by JC Braswell
He winced at the next picture, unsure if he should continue. McEvoy pressed the girl against the bed. Her mouth was open and bleeding at the side. Her eyes were squeezed shut as she prayed to a deity they didn’t know. McEvoy fondled her like she was his personal toy, lust controlling his movements. She didn’t want him, but he wanted her.
War changed them all in different ways. Innocence lost. Her look of desperation forever engrained his memory. McEvoy would’ve been different back home.
Williams hesitated. His heart skipped a beat as he flipped to the next picture. Unlike the others, withered brown edges framed the object. A white orb blurred the middle of the image, including the child’s face. He recognized the familiar contours of the boat, the waves in the background, the baseball cap. He’d seen them before in his dreams. It couldn’t be possible.
He flipped to the next picture. Again, it was taken on the boat, but the image that starred back at him couldn’t exist, not now, not ever.
Karen?
The pictures flittered down to Williams’s lap. His hands were cold. Not the cold from the river, but a biting cold, a deathly cold from inside. The stars above spun in a dizzying array of fireworks, forming streaks as he collapsed beside Garcia. Then he felt its presence again. The had forged through the river, making sure to keep pace with the small band.
“Hey, Cap, you ok over there?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Going to sleep. Take first shift. The rest of you can decide what shift to take. I’ll take last one.”
The fire snapped as Williams slowly closed his eyes. The orange glow washed over his eyelids, basking him in iridescence, Johnny Cash echoing in his ear.
They were going to die. All of them.
TWENTY ONE
“Chris, wake up. Don’t tell me you’re going to sleep all morning again.” Karen’s playful voice tickled his ear. The pleasant scent of vanilla wafted across his nose. Even in the morning she smelled good.
“Five more minutes.” Williams rolled to his side, hugging his pillow. His hips and shoulder sank into the mattress. A night of revelries came to an end way too early. “Promise.”
“You promised that five minutes ago, and five minutes before that.”
That’s what he loved about her. She never became frustrated with his shortcomings, particularly his fondness for sleep, and his morning laziness.
Chris Williams was a night owl by nature, preferring to lose himself in the works of Hemingway, Wolfe, Faulkner, and Fitzgerald, often staying up past midnight to delve into the great works. He favored Hemingway—the greatest American author by far. It was an escape from the constant drubbing in the steel mill.
“Just five more minutes,” he pleaded again, vodka’s unkind effect still lingering.
His plea was met with a pillow to the side of his face. He knew she hated wasting a Saturday in bed.
He relented and rolled back over to face the morning sun filtering through their Annapolis apartment window. The structure, built in the 1800s, appealed to both of them. The exposed brick of the walls matched the historical significance of the cobbled streets below.
She smiled in an adoring manner. He’d never felt as much love for anyone before. She saw past all his faults, loving him for who he was.
“Hey silly.” He smiled, butterflies in his stomach. It never got old.
“Come on, you have to wake up. Long day today, birthday boy.” She wore one of his white collared shirts, buttoned halfway, baring a portion of her toned breasts in a teasing manner. She curled her legs underneath her body, watching him, her swollen belly protruding a little. They’d first noticed a few weeks back. It was the most powerful symbol of their love for each other.
“Birthday, yeah. Forgot about that. That whole once-a-year thing.” Williams sat up and hugged his knees, stretching the tightness in his back and hamstrings. The twelve miles he’d run the day before had caught up with him and his lower back. Even being in his mid-twenties, he wasn’t getting any younger. “I guess I should be somewhat excited.”
“Better be. Might not be as special next year when the little one has arrived.”
“How could I forget? The little one.” He snaked his hand inside her shirt and rubbed her belly. He imagined what life was about to become when he or she emerged. “Little Isaac.”
“Why are you so stuck on that name? Why not something more traditional, like Jack or Bobby?”
“After the president? No way. I don’t want him to be named after a president.”
“Not the president, silly. My dad.”
“Oh, no. Why your dad?” he groaned.
“I don’t know. He’s mentioned it before.”
“He’s mentioned many things before. Like how I’m not good enough for you.”
“Stop it. You’ve grown on him.” She rocked to the side and reached over for her mug. She cradled it in her hands and blew off the fresh steam. The smell of coffee grounds helped to goad him out from underneath the sheets.
“I hope you made me a cup.”
“Not if you don’t get up.” She sipped from the cup and pulled back—still too hot to taste.
“Look, I’m up. See? Up. So I suppose you have some fantastic day.” Williams wiped the sleep from his face and slid his legs off the edge of the mattress. The hardwood floor below felt cold and indifferent to his tender heels. If only they had a plush rug to massage his feet, but she thought it would dampen the historic nature of the room. He had no choice in the matter.
“There we go. Birthday boy has a big day ahead of him.” She backed off the mattress, attempting her coffee once more.
He combed his hands through his long hair. He needed a haircut. Maybe that was what she’d planned for him today: a haircut.
“So, really, what are we up to today?” His knees popped as he pushed himself off the bed with a harrumph. Williams leaned forward and glossed over their degrees hanging on the wall, spotting his ghostly reflection in his college diploma’s frame. His hair could have belonged to Garfunkel.
“I was thinking. Maybe we could go shopping.”
“Shopping? Stores are going to be murder on a Saturday.” He stumbled over to their bathroom and turned on the nozzle. Fresh water splashed down into the ceramic basin. Steam began to rise soon after.
“Not shopping for you. I was thinking of picking up a crib.”
“A crib? I thought it was my birthday and not the little fella’s.” He laughed, massaging the hot water over the stubble of his unshaven face, opening his clogged pores.
“Wait a second. You keep on calling our baby a him. Since when is she a him?” She placed her coffee mug down and pouted her lips.
“I know these things. Psychic. Like that old lady down by the harbor. The one who smells like oregano.”
“No you don’t. You always claim you know these things and get it all wrong. Not much of a renaissance man if you ask me.”
“I can play the fiddle.” He spat some water into the sink. “Look, I know you want a girl. I wouldn’t mind having a girl either. I just know these things. Told you, I’m psychic.” He grabbed the hand towel without looking and shoved his face inside.
“Yeah, right. You want to have a Brooks Robinson in the family.”
His couldn’t deny the truth, grinning as big as he could at the thought of his boy growing up to be a Baltimore Oriole. It would be a dream come true.
“Ok, you got me there.” He threw down the towel. A playful scowl was still etched on her face. “Come on, Karen. You know I’d love to have a girl.”
“And how do I know that?”
“You’re telling me you don’t know? Geez.” He reached his arms around the small of her back and pulled her close. His fingertips glided along her smooth skin to her shoulders underneath the shirt. He brought her closer, casting his eyes down upon her radiance, smelling her hair, still perfect in the morning. He wanted nothing more than to make her happy.
“How do you do that?” She looked up at him with her emerald eyes that kne
w only kindness and placed her petite feet on top of his. Damn, she was perfect.
“Do what?” He rocked back and forth, picking each foot up, her feet still on top of his.
“Hard to explain. It’s just you. You always make me feel like that first time we met rafting. Then there’s that mystery in you that puts me at ease. I can never tell what you’re thinking.” He placed their foreheads together. “There’s fun in the mystery. It keeps things fresh.”
“Is there?” She stole a kiss. Her lips tasted like the strawberry chapstick. “I just wish you would occasionally tell me how much you love me.”
“Please don’t start that again. You know I can’t stand when you question me.”
“And how is that?” She cocked her head to the side, raising both her brows. Her emerald eyes peered into him.
“It isn’t me. I just, I don’t know. Blame my upbringing. You know how hard it is for me to show emotion.”
“Well, when the little one comes along, she will want some extra-special attention from Daddy. You got that?”
“Ok, then. Promise you it won’t be a problem. I’ll give all the love and attention to him I can muster.” He meant every word.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Tell you what, why don’t we get ourselves together for the day. I take it we’re going to meet the gang later at the Fulcrum? Sound like a plan? I could use a few drinks with the boys before they ship off.”
“If that’s what you think.” She pulled away, stealing another peck. “But first we look for a crib.”
“If you say so.”
Then as if sparked by the words, the warm Saturday-morning rays faded to gray. The glass rattled, banging louder against the thin windowpanes.
“What the? They weren’t calling for rain.” Williams darted the window, expecting to see the makings of a storm gathering outside. He froze when Annapolis did not greet him.
A nightmare. It was a damned nightmare.
He fell to his knees. Bone jarred against hardwood floor as he held fast to the curtains. The Vietnam jungle loomed outside, ready to render its verdict.
“Chris?” she called from behind.
Everything told him not to turn around. Pain waited for him, but her pull was too strong to fight. He strained to lift his head, tears streaming down his cheeks as he peered over his shoulder. He found his past.
Shattered pictures, fist-sized holes, and a bureau filled with cheap booze littered the once-pristine apartment. One picture—the couple holding each other on the beach, genuine smiles that evidenced their love—remained on their wall. A cracked circle spiraled around their faces and outwards like a web. He wanted to hold her.
He pulled up on the curtains as the wind howled like a banshee, rattling the old glass panes once again. The curtains ripped from the rod. He lost his balance and tumbled backwards.
The tree limbs extended out and smashed the windows. Leaves brushed against the back of his neck, reminding Williams of his paradigm. He smelled her vanilla perfume in the cloth as he cried.
None of this was real. None of it would ever be real again.
TWENTY TWO
Williams sprang from his dream and sucked in a mouthful of air. His heart raced, thumping against his chest in rapid succession. Sweat trickled down this side of his face.
He wanted to embrace her again. He would give anything to spend one more day with her. If he opened his eyes, the last image of her swollen belly, nurturing eyes, and unselfish smile would disappear, forever lost in Vietnam’s labyrinth. Why did she have to haunt him? Why did they have to haunt him?
As he lay there, holding on to her fading image, it dawned on Williams: he was supposed to take the last shift.
He looked through the blanket of darkness at their ramshackle camp. Tendrils of smoke floated up from the dying embers. He first saw Jackson’s boots, then Harris’s mud-covered face as he subconsciously swatted a fly away hovering around his nostrils.
“Chris.”
“Garcia?” He pivoted, his quad wound stabbing like an ice pick, to see Garcia propped up next to him. He pretended not to notice blood oozing from Garcia’s nose or the redness of his insect-bitten ears.
“Did I startle you?” Garcia gagged on a cocktail of blood, mucous, and bile, spitting it out to his side. The brown sludge reeked of death.
“Just a little.” Williams put his hand over his mouth, praying that he would not lose what little food filled his stomach. “What, why are you up? Why are they all sleeping?”
“I told them they could sleep. You needed your sleep, too.” Garcia sounded indifferent, resigned to a fate, but he smiled through blistered lips, his right side bubbling with another insect bite. The damned bloodsuckers refused to wait for a fresh corpse.
“Here we are, destroying this place of everything, its splendor, its beauty. God only knows how many natural remedies we’re burying out here.” Garcia scanned the stillness of the pink Vietnam pre-dawn, almost in reverence. It was the type of beauty that had lulled Williams into a false sense of comfort when he first touched down.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve never seen greens so green. Not even in Oregon or Washington. You know, that’s where my parents took me when we first stepped foot on United States soil. I remember those redwoods on the way up. They were so serene, peaceful in a way. Coming from the South where everything is red, man, the green was beautiful. There is just something wholesome and giving about the color green,” Garcia rambled, his words fading in and out.
“Garcia, come on man, don’t do this.” Williams positioned himself next to Garcia. He worried for his friend.
“These trees remind me of that place.” Williams felt Garcia’s gaze move past him, almost looking to someone else. “That’s where I really fell in love with my faith, my appreciation of God.”
“Dude, you aren’t making any sense.”
“You ever actually kneel down and pray and think? They say you can’t hear an answer.” Garcia ignored Williams’s approach, resting to his back. “I don’t think that. I think that if you listen close enough, you’ll hear an answer from Him. It’ll come in different ways, sometimes soon, sometimes later, but it’ll come. And it won’t be words. No, it’ll be something else, much more spiritual.”
“More spiritual?”
“It’ll be like a gust of wind, or that feeling.” Garcia gagged, and his eyes doubled in size and held red. His voice elevated with excitement. “Yeah, those pinpricks in your side. It surrounds you in that warm feeling of just happiness, knowing someone’s there, watching. Can you believe He’s watching to make sure you’re doing what you’re supposed to in life? It was within that grove, much like this very day, I realized He was watching over me.”
Williams eased his hand across Garcia’s chest. Garcia’s fatigues remained soaked, but he didn’t seem to notice as he rambled on about God, forgiveness, and other less relevant matters.
“My father…my father told me I found the way. I was…fourteen,” Garcia gasped, sweat beads dotted his forehead. Williams closed his eyes and cursed. Garcia’s father had left him at nine, not fourteen. Garcia was obviously borderline mad with fever. “He was so happy. He said the ministry would be happy to accept me. It was there, in a meadow such as this, where I found myself, my true calling.” Garcia relaxed his head once more. He smiled a knowing smile, a knowing only he could understand.
Williams unfastened the top two buttons and pulled Garcia’s jacket to the side until he smelled decomposing flesh tainted with pus and plasma. Guilt overwhelmed Williams as he realized he should’ve tended to the wound the night before. The damp jacket had served as a petri dish, allowing the infection to incubate. Crossing the river only made matters worse.
“Cap, everything ok over there?” Jackson called from across the camp.
“Yeah,” Williams responded. “Thought you were asleep.”
“Nah, it’s my internal alarm clock. Sun be rising now.” Jack
son said, groggy and confused. “How long it been raining?”
Williams had not noticed, but the drum of a steady drizzle plucked the jungle floor.
“I don’t know,” Williams responded, pressing his ear to Garcia’s bare chest. The medic’s lungs struggled to expand, stricken with phlegm. At least Garcia was still alive, but the urgency of the situation kicked Williams in the gut. They needed to move or Garcia would fall. “Jackson, get everybody up.”
Then he felt the VC staring at him, fresh from his sleep.
“What do you want?” Williams clenched his hand to the point of cramping, knowing the VC knew the way out of the jungle, the way to Garcia’s safety. Perhaps he needed to apply a different method to extract the answer.
“All right.” Williams didn’t care. He willed himself to his feet. Nausea tried to hold him back, but he fought it, pulling the VC to his feet. “It’s time to talk.”
“Chris, no. Don’t do it,” Garcia’s weakened voice called from behind.
The VC’s black pupils dilated. Williams smelled the stale breath of berries and whatever other shit the VC directed Garcia to feed him.
“I don’t care if you understand my words or not, bub. You know damn well that we want out of this shithole.” Williams pointed behind him toward Garcia. “He’s one of the reasons why you’re still alive. If it weren’t for him, I would’ve let that other lumbering dolt over there crucify you like you crucified my friends.” Williams clenched the VC’s jacket tighter, pressing his knuckled into the protruding collarbone. He wanted to break him right there, but the thought of his final sin held him back. He would damn them all.
“Please, Chris.” Garcia’s voice struggled.
“Sick,” the VC said, almost remorseful. His shallow eyes slowly glided towards Garcia. Williams loosened his grip. He took a step back, ashamed at his outburst.
Williams turned away to find Harris and Donovan starring at him. The only one who seemed happy was Simmons, a shit-eating grin of satisfaction plastered across his pockmarked face.
“Finally growing some balls, aren’t ya, boy?” Simmons asked. “That’s the attitude I like to see from our fearless leader. Take no prisoners.”