Unexpected Oasis

by Cd Hussey

  "Thanks," I say, slipping my hand into his with forced confidence. Mmm, calloused, warm, and oh so big.

  He helps me down the stairs. I wince when we hit the cloud of dust.

  "Close your eyes and hold your breath. We'll be out in a few."

  I obey and follow him. Blindly.

  Even before Jim I had trust issues. That game people play, where they fall backward into the waiting arms of a trusted peer, was never one I could manage, no matter how many times I tried. But for some reason I feel comfortable with Trey at the helm. After all, it's his job to protect me, and he seems to take it very seriously.

  We've only traveled about twenty paces before he says, "We're clear," and releases my hand. "You can open your eyes now."

  The reservoir sparkles before me, stretching out in a plane of shimmering blue. On the far bank, the mountains rise like a dramatic rocky backdrop. It's incredibly hot, but a moisture-kissed breeze blows delicately off the water, calming the impassible heat.

  "Wow, it's…gorgeous."

  "I thought you might prefer this scenery to what's behind you—don't turn around!" I stop mid-twist. He grins. "—while I debrief you."

  I've been debriefed so much in the last month, I'm surprised I'm still wearing pants.

  "Security here is a little looser than Merritec Village. I don't want you to worry though. It's remote, we're fenced in with exterior security, the locals aren't known to be hostile, there's never been an incident, and…" he pauses, "I'm staying."

  Luckily I'd already figured that out, otherwise the shock might have tripped me up. Instead, the cocky way he emphasizes, "I'm" makes me smile.

  "One man army, eh?"

  "Absolutely. But…" He retrieves a scarf from a pouch at his belt.

  I wonder what else he has tucked away in there. I imagine grenades or a throwing star or maybe ibuprofen.

  "You'll need this." He hands me the scarf. "Hughes & Ralston is too politically correct to tell you to cover your hair, but this isn't the place to challenge gender roles. Plus, it'll help with the dust."

  I take the light cotton fabric from him, running my fingers over the fine paisley print. "Thanks." The word seems inadequate and my throat is definitely getting tighter. I have no idea what else to say. Catching a glimpse of the checkered scarf draped loosely around his neck, I ask, "Do you normally carry extra scarves?"

  "This all went down so quickly I wasn't sure you were properly prepared. I picked it up at the bazaar this morning."

  My throat is so tight I can barely swallow. "Oh." I never would have dreamed he would go out of his way to make sure I was prepared. "Thank you."

  "Don't mention it," he replies casually. "You won't need to totally cover, like with a hijab, but keeping the majority of your hair concealed will make the locals more comfortable. If you fold the scarf in half…" He demonstrates by removing the scarf around his neck, taking the square fabric and folding it into a triangle. "And then drape it over your head like so." He places the folded edge at his forehead so that the triangle tip dips down his back. "You can just toss one side across your shoulder."

  He demonstrates and I have to cover my smile to keep from laughing. With his heavily muscled body, thick stubble, and hard, masculine jaw, the softly draping scarf looks ridiculous.

  He puts a hand on each hip and poses. "You like?"

  I shake my head as a few giggles erupt under my breath. It's just the distraction I need to break the tension. "You're killing me."

  His hands fall from his hips. "Sorry. This is serious. It's just nice to get away from the compound and with—" He clears his throat. "At any rate," his tone loses the joking edge and becomes hard, serious, "wear your hardhat over the top, and if the dust kicks up, cross the scarf at the back and use the tails to cover your nose and mouth, tying them in the back to secure. Like so." He demonstrates the wrap and when I nod that I understand, he pulls it from his head and returns it to his neck. "Trust me. The last thing you want is a lungful of desert dust."

  "Sounds lovely." I slip the scarf over my head. The fabric is light and comfortable and instantly cools my head, providing a shield from the aggressive sun.

  "Absolutely. Assuming you like swallowing sandpaper."

  "Chew a piece after every meal. Really helps with tartar buildup."

  "So I've heard." He places a hand on my shoulder. "Now for the moment you should be dreading." With a gentle push, he spins me around. "Your living quarters for the next few weeks."

  "I see why you showed me the lake first."

  "I thought you might prefer the scenery during your scarf tutorial."

  "Definitely."

  Before us sit the skuzzy looking shipping canisters. Ranging in color from white to orange to gray, they're lined up in haphazard rows. A dust cloud, likely kicked up from the helicopter, floats by in puff of red. "It's like where shipping containers come to die."

  "Home sweet home." He turns to me. "One more thing. While you're here, you need an escort 24/7. It's dangerous enough for expats, but since you're a woman…"

  "No, I get it." It makes perfect sense and I don't know why I didn't think of it before. I glance at Trey. His sunglasses are back on and in the lenses I see my reflection. The scarf looks a little matronly, but not too bad. Trey, of course, looks gorgeous. "Let me guess…"

  "You're stuck with me. All day, every day."

  I close my eyes. Didn't I run here to get even further away? From him? From temptation?

  "We should go." His voice is suddenly terse and I realize he has misinterpreted my dismay.

  He starts walking and I follow. His pace is brisk and I struggle to keep up. How do I explain that while I am dreading spending every day with him, it isn't because I don't like him. But that I'm a fucked up emotional wreck who can barely handle day to day living, and the thought of enjoying his company, especially if it has the potential to be more than platonic, is more than I can handle.

  I don't have the words and I sure as hell don't know where to begin.

  We stop briefly to chat with Trey's apparent equal at Site J. Charlie may be head of security here, but that's where the similarities end. He's at least ten years Trey's senior, with a shaved head, and almost completely gray goatee. Judging by his broad shoulders and thick chest, he probably sported a pretty nice physique at one time, but now his beer gut extends quite a bit over his belt.

  Charlie is an animated man that smiles and laughs a lot, makes huge sweeping gestures, and speaks with a Scottish accent so thick I can't understand a word he says. After Trey makes the introductions, all I can do is smile and nod while I strain my ears to decipher some semblance of English. I may not understand him but I like him. Loud and boisterous, with warm, welcoming body language.

  And then whatever conversation we were having is over. Charlie shakes my, then Trey's hand, and walks away.

  I'd like to ask Trey what exactly we chatted about, but he continues on at the same brisk pace from earlier, staying a half step ahead of me. At the moment, his body language is neither warm nor welcoming.

  He stops at a container with a large seven painted on the side and opens the door. It's so dark I can barely see inside, even when Trey flips on a light.

  "Your boudoir."

  Oh, now I see the bed.

  It's a twin. With a thin, off-white blanket that reminds me of the electric blanket my grandma used as a throw in the winter while she watched hours of soaps and smoked an endless chain of cigarettes.

  No dresser, windows that look more like prison slits, a tiny desk with a plastic chair that doubles as a nightstand…I do see a door to what I hope is a bathroom. It's accordion style, and looks like it may have been lifted from an RV.

  "Go ahead and put your bag away and freshen up if you need to. I'll wait outside."

  The bathroom is about the size of a postage stamp. A tiny shower, vanity, and toilet all crammed into a five-by-five space. I'm suddenly thankful for the thousands of dollars I spent on laser hair removal. No way I'd be able
to shave in that shower. Not that I expect anyone to see the bits that need to be shaved, but I still prefer being hair-free.

  Although containers roll off the ships at a respectable eight-by-twenty, this one has been divided into two rooms, making my half smaller than most horse stalls. At least I'll be sleeping alone in here.

  The water comes out in an even weaker stream than at the compound. It barely dribbles from the faucet as I wash my hands and even stops completely a few times. At least it's scalding hot. That should make showering fun.

  What a miserable place.

  I head for the door, grabbing the scarf from the bed as I pass. I pause when my fingers touch the delicate cotton. It really is a pretty scarf. The jewel-tone colors are bright, the pattern intricate and lovely. I can't believe Trey went out of his way to get it. To make sure I'm properly prepared.

  I slip the fabric over my head. Maybe I need to quit focusing on the negative and start thinking about the positive. I chose to come here. I knew it wasn't going to be a Sandals resort. I didn't use to be such an angry, bitter woman. I really didn't.

  I trace the edge of the scarf with my fingers. How do I fix it? How do I let go of the anger that has consumed me for months?

  I have no idea. What I do know is I can quit bitching about low water pressure and do my job.

  Opening the door reveals Trey leaning against the adjacent container, thick arms folded against an even thicker chest. He pushes off the steel when I step outside, extinguishing a smoking cigarette between two fingers he dampens with his tongue before placing the butt into his pocket.

  "Ready?"

  To move on? To put the past behind me? To be happy again? Yes. To relieve Conrad of his duties? No.

  "Let's do it."

  CHAPTER SIX

  Conrad is arguing passionately with the local contractor while a couple of befuddled looking workers stand next to a wheelbarrow filled with wet cement.

  Trey immediately joins the group, stepping between Conrad and the Afghans. "What's the problem?" he asks, his deep voice firm, gentle, and authoritative all at once.

  "This concrete mix is all off."

  The local, who I assume is the foreman on the job, holds out his hands defensively. "We mix the rocks and sand with the concrete like you ask."

  "The ratio has to be 3:2:1—gravel:sand:concrete," Conrad says to the foreman before turning to Trey and then me. "They're just throwing everything together without measuring." He turns back to the foreman. "If the ratios are off, the strength won't be right. What don't you understand about that?"

  The foreman looks exasperated. "We mix it like you say."

  "You can't just eyeball it!" Conrad's entire face is red and I doubt it's from sunburn.

  "Hang on." Trey steps directly in front of him, keeping his back to my coworker while he begins to talk directly to the foreman in the local dialect. They have a quick conversation before Trey turns back to Conrad. The foreman joins his men.

  "They're using the wheelbarrow to estimate the ratios," Trey says. "That's how they usually do it. They don't quite understand that the ratios have to be exact. Here it's normally good enough."

  "Well, it isn't good enough for the United States army. I have to test this concrete and if it isn't right, it'll all have to be redone."

  "They aren't opposed to mixing it correctly. However, they only have a wheelbarrow and a shovel…"

  "I don't care. They need to get it right."

  I'm still recovering from the shock of Trey speaking the local dialect. I need to snap out of it. After all, this is my job and I need to maintain some level of professionalism. "Conrad, are there any buckets around?"

  "Yeah, I think there are some empty paint buckets over by the trash." He gestures toward a few rusted metal containers. I spot the buckets stacked next to a bin.

  Trey catches my eye. "I'll grab them," he offers.

  "Bring at least three."

  He jogs over, grabs some buckets, jogs back, and hands them to me.

  "Anyone have a marker?" I ask.

  "I do." Conrad reaches into a large canvas bag filled with construction drawings.

  I take the marker when he produces it and proceed to write on each bucket: "6 x Gravel" on one, "4 x Sand" on another, "2 x Cement" on the third. Trey helps me carry them to the workers.

  My smile is as earnest as I can make it as I approach the Afghans. I'm not sure what to expect. Luckily, Trey immediately steps in.

  "Kaihan, this is Andrea Ellis, the interim construction manager until the new hire arrives. Andrea, Kaihan—the foreman on this job."

  I hold out my hand and Kaihan grasps it firmly. "Pleasure to meet you," he says.

  "Likewise."

  Once the introductions are made, I explain my bucket methodology: add the specified number of bucketfuls of material every time they mix a batch. If they do that, the concrete should be right every time.

  Trey assists me in clarifying when Kaihan doesn't seem to grasp what I'm saying. After everything is explained, and Kaihan seems to understand, promising to use the buckets, we return to the cluster of shipping containers. The entire way, Conrad gripes about the project, the workers, the power blackouts, and the inconsistent water.

  The container he leads us to has been converted to an office. Though only slightly less cramped than my sleeping quarters, it thankfully has windows large enough to pass a basketball.

  He stops at one of the desks, unloading the contents of his bag on top. "And another thing, they'll constantly try to weasel their way out of a deadline with this Insha'Allah bullshit."

  "Insha'Allah?" I repeat the words slowly in my mind. "God…?"

  "Willing," Trey finishes for me. "Muslims are never supposed to make plans for the future without saying Insha'Allah—because the future is in God's hands. It's submission to God," he adds with a shrug. "That's all."

  "Oh. Interesting." For all his claims of liberal tolerance, Jim was actually quite intolerant when it came to religion. And very, very judgmental. Certainly as judgmental as those he claimed used religion to defend their hatred of others. I'm not religious in the least, but I find it refreshing Trey is not only tolerant, but has actually taken the time to learn a little about Islam.

  Conrad snorts. "Whatever. It's an excuse to be lazy and blow-off a deadline."

  "Or the understanding that one never knows when they'll have a heart-attack, or a roadside bomb takes out a family member, or a haboob blows into town."

  "Haboob?"

  "Sandstorm."

  "You speak Arabic?"

  "Only a little. I'm more fluent in Urdu."

  "Is that a job requirement?"

  "Not for this job."

  "Which—?"

  "Look," Conrad interjects. I try not to shoot him a dirty look. I fail. "Don't you have some security stuff or something you need to do?"

  Trey's mouth presses into a thin line but he doesn't reply. He deposits his huge body into a nearby office chair, the plastic supports groaning as he sits. Leaning back, he folds his hands tightly on his lap and watches us.

  "Do you have to be here?" Conrad asks him.

  "Yes."

  I doubt that, but I like how Trey's presence is obviously making Conrad uncomfortable.

  In fact, as he describes the project details to me, his gaze darts back and forth between myself and Trey, who continues to stare him down. After a while, Conrad begins to sweat.

  The more Trey stares, the more agitated Conrad becomes. He completely unravels until every piece of exposed skin glistens, the fabric under his arms is completely soaked, and he can barely string a sentence together.

  I'm not sure whether to laugh or well, laugh. I suppose I should feel sorry for him, but Trey hasn't actually done anything, and Conrad's earlier prickness sapped any potential pity. Finally, I decide I can at least put him out of his misery.

  "I think I got it," I say. "I can email you if I have any questions."

  He wipes at the pool of sweat covering his forehead. "Goo
d. I'm ready to get out of this hellhole."

  For the first time in fifteen minutes, Trey moves. "I'll escort you to the chopper," he says as he stands.

  A hand quickly comes up. "No. I can handle it." Conrad quickly makes his way to the aluminum door. "Good luck, Andrea. Let me know if you need anything."

  I hold up my hand in a wave as he steps from the container, and then turn to Trey once the door closes. "That was the most amazing skunk-eye I've ever seen."

  He shrugs. "I was just making sure you had everything you need," he says nonchalantly. The corners of his mouth curl up into a barely perceptible smile.

  "Uh-huh." I sit in the office chair assigned to the desk Conrad unloaded onto, stacking the plans into a neat pile.

  He sets a Walkie-Talkie before me. "We're set up on channel three. Press the button on the left to talk." He demonstrates with the one in his hand.

  "I take it you're heading out?"

  "I've got to check on a few things. Are you…?"

  "I'm fine." I pick up the Walkie-Talkie, and press the button. "I'm fine," I repeat into the speaker. Sounding tinny and foreign, my voice comes out through the matching Talkie attached to Trey's belt.

  He scoops it up. "Ten-four." His words echo from my Talkie.

  I can't help smiling as he exits the building.

  Dinner is served in another shipping container. Unlike at Merritec Village, we're limited to two choices: curried beef with rice, vegetables, pita and hummus, or a MRE. I choose the curried beef. Trey sits next to me at the folding plastic table. I wonder briefly how the flimsy chair can support his weight. At six-foot-four, he's got to weigh at least two-thirty. All muscle of course.

  He too has curried beef. Although his plate is packed with three times the food on mine. The man probably eats the equivalent amount of four teenage boys.

  "Somehow I pictured you as a MRE kind of guy."

  He makes a face. "Not if I can help it."

  Conrad told me we were operating on Ghost Town mode with a skeleton crew. If it wasn't painfully apparent in the empty office, it's excruciatingly painful in the nearly vacant dining hall. Meant to seat at least twenty, it's only us and two young Thai men—sitting far, far away.