Moment of Weakness

by KG MacGregor

  At five-eleven, Zann was a formidable woman, no small thanks to the stiff posture ingrained through years of military life. Her usual swagger had faltered somewhat since her troubles started last summer. She glanced hesitantly at Marleigh’s coworkers, peeled off her gloves and fleece cap, and shook out her shoulder-length dark hair. With a small wave to Fran she ambled closer, her aching smile threatening to break Marleigh’s heart. In a gravelly voice, she said, “Hey…think we could go somewhere private and talk?”

  The calm words were a welcome change from a month ago, the last time they’d stood face-to-face. Then, Zann had been desperate for a lifeline and anxious about having to move out of the house.

  Marleigh stole a glance at the papers in her grip, confirming it was the contract with a 72-hour deadline she’d hand delivered to Zann’s father three nights ago. The finality of signing over their house gripped her as she rolled her chair back and gestured toward the hallway leading to the restrooms and break area. “Let’s get some coffee in the back.”

  The break area was barely large enough for the card table and four plastic chairs. A refrigerator stood against the far wall where a small window overlooked the employee parking lot. The counter held a cheap coffeemaker and an apartment-sized microwave, with storage cabinets above and below.

  Zann shrugged off her parka and draped it over a chair, all without letting go of the papers. “You look great. As usual, I mean…you always look great to me.”

  Marleigh took the compliment in stride. There was nothing special about her appearance today. She wore old corduroy jeans and a black fleece pullover that zipped to her neck. Her caramel-colored hair, short and straight, was overdue for a cut. She suspected the compliment had more to do with Zann just being glad to see her. “What you look is tired, Zann. You taking care of yourself?”

  “Best I can. It hasn’t been easy…I know, not for you either. ”

  “Of course not. I hurt just as much as you do.”

  “I haven’t signed these yet.” Zann slapped the papers in her opposite hand, then drew in a deep breath and nearly choked as she let it out. “I’m so sorry for getting us into this mess. It kills me to think everything we worked so hard for could be gone forever just by writing my name on this stupid piece of paper. I’d do anything to keep that from happening. That’s why I’m here, because I need to tell you something. Please just try to keep an open mind. If you hear me out and still decide this is what you really want, I’ll go ahead and sign it.”

  “I appreciate that, Zann. I really do. We can’t hold on any longer. At some point, we have to just…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it—they were saying goodbye to their dream.

  Zann’s face fell, but she recovered instantly with the same strained smile as when she’d walked in the door. “There’s still time to work this out. I promise I didn’t come here to give you the same old shit again.”

  “We’ve already been through everything a million times. What’s left to say?” The resignation in her voice had more to do with hopelessness than resistance. She could never not listen—that’s why Bridget had urged her to avoid another bargaining session. Even after all they’d been through, she’d always be a slave to Zann’s magnetism. “I’ll listen, but don’t expect it to change anything.”

  “That’s all I’m asking. Thank you.” Zann leaned against the counter and folded her arms, blowing out a nervous breath. “First of all, I just came from a meeting with Malcolm and Ham. I start back to work on Monday—same job, same salary. Everything back just like it was.”

  A part of her wanted to leap for joy. Zann had been suspended from work for the last five months, causing what had been an almost-manageable crisis at home to spin completely out of control. It had upended not only their financial stability but Zann’s sense of purpose. In practical terms, this could put them back on solid ground.

  But was it too little too late? It didn’t fix the underlying problem—Zann was grappling with a personal demon from her past and refused even to say what it was.

  “And now comes the big news,” she went on, her wide green eyes showing a glint of cheerfulness that didn’t jibe with the occasion. “I went for the psych eval like they asked…and like you asked. Turns out I’m not even all that crazy. Can you believe it?”

  “I never thought you were. I just thought you needed to talk to somebody.” Except she’d hoped that somebody would be her. Zann had kept her in the dark for too long.

  “We set up three more sessions but he says we can go longer if I think I need it.”

  Marleigh wanted to cheer, but after so many empty promises there was no shaking the fear that this was purely an attempt to manipulate her into calling off the sale. Zann wasn’t easy to trust anymore—she could very well keep her appointments but sabotage her progress and they’d be back where they started, especially if she lost her job again.

  “Look, Marleigh…this is what you wanted, isn’t it? Everything’s going to be okay now. I love you.”

  “I know you do. And you know how much I wanted you to get help. But it doesn’t change how much you hurt me.”

  “How many times do I have to say it? I’m sorry. All this crap I’ve been going through has nothing to do with you.”

  “It has everything to do with me if you shut me out. I’ve never given you a reason not to trust me, not once.” Her voice rose with every word, enough that she forced herself to close her eyes and take a deep, hissing breath.

  This was their pattern. Or rather, Marleigh’s pattern. She started every conversation wanting badly to believe Zann was ready to turn the corner. In the end, the hurt would overwhelm her and she’d lash out. The issue wasn’t only the lack of trust. Zann had ignored her pleas for so long that it began to feel like deliberate indifference to the toll it was taking on their marriage. The final straw came when Marleigh concluded that she was the only one who cared about saving what they had.

  “You’re the only person I’ve ever completely trusted in my whole life.” Zann took a step toward her, holding her hands out as if begging to be believed. “It was never about you. Hell, I could barely stomach telling the psychologist, and he hears this kind of shit all the time. But I swear I’m ready to talk now. I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  Marleigh couldn’t deny her surge of hope that today might be the breakthrough Zann needed. That they needed. The fact that she’d finally confessed to someone had to be good news. “Whatever this is, Zann…I’m pulling for you. I want to see you happy again.”

  “I can’t be happy if we aren’t together. Simple as that. The reason I haven’t told you…I was scared you wouldn’t love me anymore.”

  Marleigh’s arms opened automatically as Zann closed the distance between them and enveloped her in a hug. She was utterly powerless every time Zann reached for her.

  “Can we hold off a little longer, Marleigh…please? I don’t want to lose our house. We’re supposed to grow old there. Give me one last chance to fix this. If I screw it up this time, I swear I won’t fight you anymore. Just please don’t throw us away yet.”

  As she buried her face in Zann’s warm neck, strong arms tightened around her waist. And her heart responded the same way it always had. She wanted so, so badly to say yes, but…

  The window casing shuddered from a change in air pressure, a faint signal that someone had entered the lobby. Marleigh broke their embrace. “Look, this isn’t the time or place to—”

  Two sharp pops erupted in the outer room.

  Zann gripped her shoulders tightly and whispered, “Those were gunshots!”

  Chapter Two

  June, three years earlier

  Khaki combat boots were a bit overkill for lawn work but Zann’s only other options were running shoes or the black corframs she wore with her service uniform. Her entire wardrobe needed a civilian overhaul.

  “You don’t have to do that,” her mother yelled from the patio door. “Corey Hammerick only charges fifteen dollars for the whole y
ard.”

  Zann waved her off as the mower roared to life. She’d been sitting on her ass since returning to Colfax two weeks ago. No job, no prospects. Bored out of her mind. There wasn’t much demand for experienced combat soldiers, especially one who couldn’t even raise a weapon.

  The Troy-Bilt mower was self-propelled with a motor on the front wheel that pulled it forward as long as she squeezed together two bars on the handle. Easier said than done, since the radial nerve in her left arm had been severed by a bullet from a Taliban fighter in Afghanistan—five months ago today. Now four surgeries later, she had only a trace of feeling in her thumb and index finger, and little control of her elbow or wrist. The physical therapist’s most optimistic prognosis was a fifty percent recovery, a number that had drawn her a medical retirement from the Marine Corps after only eight years.

  No way was she settling for fifty percent. The last surgery, a tendon transfer, had swapped the affected muscles to another nerve. Now all she had to do was train that nerve to do a new job. On any given day it meant three hours of repetitive therapy. The aggressive schedule was necessary—she’d been advised that recovery had to happen soon or the muscles would lose their tone forever. Six months from now she could be maxed out.

  Mowing grass seemed to put all the right muscles to work, at least. Maybe the answer was to swallow her pride and sign on with a lawn service for the rest of the summer. That would buy her some time to decide on a new career. Surely someone had use for a Syracuse grad with the self-discipline of a Marine Corps officer.

  “Zann!” Her mother dodged clumps of freshly-clipped grass as she picked her way across the lawn. “Did you forget about the interview? That reporter just called and said she’d be here at two o’clock.”

  “Ugh!” It was tradition, the editor had said, for the newspaper to profile the grand marshal of the town’s Fourth of July parade. No one had ever declined the invitation. “You think it’s too late to change my mind about this whole parade business? I’m going to look like an idiot.”

  “Oh, come on. It might be fun.”

  The parade gig had been Ham’s idea. He’d just been elected mayor on a campaign of bringing back small-town values like family and patriotism. What better way for Colfax to celebrate Independence Day than to put a local face on the War on Terror?

  She couldn’t imagine anything worse than being the center of attention at a town parade, and would have flatly refused if not for her mom’s gentle reminder that it would mean a lot to her father’s friends and coworkers at town hall. Personal relationships mattered and Ham was a friend.

  “I should be done by two o’clock,” she shouted. And if she wasn’t, the reporter could just cool her jets. Maybe she’d get bored and leave.

  * * *

  Marleigh crept along Fullmer Street, one hand on the wheel and the other on her scribbled directions. Most houses in the neighborhood were Cape Cods, two-story cubes with a pair of gables on the second floor. These were the established families of Colfax’s professional class—doctors, attorneys, professors.

  “Eight-seventeen,” she said aloud as she rolled to a stop in front of a home that was markedly different, a small bungalow separated from its neighbor on one side by a row of juniper trees, and on the other by a tall wooden fence. Why would those neighbors feel the need to hide the house from their view? It was a small but tidy home, freshly painted in pale yellow with white trim and shutters, and surrounded by colorful petunias and mums. An American flag hung limply from a mount in observance of Independence Day, less than a week away. Clearly the Redekers were patriots.

  The grass between the sidewalk and the street was freshly mowed, but a pair of grooves suggested this was where guests were expected to park. She checked the vanity mirror and applied a light coat of pink lip balm, the only makeup she wore in the summer.

  This was a plum assignment, an in-depth profile of an interesting public figure. At thirty-four, Marleigh had earned the chance for more challenging work, having paid her dues reporting small-town news for the local afternoon newspaper, the Colfax Messenger. Community events, police blotter and traffic accidents. Not much else happened in rural Vermont.

  Today’s interview was special for more than just a professional opportunity. She was already in awe of her enigmatic subject, United States Marine Corps Captain Suzann Redeker, a returning war veteran who’d tried at first to shun the attention her heroic deeds warranted. That alone made her intriguing. What kind of person eschewed the prestige and acclaim of her hometown? According to the commendation report, Redeker had been awarded the Bronze Star with V—one of the nation’s highest medals for valor—after rushing headlong into a hostile dwelling to save another soldier. While her effort had been unsuccessful, she’d taken out four militants who’d amassed weapons for an imminent assault on Camp Leatherneck in the Helmand Province of Afghanistan, home to thousands of Marines.

  Notepad and recorder in hand, Marleigh climbed the stairs and rang the bell, eager to meet the courageous Captain Redeker.

  A sheer curtain wafted as someone inside checked her out. Then a middle-aged woman appeared at the door, the captain’s mother Marleigh assumed. She wore the unofficial uniform of a housewife in summer, Capri pants with a knit top that proclaimed her World’s Best Grandma. “You must be the reporter Suzann told us about.”

  In preparing for the interview, she’d learned Chuck Redeker worked in the town clerk’s office as a property tax assessor. Modest income but at least recession-proof. His wife Leeann advertised in the Yellow Pages as a seamstress doing alterations out of her home.

  “Yes, Marleigh Anderhall with the Messenger. Here to see Captain Redeker.”

  “Please come in. I’ll get her.”

  From the entryway, she peered into the living room, as simple and neat as the exterior of the house. The furniture appeared worn but comfortable. Family photos lined the wall, including one of a smiling young couple with two small boys. The father in that photo had to be the Redekers’ son, since he looked exactly like the woman who’d answered the door.

  In the corner was a shrine-like exhibit that included a carved mahogany eagle on a pedestal. Beside it was a photo Marleigh recognized as her interview subject, probably taken years ago when she was first commissioned. Wearing Dress Blues with a white cap, she stared sternly at the camera with a glower of determination. Mounted on the wall beneath the portrait was a glass case that displayed two medals, which Marleigh surmised from this distance to be the Bronze Star and Purple Heart. According to Clay, the latter was why the good captain was now back in Colfax—a medical discharge for injuries sustained in combat.

  The front door opened behind her, this time to Captain Redeker herself, now standing on the porch. She was taller than average and sturdily built, and her dark hair was pulled through the back of a Red Sox cap. A faded orange Syracuse University T-shirt, its long sleeves pushed to the elbows, was tucked neatly into worn jeans.

  There was an instantaneous vibe about her, a stereotype Marleigh made a conscious effort to resist. A woman could be physically imposing without being gay.

  And that would be a real shame. She’d always been a sucker for a strong woman in uniform, and her imagination raced to fill such a vision with the features of Captain Redeker.

  The captain’s face was lit with uncommonly pale green eyes and the faintest hint of a nervous smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I was out back and didn’t want to track through the house.”

  Marleigh looked down to see tan combat boots covered in freshly clipped grass. A war hero who mowed her parents’ lawn…humility personified. “It’s okay. I’m here from the Messenger. Is today still good for our interview, Captain?”

  “Yeah, sure. Would it be okay if we did this out here on the porch? Mom’ll kill me if I get her rug dirty.”

  Her voice was more animated than Marleigh had expected, given her reluctance over the phone to the interview. Messenger readers were sure to find her fascinating.

&n
bsp; Mrs. Redeker reappeared. “I have to go pick up some zippers and thread, Suzann. Don’t forget your dad’s grilling hamburgers for dinner. The Hammericks are coming over.”

  That had to be the mayor, Marleigh thought, since Hammerick wasn’t a common surname in Colfax. It was curious to think of the Redekers, obviously a working-class family, hobnobbing with the town’s power center.

  The captain waited gallantly for Marleigh to choose the rocker before spreading herself in the center of the swing. With a tap of her foot, she started the gentle pendulum.

  “I should properly introduce myself. My name’s Marleigh Anderhall.” She handed over a business card and placed her recorder on a side table between them. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to record this interview. This gadget’s a whole lot better at taking notes than I am.”

  “Fine by me. Just don’t ask me to sing.”

  She was instantly charmed by the hangdog smile—not that she needed more charming. Redeker’s personal story had captivated her even before they met. “I feel like I ought to confess something, Captain. I’ve read your Bronze Star citation about a dozen times and I’m a little starstruck to meet you.”

  “Thank you…I guess,” she mumbled sheepishly. “Like I said on the phone, I can’t imagine why anybody would be interested in me. I’m a pretty boring person.”

  Surely she realized she’d done something extraordinary. “I spoke with someone yesterday at the town manager’s office. He said they really had to twist your arm to get you to agree to be the grand marshal at the Fourth of July parade. Should I take that to mean you’re modest? Or just shy?”

  It wasn’t the first question on Marleigh’s list, but she needed to establish a conversational rapport to make the captain more forthcoming. Redeker had already explained that she couldn’t say much on the record about her time in Afghanistan. Apparently most military actions were considered classified.