An Angel's Wish

Was the woman completely and totally mad? What did she think she was doing? Taking a stranger home with them? Didn't the woman have any brains? Anything could happen. Was she one of those religious nuts that had no common sense?

He shook his head as he stared at the woman, "Ma'am, maybe that is not the best idea. If the child wants to do something for a homeless man, perhaps you could give him some money. Maybe buy him a burger. Even get those clothes or a blanket at the shop. But..."

She shook her head and held up her hand as she turned to stare at her little girl. Trav noticed that big tears shone in her dark brown eyes. Her shoulders slumped as she spoke, "Yes, I know. I suggested all of that, but Angel is determined on this one. So please if you know anyone..."

He watched as the tear slipped from the corner of those eyes. She looked so young. She could not be much more than a child herself. Her words hit him... 'in honor of her father.' Fuck, another young widow and orphan of war. What was he to do?

He thought about Old Joe. Normally the guy was harmless, the nicest guy out there. But once in a while, when he had been drinking or something startled him, well, Joe had flipped out once or twice in the brief couple of months he had known him.

While a shower, hot meal and new clothes would definitely be a blessing for the man, the what-if's weighed heavily on Travis' shoulder. As unlikely as it was, he just could not take the chance...not with a widow of one of their own...not with the child, the little Angel.

He considered Steve. What did it matter Ranger or Marine? But his friend too had been slipping deeper and deeper into the darkness since... Just since.

No, and he certainly did not want these two walking the streets looking for a 'homeless Marine' to help. He knew that more than one of the less savory or even mentally ill among them would have no compunction about accepting the offer.

While it was unlikely than the worst would happen, even the thought of someone slipping a bit of extra 'help' from the woman's purse when she was not looking was more than his conscience could handle. It had enough on it as it was.

No, he really did not have much choice...any other really. He bent and held out his hand to the little girl, "Gunnery Sergeant Travis Baker, young lady. U S Marine Corps retired."

****

Keisha watched as the man wheeled Bree's chair down the aisles of the second hand store that was where they came to shop, except for unmentionables and socks. Those she insisted on buying new.

From the moment the man had introduced himself, her daughter had beamed as brightly as most children would if they had gotten a new bicycle, computer or cell phone. The man too seemed to be a natural with her child. It all seemed to be going better than she could have ever hoped or believed possible.

So what was bothering her? What was wrong? Why would the knot in the pit of her stomach not stop throbbing?

Because you are taking a complete stranger into your only child' life? Because anything could happen? Because you are a complete idiot, she thought, as they turned up another aisle.

Her daughter was jabbering on as they approached the rack of coats. But the man just shook his head and brushed the sleeve of the one he wore, "No, really, Angel. I don't need a coat. This one has plenty of life left in it. And it looks so stylish, don't you think?" They giggled together as he pirouetted for her daughter.

"But you have hardly bought anything," her daughter protested as she held out the twenty dollar bill that they had together earmarked for this special Christmas present.

The man smiled, "So how about we look over there for a doll for you, Angel?" he said pointing to a toy display.

Her heart swelled with such pride and she fought back tears that never seemed far from the surface as Bree shook her head, "No, I have enough presents under the tree. I really want to get something else for you. Please."

Keisha's throat tightened even more. A re-conditioned off brand tablet and a new winter coat were not what most ten year old little girls would call 'enough presents.' But her little girl always had been special, just like her father was.

The man looked over at her as if pleading for her assistance, but she merely shook her head and shrugged. She had never found a way to deny Bree what she wanted. This whole Christmas trip proved that. Once the child made up her mind, she was going to get what she wanted. Keisha knew it would be a trait that would prove indispensable as her daughter grew.

The man sighed and turned back to her little girl when her assistance was not forthcoming, "All right then, there is one thing I want. If I cannot convince you to take home a new doll that is..."

****

"Thank you, Ma'am," said Travis as the woman passed the platter piled high with turkey and ham.

He had to admit that the hot shower had been the most relaxing thing he had felt in a long time. Maybe his body had grown accustomed to the cold these past couple of months, last few years, but it had certainly welcomed the brief respite as well.

He had even been grateful to find shaving foam and a razor in the plastic bag of toiletries that they had instead he accept in addition to the new clothes and that special present.

He lifted a bite of the food to his mouth. He paused long enough to just savor the smell of it before shovelling it into his mouth. It had been so long since he had sat down at a table and eaten a hot, home-cooked meal, let alone a Christmas one, that Trav really was not sure how to behave.

Almost a decade of holidays spent in some hot, dry, hell-hole that made the nightly news, but most people back home still could not find on a fucking map. Then coming home to a world that was turned on its head.

A wife that not only did not need him anymore, but certainly did not want him. Not the 'him' that came back from that place. Kids that saw him more as a stranger than a father. Even his parents just could not handle the withdrawn, cautious and suspicious, all right paranoid, man that had taken over the body of the boy they had loved and raised.

It all came to a head three years before. Kathy had already asked for a divorce and kicked him out the house. He had been staying with his parents back then. It had been the 4th of July and the little shits down the street thought it was cute to let loose fireworks in the middle of the night.

Trav had managed them well enough that evening, because he had expected them. So even though the sound and smell of gunpowder had taken him to a dark place, his logical mind had fought it back. But being awaken from those nightmares to those sounds and smells had snapped his mind.

His father had taken his guns and locked them in his cabinet when he moved in with them. For safe keeping, his dad had said, but Trav knew it was more about keeping him safe. He certainly would not be the first of his friends to 'eat a bullet' since they came back. So he could not get to them, but he always slept with his Bowie hunting knife that his grandfather had given him for his thirteen birthday under his pillow.

Trav shook his head and forced a smile. He tried not to think of that and waste his one chance for a real Christmas, something he never thought to have again. He looked from the obviously nervous African-American woman that was his hostess for the day to the beaming face of her daughter, who he initially thought was about five, but could have not been more than seven or eight, though the wheelchair and her diminutive frame made it difficult to tell for certain.

"How old are you, sweetie?" he asked as he brought a bite of the roll to his mouth.

He tried hard to stifle the moan that threatened to escape from the back of his throat. He had grown used to eating whatever he could find.

Her smile was brilliant and oddly comforting, "I'm ten almost eleven." Her voice sounded much younger, or maybe that was the bright pink and green bows that dangled at the ends of the half dozen or so sectioned braids that covered her head.

Travis's throat tightened. The exact age of his youngest. Not that his only son would wear pink bows. Or maybe he would? It had been three years since he had heard from them. Not that he did not love his children. But because he did. They did not need a fuck-up like him in their lives.

He forced the smile wider to cover the pain that now centered in his chest. "Is that why you are too big for dolls this Christmas?" Though something about the little girl had put him at ease from the moment her mother lifted her from the car, he was way out of practice with this polite conversation thing. In fact, his voice was a bit gravelly even, whether from disuse or the cold weather.

"So what did you ask Santa for? A new computer? A cell phone? One of those tablet things?" He forced a bite of the slightly sweet ham down and lifted his glass of sparkling cider, the non-alcoholic kind fortunately, to his mouth as he tried desperately not to stare at the wheelchair, obviously a new bicycle was not top of her list.

The child smiled again and his world exploded around him, "You. I asked Santa for a Marine to share this Christmas dinner with, in honor of my Daddy. He was a Marine too you know."

It was not the response he expected. This reminder of why he was here at all. Travis felt the panic rising inside of him at the child's words. So powerful. Did she have any idea what they did to him?

Was. That single word said it all. Its meaning was pretty damned clear. Her father had been a Marine before he died. KIA...probably. Suicide perhaps? How many more of his brothers and sisters had fallen by their own hand than the enemies? Twenty-two a day, he had read the headline somewhere. Not to mention seen the reality for himself...

'Breathe and don't spoil this for the child,' the voice in his head said.

Twenty-two. Just one more than the number of friends he had lost there. Fallujah. He sucked air into his lungs as he tried to find the right words to respond to the little girl. How many children had his comrades, his brothers, his friends left behind? What were they doing this Christmas? All those others? Hell, what were his kids doing tonight?

How was he going to make it through this dinner now? With that thought, those images in his head.

He blew the air slowly out his mouth as those fucked up doctors at the VA had taught him. Not that it did much fucking good. But enough to bring another bite of the food to his lips. It now tasted more like the cardboard boxes that had become his world than the delicious homemade with love meal that it was.

'You are going to do this for her, Gunny. You are going to give this child what she asked Santa for if it fucking kills you. For her and all those other children that your friends left behind. For those friends and brothers you lost that day.'

"Thank you, Angel," he mumbled though he could not force another smile or bring himself to look her in the eye.

****

Keisha shifted uncomfortably on the hard wooden pew. To be honest, it was less her well-padded bottom that felt the strain, than her heart and mind. Despite the fact that these people were nothing like her abusive and domineering father, who had always been intrinsically entwined with the god he served, still being here always brought back those bad memories.

Growing up, she had always felt that she was never good enough...for him or his god. Not smart enough. Not pretty enough. Not well-behaved enough. Of course, her old fashioned dresses that fell almost to the ground had caused her to be ridiculed, the object of every bully and all the popular girls.

She smiled and fought back those tears again as she remembered her first day in big school as her mother had called first grade. The moment the teachers back was turned one of the bigger girls had come up with her crowd of friends. 'Freak.' 'Little House girl.' 'Half pint.' And other cruel names had flown as she had tried to slink back into the corner and disappear.

Eventually the noise had been enough to attract the attention of a group of older children, who were playing nearby. One really big boy came over and started laughing at her. When she started to cry, someone had pushed her and added 'cry baby' to the chorus.

Then the crowd had parted and she heard the voices of the angels, "Hey, leave her alone." That was all it took. The crowd disappeared and she was left crouching in the corner and staring up at the handsomest boy she had ever seen. He must be an angel she thought because the sun had danced about his closely shaven head like a halo. All of her life, Keisha would remember that moment.

She smiled as the words of the pastor drifted through the fog of her memories, "Tonight, we have a very special young lady, who is going to share her gift with us all."

Keisha caught herself just before her hands came together in applause as their elderly neighbor pushed her daughter's wheelchair from the side to the front, facing everyone with another of those smiles. The woman handed her a microphone and her precious angel nodded her head, those ribbons danced once more and this time the bells she had added tinkled as she bowed her little head.

After a long pause, she lifted her head and once more Keisha would have almost sworn that a halo danced about her child's head as she opened her mouth and began to belt out the popular pop song. Bree had kept the song she had selected a secret right up to the end, but her mother finally lost the battle with those tears as the words... 'in the arms of the angels,' danced and echoed off the stone walls and stained glass window panes.

She reached once more for him in her mind. She knew that Bryan would be as proud of their brave little girl as she was. For a moment, she would have even sworn that she felt his arms wrapped about her shoulders as the tears streamed down her coffee brown cheeks. She lost track of time as her mind crafted the happy ending that war and the harsh realities of life had denied them.

It was not until she felt the soft cotton handkerchief pressed into her hand that she came back to that cold, lonely world. She looked down to see his hand pressing the fresh material into her palm. She shook her head at the incongruity...a homeless man, who kept fresh linen hankies in his dusty back pack. She smiled her thanks up at him just in time to hear her baby's words, "Merry Christmas to you all and to my daddy Corporal Bryan Moultrie."

Keisha watched as the man turned a deathly shade of white and the blood drained from his face and he dropped to the pew with a heavy thud.

****

Trav leaned against the cold, stone wall of the small church as the little girl's wheelchair sat next to the pastor. People filed out of the building one by one, each stopping to hug, smile or talk to the child. He saw more than one pressing money into her hand. After the first couple of attempts to give it back or offer it to the pastor, she had given up and just thanked them.

He choked, almost wishing that for once he could do as others did and just drown it all in the bottom of bottle or even something stronger. Instead it rolled across him as vivid as it had that day.

They all knew what was coming. Another battle. They knew too that this one would be bad. The worst they had seen possibly. Beneath the bragging and joking, they all felt death hanging like that unwelcome cousin at the family reunion. Some of them would not be coming back. But no one knew who. Each must prepare for his end, that he was the one Fate would call.

Trav was just double checking his equipment for the fourth or perhaps fifth time when the young Corporal cleared his throat from the open doorway of his tent home, "Excuse me, Sir."

It took Trav a moment to place the man among the dozen such Non-Commissioned Officers in his platoon. He made a point of knowing all his Corporals well. These men were the very backbone of not only his platoon, but the Corps itself. It would be upon their shoulders that this battle rested. But this kid was the newest under his command, having just been promoted days before.

After a moment's hesitation, he returned the man's greeting, "Enter, Corporal." He could see that the young man was nervous. Hell, they all were. It was just that you learned to cover it over time. "What can I do for you, son?" he asked more informally.

The man-child looked up at him as the evening sun set on what would for some be their last day upon this earth and it had encircled the man. Trav shivered, wondering if it was just his imagination or a dark omen.

He held out a plain white envelope, "Sir, would you do me the honor of delivering this...if..."

Trav had nodded. They were all writing those letters. The ones that would be included in their belongings. Words of comfort for those left behind. As the young Corporal said...IF.

"Son, you know that we will all make sure that families get the letters."

He shook his head, "No, sir, this one is different. Nan's is written and with my other stuff." He had shifted nervously from one foot to the other then, "This one is for this girl back home. Nan don't know about her. Well, she knows Key-Key since she has lived next door to us for years, but she don't know..."

Trav had been tempted to laugh at the way the young man's dark cheeks colored as he tried to stumble over the words. "I understand, Corporal," he had reassured as he held out his hand to take the envelope. An address was scrawled across the front of it and stamps were affixed to the upper right hand corner, though should the worst happen, Trav swore in his heart he would honor this young Marine's request by personally delivering it to the girl.

He ran his hands over the scratchy wool of his cap. His fingers dug into it as if he could reach inside his mind and jerk the painful memories out by the roots. Ten years. Ten, fucking, long-ass years.

Of course, he had tried. As soon as the One-Eight had made it back to Camp Lejune, he had spent a couple of days with his family and then told his wife that he had an errand to run. She had looked relieved that he would be gone for the weekend. He had hopped on the back of his old motorcycle and headed the couple of hundred miles to 'Hot-lanta' as it was nicknamed.

It had been easy enough to find the address on the envelope. When the man opened the door saw his uniform he had stiffened, but Trav had gotten used to that. Not everyone back home supported this war. Hell, there were moments when he was not sure that he did, but he had orders to fulfil and young Marines to protect...as much as he could anyway. The envelope in his shaking fingers reminded him that was not always possible though.

"Miss Keisha Jackson, please, Sir," he had asked respectfully.

"Who the hell wants to know where that little whore is?" the man had boomed and Trav thought that he smelled liquor on him.

"I am sorry, Sir. I am just trying to reach her about a private matter," something had kept him from revealing anything more.

"That Jezebel is gone...to hell for all I care," the man had screamed as the door slammed in his face.

Trav had turned and walked down the concrete path towards his bike. He knew there was no point in trying again. Then he remembered the young Corporal's words...Nan lived next door. That too had proven futile though. While the elderly, stooped black woman had welcomed him cordially with iced tea and tomato sandwiches, the moment he mentioned the young woman's name she had frowned and cut him off with, "I ain't talking about that girl."

Trav had left Atlanta that afternoon, driving through the night. That envelope weighing like a lead block in his pocket. Another failure. Not only had he failed to keep that young Corporal and twenty other of his men safe during those dark days, but he had not even been able to give the kid his final wish.