Seventh Wonder

by Renae Kelleigh

  While the other men made plans to bar hop, get drunk and chase tail, John thought only of Meg. He had no idea when (nor, really, even if) she would arrive. He’d asked her to meet him at the hotel, but now he was second-guessing that decision. No one here spoke English - how would she ever find her way? A million images of Meg, lost, alone and afraid in bustling downtown Bangkok, were enough to drive him to within an inch of insanity. He’d just made up his mind to wait her out, in fact - to sleep on a bench at the airport if he had to - when a surly NCO announced that anyone staying at the Golden Mermaid was required on the next shuttle. “Don’t worry,” one of the men had told him, “she’ll find her way.”

  Hence his current state of agitation. He’d checked in forty-two - no, forty-three - minutes ago, and he’d done little more than pace the floor, wearing a line between the bathroom and the foot of the bed, ever since. His thoughts were a constant jumble of reprimands and rebukes, all directed at himself, for his lunacy and carelessness.

  What if she didn’t come until tomorrow, or the day after? What if she didn’t come at all? The other men had invited him along with them to find a late lunch, and even though he was famished (had he even eaten since yesterday?), there was no way he was leaving this hotel. Nor, he felt certain, would he sleep even a wink - not until he knew she was safe.

  Finally, in an effort to pass the time, he stripped naked and took a hot shower, then stood before the speckled mirror in the bathroom’s dim, incandescent light to shave - something he hadn’t done in weeks. He cut himself, cursed as blood seeped between his fingers and swirled, first scarlet then pink, down the sink bowl with the stream of metallic smelling water. He had no aftershave, so he splashed cold water on his face instead. His hair was in need of a cut, but that, of course, would have to wait.

  He had one change of civilian clothes with him, a pair of pants and a long sleeved shirt that would be far too hot. He’d just stepped into the pants when a knock sounded at the door, and he nearly fell to the floor. His heart jackhammering painfully against his ribs, he strode to the door and turned the knob.

  Meg. Face flushed, tendrils of hair spilling from an untidy topknot, lips parted and chest heaving from her recent ascent of the stairs.

  So. Fucking. Beautiful.

  He pulled her in by her waist, breathing her in as deeply as he might, kicking the door shut behind her. Buried his face in her neck, inhaled the sweet smell of her skin, damp with sweat. Pressed his open palm against the small of her back, while the other hand found the half-moon of her hip, crushed her against his bare chest. Felt a tidal wave rip through him, spearing his heart and lungs, staking him to the ground. Staking him to her.

  Salty, liquid warmth pooled in his eyes and fled the corner of one just as Meg tilted her chin to look up at him. “Don’t cry,” she whispered (rather hypocritically, for her own face was covered with the briny sheen of free-flowing tears).

  He backed her against the bed as he kissed her and their sweat and tears mixed together. She reclined into the mattress, and he crawled over her, covering her body with his. He kissed every inch of her face - her nose, her lips, her eyelids, her cheeks, her forehead. Then her neck and her shoulder, down to her cleavage where it crested above the neck of her shirt. He waited impatiently as she sat up to peel it off, watched with burning hunger as she unclasped her bra and shed that as well. They kicked off their pants and felt their flesh knock together as they caved, one into the other, he in his weakness and she in hers.

  They made love quickly, almost brutishly, dispensing with their mutual need. Meg cried silent tears of contentment, and John gently shushed her as he slid his thumbs over her wet face and tasted her lips. When it was all over, they lay in a raveled heap of torsos and limbs, without regard to the room’s blazing stickiness, as if together they could hold off the heat.

  Their breathing slowed. John’s voice, full of gravel, cut through the quiet, boggy darkness like the blunted edge of a knife. “I love you. You’ll never know how goddamn much.”

  * * *

  They filled their days with sightseeing, both by land and by boat. They shopped in the market, haggled over silk scarves, celadon vases, teak Buddhas, fresh mangos and bouquets of lilies and orchids. They swam naked in the Gulf of Thailand and ate soft shell crab, spicy rice noodles and curries rich and spicy-sweet with peppers, basil and coconut milk. They toured temples and palaces, enjoyed variety shows of traditional dance and puppetry, and floated on canals amid stilt houses and sprawling rice plantations.

  Finding their hotel room too hot, at night they dragged their mattress out onto the rectangular box of a balcony, where they gazed up at the deep, black sky. Every night they made love with the stars and planets reflected in their eyes. With every scrap of strength, they clung to each other. They clawed, gasping and frantic, at the here and now.

  * * *

  An overcast yet mercifully mild afternoon, with 52 hours remaining: their time ever-shrinking. John and Meg, arranged horizontally across the bed, willfully ignoring that fact.

  “And that was it,” said John, concluding a somewhat abridged account of his company’s most recent run-in with the Vietcong. In the four days they’d spent together, this was their first (and he hoped only) foray into talk of the war. It had been his own fault: he’d made thoughtless mention of a batch of new recruits, come to refresh their company’s dwindling roster. Naturally this had prompted Meg’s curiosity as to whom they were replacing.

  Her cheek rested against his chest as she listened. She held his dog tags between her fingers, rubbing her thumb idly back and forth over the raised letters. Meanwhile, he drew lackadaisical circles on the back of her shoulder, soothing her with his hands in a way he couldn’t with his words.

  “Who tells their families?” she asked quietly after a moment.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered truthfully. “In the beginning they got house calls. Now I think they’re just doing telegrams - at least for the enlisted men.”

  Again she fell quiet. “Hey,” he said softly, giving her a gentle shake. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  She cleared a thickness in her throat and seemed to proceed with a caution he found disquieting. “Irene used to play a piece from Schubert - I hadn’t thought of it in years. She’d sing along sometimes, too, in her awful German. Kriegers Ahnung - it means ‘Warrior’s Foreboding.’“ She looked up at him, her eyes moist. “Have you heard of it?”

  He shook his head slowly, his heart beating its rasping, wounded rhythm. “It’s about a man in the midst of war, camped with his comrades, telling them about the love of his life.” She sighed, and the sound of it was heartbreaking. “It’s like he...he knows he’ll never see her again.”

  John said nothing. He was afraid to move, afraid even to breathe.

  “Do you think that happens for some people?” she asked. “That intuition?”

  He swallowed the lump in his throat before chancing his response. “Yes.” His voice a faint whisper.

  She said nothing more, and neither did he.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe I almost forgot!” From her suitcase, Meg plucked the large yellow envelope with Columbia’s seal emblazoned in the top left corner and brandished it in the air.

  John finished tucking his shirt in his pants before catching her wrist and holding it still, studying the print on the envelope. His face transformed with dawning realization. “When did you get that?” he asked.

  “They day before I left. I wanted to be with you when I opened it.” Self-consciously she giggled. “For weeks I’ve obsessed over it, and yet five minutes with you and I forget all about it.” Her voice was bright and hopeful, with none of the sadness she’d borne earlier.

  “Well open it, open it!” John cried, barely able to contain his excitement. “Then we’ll really have a reason to celebrate.”

  “Not so fast,” said Meg, snatching the envelope away from him with narrowed eyes. “It could be a rejection, you know.”


  He failed at suppressing an eye roll. “That looks a little on the thick side to be a rejection letter, don’t you think?”

  She bit her lip to conceal a smile, then quickly tore into the envelope. John watched as she extracted a thick sheaf of paper, the topmost of which appeared to be typewritten on university letterhead, an inky black signature scrawled across the bottom margin.

  “‘Dear Miss Lowry,’“ read Meg, “‘We are pleased to grant you admission to the Master of Arts program in the Department of English and Comparative Literature.’“

  Her hand flew up to cover her mouth. Not a moment later she dropped the stack, oblivious to the fanning of loose paper across the floor, then launched herself into John’s waiting arms with a whoop of triumph that was both gleeful and uncharacteristically exuberant.

  John laughed merrily at her blissful content. As her legs came up to wrap around his waist, he spun her in a circle, only barely managing to form his smiling lips into a pucker long enough to kiss her fully on the mouth. “Congratulations, darling girl,” he said in her ear. “Just for that, dinner’s on me tonight.”

  Meg snorted and gave his shoulder a playful shove. “You haven’t let me pay for a single thing since I got here.”

  A tuk-tuk delivered them to an eatery on the Chao Phraya River, sitting in a neat row of buildings with colorful lit signs. They shared a dried shrimp starter called Miang kham and a plate of Phat kaphrao - stir fried prawns with basil, chilies and garlic. Afterward they lingered over a decanter of rice wine, enjoying the rare marvel of air conditioning.

  They walked through Chinatown, a garish cavalcade of paper lanterns and umbrellas strung with lights. Wandered past noisy bars, fish markets, teahouses hawking dim sum and oolong, even an opium den.

  Meg was radiant. For once she wore the placid grin of someone well satisfied with the vagaries of life. The lift of her mouth, the pink of her cheeks, the shine of her eyes - all of these served to even further highlight her natural beauty, to the point it was nearly intolerable to glance in her general direction without flat-out staring. They were a world away from the Grand Canyon, and yet the memory of her in that gossamer dress, the very first night he’d laid eyes on her, was so tangible, so haunting, as to set his mind spinning with adoration and fondness, both present and remembered.

  Something opened up inside of him - a crack in the shell of bitterness and asperity that encased his once-vibrant heart. Into that crack seeped the beginnings of an idea, a vague notion only in need of acting upon.

  * * *

  “Come this way,” he said, nodding toward the river. He held her hand, guiding her farther upstream into the Thon Buri district until they were opposite the glittering prongs of the Buddhist temple Wat Arun. Its massive towers reflected as watery smears in the Chao Phraya, while the Trident of Shiva adorning its tallest spire pierced the night sky.

  They stopped, and Meg leaned against his side, resting her head back against his shoulder. “Someone must have felt pretty strongly about their faith to have built that in deference to it,” she said.

  John kissed her temple, kept his cheek pressed against the side of her head. “I think I know what it’s like to feel so strongly.”

  “What do you feel strongly about?” she asked.

  “You,” he replied.

  She grinned. “Strongly enough to build that?”

  “Better than that. Bigger.”

  “Bigger? Like the Taj Mahal?”

  “Even bigger,” he said. “More sacred.”

  “Hmm. And where would you build it?”

  “What about the North Rim of the canyon?” His voice was soft and melliferous, flowing past her ear.

  “That’s perfect,” she whispered. “Could we live there?”

  “Of course. Always.”

  “Think you’ll still want me for always?” She looked up at him; her heart skipped a beat when she noticed his eyes were squeezed shut and his breath was held.

  “I don’t think,” he said. His voice nearly broke. “I know.”

  She pressed her lips together, hiding her smile. “I love you, you know.”

  He exhaled, emptying his lungs as he planted his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Marry me.”

  Meg felt her eyes bulge. “What?”

  “Be my wife.” He cradled her face in his hands, never looking away from her eyes. “I don’t have a ring - I wish I did. You deserve that, and so much more. But—”

  Meg shook her head, clearing it. “Yes.” She said it quickly, an abrupt interruption of his rambling. She pulled on the back of his neck, urging him downward until she was able to kiss his smiling lips. “Please, yes.”

  He lifted her up until her feet were dangling inches above the ground. He kissed her a dozen times, at least once for each month he’d known and loved her. “There’s an airbase, Don Muang - they’ll have a chaplain.” He spoke quickly, his tongue tripping fluently over his teeth as he lowered her back to her feet. “We’ll get rings and flowers. I’ll buy you a dress, and I can get a suit if you want.”

  Meg laughed. “Now? Tonight?”

  “Shit, no.” He frowned, visibly frustrated. “Tomorrow, first thing in the morning.”

  “Are you being serious?” Her voice was shrill, not with alarm but with disbelief. “You want to get married tomorrow?”

  “No, what I want is to get married right this minute. But I can wait...if you want. It shouldn’t feel forced.”

  The smile melted from Meg’s face as she studied John’s. Very soberly she replied, “I don’t want to wait another second.”

  * * *

  They slept all of about an hour that night, so preoccupied were they with the particulars of their marriage. At half past seven the next morning, they caught a taxi to Pratunam, the wholesale shopping district. By nine they had eaten breakfast from a stall selling sugared rice porridge and soymilk on Phetchaburi Road, bought a pair of sterling silver wedding bands, and selected a bouquet of pink and yellow ratchaphruek. John purchased a light brown suit, and while the in-house tailor worked at letting out the hem to lengthen the pants, Meg tried on and paid for a pair of white sandals and a cotton pinafore dress with a wide sash made of soft, royal blue silk. Their last stop was an electronics stall at the end of Ratchaprarop Road, where John shelled out $80 for a Pentax camera and a roll of film.

  The building that housed US military personnel on Don Muang Air Force Base was attached to a hangar filled with F-5s, the so-called Freedom Fighters. John spoke with a uniformed National Guardsman, who directed them to a row of offices, the last of which belonged to CAPTAIN BENJAMIN ALEXANDER, CHAPLAIN. A handwritten sign posted on the door read “Lunch - back at 12.”

  They sat in the hallway on folding metal chairs, nothing short of a spectacle in all their finery with flowers clasped between them. Leaning his head back against the wall, John turned his face to look at his fiancée. “Are you still sure?” he asked quietly.

  “Completely. Are you?”

  “Never been more so.” He kissed the back of her hand, then lowered their tangled fingers into his lap. Totally at peace.

  Twenty minutes later, a man with two silver bars pinned to his lapel ambled around the corner. His face was round and un-creased, the face of a young man. Meg estimated his age to be somewhere around 30.

  He glanced up in bewilderment as John rose to his feet before him. When he spotted Meg, however, some of his confusion seemed to clear.

  “Sir.” John offered the man a rigid salute, which he perfunctorily returned. How strange, thought Meg, that he should have to salute a man who was likely younger.

  He wound his arm around Meg’s waist, pulling her flush against him. “I’m Sergeant John Stovall, from the 60th.”

  Captain Alexander unlocked his office and pushed the door open, then waved them in as he flicked a light switch and strode to his desk. “Ninth ID?” he asked. Slow southern drawl: Texas, perhaps.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Y’al
l are over in ‘Nam, aren’t ya?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m on leave.”

  Settling behind his desk: “And how can I be of help?”

  “This is my fiancée, Margaret Lowry. We’re looking to get married.”

  The chaplain raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “With all due respect, what’s the rush? Don’t y’all got any family back home?”

  “We’ll have a reception once we’re home,” Meg volunteered, although truthfully that wasn’t something they’d discussed. “For now we’d just like to be married.”

  Captain Alexander settled his meaty elbows against the surface of his desk. “I can see that. You got your orders, Sergeant?”

  John withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his inner suit coat pocket and handed it to the chaplain. After giving it a cursory glance, he looked up at Meg. “And what about you, sugar? Got any ID?” She reached inside her bag and extracted her passport, passed it to Captain Alexander.

  For several long moments, he pored over the documents, seemingly scrutinizing every letter as if attempting to confirm their authenticity. At long last, he returned Meg’s passport and tapped John’s orders against the desk before passing them back, too. “Well, come on. Let’s see if we can’t drum up a witness or two.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, they were married. Captain Alexander officiated of course, and Technical Sergeant Phil Byerly served as photographer and witness. Afterward, drunk with ecstasy, they drank champagne and ate teacake with coconut frosting at a lounge near their hotel. A number of locals, having learned from the bartender of their newlywed status, came to tie lengths of white string around their wrists, while a server explained in broken English that each was meant as a symbol of well wishes and good luck.

  They’d never been happier.

  * * *

  Two hours left and counting. Curled in the bed, a husband and wife, and a threadbare sheet to cover them. Reliving a moment, a feeling, an ache, with which they are all too familiar.