by Krista Wolf
“Everyone okay?”
Dawson was still coughing. His face was all black from the smoke — everywhere but around his nose and lips, where he’d held something over his mouth as he found his way out. He gave me a firm nod, and I patted him on the shoulder.
“You pulled out your dust-mask? Good man.”
The eighth crew member, Cogan, wasn’t so lucky. He’d taken shrapnel in both legs, and was promptly bleeding all over the unblemished sand. It was nothing life-threatening, but he wouldn’t be walking comfortably anytime soon. Our resident medic was already working on him. I saw the far-away look of morphine in his eyes, but he was cognizant enough to give me a thumb’s up.
“Shit. That’s two of the column down.”
I turned to face Kyle, who was all dark and covered in soot.
“You got tan fast. Hell, you’re darker than me.”
“Think this is funny?” he coughed. “Cogan’s going home. Someone’s gotta take him. That’s a third vehicle gone, and we’re not even halfway to the coordinates.”
He was right, of course. We’d lost one of the Hummers to a freak sandstorm on day two. Rather than stop immediately, the driver had skidded off into a ditch, twisting the axle. It was shit luck, but I was still furious.
“We’ll manage,” I said. “That charge was old. Nothing directed toward us specifically, so—”
“Yeah, well there’s more bad news.”
Kyle’s face had gone grim. We’d been around each other long enough to know what was wrong, almost even without asking. This, unfortunately, was no exception.
“The satellite dish was on that thing, wasn’t it?”
Kyle pointed to a series of black, Kevlar-lined containers being unloaded from the ruins of the armored vehicle. Half of them were melted.
“Fuck.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Fuck is right.”
I lifted my sun visor just long enough to rub the grit from my eyes. I was getting a headache. Third one of the day.
“Any chance the damage is contained to the boxes only, and—”
“No.”
Dammit.
It was supposed to be simple. We were rolling out with a large enough force to deal with anything we’d encounter, and we even had a few favors to call in if we needed them. But nothing that would facilitate the delivery of another satellite antenna.
“Sat phone still working?”
“For now.”
“Call back. Tell em’ we might be non-comm for a while. See if they can—”
“Hey,” Kyle interrupted with a smile. “Are you forgetting I actually outrank you?”
I laughed merrily, then clapped him on his shoulder so hard the weight of his pack almost dragged him over.
“Not out here you don’t, shitbrick.”
Twenty-Three
SAMMARA
I didn’t even want to get one, but I ended up with a Christmas tree. Melissa and Rich brought one over when I wasn’t home, finally using the house key I’d given her to set it up in the living room — lights, garland and all.
“Be Merry!” their little note read, right next to a big bottle of wine. They even left me a couple of boxes of decorations, and a glittery star that I could put on top.
It was such a thoughtful gift that I cried.
It didn’t take much to make me cry in those days leading up to the holiday. I spent half the time feeling sorry for myself, and the other half worrying. Every third or fourth day I took down the streamers of my pity party just long enough to slap myself back to reality. It was during those moments I felt most like myself, usually after taking Sarge out for a good, long run.
Christmas came, and I sat in front of a presentless tree. Melissa of course came over and commiserated with me for a while, but she had to get to her in-laws so I shoved her out of the house. The gift she left me was a beautifully framed photo of the two of us, standing in front of my house. It was taken in summer, so the house looked fantastic. The grass was green, the sky was blue, and we were both deeply tan and feeling our best, so we looked fantastic too.
I’d given her a Persian-weave bracelet; two interlocking hearts, hers and mine. Each heart was engraved with our names, and it was a true testament to our growing up that I hadn’t added something corny like “Best Friends Forever.”
“I love it,” she’d cried, throwing her arms around me. “It’s… It’s so…”
“Utterly perfect?”
“Yes!”
“Relax,” I grinned, as she squeezed me tight. “This doesn’t mean we’re engaged or anything.”
She turned her nose up and scoffed at me. “As if you could ever handle me anyway.”
The rest of the day I lounged around the house, listening to old Christmas songs and watching cheesy holiday movies. A Christmas Story turned into Scrooged turned into Elf, which finally made me laugh. It could’ve just been the wine though. I didn’t care either way.
Sarge spent the day chewing on his own gift: a rawhide bone bigger than he was. He’d made for good company, and a great sleeping partner… although he was in for a rude awakening in that regard when the guys finally returned.
My thoughts wandered to Kyle and Ryan, whom I hadn’t heard from in way too long. Their promise to keep in touch with me made me even more worried now, and I almost wish they hadn’t made it. Wherever they were, whatever they were doing, I hoped they were safe. Christmas or no Christmas, all that mattered was they come home in one piece.
At the end of the night I lined up five shots of rum-spiked eggnog, another one of our stupid traditions. I drank mine, then proceeded to drink one for each of my fiancés, one right after the other. By the time I was done I wasn’t sure whether I was giddy or nauseous… maybe a little of both. I’d done it, though. I’d toasted each of them by name, pulling up our happiest memories together while Sarge watched me curiously.
“Merry Christmas little guy,” I finally yawned. The couch was comfortable and the fire felt damned good. My bed was so far away, I doubted it was even necessary at this point.
They’re okay, Sammara. All of them.
I felt grateful for the voices in my head. They’d been a lot more reasonable lately. A lot more supportive.
They know what they’re doing.
Eventually the fire died down to the point where I didn’t feel like getting off the couch and adding another log. I pulled a blanket over my body, made sure Sarge was comfortable in his little nest behind my knees, and finally let my eyes droop.
I wasn’t sure if I actually slept. I might’ve just been slipping in and out of consciousness, while the combination of rum and wine did a cute little number on me. One minute Will Ferrell was running all over the screen in yellow tights, then suddenly it was Macaulay Culkin. Home Alone was a Christmas movie too, apparently. I’d totally forgotten.
BEEP BEEP BEEP!
The quick triple-tone of the alarm panel blared, bringing me instantly awake. The front door opened…
Melissa?
It was possible. She had the key, and the code. Then again, it could be also something more sinister. Something like the last time, when the power went out — no, when the power was cut — and it turned out there was an intruder stalking me who—
“DAKOTA!”
I threw the blanket off so quickly it totally buried a very confused Sarge. Then I was rushing… no flying into his arms! Those big, strong arms! Wrapped around me… squeezing me tight… spinning me around…
“Oh my God you’re home!”
The tears came again, but now they were tears of happiness. Tears of relief. Dakota took my cheeks in his hands and our faces crashed together, his lips finding mine, kissing me until I was utterly breathless and dizzy and ready to fall limp in his arms.
“You taste like rum.”
I laughed, and he laughed with me, hard and loud, and suddenly everything in the world was right again. At least for now. At least for a little while…
“Kyle and Ryan are gone!” I said quickly
.
“I know.”
“Jason went missing, and they went to find him, only they promised to keep in touch with me and now—”
“I know, Sammara,” he repeated gently. “I already talked to some people.”
I hugged him again, pressing my whole body against the safety and security of his broad, chiseled chest. My heart was soaring. It felt like being rescued.
“Sorry I missed Christmas,” he said, stroking my hair.
I sobbed into him. “Oh I don’t care. I’m just so happy you’re actually here…”
He held me for a long moment, just rocking me before the glowing embers of my dying fire. Then he pulled back and took a good look around. The room was all shadows and shot-glasses. Pillows and blankets.
“Sammara, don’t take this the wrong way…” he said gloomily, sniffing the air. “And no offense? But this is depressing.”
I laughed hard again into his chest, which was all wet now from my tears. “None taken.”
“Pack your things,” Dakota said gently. “We’re leaving.”
I glanced up at him, instantly excited. Getting out of the house for a while suddenly seemed monumentally important. I needed a change of scenery; something to break the cycle of the shorter, darker, colder days.
As long as Dakota was with me I would’ve followed him anywhere.
All of a sudden something moved in our peripheral vision. Dakota whirled, his arms going up, his hands balling into two huge ham-hock fists. But the only thing that emerged, from under a blanket, was a very confused little puppy.
“Dakota, I want you to meet Sarge.”
Sarge jumped down happily and walked over, sniffing Dakota’s giant boot.
“A dog?”
I smiled hesitantly. “Ummm… yes?”
“When did we get a dog?”
I didn’t say a word, I only watched his reaction. Dakota’s face went from astonishment to skepticism, to wonder, before finally softening in a half-grin. I saw acceptance in his eyes. My shoulders slumped in relief.
At that exact moment, Sarge promptly lifted his leg… and peed all over Dakota’s foot.
“Well would you look at that…” my big fiancé grinned. “He’s treating me just like my old sarge already.”
Twenty-Four
SAMMARA
Iowa turned out to be a caricature of itself. Long, stretching miles of yellow farms and bright green corn fields that waved in the wind. A sky so flawlessly blue, so enormous, it seemed the whole earth could be crushed beneath its weight.
I had conflicting feelings once Dakota told me where he intended to go. Visiting his family was something I knew was ultimately inevitable, but I also knew I was a long way from being accepted by his conservative parents.
I kept telling myself it wasn’t me. It was our relationship. As his girlfriend — now fiancé — I was fully confident I could charm the pants off his mother and father. If only they’d overlook the whole ‘sharing your wife’ thing.
“I need you to know three things,” Dakota told me on our ride out from the Army base. We’d landed at the Air National Guard in Sioux City. Moriches, the little town he’d grown up in, was less than an hour’s ride east, north of Kingsley.
“Shoot,” I said, wincing immediately afterward at the poor choice of words.
“First, I’m not going to let my momma disrespect you. Whatever she says, whatever she does, if she crosses the line? We’re out of there.”
I swallowed dryly. “I appreciate that.”
“Second, my daddy is going to be quiet. He’s like that. But don’t let his silence imply he agrees with everything my momma says, because he doesn’t. He’s his own man, with his own thoughts.” Dakota’s jaw tightened. “He just keeps them to himself most of the time.”
Dakota gripped the steering wheel of the big truck as he made a slow left turn. They’d given him the keys immediately after landing. It was strange, watching how other service members treated him. How everyone on base snapped to attention and saluted him instantly, without a second thought.
“Win daddy over,” he was saying, “and you’ll have momma. It’ll take longer though. But eventually…”
He turned again, this time onto a dirt road. A large, weather-beaten sign said BRADLEY FARM, est. 1918.
I felt a strange knot in the pit of my stomach. One I hadn’t felt since the very first time, when Kyle had taken me to meet the other guys.
A big old farmhouse came into view. It was old construction, but well-kept. Freshly painted. Neatly trimmed.
“What’s the third thing?” I asked quickly.
Dakota delivered his biggest country-boy smile. Somehow it seemed more appropriate right here, right now, than any of the thousand other times I’d seen it.
“Don’t eat any of my daddy’s cooking.”
We exited the truck and no less than three dogs came running up to us. Two were big and yellow, one small and black. A pang of sorrow struck my heart as I missed Sarge. I was pretty sure he was enjoying his sleepover at Cindy’s though.
“Rutger!”
The bigger — and older — looking dog was going absolutely wild on Dakota. The way it kept jumping and licking and wagging its tail would’ve knocked over any normal-sized person.
“Honey!”
I smiled and stood back as a short, wizened woman with silver-streaked hair ran over and threw her arms around her son. I’d seen photos before, and in every one of them Dakota’s mother looked nothing like him. She was just too tiny! But now that we were here…
In person, I could see a vague resemblance. It was in the jawline, the nose… the forehead even. They had the same structure, if not the same face. Dakota hugged his mother as gently as a great bear might show restraint with a tiny cub. His arms enveloped her. Her smile was limitless.
“And you must be… Sammara?”
I turned, and what could only be Dakota’s father was holding his hand out to greet me. I pushed it away and hugged him, long and hard. I wasn’t about to start any relationship with my future in-laws on some lame handshake.
“He said you were pretty,” his father smiled, looking me over. “But he didn’t say—”
“Come inside!” his mother interjected quickly. She was looking me over as well, but the way she sized me up was wholly different. “It’s gonna be raining soon anyway.”
A few minutes later we were in the cutest country kitchen, with big windows looking out over a vast, reaching field. I could see chicken coops. A few cows, grazing lazily. And in the distance, fenced off pastures — filled with dozens, maybe hundreds of sheep.
“Would you like a drink, son?”
His father handed Dakota a beer before he even answered the question. He reached for another, looking to me amiably, but his mother had already thrust a glass of tap water my way.
“Here, dear,” she said with sugary sweetness. “You must be thirsty.”
“Thank you,” I smiled, but she never saw it. She’d already turned her attention back to Dakota, sitting him down at what I assumed was ‘his spot’ at the kitchen table. She had barely stopped talking since we arrived, asking him a million questions about a million things, while completely ignoring me in the process.
So… this is how it’s gonna be…
My gaze fell back on Dakota’s father and our eyes met.
Oh wow. He has his eyes!
He really did! I found myself staring back at the exact same pair of innocent blue eyes I’d grown to love so much. He had the same boyish grin, too. The same soft, dirty-blond hair that flopped to one side… only his was much grayer, even if it wasn’t any less thin.
“You’re staying through to the New Year?” his mother was asking.
“Depends,” said Dakota.
“On what?” She sounded almost offended. “It’s bad enough you missed Christmas! We didn’t get a phone call, we didn’t get a card…” She looked to me as she said that part, almost as if deferring blame. “Imagine, not even calling on Christm
as! Every one of your brothers called me bright and early! Not to mention Casey and Jacob, and…”
She trailed off, listing what I knew to be her grandchildren — and Dakota’s many nephews. Dakota was the youngest of five boys. He had four older brothers, all of them farmers. All of them living within an hour or two of Sioux City.
“I’m sorry momma,” Dakota apologized. “I was on assignment. And where I was… well, communication was impossible. I just barely got back in time to spend the last few hours of Christmas with Sammara, and—”
“Sammara, huh?” His mother’s mouth twisted, as if my name tasted sour. “Well I suppose it’s nice at least somebody got to enjoy you for the holiday.” She smirked at me slyly and looked away. “Even if it wasn’t your family...”
The passive-aggressive comments continued, throughout their reunion. Truthfully, I wasn’t all that surprised. I’d known going in: the whole thing was bound to be an uphill battle.
“Your room is ready as always,” his mother was saying. “I guess I could make up the guest room. For your girlfriend. For—”
“Momma she’s my fiancé and you know it,” Dakota protested. “I already told you we got engaged.”
I watched her stiffen. She actually looked like she was in pain.
“Engaged, huh? Is that what you call it?”
“Momma—”
“Marriage is between a man and a woman,” she said nonchalantly. “Last time I checked.”
Dakota shook his head, sorely disappointed. He was struggling and I felt terribly for him.
“Of course, maybe I’m just old fashioned,” his mother prattled on. “I don’t really know what passes as normal these days. What kinds of things your generation tries to slip past—”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Dakota cut in, “because we’re not staying here.” He paused as his mother whirled on him. “We’ve got a hotel.”
That part had been a hard sell for him; not staying with his own family, on his family farm. Still, a hotel made much more sense. The last thing I wanted to do was impose myself on people who didn’t like me to begin with.