No Pit So Deep: The Cody Musket Story (6 page)

“I just noticed that your left arm has a fresh bandage on it. It has been bleeding again.” She fidgeted and pretended to take another sip — from an empty cup.

“Yeah, so I see. The EMS guys bandaged it, but it needs stitches.”

“I can take you to a clinic.”

“Nah, I don’t want to get recognized.”

She decided to tread forward on thin ice. “Okay. So would you want to come over to my place and let me bandage it better? It’s the least I can do. I don’t live far.” She sniffled, blotted her eyes again and then snickered at herself.
Did I really invite him over?

Despite her swollen lower lip and bruised neck, her face melted into an amiable smile which lit up her blue eyes and revealed two dimples to complement her delicate pink lips.

He reached toward her cheek. “Your face. It looks —” He hesitated, curled up his fingers, and withdrew.

She swallowed awkwardly. “It’s okay, Cody. What did you start to say?” She reached across the table and took his hand. “Something about my face?” She could no longer feel the chair beneath her or the stinging carpet burns. Could he hear her pounding heart?

His gritty voice finally spit it out. “I’m sorry. I’m not good at sayin’ stuff. I just don’t often see a face that — What I mean is, mostly I’m just around ballplayers with faces about as soft as a steer’s butt, that’s all.”

She wanted to laugh and wanted to cry, but which first? How could he have said that with a straight face? But the straight face seemed to be his natural one. Was it part of his act? In what way would he surprise her next?

“You got a needle and thread?”

“What?” she asked. “Needle and thread?”

“Sure. Can you stitch up my arm?”

“Your arm? Ahhh, I get it. You’re kidding of course.”

“I been sewed up by worse. Don’t want to get infected. Can’t go to a hospital.”

She stared at him like a child who had just discovered the ninth wonder of the world. S
eriously?

They walked toward the exit. Inviting a stranger to her apartment? It was a first. But was he a stranger? He was so seemly, even after the way she had treated him. Why hadn’t he just walked away?

“I live a few blocks from here. We should take a cab. Your identity is our secret.” She took his arm as they walked. “So what was her name — the girl from Erie?”

“Maxine T. Dillahogan.”

It was a short taxi ride to the Mayfield Tower where Brandi lived. Clouds had dissipated. From the window of the cab, they looked across the Allegheny toward a picturesque sunset of blue, red, purple and orange.

They walked through the front door of her stately third-floor apartment just as the sun finally sank. Their shoes were wet so Brandi tossed her flip-flops into the corner and Cody left his tennis shoes by the door.

He took one glance at Brandi’s apartment and told her she would be a sitting duck if she didn’t move out. An amateur intruder could render her security system useless.

“Would you mind if I take a quick shower?” Brandi was apologetic. “I’m not sure I got all the blood out of my hair in the ladies’ room at the mall.”

“Not a problem. I’ll just chill for a few.”

Brandi left the room, and then returned immediately holding a man-size XXL pullover shirt in her hand.

“By the way, your Pirates shirt has blood on the front. I’ll throw it in the washer for you before I step into the shower. Meanwhile, you can wear this.”

She tossed him the pullover. It was knee-length and light blue with the words “I Love The Son” written across the front in white letters. “I wear this around the apartment, and sleep in it sometimes."

“Okay, I’m cool with that.”

He disappeared into the kitchen.

“Cody?”
What’s he doing?

A moment later, he reappeared wearing her pullover and displaying a sheepish expression. He shrugged and handed her the Pirates shirt.

She walked to the washer shaking her head.
Is he that shy?
Most guys would relish the opportunity to show off pectorals that bulge the top of a shirt the way his do.

Cody seated himself on her sofa, removed his right sock and began to scratch until his foot bled. He put his sock back on when he realized he was doing himself bodily harm. He walked to the kitchen to wash blood from his fingernails and then returned to the sofa, leaned his head back, and prayed the angry itch would go away.

In a few minutes, she came back with wet hair, carrying first-aid materials to treat his knife wound. She had exchanged her jersey for a pink blouse and wore red Stanford University Athletic Department knee-length shorts.

She cleaned the wound on his arm and began to cover it with a new bandage.

“Wait,” he said. “Don’t you think it’ll need stitches before you wrap it again?”

“Don't joke, okay?” She put her hands on her hips, hoping this was nothing more than his dry humor.

“Not joking. Can’t go to a clinic tonight. Are you up for it?”

She lost the grin.
Really?

She went back to her bedroom and searched for the needle, thread and other items she would need. It wouldn’t do for him to think she was squeamish.

She returned and sat beside him. "I have this spray the EMS crew gave me for the pain, but I don't think it's gonna help much.
Oh God, please don’t let him see my hand shaking.

“You want me to thread the needle for you?” He held out his palm. Her face was flushed as her cold fingers handed him the needle and spool of thread.

“My father is a retired Marine,” she said as she pierced his arm for the first stitch. “He was awarded a Purple Heart during Desert Storm and retired four years ago with the rank of captain.” Her mouth was dry and fatigue was sneaking up on her.

“Sounds like a guy I need to meet.”

She winced. “He and my mother will be here later. They live in Altoona. I told them what happened.” If she could keep talking, maybe it wouldn’t seem so awkward sewing up a man’s arm.

When she had finished, she needed to walk for a minute to settle her nerves. She shuffled around the end of the bar to her stereo receiver, tuned it to K-LOVE Radio, positioned the volume control to low, and then softened the lights in the room.

She ambled over to a window, parted the blinds, and glanced down at the street below. Something caught her attention.

“Come take a look,” she said nervously. "What do you make of those four guys down there?” She stepped aside and held the blinds open for him. He walked over and looked through the opening.

“Those guys dressed in black? Standing under that streetlight? Looks like they’re breaking up their powwow and moving away.”

She took another look. “Sorry, Cody. I’m paranoid, but they looked suspicious to me. I think you're right about this place."

“Who could blame you?” he asked rhetorically. “I doubt they would put together another hit team tonight. Those things take planning, but you're not safe here. Maybe you should come to the hotel tonight. Our team security is tight there. Next week, you can find a safer place to live."

She crossed her arms. "The hotel? With you?"

“I didn’t mean that like it sounded. I could get a room for you and your parents near where our ball club is staying."

“We just met, and you’re inviting me to the hotel? Didn’t you just say they wouldn’t put together another hit team tonight?”

He went back to the sofa and sat down. “You can’t be too safe,” he said. “You just never know.” He subconsciously scratched his foot again.

“I don’t mean to pry, but you seem to be uncomfortable. Are you injured in some other way? I mean, you’re scratching pretty hard.” She walked to the kitchen and retrieved two bottles of cool water from the fridge.

"I had a mishap in Afghanistan. It itches during the summer months, 'specially when I encounter stress.”

“So why don’t you wear flip-flops and shorts in the heat when you aren’t playing baseball? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“Hmmm. If my feet were as beautiful as yours, I would.”

She grinned. “Well, see there? You
can
compliment someone when you want to. Uh, what’s wrong with your feet?” She covered her mouth. “Whoops. I’m sorry, it’s none of my —”

"Bad scars from the knees down on both legs. My teammates are used to it, but I don’t like to go public with it, especially around strangers.”

“Both legs?” She smiled softly. “Well, it couldn’t be
that
bad. I have something that might stop the itching.”

Brandi displayed a small jar with a nifty blue label. “It’s called Blue Tech Dermis. I know a surgeon who's using it to heal scars after plastic surgery. I used it after my shower, and the carpet burns feel a million times better.”

“Yeah? I’d give 'bout anything to lose the misery.”

Just then she noticed his right sock had blood on the sides. Her curiosity compelled a desire to reach down and yank it off his foot, but she fought the urge. What manner of four-year-old scars could possibly torture a man enough that he would gouge himself with his own fingernails?

“Okay,” she said quietly. “So…so would you mind if I have a look? I could put some of this on the scars and try to make you more comfortable.”

He lowered his eyes. “Well, sometimes the scar tissue doesn’t smell very fresh after a hot day, if you catch my drift.” He made a fanning motion in front of his nose.

“That’s no problem. Hang on!” She bounced into the kitchen again and returned with a cool, wet towel and a small basin. She took a seat on the coffee table directly in front of him and displayed the towel. “I can take care of that easily.”

“Well —” He glanced at her grandfather clock in the corner. “I s'pose…”

He hesitated too long. It was easy to see he didn't share her enthusiasm. Brandi knew more than her share about men. Would he dare let her touch upon his vulnerability — wounds that caused pain of both body and soul, an area he preferred to keep hidden?

“You’ll have to forgive me, Cody. I have the habit of just jumping right in when it’s none of my business. When I was in college, the girls in my dorm placed a warning sign outside my door that said,
'It’s best just to be yourself, but not when talking to Brandi.'
Someone even suggested I join a convent and take a vow of silence.”

He was quiet, contemplative.

“Well, anyway,” she sighed, “if you change your mind. . .”

“No, no.” He hesitated. “I think…I would like that.” The sight of her cool, dripping towel had broken through his defenses. His howling puppies craved relief.

"Now you're talking." Her eager smile preceded her as she lifted his right foot and placed it on the pillow next to her. But then his drawn face told her he had second thoughts.

Brandi made eye contact and pretended she had known him always. “You said it made you uneasy around strangers, Cody. I don’t want us to be strangers. I want us to be friends."

She slowly pulled the top of his sock down and watched his eyes. His reticent face began to soften, and he closed his eyelids.

She finished removing his sock and gently rolled up the leg of his jeans past his knee. The burn scars were red, uneven, twisted, and stretched. The top of his foot resembled the dark side of the moon — ridges, valleys, and craters.

He opened his nervous eyes and watched hers for a reaction. She smiled as if she had uncovered his glory and not as though she had exposed a weakness.

Brandi bathed and dried his disfigured skin. Then, she began to massage the Blue Tech into his foot and lower leg. His gray, sharpened face warmed and began to look human.

"Cody, how often do you scratch yourself ‘til you bleed? I don't see you playing baseball if your feet get infected."

"They started itchin' again tonight after we left the theater."

"So the violent encounter triggered something?"

He put his hand over his forehead. "Certain things set me off, and . . .”

Hesitation telegraphed his reluctance to proceed, so she stepped in. “Um, these burns must have been painful. Would you tell me how this happened?” Her wistful countenance was coaxing, reassuring.

Cody didn’t know what to make of her. Was he now seeing the real Brandi Barnes? This one was caring, caressing, tenderly persuasive and not repulsed by his ugly wounds. Her radiant blue eyes were windows into a pure soul and a valiant heart.

Was it finally time to tell someone his story? She put him at ease, this brave woman with the soft, healing hands who jeopardized her safety to fight for children and whose father had won a Purple Heart in battle.

He leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes again. “Four years ago, 17 May, I took off in my F/A-18D Hornet from the USS
Harry Truman
in the North Arabian Sea at zero-eight-hundred. My weapons officer Harry Stanton, call sign 'Seismo,' flew in the backseat. We headed to our rendezvous with a KC-10 tanker to refuel, and then flew to the hills north of Helmand Province in Afghanistan."

Cody stopped. Uncertainty paralyzed his tongue. She nudged him forward with an empathetic nod and confident smile, her hands no longer cold like when he had first met her.

He told her about the failure of the SEALs’ mission due to their blown cover, and about losing the survivors of the Chinook crash to the Taliban.

His voice increased in volume. His brow became speckled with tiny droplets as he told every detail about the low-level strafing run, the bodies on the hillside, the explosion under his foot, and the harrowing high-speed pancake plunge into the sand.

“It’s nearly impossible to bring a Hornet down with any handheld weapon. We never figured out what went wrong. I set a thirty-million-dollar jet down in the desert. We came to rest in one piece, but my foot and leg were cooked.”

Brandi was spellbound, her hands now motionless, resting on his right foot.

“Seismo was seriously hurt. He…he had a head injury.” Cody's right hand, so stable earlier, was shaking as he lifted the water bottle to his dry lips again.

Brandi didn't want to make a sound, but anticipation got the best of her. “Cody?" she asked quietly. "What happened to Seismo?"

He put his hand over his face. He could not bring himself to tell her about the children. The scars on his back began to itch as perspiration made the shirt cling to his skin.

"Cody, you don’t have to tell me about your friend. It's okay." His face was ashen. He wasn’t just telling his story. He was reliving it.

“Do you mind if I look at your other leg?” Brandi hoped she could bring life back to his face again. Her voice was hoarse, tender, mesmerizing. He motioned her to go ahead.

She spoke at barely above a whisper as she rolled up the other leg of his jeans. "I read that you surrendered to the Taliban. Why? Can you share that part?"

Brandi washed and caressed the scar on his left leg. It was long, jagged, ghastly. It began at his toes and extended up the outside of his leg to above his knee. A separate scar just above the knee ran horizontally through the vertical one, thus forming a cross.

He cleared his throat. “I spent the night jammed up against a cliff with the SEAL team. At zero-seven-hundred the next morning, we spotted about fifty Taliban bearing down on us. It was just a matter of minutes before they would find us. ETA for air support was one hour — not nearly soon enough.” He exhaled heavily.

“That’s when I came up with a plan to walk toward the Taliban and surrender. It's a big deal for them — capturing a downed pilot. I thought it would create a diversion so the SEALs could quietly relocate to a secure place.” His eyes had now refocused.