The Long Night

by Jessica Scott

  He walked across the linoleum floor, feeling the cold penetrating his bare feet. It was October in Maine—not as cold as it was going to get, not by a long shot, but his blood had thinned since he'd been gone. Iraq was the other end of the thermometer, the one set to “inferno”. That was the temperature range his blood was used to.

  He'd never felt heat like that. But now, the cold was simply too much.

  "Please tell me there's coffee," he said as he leaned in and kissed his mother on her still-smooth cheek. "Sorry I overslept."

  His mom smiled thinly, her face a mask of tolerance worn by martyred mothers everywhere.

  "Fresh coffee. Down East Coffee Breakfast Blend," Faith said, handing him a cup without looking in his direction. She was focused on stirring the scrambled eggs on the skillet in front of her.

  "All packed?" His father broke the awkward silence. Sam could have kissed him.

  Sam poured his coffee and held the pot out in offering to his father, who leaned on the wall arch near the fridge. His father extended his cup, a worn Irving mug ringed with stains.

  "Not really. I'll do it in a little while. I think my uniform is still in the dryer."

  "It's in the wash now, actually," Faith said over her shoulder.

  Sam glanced at his mother, who was being unusually quiet. She stood to one side of the small island in the middle of the kitchen, skinning carrots. It was probably a safe assumption that he would find carrot sticks in his assault pack later. If she replaced the Snickers with carrot sticks, however—

  "Morning." She didn’t respond to the greeting.

  Clearly he’d missed some fireworks already.

  Awesome. “Did I miss something?” He didn’t want to know. At the same time, he needed to get peace between Faith and his mother before he left.

  Faith might need her when he was gone.

  She blinked, her eyes shimmering. "You’ve been home for two weeks and you’re going back to war today. I’ve barely seen you. What could possibly be wrong?"

  Sam's dad circled the small island, standing next to his wife. He placed his hand on her shoulder. His dad's hand was spotted now, the veins standing out in a way he'd never noticed before. "Don't start with him."

  Sam sniffed, rubbing one bicep with his free hand and tried to keep his tone civil. "Him prefers not to fight on his last day in the States," Sam said mildly, reaching into the fridge for the half-and-half.

  Another thing he was going to miss: real dairy products in his coffee. Not that Coffee-mate didn’t have its own magical goodness, but there was just something delicious about real half-and-half. Or better yet, cream.

  He dumped enough in his coffee to turn it the color of mocha ice cream, then scooped sugar into his cup. "I'll be fine, Mom. It's just another war."

  His mom's brown eyes shimmered when she glanced up at him. Her hair never changed. She’d worn it the same for as long as Sam could remember. She kept it short, a perm around her face. It framed her face like a brown halo. "You're not sleeping well."

  Sam made a noise over the edge of his coffee cup. "PTSD does that," he said. At his mother's horror, he backpedaled. Quickly. "It was a joke. Jeez, don't start planning my funeral, for fuck's sake."

  He wondered what it said about him that part of him was yearning for the simplicity of the war. If he got into a pissing contest with another dude, they'd take it outside. Couldn't really do that with his mother.

  "Watch your mouth around your mother," his dad said softly. Behind those mild words was the memory of a not-so-mild belt in the woodshed.

  His dad had never even lost his temper back then. To this day, Sam wondered how his father had slid the leather from the loops so calmly and swung it across his son's backside.

  Sam was never going to hit Peanut. Never.

  The sound of claws on the stairs announced that Maggie had finally realized that breakfast was almost ready and decided to join the party. But she didn't come into the kitchen immediately. Sam saw her peeking around the corner from the bottom of the steps.

  What the hell was wrong with that dog?

  He sniffed and decided to change the subject from his foul language to something less likely to cause an argument. "So how's retirement treating you?" he asked his dad.

  Maggie slunk around the corner and eyeballed the bacon with soulful brown eyes. This was the dog he loved. Not the snarling demon who’d threatened to rip his throat out yesterday.

  When Sam didn't acknowledge her mooching, she let out a single pitiful whine.

  He slipped her a piece of bacon. It might be the last piece of bacon he could ever slip her. How was that for a depressing thought? But he kept silent about the fear that sidled up his spine and wrapped around his shoulders like something from Aliens.

  "Retirement is good," his father said. "I get to volunteer with the Knights of Columbus more than when I worked at the mill."

  His mother started chopping potatoes. Her hands were as quick and efficient as any line cook’s. "Do you go to mass over there?" she asked, looking up at him while her fingers flew over the newly naked carrots. If Sam attempted that, he'd lose a finger, or at least the tip of one.

  "If I can fit it in." Not entirely a lie. Only mostly. "We don't have a Catholic chaplain on my base, and he only gets to our base every couple of weeks."

  His mom scooped up the potatoes and dumped them into a pot filling with water in the sink. "How can they not have a Catholic chaplain at your base?"

  "Because there aren't that many Catholics in my unit. Not compared to some of the other denominations," Sam said. He fought the urge to get a beer out of the fridge. Considering he'd just dragged his corpse out of bed at noon, he didn't think his mother would approve. And he really didn't want to fight.

  "How many are there?" Catherine asked.

  "I don't know, Mom." Frustration leaked into his words. He felt like he was thirteen again, caught with that Hustler he'd stuffed between the mattress and the box spring. "I'm in the infantry, not the chaplain corps."

  "I was just asking."

  Cue guilt trip, he thought. Faith leaned past him, taking the opportunity to rest her palm on his heart as she did. Her touch was warm and comforting. Calming.

  The anger eased back. Just a little.

  His dad, though, finally put out the fire by handing him a beer and heading out onto the back porch. Sam followed.

  The cold was damp and thick. It slapped at him as he leaned back against the wall and kicked one foot up on the Adirondack chair.

  "The news makes it look pretty bad over there," his father said, twisting the top off his beer.

  "It's not Disneyland, that's for sure."

  "How bad is the fighting in your sector?"

  It killed him when his father tried to speak his language. Sometimes he suspected his father regretted missing out on Vietnam, as if it would give them something of a shared experience to talk about. Instead they pretended Sam was still the same kid who'd run off to join the Army after high school. That four tours in Iraq hadn’t left a mark.

  But Sam said nothing, appreciating his dad's effort at keeping the peace more than he could ever say. If he acknowledged it, though, he’d have to answer questions.

  And he didn’t want to answer questions.

  "Bad enough that Mom probably shouldn't watch the news."

  Dad sniffed. "She prays for you every day. Has half the parish praying to St. Michael for you. You've got lots of folks watching out for your immortal soul."

  Sam smiled and took a sip of his beer. St. Michael couldn’t help him. But Sam said nothing because his father wasn't kidding, not about the group of old ladies praying for his soul or his father's worry about it.

  "You should go easy on your mother, Sam. She does the best she can."

  Sam took a long pull of his beer. "I'd be fine if she wasn't constantly trying to convert me. Ever since I told her I didn't want to go to church any more, she's been relentless."

  "It’s not easy to see your son turn his b
ack on your faith." His father sighed. “We raised you to be a good man.”

  Sam was tempted to ask if the belt had been part of that. Why the hell was that bothering him now, all of a sudden?

  "And I can still do that without going to church every weekend and listening to some hypocrite talk about some useless scripture." The bitterness was back, sharp and black and potent.

  “Your mother just wants what’s best for you.”

  “Sure,” Sam muttered. Then the frustration was coming in a flood of words that he might have stopped if he’d thought for a second about the consequences. “Nothing is ever good enough for Mom. She wants me to find a nice girl; I do. She hates her. She’s going to be a grandmother, but she’s pissed that our kid won’t be born to married parents. She can’t ever just be happy for me.”

  A clink that sounded like metal on glass. Sam turned to see his mom standing in the middle of the slider, her lips pressed into a flat line, her eyes filled with hurt.

  "Mom—"

  "No." She held up one hand, turning her face away from him. "You're too good for my faith. Continue to mock me. It's fine." Her voice broke and she disappeared into the house, her movements rigid and stiff.

  Guilt and shame wrestled in his belly. Guilt won. "Ah fuck," he muttered. "Mom!"

  She didn't turn around. Sam stalked into the house and slammed the remains of his beer into the trash before he rushed out of the house after her. "Mom, damn it, stop." He grabbed her arm and stepped in front of her.

  "I'm leaving, Sam. I should have gotten the hint when you didn’t come around while you were home.”

  "Mom, will you just stop for one minute?"

  "Stop what, Sam? Wanting the best for you?"

  "Stop judging me for every failing. Stop making me feel like I'm thirteen every time you're in the house." He dropped his hands. “Stop making me feel guilty because I couldn’t use the toys you sent over.”

  “They were perfectly good toys.”

  Sam sighed hard. “You really can’t see what’s wrong with giving a little Muslim kid a teddy bear that says Jesus loves you?”

  “Jesus loves all the children.”

  His temper snapped. “Goddamn it, no he doesn’t! He doesn’t fucking care about the Muslim kids or the Christian kids or any of them."

  She sucked in a scandalized breath. "You watch your mouth, young man. You can mock my faith all day long, but don't you dare speak ill against the Lord."

  He wanted to keep fighting. He wanted to tell her that her God was dead, that He didn't exist.

  No God would ask him to do what he’d done in the name of Duty, Honor, Country.

  But he bit his tongue until it bled. Because the fight wasn't worth it. All it would do was take his mother from him.

  And despite it all, she was still his mom. And he missed her. The woman she used to be, before he left for the war.

  Or maybe it was him who’d changed and she was still the same.

  "Can you please come back inside, Mom?" He dragged his hand through his hair. "Please?"

  It was a long moment before Catherine the Martyr walked stoically toward her pyre.

  * * *

  "Well that was about as pleasant as an enema made of napalm and rat poison." Sam took a pull off his beer, grateful that his hangover had finally started to fade. Even if it was six hours too late to make the family afternoon bearable.

  “What, being told your unborn child will burn in hell if we don’t get him baptized isn’t your idea of polite dinner conversation?” Faith glanced over at him, fatigue showing in her eyes.

  “I thought the Pope changed the whole babies-in-purgatory thing.” He flopped onto the bed, knocking over a pile of uniform t-shirts and a couple of pairs of socks.

  Faith glanced over at him. “Do you believe her?”

  Sam took another pull from his beer. “That Peanut will go to hell or limbo or anything else if he doesn’t get baptized?” He rubbed his thumb on the edge of the label. “You’d have to believe in an afterlife for that. So no, I don’t think I do.”

  Faith turned away, tucking his t-shirt into the duffle bag near the door. He wasn’t so dense to think that she was merely folding laundry.

  He pushed off the bed and crossed the worn hardwood floor. Wrapping his arms around her, his hands cupped the slight bump of her belly where Peanut was nestled safe and snug. "I kind of hoped she'd change with the news of the baby."

  Faith leaned back against him, trying to swipe at her cheeks without him noticing.

  He noticed. "Ah, honey, don't cry," he whispered. He nuzzled her neck. Her palms slid to rest on his forearms. Her hands were soft against his rough skin. He liked the contrast.

  He missed the contrast when he was gone. A lot of the guys bitched about their wives and girlfriends back home. Sam didn't. He knew he was damn lucky a woman like Faith had settled for him.

  He wasn't about to screw it up. He believed in karma, even if karma sometimes took her sweet time in righting the wrongs in the universe. He frowned against her neck as memories from the not-too-distant war slithered out from the depths where he'd tried to lock them away while he was home.

  Except that his lock sucked, and they'd tormented him when he lowered his guard.

  "Faith, it'll be okay. I'll be home in a few months and then you can move to Georgia with me. You won't have to deal with my family."

  She sniffed. "If you think dealing with your mother is why I'm upset, you're an idiot."

  He turned her in his arms, resting them on her shoulders. "I'll be okay."

  "I'm afraid, Sam. Every night the news says it's getting worse and worse over there. You said yourself it was worse than your first tour. What if something happens to you and I have to raise Peanut by myself?"

  “Then marry me. Let me at least go back knowing that you’ll have all the benefits of being my wife if something happens to me.”

  She held up one hand. “I won’t marry you as insurance in case you die. It feels too much like signing up for your death.”

  He buried his face in her neck, needing to burn the sweet, clean smell of her skin into his memory. “I never took you for overly superstitious.”

  “I’m not. I just…” Her voice cracked and broke his heart a little more. "Promise me you'll come home?"

  He leaned back and brushed his thumb over one cheek, swiping at the damp tears that tumbled from her eyes. "I can't promise that."

  She lowered her eyes and plucked at his shirt. "I—"

  He kissed her, cutting off the sob he heard building in her voice. Her mouth opened beneath his, her tongue dancing across his lips. She was intense, wild, more fierce than he could remember as he stripped her clothes off and lowered her to the bed. Her little gasps and cries penetrated his own sadness at leaving her and for a moment buried the fear that he might do exactly what she worried about.

  He didn't tell her that as his hips moved and he gripped her hands over her head, pinning her. He didn't tell her about the dark and twisted things that fought for supremacy in his head as he fucked his fiancée for the last time. He didn't tell her about the horrible things he'd done or worse, the terrible things he hadn't done. Good or bad, the results were the same: death.

  Her orgasm trembled and exploded over him, drawing him deeper into the little death. And when he came, it was tainted with the fear he'd tried to ignore.

  That she was right.

  5

  Faith slipped from the bed as the storm broke over the old farmhouse. It surprised him that she was still awake. She was more tired since she'd gotten pregnant, but as lightning flashed, illuminating the ancient clock on the wall, he listened as Faith padded downstairs, as silently as she could with the stairs creaking beneath her feet.

  He sat up, searching the shadows for any movement before he followed her.

  The intermittent flashes of lightning added to his fear and loathing of the dark. Funny, he'd never been afraid of the dark before the war. Now? Now the shadows held real bogeymen who we
nt boom in the night.

  A white mass in the shadows sat on Maggie’s bed near the door. His heart pounded against his chest. The white shadow lifted its head, its eyes soulless black pits, it’s body ragged and skeletal.

  He stopped, unable to move. Waiting, waiting for the thunder to finish rumbling. Praying for the next round of lightning, that followed a moment later.

  Illuminating Maggie. Just Maggie. He blinked and looked again, sure he had just seen a skinny, ragged beast where his dog had been a moment before. No, it was only Maggie, thumping her tail on the floor.

  Sad that the war had even stolen his love for her. Would he lose Faith, too?

  He followed the echo of Faith's footsteps and found her curled up on the couch, cradling a coffee mug. He assumed it was decaf tea. She'd given up all bad things the minute she'd suspected she was pregnant.

  She was going to be a good mom.

  He said nothing as he slid onto the couch with her and tugged her against him. She didn't protest, but nestled up against him. He rested his cheek against the top of her hair, breathing in the clean, sunny scent of her shampoo. It was something expensive she got down at the Rite Aid. He still cringed remembering the first time she'd sent him in for it. Twenty-three dollars a bottle for the shampoo and twenty-five for the conditioner. They weren't so flush they could easily afford it, but Faith was vain about her hair. She'd had frizzy hair in high school. Apparently this had scarred her for life.

  It was a simple thing he could do for her.

  Now, sitting and breathing in the smell of her, he tucked her scent away into his memory, hoping he could remember it when he was surrounded by dirt and dust, burning tires and rotting garbage.

  "Didn't mean to wake you up," she said softly.

  "It's better that I'm up. It'll help me sleep on the plane."

  She shifted, her palm covering his heart. The heat of her hand penetrated his thin t-shirt. "I'm scared, Sam."