He swallowed painfully. “Whoa, that sounded kind of, you know, kind of—”
“Dumb,” she answered for him.
Panic settled in again, his mind fading. She reached up and toyed with the lapels on his cadet shirt. “These are pretty cute.”
Cute. Yeah, that was it. Cute. That was why he was going into the Army. “I’ve always thought the Army had the cutest uniforms,” he said in a very serious voice. “No reason you can’t look good when you’re out there killing people.”
She looked at him, taken aback, then they both began to laugh. Extending his hand, he introduced himself.
“My name’s Caelyn,” she answered after learning his.
He watched and waited. “I don’t get to know your last name?”
She eyed him without blinking. “No, not yet. You have to earn that.” Another shot of sunlight cut through her hair. That killer smile once again.
He nodded to the steps but she didn’t move to sit down. “Does anyone ever learn your last name?” he asked carefully, more than happy to stand if that was what it took to keep her there.
“A few. Not too many. As an Army guy, I’m sure you understand. Got to make the enemy earn every inch he gets.”
“Is that what I am, the enemy?”
“Believe me, if you’d dated some of the buffoons I’ve been out with, you’d know exactly what I mean.” She always seemed to smile, but he could see that part of her was serious.
She glanced down at the book he’d been reading. Black leather. Lots of pages. Reaching down, she turned it over, her smile shifting just a bit. “The Holy Bible?” she asked in surprise.
He fingered the Bible nervously.
“Are you religious?” She almost seemed to laugh.
Was there disappointment in her voice? He wasn’t sure. Still, for the first time since he had met her he didn’t hesitate. “Yes.” He moved the Bible to hold it in both hands. “I may want to one day be an Army chaplain.”
She looked away, seeming to think. “That’s going to be a problem,” she answered slowly.
“How’s that?”
“Well, let’s say that one day I take you home to meet my parents. Now, not only would I have to tell them that you’re going into the Army, but you’re a Protestant, too. My mom’s not going to like that. I don’t know what she’ll do.”
Go home to meet her parents. He was ready right now. Meet the family. Set a wedding date. He was ready for it all. But all he did was nod slowly, unsure of what to say. Her sense of humor was unpredictable, like trying to stay ahead of a swirl of leaves in the wind. Then she nudged him on the shoulder. “Hey, general, don’t worry too much. I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”
He pressed his lips together with concern. “It gets worse,” he admitted, his voice low and tense.
“Really?”
“Afraid so.”
“How’s that?”
“Well for one thing, I’m actually Jewish. And I always vote Republican. On Wednesdays I go door-to-door with a couple of friends who are Jehovah’s Witnesses. On weekends I sell flowers on the street corner for the Moonies. I make my living telemarketing. And I just got out of jail.”
She stared at him with a straight face. “Pretty much everything they could ask for in a potential son-in-law.”
“Pretty much.”
She stared off again, thinking deeply. “I don’t know if they’re going to be able to handle the whole Republican thing,” she muttered sadly.
He matched her far-off stare. “My dad voted for Kennedy.” His voice was hopeful.
“So you’re open to negotiation.”
He shrugged. “On a couple of things, I guess.”
She reached out for his hand and shook it. “I think maybe we can reach a deal, then,” she said.
*******
They sat on the cement steps of the Wooden Building and talked for three hours. He missed his ROTC drills. She missed a lab. Neither of them noticed. Neither of them cared. Sometime after sunset, he walked her home. Sitting on the front steps of her apartment building, they kept on talking until sometime after midnight.
Early the next morning, he called her on her cell phone. She picked up as if she’d been waiting. What was the point in pretending? A ball had started rolling that neither of them could control. They didn’t want to control it. They wanted it to roll.
“Have I earned an inch?” he asked before she could even say hello.
She didn’t answer, puzzled.
“You got to make the enemy earn every inch,” he reminded her.
She laughed and answered, “Yeah, I guess you’ve earned an inch.”
“Then I get to know your last name?”
“All right, general, my last name is McKenny.”
“Well, Miss McKenny, are you doing anything tonight?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that I have plans.”
The line was silent.
“I’ve got a date with a guy I’m really smitten with,” she went on.
She could hear him deflate, his breath exhaling in her ear.
“He’s intelligent and good-looking, but it seems like there’s—I don’t know, something more. I can’t explain . . . .”
He was silent; then he got it. He sat there stunned. Everything that he was thinking, she was thinking, too.
“What time’s good for you?” he asked urgently.
“Soon as you can get here, general.”
“I’m on my way,” he said.
Two months later, they decided on the wedding date.
*******
That was the way it was for them. They met, fell in love, and never once looked back. They didn’t second-guess. They didn’t wonder. They didn’t have to. They knew they were lucky; only one in ten thousand relationships worked out like theirs did. And they were smart enough to appreciate it and be grateful every day.
As time passed and Bono got consumed with his military career, the months of separation, months of longing and waiting and dreaming of each other, only made the times they spent together seem that much more important and intense. Together or apart, when everything was said and done, when the frustrations and joys and disappointments were considered, they simply loved each other.
Some people said it was a fairy tale, but they knew it was more than that. This wasn’t a fairy tale, this was real, and it was as eternal as it got.
Sitting inside the large cabin of the military aircraft, his face illuminated only by the dull red bulbs overhead, Bono smiled.
A hundred miles was all that separated them. A hundred miles. He would crawl to Memphis if he had to. He was going to see her soon. He was going to see his wife. He was going to hold his little girl.
His stomach fluttered just like on that first day that he had seen her. Life was good. He was happy. He was almost home again.
TEN
Four Miles West of Chatfield, Twenty-One Miles Southwest of Memphis, Tennessee
Something told her. She didn’t know what it was or where it came from but something told her and she knew. He’s thinking about me right now.
Caelyn peered up at the darkness. OK, her husband was still alive. That was good. But where was he? Iraq? Iran? Syria? Would he ever come home? Would she ever see him again? Would she ever again cling to him, press her cheek against his neck, and hear him whisper her name in her ear?
She wanted to cry, thinking of going through these dark days by herself. But she didn’t. There were no tears now, just resolve and determination as strong as the family oak that was swaying in the night wind out in the yard.
As an Army wife, especially the wife of an Army Special Forces soldier, Caelyn was used to being on her own. She had known she would spend a lot of time alone before she’d decided to marry him. Still, the decision had been a no-brainer—better to have him briefly when she could than not to have him at all. And she’d never once regretted her decision, even on the loneliest of nights, even when she worried for his life.
Still, there were too many nights now spent down on her knees, pleading with God to bring him back to her. “You promised me,” she would whisper to the heavens in the dark. “You promised. I believe you! Please don’t let me down.”
Moving slowly, she rolled toward her daughter, who was sleeping with her in the bed. A heart-wrenching sense of dread was building up inside her. She shook it off and sat up, placing her feet on the cold floor. Time to be strong, time to hold her fear in, time to brace herself for whatever it was that God had in store.
She looked at the dark window, then bowed her head and said another silent prayer. “He’s thinking of me right now. I know that. Will you please tell him that I’m thinking of him, too?”
Opening her eyes, she stood up. Morning was coming soon, and there was a lot of work to do.
*******
Later that day, Caelyn and her mother were working in the basement of the old farmhouse. The blonde-haired Army wife turned toward the older woman and forced herself to smile. “It’s going to be OK, Mom. We’ll figure something out.”
The other woman frowned as she turned back toward the shelves. Her hair was salt-and-pepper gray, her shoulders tired and smaller than they used to be, but her face was animated, her eyes defiant.
Looking at her mother, it was difficult for Caelyn to imagine how such a small woman could carry such a big stick. But it was true. Her mother was a fighter; she’d proven that all her life. Trouble was, sometimes she didn’t know what she was fighting for. As the years had passed, Caelyn had sensed the frustration building up inside her mom. The woman had suffered a lifetime of battles, sacrifice, and unselfishness, most of it unspoken, and never known what it all was for.
If you’d only listen to me, Mother, I could help you. If you’d swallow your pride for just a moment, I could help you understand.
As Caelyn watched, her mother’s eyes faded just a little. Caelyn realized the real change that was taking place inside: The confidence was fading, the fire inside her mom was growing cold, leaving just a flicker where there used to be a flame.
Sometimes, when she was younger, Caelyn had wondered what it would take to bring her mother down.
Now she knew the answer.
It would take something like this.
Caelyn stepped back, felt the wooden stool behind her, and leaned against it, watching her mother count the bottles of peaches, beets, beans, and corn. Her mother had canned all the time when Caelyn was a little girl, but it was a lost art now and she hadn’t done it in years. Why go through all the work and hassle? It didn’t save any money. In fact, by the time they paid for the bottles, food, and supplies, it ended up costing more than store-bought food, not to mention all the work.
Caelyn looked around the basement storage room. Some of the bottles were so dust-covered she had to wonder if the food inside them was even safe to eat, knowing botulism was just as deadly as starvation. She thought back, trying to figure out how long it had been since she’d seen her mother in the kitchen bottling vegetables or fruit. Sometime back in college—probably her sophomore year, she decided, maybe five or six years before.
The air inside the storage room was cool and musty, the cement walls damp to the touch, and she almost shivered, pulling her arms tightly around herself as she watched her mother counting the bottles of food that were probably spoiled anyway.
Her mother finished counting, stood quiet for a moment, her eyes searching as if for more, then turned around. “Forty-two,” she announced.
Caelyn forced another smile. “OK, Mom.”
“I counted them twice.”
The younger woman stood up from the stool. “Good, Mom. Every little bit is going to help.”
The older woman hesitated, disappointed. “I thought there was more. There should have been more. I was thinking last fall, ‘Gretta, don’t be so lazy.’ I know how much your father likes bottled peaches but it seemed like there was always something more pressing to do.”
Caelyn heard footsteps on the kitchen floor above her and turned her head to listen. “Come on, Mom, let’s go up and check on Dad.”
Her mother moved toward the cellar stairs. As she walked by, Caelyn noticed that the soft skin around her cheeks was patchy white. Her mother had already lost a lot of weight and she was growing frail. Caelyn tried not to think about it, but she was worried about her mom.
“I should have been more prepared,” her mother said as she started climbing the stairs.
Caelyn reached out and placed a hand on the small of her mother’s back to brace her as she climbed. “No one saw this coming, Mom. There was no way you could have known.”
Her mother shrugged and walked to the top of the cellar stairs. Caelyn followed. Hearing squeals of laughter drifting from the backyard, she walked to the kitchen window to look outside, where her daughter was playing with the dog.
It had been several years since she’d been home. Looking out, she noticed that the oak tree was fuller now, the pine trees a good ten feet taller than when she was a little girl, the grass a little thinner beside the path, the honeysuckle that lined the ditch as high as the detached garage. She inhaled deeply, taking in the smells of the old house: pine cleaner, fresh dirt from the fields, the air heavy with lilac and hay, a bit of musty odor drifting up from the basement. The house creaked with a sudden gust of wind, the floor joists creating the familiar sound of old wood under strain.
She had been born and raised in this house. In fact, she’d never slept under another roof until she’d gone away to college, never called anywhere else home until she had gotten married and started following her husband around the globe. Every sound, every corner, every smell was as familiar to her as the back of her hand.
She stood there thinking of the old house as she watched her daughter playing in the yard. Her mother moved beside her and for a moment they watched together.
“She looks so much like you,” her mother whispered, looking out on the blonde-headed child.
Caelyn smiled softly and answered proudly, “I think she looks like her dad.”
“Either way, she’s lucky.” Caelyn’s mother lifted onto her toes and kissed her daughter’s cheek.
The little girl was playing with the old bloodhound, Miller (named after her father’s favorite beer, though Caelyn would never tell her daughter that). The dog lay almost lifeless on the grass, the six-year-old draped over him like a blanket. The little girl rested her chin on his head and lifted his enormous ears against the sides of her head. The old dog endured the humiliation, lifting his eyes to the back of his head; then he rolled over, knocking the child onto the grass. He licked her face, his pink tongue covering her entire cheek, until the little girl giggled and squirmed away.
For one fleeting moment Caelyn was transported back in time, back to the day before the world had been turned on its head. She had awakened early that morning, what was it, a week ago now. Walking outside to watch the sunrise, she had felt the morning dew between her toes. It had been a peaceful, easy morning and she remembered feeling good. But as she had watched the eastern sky turn from purple to pink and then to gray, she had almost heard a voice. “All of this is going to go away.”
She had shuddered, not understanding.
“What is going away?” she asked.
But the voice had not answered.
Of course, now she understood.
The old dog got up and lumbered toward the shade at the side of the house. The little girl, Ellie, laughed and followed. The screen door to the kitchen opened and Caelyn’s father plodded into the room, empty beer can in hand, the smell of smoke and pepper drifting in. Seventy-two. Gray hair. Small face. Her father was still a handsome man even if a little thin. Staring at him, she saw the simple innocence that seemed to keep him young. But she could also tell from his awkward walk that he was hurting from the arthritis and it worried her, knowing he had less than two weeks’ worth of medicine to treat the painful disease. A couple of days before, she’d walked four miles into t
own to see the pharmacist, but it was too late, they’d already sold out of everything. It was shocking to see how bare the grocery store shelves had been just three days after the attack. No food. No medicines. None of the most basic supplies.
Turning to her dad, she asked, “How’s the jerky coming?”
Her dad coughed. “Pretty good. You’re going to love it. I’ve got some Cajun jerky. Some pepper. A little jalapeño and salt.”
Like most ranchers, Caelyn’s parents had a freezer full of beef, but without electricity to keep it frozen they’d had to do something to preserve it before it rotted. So her father had improvised a smoker, spent a full day cutting the meat into thin slices, marinated it overnight, and was smoking it now, creating long strips of beef jerky that would keep for months.
“Be sure to get it dried all the way through,” Caelyn reminded him as he walked through the kitchen. “We don’t want any of it to rot.”
Her father didn’t answer, and she realized he hadn’t heard her. “Dad,” she said again, taking a couple of steps toward him, “are you drying it all the way through?”
He sat on a plastic-covered chair and looked up. “I don’t know. You want to check it?”
Caelyn knelt down in front of him. “No, Dad, I don’t have to check it. I’m just asking. We don’t want to waste any of the meat.”
Her dad wiped a sheen of sweat from off his temple. “I want you to check it for me, OK? I can’t tell for certain. I don’t want to mess it up.”
Caelyn’s mom walked over and patted him on the shoulder. “It’s OK, Len. I’ll check it for you. I’m sure you’re doing a great job.”
He reached up and touched her hand as she rested it on his shoulder. “A drink of water?” he asked.
Caelyn went to the container sitting beside the kitchen sink. Droplets had condensed on the metal can and she wiped them with her finger before pouring her dad a glass. Holding it up, she examined it against the sunlight. The water had been pulled from the small fishing pond down near the hay field, and though it had been strained and boiled over an open fire, there was no way to remove the tint of green from all the moss and vegetation in the pond. It tasted bad, even after being boiled, but she figured it was safe. Green or not, she knew what a huge blessing it was to have anything to drink. How many people out there had nothing now?
Wolves in the Night: Wrath & Righteousness: Episode Seven Page 8
