Wait: The Brazen Bulls Beginning

by Susan Fanetti

  So no, he wasn’t ready to marry her.

  “Is this a ploy to get me to move out? All you got to do is say the word, Len, and I’ll pack up my truck.” Actually, that thought chilled his blood. He still fought nightmares nearly every night, and waking up completely alone in an empty apartment would be awful.

  “Stop it, Bri. You know you got a place with us as long as you need it, for whatever reason you need it. I just see how good you two are together, how good she is for you, and I don’t want you to mess it up waiting too long to ask for what she wants to give you. It’s been a year.”

  More than a year. Fourteen months. “It’s only been a year. She’s young, Len. I know her better than you. I know what I’m doin’.”

  “And I know you. I know what you’re doin’, too.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Before Lenny could answer, the back door squealed open, and Faye trundled out, “I’ve got refreshments!” she said.

  She was carrying a tray with a plastic pitcher of lemonade and cups to go with it. Both Lenny and Brian jumped up to help the hugely pregnant woman with her burden.

  Mo stood, too. She picked Jamie up and took Paul’s hand, and led the sodden boys to the picnic table. She got the boys situated and then took up a place beside Brian, resting her hand on his shoulder as she climbed over the bench and sat.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” he said and swept his arm around her bare waist. The sun had warmed her skin and pinked it up. Even in the dappled shade of this tree-strewn yard, she was probably getting some burn. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to suggest she cover up. “Havin’ fun?”

  “You know I am. I love it here. I love you.”

  She smiled sweetly and slid her fingers through his hair. He hadn’t cut it in over a year, and it now brushed his shoulders. She liked it that way. She wasn’t a fan when he tried to grow a beard, however.

  He leaned in and brushed his lips over her cheek. She smelled of Coppertone and well water, and he was happy and calm. “I love you.”

  ~oOo~

  A few weeks later, Brian came home alone after work. He’d taken his chopper that day; Faye had had her baby girl, Kristy, two days earlier, and Lenny had taken the rest of the week off.

  It looked like nobody was home; Lenny had planned to bring the boys to meet their baby sister, so Brian figured that was where they were, and they’d be back soon.

  The flag was up on the mailbox, so he went there, collected the big stack of mail, and flipped through it as he went into the house.

  It didn’t look like there was anything for him, as usual. A big stack of envelopes, many of them pink—well-wishes for the new baby, no doubt. A few bills, a circular from Hiram Hardware, a bank statement.

  Toward the bottom of the stack, sandwiched between two large pink envelopes, was a battered Air Mail envelope, bordered with red and blue stripes. Before he read the addressee, he knew it was for him, from ‘Nam.

  In the year and a half he’d been home, he’d gotten a few letters from buddies, and one from his CO, but it had been many months since anyone had written. Most of the men he’d served with had rotated out by now, except some of the career men. He’d gotten a couple from buddies who were stateside now, too, but only a couple. He’d sent replies in most cases, and had shared some vague promises with them about getting together somehow, but he knew that they felt like he did—friendships forged in war were the most intense a man might have, but they burned hot and fast. In the jungle, they had everything in common. Back home, they were different men.

  But they would share the war forever.

  In the dark, cool house, with the window air conditioning units rattling their comforting hum, Brian set the stack of mail on the hall table and held his letter in his hand.

  It was from his CO, with whom he’d worked closely in the field. A career man, like all senior officers, Major Dan Cornish had grown roots in the jungle. He’d stay put until the 503rd redeployed home, which would be when the fighting was over, most likely. If that ever happened.

  He hadn’t heard from Cornish in a year.

  Brian took the envelope into the living room. The window unit in this room was pumping noisy cold air like crazy, and he shivered at the drop in temperature. Surely that was the cause of the spasm going through him.

  He went to Lenny’s little rolling bar and pulled a bottle of Wild Turkey from the cabinet. Setting the unopened letter on the bar, he filled an old-fashioned glass half full and then poured the whole thing down his throat.

  Once his belly was warm enough to counteract the shivering cold, he opened the envelope.

  One sheet, typed, not even half a page.

  D—

  They’d all called him D, or Sarge. That was who he was over there. Brian was the man who lived here.

  I suppose I should start this letter in the customary way, and ask how you’re doing. I do hope you’re well. But I’m writing with a purpose, and I need to get to it, so I hope you understand.

  I thought you should know that Cpl. Gresham was KIA last week. A Betty got him on patrol. As you know, he was an Oklahoma boy, too, so if this letter gets to you in time, I thought you might want to pay your respects. I would have written sooner, but, well, you know.

  I’m sorry to send you this news.

  Regards,

  Maj. Cornish

  Brian filled the glass again, and drank it just as fast as the first. When the glass was full a third time, he carried it and the letter to Lenny’s recliner and sat down.

  The war was alive in his head, louder and more vivid in this waking moment than it had been in months, even in his dreams.

  The day he’d been shot, that godawful day on Dak To, he remembered everything. Leading his men up the hill, coming in after the other companies had been decimated, trying to complete the mission and then to collect their dead and wounded, because they never left a man behind. Coming over the crest and finding himself face to face with an NVA grunt nearly close enough that they could have reached out and touched hands. Both of them getting a shot off at the same time. Taking the double punch of the AK, flying backward, trying to call out a warning. Hearing the sound of his lungs sucking air, of his heart beating. Hearing it from outside his body. Not feeling any pain at all. Just worry and anger. So much anger. Overflowing with rage.

  He remembered his men running up to grab him and get him to cover, and the barrage of bullets that greeted them. An NVA looming over him, ready to fire, and Corporal Haynes throwing himself across D’s body, shielding D with his body, taking the bullet himself. Dying on top of him. Then more of his men, trying to pull D and Haynes both, throwing themselves over them and firing back. Shouting. Screaming. Roaring.

  Another man hit trying to pull D and Haynes back, calling for help, firing despite the bullet in his leg. Finally getting a moment clear. Somebody else coming up to help, taking Haynes’ body, and then the wounded man heaving D into his arms like a child and running down the hill to the medic.

  That man who’d saved D was Private First Class Bradley Gresham. From Ada, Oklahoma. He’d taken a bullet in his thigh, but he’d fought all odds to get his platoon leader off that hill alive. To get D off that hill alive.

  D had spent the next several hours almost dying, getting triaged again and again, at the medic station, on the bird, in the hospital, and set aside every time as a lost cause. He’d taken two large-caliber bullets in the chest at close range and had a sucking wound the size of a softball. But he never lost consciousness. The pain eventually reached him and nearly stole his sanity, but not for one second, until the fourth hospital doctor who triaged him decided he was worth the fight and put a mask over his face for surgery, did Brian go under.

  The first man who’d decided he was worth the fight: Private First Class Bradley Gresham.

  Who’d been promoted to corporal in the hospital. A few weeks after D was stateside, he’d gotten a letter from Gresham. He’d reupped for a second tour because D had inspired h
im to keep fighting.

  D wadded up the letter and swallowed down the bourbon.

  Then he went to the phone, called the operator, and asked for a listing for the Gresham family in Ada.

  ~oOo~

  He had the Greshams’ phone number and address, but he couldn’t make the call. He needed Mo first. He needed her to quiet the war in his head. So he called the Quinn house.

  Her aunt answered. Brian pulled himself together enough to sound normal. “Hi, Bridie, is Mo there?”

  “Brian? Are you alright, love?”

  He’d thought he sounded normal; apparently not. He gave up the effort as a failure and gave in to his need. “I just need Mo. Put her on the phone. Please, Bridie.”

  “She’s not home, Brian. She has class tonight, remember? And then her meeting?”

  Right. She was taking a summer class, because she’d added a minor or something. And the meeting was with one of her little groups. Women’s rights, or starving children or—fuck, was she at that stupid peace group? All those fucking college shitheads, thinking they knew what war was. They had no goddamn idea.

  “Is she with those fucking peace assholes?”

  Bridie didn’t answer. D took the phone from his ear and stared at it, then put it to his ear again. “Bridie? I need Mo!”

  “Brian, I don’t know what’s wrong, but Mo’s not here. I’ll tell her you’ve rung.”

  “I need her!”

  “What’s wrong, love? What can I do?”

  Nothing. She could do nothing. D hung up.

  ~oOo~

  A heavy hand crashed down on D’s shoulder. He swung his head over and saw Collie Berhardt drop his body in the chair beside him. “Hey, D. You’re gettin’ an early start tonight.”

  D grunted and swallowed down the rest of his draft beer. He pushed the empty shot glass and mug to the edge of the bar and waved at the bartender. “Another one, Vinnie, and one for my buddy, too.”

  Collie frowned. “Damn, you did start early. Something wrong?”

  “Got a letter from over there.”

  “Ah shit, son. You lose somebody?”

  D nodded. He looked for feeling, but he’d done a good job drowning it. Too bad the battle wouldn’t go under with it.

  “Lived in Ada. I called his folks’ place to pay my respects, but his mama just cried when I told her who I was, and his dad didn’t want to talk to me much. But I was too late. They buried him on Saturday. I didn’t get word in time to be there.”

  “That’s not your fault, D.

  “Yeah, it is. He reupped ‘cuz of me. He’s dead ‘cuz of me. He shoulda been home with his folks. He wasn’t even twenty-one yet.”

  Mo’s age. Gresham had been younger than Mo. Just a baby boy.

  Vinnie set down another round, but Collie pushed it out of D’s reach. “You had about enough of that for now, son. It ain’t even dark yet, and I can barely make out what you’re sayin’. What you need is to get this shit outta ya. What say you and me, we find a different kind of trouble.”

  “I just want to drink till I pass out.” If he couldn’t have Mo, then that was the only way to shut his goddamn head up.

  “We can do that after. Let’s get your mad out before it burns you up.” He threw down some bills to pay for the drinks they hadn’t drunk yet, stood, and grabbed D by the nape of the neck. “C’mon, son. I know just the place.”

  “I don’t wanna fuck with college assholes tonight. I’ll kill ‘em.”

  “I know. Got somethin’ else in mind.”

  ~oOo~

  Collie took him to a weedy gravel lot behind a boarded-up restaurant, about fifteen miles from the VFW. Far enough that D started to sober up a bit on the way, and his mind was back at its hobby of eating itself alive. When he climbed out of Collie’s car, he’d more than half decided to eat his gun before this night was over.

  There were about two dozen men in that lot, and a couple handfuls of women. It was approaching twilight now, and they all had their headlights on to illuminate the scene. Everybody was arrayed in a circle, with two men beating the shit out of each other in the middle.

  Well, that was interesting.

  “What is this?” D asked.

  “Bare-knuckle fights. There’s money in it, for the guys who know what they’re doin’. You, on the other hand, are gonna get your ass well and truly kicked, but that’s what you need. C’mon, I’ll spot you the buy-in.”

  ~oOo~

  D did indeed get his ass kicked. Well and truly, by a guy twice his size. Collie had been right, too—it felt good, to hurt so bad. It calmed him down, gave him what he needed.

  But then the fight was over, and all he had was the aches and his waning drunk. When they got back to the VFW, Collie wanted to go home, and tried to send D home, too, but he didn’t want to go into the house looking like this while Lenny was awake, and maybe Paul, too. It still wasn’t even nine o’clock yet, and Lenny wasn’t very good about getting the boys to bed on time.

  So D went into the VFW, found a corner by himself, and had some more to drink.

  ~oOo~

  Booze wasn’t doing it. Fighting hadn’t done it. D was tearing himself apart. His head was full of AK fire and helicopter blades, of screams of pain and roars of fury. Bullets and blood and mud and stench. His chest ached. His face ached. His hands. It wouldn’t stop. He was getting sucked in, sucked under, drowning in mud and death and filth.

  Hold on, Sarge! I got ya!, I got ya! That’s it, keep lookin’ at me, right at me!

  He needed Mo. Where was Mo?

  Class. She had class. At OU. She was at OU.

  Well, he knew where that was.

  ~oOo~

  The University of Oklahoma campus was much, much bigger than he’d expected, and he had no idea where on this huge expanse Mo would be. Wait, what was her class in? It was something about teaching. Education. It was an education course. Introduction to something.

  Across the way, there was a big board with a map on it, so he went there and looked. Squinting at the blurry words, he scanned the legend until he found the College of Education and figured out the path there.

  But it was confusing, and dark, and a lot more empty than he’d expected. As he walked, he became more and more sure he’d blundered his way into a maze. Where were all the students? Where was Mo?

  “MO!” he called. His voice echoed off the near buildings. “MO! MAUREEN QUINN! WHERE ARE YOU, SWEETHEART? MO!”

  “Hey buddy,” some guy asked, coming up on him. He had long, stringy hair and those stupid round glasses. He was wearing a vest with fucking fringe. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Fuck off.”

  “Easy, man, it’s cool. Just askin’. Peace.”

  “Fuck off, you commie hippie shithead!”

  The guy flipped him off and walked away.

  D got back to his mission: Find Mo.

  He walked through the campus, calling for her and getting nothing but the occasional asshole telling him to shut up.

  “MO! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!”

  “Brian!”

  He spun, almost fell, pinwheeled his arms, caught himself and got his feet set. Mo stood there. She wore a little white miniskirt and a red knit top, with white boots. The whole outfit was far too goddamn skimpy for her to wear to school. And to her stupid fucking peace pussies meeting. Who was she dressing for? One of these assholes standing beside her now?

  She got a good look and ran to him. “Bloody hell, Brian, what’s wrong? What happened?”

  “Who are those shitheads?” he asked waving at the two hippie freak assholes with her. There were a couple girls, too, but he didn’t care about them. He wanted to know about the guys who’d been looking at her legs in that little skirt all goddamn day.

  “They’re friends. They don’t matter. What happened?” She fussed at his face, wiping her hands over his sore mouth, brushing his hair back so she could study all the damage he’d taken. “What’s wrong, love?”

  “Where were you?�
�

  “I was here, right here. You know I have class tonight, and I told you I had a meeting after.”

  Meeting. Right. More like a date. “Who are these guys? Are these peace pussies?”

  Her brow tightened with a flash of anger and then smoothed back to concern. “No. I don’t go to those meetings anymore, remember? This is a free speech group. We’re planning events for the fall semester. Brian, what happened?”

  “I got him killed. He saved my life, and I got him killed.” Brian’s knees gave out, and he landed on the concrete walk. Mo crouched before him, her knees primly together so nothing showed under her tiny skirt. “I got him killed.”

  Her hand swept over his hair. “Oh, love.” She turned away, spinning gracefully on her toes, and looked over at the people she’d brought to witness his collapse. “Michelle, would you be a wee love and bring my books and bag out?”

  “Sure, Mo,” one of the girls said and trotted up the steps of the closest building.

  “Why are these people here?” he asked.

  “Because Darrin came in and said there was a crazy man screaming my name all over campus, and they were afraid to let me come out and meet that crazy man on my own.” She put her hand under his chin and lifted his head. “You’ve been fighting again. I thought you didn’t need that anymore.”

  That wasn’t entirely true. He hadn’t needed it as badly, and he’d been able to hold off the urge, mainly because it worried Mo—and also because he was tempting fate, starting bar brawls. Sooner or later he’d end up in cuffs over that shit. But tonight had been different. There hadn’t been any property damage or innocent bystanders tonight. He could let go in a scene like that.