To Live

by C. G. Cooper

  “Um, you’re in no position to negotiate,” she said. And then her eyes did something strange, something so unexpected that Elmore didn’t realize his problem until it was too late. The eyes. They told everything. The truth. The lies. And everything in between.

  The mother’s eyes told the truth, as bitter and unfair as it was. They flicked not to Elmore, but to a point over to his shoulder. He’d seen that look before, a VC happy that his comrade was lying in wait.

  To Elmore’s credit, he got halfway turned when the blow came, blunt but smashing. And as he crashed to earth, he heard Sam’s scream. And once again, everything turned black.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The pain hit first, the nausea next. He retched to the side, his insides emptying onto the hardwood floor.

  He lay there panting, trying to regain his bearings.

  He was home. He was lying on the floor.

  He remembered slowly. Sam. The mother. The blow.

  He retched again, more at the thought than the pain. Or was it the other way around?

  No Sam now. No mother.

  He eased his way into a sitting position. The front door was closed now. But the place was a mess. When he was finally able to get to his feet, head pounding, stomach churning, he saw the reality of what he’d been left with. They’d ransacked his house. A vase was gone. The set of Wusthof knives from the kitchen. The china set in the pantry.

  Merely things. He didn’t care about things. But he did care about memories.

  The mother and her companions had smashed almost every frame in the house. The picture of young Elmore and his mother at Parris Island graduation. The picture of him and Eve two years before, waving goodbye to the cruise photographer before heading off to Alaska.

  And there was his favorite, the one of the day he’d first met his beloved.

  Elmore bent down, picked up the cracked frame. He dusted off the pieces of glass from Eve’s smiling face.

  How often do you really look at a picture?

  He sat down on the couch with it. And back he went, through the years, to the day his life changed again.

  He’d never been to Central Park. Hell, he’d never been to New York City. He was curious of course. He wanted to walk every inch of the place. Just home from Vietnam, his legs were strong enough to carry him from coast to coast. Central Park was nothing.

  His handlers had told him not to walk the city in his uniform. There were too many protesters, too many people opposing the war. There was bound to be a fight.

  Cpl. Elmore Thaddeus Nix didn’t care. He’d earned the right to wear the uniform.

  Besides, if there was a fight on the horizon, so be it. He’d bested enough men in combat. What might a few New York hooligans really offer in the way of a brawl?

  So he set off, attired in his greens, medal stuffed in a back pocket. No need to wear that. He’d place it in the first trash bin he found in Central Park.

  As he made his way through the city from the nondescript first-class establishment some donor had paid for, he ignored the stares. He even ignored the praise, or the odd, “Semper Fi, Marine.” Numb.

  By the time he made it to Central Park, he thought the fight he was looking for might never happen. The march had been more to prove himself superior to the draft dodgers and hooligans than a tour through the grand city.

  He found them on the steps into the park, a ragtag band of longhairs decked out in cutoff olive drab fatigues. They spotted him moments later, eyes going cold.

  “Baby killer!”

  Cpl. Nix kept walking, ignoring the jabs. He’d heard about quieter places in the park. Places where a person could sit and nap if they felt safe enough. Places where artists often went to take up their craft. Places where darker deeds could be done.

  There was a certain pattern to every place in the world. Elmore had found it in his humble hometown. He’d found the pattern in Vietnam, the way the rice paddies turned to valley and then the sudden rise of hills. That meant he found it in the heart of America, smack dab in the middle of Central Park.

  There was the bridge archway, a dark place, out of the sun. A perfect place for a drug deal. The place smelled of a thousand such transactions.

  He didn’t hide. He stood right under the center point of that bridge, relishing the cool air. He stared into the future, into the past, into himself. He knew he’d never make it here. He’d lost himself somewhere over the mountains. He’d lost them not in country. No. That’s where he’d found himself. He’d lost himself on the way home, when they’d ripped him away from his Marines, away from the only thing he’d ever truly understood.

  Here he stood now, looking for the only confrontation in a three-block zone. He felt it keenly, the prickle of testosterone – a siren’s call.

  “You picked the wrong place to visit, soldier boy,” came the first call.

  Cpl. Nix recognized it as the voice of the tallest man he’d seen, the first to pipe up when the Marine had walked by earlier.

  “Yeah, why don’t you get your jive ass back to Vietnam?” said another.

  There were laughs. Cpl. Nix didn’t move. He was still facing the other way. If only they could’ve seen his face they might’ve moved on.

  “You gonna drop some napalm on us, baby killer?” said the ringleader.

  Cpl. Nix imagined his fist smashing the man’s nose. He tasted the satisfaction.

  The next words didn’t come from behind. They came from above. A woman’s voice.

  “Leave him alone.”

  Everything shifted. Cpl. Nix moved, turned around to face the six men who’d come to join in the fracas. The six horsemen of the apocalypse.

  Their gaze was half-fixed on him, half looking up, and then right, like they were tracking something or someone.

  And then there she was. The sun cut through the gloom and escorted her down the dirt path that led to the concrete upon which the others stood.

  Cpl. Nix stared. He couldn’t help it. The way she strode so confidently, like the mere sight of six combatants didn’t mean a thing. She looked so dainty and yet the strongest person he’d ever seen. That fire in her eyes. The eyes. They told you everything.

  “You want me to get the cops?” she said to the others.

  “What are you, a narc?” one of the combat hippies said, a man with a mustache so bushy that it covered his mouth. “Buzz off, you fascist bitch.”

  “First of all,” she said, “read your history books for the definition of a fascist. Second, I will not buzz off. Third, if you really had any principles, you’d go and fight for women’s rights. I mean, if you really wanted to fight for anything. Otherwise, you’re just a bunch of lazy squares with no purpose in life.” Then she turned to Elmore, the first time she looked straight at him. “Are you okay?”

  The words wouldn’t come. Every ounce of pain he’d been feeling for weeks, from the announcement in that dirty hooch, the trip home, the Medal of Honor tour, it all melted away.

  “Yes, Ma’am. I’m fine.”

  She put her hands on her hips and looked at the others.

  “There, you see? We’re fine. Why don’t you all go protest something worthwhile?”

  Not a question. A command.

  “Last warning,” the leader said. “Stay out of our park.”

  “Yeah? Go and get your title deed and we’ll skedaddle,” the girl said.

  Elmore watched in dumbfounded amazement as the boys left the park.

  “Have fun with your baby killer, ‘Mrs. Nixon’,” one of them tossed over his shoulder.

  “Idiots,” she said to Elmore. “I didn’t even vote for Nixon. I’m so sorry about that. I hope that’s not your only homecoming.”

  “No ma’am,” was all he could get out of his mouth.

  She turned, leveled him with those eyes.

  Good Lord, those eyes.

  “Well, if that’s all.”

  Her eyes lingered over the ribbons on his chest, like she knew what they were.

  “T
hank you,” he said, the words sounding impotent.

  “It was my pleasure. My… my… where are my manners?” She offered her hand. It was the most beautiful hand Cpl. Nix had ever seen. He took it tentatively. Her hand was silk smooth and her grasp was firm. “I’m Eve. Eve St. John.”

  “Hello, Eve,” he was just able to say, the word sticking in his throat like a spoonful of peanut butter.

  She looked at him expectantly. Then she asked, “And your name is…?” She was smiling at him now, teasing with her eyes.

  “Wha… Sorry, I’m Elmore. Elmore Nix.”

  He did his best to straighten.

  Pull yourself together, Marine.

  That’s when he noticed that they were still holding hands. It felt like a lifeline to the world. It’s how he would always feel from that day onward.

  “It’s a pleasure meet you, Corporal Elmore Nix.”

  That surprised him. “You know Marine ranks? I met some high muckety-muck last night at a gala that he paid for and he called me sarge.”

  She shrugged. “My cousin was a Marine.”

  Was. There was nothing to say to that. Lost in the war like so many others.

  She looked down, then up to his face. “Do you mind if I have my hand back?”

  He felt his whole body flush and let it go immediately.

  “You know,” she said, “if you really want to hold onto me that badly, I could just walk next to you.”

  She stared into him, touched his soul with whatever power she now had over him.

  “In fact, somewhere around here there’s a vendor that sells the best dogs in the city. How’d you like to help me find him?”

  “Deal,” he said, so consumed with her that he wished the world might end at that very moment. If it did, his life was complete, the masterpiece of God’s plan.

  So they walked, and she told him about life in New York City. Her family lived just off the park; somewhere she called the Upper East Side. She’d come from money. Her mom had met Jack Palance outside of Bloomingdale’s. The library was nice and maybe they should go there next. The war was terrible and she hated it but she was grateful for the men who fought.

  Nothing would tear her from him.

  Until life did.

  He put the cracked picture frame back in its spot. Eve had saved him that day.

  It was time for him to pay it forward.

  Chapter Fifty

  Sgt. Franks came with friends. Two retired lawyers and three ex-cops, one who’d gone on to the FBI until retirement.

  There were suggestions to get the authorities involved. That was the obvious answer. Elmore didn’t want to take that route. Sam’s mother had the look of a career criminal, someone who knew how to skirt the law and use it to her own advantage.

  It was Franks who took over the planning. “Look, Nix, I know this girl is special to you and all, but…”

  “No. I’m not letting her go.”

  “That’s not what I was about to say. My, you’ve developed a temper.” But the jab came with a smile.

  Something about the feeling in the room. Six Marines prepping for combat. The circumstances were merely a change of scenery. They were brothers in arms. Brothers forever.

  “Sorry,” Elmore said, though he was ready to press forward. He knew the motel where they lived.

  “So, what’s the plan, Nix? Run in guns a-blazing’?”

  Elmore smiled. “What do you think I am, stupid?”

  Grim nods all around. Time for something… special.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Sam sat in the corner of the empty room, hugging her knees to her chest. She was all cried out. The tears were only streaks of salt down her arms and legs.

  Was Elmore okay? He’d been lying on the ground and it didn’t look like he was breathing.

  Jesus, if he’s dead…

  They’d taken her kicking and screaming. She’d bit through the finger of one her mother’s lackeys and gotten a punch in the stomach for her efforts. It left her gasping for breath as they stuffed her into the car and drove away.

  Away from Elmore Thaddeus Nix, who very well might be dead!

  She had no idea where they were. Not the same motel. Another one? Somewhere new. Somewhere dark and away from the sounds she was accustomed to. It felt more like an old office building, or maybe one of those warehouses that has its offices in the back.

  She didn’t know how long she’d been there. They’d taken her phone. The only thing ticking the time away was her breathing, and the occasional sniffle.

  What would Elmore Thaddeus Nix do? She asked herself now, over and over. WWETND?

  He’d become an integral part of her life. The only part that made sense. The fact that she’d made it through her parents’ separation, through the abuse, and through her mother’s illegal business was a testament to the human spirit that was always looking for something better. Elmore had been something better. An angel touched down in the most basic way.

  Sam thought back to the day she’d met him. He handing her a grocery bag and she shying away like a wounded animal, ready to lash out should he even think of touching her.

  He can’t be dead. Please don’t let him be dead.

  She didn’t know God in the traditional sense. But she knew God instinctively. She’d even sat outside the church around the corner from the motel and listened to the preacher hailing the glory, soaking in the praise of worship, the singing of the choir and the exultation of the congregation.

  She knew God, but why wasn’t God helping her now?

  Rather than feel sorry for herself, she decided to plan. She would have the opportunity. They couldn’t keep her locked up forever. She would get out -- somehow. And when she did, she would find out what had happened to Elmore. If he was dead, she would leave town. Sam had learned that there were thousands of ways leave. She could take a train, bus, Uber… she’d done the research. That was before Elmore. It was one of the reasons she’d been at that bus stop, to see how it all worked. The card in the store was going to be the goodbye to her mother. It was ironic that a woman who’d done so much to cause Sam pain was her mother, someone Sam still felt a deep love for.

  The card. The bus stop. Elmore Thaddeus Nix.

  She’d made the decision to stay, and then everything else had happened.

  It’s okay, she told herself. You’ve gotten yourself out of messes before. You’ll do it again.

  So she sat. She waited. And she prayed.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The motel was a bust. One of the old Marines, a former detective, rented a room for cash and did some digging. No one had seen Sam since the day before. That information had cost a hundred bucks and a pack of smokes.

  “What now?” Elmore asked the former cop.

  “Now we spread the net. I still think we need to alert someone. There are protocols…”

  “No. We do this ourselves.”

  “Fine. Fine. Just making sure. Now, if it were me at the desk again, I’d scour the neighborhood. I think between us we can cover a block at a time in teams.”

  The plan was organized in the old way – simple and to the point.

  They went at it in teams like they did in the old days, only now it wasn’t hamlet by hamlet, but building by building. They had a picture of Sam from an online yearbook. A clever Marine who had spent his days with Missing Persons found it.

  The search went on for most of the day and into the next. Elmore never slept, and the others only returned home to check on their loved ones, grab a shower, and new clothes.

  By sunrise of the second day they were gathered in Elmore’s kitchen again, ready to hit the pavement. Elmore was ready. He’d prayed, thought, and prayed again. This was the day, he could feel it.

  “I made a call,” Franks said, putting the last coffee mug into the dishwasher. Elmore froze. “Now, before you go off on me with that well-worn temper, Nix, I’ll say that my friend took the call under the condition of anonymity.”

  Elmore coul
dn’t breathe for a few beats.

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just do.”

  “That’s not good enough. What if Sam’s moth—”

  Franks put up a hand. “She won’t.” He looked around the room. “The man I called, he’s a friend. And to let you know that he is trustworthy – and I might mention that I could supply you with the proof – he’s my sponsor.”

  “Your sponsor... as in…?”

  “Sober twenty-three years now.” It was said matter-of-factly. No bragging. Just what it was. “So, my sponsor, he’s… well, let’s just say he has certain skills that might be useful in our current predicament. He’s willing to help if you agree to bring him in.”

  Everyone looked to Elmore. Cpl. Nix. United States Marine. Suddenly in the decision seat again. What choice did he have?

  “Fine. Tell your friend we’d welcome the help.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Sam’s stomach groaned. She was starving and thirsty. Even a sip of water would’ve been nice. A nibble of bread even better.

  She adjusted her position, still posted in the corner where she could see every angle of her prison. There’d been noises, some music, laughing. Her mother’s laughter.

  Sam knew that laugh. Her mother was either high or drunk. Probably both. She never laughed when she was sober. The words coming out of the sober mouth always sounded wilted and tired. Sam thought about shuffling over to the door to listen, but that was too much of a risk. What if someone burst in?

  So she sat and waited. Sat and thought.

  She was midway into a perfect daydream, a trip to the beach, her first, when the door burst open and her mother stumbled in.

  “There she is, my pretty little princess.” The words felt like slaps. “You hungry, little princess? Want some food?”

  Sam didn’t want to answer. But the grumbling of her stomach in response to her mother’s questions ruled over.