Gifts of Honor: Starting from ScratchHero's Homecoming

by Gail, Stacy

  He clutched his folded white cane in his left hand, and as he heard Beth shift her weight where she stood in the hall he resisted the urge to hide it behind his back. He hated the cane’s glaring declaration of his disability more than any other element of his injuries, but he would just have to get used to it.

  He’d had a nice detour into fantasyland these past couple of days. He’d gotten to pretend that he might eventually claw back some of the normalcy he’d lost that night in the desert, that he could be with a woman and live in a house with her and go about his day with relatively little complication.

  But the cold, hard truth was that, as kind as Beth was to look after him for a few nights, she didn’t want him anymore. And why should she? He’d destroyed her trust and hurt more than he would probably ever understand. He was damaged goods, inside and out.

  Sort of ironic, he smirked, that he thought he was protecting her with that email. Turns out he was the one coming out of this with a broken heart.

  “Looking good, Captain,” Beth said, and Chris felt some of the tension drain from his body. They hadn’t spoken since he’d humiliated himself over breakfast, and he was afraid she would want to have a long, letting-him-down-gently conversation about his pathetic, desperate attempt to hang on to her. Instead she seemed happy enough to pretend it hadn’t happened, and that was fine by him.

  “Do you want an arm?” she asked as she opened the front door, and he shook his head. It was time to be independent. Past time, in fact.

  “I’ve got it.” He clenched his fist harder around the cane, still not quite willing to admit he needed it. Surely he could get from the door to the car on his own.

  Chris took three careful steps out onto the front walk, testing the traction of his black leather oxfords on the icy paving stones. Beth closed and locked the front door behind him and he picked up the pace, breathing a sigh of relief when he reached out to find the car’s passenger-side entrance. She pressed the button to unlock the car and he slipped inside, tossing his duffel in the backseat.

  Beth took the seat beside him and buckled her seat belt. “Ready?”

  “Ready,” he lied.

  It was about an hour’s drive to Stanfield, his hometown in Marshall County, and they barely spoke. Beth played the country music station on the radio, where every other song seemed to be related to Christmas and the DJ’s interspersed banter focused on last-minute shopping, decorating disasters and reminding listeners to hang their stockings by the chimney with care.

  He crossed his arms and thought back through his thirty years of Christmases. When he was a boy he always woke up before his younger brother and crept downstairs to look at the tree looming over what seemed like a never-ending array of colorfully wrapped presents. In college, the long vacation over Christmas was a welcome break from the big-city life that he alternately loved and hated, and he spent many freezing evenings riding out into the pastures, then leaning back in the saddle and simply staring up at the crisp, clear night sky.

  Last year he was lined up for a January deployment, and the atmosphere at home had been tense as a result. His mother was weepy, his father was solemn and his brother rolled his eyes whenever anyone mentioned his imminent departure for Afghanistan. Chris had moved out of his off-base apartment and hadn’t been looking forward to the couple of weeks he’d have to spend in the barracks after New Year’s, plus he was anxious about all of the work he still needed to finish before out-processing, so he’d been snappish and short-tempered throughout the holiday. The presents under the tree with his name on them were mostly practical pre-deployment necessities like thick socks, paperback books and several bags of the Sour Patch Kids he ate by the handful on long, sleepless desert nights. He’d tossed aside the wrapping paper with an air of inventory, not like these were gifts he’d been given, and he’d driven back to Fort Riley early on the twenty-sixth.

  If he’d known it might be the last Christmas he’d ever see, he would have made more of an effort.

  “We’re at the light,” Beth told him, interrupting his reverie. “It’s a right turn from here?”

  He nodded, envisioning the intersection at the edge of Stanfield where driving straight took you to the main road and turning left or right led to the vast, empty countryside that surrounded the tiny town. He could picture the road perfectly, its two lanes seeming to stretch on forever through the pastures, the speed limit increasing to sixty-five as soon as you were a few minutes away from the town. When he was young he rode his bike on this road. He’d learned to drive on it, and he’d taken it to and from the small county high school where he played baseball and graduated valedictorian. Ever since he left for college, that right turn had meant he was almost home, and that his journey was nearing its end.

  Something was ending now. But as the minutes ticked down on his time with Beth he felt like he was leaving home, not coming back to it.

  “You’ll see a cattle gate on the right-hand side, and then an old, wooden sign that says Walker Ranch: Herefords and Quarter Horses, established 1977,” he recited.

  “Got it.”

  “Turn right on the next dirt road.”

  Soon the four-door sedan was bumping down the long driveway to the ranch.

  “You can let me out here if the road is bad,” he offered. “It’s a straight shot to the house.”

  “It’s fine, just muddy.”

  As the car maneuvered slowly down the gravel driveway, Chris steeled himself against the trials ahead. He would say goodbye to Beth. He would greet his extended family and submit to being fussed over for an hour or two. He’d probably have to eat something to keep his mother happy. Then he’d let them cart him out to this awful parade, and he’d do whatever he had to—shake hands, he supposed, and wave, and speak to Stanfield’s version of local dignitaries. Then there would be a big, raucous meal around his parents’ dining room table where he could hopefully deflect attention onto the kids. He’d go to bed early, playing the wounded warrior card just that once, and climb the creaking stairs to the attic room he’d slept in since he was born.

  His jaw tensed as the car slowed to a halt.

  Step one: he would say goodbye to Beth.

  Chris cleared his throat. “Thanks for the lift, and for—”

  “I’ll walk you to the door,” she interrupted. “I’m not just going to dump you in the driveway.”

  The driveway was probably infinitely preferable to what awaited him inside, but he said nothing as he retrieved his duffel bag from the back and stepped out of the car. He began to unfold the cane when Beth moved to his side, taking his arm.

  “I’ve got you,” she murmured, and his stomach clenched so painfully he thought he might double over. Why couldn’t she mean those words in the way he so badly wanted?

  She led him up to the front door of his parents’ timber-frame farmhouse. He turned toward her, inhaling deeply to steady himself, when the door flew open and a chorus of voices sounded from within. Suddenly there were two pairs of small arms tightening on his legs, his uncle slipping his duffel bag off his shoulders and his mother’s familiar embrace closing around his chest.

  “Chris is home!” his young cousin Lillian shouted just above his knees—her brother Gabe’s grip was slightly higher than hers, landing about midthigh.

  “Okay, everyone calm down,” he commanded, slowly extracting himself from the various limbs of his family members. “Mom, this is—”

  “Beth, thank you so much for bringing him home to us. When we thought we might have to spend Christmas without our brave soldier, well, it just didn’t bear thinking about.” His mother sniffed, her voice wavering, and Chris sighed in exasperation.

  “Mom, please don’t start. Beth has a long drive home, so we’d better let her go.” So much for his last chance to tell her anything meaningful—but maybe it would be easier this way.

  “
But you just got here!” his mother exclaimed. “Do you want a cup of coffee, Beth? Or a slice of pie? We’ve got time before we need to head into town, and I bet Chris is starving.”

  “I’m really not,” he protested, but it was too late—his mother was leading him into the house with one hand and she had Beth with the other.

  “Look who’s here!” she declared as they moved into the expansive sitting area, and before he could stop her his mother had taken Beth to see the collection of family photos arranged over the fireplace while Chris accepted hugs and handshakes from the rest of his relatives. Somewhere above his father’s description of how much snow they’d had, his uncle’s slaps on the back and his brother’s pointed questions about whether he’d needed help getting dressed that morning, Chris heard his mother showing Beth her favorite photos of her prodigal elder son.

  That was the step too far—the notion that Beth was perusing pictures of the capable, ambitious, successful young man who had everything ahead of him, who didn’t need to be told what color his shirt was, who didn’t think a snowplow was a mortar explosion on a residential street in a small town in Kansas. He imagined her looking at his confident smile and his eager blue eyes and thinking it was such a shame things hadn’t turned out differently.

  He lurched toward her politely murmuring voice, managing to catch her by the shoulders without knocking into anything too fragile.

  “Okay, Mom, I don’t think Beth wants to see all thirty years of photos,” he interjected. “She’s gone out of her way to drive me up this morning, so let’s let her get on with her own Christmas Eve celebrations.”

  “It’s fine, honestly,” Beth assured him, but he was already leading her back toward the front door.

  “Thank you again for taking care of our boy,” his mom called across the room. Chris cringed at the infantile term and hustled Beth over the threshold, shutting the door behind them.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, rubbing his hands together in the brisk, wintry air.

  “They’re just excited to have you home,” she replied in her characteristically unflappable manner. He loved her unflustered, steady nature, and the way she’d just taken his chaotic family completely in stride. It was one in a long list of things he wasn’t sure how he would live without.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. He should say something significant, something she’d turn over in her mind on the long drive back, something she’d get home and think about and then have some kind of revelation that he was all she ever wanted.

  But his mind was a hopeless blank.

  “I don’t know how I can thank you for everything you’ve done for me these past couple of days,” he said lamely. “Maybe when I’m next in town, we can—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” she cut him off. “I’ll call you, okay?”

  He nodded, feeling like he’d had the wind knocked straight out of him. “Okay.”

  Her lips whispered over his cheek in the faintest of kisses. “Bye, Chris.”

  “See you,” he said dumbly as her footsteps retreated toward the car. He wouldn’t ever see her, or possibly anything, again. He shook his head. What an idiot.

  He heard the engine start, and raised his hand in a wave. He had no idea whether she waved back, smiled or rolled her eyes, but he waited until the sound of the car disappeared down the dirt road. Then he squared his shoulders, pulled his hat lower on his head and went inside to face his future.

  Chapter Nine

  Twenty minutes into the drive back to Manhattan, Beth was crying so hard she had to pull over. Cars flew past her at seventy miles per hour, shaking her small sedan where it was parked on the shoulder, probably full of people on their way to the kind of warm, welcoming family festivities she’d just left behind at Chris’s parents’ house.

  The drive up to Stanfield had probably been the most agonizing seventy-odd minutes of her life. The weight of Chris’s presence beside her had almost been too much to take, and she alternated between wanting to burst out with wild declarations of commitment or slam on the brakes and demand he get out. Her mind raced with what she wanted to say to him—that she thought she might love him, that actually she was sure she did, that she didn’t know what to do, that she would was so scared he’d leave her again it made her feel sick, that he should find someone else, someone braver, and at the same time beg him never to love anyone but her.

  The cozy family scene in the big farmhouse had nearly sent her over the edge. Chris was so dearly loved by so many people—and why shouldn’t he be? He was a rare, extraordinary man. As she looked through the photos chronicling a life lived to its absolute maximum, she considered how many women would give their right arm to find someone like him, the star athlete turned university scholar turned dedicated military officer. His life wouldn’t be without its challenges now that he was wounded, but then again, whose was?

  She loved him. She wanted to be with him. She just couldn’t seem to tell him.

  She slammed her fist into the steering wheel. What was wrong with her? She knew how he felt about her—he’d told her straight that very morning. Unless he’d had a radical change of heart in the last few hours, he wasn’t going to reject her.

  Because once she told him, there was no going back. Chris deserved real commitment, and that’s what she would have to give him. There could be no second thoughts when times were hard, when she got sick of always having to drive him where he needed to go, when he mixed up the whites and the colors in the laundry and when he woke in the night screaming the names of the long dead. She would have to push through those moments and trust him completely, and give him all of herself in return—he deserved no less. For someone who had been so emotionally self-sufficient for so long, that was terrifying.

  Blue lights flashed in Beth’s rearview mirror, and she groaned as a state trooper pulled onto the shoulder behind her car. It wasn’t illegal just to pull over for a few minutes, was it? She sniffed and swiped at her eyes, hoping the officer approaching her car didn’t think she was totally insane.

  The trooper had a slight paunch and a homegrown Kansas accent when he leaned down to her window and asked, “Everything all right, ma’am? You having car trouble?”

  She shook her head. “I just needed a breather, so I pulled over. I’ll be back on my way now.”

  The older man squinted, his expression becoming concerned. “You look like you might be pretty upset about something. You’re sure you’re okay to drive?”

  She smiled weakly. “I’m not upset exactly. I’m in love.”

  The trooper blinked disbelievingly, but when Beth offered no punch line he broke into a broad, infectious grin.

  “And where’s the lucky guy? You two have a fight?”

  “I dropped him off in Stanfield, but I think that might have been a mistake.” She shook her head. “It’s just the latest in a long line of mistakes we’ve made with each other.”

  “Stanfield,” he repeated thoughtfully. “They’re having some kind of shindig down there today, is he involved in that?”

  “You could say that.”

  The trooper studied her for a minute, then straightened, flexed his back and adjusted his hat.

  “If you want my advice, I’d say a gal as pretty as you are shouldn’t be spending Christmas Eve without the man she loves, and she certainly shouldn’t be spending it with tears in her eyes. If I were you, I’d turn this car around and give that man the best Christmas present of his life. What do you think?”

  “I think that’s the best advice I’ve heard in a long time.”

  He tipped his hat. “Merry Christmas,” he said, and sauntered back to his car. Beth watched him pull out onto the highway, and then did the same, keeping an eye out for the next exit to turn back north.

  * * *

  Instead of turning right toward the Walker ranch, Beth drove into c
entral Stanfield, which seemed to consist of a single main street dotted with stores whose facades appeared to be unchanged since the 1950s. Strung between the buildings was a huge banner that declared, Welcome Home, Captain Walker! alongside an official-looking but obviously years-old, head-and-shoulders shot of Chris in his uniform. Although the parade didn’t start for a half hour, people had already begun to line the street, bundled up in puffy winter coats and holding miniature American flags in gloved hands.

  Beth parked off the main street and headed into a small diner that served, according to its sign, the best biscuits in Marshall County. There were several people already waiting for a table, and a waitress shot Beth an apologetic look from the cash register near the door.

  “It might be twenty minutes or so before we can seat you, hon.”

  “Can I just get a coffee to go?”

  The waitress grinned. “Now that I can do. Cream and sugar?”

  “A little milk, no sugar.” As she waited her eyes strayed to the hand-printed sign taped to the base of the register. The same photo of Chris from the banner was on the right-hand side, next to text announcing that the diner was proud to welcome home Captain Christopher Walker this Christmas. Chris’s parents must have some serious pull in this town, she mused, smirking at how much he was probably hating all this attention.

  The waitress must have followed Beth’s glance because, as she passed over the coffee, she asked, “Are you in town for the parade?”

  Beth nodded. “I live down in Manhattan. I know Chris from his time at Fort Riley,” She figured the explanation was at least partially true.