Coming Home

Gracie spoke first, "Hey cowboy; saw you last night at Elly's. How's that going?"

I knew she meant me and Katy, "Not so good I'm afraid."

Donna commented, "Saw Sarah last night. She left with you, didn't she? If you see her, tell her I have her coat."

"Will do," I replied. The two of them were giving each side-wise looks. I bet I knew what that was about.

Donna added, "So it's so long Katy, hello to... Who?"

I smirked, "Your guess is as good as mine."

Gracie grinned, "I'll tell Sarah."

Donna laughed, "I bet she already knows."

I wasn't much into 'girl talk' so I kept my mouth shut.

Donna was though, "Got a lot of food there Travis. Medicine too. Sarah still sick?"

I gave it up, "Think so. I'm headed for her parents' now." The two girls were sending quite a few silent messages.

Gracie smiled and said, "Tell her we hope she feels better."

I had to do it, "Donna, have you heard from Drake?" Just like that all the fun stopped.

Donna got serious, "He's being sent to the Middle East."

I nodded, but didn't say anything.

Donna did though, "You'll call him, won't you?"

I nodded again, then asked, "Will you?"

Donna paled, "He knows I'm seeing other people. I told him."

I did reply to that, "He'll be OK. Lots of guys go through it and get over it." I didn't indicate what I meant. I figured she could figure that out. Drake's a friend. I know he'll be hurt if Donna isn't around when he comes home, if he comes home and if he's sane when he does.

Donna effused, "I didn't say."

I didn't reply, but she must have recognized the relief on my face. She smiled.

The girls stepped away. Both waved. I couldn't say for sure. I wondered about Donna. She'd always been so stable. How much had she told him? What were her plans? I wondered how Drake would handle it, if...

I got my packages and headed out to my truck. I couldn't get it out of my mind, 'It's such a fucked-up world. There was an old poem I remembered memorizing for some class; "The Rhyme of the Unknown Soldier", I remembered one line, "I wonder if the kings who planned it all are satisfied. They played their game of checkers and eleven million died." Maybe Iraq wasn't eleven million, or even one million, but to me it was too many. There was that Yazidi girl. It just wasn't fair. Hell, she probably wasn't even Yazidi, like that mattered. I was getting mad again. I felt so bad. I wanted to hit somebody, hurt somebody.'

~~V~~

When I reached Sarah's parents' I still felt muddled. Of course, I'd never do anything to harm Sarah, but just the same I was afraid to hang around very long. She was waiting at the door, I told her, "I'm dropping this stuff off, but I can't stay."

She pulled me inside, "You can't leave. You have to stay."

"Why the hell not?" I asked.

She had my arm and wouldn't let go, "Because I need you."

"Look I've gotta go."

"If you go, I'll call Denny and tell him yes. You want me to do that?"

I thought, 'Shit! Fuck you Sarah, a God damned ultimatum.' I didn't say that though, "If you want to marry Denny then marry Denny. I'm sure he'll make you happy. His family has lots of money. All he does is drive around drinking beer, looking rich and acting important. You could have the perfect family, one boy and one girl. Send them to private schools, go to Paris, Berlin, spend your winters in Key Biscayne, summers in Bermuda. You would have the perfect picture book life."

Her answer? "And you could do better?"

This was pissing me off, "You know what? No, you don't know. Let me tell you. You know the people in Laurel, the army people? They want me to work for them, because I know a few languages. They think I could help out. If you were to marry somebody like me. I'm not saying me, but maybe someone like me, you'd never have much money. You'd probably never leave home. You'd most likely have to scrimp and save, and watch every penny. You'd probably end up living in some shithole like the old Ballard place where you'd spend your nights fighting bats and mice all day. You'd most probably spend your free time riding around rescuing stray cats and dogs. You'd have five or six kids, and they'd always be in a want. They'd most likely run around with chicken shit between their toes. Yeah, and instead of Macys or Bloomingdales you'd be shopping for bargains at Walmart and Target. That's what you'd get if you ended up with someone like me. So, I say yeah, go to Denny. Tell him yes. Live the life you're entitled to."

Arms akimbo, she huffed, "You're saying Denny is better than you. That you don't want to marry me. You prefer I marry Denny, or Derek Parker, or maybe Jim Galloway."

This was too much, way too much for me, "Look I never said that. I guess I'd like to marry you. You're pretty, you're smart, you're everything... well everything... you know." I gulped, "Jesus Sarah, you wouldn't want to marry me. I'm a what? A shit sandwich. I'll probably end up just another statistic anyway. No, I didn't mean that. I mean. I meant. I mean I'm not who you need. You need cashmere and suede, I'm cotton and calico."

She interrupted me, "I like cotton and calico."

"Oh, shit Sarah. Shut up. You know what I mean!"

"You going to Laurel?"

I answered, "Soon."

She half smiled and looked down at the box of donuts, "What'd you get?"

"What you asked for stupid."

She smiled and blinked.

Jesus. I hated those sultry looks, the long lashes and all. She had wisps of hair dangling over her forehead; it made her look... well... just, it made her look.

She said, "I'll get some ice for the cokes. I have a movie I bought on the Internet. Let's watch it together."

So, we got the donuts, cheese cake, and cokes. We went in her parents' family room and watched a stupid movie. It was about this guy who had come back from Afghanistan. He felt lost and alone; he'd hitch hiked to some southern state, met some girl, fell in love, and got married. Sure, it was fiction, but it wasn't such a bad move; at least one guy managed to get home and get it together. I thought, 'With the right girl it could happen.' I hung around till Mr. and Mrs. Windover got home. They'd dropped Teddy off at a friend's. I only stayed long enough to say hi; I thought the Windovers looked kind of wiped.

~~V~~

I got home and decided to bring some of the dry wall in before it got damaged from the damp outside. Mom called; said they'd bought me a bed. Went to sleep on my mattress, but woke up a little after four. 'Not bad,' I thought, 'slept almost five hours.'

I lay there thinking about Burkina-Faso. There had been a girl there too. I'd been in Germany, somewhere, in some hospital, Landsrule or Landstuhl or something. They sent me there after I killed those people and that girl. There had been an explosion and I got hit in the head. They said I had been concussed so they sent me to Germany and had me under observation. I remember I snuck out one night, stole a car and drove down to some place, Kaiserslauten, I remembered that. I was with a girl drinking in some tavern. I guess they thought I didn't look right, most likely it was the clothes. They called the police. They got me and called the hospital, and they sent some people to bring me back. It had to be the clothes, the medical clothes, plus I had no money or identification. Anyway, after a while the doctors said I was all right so they released me but not before the army sent me and three other fellas on a special assignment to Burkina Faso.

Ouagadougou was the city, what a dump. Our army suspected something was about to happen and one of "our people", the head of their Department of Interior might be in trouble. This department head had a daughter, he was worried something might happen, and he didn't trust his own people. There were terrorists, Boko Haram, and they'd been kidnapping and sometimes killing girls. Our military was sure this Boko Haram was affiliated with ISIS. Me, and these three other people were sent down to keep an eye on the girl. I was the only military person. The girl's name was Farida; she'd been educated in France, and since I spoke French, they thought I'd be a good fit. Besides, they figured I wasn't too smart, I always followed orders, and they figured I wouldn't ask a lot of questions. They were right up to a point, but they didn't plan on Farida; she sort of took to me. She said I was her guard dog. I slept outside her room at their house. Wherever she went I went, and we went all over the city. Everybody knew who she was, and they seemed to like her. I could see where she could be a likely candidate for kidnapping.

The other guys with me always seemed to have other chores, but I didn't mind, Farida was pretty. She was the blackest person I'd ever met; she was incredibly tiny, not even five feet tall. She had the blackest hair; it was so black it looked almost blue, and her eyes were even darker. Her eyes were so penetrating they seemed to have a power all their own. I really liked her; she commanded a lot of respect wherever we went, and she was brilliant, I mean the smartest person I'd ever met. She said she went to the Sorbonne. She told me all about her school, and France, and what she planned on doing when she went back. She said she had met a Turkish man and might marry him; that kind of interfered with my fantasies about her. She told me she loved her home country, but planned on living in France. She and I could talk in several languages in just one conversation; we'd go in and out between French, Spanish, German, and Arabic. She even started teaching me some Mossi, her home country's language.

I couldn't get over how beautiful she was. It wasn't just her long hair she kept in incredibly tight braids or her fascinating eyes; she had such a beautiful face, like nothing I'd seen before. Her eyes had really long lashes, and she had that epicanthic fold that gave her eyes an almond shape; it made her look terribly exotic. Plus, her nose was so narrow, not just aquiline, but even narrower, like a hawk's. Her whole face was narrow, not thin as in skinny, no, it was narrow, like her body. Oh, and her mouth, it was so small and when she talked it was like looking at a heart. She had delicate hands and long fingers. Sometimes I imagined her making pottery with those captivating little hands and fingers, but mostly I pretended we were in bed and she was using her hands on my body. Everywhere we went she wore western clothes; they marked her as different. Her clothes were expensive; her blouses and dresses were made of what had to be the finest linen, and they all buttoned up the front so they revealed just a hint of decollate. I had a hard time not staring at her. I spent a lot of time lying awake at night outside her room thinking about her, but I knew, we weren't in the same league.

We had one scare while I was there. We were on our way to one of the nightclubs in that part of town where the foreigners stayed. I noticed right away; there was a car, then another car following us. I got the driver to swing around and use some different streets. Most of the streets were just dirt so we stirred up a lot of dust. The car behind us tried to keep up but couldn't. I watched for the other car, but never saw it again. Farida was watching too, she looked very scared. I told her not to worry, and she clung on my arm tightly. I kissed her forehead and told her she was safe with me; I could feel her relax. That was a moment when I never felt more like a man; all my protective instincts were at a high level. I was ready to die for her.

When we got to the nightclub, she made me sit right beside her the whole time, which was unusual since mostly I sat in the back, well out of the way while she danced and socialized with the rich and famous. Once or twice, someone came over to ask her to dance, but she politely refused. She did dance with me though, I recall how self-conscious I was, me being a working man, but with the usual natural feelings. Later that night when we got back to her house, she made me sleep in her room on the floor beside her bed. I sat in a large chair while she went to the bathroom where she showered and changed. She came out in some kind of expensive black camisole; it had thin spaghetti straps, and it reached to just above her knees. I could see it was made of this ultra-thin fabric that looked more like paper than cloth. I know it has a name, but I don't know what it is. Sitting in the half light of the bedroom I could see right through it when she came out and briefly stood in the bathroom doorway.

She climbed in bed and ordered me to take a shower, and lie down on the floor in just my boxers. I did what she told me.

She had a massive bed, larger even than the usual king size; it was draped with heavy and expensive pillows. There was a double door on one side that led out to a large porch, and a regular bedroom door on the other. I lay down between her bed and the double door. It was like I really was her dog that night. Every now and then she'd reach down and touch me. I guess she needed to be reminded I was there. I didn't sleep much that night. I kept having powerful thoughts; she was right beside and above me with almost nothing on. When she went to sleep, I could hear her gentle breathing. Once or twice, she briefly stopped breathing, and I almost jumped out of my skin each time.

In the middle of the night, I thought I heard something outside; she did too. I sat up and got my pistol. She sat up too. We both waited; it sounded like something or someone was on the balcony, but the curtain made it impossible to see. For all we knew it might have been a big bird or perhaps a feral cat of some sort. We couldn't be sure.

After several minutes she leaned over and whispered, "Get in bed with me."

I wasn't sure if it was the right thing, but I did what she said.

She whispered again, "I've never been with a man, and I don't want to die without having that experience at least once." She hesitated and took a deep breath, "would you make love to me?"

I started to protest.

She put her tiny fingers to my lips and murmured, "Please?"

I whispered, "What if you got pregnant?"

Again, she murmured, "I don't think I would."

I asked, "If you had a baby, how would you explain a white child?"

A little more firmly she whispered, "It would be yours. I would be proud."

She had to be lying.

"Make love to me," she said!

I was past caring. I gently pulled her in my arms.

She responded.

We kissed. No slobbery French kissing; these were genuine warm lips on lips, with affection.

She was small. I was gentle. She cried some. I held her close. I knew I loved her.

The next morning it was like it never happened. She ordered me to take my clothes and get out of her room. While I got dressed and waited in an outer room, I heard her pulling off the bed sheets. About fifteen minutes later she came out dressed in a casual skirt and blouse. She said, "I want to go to the kitchen and have some breakfast." Without looking at me she started toward the stairway that led to the kitchen. I followed in silence. It was as though nothing from the night before mattered. After her breakfast we went about her usual business visiting families, aid stations, and various other places she had interests in.

Three days after the car event and our night her father arranged for her to go back to France. We were at the airport. I watched. She looked scared. I wanted to go with her, but my superior said my job was done. I stood outside, while she boarded. I saw her look at me through the plane's window. She was looking at me, and it was like she cared. I got upset, but controlled myself. Just before the plane took off there was an explosion. There was never any doubt in my mind the terrorists had tried to blow up her plane. I know she got off unscathed, but I got hit on the head again.

When I woke up my uniform was covered in blood and my head felt like I had been hit with a hammer. There were several ambulances about. Before I passed out, I heard someone say I was lucky. That was when they sent me to Texas.

I think about Farida sometimes. I hope she's OK. She was a girl I could've easily fallen in love with. Who the hell am I kidding; I did fall in love with her. I would have married her, but of course, that could never happen. Since then, I have reflected on her. I have wondered from time to time if maybe she got pregnant. If she did, I would like to see the baby. What happened reminded me of an old song by a now long defunct music group called "The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band". The song is titled, "Modern Day Romance", and there is this line, "I wonder where she might have gone and why I even care".

~~V~~

Jesus! Someone is pounding on my God damn door! I checked my watch. Seven fucking thirty! I climbed off my mattress, crossed through the house and opened it. Christ almighty! It's Sarah! And I was having such a good dream! I wondered, 'Was it a dream or me half-thinking half-dreaming?'

What was it? What was I dream-thinking? Oh, why am I an independent contractor with my own tools and my own truck? I remember. I'm an independent because no one wants me. Ok, so I haven't applied anywhere, but that doesn't matter, who would want someone like me? I'm useless, worthless. Every time I do anything; climb a ladder, lean out a window I get dizzy. I have headaches. Bottom line, I'm no good for anyone, just a worthless piece of shit, useless. If I was dead, no one would even notice, and if they did, they wouldn't care. If I died, or offed myself, it would be like my last contribution to society. I'd be out of the way. I'd be serving my country.

Now here's Sarah! She doesn't get it.

"What do you want?" I said, not very nicely.

I gave her the once-over. She was wearing a pretty blue dress, light blue, old fashioned empire waist, thin material, pleated, sort of a mini. She had on dark blue stockings and dark shoes, high heels. Her hair was down; with curls all around her face. She had on that old sand dollar necklace I had bought her years ago. God, she was pretty! It was impossible to be mad at her.

I asked again, more nicely, "What do you want Sarah?" I checked my watched again.

She gave me a sheepish smile, "It's the Sunday before Thanksgiving Trav. (She always used to call me Trav instead of my full name Travis.) Church is at nine. I thought maybe you'd like to go with me."

'Damn,' I thought, 'Didn't she know this was the day I'd planned on swimming out in the ocean till I got hypothermia and drowned? I wondered sometimes how far I might get. I'm a good swimmer, I bet I could get out so far, I wouldn't see the coastline.' Actually, I had thought about just that a couple days back. I growled, "Is all this really necessary?"

She giggled, "Aren't you going to let me in?

I stepped back and she came in.

"Come on Trav, when was the last time you went to church? I bet it's been months."

It had been years. I hadn't been to church since I signed up. My mother was Catholic, but there were no Catholic churches when she moved here with dad so they joined Saint George's, the local Episcopal Church. Sarah and her parents went there too. I had never noticed them till after the swim party at Weidemeyer's. 'If I could just go back to that...'

"Look," I said, "Going to church is about the last thing I want to do." I remember I always liked church. We had a great 'Priest'; he was a little on the chubby side and all us kids called him 'Friar Tuck' behind his back. His real name is Father Justine Webley. I remember him as someone a kid could talk to.

I found out over time different churches have different kinds of services. Not really different, just... well... different approaches to the same thing. Like when I went to a Catholic mass almost everything was in Latin. There was a short sermon, but the people mostly just politely listened. When I was in Georgia I got roped into going to a Baptist church. They had a good choir and the people were all nice, but the preacher harangued and hollered at them for nearly half an hour. He kept warning them about hell and their bad behavior. Our Episcopal Church has a choir and a friendly congregation, but best, our priest, the chubby guy, keeps his sermons short but thoughtful. When I was in Georgia I was warned never go to a Black church. I was told their sermons can go on for hours.