The Top Gun's Return

by Kathleen Creighton

  They paused for a while to watch barges and white cruise ships churn up and down the Rhine. The sun went down in a golden blaze, promising a fair tomorrow. Lights winked on and the streets of Old Town filled with music, laughter and people. All kinds of people: frumpy tourists, families with small children, lean young people wearing black leather and spiky purple hair. With his back to the river, Tristan leaned against a rope barricade and watched them all in dark and brooding silence.

  With so much happy revelry all around her, Jessie tried her best to think of a way to brighten his mood-something she couldn't recall ever having had to do much of before. The Tris she'd known hadn't been prone to the blues. Finally, bravely, knowing what must be on his mind, she gave a cheerful sigh and ventured, "This must have been a wonderful place to grow up in."

  He snorted. "Before the war, maybe. Don't imagine it was much fun once the bombing started." He took her elbow and they started back toward the now-crowded streets, moving slowly, and for the first time all day he was leaning on his cane again.

  The tables outside the pubs and taverns had gone from empty to standing room only as if by magic. They snagged the first available table they came to, a temporary slip on the shores of a slow-moving river of people. Almost immediately a waitress appeared with the customary coasters, and before Jessie could say otherwise, Tris had ordered glasses of Altbier for both of them. Once again, she sipped hers carefully and refused a second one, while the number of marks on the edges of Tris's coaster grew steadily. A jolly woman wearing a chef's hat and apron came around selling giant soft pretzels from a basket lined with a red-checked cloth. Tris bought them each one and slathered them with mustard-another Düsseldorf specialty, he told her. Though she wasn't a bit hungry, Jessie had to admit it was delicious.

  Once again, mellowed by food and Altbier, Tris began to relax. After the third glass, Jessie saw him settle back and the tension visibly drain from his body, though the shadows in his face seemed no less bleak. After a while, gazing at the passing crowd and turning his glass 'round and 'round on its coaster, he quietly picked up where he'd left off beside the river.

  "My mom had it tough after the war. Really…hard. Their house was destroyed in the bombing." He glanced at Jessie, his hands still busy with the glass. "You remember the scar on her face? Above her eye…down through here?" He drew a line on his own eyebrow to demonstrate, and Jessie nodded, not wanting to interrupt his reminiscence to remind him that she'd never met his mother, that she'd died the year before they'd met. She remembered the scar, though, from photographs, and Tris had told her how she'd gotten it as a child during the war. "That happened when their house was bombed. She had a brother-much younger, about six or seven, I think. Anyway, he was killed."

  Jessie made a horrified sound; she'd never known this part. Tristan went on as if he hadn't heard her. "The hard part was after the war. Everything was in ruins…food was scarce. My mother remembered scavenging for scraps…fighting off dogs and rats." He looked down at the glass between his hands, and his voice sounded choked. "I don't think I understood, when she told me. I didn't know…" Jessie saw his throat move with his swallow.

  She held herself still, hardly daring to breathe, hoping he'd go on, praying he'd tell her something about what had happened to him. He did go on talking after a moment, with his wry and painful smile, but it wasn't what she'd hoped to hear.

  "At least my dad didn't go hungry," he said dryly. "Out in the country things weren't as bad-more food, less destruction."

  He drained his glass and signaled the waitress for another, then waited in tense silence, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, until the foam-topped glass had been placed in front of him and the coaster duly marked. Jessie watched as he picked up the glass and drank, wiped foam from his lips with the back of his hand and only then began to talk again, as if, she thought, the engine that drove his speech mechanism wouldn't operate without the beer to fuel it. Unease stirred in her belly. She told herself she shouldn't worry about Tristan's ability to handle a few glasses of beer; being German, he'd always drunk beer, sometimes quite a bit. Never too much, though, and she'd never seen him drunk in her life. But she'd never seen him drink after spending eight years in a Muslim country without a drop of alcohol the whole time, either.

  I shouldn't say anything, she thought. I can't let myself turn into an ol' mother hen. Tris would hate that.

  He was watching the crowd again, but she knew he wasn't seeing any of the people who passed by their table in an endlessly shifting stream. His eyes were thoughtful and far away. His smile was wry, and when he spoke it was in a drawl, and so low she had to lean closer to hear him. "My mom and dad had it tough, growing up. No doubt about that. They sure never let me forget it, believe me. And I had it easy." He threw Jessie a bitter grin, one she'd never seen before. "They never let me forget that, either." He drank beer, wiped his mouth with his hand and stared moodily into his glass.

  "I was an only child. I don't think they planned it that way, but…that's how it was. They both worked hard…gave me everything. I never had to work going through school. A lot of my friends did, had part time jobs to pay for the things my parents gave to me. So, yeah, I had it easy. I did. I know that. But in other ways, they were tough on me, my parents were. You've met my dad-" he looked up at Jessie and she nodded and smiled her understanding; she'd always been just a little bit afraid of Max Bauer "-okay, well, Mom was worse. They both got on me constantly, telling me I had to learn to be tough. That I was never going to make it in this life if I didn't. They always made it pretty clear to me they didn't think I was going to measure up in that department." He looked away, but not before she saw the shine of an old hurt in his eyes. "And I probably didn't-not by their standards."

  "Surely," Jessie said in a choked voice, "you don't think-"

  "I think…" he began, slurring the words. Then broke it off and shook his head, muttering something she couldn't hear as he lifted his arm to signal the waitress.

  "Tris…please," Jessie said before she could stop herself. Her breath caught when he threw her a brief, fierce look, and she saw in his eyes the same wild and defiant light that had burned in there the day before when he'd pushed the rented Ford recklessly toward suicide speed.

  But he only asked the waitress for the check. Jessie saw his teeth catch the gleam of the strings of tiny lights that looped above their head as, with a cool, sardonic smile, he watched her count up the pencil marks on the edges of the coasters. He handed the waitress a wad of Euros and told her to keep the change, then shoved back his chair and rose, swaying as he reached for his cane. Heart pounding, Jessie made it to his side in time to steady him.

  "I am a bit tired," he said, speaking firmly and distinctly as they eased in among the flow of people in the street. His arm lay heavily across Jessie's shoulders although he held himself almost unnaturally erect. "My dear, do we have a hotel room around here somewhere?"

  Major Sharpe had made a reservation for them at a downtown hotel overlooking the Rhine. It wasn't far from Old Town, but definitely too far for Tristan to walk in his present condition, so they made their way against the tide of visitors still streaming into Old Town's pubs and taverns and restaurants, heading toward the vehicle traffic streets that bordered the restricted pedestrian zone. There, a long line of taxicabs awaited the usual exodus of revelers, most of whom could be counted on to be suffering the effects of too much Altbier. Jessie chose the first cab they came to, but when she opened the door she felt Tristan's body recoil and heard a sharp hiss of breath. Too late, she saw that the driver looked distinctly Middle Eastern.

  "Tris, honey, it's okay," she whispered, her arm tight around his waist, a smile for the driver's benefit fixed firmly on her lips. "It's okay." Still smiling, she bent down to peer into the cab. "Uh…do you by any chance speak English?"

  Confronted only with a blank stare, she hopefully added the name of their hotel and was rewarded with a brisk, "Yes, yes-come, come!" as the driver flipped on his m
eter.

  Light-headed with relief, Jessie half shoved Tristan into the back seat of the cab, then climbed in after him. As she settled breathless and quivery beside him, he gave a sigh and leaned his head against the back of the seat, muttering something she couldn't quite hear…except for one word: "bastards."

  She threw the driver a worried glance as she leaned closer to Tristan and whispered, "What'd you say?"

  His head moved wearily from side to side. "Couldn't…let 'em break me. Couldn't…don't you see?" He opened his eyes suddenly and turned to her, glaring like a wounded eagle. "I had something to prove. Understand? Somethin' to prove…"

  Throat knotting and tears welling behind her eyes, Jessie could only nod. After a moment he leaned back with a sigh and closed his eyes.

  "Bastards…never broke me," he mumbled, laughing softly, his body shaking with it. "Never…broke me. Guess I showed them, huh? Guess…I showed them."

  She fumbled for his hand and found it, bony and strange in the darkness. "You sure did, sweetheart," she whispered. She closed her eyes, and tears oozed between her lashes. "You sure did show 'em."

  Chapter 8

  Tristan slept in a shadowless room without doors or windows. He could hear no sounds, not even his own heartbeat, his own breathing. He was neither cold nor warm, he felt nothing, not even the press of his body against a bed or a floor…not even the brush of clothing against his skin.

  Asleep, he thought…I wonder if this is death?

  But even as the thought formed, he awoke to find himself in a lovely golden place, a safe place, and his body bathed in warmth. Jessie was coming toward him, her stride long and sexy, her smile like the sun. Her smile and heat wrapped around him like a lovely summer day as she slipped into his arms, smelling of grass and flowers, warm sand and sex. Her lips hovered, breathlessly brushing his as she whispered love words into his mouth. He plunged his fingers into her hair and it poured over his hands like the finest silk…floss spun for gods and goddesses from spiderwebs and sunbeams…

  "I've been so empty without you," she whispered. "Fill me…please…"

  Yes, he murmured inside his mind. Yes…

  His hands began to trace her body, and it seemed fluid and malleable as wet clay. His hands glided downward over her back, slalomed through the gentle undulations of waist and buttocks and thighs…his fingers slipped into the tight protected crevasses and explored the tender valleys between. Her breasts hardened as she moved against him, and he, hard already and full of his need for her, pressed himself into the cleft between her thighs. Her mouth, lost in his, made tiny whimpering sounds of need, and he drank in her whimpers and her honeyed essence…greedily nourishing his own need.

  He felt the velvety brush of her belly as he moved his body to cover hers. Heat blossomed inside him. Pounding heat enveloped him. He sank into her body like a man on fire into a healing fountain.

  There was resistance but it had no meaning for him. The sounds coming from her now were little pants and shuddering breaths, and his groan mingled with them as he pushed past the resistance, pushing inexorably deeper into her body. His need of her was unstoppable…his hunger unquenchable. It had taken him over completely, mind and body. Her body enfolded him…her legs were firm and strong around him…her fingers dug deep into the hard ridges of his shoulders…her breath pumped humid warmth against the rocketing pulse at the base of his throat. His body surged, beyond his control.

  She uttered a high, sharp cry, and he opened his eyes and looked down through layers of passion fog to find her eyes fever bright and gazing up at him, their pupils huge, black and deep as wells. Genuine awakening came, and then awareness, but it was far too late. His body shuddered and surged one final time as a cry tore through his throat and grated between his spasming jaws. The muscles in his back and belly contracted with a violence he thought would tear him apart, and left him drained, exhausted, and weak as a newborn babe.

  Drenched and heartsick, he held himself utterly still while an exhalation sifted slowly through his nostrils and the last remnants of passion-fog lifted from his brain. His arms quivered with the strain of supporting even his sorely depleted body. Eyes closing, he swallowed and mumbled brokenly, "God, Jess…I-"

  "Hush up." Her hands were on his face, a cool and nurturing touch. "It's all right."

  "But I didn't…That's not the way I wanted-"

  "I know…I know. But it's still all right. You just hush, now, you hear?" Her voice was husky. He'd always loved the sound of it while they were making love. In her mouth love words-sex talk-never sounded crude…just warm and sultry, with enough of a tang to stoke the fires in his blood. Like molasses…

  He rolled himself away from her and felt the soft pillow come to cradle his whirling head and smooth fabric comfort his cooling skin. He covered his eyes with his arm and mumbled, "Jessie…love, I-"

  There was so much he wanted to say to her…so many things he needed her to understand. But sleep was waiting for him, warm and lovely…voluptuous and seductive as the body he'd just left. He surrendered himself to it with a sigh.

  * * *

  "Mom! Hey…" Cross-legged on her bed, Sammi June nudged the book and notepad off her lap and leaned over to peer at the clock radio on the nightstand.

  "Hey, hon', how're you?"

  "Wow, Mom, what time is it over there? Two…three in the morning?" Fear clutched at her heart, making her gasp. "Oh God-what's wrong? Is Dad-"

  "No, no, nothing's wrong. Your daddy's fine-he's asleep right now. We're in Düsseldorf, in a hotel-I told you he wanted to see where his momma grew up? So that's what we've been doin' today. Anyway, I couldn't sleep, so I thought I might as well give you a call. I thought this might be a good time."

  "Yeah, it is, it's fine. I was just studying…nothing too important. Hey, Mom-"

  "I tried calling you at school, but your roommate said you'd gone home. Is everything okay?"

  "Oh. Yeah…I guess." Sammi June made a disgusted sound as she unfolded her legs and got comfortable. "The media just turned the whole school into a zoo. Nobody could get in and out of the dorm, there wasn't anyplace to park…they even followed me to classes, Mom. Anyway, it was politely 'suggested' I should maybe go home for a while until the furor dies down. So I did. And guess what? Now they're all over here."

  "Who, the media? You mean, they're there? At Momma's?"

  "You guessed it. They're camped out in Randall Jackson's field. You should see it. Place looks like a damn refugee camp."

  "I hope you don't let your gramma hear you talk like that," her mother said mildly.

  Sammi June snorted. "You should hear her cuss when she thinks nobody's listening." She shifted around so her legs were hanging over the side of the bed. "Hey, Mom?" Hunched over and hugging herself, she began to rock gently back and forth. Butterflies…emotions…were quivering and jumping inside her. "I started to tell you. I saw you guys on CNN this morning."

  "You did? What-oh. That must have been from yesterday. Yeah, we were coming back from visiting your grampa Max's hometown and there they were, waitin' for us. Your daddy was tired, but there wasn't any way we could have avoided them. So-" she hesitated, and Sammi June heard her take a quick, catching breath, the way someone does when they're getting ready to lift something heavy "-you saw him, then? What'd you think? Does he look like you remember?"

  Remember? But what if I don't even know what I remember? The quivering inside Sammi June wanted to jump right out of her stomach and into every part of her, and she fought with everything she had to make her voice firm and strong. "He…looks really good. Thin, though, like you said. You looked good, too, Mom," she added as a guilty afterthought. The truth was, she hadn't been able to tear her eyes away from her dad, standing stoop-shouldered and gaunt behind her mother, like an emaciated shadow. "Kinda tired, but…"

  "Yeah, it had been kind of a long day." Sammi June heard a whisper of sound she thought must be laughter. "It's been a whole bunch of long days…actually."

  "Mo
m?" She held herself still, listening intently. "Is everything okay? I mean…really."

  And she heard that fortifying breath again. "Oh, hon', everything's just fine. I'm ready to come home, is all. I think we both are. Which is actually why I wanted to call you. I think they're plannin' on lettin' your daddy go day after tomorrow, so we'll be leavin' here as soon after that as we can."

  Sammi June stared at her finger, making random patterns on the bedspread. She wasn't disappointed in her mother's evasion, not really. She'd expected the lie. "Does that mean you're finally coming home?"

  "Well…we have to stop off in Washington, D.C., for a couple of days first. They want him to have some more tests and exams at Bethesda before they release him. But what I'd like for you to do is come and meet us there-can you do that?"

  Rocking and hugging herself again, Sammi June stared at the floor as reawakened butterflies danced in her stomach. "Can't I just wait for you guys here?" Aware of how whiney that might sound, she hurriedly added, "Everyone's coming here to see Dad. Grampa Max is coming up from Florida, and Gramma told him he could stay here. I don't think it's right I should leave her with all the company, do you?"

  "Well, hon'," her mother said, laughing because she knew how much Sammi June did not normally enjoy helping out around the house, "that's sweet of you to want to be there for your gramma, and all, but you're gonna have to make the sacrifice. Your daddy tells me we've been invited to the White House."

  Her mother's voice had a lilting brightness that made Sammi June think of the times when she'd come home from the NICU after an especially bad day, and she'd have stopped off at the store to pick up ice cream or a cold watermelon, and she'd march into the kitchen with a big determined smile on her face and a light in her eyes. Like a woman on a mission, Sammi June always thought. Happiness or bust.