Promises to Keep (7 page)

Jack
frantically went through his duffle bag.

Where
is it, where is it, where is it?

He decided
to retrace his steps. He’d gone to
the MWR tent (Moral Welfare
Recreation) at three A.M. this morning to talk to his sister, so he strode off
there to check. He pulled back the canvas flap and found that the tent was
empty at this hour, which was good.

Last
night he’d come in on a horny, lonely Marine who’d been jacking off during
phone sex with his girlfriend—at least Jacked hoped it was
his
girlfriend and not somebody else's.

He
scanned the area. Let’s see… folding chairs, sat phones, dirt floors—no ring.

For
a moment he smiled, recalling the conversation he’d had in the early hours of
the morning. His younger sister had been upbeat and exuberant on the phone.

Sally
had started a business with her long-term girlfriend and lover, Clare, who they’d
both nick-named “Clare-bear.”

Their
new company, a personal concierge business, had been appropriately named “The
Help.” Sal and Clare-bear did everything from picking up dry-cleaning, walking
the dog and reminding their clients of appointments.

To
Jack’s utter joy, his sister was now rolling in cash and she and her girlfriend
were having a wonderful time, taking on new employees and building the business.
They had more work than they could cover.

“When
you come home you should join us,” she’d said with a flippant laugh, but Jack
knew that her offer was genuine. “Together we’ll build a dynasty.”

Jack
had spent an enjoyable yet intense hour telling Sally all about Bob Wynn, the
ring, Laura and their ongoing correspondence. Sal had heartily approved in
their tacit agreement to only write about joyous subjects that made them both feel
upbeat, especially considering the circumstances—him in a war and her having
lost a husband.

Jack
knew about Laura’s miscarriage, but other than that, they had shared very
little personal information. His little sister told him that this was more than
a bit odd.

“But
you know virtually nothing about the woman! She could be eighteen
—or
even forty-five for that matter.”

He
snorted. “So what? I’m thirty-two, but I could be over fifty myself. Or be bald
and have a hunchback, as far as she knows. It doesn’t matter. I know enough to
like her.”

Sal
couldn’t believe it when Jack told her that they sent each other hand written
letters via “snail mail” that took several weeks to arrive.

“Why
can’t you simply email each other, like normal people do?” she’d asked him.

“I
dunno. Maybe Laura doesn’t have a computer.”

“You
didn’t ask?”

“No.”
 Sal snorted her derision and disbelief. “What kind of person is so broke that they
don’t even have a computer or the time or ability to access a public one?”

It
was a good question. One Jack didn’t have an answer for. Meanwhile he’d raved
on and on about Bob’s widow, surprising himself and also fully beginning to realize
just how important she’d become to him.

“It
sounds like you have a serious hard-on for this girl,” she’d said.

“Christ
on a crutch, Sal. Tell it like it is, why don’t you?”

“I
always tell it like it is.”

“It
feels good, but it feels so wrong, too. It’s only been a few months since her
husband died.”

“Well,
he has no use for her now, does he?”

“Sal!”

“It’s
true. If you two have a thing for each other, why let that go to waste? That
would be a greater wrong to my way of thinking. Don’t you realize that there’s
a war on? Life’s too short to dick around, Jack. Besides, mom would be happy
for you.”

These
words had clinched it.

Mom
would be happy.

He and
Sal both missed their mom desperately. Their older brother, Tommy, had been
captain of the football team and prom king. Dad adored Tommy, talked about all
his achievements non-stop, and neglected anyone else in the family.

Jack
had been driven academically and couldn’t compete with Tommy in sports—so he didn’t
even try. And Sally? Well, Sally liked women, so that put her completely off
dad’s radar.

After
mom died, Tommy was the undisputed “King” of the family, right until he got dad
to invest in a sports store after he graduated from high school. Years of being
handsome and making everything “glow” right with a testosterone-filled smile,
didn’t work in the real world it seemed.

Tommy
managed to go bankrupt, losing dad and mom’s life savings.

After
recovering from his resentment, Jack felt sorry for Tommy. It must be difficult
to have your life peak in high school. He'd been flying high, seemingly able to
do no wrong. Prom King, MVP of every game, kicker of every winning goal, wanted
by every woman and his dad's favorite.

Tommy’s
mind was stuck in all of the achievements in his past. He couldn’t move on.
Unfortunately for him there was nowhere to go but down.

Jack’s
older brother felt invincible. Success in everything had come easily to
him—throughout his teens and adolescence. However, in the real world, things
were very different. Outside of school, he was just another pretty face—one of
millions. His earlier accolades meant nothing.

Now
the only love he and his dad shared was a mutual love of beer.

Shaking
his head, Jack put those memories away. He and Sally said their good byes, and
he’d returned to his tent to sleep.

But where
had he left that dammed ring?

Jack
strode back to his quarters and checked everything once more, this time with
meticulous care so that he knew with absolute certainty that it wasn’t there.
Then he re-checked himself.

He'd
already gone through his pockets a dozen times.

He'd
found lint, bandages, pencils, pens, two pairs of scissors he's thought he'd
lost, and innumerable amounts of those plastic discs called "pogs"
that the post exchange used for change.

Pogs
had something to do with a combination of the military not wanting to ship the
weight of heavy coins into the war zone, and wanting to minimize the amount of
American currency that might fall into enemy hands.

This
amused the troops to no end. The government worried about the insurgents having
nickels and dimes when the very same government offloaded twenty dollar bills
by the pallet load into the local economy.

The
pogs were colorful, had various patriotic and "homey" scenes printed
on them. They came in five, ten, and twenty five cent denominations. They were
good for buying a coke, or a pack of gum at the exchange trailers in every base,
but they were not in any way, shape or form, a plain gold ring.

Dammit!

Jack
wracked his brain.

He'd
had it yesterday, as usual in his left breast pocket. He swore to himself that
he'd taken it out before he took his dirty clothes over to the propane heated
fifty gallon drums, the containers that served as a clothes wash station.

With
dogged determination, Jack went back there and searched the ground around the
drums with the fastidiousness of someone afflicted with obsessive-compulsive
disorder.

When
that proved fruitless, he tipped each of the drums over, spilling their suds
all over the dusty sand—much to the annoyance of an unhappy supply sergeant who
was watching his actions.

Taking
his time, Jack carefully and methodically search inside each drum.

Still
no ring.

Stomach
churning, heart pounding, Jack was sick with himself. It was the last wish of a
dying man
—a man he'd been responsible for. Like some irresponsible
six-year old, he'd lost it.

I’ve
fucking lost it.

Jack
made a pledge to honor Bob's dying wish and even though she didn't know it yet,
he'd also made a promise to Laura that he'd bring Bob's ring back to her. He
was a man of his word, and by God, he was going to carry out that promise.

In
desperation, he went to the washed out, dusty, olive colored trailer that
served as a field expedient morgue.

Gray-green
insulated walls hid a stainless steel interior lined with man-sized shelves.
With the usual dark, battlefield humor, the Marines called it "the meat
wagon."

There
was only a single body bag inside
—it had been a light day.
Jack unlocked the trailer and opened the door.

A
blast of cold air hit him, instant relief from relentless desert heat
—
except
that it smelled of burned meat, mixed with sickly sweet formaldehyde.

Jack
knew where the body was. After all, he'd put it there.

He
located the zipper on the thick rubberized canvas and pulled. The bag split
open like an alien seed pod from a horror movie. He took an involuntary step
back at the sight within.

The
Marine in the bag had been shot in the face.

Just
when he thought he was getting used to it—too used to it—reality would kick him
in the nuts, hard. Just as it did at this moment, Jack frequently found himself
pulled back into the humanity that he so often felt, and feared, was slipping
away from him.

He'd
read about it, he'd even seen it himself—that people who see horrible things
every day find that they have to put their normal and natural emotions behind
them. They have to compartmentalize their feelings from the job they have to
do.

Otherwise
they couldn't do the job.

All
too often, this made people numb over time and they had difficulty feeling at
all. If a person pushed the human side of themselves so far, so deep into that
separate compartment of their mind, they sometimes never get it back.

That
Jack could still react emotionally to a dead body, even one he was expecting to
see, told him that he was not too far gone—
yet.
It gave him a weird
degree of relief.

Most
of the insurgent snipers couldn't hit the broad side of a barn, but recently
they had foreigners, veterans from places like Bosnia and Chechnya come to join
the Jihad. These new enemies were skilled and could hit a soldier right through
the left lens of his sunglasses.

Jack
sighed as he looked down at the man. The left side of his face held a serene,
almost peaceful expression.

The
right side was a ruin.

Amazingly
he'd lived long enough to arrive at Jack's tent, borne by a frantically driven
truck. He was gone before Jack was able to get a good look at him. As a doctor,
the only thing he’d been able to do for him was sign his death certificate.

Jack
pulled the canvas aside and saw the ring square on the dead man's chest,
glittering in the antiseptic fluorescent lights above. He picked it up and read
the name inscribed on the inside. It was most definitely Bob's ring.

Sunlight
flooded the trailer as the door opened.

"I'd
never thought you'd be the one I'd find grave robbing."

Jack
turned. Lieutenant Dwight LaGuardia stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the
light outside.

"Can't
rob a grave where there isn't one."

"So
you say," Dwight smirked. "What have you got there, sir?"

"If
it's any of your business, it's a personal effect that I must have dropped into
the bag when I tucked him in."

Dwight
stepped further into the trailer. The door closed behind him. "I see. Most
irregular and I'm afraid I'll have to put you on report."

"Report,"
Jack said flatly. "Really? Does anyone even say that anymore? You sound
like the tough guy in a Star Trek movie. What the Hell are you going to report
about?"

Dwight
sneered down his nose. "I caught you red-handed. Stealing valuables from a
casualty is a courts martial offense. I'm surprised you'd risk your freedom and
career over a simple ring that's not worth more than a couple of hundred dollars."

"The
ring is mine." Jack walked up to the shorter, younger man. "It must
have slipped into—wait, how did you know it was a ring?"

It
was Dwight's turn to be blindsided. "I...just guessed—"

"No,
you didn't just guess." Jack grew angry.

Had
Dwight stolen it? Had he planted it on the dead soldier? He couldn't have known
what it meant to him. He couldn't have known he'd tear up the whole damned camp
looking for it—could he? Had Dwight expected that Jack would end up rummaging
through a body bag to look for it?

His
eyes narrowed as he glared at Dwight. "You know exactly what it was
because
you
put it there."

"No...no...I
just—"

"You
stole my ring and stuffed it into a body bag just to fuck with me, didn't
you?"

White-faced,
it was clear that Dwight was really getting uncomfortable. Turning Dwight's
accusation of theft back on him, was obviously not what he'd expected when he'd
barged into the back of the meat wagon.

"Did
you go through my things? What else did you steal? Do I have to count my money
too?"

"No!
I—"

Pushing
in close, Jack backed Dwight against the cold wall, standing nose to nose.
Dwight's guilty eyes were open wide. It was plain that his confidence had
turned to surprise, and surprise to fear.

Jack
could tell, just by looking into his quivering expression, that he’d finally
got the obnoxious twit where he wanted him.

"You
took my ring and now you're going to go straight to the stockade." Jack
didn't have a clue what a ‘stockade’ was or even if there was a single one in a
thousand miles, but the threat sounded satisfyingly ominous.

Dwight
must have thought so too. He looked petrified. "I didn't steal it, I found
it—on the ground, out by the washbasins. I thought it belonged to this guy and
so I tucked it into the bag."

"Well,
that was pretty stupid. It could have belonged to anyone. Ever think that there
might be a reason why a ring would be lying out by the washbasins? Ever think
that somebody might have taken it off to—oh, I don't know—wash their
hands?"

"I
didn't think—" Dwight stammered.

"That's
your problem, you don’t think. You're so wrapped up in your own little
self-righteous world, where you’ve decided everybody else is so damned stupid,
and you are so damned brilliant and above it all. You can't even imagine that
there might be anything out there that you can't understand or know
about."

Jack
grabbed the man’s shirt. His hand closed into a fist against Dwight's chest as
he pushed him into the frozen meat wagon wall,
hard.
"Well you
don't know half the shit you think you do. You'd be better listening a lot more
and running your mouth a lot less. Got it?"

"Yes,
I got it."

"Yes,
I got it what?"

"Yes,
I got it, sir."

Jack
backed off and pointed towards the door. "Get out of my face and find
something useful to do."

Dwight
ran out into the daylight and Jack watched him go. He reminded himself to
collect any other keys to the meat wagon, so he and Chief were the only two
people with access.

Satisfied
and relieved, Jack calmly walked out of the trailer and shut and locked the
door behind him.