Havoc

by Angie Merriam

  Haven who is now dressed for dinner in her jeans and brown, long-sleeve shirt slips down stairs as I change out of my sweats into something more presentable. Sir likes his stripper, uh, nurse woman a lot from the lengths he's going to trying to get us to meet. Usually, he conducts his business as normal. If I meet her, I meet her. If I don't, I don't. But this one . . . this one he's been adamant about me meeting. Honestly, if it wasn't for Haven, I’d still be finding ways to scoot around it. Haven thinks it'll be good for us to meet her, her logic being that she owes Sir that much for letting her stay here. And I can't tell her no, not that I ever want to.

  I rush down the stairs after tucking my gray, long-sleeve shirt into my jeans. That's the moment when I notice the nurse is placing dinner on the table we haven't used since Mom's death. Fuck. This night isn't going to end well.

  Karen makes romantic eyes at Sir as he places a bottle of wine on the table as well. My eyes search in a panic for Haven, whom I don't see. Suddenly, she wraps her arms around one of mine, and I feel anxiety drain from my face.

  Sir looks up and says proudly, “This is my son, Clint.”

  Karen turns to me. She looks physically fit from her figure. I imagine she works out at least three times a week. Her hair is down, just past her shoulders. Eyes are brown. Skin is olive. Too much makeup layered on. Dark shade of lipstick. Nothing about any of that gives me reason to believe she's going to last or that she should be considered special enough to sit at the table we never eat at.

  “Ma'am,” I politely nod at her.

  She struts over and shakes my hand, “It's nice to finally meet you.”

  I nod as Sir watches. His behavior is strange. He's never cared that much before if I approved of his conquests. Why should he start now? Quickly, he speaks up, “Is everyone hungry? Karen makes a mean potato casserole.”

  “Starving.” Haven tries to ease the tension, to move my body toward the table I won't be sitting at. I resist her. She doesn't know. I haven't told her why we don't eat there, but something tells me she gets it, even if she doesn't express it. Sweetly, she coos, “Um, Whiskey–”

  “Johnny.” He raises his eyebrows at her.

  “Did she really call you Whiskey?” Karen asks. “I've never heard anyone call you that.”

  Not a good sign if she's never heard him called that. That's what everyone in the neighborhood calls him, with the exception of me. It's like he's keeping parts of himself a secret, like he's hiding his life behind some mask instead of what he actually is. I feel my stomach ache in realization of our similarities. I've spent so much of my life trying to be nothing like him, yet somehow we’ve ended up more alike than I can stand.

  “Sorry.” Haven says slowly, trying to hide her own confusion. “Johnny, can we eat at the regular table?”

  I fight the urge to smile that she said it for me. I wouldn't have asked. My actions would have been to simply move my plate and Haven’s to where we eat, leaving them to their own devices across the room. There's structure and order in this house, even in the depths of distaste we have for one another.

  “Sure.” He seems relieved. So we have the table in common too. “Of course.” Karen appears annoyed based on the sounds I here. Sensing her resistance, Sir asks, “You don't mind, do you?”

  “There's so much more room at this table for all of us.” She taps her foot on the ground unhappily. The sound of her heavy wedge heel is as obnoxious as she is quickly becoming. “Besides, the bar table is so impersonal.”

  “Maybe,” Haven clutches my arm tighter. “But to us, it doesn't feel that way. This feels more like the family table.”

  Sir's face widens in surprise at the words. Rarely are we referred to as a family. Never by each other and less and less by those who've known us for any length of time. The word seems to spark something inside him. I try to refrain from letting my face react. Just because Haven says the words doesn't make them true.

  “Fine.” Karen’s hands toss in the air. “If we must.”

  Once her back is turned to grab items from the table, Sir nods in thanks, and I lean down, placing a soft kiss on the side of her forehead to show my gratitude. I rush over to help relocate the items from the table to the bar table, while Haven sits down, saving a seat beside her.

  Once we're settled, we begin a quiet meal together. Karen goes on and on about her job. Haven is sweetly social, asking questions that will keep Karen talking. Anything that keeps her focus from Haven and me is aces in my book. Occasionally, I catch Sir staring at me like he's seeking my approval. What does it matter if I approve of Karen or not?

  I haven't eaten much of her casserole, not necessarily from taste but a lack of appetite. Between Sir confusing me with why he cares what I think and getting the feeling that Karen is seeking to replace my mother, my stomach doesn't seem open to being filled. Like she's as tuned in to me as I am to her, Haven can sense something is wrong. She attempts to help by stroking my thigh gently. She's got my mind headed away from the problems of the dinner table and back to the ones of us in the bedroom. How can I get from this shady friends zone to last lover zone?

  “Wait, you never wanted kids?” Haven's confusion snaps me back into the conversation and away from wondering what she looks like naked.

  “Oh, God, no,” Karen shrugs, folding her hands in her lap. “That would be too much, way too much.”

  My head tilts at Sir. Normally, he dates women with kids so he can continue to pretend to parent something. Dating a woman who not only doesn't have any but flat out despises them is beyond abnormal. There's trying something different and then this nonsense.

  “Really?” I lean back.

  “Really,” she shrugs again.

  “Why not?”

  “There's something about the idea having to take care of someone like that around the clock that doesn't quite do it for me.”

  Confused, I remark, “But you're a nurse.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That's what you do for a living. You take care of people around the clock.”

  She shifts forward, elbows on the table, “It's different when you don't get a break from it.”

  “OK, but you said you were the oldest of five. You must've had plenty of practice with your brothers and sisters. Watching them grow up and help take part in it didn't inspire you to want your own?”

  “Quite the opposite in fact.” She meets me eye to eye.

  “I guess it's a good thing I'm all grown up then.”

  The comment makes Haven giggle in a nervous way and displeases Karen more, “Are you?”

  “Excuse me, ma'am?” The comment is followed by Sir freezing up.

  “I mean are you all grown up? Johnny, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to say something here.” Karen’s eyes never leave my face as she shoots her “apology” to Sir. “Forgive me for noticing, but you're twenty-one and still live at home with your father. You've got your girlfriend spending the night in your room like you're fresh out of high school. Shouldn't you be in your own apartment? Paying your own bills? Your own expenses? Living your own life?” The words fly out of her mouth relentlessly.

  As a Marine, I've dealt with many hostile situations, most of which deal with other countries’ strong distaste for Americans, America's beliefs, and other political bullshit, all of which I leave behind enemy lines where it belongs. Through all of that, I never imagined I’d have to deal with it spat in my face during shore leave. Not in my home. Yet, here it is occurring and not even by Sir. And while I despise him for so many reasons, we never heavily display the aggression we both harbor deep down. There's a difference here now that we haven’t dealt with before—the difference between this woman attacking me now versus a couple weeks ago. Weeks ago, what she just said would've been background noise, taken as a poor training mission to rattle me. It would've rolled off my shoulders never to be thought of again, but now, I can't seem to do that. This is the goddamn problem with having emotions. You can't just feel the good ones like the peace I get when Hav
en smiles or laughs. You have to relive the pain like I did yesterday talking about Leighyani's betrayal, like I did with the idea of sitting at the table being like spitting on my mother's grave, and now it's the realization that this perfect stranger is making her own conclusions about me with so little information. Everything about me out of her mouth is disapproving.

  Hatred writhes inside of me. The fact that my emotions are clouding my judgment is just adding fuel to the fire of my annoyance. What if I can't turn this shit off when I get to work? What if I'm permanently stuck being a fucking basket case in my own mind? This is the kind of shit that puts yourself and others in danger out in the field. I guess the worst part isn't even the fact that Sir's current assistant in the jack off department is judging me but what her accusations mean to Haven. Will Haven’s view of me change? Does she now think of me as a fragile child too afraid or too stupid to leave the nest? Does she think I'm weak? Too weak to care for her?

  I swallow the anxiety and meet Sir's eyes, “Sir, may I please be excused?”

  Stunned, he nods, folding his hands on the table, “Yes.”

  “And what kind of son calls his own father Sir?” she continues, shaking her head as her wine glass travels to her lips. “It's like he's not even yours.”

  My body relocates itself to the garage for a moment of clarity. I’d love for Haven to come after me, but at the same time, I'm relieved she didn't. To inhale air not tainted with loathing for me settles me some. As much as I’d like to go for a run or hit the gym, neither of those seems like the best idea right now. I can't imagine bailing on Haven like that, or worse, leaving her to deal with that Table Nazi Sir is calling his girlfriend for an extended amount of time.

  I grab a towel from the workbench drawer and settle myself next to the front wheel of one of the only escapes left in the house, my mom's Harley. A classic, restored beauty. Elegant and timeless just like her memory. I plop down beside it and begin polishing in slow circles the way she taught me.

  “Think of it like a lady,” she exclaims, eyeing the seat with a smile. “You have to be patient.”

  “Patient.”

  “Gentle.”

  I repeat so she knows I'm listening, “Gentle.”

  “Forgiving. Understanding.”

  The comparison to girls doesn't register to me. After all, they're just girls. Someone to cheer for me during the game and dance with when the time comes. Kiss them if I feel like it, or ignore them if I don't. I don't always get them. Why is everything such a big deal with them? Why do girls cry so much? Does that ever stop?

  “Like women, hogs are unique. No two are ever the same.” She straddles the seat and touches the handles, smirking. And why are you only supposed to be with one girl? I mean, if no two are the same, shouldn't you have lots of girls? This conversation is confusing me.

  In a whine, I ask, “When are we going for a ride?”

  She rubs the towel in circular motions across one of the mirrors. “Remember circles, Slugger, always slow and perfect circles.”

  I whine again, “Mom, when are we going for a ride?”

  “Your father says you're too young.”

  He's always trying to ruin our fun, our lives. Mom says he's just overprotective of the things he loves. I think he's just forgotten how to live. How to enjoy life. Another reason never to join the military. Yep, pro ball player only.

  “So what's not too young?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “That's six years!”

  “And like the right woman, it's worth the wait.”

  I wish she would stop comparing the two. It's just giving me a headache.

  She smirks, and I roll my eyes. “These are life facts, Slugger. Write 'em down.”

  With a grumble, I kick at the concrete floor with my toe. “I'm not writing that down, Mom.”

  With a chuckle, I shake my head, the realization I'm no longer alone taking my senses a minute to register. Just her presence in the room shifts the vibe entirely. How does she do that? She says nothing, and neither do I. I know what she wants to know. I shouldn't force her to ask. She's already done so much for me tonight.

  “She's wrong, you know.” I stare at my own reflection in the polished metal. “I would've left and never looked back if it were up to me. Sir said it was a waste of my hard-earned income. That I’d just be throwing money away at a place I would only be at a couple times a year. Stressed that I should save up until I really needed my own place.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Yeah, but it was a lie.” I turn to face her. “And so was when Sir said that it would be like me turning my back on the people we owed so much to.”

  “What was it really then?”

  “I think he didn't wanna lose the only part of my mother he had left.” The look on her face is warm and soft, like she can relate. “And as much as I feel I don't owe Sir anything, I guess part of me thinks I owe him that much. He gave up being in the military to be with me. I gave up leaving home for him. Debt repaid.”

  Haven crosses over to me, and I rise to my feet. Her small frame that smells of cherry and soap tries to swallow me up by placing her arms around my waist. She nestles into my chest, and I allow my arms to fall around her body, cradling her . . . this moment . . . us.

  Soon after she can feel I've relaxed, she pulls away, “You ride?”

  “Do I or can I?”

  “Can you?”

  “I can. Learned at eighteen. After that whole Leighyani deal, I convinced a few buddies of mine to do a couple city rides.”

  “On this?” She strolls over and gently touches the handlebar.

  “No. No. Old girl here doesn't see much action. I keep her polished. Change her oil. Change her fuel. Make sure her vitals are intact. I start her, but I don't ride her.”

  Haven straddles the seat, hands now settling on the bike, creating a very vivid picture. Re-instilling some very strong emotions. I'm not sure I can handle another uproar of feelings, even if they are good ones. “Why not?”

  I’ve asked myself that very question several times. Maybe because I was still waiting for Mom and that magical ride. Maybe because, unlike everything else in the house Sir got rid of that was hers, this never came into question. Maybe because it meant so much to her that I didn't want to disappoint her. Or maybe, just maybe, because she was right when she said it's like the right woman. It's worth the wait.

  “Ever been?” I ask.

  “Riding on a motorcycle?” Her hands fall off the bars. She shakes her head, “No. Wow. Me? No. No.” Still shaking her head, she huffs, “No. My dad had a friend that owned one. Mitchell Brown. The one time I asked if I could have him take me on a ride, my mom almost had a heart attack.” I stifle a chuckle. “Mom said, 'No way, Haven. You're only fourteen!' And Dad countered with 'When you're eighteen and make your own choices, then sure. Sure, you can ride.'”

  I take a couple steps backwards and lean over to let the garage door up. The cool air hits us both, and I declare, “Let's go.”

  “Wait. No. I mean . . . But you just said–”

  “I know,” I grab the helmets from the top of the bench where the towel hangs. Handing her my mom's old helmet, still as shiny as the day she bought it, I grin, “It's been worth the wait.”

  Haven beams, nervous and excited as I grab the keys from the shelf as well. While she tucks herself safely away, I stare at the small photo key chain and nod. You were right, Mom, definitely worth the wait.

  The two of us head out of the neighborhood, Haven’s arms clutched tightly around me, trusting her life in my hands once more. There is something unexplainable yet phenomenal about knowing that the person you love more than yourself trusts you in that way. It's like getting the best birthday present of your life, every day. I cruise us around the community, passing houses twice the size of ours and twice the price, out toward a small, paved back road. Between the hum of the bike and the pressure of her body against me, I feel like I'm at the gates of heaven, choirs of angels watching
through the golden fences, their energy pouring straight through, encompassing me so tight I almost can't breathe. And it's amazing.

  Finally, I pull off the road and park, unwrapping her from me. Placing our helmets on the bike, I lead her down a small, rock path, our vision crossing rows of wild flowers, blooming even though the last days of summer have forsaken them.

  Before Haven says anything, I sit down and pull her to settle between my legs, back against my chest, my arms wrapped around her waist, and my head on her shoulder. Just breathing her in soothes any havoc that pumps through my veins to an undeniable halt. God, what was life before her?

  Leaning back into me she asks, “Why'd you bring me here?”

  My eyes close, feeling ease from the vibration of her chest buzzing with every word she says. With a deep exhale, I say, “When I was younger, there were times I would get so angry it seemed like I was inconsolable, and she would bring me here. Right here to this spot, right next to this pond, wrap her arms around me and not say a word. At first, it would make me angrier, but there was something about being wrapped up with her that put me at an inexplicable peace.” I can feel Haven's smile against my cheek. “I haven't felt that way since. Until you.”

  A soft pair of lips presses against my cheek, and I hug her tighter. The croon of the nighttime bugs is accompanied by the gentle sound of fish splashing around beside us.

  Suddenly she speaks, “Wanna know why I love sunflowers?”

  I open my eyes and see the bright flowers in the distance. “Of course.”

  “When I was with Old Man Banks,” I have a feeling this is going to make me wish Sir has made more progress than he actually has, “he kept me in this tiny room underneath his house. There was one small window, one glimpse of what the outside world looked like, and through it were rows of yellow sunflowers. And every morning when the sun would touch them, I told myself God put them there to remind me one day I would get out. That he put them there so I would know he hadn't forgotten me in this pit of hell I somehow managed to fall into. I thought of them like a sacred, unspoken promise between me and the grace I knew would help me escape. Almost four years, Banks held me down there.”