The Missionary

by Margaret Ferguson

  I watched the young boy, seemingly mesmerized by the worn and scratched apparatus on my arm, then looked up when I heard the door open. Mary Beth nodded to the elder, without meeting his gaze, then slowly moved to my side. She was dressed differently today, in a traditional Islamic robe. All I could see were her eyes. Barely.

  She knelt by my side, speaking softly. “How are we feeling today?”

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling crappy. I’m stuck on a mountaintop in a shantytown with the nephew of an enemy soldier guarding me. I lost my smokes. I have a coke bottle to take a leak in, my team’s dead, and the closest toilet is a hundred yards away and I can’t even wipe my own…”

  “You’re alive,” she interrupted.

  I exhaled, then glanced over at Abraham and the elder who had stopped talking and were looking my direction. When I turned back to her, I added, “I have no idea if anyone even knows that I’m alive.”

  “Maybe when the snow begins to thaw a little, and it’s safe to make the trek, one of the young men can try to make it to Kabul or your base to get a message to your unit.”

  “Thank you,” I said, sincerely, my tone softening.

  “This isn’t an easy place to be,” she said, as she checked my pulse and then my heart rate. “Especially for a woman,” she added. “If I can be up here for three years, Mister Tenacious Soldier Boy, then you can certainly tough it out for a few weeks.”

  I looked away in frustration. A few weeks. My eyes darted to Abraham and the elder who nodded and bowed at me before backing out the door, the young boy reluctantly following them.

  “You can’t tell me that you and your men were out here by accident.” She deliberately lowered her voice further, her eyes almost reprimanding. “So, you had to have come here knowing there was some risk involved.”

  I looked away, but when she removed her hijab, I quickly looked back. Dark curls were pulled back tightly, a few loose strands tickling her face. She poured some of the hot water Abraham had prepared into two bowls, adding cold water to the smaller one before washing her hands in it. I heard the snap of the latex, and then a moment later she dropped another cloth into the larger bowl. I cringed, knowing what was coming.

  “What’s your rank and unit, Soldier?”

  "Eddie. Please call me Eddie."

  "Eddie," she repeated softly before pulling back the bottom of my tunic and pressing the cloth around my wound.

  “Captain. Special Forces.”

  “Beret or Ranger?”

  “Berets.”

  A small smile crept up the side of her lips. And she had a beautiful smile. She continued to speak in almost a whisper. “You are a Green Beret, dropped smack dab into Taliban Central, and you’re gonna lay there and act like you weren’t prepared for something like this to happen?” Then she pressed the hot rag over my wound and held it there.

  I gritted my teeth. Damn. I hate being told the obvious. “I’m not saying that,” I retorted.

  “Good to hear Soldier,” she replied in a normal voice. “So, quit your whining.” She smacked my good leg. “And start preparing yourself mentally to get stronger.” She stood and looked down at me. “Because no one’s carrying you down this mountain, Eddie. You’re going to walk down on your own two legs.”

  My eyes followed her, perplexed, as she removed the rag. I laid my head back on my good arm again as I stared at the ceiling. No woman had ever talked to me that way before. I smiled to myself. You’re gonna walk out of here.

  And for the first time in three days, I felt hopeful.

  Chapter Nine

  For the rest of the day, my little home away from home was Grand Central Station. All the men in the village wanted to meet me. Or maybe I had just become the town curiosity. People streamed in and out, bringing me nuts and fruits, clothes and pillows and trinkets that meant something to them, but that I had no idea what to do with. Abraham sat close by me most of the day, welcoming my guests and then presenting each of them and their gifts to me, as though I were royalty or something. Then, abruptly, the stream of visitors stopped. And I started to get antsy again—not to mention that I was dying for a cigarette.

  Usually, when I have too much time on my hands, I start thinking about stuff. Questioning things. Second-guessing decisions. And when I second-guess, I usually do something stupid. I took a deep breath and slowly sat up, seeing if I could turn myself around as I had yesterday. Abraham saw me attempting to sit, and he quickly moved to my side. When I looked up at him, I could see the confusion in his eyes. I raised my hand to him, and he reached out to me, suddenly understanding what I was contemplating. He shook his head, probably having been instructed by Mary Beth not to help me do what I was about to do.

  Special Forces training is brutal. I’ve never been more banged up, beaten up and knocked around in my life. Even on my tours. I thought twice I was going to die—not counting my time in the tree. Once, I wanted to. And, I have a very high tolerance for pain. That being said, as I attempted to stand, the spasms that wracked my thigh, the sheer agony that shot through my leg—I can’t even begin to explain. I thought I would pass out. I fell forward onto Abraham, who had thankfully braced his feet so that I didn’t hit the floor.

  He immediately asked me if I was all right.

  Shakily, I turned in his arms and nodded. “I’m okay.” I grimaced. “Okay.” I tried to take a step and thought I would tip over. Not well thought out. I slowly twisted backward toward my bed. My hand moved to the wall to keep me from falling. Then I felt Abraham put his hand around my waist, knowing I was going to try and crouch to lay back down. I could feel the sweat on my forehead as my leg began to tremble. God, what was I thinking? And then I fell backward, taking Abraham with me. Thankfully my bedding broke my fall. Mostly. Only, I landed on my shoulder. I cried out as Abraham fell across my chest, only because I hadn’t let go of him. He looked at me, then scurried up and helped move my legs back onto the cushion. We were both breathing heavily. And I hadn’t even moved but a few inches. I was so discouraged.

  “Thank you,” I gasped, turning to Abraham.

  He merely smiled, nodded, and crawled back to his pillow. Then, the boy resumed his position leaning against the wall, watching me.

  I laid back, trying to even out my breathing. My shoulder ached. My leg throbbed. And I was physically exhausted. I looked for the pills Mary Beth had left. The small cup was still there, having been refilled throughout the day by Abraham. Every time I emptied it, he would jump up and refill it. I took two of the pills and tucked the others back under my toshak for later. Just in case. Within thirty minutes I fell asleep.

  Hours later, I woke to dogs barking. When I looked up, Abraham was still there, staring at me curiously. So, we talked. I learned the history of his family and his town. Abraham was a fifth-generation goat herder. But he had family that had fought in most of the Afghan wars, and his country had seen so much conflict. His uncle, as well as several distant cousins, were Taliban. His mother had told him the story that her mother told her, and so on, that they were a distant relation to the Dost Mohammed Khan, one of the original rulers of the current country of Afghanistan. Abraham sat tall and proud as he told me of his rumored heritage.

  Abraham’s father had died just three years ago from pneumonia. In fact, at least ten others from his village, including his baby brother, had been killed within days of each other from influenza and diarrhea, after one of their villagers had visited a neighboring town to care for an ill family member. His father had died just a day before Mary Beth, her husband, and the others, as he called them, had arrived. And, yet it had been too late. The rest of the villagers who had contracted the flu, including himself, received medical treatment and recovered. It was utterly incomprehensible to me that there was still a country in modern times whose citizens died of the flu or the runs. But then again, five men had just carried and held me over a ditch to relieve myself.

  I didn’t usually have a lot of interaction with locals, when i
n country, either in the bigger cities or the rural towns. Whenever my team and I were sent in—generally for a specific mission—there wasn’t a lot of time for socializing with the man on the street. But people talk. And when I say people, I mean the other guys that are there, regular Army or Marines. The tales they would tell of the poverty and lack of sanitation, even in the bigger cities, seemed exaggerated.

  However, last time I was home, I did a little checking on the computer—remember, I’m a numbers guy—looking up stats on the country they kept sending me back to. I was floored when I discovered that ninety-five percent of the country didn’t have proper sanitation. I’d seen my share of the squatty-potties that some of the more well-off had in their homes. I remember the first time I saw one. I laughed and said, hey look, there’s a commode on the floor. Then when I had to go and asked where the bathroom was, they pointed to the toilet on the floor. I expressed that I didn’t need to pee, and the guy just chuckled and looked at the toilet seat on the floor. Then I asked him where the toilet paper was, he had no clue as to what I was referring.

  At that point, going to the bathroom became the most humbling experience of my lifetime—realizing that when there wasn’t paper or water to clean yourself, well…. Let’s just say there’s a reason that these people shake only with their right hand, and that shaking with your left is an insult. At that point, I also understood another custom—why one doesn’t eat or pass food with their left hand when seated for a meal. For some of you that may be TMI, but for anyone serving here, this is critical information.

  Thank God for antibacterial gel and the Army’s foresight in making sure that we carried it. And, thankfully, when packing, I had the foresight to put a roll of toilet tissue into my rucksack, a lesson learned from my first tour. It now sits by my bed, with the few other items of importance like my knife and my gun. So, my last two trips to the outside community ditch—although awkward—were a little less embarrassing, as being-held-up-while-you-take-a-dump goes. From here on out, let’s just say I will use the T.P. squares very sparingly. My goal? Get out of here before I run out of toilet paper.

  While in-country, I occasionally saw an outhouse. Rarely did I run across the type of toilet that I was used to seeing in my own home. Even in the larger cities, in the poorer sections, everyone simply craps in the street. No kidding. I was floored. And then I was angry. It’s just another way that dictatorial governments keep their people subservient and dependent on them. Keep them uneducated and in poverty.

  I looked up at Abraham, who had just finished talking, and I had no idea what he had said since my mind had wandered. I thanked him for sharing his family story with me and told him I was grieved about his father and brother. He added, with great sadness, that if only Mary Beth and her husband had arrived a week sooner, or even a day, that they would still be alive, and I could have met them.

  I nodded, understanding the grief that Abraham felt.

  And, yet, somehow, my mind kept going back to the fact that Mary Beth was married. I don’t know why that thought alone seemed to stay with me, but it did.

  Out of curiosity, I asked about the tribal council. I needed to know what the dynamic of the village was, and if it was to my benefit to trust them or not. I was still a soldier, with a purpose. My mission wasn’t completed until the target was eliminated. And not knowing if the other bird continued on to finish the task or if they returned to base after the attack on our aircraft, just stuck in my craw. I had to get out of here. And it had to be soon.

  Chapter Ten

  Early the next morning, just as I was stretching from an uncomfortable, restless night, the door opened and in walked Mary Beth, with another woman. They ambled up to, and stood over me, exchanging glances without saying a word. I swapped a glance of my own with Abraham, who had brought me fresh bread and was sitting up on his bed.

  “Forgive me for not standing,” I finally said, simply to break the ice. “My nurse told me I had to stay put.”

  I looked up and could see the smile in Mary Beth’s eyes, framed by the gray scarf around her face. Or maybe it was a smirk. Without looking away, I added. “She’s a real hard ass.” Her eyes narrowed in reprimand. “I’m guessing her last name is Ratched.” They narrowed further.

  The other woman removed her scarf and hijab headdress, then grinned before crouching down. She was older—definitely not Afghan. Whether from age or lifestyle, her face wore well defined-lines. “You were right,” she said, with a beautiful Scottish accent. “He’s a bit of a rogue.”

  Mary Beth removed the coverings from her head as she knelt beside me, and slid the blankets back, exposing my wounded leg. “Yeah, but I’m sure he’s as humble as the day is long,” she added, under her breath, kind of sarcastically, if you ask me.

  Abraham moved to heat the teakettle before returning to stand beside them, staring down at my bare legs.

  “You here to give me another horse shot?”

  “Maybe,” Mary Beth replied smugly. Then she lifted the gown, or skirt, or dress, or whatever the hell they had me wearing. Only it was a little too high for my liking. I quickly moved my hand to my crotch to keep the tunic from sliding up further past the top of my thigh. She glanced at me. “Are we being modest now? Yesterday you were ready to drop them.”

  “Not just for anyone, Honey,” I said. “Who’s your friend?”

  Their eyes stayed on my leg as I felt two sets of hands bending it slightly to remove the dressing Mary Beth had wrapped it in the night before. Both women’s heads disappeared from my view, and I looked up at the ceiling again as their hands felt around under my thigh. Somehow, as they peered at me from underneath—everything on display for their amusement—I understood what a woman feels like with her feet propped in the stirrups at the gynecologist’s office.

  It occurred to me that they weren’t talking, either. Of course, being a guy, I would hope that they were so awestruck by my manhood that it had left them speechless. However, any thought or concern that it was freezing in the building and that this might alter their perception, was an afterthought at this point. I could only hope that they were just there to observe what they came to see. Still, the fact they hadn’t said anything made me nervous. Abraham now stood beside them, studying my leg, as though he might have something to add to their diagnosis. Great! Another set of eyes on my—.

  “What do you think?” Mary Beth asked.

  Boy, was that a loaded question. A small smile crept onto my lips as I lifted my head to look at the women. Mary Beth studied me, and, as if she could read my mind, shot me a quick fake smile, and immediately looked back down. “Do you see what I was talking about? The pertinax quod omnes scitis?”

  The older woman sat back on her calves, tilted her head with a nod, and sighed. That didn’t look promising. She leaned toward Mary Beth and whispered in her ear.

  “What?” I asked nervously. “What is it?” Suddenly, I didn’t find any more humor in the situation.

  Mary Beth pursed her lips.

  Her friend shook her head. “I don’t know,” she exhaled. “Maybe you should just tell him.”

  “Tell me!” I said. “I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

  Mary Beth glanced at the matronly woman, drew a deep breath and then exhaled dramatically.

  “Oh, hell,” I exclaimed. “Just tell me.”

  “She thinks we should amputate.”

  “Amputate!” I sat up on my elbows to see what they were looking at that had changed my prognosis so drastically in one day.

  Mary Beth pushed and then held me down at my chest. “Lay still,” she insisted.

  Abraham saw the excitement in my eyes and stood upright.

  Mary Beth’s friend nodded resignedly. I felt her make a cutting motion with her hand close to the top of my thigh. “Probably, right about here.”

  “You’re sh—,” I began, then quickly corrected myself. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I added, anxiously, looking between the women. “Right?”

  Th
ey exchanged glances. “Or, we could just irrigate it once more with some hot water and then dress it and administer another dose of penicillin.”

  I blinked once, then twice—confused—before dropping my head back onto the pillow. When the ladies began to chuckle, I put my hand on my chest. I could feel my heart racing. I’d been had. I gasped. “That wasn’t funny.”

  They looked at each other and nodded, then said almost in unison. “Yes, it was.”

  “I’m on a friggin’ mountain in the middle of winter in Afghanistan, and I get rescued by Joan Rivers and her side-kick.” I shook my head. “That was just cruel.”

  The older woman smiled and held out her hand. “Joan Rivers. And you are?”

  “Roark, Eddie.” My eyes narrowed. “Who are you, really?”

  “Roark, Eddie,” she repeated, holding my hand firmly. “Dr. Denice Lewallen,” she smiled sweetly. “And I must say, you did quite a number on your leg there. You’re a fortunate man. Blessed, I’d say.”

  “I guess it depends on your perspective.”

  “Well, you’re alive.” She smiled as she stood up. “That’s one perspective.”

  I turned to Mary Beth as she took a clean cloth from Abraham. “I thought you said Dr. Lewallen was in Kabul.”

  “I’m the missus.”

  “Ow!” I exclaimed as Mary Beth placed the scalding towel that Abraham had just handed her onto my wound.

  “Sorry.” She smiled, although, somehow, she didn’t look very sorry. When she caught me gazing at her, she added, “Serves you right. You opened up your wound again with that little stunt you pulled yesterday.”

  I glanced over at Abraham.

  “Don’t you dare be mad at him,” she reprimanded. “I told you to stay off this leg for a reason. And it wasn’t for my health, but for yours.”