Havoc

by Angie Merriam

  Plopping my butt on the arm of the couch, I continue to stare. I swear it looks like I'm staring at an actual peace of heaven on Earth. Underneath the layers of dirt I'm going to wipe away and the scars that will heal is uniquely classic beauty. The kind of beauty that make up promises and doesn't deliver. It's timeless. The kind that strips the air from your lungs. The sort of raw allure that men in bars fight for, go to war over, that they die for. I’d die for her. Wait—what? I run my hands down my face. Get a fucking grip, Grim. You're a Marine. Act like it. Treat her the way you would any other job. Get her cleaned up, stay with her until she's conscious, then when she is, make further decisions.

  I grab a bowl of warm water and a yellow washcloth and settle down on the floor beside her. I wrap a blanket around the lower half of her body in fear she might be too cold. While Texas isn't known for having a real fall season, we are this year, and this morning was a bit cool. Carefully, I wipe away some of the more caked-on dirt from her face before gently dabbing the towel across her forehead. Unexpectedly, her eyes shoot open, and the look on her face dubs me as an enemy. I fight the urge to feel disappointed. With whatever she's been through, I can't blame her. Her beautiful brown eyes are striking. They're so dark; they could be confused with black easily, but that's what draws you in. Then once you're there, to look anywhere else feels like betrayal. Crap.

  Be gentle in voice as you have been in touch, I tell myself. I stop the wiping and ask, “Do you speak English?”

  The mixed color of her mocha skin forces me to ask. Texas is home to illegal immigrants, which I have no problem with. It's not my job to deal with those particular foreign affairs. I just need to know if she is one of them. Not that I would feel any less compelled to help her. It would just create a conversational barrier.

  She nods. It would be easier to believe her if she would have said something, but she doesn't. I offer a soft smile, the motion harder than I recall. The angel stares back, saying nothing, moving nothing, possibly thinking nothing. I want her to know she's safe, that I've got her. Her face burrows down. Did my smile scare her?

  “Name's Clint.” Did I really just tell her my name? It seeped out of me before I could stop it. No one calls me Clint. I don't introduce myself that way. I can't. Clint was some kid who thought he'd grow up to play professional baseball or become a philosophy professor. Clint was a ten-year-old boy with a future, with dreams, with hope and two parents. Clint died years ago. Slugger tried to die with him, but Mindy's will was stronger than I imagined. What's wrong with me? My head nods at her, “Yours?”

  She shakes her head. Rejection. Wow.

  “Then how do I know you speak English?” Nothing. Think smarter, Grim. “And what would you do if I were to just pick up the phone right now and call the police? Have them arrest you for trespassing?”

  “I'd run.”

  Pleased, my faint smile tries to join the conversation, “Ah. So you do speak English.”

  She glares harshly, not taking too well to being tricked into giving information. Her fault. She left me no choice. Now I'm back in enemy territory. Damn it. “I'm sorry. I just needed to know if you could talk. I'm not trying to harm you. I swear. I went outside for my morning jog and found you passed out on my lawn. No purse. No ID. Barely breathing. I brought you in and have been trying to nurse you ever since. Rescuing people I can do. Making them whole again is not my specialty.” What's with all this honesty coming out of me? She doesn't need to know I can't make her whole again. Damn it, Grim. Get it together. Offer her more peace of mind. “I'm a Marine.”

  The word I usually use to bring women to their knees actually does what I always imagined it might someday—provide security. A brief look of relief crosses her face. Well, I'll be damned. If that isn't the most incredible look I've ever seen flicker in another human's eyes then–

  A knock at the front door startles my thoughts and, worse, shrinks this fragile, nameless angel back into the very shell I was working on getting her out of. Damn it. My eyes search over her, observing so many signals she's leaking off that I feel a twinge in my chest again—a sharp pain. Whatever it is she left behind, she's afraid it's at the door. She's afraid I can't protect her, that I can't save her. I stand and check my pocket for the KA-BAR that I never go anywhere without. Of course I can save her. I can do as much damage with the knife in my pocket as I can with a sniper rifle.

  Quickly, I tiptoe over to the door and check the peephole. Oh boy, this is gonna be bad. I put on a polite I’m kinda busy smile as I open the door, “Good morning, Mrs. Callaghan.”

  “It's barely morning, Slugger,” she snips, her voice upset that the front door was locked, I'm sure.

  I don't usually lock it because, frankly, we live in that kind of neighborhood. However, considering my new guest and the trauma she's been through, I should start making a change. Wait. Why? I mean, she's not gonna stay here. There's no way she's gonna stay here. But, there's no way she's gonna stay anywhere else. Of course she's gonna stay here.

  Mrs. Callaghan hushes the battle inside my head. “And by the way you're dressed, I get a sense that you aren't even aware the sun is up. In fact–” Her voice cuts out at the sight of the angel on my couch. Her face slowly swivels to me, and suddenly, I feel like the kid in the back of the class caught talking in a no-talking zone. “Clint Thomas Walker! You've been home for all of three days, and you've already brought a bar babe home! You Marines and your disregard for things other than yourself. You know you're not supposed to bring them here! What's your father going to say? And–”

  “Mrs. Callaghan,” I shut her up as quickly as possible. I move my body closer to the girl, not wanting to smother her space but feeling a need to be closer to her. Now, with me in between, hopefully Mindy will drop it and not bombard the girl with too many questions. “She is not a random bar babe.”

  “Then who is she?” The question feels loaded. I don't have a simple answer. Even the complicated one is still too jumbled for me to make sense of. My head tilts to the side, and she can see the confusion in my face. She calms down, “Well, is your non-beer bimbo hungry?” She offers a bakery box that, until now, was forgotten in her hands.

  The angel merely shakes her head. I know she's lying. She has the look of a starving man on Thanksgiving Day. Taking the container that appears to be holding crepes hostage, I sigh, “Look, Mrs. Callaghan–”

  “You know I hate it when you call me that.”

  “Sorry, Mindy. Forgive my friend for being so quiet. She traveled a long way to get here and just got in early this morning. She really needs to get adjusted, so if you'll excuse us . . .” I turn Mindy’s small frame around. I need her out of the house before she makes this situation more uncomfortable or, worse, picks up on my lie and alerts Sir before I get the chance to.

  “Well, I hope she is more talkative for dinner tonight.” Dinner. Shit. That is tonight. I can't take her to that, even if Mindy is expecting her to be there. Maybe I'll just leave her here. I can't leave her here alone. That's too far away from me, from my watch. I don't want to dangle her in front of all those people either to poke and prod like a science experiment. But I want her near, need her near. “Pleasure to meet you.” Mindy waves over her shoulder. “See you tonight.”

  I lock the door behind her, relocate my body to the barstool closest to the couch, and let out a deep breath. Should I sit closer to her? Am I too far? I feel like I'm too far. Another frustrated, deep breath escapes me. What is wrong with me? How can I feel this strongly about her? How can I feel so conflicted about choices this simple?

  “You know that people often say more with their reactions than they ever do with words?” My finger touches the napkin under the crepes.

  I know she's starving, starving to death in fact. God, I hope she lets me provide her with food, among other things. For the time being, I'll start with food.

  “For instance, I know you are a runaway by the way your body froze at the sound of the knock on the door. I can tell you were held
captive by the marks on your ankles and wrists. The marks on your legs imply he was abusive as well.” The words spew out of me in a gentle tone, one I didn't know I was capable of using aside from with Mindy. By all the facial responses I’ve observed, I seem to be right, but better, they seem to show that her guard is weakening. “You don't eat very often, and when you do, not very much. Your eyes, skin, and hair are extremely dry, the kind that comes from malnutrition. Also, your left hand twitched at the box when Mindy displayed it and again when my finger touched the napkin. You're starving. Borderline starvation is going to be my final guess.”

  Her eyes shut, and I walk over with the crepes. Sitting on the edge of the couch beside her, I place my hand softly on her thigh. Her eyes fight the urge to open and lose. Those gorgeous, dark swirls of heaven are exposed to me once more. I feel an unexplainable relief.

  “I know it's hard for you to imagine anyone not wanting to harm you, but I brought you into my home, I nursed you back to life, shooed away the very nosy, albeit caring neighbor, and have every intention of protecting you from any danger that comes in your direction. Please, I'm asking you, through the pain, too . . . Please, I beg you to please trust me.”

  Wow. So that's what sheer honesty sounds like. The words that Glove would easily use as lines to seduce women into his bed are ones I actually mean. For the first time in a long time, I offer up honest words from myself. Feelings. Feelings about another human being. I'm not even sure I can feel, but I do know everything I just said is true. Nothing will ever hurt this girl again.

  She doesn't budge. I'm not even sure if she's thought about it. I need her. I can't reason with myself about it, about her, but I need something about her. I need her to trust me, right here. Right now. I wanna give her back so much that was taken from her. That's the mission. I gently move the hair out of her eyes, seeing a few old bruises. She's mine. I may never know her name. I may never touch her in the ways that I have to stop myself from thinking about. Hell, I may never get another moment to be alone, lost in her essence like this, no matter how much I feel I need to. But, I do know something about her. She needs me. She needs me to be at peace within herself. Without hesitation, I take off my tags and lay them softly around her neck. With a soft whisper, more desperate than before, I repeat, “Please trust me.”

  The most miraculous thing happens. Her jaw trembles, her body seems to cave into whatever emotions she was fighting, and she throws herself violently at me. My arms stretch out and hold her tight. The sound of crying leaks out of her, and I feel my heart cringe again, the sound being one I never want to be responsible for making her create. I grip tighter and shut my eyes, wishing I knew the words to make this all right. To make her pain stop. To make her heart ache less. My own body tries to stay strong in her hour of weakness, though it feels impossible. I stroke her back gently with my thumb.

  The whimpers stop for a brief moment, and I hear a soft voice, one that freezes me for a moment because it reminds me of one I haven't heard in years. “Haven . . . my name is Haven.”

  Moments later, she’s asleep. Breathing. All she is doing is breathing. It's the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen. Her chest rises and falls. It's the most magical thing, creates life and releases it. I shouldn't be this mesmerized by the action, but the way she does it feels so delicate. Tender.

  The sunlight is finally fading into evening yet still keeping an angelic presence around her. Around this slice of a miracle. Around Haven. God, her name is Haven. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

  My finger gently touches the edge of her chin. I know I need to go shower. At this point, I can feel the sweat caked on me beside her tears, an unpleasant mixture on my skin. She cried so hard and long that she passed out, put herself to rest. That was hours ago. I haven't moved out of sight since that moment. The furthest I went was to pee. All I've done is watch her, monitor her, and get lost in trails of thoughts about her, about us. About a lifetime together. I know all that is unreasonable, but I couldn't care less. I give her arm a soft stroke, not wanting to wake her. Ten minutes is all I need to shower, but even that seems like too much to ask of me. The risk of leaving her alone for those minor moments isn't one I can face right now—maybe tonight, while she's sleeping, but not right now. I just . . . can't.

  Her head moves, dark brown hair falling into her face as she lets out a sigh. I brush it out of the way as I stare on in confusion. There's this war raging on inside of me and not just about taking a shower and leaving her for a brief moment. It's greater than that. It's like whatever I thought was dead inside of me is stirring, coming awake at various times in rapid force, but the legend of myself as a machine, emotionally nonexistent, is fading. What's happening to me? I'm not supposed to get emotionally involved, let alone invested, in anything, definitely not another human being, yet every time I look at this girl, that's all I can see. That's all I want. Her safety. Her warmth. Her care. If I'm lucky enough, her love.

  I adjust her blanket, finding another excuse to touch her. You know, I pride myself in being emotionless, yet within a couple of hours, I'm feeling every emotion known to man. All of this attacking my mental state at once is overwhelming. These feelings hurt. They're rough. They make my chest physically ache. For the first couple of minutes, I thought I was having a heart attack, just waiting for my arm to tingle and go numb so I could call 9-1-1. My head aches in comparison to my chest, yet with just one look at her, it seems worth it. Pain seems to cease. Does that make any sense? No. Can I explain it? No. Can I stop it? No. The question I should really ask is, do I want to?

  The lock turns, and I realize the fortress of the moment with her alone is broken. My emotions, no matter how strong they are barreling out of me, don't matter now. I have to get a grip. Sir expects more out of me. I expect more out of me.

  He's on the phone as he comes toward me, the words out of his mouth not registering as many things haven't been, like the sound of my own phone, the noises of cars driving by, the clock ticking. Sir is not in his uniform, and since I haven't seen him since his shift last night, I can assume he made a social call after work before his stripper girlfriend had to report for duty. His eyes settle on me then the sight beside me.

  Baffled, he says in haste, “I'll call you back.”

  And just like that, it's quiet again. Puzzled, he just stares at the sight of Haven. Sir crosses his arms sternly and takes several deep breaths, his signs of an internal debate. How many ways can he chew me out for a crime I'm sure he thinks I have committed? His faith that one day I'll snap from trained solider to trained assassin for hire is radiating off him. He's convinced himself I will fuck up, and when I do, it'll be royally. Whether or not that's true, it's not true at this very moment.

  “Kitchen,” Sir declares pointing to the island bar, Mom's idea for dining without him. She used to let me watch cartoons while she cooked, kept them on to laugh with me while we ate when it was just the two of us. Whenever he came back from deployment, we sat at the corner kitchen table with the built-in bench. She explained it was more intimate. We needed to appreciate moments of togetherness because, someday, that might be all we have left. I have a feeling, when she said it, she was referencing the idea of her military husband not returning, not the possibility of her dropping dead on a Sunday afternoon. Sir and I haven't eaten or sat at that table since she passed away. It gets dusted by the cleaning lady, but that's as far as touching of it goes, almost like a monument to her memory.

  I sit down across from him, raise my body from the relaxed state I've been in, and show my respect for the commanding officer of my so-called home life.

  “Explain.”

  “I found her in our yard, Sir.”

  “And?”

  “And I brought her in the house, Sir.”

  “Why?”

  I don't respond.

  “Why? Why didn't you take her to the police station or hospital?”

  Both of those would've been more responsible. Reasonable. Logical. Thoughts that, with any oth
er person on the goddamn planet, I would've immediately done. I wouldn't have a thought of another option, let alone bring them into the house. But it's her. He doesn't understand. I don't understand. He waits impatiently for an answer.

  I clear my throat. “I'm not real sure, Sir. I . . . I want to keep her.”

  His eyebrow shoot up, “She's not a puppy, Clint!” The sharp way he says my name cuts me like diamond to glass. Precise. With purpose. “That's not realistic.”

  “Sir–”

  “And since when do you give a shit about anyone?” The words are coated in vinegar, making it even harder for me swallow them.

  I say nothing. I can't argue with that because I would be lying. I know what he really wants to ask, which is simple. Why do I care about her and not him? Another simple answer.

  “She could be a junkie–”

  “She's not.”

  “How–”

  “Checked for marks. Studied her behavior while she was conscious. No signs of addiction, Sir.”

  “Fine. A dumb, drunk party girl–”

  “No, Sir. I checked her attire. Checked for ID. And of course I spoke to her as well, Sir.”

  No, I don't know where she came from, what she's running from. As a matter of fact, she spoke very little while she cried. My knowledge of this female is almost the same as it was when she was lying in our grass, except I know she speaks English, was most likely abused, and her name is Haven—a name I’ve already sworn to protect.