She nods, nibbling away on her hot dog at a steady rate, which makes me wonder if Mindy remembered to feed her lunch.
“How'd you get tickets?”
I wink. Haven sprouts a sarcastic look, so I shoot her back a childlike, innocent grin.
Once I'm finished with the last of my hot dog and have successfully swallowed down the anxiety with it, I wipe away the mustard off the corner of my lips and tug Haven's baseball hat down in a playful way.
“You know, Mom didn't care for sports, like at all. And Dad was a sports guy but a hockey man. I went to hockey games all the time. There were pictures of me in hockey jerseys at two months old cuddled in his arms. Apparently, I came out of the womb cheering for toothless guys.”
I toss my head back in laughter.
“I loved hockey games with my Dad. They were like our own getaway together. Sharing food like this . . .” The memories of her father look like they are flooding back in full force. Rapids of emotion seem to be pushing her into the same position I was in earlier. Funny how that works. Trying to gain her footing, she asks, “You like hockey?”
“Can't say I've seen many games.”
“But baseball is your favorite?”
I raise the beer to my lips. “It used to be.”
My eyes glance over to see Haven, who is staring at me as if waiting for something more. With everything else that's just managed to fall out of me, what the fuck’s one more, right?
I slowly lower the cup. “Sir was a huge baseball fan. I started playing very young. I could hit a ball before I could walk is what my mom used to say. Sir started calling me Slugger. Mom loved that. Thought the name fit perfectly. I played T-ball then baseball. Our team always won. I was known for hitting them out of the park.
“Mom swore I’d get a college scholarship. Play in the big leagues. I played year-round baseball. In season, off season, never more than a couple weeks where I wasn't on a team. Never more than a day when there wasn't a bat in my hand. Whether it was practice or the backyard, it didn't matter. I breathed baseball.
“The weekend of Mom's brain aneurism was the last time I ever picked up a bat, stepped foot in a stadium, or even thought about baseball.”
She shifts toward me, offering me immediate comfort. I wrap an arm around her shoulder, my other hand gripping the nacho container in my lap. She slides her hand around the cotton candy and popcorn in her lap over to my thigh. I feel a soothing rub.
I glance down and then over to her, “Haven, I haven't been to a game since I was ten.”
“That was–”
“Eleven years ago.”
Instincts are telling me she has a million questions brewing inside her. Honestly, I don't think I could handle the interrogation right now, but if she asks, I won't deny her the answers. I don't think I could deny her anything. Ever. Instead of asking me anything, she simply reaches over, dips a chip in cheese, and brings it to her lips, and makes a loud crunch.
A smile seeps out of me as I shake my head, “You've got . . . cheese.”
With the hand that was holding the food hostage, I wipe it away from the corner of her mouth. God, I wish I could slide my thumb across her lips and let her lick the cheese off, have her warm mouth wrapped around mine. Or any part of me would do. I feel a familiar stirring in my pants. Stroking her cheek for a moment, I can't stop staring at my lifeline.
After a quick swallow, she says, “Thanks.”
“Thank you.”
The response is followed by the announcer pulling me back to reality. Baseball, America's favorite pastime, a sport that reminds so many of their childhoods, me included. Nostalgia hums all around. Everyone glues their eyes to the game ahead. I'm no exception.
Eleven years ago was the last time I picked up a bat, and the sight of one now causes tension to flood through me. When all this was buried, it didn't matter. I could see a bat, hear a game, sit through a conversation about teams in the league, completely un-phased. Now . . . now memories suffocate me at moments, making me feel like I'm back on the baseline, the cheering from the crowd behind my mom's sweet, angelic voice.
Through the game, Haven remains fully engulfed in the cheering and the booing and the singing of songs that help pass the time. She laughs, she giggles, and she stuffs her face until I think she's going to pop, never missing the chance to be happy, never taking for granted this moment we have together. I find myself replacing haunting memories of the sport with these, these precious indications that baseball has always been more than just a sport to me and always will be.
The bases are loaded. Everyone’s on the edge of their seats except me. With my arm still draped around Haven, my mind seems to be stuck at a halfway mark between the past and the present, swaying gently between the two. As the batter goes to the plate, suddenly, I'm behind the plate, my hand gripping the bat. He swings, I swing, the ball soars sky high, and in a soft whisper, so light that it could easily get lost in the wind, “And it's out of here . . .”
The announcer echoes, “And! It's! Out! Of! Here!”
She looks up at me and laughs, “What was your favorite team you were on growing up?”
“The Rattlesnakes.”
“And . . .”
“I was seven. Last team I played on before we moved to Reckonberg. The last year of normalness. Coach Becker had a crush on Mom. Made her snack captain. Not usually her scene, but anything that had to do with supporting me or my baseball habit, she was all for. I hit a home run every game that season. We won the championship. She framed the jersey that year. It was hung over my bed up until she died.”
“Where is it now?”
“Back of my closet.”
“I'd love to see it sometime.”
“I'd love to show you.”
The word love bouncing between us keeps the feeling of serenity that has settled flowing steady. It feels like such a safe place, a place where we can talk about anything.
“How many games did Whiskey see that year?”
“None.” I divert my attention to the scoreboard. And just like that, the peace is shattered, leaving the air sticky with bits of remorse for being destroyed.
The game tires the two of us out quite well. As soon we get home, we barely make it to change before we are snuggled beneath the sheets, morphed together like two pieces of a misunderstood puzzle.
“But, Mom,” I whine, stomping my cleats. “You promised.”
Smoothing out the wrinkles on my uniform, my mom lets out a deep breath, “Slugger, I know what I said, but–”
“He does this all the time!” My eight-year-old frame pushes past her. I want out of the bathroom she corned me in.
“Slugger–”
“No! It's always something!”
“It's not his fault.” She pulls her hair high up into a ponytail.
“It's never his fault!” Her arms fold across her chest, settling in to let my tantrum continue. “He loves this stupid country, his stupid job, more than he loves me!”
“Clint.” The tone in her voice freezes me in place. “That's not true, and you know that. Your father loves you.” I open my mouth to argue, and she lifts a finger. “And even if he can't be at your games, we always record them, so he can see them when he returns. Orders change, Slugger, and you know that.”
“What I know is he is never here.”
A small smile tries and fails to come to her face, “I promise you, baby. He's here when we need him, and he'll always be there for you.”
She's just trying to make me feel better. She knows he doesn't love me but doesn't know how to say it. It's like I'm a disappointment or something. Like he's not proud to be my dad. Like he's more proud to be an American soldier than father of Clint Thomas Walker. Well, I don't need him. Not now. Not ever. Because I have her. I'll always have her. I mean, come on. She's my mom.
Stirring, I reach out to clutch Haven to me, needing a little peace to drift off back to sleep. When I don't feel anything, I lunge straight up, panicked. I prepare to le
ap out of bed when her beautiful face appears in the doorway, the light from down the hall surrounding her with an angelic glow.
She blinks. “It's OK.”
I relax against the pillows and ask, “Are you OK? Do you need something? Did you have a nightmare?” Even though I'm the one who had the nightmare, she doesn't need to know that. Another problem with dreaming. You get your heart’s desires right alongside your biggest nightmares.
“I went to the bathroom.” Climbing back in bed, she curls up like a kitten beside me, a look of comfort on her face. I hold her a little tighter than I was before, the realization that I won't always get to sleep with her like this fresh on my mind.
37 Days Till Deployment
Today has been the day from hell. Screwed up orders during training. Mis-assembled my gun. Both rookie mistakes. Ass chewings one after another. I've never been so sloppy. I've never been so clumsy, even when I was just beginning. But, my mind couldn't get focused. I couldn't put my ducks in a row knowing that, at the end of it all, I would be going home back to the love of my life. She clouds my judgment. Digs her way into almost every thought I can conjure up. And to top it all off, my orders got moved up. We're deploying a month earlier than we're supposed to. Two days ago, I had more time to prepare Haven for my departure. To prepare me. I haven't been thinking about time away from her because I figured there was still so much time to go. Now it feels like my entire world is crumbling before me. There's no way that today can possibly get any worse, though with the way traffic is brutally preventing me from getting home in a timely fashion, it's like the world begs to differ.
“Lordy!” I shout at him from across the room; he jerks away from the picture he was staring at. I know that picture. He thinks he does a good job staying unnoticed. He doesn't. “You're gonna be late.”
“Right.” He quickly shoves the picture back where it came from and hustles over to me.
The two of us head over to the martial arts program. This is one of my favorite things about training, learning a highly effective way to take down another individual without a weapon. Being focused. Being a successful warrior with just my bare hands. Class conducts itself as it usually does, with sparring at the end. I'm called as is Lordy. It's not that I have a problem taking down one of my best friends in front of others; it's just I wanted a challenge.
As I predicted, Lordy is not only not a worthy opponent, but it's obvious his mind is elsewhere, allowing for easy grapples and weight transfers. Taking him down in what will be recorded as record time for me, I give him a good shoulder throw, tossing him onto his back. I drop a hand for him to get up.
When he doesn’t take it, I growl, frustrated and annoyed. “Focus, Marine!”
Suddenly, the words are echoed louder and by my commanding officer’s voice, this time at me. “Focus, Marine!”
The honking of a horn snaps me out of it. Focus, right. I'm not concentrating on anything I should be today. A couple minutes later, I pull into the driveway, thankful I'm finally home.
“Hey, Angel, I–” My voice halts in my vocal cords. Turns out I was wrong. The day just went from worse to worst—ever. Satan's bitch boy has his hands on my girlfriend.
“Hi.” Haven offers me a smile.
Her smile can’t stop my reaction. The pent-up aggression I have over the last time this dick snaked a girl from under me seeps back into my mind. I didn't do anything then because I didn't care. He could have Leighyani. Any day of the week. He can't have Haven. Ever.
“What the fuck are you doing in our house?”
“Chill, Walker.” Howard's sly face sports a grin on it, like he wins again, as if she's a trophy to compete for. Like she's not a person. “She twisted her ankle.”
“How'd you do that?” I trade anger for panic as I rush over to the couch to check on her.
She starts, “I–”
“She slipped off–”
Gently, I place my tags back around her neck, returning them home where they belong. “I didn't ask you, shithead.” I don’t even look at Howard.
Haven starts again, “I–”
“What's your fucking problem?” Howard rises to his feet like he wants to challenge me. Like he wants me to hit him. Like he wants me to sock him in his pretty-boy rich face. And I do. With all the bullshit I've dealt with today, I really fucking do.
Haven faintly says, “I–”
I approach the little shit. “What the fuck did you say to me?”
Haven whispers, “Clint.”
“I said–” barely makes it out of Howard's mouth before I yank his sorry ass into the air one handed by his flimsy T-shirt like he's nothing. He is nothing. A sorry excuse for human flesh lumped together and given breath. With both my hands now gripping him tightly, I shake him, hoping to at least correct one mistake for the day. Him walking this Earth.
“Stop!”
“Not such a big shit talker now.” I watch as his face shifts colors to a bright red, one my favorite stages of suffocation.
“Clint, stop!” Haven's shriek sounds distant even though she's right beside me.
I can't stop. I can't force myself to put this prick down. This shameless bastard wastes his parents’ time and money while effortlessly pimping himself to everything with two legs and a space for a dick to fit. He gets to enjoy his life, gets to walk around free, gets to remain free to enjoy the perks of independence, while I bust my ass and risk taking my dying breath for him. I grip tighter.
“Stop!”
“Clint! Put. Him. Down!” Sir's voice pierces through the blinding rage, echoing the sounds of my commanding officer.
With a simple hand-opening motion, Howard's body falls rather lifelessly to the carpet.
What's wrong with me? What's happening to me? I slowly turn my head over my shoulder, ashamed at myself, ashamed I'm letting my emotions fuck up my life. “Sorry, Sir.”
“You're damn right you're sorry, Marine!”
“Sorry, Sir. I lost control.”
Sir slams down his keys on the bar, which makes Haven jump, as does the sound of Howard's sudden gasp for air.
Howard whispers, “I should sue.”
“Go home,” Sir insists.
“Whiskey–” Howard’s plea’s cut short.
“Now, before I call your father to aid you in your exit.”
Howard huffs and storms off, cussing under his breath, effecting a giant door slam upon his exit.
The silence is neither stiff nor long. Sir speaks up, “Clint.”
“I already apologized, Sir.”
“Clint–”
“Sir–”
“Clint!” He yells my name in an unfamiliar way. I've heard Sir raise his voice to me in anger. I've heard him livid. I've heard him unforgiving and non-understanding. But this, this tone is new.
I turn to face him, hands behind my back, shoulders back, head lowered, prepared to receive another earful for the day. Good Marines do not make mistakes, yet today, that's all I can do. What if I'm not the Marine I thought I was? What if I'm not the man I thought I was? What if I'm not a man at all? What if I'm nothing more than a scared boy who watched his mother die in front of his eyes?
“Yes, Sir.”
“What you did just now, that was reckless! Uncalled for! Hot headed! Not proper conduct for a Marine!” He points a stern finger at me and follows it up with, “Not proper conduct for my son.”
There's no remorse on my face. I know he has a point. But, I don't want forgiveness. I just want a minute to fucking breathe.
“You will not behave like that in this house!” Sir continues, spouting at the top of his lungs. “Am. I. Clear?”
My body feels like it's at boiling temperature. I feel like I’m being put through some sort of sick, sadistic new-age torture scenario and am losing, badly. Two words manage to make it out of my mouth, “Yes. Sir.”
Haven hobbles between us, reminding us she is in fact still in the room.
Sir points, “What happened to you?”
&n
bsp; “Slipped on Felix's deck after washing paint brushes. Striker says it looks like a sprain and to stay off of it.”
“So you're–”
“Listening to the advice, but I need to put the cold pack away.”
“Let me.” I reach for her.
Suddenly, she yanks her body away from me and yells, “Don't touch me!”
Haven has never raised her voice at anyone or anything that I know of, even when I found her. She treated me like I was a stranger, yes, but there to save her, not harm her. But today . . . today has to be officially the worst day of my entire fucking life next to the day my mother died. Haven not only screams at me but refuses to have any physical contact with me? I need that contact. I need that shot of peace through my system. God, when did I become so goddamn dependent?
“Do. Not. Touch. Me.” The words are soldier cold, a lifeless order for me to obey.
“Haven . . .”
“He didn't do anything wrong.” She motions toward the door Howard just got done abusing.
“I–”
“I wasn't finished!” The unexpected yelling continues, “I am capable of talking, Clint! I know how to express when something is wrong! He only helped me get home! He didn't cross any boundaries! He did absolutely nothing wrong . . . in this case.”
My body finally weakens. It can no longer hold the weight that's crashing down on it. I brace myself against the bar counter for just a moment. I need the swirling in my head to stop. I need the brick wall that separated Grim, Slugger, and Clint to be back up. I need my life back.
She sighs, “I'm going to Mindy's.”
I try again, this time more desperate than before, “Haven.”
“No, you're not.” Sir steps toward Haven into this battle. “I'm going to help you up the stairs, and you're going to cool off. Clint is going to get the grill started and cool off. Then we're going to sit down like a family for a meal together. Clear?”
“Yeah,” she says, handing him the ice pack, not willing to even look at me now.
Havoc Page 17