Sandra Hill (8 page)

“Spinach.” Sammy’s voice held all the disdain a five-year-old could muster.

He laughed to himself. He wasn’t too fond of spinach himself.

“And white worms.”

“Bean sprouts,” Madrene corrected.

“And she hit me just ’cause I pissed in her cat’s dish. Then she hit me ’cause I said her cat looks like a fat hairy hog. Then she hit me ’cause I tol’ her you prob’ly screwed five hundred women and didn’t even remember my mother. Then she hit me just ’cause I farted in the grocery store.”

“I did not hit you, you snotling. I just swatted your little arse with my palm.” It wasn’t like Madrene to lose her temper like this around Sammy. It must have been a particularly bad day.

“And what’s with this Scary Larry guy?” Sammy continued. “He looks like he eats little kids for breakfes’. Shiiit! What kinda father sends a scary monster to watch his kid?”

Zach had to smile. Wilson could be a little, well, scary, even to adults. The man never smiled, and he had strange grayish green eyes that sort of looked through a person, like ice.

“And I don’t need no watchin’ anyways. I can take care of myself. I been doin’ it for a long time.”

Oh, yeah! Six months is a long time. And you weren’t alone, kiddo. You were with good ol’ grandad.

He heard shuffling sounds then as Madrene took the phone from Sammy.

“You best come home
now
, you lustsome knave, or I will be paddling your arse, too,” she said, banging down the phone.

Zach headed off then for home and the madness that had become his life.

Children are a gift? Says who?…

Samir lay in his bed, eyes scrunched shut, arms arranged at his sides, like a corpse, pretending to take a nap. It was a trick his cousin Taj had taught him one time, ’cept they had been pretending to be dead in case the Evil Americans attacked.

He still could not get used to the idea that he was part American. Did that mean he was evil, too?

Maybe, praise Allah, my father will forget some of the things I did today if I “sleep” long enough.

Despite his protests, he knew Zach was his father. Even before he’d been shown photographs by Grandmother Floyd—or Nana as she’d told him to call her—he’d known the truth. His Grandfather Arsallah had slapped him every time Samir reminded him that he was half-American, whether it be the color of his eyes, or a slip into the English language, or mention of his mother, whose name was not allowed to be spoken. Because of the way his grandfather treated him, his uncles and cousins felt free to treat him just as badly, or worse.

A bastard, that’s what I am. Don’t matter what my father says ’bout me bein’ his son. I’m just a dirty little bastard. I don’t care if no one likes me. I don’t care if my father likes me.

Sometimes he wondered why his grandfather wanted him back so bad. He’d never acted like he cared when Samir had been there.

And his father would be giving him up soon. Samir knew better than to get too close. He knew he was on his own. He had been for a long time, even when his mother had been alive. She’d said she loved him, but most times she paid more attention to her fighting pals than she did to him. She died on his birthday.

“Sammy.”

It was his father opening the bedroom door. Samir shut his eyes tighter and braced himself for the slap or punch that was sure to come. Or even worse, a whip. Oh, he hoped it wouldn’t be a whip.

The mattress shifted as his father sat down on the bed. “You’ve had quite a day today, haven’t you, kiddo?”

Samir was confused. Why wasn’t his father yelling? Why was his voice so soft? A trick…it was probably a trick.
I am not going to talk. If he thinks I am asleep, he will go away. I hope.

“Why do you do all these snotty things?”

Because I like to?

“Do you want me to think you’re bad?”

I am bad, bonehead. Didja forget I’m half-American?

“I’m thinking about taking you to a psychiatrist. That’s a…uh, head doctor.”

Oh, no, you don’t. No one’s cuttin’ up my head.

“There’s got to be some reason why you’re acting out like this. I can’t believe you would want to go back to your grandfather.”

Where else would I go?

“As far as I can tell, you weren’t treated very well in his camps.”

What do you know, Mr. Pretty Boy? Where were you when my mother died? Where were you when my grandfather’s men killed my nanny and dragged me into the desert?

“You do know that your mother wanted you to come live with me, don’t you?”

Why is he talking? Why isn’t he hitting me? That’s what everyone does when I do something bad. Even when I don’t do anything bad.

“Are you testing me? Trying to see how far you can push me before I explode? Ah, I can see by the flickering of your eyelashes that I’m getting close. Do you want me to explode? Then you can blame it all on me?”

Explode? My father exploding? Yeech, I don’t want any guts on me. What’s that name for what happens when a body explodes? Oh, yeah. Pink mist. That’s just what it looks like, too.

“I’m running out of people to take care of you when I’m at work. I don’t want to send you away, but I’ll have to if you don’t shape up.”

See. Only two weeks and he’s ready to send me away.

He heard his father sigh heavily before saying, “I’m hungry. I’m thinking pizza, Pepsi, and a video game before bed. But you’re probably too tired to get up. Maybe I’ll save you a cold piece for breakfast. Unless you would prefer more spinach salad.”

Pizza…my favorite! He’s gonna eat my favorite food while I’m sleeping. What a pig!

Samir cracked open one eyelid. His father was already headed toward the door.

“Okay,” he said, sitting up.

He expected his father to smirk when he turned around or say something nasty, but all he said was “Okay what?”

“Okay, I’ll eat if I have to.”

“Have to?”

“I’m not playin’ that
Dora the Explorer
game, though, I’ll tell you that right now. What do you think I am? A baby? I wanna play
Firing Range: Blood and Guts
.”

His father laughed. “In your dreams, short stuff.”

Samir made a face, but he kinda liked it when his father called him “short stuff.” He said it in a way that Samir thought other fathers might talk to their sons. “How ’bout
Ghosts and Ghoulies
?”

“Give me a break.”

“I still hate you.”

“That’s just great.

Samir stood and adjusted his shorts.

“What’s wrong?”

He continued to pull at the waist and legs of his shorts. “Those stupid Superman underpants you bought me are stuck in my crack.”

“Way more intel than I need to know! What did you wear when you were in Afghanistan?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Nope. When you gotta piss in the middle of a firefight, you don’t wanna take the time to pull your underwear down.”

His father’s jaw dropped open.

“What do
you
do in the middle of a battle?”

“I wear underwear, and don’t you dare try going commando around here. You’ll give Madrene a heart attack, and the little girls in the neighborhood will be filing sexual harassment lawsuits.”

“That witch needs a heart attack. An’ all the little girls round here are nothin’ but whiny-ass split tails.” Anyhow, that’s what his uncles called most girls.

“That was not nice.”

He shrugged.

“Were you around actual fighting very much?”

“There was always bombs and guns goin’ off. Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam! Never knew when one would hit. A bomb hit our house one night. Ka-boom! Then we lived in a cave.”

His father stared at him as if he might be thinking about hugging him.

Samir ducked around him and started down the stairs.

“Kid, you’re gonna be the death of me yet.”

A woman can have multiple WHAT?…

Britta was facing a difficult dilemma, unlike any she’d ever experienced afore.

Should she attempt to go back to the place where she’d fallen off the cliff, knowing it would mean a life in the nunnery? If reversal of this bizarre experience was even possible.

And if she could go back, should she just yield to her father’s demand that she accept wedlock to one of his toadish puppets?

Or should she take up Zack-hairy’s offer to deliver her to Hilda and her sanctuary here? That would mean she was depending on another person; she misdoubted Hilda and her women needed her warrior skills here.

Or should she continue to participate in this strange female unit, the WEALS? It would be difficult, but really, it was what she was: a fighter.

Sad of mood, Britta began to think she really had died when she’d gone over that cliff. She just could not credit Zack-hairy’s time-travel theory.

But then the paths of destiny were in the hands of the Norns, beyond the comprehension of mere humans. Besides, the Norse culture was an ancient one, steeped in fanciful notions: gods, spells, trolls, giants, dwarves, sea serpents and other fierce creatures, Valhalla with its golden halls, the Valkyries themselves. But this was even more incredible than all the sagas.

Let tomorrow bring what it will,
she finally concluded.

America was an enchanted land where carriages carried people without the use of horses, where metal structures flew across the skies, where water flowed freely inside buildings, where rooms were lit not by candle or torch but tiny magic wall levers, where women had little cylinders of fiber which they inserted inside their bodies to collect their monthly flows, where women’s arses were tattooed, where tiny pellets could be swallowed every day to prevent a man’s seed from taking root in a woman’s womb.

Then there was the food in this land. So much of it and so varied! People ate here for pleasure, not just to fill empty stomachs. She could love this land for its chocolate alone. Chocolate cake. Chocolate pie. Chocolate cook-hes. Hot chocolate beverage. Chocolate sweetmeats, known as fudge. Chocolate iced cream.

And, finally, it was a land of freedom and equality for all, even women. A land where women could have multiple orgy-as-hims, whilst a man could only have one.
Finally some fairness in this world!

When Zack-hairy had mentioned orgy-as-hims to her earlier today, she had not known what he meant. She did now. Since then, the women had spoken at length about their various orgy-as-hims. Explosions, splinterings, heated frenzies, shatterings…all confusing terms, except for the fact that the women liked these orgy-as-hims. Immensely. Despite being a virgin at her advanced age of twenty and seven, it did not take long for her to comprehend the idea of a pleasure so intense it was like a little death. Apparently these orgy-as-hims were best delivered in the company of a man.

Right now, it was hardly dark, but she and the women who shared her sleeping chamber were all talked out and preparing for bed. They would have to get up very early, but especially her as punishment for fornicating with the pretty lout…which she had not even done, let alone have an orgy-as-him.

As the women continued to talk on this subject, Britta said, “By Odin, I vow, I am going to have one of those someday.”

They all looked at her, dumbfounded, then laughed. Her partner, Terri, gave her a one-armed hug and whispered in her ear, “Honey, you and I are going to have such fun!”

She hoped so, because thus far her experiences had been far from fun, more like torture.

Britta wore a long sleeping shirt of Terri’s, which would have hung down to Terri’s calves but hit midthigh on her. In the front was a painting of a frog with its middle finger raised. It must be some odd hand signal in this country.

Terri had been a physical education teacher in a school for young adults, called a high school. She had been a gymnast in her earlier years. Gymnasts were people who bent their bodies in various contorted ways, for what reason Britta had yet to fathom. Although she had now seen thirty winters, Terri claimed to still be able to do a “kick arse backbend,” which was apparently a much-to-be-desired talent in this country. Britta vowed to try this, as well.

“Now dish, girl, what’s with you and that pretty SEAL? Man, I wouldn’t mind him putting his boondockers under my bed.” Terri waggled her eyebrows at Britta.

The other three ladies in the room—there were four pallets in each sleeping chamber—agreed.

Donita Leone, a tall, slim woman with ebony skin and tight black curls like a cap, said, “I heard that Lieutenant Floyd is the poster boy for hottie Navy SEAL…you know, screw everything with breasts.

Britta gave Donita her full attention. “I have noticed that Zack-hairy and some of the other leaders carry the title lewd-tenant. Is that not an odd choice of naming? Though perhaps not so much for the pretty boy with the lewd fingers.”

“Huh?” Donita said.

Terri had told Britta earlier that Donita was an aging—at twenty-seven—Olympic swimmer who had suffered a great scandal years ago when she was accused of “drugging,” whatever that was…a form of cheating. The Olympics were something like the old Greek games. The charges had been proven false but never lived down. In recent years, she had been diving from a high board through fire into a pool of water at circus events. That was something Britta would like to see.

The fourth woman, Marie Delacroix—a Cay-jun, just like Cage, whom she’d met afore—summed up the questions for everyone. “Did ya do the deed with the pretty bad boy,
chère
?” Marie, a Marine, was the only one of them with previous military experience, except for Britta. She had good reason to want to fight terrorists, her father having been one of those affected by a bombing that took place at some far-famed towers.

Britta was fairly certain she knew what “the deed” meant, having been accused of and punished for it by the commander. “I did no such thing, even though the rogue has tried repeatedly.”

“Whoa! You knew Lieutenant Floyd before?” Terri asked.

“I met him and some of his comrades-in-arms—Torolf, JAM, Geek, and Cage—two years ago.” Britta was unsure of her position here in America, and some instinct warned to be careful how much of her past she exposed. “In the Norselands.”

“And he tried to jump your bones?” Terri asked.

“Nay, he ne’er tried to hurt me.”

Terri shook her head as if Britta were unbelievable. “Did he try to make love with you?”

“Yea, Zack-hairy did try to lure me to his bed furs. To no avail.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake? Are you…were you…married?”

“Nay.”

“Engaged?”

“Dost mean betrothed? Nay.”

“Are ya gay, darlin’?”

“Betimes. But what has my gaiety to do with anything?”

Marie giggled and said, “I don’t think she understands. Gay means a lesbian, a woman who loves women, not men.”

At first, Britta frowned. Then she understood. She had heard of such women but never met any. “Nay.”

“Don’t you think he’s good-looking?”

“Hah! He is so good-looking he makes my bones ache.”

“Holding out for love?”

“Of course not. At my advanced age, I am long past dreaming of those softer sentiments.” Well, that was not quite true. Betimes Britta ached deep in her shuttered soul, but she had learned to ignore the pain.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty and seven.”

“Good Lord! And you think that’s old?”

She shrugged. “I concede, I am not yet in my dotage. Still…”

“Is it like a religious thing? No sex before marriage?”

She shook her head. “’Tis not that, precisely. What bothers me most about Zack-hairy…Lewd-tenant Floyd…is that he waves his manpart hither and yon. I suspect he has swived an army of women. Just like my father and brothers. They tup anything in a gunna that walks by with no care for the many by-blows they produce.”

They all nodded their understanding.

As they bedded down, dark now, conversation evolved to other subjects, mostly involving the grueling days ahead in WEALS. Cushioned by these newfound friends, Britta resolved to make this, WEALS, her new life path. And as for the soul-ache, she had survived worse.

I like your sugar, cookie…

“I don’t know but I been told,”
the women running on the beach sang out lyrics in what Britta had come to recognize as grody jody calls. What an odd military they had in this country that sang as they performed battle exercises.

“Navy men are mighty bold,”
Terri, her swim partner, called out the cadence.

“Navy men are mighty bold.”
The rest of them repeated the refrain.

The five SEAL instructors who were leading the WEAL program wanted them to sing traditional Navy running songs, but the women had their own ideas.

The men, damn their hides, barely broke a sweat on these long runs. In truth, she suspected they slowed themselves down so the women could keep up. The whole time the women ran their hearts out, the instructors trotted amongst them, making both encouraging and harassing remarks.

At first it was difficult to sing and run, huffing and puffing, at the same time, but Britta along with the other women—those who had not yet “rung out”—were better able to perform various tasks at the same time after several days of brutal torture of their bodies, that torture taking the name of PE, or physical education.

The only one unaffected by the excessive running was the nimble-footed Donita, who ran like the wind, her long legs nigh flying over the sand. The rest of them staggered by the end of the ridiculously long runs. “For strength and endurance,” their instructors kept saying. Britta girded herself with resolve to persevere, but she was not sure how much longer she could endure the pain. Leastways, for now, she could run and sing at the same time, and that was no small thing.

“But Navy women are better than gold.”

“But Navy women are better than gold.”

“They can fight and they can flirt.”

“They can fight and they can flirt.”

“They can make a grown man hurt.”

“They can make a grown man hurt.”

“Men can grin and strut their stuff.”

“Men can grin and strut their stuff.”

“But women know they ain’t so tough.”

“But women know they ain’t so tough.”

“Boobs and butts, latex rubber…”

“Boobs and butts, latex rubber…”

“Turn bad ol’ SEALs to drooling blubber.”

“Turn bad ol’ SEALs to drooling blubber.”

“Sound off, one, two…”

“Three, four.”

There was a small satisfaction in seeing the five men gape with astonishment at the lewd lyrics, then scowl their opinion. She especially liked making the pretty SEAL scowl.

Britta had been in this strange land only four days, and she was more tired, sore, bewildered, and angry than she’d ever been in all her twenty and seven years. It was so bad she half wished she could return to St. Anne’s Abbey.

But, nay, she would run and then run some more if that was what it took. Bad as this was, she had no wish to return to the life she had back at the nunnery. Which was no life at all.

Commander MacLean, the leader, was married to Madrene, though Britta could hardly credit a strong-willed woman such as Madrene tolerating this arrogant man. Right now, said arrogant man raised a halting hand for them to stop running and yelled, “Time to cool down before lunch. A little surf passage should do the trick.”

The women groaned, knowing that their being nigh drowned in the pounding waves of the cold ocean water would soon prove punishment, not relief. If that were not bad enough, when they all came staggering out of the water, it was to see the five brutes staring at their drenched bodies to which their scant clothing clung. Men! They were the same everywhere. Show them a bit of breast or arse, and they became like rutting beasts. Especially that one master chieftain called F.U. who’d taken a particular delight in tormenting her.

“How about some sugar cookies now, snuffie?” Chieftain F.U. said, standing practically toe to toe with her. “Snuffies are the lowest rank in a training compound, in case you didn’t know, and you ladies are the lowest of the low.”

In her weakened condition, Britta could barely take her usual pleasure in noting that he was a half head shorter than her. That was no doubt why he picked on her. “Petty Officer Asado, why don’t you show us how it’s done?” Petty officer was the rank given to all the women who had not come up through their regular military. They would have assigned her the same rank she had in the Norse navy, which she had learned was a type of military. Instead, she’d demurred and accepted the same as the others. Besides, being an officer in WEALS gave no special privileges. All of them were treated alike. Badly.