze Stars and a Silver Star. About the Purple Hearts. I tell her about that alley in Sadr City.

Does she understand? There’s no way that she could possibly understand the jargon, the acronyms. She probably doesn’t have a frame of reference for combat. But pain? Fear? Comfort? Courtney understands those things perfectly well, and lying there next to me she takes on as much of the old pain and fear as I can pour out and returns it to me as comfort.

As we go back to sleep, I’m still between her and the door, a physical barrier between her and any unexpected intrusion, any danger. Courtney’s arms around me, her warm softness behind me, are a much more important protection, though. She’s a barrier between me and my ghosts and demons.

When my eyes finally close I do dream, but for once it’s not of the sun-drenched alleyway and my dead brothers. All I see is the bright angel with armored wings and the scent of lavender and wildflowers.

* * *