by Sex, Nikki
Last night he’d come in on a horny, lonely Marine who’d been jacking off during phone sex with his girlfriend—at least Jacked hoped it was his girlfriend and not somebody else's.
He scanned the area. Let’s see… folding chairs, sat phones, dirt floors—no ring.
For a moment he smiled, recalling the conversation he’d had in the early hours of the morning. His younger sister had been upbeat and exuberant on the phone.
Sally had started a business with her long-term girlfriend and lover, Clare, who they’d both nick-named “Clare-bear.”
Their new company, a personal concierge business, had been appropriately named “The Help.” Sal and Clare-bear did everything from picking up dry-cleaning, walking the dog and reminding their clients of appointments.
To Jack’s utter joy, his sister was now rolling in cash and she and her girlfriend were having a wonderful time, taking on new employees and building the business. They had more work than they could cover.
“When you come home you should join us,” she’d said with a flippant laugh, but Jack knew that her offer was genuine. “Together we’ll build a dynasty.”
Jack had spent an enjoyable yet intense hour telling Sally all about Bob Wynn, the ring, Laura and their ongoing correspondence. Sal had heartily approved in their tacit agreement to only write about joyous subjects that made them both feel upbeat, especially considering the circumstances—him in a war and her having lost a husband.
Jack knew about Laura’s miscarriage, but other than that, they had shared very little personal information. His little sister told him that this was more than a bit odd.
“But you know virtually nothing about the woman! She could be eighteen—or even forty-five for that matter.”
He snorted. “So what? I’m thirty-two, but I could be over fifty myself. Or be bald and have a hunchback, as far as she knows. It doesn’t matter. I know enough to like her.”
Sal couldn’t believe it when Jack told her that they sent each other hand written letters via “snail mail” that took several weeks to arrive.
“Why can’t you simply email each other, like normal people do?” she’d asked him.
“I dunno. Maybe Laura doesn’t have a computer.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“No.”
Sal snorted her derision and disbelief. “What kind of person is so broke that they don’t even have a computer or the time or ability to access a public one?”
It was a good question. One Jack didn’t have an answer for. Meanwhile he’d raved on and on about Bob’s widow, surprising himself and also fully beginning to realize just how important she’d become to him.
“It sounds like you have a serious hard-on for this girl,” she’d said.
“Christ on a crutch, Sal. Tell it like it is, why don’t you?”
“I always tell it like it is.”
“It feels good, but it feels so wrong, too. It’s only been a few months since her husband died.”
“Well, he has no use for her now, does he?”
“Sal!”
“It’s true. If you two have a thing for each other, why let that go to waste? That would be a greater wrong to my way of thinking. Don’t you realize that there’s a war on? Life’s too short to dick around, Jack. Besides, mom would be happy for you.”
These words had clinched it.
Mom would be happy.
He and Sal both missed their mom desperately. Their older brother, Tommy, had been captain of the football team and prom king. Dad adored Tommy, talked about all his achievements non-stop, and neglected anyone else in the family.
Jack had been driven academically and couldn’t compete with Tommy in sports—so he didn’t even try. And Sally? Well, Sally liked women, so that put her completely off dad’s radar.
After mom died, Tommy was the undisputed “King” of the family, right until he got dad to invest in a sports store after he graduated from high school. Years of being handsome and making everything “glow” right with a testosterone-filled smile, didn’t work in the real world it seemed.
Tommy managed to go bankrupt, losing dad and mom’s life savings.
After recovering from his resentment, Jack felt sorry for Tommy. It must be difficult to have your life peak in high school. He'd been flying high, seemingly able to do no wrong. Prom King, MVP of every game, kicker of every winning goal, wanted by every woman and his dad's favorite.
Tommy’s mind was stuck in all of the achievements in his past. He couldn’t move on. Unfortunately for him there was nowhere to go but down.
Jack’s older brother felt invincible. Success in everything had come easily to him—throughout his teens and adolescence. However, in the real world, things were very different. Outside of school, he was just another pretty face—one of millions. His earlier accolades meant nothing.
Now the only love he and his dad shared was a mutual love of beer.
Shaking his head, Jack put those memories away. He and Sally said their good byes, and he’d returned to his tent to sleep.
But where had he left that dammed ring?
Jack strode back to his quarters and checked everything once more, this time with meticulous care so that he knew with absolute certainty that it wasn’t there. Then he re-checked himself.
He'd already gone through his pockets a dozen times.
He'd found lint, bandages, pencils, pens, two pairs of scissors he's thought he'd lost, and innumerable amounts of those plastic discs called "pogs" that the post exchange used for change.
Pogs had something to do with a combination of the military not wanting to ship the weight of heavy coins into the war zone, and wanting to minimize the amount of American currency that might fall into enemy hands.
This amused the troops to no end. The government worried about the insurgents having nickels and dimes when the very same government offloaded twenty dollar bills by the pallet load into the local economy.
The pogs were colorful, had various patriotic and "homey" scenes printed on them. They came in five, ten, and twenty five cent denominations. They were good for buying a coke, or a pack of gum at the exchange trailers in every base, but they were not in any way, shape or form, a plain gold ring.
Dammit!
Jack wracked his brain.
He'd had it yesterday, as usual in his left breast pocket. He swore to himself that he'd taken it out before he took his dirty clothes over to the propane heated fifty gallon drums, the containers that served as a clothes wash station.
With dogged determination, Jack went back there and searched the ground around the drums with the fastidiousness of someone afflicted with obsessive-compulsive disorder.
When that proved fruitless, he tipped each of the drums over, spilling their suds all over the dusty sand—much to the annoyance of an unhappy supply sergeant who was watching his actions.
Taking his time, Jack carefully and methodically search inside each drum.
Still no ring.
Stomach churning, heart pounding, Jack was sick with himself. It was the last wish of a dying man—a man he'd been responsible for. Like some irresponsible six-year old, he'd lost it.
I’ve fucking lost it.
Chapter 14.
Jack made a pledge to honor Bob's dying wish and even though she didn't know it yet, he'd also made a promise to Laura that he'd bring Bob's ring back to her. He was a man of his word, and by God, he was going to carry out that promise.
In desperation, he went to the washed out, dusty, olive colored trailer that served as a field expedient morgue.
Gray-green insulated walls hid a stainless steel interior lined with man-sized shelves. With the usual dark, battlefield humor, the Marines called it "the meat wagon."
There was only a single body bag inside—it had been a light day. Jack unlocked the trailer and opened the door.
A blast of cold air hit him, instant relief from relentless desert heat—except that it smelled of burned meat, mixed with sickly sweet formalde
hyde.
Jack knew where the body was. After all, he'd put it there.
He located the zipper on the thick rubberized canvas and pulled. The bag split open like an alien seed pod from a horror movie. He took an involuntary step back at the sight within.
The Marine in the bag had been shot in the face.
Just when he thought he was getting used to it—too used to it—reality would kick him in the nuts, hard. Just as it did at this moment, Jack frequently found himself pulled back into the humanity that he so often felt, and feared, was slipping away from him.
He'd read about it, he'd even seen it himself—that people who see horrible things every day find that they have to put their normal and natural emotions behind them. They have to compartmentalize their feelings from the job they have to do.
Otherwise they couldn't do the job.
All too often, this made people numb over time and they had difficulty feeling at all. If a person pushed the human side of themselves so far, so deep into that separate compartment of their mind, they sometimes never get it back.
That Jack could still react emotionally to a dead body, even one he was expecting to see, told him that he was not too far gone—yet. It gave him a weird degree of relief.
Most of the insurgent snipers couldn't hit the broad side of a barn, but recently they had foreigners, veterans from places like Bosnia and Chechnya come to join the Jihad. These new enemies were skilled and could hit a soldier right through the left lens of his sunglasses.
Jack sighed as he looked down at the man. The left side of his face held a serene, almost peaceful expression.
The right side was a ruin.
Amazingly he'd lived long enough to arrive at Jack's tent, borne by a frantically driven truck. He was gone before Jack was able to get a good look at him. As a doctor, the only thing he’d been able to do for him was sign his death certificate.
Jack pulled the canvas aside and saw the ring square on the dead man's chest, glittering in the antiseptic fluorescent lights above. He picked it up and read the name inscribed on the inside. It was most definitely Bob's ring.
Sunlight flooded the trailer as the door opened.
"I'd never thought you'd be the one I'd find grave robbing."
Jack turned. Lieutenant Dwight LaGuardia stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light outside.
"Can't rob a grave where there isn't one."
"So you say," Dwight smirked. "What have you got there, sir?"
"If it's any of your business, it's a personal effect that I must have dropped into the bag when I tucked him in."
Dwight stepped further into the trailer. The door closed behind him. "I see. Most irregular and I'm afraid I'll have to put you on report."
"Report," Jack said flatly. "Really? Does anyone even say that anymore? You sound like the tough guy in a Star Trek movie. What the Hell are you going to report about?"
Dwight sneered down his nose. "I caught you red-handed. Stealing valuables from a casualty is a courts martial offense. I'm surprised you'd risk your freedom and career over a simple ring that's not worth more than a couple of hundred dollars."
"The ring is mine." Jack walked up to the shorter, younger man. "It must have slipped into—wait, how did you know it was a ring?"
It was Dwight's turn to be blindsided. "I...just guessed—"
"No, you didn't just guess." Jack grew angry.
Had Dwight stolen it? Had he planted it on the dead soldier? He couldn't have known what it meant to him. He couldn't have known he'd tear up the whole damned camp looking for it—could he? Had Dwight expected that Jack would end up rummaging through a body bag to look for it?
His eyes narrowed as he glared at Dwight. "You know exactly what it was because you put it there."
"No...no...I just—"
"You stole my ring and stuffed it into a body bag just to fuck with me, didn't you?"
White-faced, it was clear that Dwight was really getting uncomfortable. Turning Dwight's accusation of theft back on him, was obviously not what he'd expected when he'd barged into the back of the meat wagon.
"Did you go through my things? What else did you steal? Do I have to count my money too?"
"No! I—"
Pushing in close, Jack backed Dwight against the cold wall, standing nose to nose. Dwight's guilty eyes were open wide. It was plain that his confidence had turned to surprise, and surprise to fear.
Jack could tell, just by looking into his quivering expression, that he’d finally got the obnoxious twit where he wanted him.
"You took my ring and now you're going to go straight to the stockade." Jack didn't have a clue what a ‘stockade’ was or even if there was a single one in a thousand miles, but the threat sounded satisfyingly ominous.
Dwight must have thought so too. He looked petrified. "I didn't steal it, I found it—on the ground, out by the washbasins. I thought it belonged to this guy and so I tucked it into the bag."
"Well, that was pretty stupid. It could have belonged to anyone. Ever think that there might be a reason why a ring would be lying out by the washbasins? Ever think that somebody might have taken it off to—oh, I don't know—wash their hands?"
"I didn't think—" Dwight stammered.
"That's your problem, you don’t think. You're so wrapped up in your own little self-righteous world, where you’ve decided everybody else is so damned stupid, and you are so damned brilliant and above it all. You can't even imagine that there might be anything out there that you can't understand or know about."
Jack grabbed the man’s shirt. His hand closed into a fist against Dwight's chest as he pushed him into the frozen meat wagon wall, hard. "Well you don't know half the shit you think you do. You'd be better listening a lot more and running your mouth a lot less. Got it?"
"Yes, I got it."
"Yes, I got it what?"
"Yes, I got it, sir."
Jack backed off and pointed towards the door. "Get out of my face and find something useful to do."
Dwight ran out into the daylight and Jack watched him go. He reminded himself to collect any other keys to the meat wagon, so he and Chief were the only two people with access.
Satisfied and relieved, Jack calmly walked out of the trailer and shut and locked the door behind him.
Chapter 15.
When Jack got to his tent, he pulled out his dog tags, undid the chain that hung them around his neck, and slid the ring over the chain. Then he refastened the chain and tucked the dog tags back under his shirt.
The ring felt cool and heavy against his skin. The only way he'd ever lose it again would be if he were dead and the dog tags were taken off his body.
In that case, it wouldn't matter much anyway.
With the ring safe, Jack kicked off his boots and lay back on his cot. One hand behind his head for a pillow, he put his irritation at the jerk LaGuardia aside, and fished in his pocket for Laura's latest letter.
He'd already read it twice, but he found it calmed him. It took his mind away from all of the shit he faced on a daily basis. Reading her letters was like an all too brief visit with a friend.
Ashamed to admit it, Jack had started having deeper feelings for Laura than simple friendship.
Over the months that they'd been corresponding, her letters became such a positive force for him. He always had something to look forward to—another letter.
Jack found himself thinking about Laura more and more. He began to picture what she looked like. Thoughts of her helped him drift off to sleep, and once asleep, he often dreamed of Laura and the ocean.
Jack began to associate the two calming, centering forces in his life.
He longed for both of them.
Jack enjoyed writing to her but nothing beat getting her thoughts by mail. Laura's letters gave him the mental escape that he so desperately needed. They were like an oasis in this God forsaken place.
Jack had been in Iraq too long. It had been so long that the life he'd had before he first stepp
ed off that helicopter in Fallujah, seemed like a dream. What he hated most was that like a dream, his previous existence seemed to grow more faded and fuzzy with every passing day.
Laura's words took him back, back to the beach, back to ocean waves and fresh, salty sea air. She reminded him that there was a whole world there, back in The States, back home.
Her letters transported him from this hot and filthy place—full of blood, pain, death, anger and fear to somewhere peaceful in his own mind. With her help, he could almost smell salt in the air and feel a soft ocean breeze. As he read her tidy, feminine script, he could hear waves pounding the beach in the background.
What would she sound like? At times, he felt he could hear her lovely voice.
Jack valued Laura's time and letters. He felt special, knowing that she'd taken the time to write to him. It meant the world to him. Jack hoped he meant something to her, as well.
He mentally calculated the time difference. It was four in the afternoon in North Carolina. What was she doing now? Was she thinking of him, as he was thinking of her?
Other than talking on the satellite phone with his sister, Laura’s letters became the only place he could find any peace these days. He relished every minute he could get lost in her letters.
Dear Jack,
Things have been a little rough around here, but I don't want to talk about it. I don't even want to think about it. I'd rather just talk about good things with you and tell you what makes me feel happy. Maybe I can make us both smile and feel good, if only for a little while.
I love the sea. I always have. It smells so wonderful and clean to me. When I wade in and feel the salt-water splash against my skin, I feel as if all of my sins are being washed away. I finally feel really and truly clean. I know, I know, millions of fish poop in the sea every day, so it really isn't clean, but it feels like it is to me.
The other day I got up just at sunrise and walked on the beach so far that I couldn't see any houses or other people. I was alone-just the sand, the sea and me. It was beautiful. Peaceful.
