The Achilles Heel (23 page)

When Leslie showed me his picture yesterday, I spent a few minutes in shock, but honestly,
I got it. I understood why he lied about his profession and gave me a fake last name.

Some woman must have done a real number on him.

When I read the mass of articles about him and scrolled through hundreds of his pictures
online, it made me sad for him; he was running from a character that he had become
within a circus of a life he was living. Watching him on YouTube acting in a video
or playing for the audience was a different person than I knew, and he really didn’t
even look the same, even though he was still wickedly handsome. Leslie can second
this because she’s the biggest country music fan I know, and she’s seen his show four
times, including the one a few months ago in Kansas City; it still took her three
days to figure out his little secret. However, the pictures of him and Wade together
were genuine; the way they looked at each other was real‌—‌like brothers.

I certainly wasn’t mad at him for his charade. I mean, Jesus, I’m the queen of secrets;
especially concerning Kessler. I have a whole slew of information I had chosen not
to tell him, and it wasn’t a small time scandal, like being a celebrity. He’d asked
for my phone number, which I had denied him, and I doubt he’s listed in the phonebook,
so I guess if I wanted to see him again, I’d need to buy a ticket to the show. I already
missed him and couldn’t stop smiling when picturing his face. This wasn’t the right
approach to take when trying to forget someone, but truthfully, I wasn’t ready to
forget him just yet. Hearing his voice in my ears and pretending he was singing to
me was good enough for now, but no sad songs. I wasn’t ready for those either.

My ankle felt healed and didn’t give me any trouble on my run today, but I didn’t
want to push it; I’d be in St. Croix alone, and want to do a lot of running to pass
the time. Plus, I had a very important date with some fish tomorrow afternoon, so
I turned back early and headed home.

The girls were awake and in the midst of eating breakfast, drinking coffee, and collecting
their things strewn about the east wing of the house. With the opening of the front
door, the kitchen went from a hen house to a funeral, as four sets of eyes cloaked
me in sadness.

“Hey,” Jenna said lovingly as she scraped eggs off the bottom of a pan. “You okay?”

“I’m good. A run always helps to brighten things,” I said with a smile.

“I wish we didn’t have to go today. I don’t feel right about leaving you here by yourself,”
Claire added as she gave me a hug.

“What about Kessler? Do you think you’ll see him again?” Tori asked.

“I really don’t know, but can’t think about that right now. Concentrating on myself
and finally closing this chapter in my life; knowing the truth about Jack, about his
life and his death means everything to me and it’s what I’m going to focus on. I just
have to know,” I said. “What time should we get you girls to the airport?”

“We have two cabs coming to pick us up in an hour. We didn’t want to trouble you,
and this way we don’t all have to try to squeeze into your Jeep. Plus, I hate good-byes
at the airport; seems too final. I’d rather just wave to you in the driveway,” Leslie
said with an uncomfortable smile.

“Oh, no! I could have taken you! Really, it’s no big deal,” I promised.

“No worries, but we need to finish packing and get our mounds of stuff to the front
door,” Jenna barked as they all suddenly scattered to their bedrooms, like they forgot
they were on a schedule.

In no time the cabs arrived and just as fast as they came, my girlfriends left, and
I was alone. In a matter of only minutes, the life and laughter that filled the Cotton
House was sucked out the door with my best friends. My only acquaintance on the island
now was Hutch, who was taking me diving soon, so I decided to rummage through the
pool house to see if an equipment run was going to be next on my list.

ANNIE

S
hifting gears in the Jeep was exhilarating and gave my mind some focus as I matched
the anfractuous hills and bends in the road with my foot pushing the accelerator;
a therapeutic relaxation between me and the three empty seats. No random braking or
rubber-necking a wreck on the side of the road, which is an everyday occurrence while
driving the highways of Kansas City; only a narrow open road, free from the urban
assault of vehicles and their road-raged drivers. With an empty day ahead of me and
no plans except for a run‌—‌which had already been accomplished‌—‌I decided to drive
around and take in the beauty of another gorgeous day on the island. The palm trees
seemed to blow in the same direction I drove, cheering me on to keep going, until
I found myself coming to a stop in the parking lot of the Soggy Bottom.

Such a creature of habit.

The Christmas lights twinkled and a low murmur from the small lunch crowd hovered
over the dining room as I took a seat at the empty bar. Hutch busied himself wiping
down liquor bottles and cleaning the cash register when he noticed me through the
mirror hanging on the corner wall of the bar.

“Hey! My next diving client, right?” he questioned.

“Yes, Annie Whitman. We met the other night,” I said, standing up and shaking his
hand across the bar. “I was out for a drive and found myself on your doorstep, so
I thought I’d come in and have a bite to eat.”

“Glad to have you, Annie! My recommendation is the conch fritter salad with our house
dressing; best on the island. Do you mind if I keep you company while you have lunch?”
he asked.

“Of course not! That would be fantastic. I could use a little company right now, and
it just so happens you’re the only person I know on the island at the moment,” I stated.

“Well, I guess we should get to know each other a little better then,” he replied,
slapping the bar top with a menu. “Where do you call home?”

“I’m from Kansas City, but have a house rented here for a few months, so I guess St.
Croix is my temporary home,” I answered.

“St. Croix was once my temporary home, too, but that was about forty years ago.” His
laugh was booming. “Are you here on business or pleasure?”

I didn’t really know how to answer that question, because oddly, the answer is both.
The business of Jack’s death was my main reason for being here, but Kessler Carlisle
had recently added some pleasure to my life and now there was no definitive answer
to such a simple question. Although, the lines became muddier the longer I stayed
on the island.

My silence said enough for Hutch, and he winked at me with kind validation. “That’s
okay; sometimes no answer is the right answer.”

“Wow, forty years. I guess you’re considered a local now. St. Croix is kind of a random
place. How did you end up here?” I prodded.

“Do you want the story I usually tell people or do you want the truth?” he asked me
frankly.

“Whichever you want to tell me, I guess,” I replied, feeling a little confused.

“I grew up in New Jersey, but after one tour in Vietnam, I knew I could never go back
to city living. As our plane landed in San Francisco, the cries of joy from every
soldier was indescribable; we were finally home. Unfortunately, like wee lambs, we
could not have known this final destination was the lion’s den. My first moments back
on American soil‌—‌the greatest country in the world‌—‌a woman with dirty hair and
soiled clothes came up to me in a rage, screaming that I was a baby killer, and then
she spit on me, right in my face. I’ll never forget the look of hatred in her eyes.
I just stood there, so shocked I had waited a year to come home to this. I flew back
to Jersey and tried it for a week, but every time a car backfired or the news helicopter
circled over my apartment, I went into a state of panic, and that’s when I decided
this wasn’t the way living was intended and certainly not for the rest of my life.
I bought a map and chose a place I thought would be free of the realities the rest
of world had to experience, and I’m still here today,” he reveled, with a big white
smile.

“What a sad story. I’m so sorry that happened to you. I don’t really know what to
say. It seems terrifying to just pick a place to start your life and hope it works
out, but it does look like you chose wisely,” I agreed, also thinking about the events
in my own life that led me here.

“After a year in Vietnam, nothing is too scary. Sometimes, when we are faced with
adversity in life, the most important decision we can make is to just listen, and
God will show us the way.”

“I’m not a very religious person, especially these days,” I informed him, a bit embarrassed.

The waitress brought the salads out and refilled our water glasses, giving Hutch a
pat on the back and turning to me, saying, “If he’s giving out advice then you’d better
listen, because as annoying as it is, he has a tendency to be right.”

“Are you in need of some advice right now?” he asked, with one eyebrow raised.

“I guess everyone could always use good advice.”

“Well, what I would tell you is that you don’t have to be religious to hear God, you
just have to be willing, and there’s a big difference between the two. If you have
time, I’d like to tell you a story, and you can take whatever you like from it,” he
declared, as he wiped his mouth and took a huge swig of water from a mason jar.

“I’m all ears,” I said, grateful to be having a meaningful conversation with someone,
even if we didn’t know each other that well.

“One night while patrolling the low foothills of the jungles in Vietnam looking for
the enemy who we called Charlie, my company commander decided to split us up for the
night. Both groups set up night-loggers, and we enclosed our perimeter with claymores,
which are basically small boxes loaded to the gills with explosives. At about two
o’clock in the morning, all hell breaks loose, and the trip flares started going off
around us, warning us that someone was closing in. The thing about Charlie is that
they never wasted any of their men. They only attacked if they thought they had the
upper hand on you, so we bore down for a fight. For two or three hours the only light
I saw was the explosions of the frags we threw across the ravine at each other‌—‌fireworks
in the darkness. Besides the frags exploding, the other thing I heard was men digging
what we called foxholes; we used them to take cover and jump into when grenades got
too close. I went about my business, digging a hole large enough for my lanky body
to fit into. After a time the exhaustion took over, and my arms became like little
packets of jelly, so I sat still to take a rest and catch my breath, when I felt a
frag fall into my foxhole. Obviously, the surge of adrenaline shot me six feet out
of that hole. As soon I felt the earth under my feet, I bared down on the ground smashing
my ribs into the dirt, waiting for the blast, waiting to be blown into several pieces.
But nothing happened; the bomb never went off.”

I’d stopped eating and my eyes were the size of quarters as I took in all the details
of Hutch’s story with a twinge of pain, because I realized how selfish I had become
in my obsession with my own life.

“With the break of daylight,” he started again, “the explosions stopped, and the only
sounds were of men groaning and thriving in pain. I hadn’t moved in hours and was
afraid if I tried to, it would become apparent I had no arms or legs. Paralyzed with
fear, not just for the lack of body parts but also because I’d been there three weeks‌—‌only
twenty-one days‌—‌and I didn’t know how I was going to make it three hundred and forty-four
more. It seemed hopeless and impossible that I would ever leave Vietnam alive.”

He noticed the tears welling in my eyes, patted my hand and said, “I promise, the
story gets better and there
is
a point.”

I nodded silently, caught up in his story.

“Okay, where was I?” he mumbled to himself.

“The next morning‌—‌when the sun came up the next morning,” I blurted out, enamored
and horrified with his vivid account of events.

“Yes, yes. So the frag never went off, and my curiosity got the better of me; I had
to find out why. I crawled over to my foxhole and peeked inside. I couldn’t believe
my eyes, because it wasn’t a bomb at all, it was a can of vegetables and the reason
the bombs stopped going off altogether. The Vietcong had run out of explosives, so
they started throwing soup and vegetable cans until they could get their men out of
the area. Written in black print right on the front of those green beans was, “Provided
to you by the United States of America.” I just sat there and cried; cried for myself
and for the men around me who would never go home, because even though I fought with
hundreds of men, I didn’t really know any of them. We all came from different parts
of the nation, were given guns and told to protect one another. Vietnam was a war
of one person, each individual trying to stay alive and by far, one of the worst ways
to fight a war. Even if Charlie didn’t kill you, there were still times that you wished
you were dead.

“But, I managed to survive that day, courtesy of the United States, and the next afternoon,
a Protestant Chaplin happened to be flown out to our makeshift basecamp to do a prayer
service. They did that every once in a while.

“Believing in God had never really crossed my mind. Growing up, my parents never mentioned
religion, so it just wasn’t something I thought about, but twenty-one days of people
shooting at me and knowing that someone had lost their life because of my actions
can make a person believe in almost anything. It was my first prayer service
ever
. The only time I’d been inside a church was for a wedding or a funeral, but somehow,
I just knew what to do. I was happy to do it, not because of the Chaplin’s instructions,
but because I needed help, and I was more than willing to receive it. Planting my
knees firmly in the ground, I asked God if I was going to make it out of Vietnam alive,
and to my surprise, he answered me.