Caught in the Crossfire

by Juliann Rich

  “Yeah? And what about the two puppies who didn’t make it? What about them?” Ian asked as we turned onto Warrior’s Way. “I mean, you don’t throw someone away just because you don’t want them around anymore. What kind of a sick bastard does a thing like that?” He leaned forward, hands on his hips, and sucked in deep breaths of air as if he’d just run a marathon.

  “Like you said, some sick bastard.” I rested my hand on his shoulder. “The world’s full of them.”

  “Tell me about it.” He straightened up and looked at me. He was covered in clumps of white fur. Bear’s tongue and drool had styled his hair in a Mohawk gone bad. The scent of dog breath clung to him like a cheap cologne.

  “Bear sure took to you.” I tried to lighten the moment as we continued to walk down the dirt path.

  “Evidently.” Ian wiped the remains of Bear’s drool off his face.

  “He was just giving you kisses. It means he likes you.”

  We reached the front of the shower room and stopped. “It usually does.” Ian looked at me longer than necessary. He leaned forward and plucked a clump of white fur off my shirt. “Maybe you should take a shower too.”

  Images of the two of us alone, hot water pouring down our naked bodies, flashed through my mind. “I think I’ll hit the beach instead. Go for a swim.”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  “I’m sure.” I avoided his eyes by examining the top of the tallest fir tree.

  The door to the shower room squeaked open and banged shut. A shower sputtered to life, and the faint scent of soap filled the air.

  Then I heard it: the sigh that escaped through the screen window, hooking me and pulling me to him.

  What am I going to do with you, Ian?

  I paused, listening to the sounds of water splashing, birds chirping, voices dueling inside my mind.

  I walked away quickly.

  Chapter Eleven

  Time is different at camp. There is no Monday-through-Friday grind. Just a stream of Saturdays to float on, one after the other, like the waves on Spirit Lake. I had spent seven gold coins. The hot first week of July melted in a blur of Curtain Call meetings and sculpture classes and Bible studies and my attempts to master black-and-white photography. I took countless pictures of the sun, trying to understand what it meant to see light.

  But my main preoccupation had become studying Ian.

  I learned to recognize the tones of his voice. His default tone: dry and sarcastic. His John the Baptist tone: dramatic, some would say melodramatic. My favorite: his tender tone, rare and revealing. I studied his walk: the way he leaned into the future like he was running from the past. The way he hitched up his oversized, secondhand shorts with his left hand only to pull them down on the right side when he jammed his fist deep into his pocket. The white gash of skin that cut in around his jutting hipbone. Exposed. Vulnerable. Tempting.

  Mostly I memorized his face. Sharp angles softened by a dusting of freckles. Hair that bled in the shade and combusted in the sun. Curls, like flames, that danced in the wind. Lips, top thin and bottom heavy. Made more for pouting than smiling. But oh, when he smiled!

  One evening, when the sun hung low and the long stems of the pussy willows swayed in a slow dance, I walked the length of the beach, camera in hand, past Simon’s pavilion and the outdoor theater. Beyond the boathouse where Paul’s land ended, chasing the dying light as it glinted off the smooth surface of the lake. Hoping to capture a bit of the dusk magic.

  Clambering over the barrier of rock, I reached a remote stretch of beach and sank down on the cool bed of sand. A breeze crept over my skin. The tide sloshed against the rocks. Above me, gold burst into orange and flamed in protest before it melted into indigo. I raised my camera and focused, not on the setting sun, but on the quarter moon, the rising star of night.

  Then Ian spoke from someplace behind me, shattering the moment. “‘Nothing Gold Can Stay.’”

  Startled, I sucked in my breath and closed my eyes as the realization that he’d followed me hit me. His feet crunched through the sand until he stood next to me.

  “Who’s the show-off now?” I whispered. “It sorta sounds familiar.”

  “It’s a poem by Robert Frost.” He chuckled. His husky voice ignited the familiar burn again, searing me. “Guess you weren’t paying attention in English class.”

  “Guess not.”

  “Want some company?”

  “No, not really.” I tried to lie, to sound smooth. I failed.

  “Whatever.” He sat next to me. I kept my eyes closed and listened to him breathe.

  His hot breath tickled my face. Alarm bells sounded in my head. I clawed into the cool sand for something solid to hold on to, but it slipped through my fingers.

  I jumped at his touch as I felt him tracing my eyebrow. My moan, a traitor, told all my secrets.

  “I’ve been watching you,” he said. “You’re quite the joiner. So campy.”

  “I am not—”

  He pressed his finger against my lips. My eyes flew open. The protest died in my mouth as I stared into his face that hovered inches above me. My stomach tightened. The indigo night swallowed the last streaks of sunlight.

  “You can hide who you are from the people back there. You can even pretend to be the golden boy all you want, Jonathan. But you don’t have to do that with me.”

  “I don’t?” It wasn’t really a question. I saw the truth reflected in his eyes. He saw me. The real me.

  “No, you don’t.” He leaned closer. Just a breath between us. “Truth or Dare?”

  “Truth, definitely truth.” After the fiasco on the pontoon, I’d never choose dare. Ever. Again.

  “Do you want me to kiss you?”

  I groaned. This game sucked. “Yes.”

  His lips brushed mine. Light. No pressure. Except for the volcano that swelled inside of me.

  “I’m going to go now,” Ian whispered.

  “Yeah, I think that’s a good idea.” I listened to the sound of his retreating footsteps, crunching in the sand.

  *

  Later, alone in the boys’ shower room, I brushed the sand from my feet and legs and stared at the stranger in the metal mirror. Dark brown hair. Scandalously long and disobedient. Dull brown eyes. Lips that sinned by telling the truth.

  Light glinted off the gold cross that hung from my neck. One hard yank and the chain broke. The cross landed on the grimy floor.

  The boy in the mirror was still a stranger. But at least he wasn’t a liar.

  Chapter Twelve

  The sand volleyball score was tied, three to three. Jake, Aaron, and I were playing Ian, Sean, and Bryan. It was my turn to serve when Paul emerged from the administration building and waved at me. I dropped the ball and walked off the court.

  “C’mon, Coop! We got this. Where are you going now?” Jake called after me. I waved to let him know I’d be right back as I jogged over to Paul.

  “Jonathan, your mom’s on the phone.” My stomach tightened as I followed him into the office. “Everything’s fine. She wanted me to tell you that right away.”

  “Thanks, Paul.” I sat on the chair and picked up the phone. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

  “Hi, Jon! Your dad just called. His platoon is someplace in the al-Anbar province in Iraq. He couldn’t give me more details.”

  “How did he sound?”

  “Fine. He told me to tell you that you’re the man of the house until he gets home.” Her words ran together the way they do when she’s nervous. “He asked me to pray for him, can you believe that?”

  I couldn’t, actually. My father always said he’d seen too much blood to believe in God.

  Mom and I were the believers. Prayer warriors: fighting the same battle, just in our own way.

  “It’s silly, I suppose, but I wanted to tell you he’s safe and see if we could pray together.”

  “That’s not silly, Mom. Let’s pray now.” My hand reached for my neck, naked without my cross. I felt his lips again
st mine. My head sank into my hands and I curved my whole body around the phone, hugging her across the distance.

  “Heavenly Father, thank You for allowing us news about Jonathan’s father,” Mom began. “You know where he is and what danger surrounds him. Please, Lord, send Your angels to protect him. Keep him safe and bring him home to us. Amen.” Mom’s voice grew stronger and calmer as she prayed. Her faith wrapped around her like a warm blanket on a freezing night.

  “Amen.” I shivered.

  “I love you, Jon.”

  “I love you too. It’s going to be okay. This is Dad, right? He’ll have the bad guys running in no time.” I forced myself to laugh.

  She chuckled. “He sure will. I’m going to let you go now so you can get back to having fun. Please thank Paul for me.”

  “I will. Call if you hear anything else. Love you, Mom.” I placed the phone receiver on its cradle and then I remembered. Al-Anbar. My father had called it the hornet’s nest, the heart of the jihad movement, the birthplace and cradle of al-Qaeda. The phone call could have brought much different news.

  Tears snuck down my cheeks. Paul squeezed my shoulders and stood beside me, whispering a prayer. I took a deep breath and stood up.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. This is your dad’s third tour, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know you’re proud of him, Jonathan. I also know how hard this is on you and your mom. I’m keeping your whole family in my prayers.” Paul pulled me in for one of his famous bear hugs.

  I walked back to the volleyball court, but my heart wasn’t in it. I pictured Mom, curled into Dad’s giant La-Z-Boy chair, crying into a cup of cold coffee.

  “Everything okay?” Aaron tossed the ball to me.

  “Yeah, everything’s fine,” I lied. Across the net, I felt Ian’s eyes on me. His face was a question mark.

  “All right, Coop! Enough farting around then. Let’s slaughter these wimps!” Jake shouted. Nodding, I tossed the ball up into the air.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The phone call played itself over and over in my mind the next morning at Curtain Call. I sat next to Ian, stealing sideways glances at him, remembering our kiss.

  Lily reported on how the costumes were coming. “Hannah and I are almost finished. The robes are done, and King Herod’s beard that Hannah made is amazing. I can’t wait to see it on Jonathan.”

  “Me either.” Bethany reached up to stroke my cheek.

  Jake walked up, holding a script. Beside me, Ian groaned. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Guess what?” Sara interrupted Lily’s costume report. “I stole Jake from Outdoor Rec.”

  “I bet she bribed him with doughnuts,” Ian whispered. His breath brushed against my face.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.” My voice sounded flat, even to me.

  “What’s wrong?” Ian looked right through me.

  “Nothing,” I said, but I could tell by his face that he didn’t buy it.

  Sara threw a glance in our directions. Shut it, she said with her eyes. “It was clear at our meeting the other day that our guys are outnumbered. I asked Jake if he would be willing to help us out and—praise the Lord!—he agreed.”

  Jake grinned and sat down in the circle next to Bethany.

  Sara continued, “I need to get together with the girls for a second and talk dance moves. Guys, why don’t you fill Jake in on the play?” Sara walked behind the costume hut with the girls, leaving Jake with us.

  In the distance I heard MacKenzie’s raised voice. “Seriously, Bethany, is that your idea of a seductive dance? You’ve got to grind your hips, girl! Here, let me show you how.”

  “Did she say dance?” Jake frowned. “Nobody said anything about dancing. I ain’t dancing.”

  “You don’t have to,” I promised. “Just Bethany dances.”

  Jake looked relieved, then intrigued. “How much for a lap dance?” He leered.

  “You’re an asshole,” Ian stated.

  “What’s your issue? You got a hard-on for Bethany?”

  “Hardly. She’s not my type.”

  “That’s what I figured. I doubt any of the girls here are your type,” Jake sneered.

  Ian dropped his gaze.

  “So, what did she promise you?” I attempted to lighten the moment. “Was it doughnuts?”

  “Doughnuts? Are there doughnuts?” Jake looked around.

  “Not today. So what did she promise you?”

  “She said I’d get to chop someone’s head off.” A malicious smile spread over Jake’s face.

  “Fabulous,” Ian muttered, opening his script. “Just fabulous.”

  *

  “Okay, crew, our first priority now is to get off script.” Sara returned with the girls. Bethany looked miserable. “Also, we have a few logistical issues we need to figure out. When I wrote this, I envisioned a large dining hall filled with King Herod’s guests. Jake helps fill out our numbers, but we’re still undercast big-time.”

  “No, we’re not.” Ian surprised everyone. “Not if we include the audience.”

  “I think I see where you’re going with this, but could you elaborate?” Sara asked.

  “We could set up tables and chairs for the audience, sort of like a dinner theater, and we could have baskets of Hannah’s bread and glasses of grape juice to look like wine. That way the audience becomes part of the play by being Herod’s dinner guests.”

  “That’s brilliant!” Sara grinned. “Ian, speak up if you get any more ideas like that. Lily, would you talk to Hannah about what we’ll need for the dinner props?”

  I looked at Ian with surprise. Was this the guy who had called me a joiner?

  “Sure, Sara. I could even help Hannah bake the bread.”

  “So, that’s one challenge easily overcome. Now for the other—and this one is a bit, well, bloodier. How are we going to handle presenting Ian’s head on a platter?”

  “I vote for decapitation,” Jake said. “One chop with an ax and there you go, perfect prop.”

  “Gross!” MacKenzie shot Jake a dirty look. “Tell me again why you’re here?”

  “Because someone needs to chop his head off.” Jake motioned toward Ian.

  “Jake is right about one thing.” Sara interrupted the bickering. “We do need to make the audience believe that John the Baptist has been beheaded. Any thoughts on how we can accomplish that?”

  “We could put a cantaloupe on a platter and cover it with a cloth. Wouldn’t the audience believe it’s Ian’s head?” Kari suggested.

  “I guess I envisioned something a bit more gruesome,” Sara said.

  Bethany spoke up. “Maybe Simon could sculpt a bust of Ian’s head. I know he could paint it to look realistic. Just imagine the audience when Jake walks out with that on a platter!”

  “That’s a great idea.”

  “I have another idea, Sara,” Ian suggested. “It’s a blending of both Bethany’s and Kari’s ideas. What if we had Jake bring out a platter with the bust hidden underneath the cloth? The audience would naturally imagine my head, but they’d also probably be thinking it’s a cantaloupe or something equally non-scary under the cloth. Then someone pulls the cloth off, and they see Simon’s sculpture when they’re not expecting it.”

  This time I did mouth the words so campy at him. He grinned and flipped me off by rubbing his nose with his middle finger.

  Curtain Call ended with the problems of dinner guests and beheadings fixed, thanks to Ian who walked up to me afterward, still in problem-solving mode.

  “Hey, what’s up? And don’t lie and say nothing, because that’s a bunch of bullshit.”

  “Okay, you’re right.”

  “Let’s go talk about it then.”

  “Not here.” Everywhere I looked: people, people, and more people.

  “I have an idea.” Ian grinned. “Follow me.”

  It took Ian less than three minutes to talk Sean into letting us take a canoe out. Impressive. The sound
of the lake, lapping against the sides of the canoe as it sliced through Spirit Lake, filled the silence that settled over us. We set course for the far opposite shore. The breeze was light. The tension drained from my body, as if it traveled down my arms, through my hands, along my oar, and into the lake. We stopped paddling and let the canoe coast into a garden of lily pads that grew along the opposite shore. I rested the oar over my legs and reached out with my hands. The tips of the lilies brushed against my palms. Tiny frogs, perched on the pads, took one look at us and dove into the water.

  Ian swiveled his legs over the bench and looked at me. “So, talk to me.”

  “I don’t know where to begin.” How could I tell him about my father, risking his life in Iraq, while I calmly sat in a canoe, laughing at frogs?

  “Something changed when Paul called you into the office yesterday.” Was there anything he didn’t notice? Talk about annoying.

  “My mom called. She heard from my dad. He made it safely to Iraq.”

  Ian’s eyes widened. “Safely to Iraq? Is there such a thing?”

  “I don’t think so. But he’s a Marine. He knows how to take care of himself.”

  “Marine, huh? That explains a lot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I knew you were from a military family, Mr. Junior Counselor. Always ready to defend the underdog. Of course you’re the kid of a Marine. You practically have Semper Fi tattooed on your forehead. Just like your dad—a born hero.” He grinned.

  “I’m nothing like my dad.” My voice cracked. “But while he’s gone, I’m in charge. The man of the house. And where am I? Mowing the lawn for my mom? Helping her with the grocery shopping? The fence needs painting, but I’m not painting it because I’m floating around in this dumb canoe.”

  “So go home.”

  “I don’t want to!” The words burst from me. “I don’t want to be home. I don’t want to be the man of the house. I just want to be—”

  “What?”

  “Here.”

  “So stay. Stay with me.”