OBLIGATION

by Donald Stilwell

  Kevin was home. He gathered his food along with himself and walked inside. He put the food in the refrigerator; he was no longer hungry. Kevin splashed water on his face and took a glance in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. He wiped at them harder than necessary and then headed for bed. He looked at the ceiling seeing nothing but space. He was alone now, in every sense of the word. He moved his head, his eyes followed along, noting the various parts of his room. Shelves of books lined the walls, a painting or two, a photograph. His life, his personal tribute to God’s work, was a lost thing, a being of habit, not really alive in the traditional sense, a creature of different goals, a frightened little man, covering himself with the shroud of sameness, of self-worth that had saved more like him, however might not save himself in the end.

  It was momentary delusion, he assured himself. This was Ethan, that perfect little kid, so much like the father who adored him. Peter had loved someone very much. Had loved and talked, and dreamed of a life he would never know. That ended, but still he knew it, had experienced it, had conceived a child so much like himself, he could hold him and truly thank God for something. Can everyone say that? Could he?

  Kevin let those thoughts roam around as they would if he agreed to it or not. He relieved himself from the prone position and walked to the living room. He found his duty belt, put it on, emptied his pistol, checked three times that it was without magazine or a round in the chamber, and then proceeded to train.

  He drew the weapon from its holster slow at first, then faster with each repetition.

  He watched in the mirror, making sure the draw stroke was fundamentally perfect. Convinced that it was, he checked his weapon again, then dry-fired.

  He had his body armor draped over a hanger; the hanger was secured to a chin-up bar in the doorway. His grandfather had repeated the rules of gun safety so many times it was never an issue, safety first, every time, checking until you were sure. He knew the gun was empty; the body armor was yet another safety precaution. He had practiced his trigger control like this thousands of times. The front sight clear, target blurry, weapon up in the eye line, press.

  The weapon held steady, no jerking, no extra movement; it was a discipline, an unnatural act made natural by years of dedicated practice.

  Kevin checked the time. He had been at this for over an hour. He placed the magazine back into the weapon, racked the slide, checked to make sure a round had chambered then put the pistol back in the holster.

  His world was righted by the simplicity of the activity. His mind clearer, he noticed his appetite had returned. He heated the soup first, ate, and then continued on until he’d had his fill. The meal was delicious. Once again, he believed he could be grateful for what he had.

  It was Kevin’s and Peter’s team’s time on duty.

  They were no longer considered new guys. Since the shooting, both were received as any. Their membership amongst the proven was no longer in jeopardy, they were the proven. They moved their gear to the third range floor, the one utilized primarily by Sniper teams.

  There were numerous shooting stations, distances out to six hundred yards, and a ten foot high beam of dirt and cement shielding their fire from those training on the range floors opposite to theirs.

  They began as most days, checking their zeros with a cold bore shot of one hundred yards. After checking the targets, each fired a four round group.

  After checking this and noting all was in working order, they carried on with the day’s training.

  Today was hostage work from impractical but possible positions of fire. Every sniper hopes for a spot in front of a threat where he can lay prone, utilize three points of contact on the rifle, and make it as steady as it can possibly be. Unfortunately, this just isn’t realistic. More often than not, you were left standing behind a dilapidated fence, up on your toes, just trying to hold your aim and keep the threat in the scope.

  Starting at fifty yards, Kevin took aim on a target showing a man and a child’s face. The man held a gun to the boy’s head, approximately one half of the man’s face was visible, the boy’s face was shown in its entirety. It was the type of training every law enforcement sniper team needed. This was their role; this was what they got paid to do. Kevin had already checked his zero; he was snuggled between two trash cans in a semi-contorted seated position. He brought one knee up, placed a sand bag on it, his left elbow on top of that. From there, he tried to find the most stable platform to fire his rifle from. As he found the man’s right eye in the glass, he took notice his position was far from immutable.

  The scope’s reticle was bouncing in a pattern resembling a small figure eight around the man’s eye. The power of the scope made the movement seem far greater than what it really was.

  Kevin held firm, his breathing took its usual pace in these moments, in---out----in----out----fire.

  Kevin worked the bolt, chambering a second round; he examined the target through the scope. The round had found its intended mark; the man would have been immediately incapacitated.

  Kevin and Peter took turns working the possibilities from this position. After ten rounds each they moved to a new location one hundred yards out. Again a seated position, only this time they made it stable with the use of a camera tripod. Kevin extended the arms of the tripod while Peter checked his rifle. Peter took a large sandbag from his field kit, placed it on top of the tripod mount where the camera would have gone. Together, they adjusted the tripod until it was in a perfect place and height for Peter’s seated station. Peter rested the rifle atop the sandbag, pressing downward until it grooved itself a sturdy notch. Afterward he moved in close, pulling the stock to his shoulder. After fine adjustments were made, all that was left was to lay his right cheek in its familiar position leaving a perfect eye line into the scope.

  The target depicted four life-size faces, two on top two on bottom. The goal was to get away all four head shots in less than ten seconds, with each round entering a portion of the face which would cause immediate incapacitation.

  A simple task for an accomplished marksman in a fixed prone position; from this position, however, a generous measure of skill was necessary. Peter found his target, started with the top left hand face, moved clockwise from there. He finished the drill with three seconds to spare.

  Kevin watched through a spotting scope, all hits, all finding the spot between the nose and the mouth. It was the soft spot of the human face, the place where flesh was the only real impediment standing in the way of the cord which served as lifeline to the brain. It was taught, practiced, and counted on. Hit a man’s skull, you never knew, the bullet does amazing things when faced with an obstacle. Limit those, and the chances of saving innocent life increased.

  They were two and a half hours into a four hour block of training when Peter pulled up rubbing the base of his neck.

  “Jesus, my head and neck are killing me.” He rubbed as he spoke.

  Kevin offered some Excedrin he kept in his kit bag. Peter took them, though he’d already took three Tylenol just prior to their training.

  “Thanks, man. I don’t know what’s up, been having this pain for a week or two now, constant nagging shit.”

  “You see a doctor?”

  “No, man, they’re just headaches. I figure it’s all the time behind the rifle. Neck gets sore, shit tightens up and the head follows suit.”

  “You should see a doctor,” Kevin said as he watched his friend.

  “Alright, mom, I will if it’ll make you worry less.” Peter laughed after his remark, but the pain remained.

  “You want to pack it in?”

  “No, no, just give me a minute, I’ll be good as soon as the pills kick in, let’s just get some water, huh?”

  They moved to a shaded spot. Peter drank long swallows from a bottle of Gatorade, and then stretched out. Kevin removed the bolt from his rifle, punched the bore with some damp patches as his friend closed his eyes.

  “You ever get these headaches before?” Kevin asked w
hile running his third patch.

  Peter didn’t open his eyes, the darkness seemed to help. “As a kid, I think I got a few then, not since.”

  "Well, I’m sure it’s probably just the training, but it never hurts to be sure, you see that doctor.”

  Peter was sure he and Ethan were the only things in Kevin’s life resembling a family; he understood his friend’s concern was genuine, but talking about it was beginning to freak him out a bit. He pretended the pain had subsided, moved to a seated position and suggested they carry on.

  “Are you sure?” Kevin replaced the bolt.

  “Yeah, man, I’m good. Let’s get back at it.”

  When the training day had reached its end, Peter was in agony. He bid Kevin farewell and drove straight home. He stepped into the shower, his greatest desire some relief provided by hot water.

  The relief sat upon a distant shore. He couldn’t have seen it with his scope. He dried off, made a call to his physician.

  Peter woke the next morning with his head pounding. It was as if the muscles in his neck had swollen and fused with the lining of his brain. The pain was enough that he had trouble focusing.

  It had been like this before. Not exactly like this, but enough so that he had felt apprehensive. He didn’t know what to make of it. The job he supposed. The way they trained day in and day out, all of the working out, the rifle up position and prone position with the head up for hours at a go. Must be it. He walked to the bathroom, retrieved the bottle of Ibuprofen. He had bought it last week, a bottle of fifty, now there were less than ten pills remaining. He shook his aching head, “Jesus, have I taken that many of these?”

  The question troubled him. He had been healthy his entire life. Never got sick, ate right, worked out, didn’t smoke or drink, and now these damn headaches, out of nowhere. He sat on the counter top and swallowed four tablets with a small gulp of water. He breathed out, tried to relax his neck and shoulders. The pain was ever present. It spread and would not retreat.

  He called Kevin, explained he would have to miss training.

  Kevin said he’d cover for him and asked what was up? Peter lied, said he had to do something at Ethan’s school. Ethan, damn, he had forgotten to wake him.

  Walking to Ethan’s bedroom did nothing to ease the pain; each step brought a new throbbing. At one point he feared he might throw-up.

  "Ethan, buddy, wake up, Daddy let you sleep a bit too late.” Every word drove a sliver of glass into his head.

  Ethan rolled out as he usually did; he got dressed without a word and met his father in the kitchen. Peter made him an English muffin the way he preferred it, with peanut butter and syrup. He told him he would have to eat it on the drive.

  Peter donned his sunglasses and drove without talking. Ethan didn’t seem to mind. He was a good kid. Peter was lucky. When they arrived in front of the school, Peter leaned over and kissed Ethan on top of the head. Ethan told his father he loved him then jumped out and ran to his class.

  Peter drove straight to his doctor’s office. His face must have revealed what his head was feeling. His doctor saw him within twenty minutes.

  Peter explained the headaches, the duration of them, the onset with no warning, and the acceleration of their severity. Peter’s doctor called over to the medical building where testing and lab work were performed. He had been Peter’s doctor for a long time, he knew Peter rarely visited and when he did it had to be something truly making him feel like crap.

  Peter gave blood and had a prescription for migraine medicine filled. He was scheduled for an MRI the following afternoon.

  Peter took the meds and hoped for the best.

  He picked up his son on time and began feeling a little better.

  By the next morning the headache was back.

  Obligation

  Peter drove to the medical building feeling mild agitation. He had shit to do, and no time for this. Scan complete, Peter met with his doctor to go over the results.

  It was four in the afternoon, almost closing time for his doctor he was sure. He had made arrangements prior with Janet to look after Ethan.

  Peter sat there. The examination room was never a place of ease. He never knew if he should sit on the doctor’s stool or up on the table. He felt like a fool sitting on the examination table before the doctor entered, so he generally opted for the stool.

  The doctor entered, asked Peter to follow him to his office. Peter walked in in front of the doctor. It was the first time he had seen the private office. It was quite nice--rich wood grains and sturdy leather chairs--he thought briefly if the examination rooms were set up in this fashion people wouldn’t have such a phobia of visiting. Peter was offered a seat and took it.

  His doctor sat down behind his desk, removed his glasses. He placed a large manila folder in front of him. Anxiety began to creep into Peter’s head along with the throbbing ache.

  His doctor looked to the folder then to Peter, “What I have to say isn’t easy.”

  Peter breathed in sharply, let a mask of bravery shield his true intention.

  I received the results from your MIR a little while ago. You have a mass, Peter; it’s formed at the base of your skull and moved upward.”

  The doctor stopped speaking, removed what looked to be a complicated x-ray.

  "It’s cancer, Peter. Your blood work confirms it.”

  The last things Peter heard was mass and cancer. The doctor went on explaining everything in medical terms, very technical vernacular for which Peter was sure made absolute sense. Peter felt the room spinning. His head was on fire as it had been for the past month. He wanted to scream, but the pain and his bearing wouldn’t allow it. When Peter was capable of speech, he asked about his options.

  "Sadly, Peter, there aren’t any.”

  Peter felt cold, his face felt flush, his extremities frozen, he didn’t know what to do. For the first time in his life he had no idea what to do next.

  When he said the words, “how long” it felt as if he were an actor in a cheesy high school play. This couldn’t be, could it?

  "Best estimate, six weeks, maybe two months,” The doctor said in a firm but gentle tone.

  Peter didn’t say anything else. He nodded, stood, shook the doctor’s hand, and started to walk out.

  "Peter, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

  All Peter could muster was, “Me, too.”

  When he got to his truck the world lost its place, he fumbled his keys, righted himself, got inside the cab.

  Peter looked about, spotted no one close by. He shook all over, one enormous tremor and he was gone. His sob caught in his throat. He wasn’t thinking of himself, it was Ethan. All he could picture at that moment was the beautiful face of his only son. How could he explain --- the thought was too much, he doubled over and cried out loud.

  Crying was replaced with sobbing and finally the aching words that bubbled from his lips, no---, no---.

  When Peter made it home, he walked directly to Ethan’s room. He knew Ethan was still playing at Janet’s house. His mind was on fire in more than one way. Too many things to say, no time to say it all, no time left to make this right. Six weeks, six weeks and he would be dead and his boy would be alone.

  Peter felt his legs collapse beneath him; he fell to his knees and laid his head on Ethan’s comforter.

  He reached out, pulling the bed spread to him. He cried again, wailed into this place where no one else would hear. He had to get this out now, couldn’t allow Ethan to see him this way. The tears and the words compiled to form overwhelming grief. His guts felt vacant, moving, his heart was beating out of his chest, filling the room which held his boy--his whole life.

  Would God hear any of this, would it matter? How many had fallen to their knees this very same way? This pain was a single prick of light amass a million suns. He felt no right to be angry with God, he felt weak in the solitude of despair, the depth of this selfish pity. He had been a strong man, had fought for things, believed in things, it was bes
ide him now like a betraying friend laughing at him. He spoke to the walls around him, was sure they were the only thing listening, “What do I tell my son?” he screamed to the walls that surrounded him, “What do I tell my son?”

  His head grew tighter, the pain a lemon in a vise, he didn’t care, he dared it to take him now.

  In the time elapsed, Peter sat back, his body heaving, his insides pulling to be free. It was too much, all too much. He didn’t move from this position for some time. He let the tears dry where they lay. It was what it was, his life, so perfect with his son, his friends, his job, and now this. He had never felt this alone in his life. And now he would have to pick-up his boy, bring him home and make believe everything was alright.

  He would hold his son as he had never held him before. He would make him his favorite dinner, read to him, tell him how much he loved him, how proud he was to be his father, then kiss him goodnight, as if it were any other night.

  Peter let himself grieve for ten more minutes.

  Following this; he got up, walked to the bathroom, washed his face, and looked into the mirror as if for the first time. He searched the eyes he had known since time began. They tracked the place in his head where the pain emanated. He stared, as if doing so would allow him to see the cancer behind his skin, buried not so deep behind the skull which protected his thoughts and dreams and concerns. His was still a place of disbelief. How? How does this happen to a man with so much left to do? With a small child to care for? He wouldn’t let the words escape him. He already knew it wasn’t fair, but was it ever? Did anyone deserve this? It was enough for now. He changed clothes, took more medicine to ease his head, then drove to Janet’s.

  Ethan was playing outside when he pulled up. He watched for a moment. The perfect little boy which had only known him, been his piece of this world, his true claim to existence. He pushed the thoughts aside; it would start the tears again, and now, in front of his son was not the time.

  Janet gave Ethan a quick hug then waved to Peter. Ethan ran to his father’s truck, opened the door, and jumped inside. His face was flush with the exertion of youthful play.