Havoc

by Angie Merriam

  “Sounds good.” I try to change the subject, “And what's going on with you? How many girls you sent to the clinic since we last spoke?”

  “The normal.” He has another gulp of his beer. “Four or five. Nothing special.”

  Disgusted at the amount of women he cycles through without even thinking about them, I drink from my own beer. “They're gonna name an STD after you one of these days.”

  “I hope they call it Glove. 'Sorry, Miss, but you've got the Glove. Can be cured with a simple shot of pleasure from him.'”

  “Or penicillin,” I joke. Lordy laughs, and I ask, “Other than driving his one nights to the doctor, what's new with you?”

  “Nothing really. An old friend called me the other day. Asked to come visit while I'm on leave.” The way he says friend I know who he's referencing. Her. The girl in the photo. What he thought was his own Haven.

  “Yeah?” I prod, “And?”

  He shrugs, “I don't know.”

  Lordy's eyes are searching for advice from me, me of all people. If this situation would've occurred months ago, I would've told him I didn't give a shit and let it roll off my shoulders. But now, I get what he's feeling. His love left. Broke his heart. Mine almost died. In a way, we're closer now than we've ever been, and if we don't tiptoe around this carefully, Glove will throw a tantrum.

  “Well, if this friend's really worth it, bring 'em down. If not, fuck it. They'll see you whenever you decide to go back. If you ever do.” Translation: If you really love her and you think that the right thing is a second chance, go ahead and invite her down, otherwise let her go and move on. Strange how it sounds one way but means another. Call it code necessary to keep Glove content.

  Lordy nods at me in thanks for the advice, and Glove draws the attention back to himself, “I think I want a new tat.”

  “Me too,” I finish my beer, the only one I'm going to have.

  “I'm thinking maybe something patriotic.”

  “A condom wrapper isn't really patriotic,” I argue, making Lordy snicker.

  “And you?” The words lightly trail out before he ends his beer’s existence.

  “Uh.” I scratch the back of my neck, looking down, unsure if I want to admit it out loud. “I kind of want my girl's name.”

  Both Lordy and Glove make panicked faces. They stay in stunned status until I clear my throat in an effort to move through the episode that’s about to come.

  “I'm sorry, Grim. I think I was hallucinating.” Glove shakes his head. “I thought I heard you say you wanted your girlfriend's name tattooed permanently on your body.”

  “I did.”

  “That's really a dumb idea,” Glove says with a straight face.

  I raise my eyebrows and tilt my head to the side sarcastically. I do not believe I'm going to let him of all people stare me in the face and call me stupid. This feels like a bad dream sequence, one that, I might add, would end up with me punching him in the face so he fell backwards.

  “That's beyond a dumb idea,” Lordy backs him up.

  “Coming from the two of you?”

  “What's that supposed to mean?” Glove raises his empty bottle, I can tell, in desperate need of another.

  “I'm just saying you have no room to lecture me about dumb ideas.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “You once got highlights in your hair because a girl told you Lance Bass was her favorite member of NSYNC.” The incident of having to come to his aid floods back to me.

  “That wasn't that stupid.”

  “You tried to die your pubes so 'the curtains would match the drapes.'” The insult reminder makes Lordy chuckle like he's never done anything dumb over a female. “And you.” I turn to him. “You once entered a beer drinking competition to impress a girl from Germany and ended up with alcohol poisoning. You didn't even get her number. She went home with the host that night.”

  The recollection causes Lordy to stop and Glove to grunt, “I need another beer.”

  “Me too,” Lordy agrees, and they reenter the apartment.

  Standing up, I follow them inside, shutting the door behind me. “It's not a dumb idea. I think it's a great idea. Everything that matters most to me is tatted on my body, so why should this be any different?”

  “It's like you love the girl.” Glove's words are followed by Lordy downing some of his beer, knowing that's the truth.

  “I do love her.”

  Glove nearly drops his beer bottle. Thankfully, he places it down on the counter instead, “What?”

  “I love her, Glove.”

  “How the fuck can you love her? You barely know her!”

  The thought of Haven seeps into my mind. In some ways, I can get how he doesn't understand, particularly since he's never experienced anything close to a mature relationship, but at the same time, I really do know her. And she knows things about me that sometimes I'm not even sure I know about myself.

  “I know her.”

  “What's her favorite color then?” Glove pops the top off his beer.

  “Yellow.”

  “Favorite food?”

  “Cupcakes.”

  “Favorite book?”

  “Pride and Prejudice.”

  “Favorite movie?”

  “Gremlins.”

  “The first one?” Lordy plops down on their old, worn-out leather sofa as I sit in the matching chair beside it.

  “Yeah.”

  “At least it's a good one,” Lordy's effort on my side further infuriates Glove.

  “What does she look like without makeup, huh? Does she snore? What's her bra size?”

  “She looks like an angel. She snores only after a hard day. And I wouldn't tell you her bra size on your death bed as your last dying wish.” Glove smirks. “Look, I'm not playing Trivial Pursuit with you over my girlfriend.”

  “But how do you know if you really love her if we haven't even met her yet?” Glove's question causes my mind to stir. For the first time in the history of our friendship, he has a semi valid point. I don't actually care if they like her or not. It would never change my feelings about her. She killed a man, and my feelings didn't sway. I can't imagine her being repulsed by these morons would do any damage, but they are a part of my life. A strong part. Stronger than I care to admit to myself most of the time. And at first, I didn't want Haven to know anything about me other than I could protect her, that I want to be there for her, but now . . . After she almost died, I want her to know everything about me. If she can handle Slugger and love Clint, then she deserves to know Grim as well. Unfortunately, that means exposing these extensions of myself.

  I shrug. “You'll meet her soon.”

  Suddenly, we're all silent. I can imagine what they're thinking, but it doesn't matter to me. At that moment, Glove walks from the kitchen toward me, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching his beer for dear life.

  A look of betrayal is on his face, “Hey, where are your tags?”

  I scratch the back of my neck again, silent.

  “It's like we don't even know you.” Glove speaks like I'm a traitor.

  “You're being a bit dramatic, even for you,” I reply.

  “Back me up, Lordy!” Glove demands, sitting beside him. “First a tattoo, then love, and now your tags! What's wrong with you? You're acting like you're going to marry this woman!”

  Hm. Marriage isn't exactly what I had been thinking about, but now that he said it, it all makes sense. That dreams I’ve had all have been with the two of us married, together on a permanent basis, even in the more restless ones. I need her in a way no one can take her away from me. I guess that's all I really want. And I guess that's the way to make it happen.

  “You are not thinking marriage!” Lordy snaps me out of the thought.

  “I'm . . . thinking I have to go. Taking her to a ball game tonight.” I head toward the front door.

  Nodding, Glove leans back, “Fine, run off, Grim. Puss out like usual. But just wait a bit for the tat, OK?�
�� I open the door to let myself out when he follows up, “And don't dye your hair either!”

  “Later guys.” My words are cut off by the shutting of the door.

  Thankful I'm home alone, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my closet doors. Marriage. It's a word I never thought would be in my vocabulary. I never thought it was for me. The institution itself isn't bizarre or even something that's not fathomable for a normal human being, but me? The Grim Reaper. I kill for a living. I don't over think. I don't over analyze. I just do. My goal has always been to make it from one deployment to the next in the least amount of time to get closer to death, to enjoy its scent, slap its hand, put it back in its place until it comes for my remains. But with Haven in my life, that's not what I want. I mean, serving my country and staying loyal to it will never change, but she makes me have a reason to come home, to disconnect from the constant games with death. To have a reason to smile. To enjoy the little things. To just take a moment and breathe. She eases the constant havoc inside.

  I launch off the bed, open the closet door, and pull out the tote. With a lift of the lid, I pull out my mother's old jewelry box and open it. My eyes search through the jewelry, almost immediately locating the most important item in it—her diamond wedding ring.

  “Why's it so big?” I climb onto the kitchen table, using it like a seat, knowing how much she hates when I do, but I can't stop from doing it anyway.

  “It's just the one Dad picked,” she insists, rinsing off another dish.

  “The bigger it is, the more he loves you?”

  She chuckles under her breath, tossing her head back. I love when she does that. She looks like the old black-and-white movie stars she and Dad watch when he's home. “No, Slugger. If that were true, he would've bought me one the size of the moon.”

  “The moon?”

  “Or the sun,” she exclaims. “Rings aren't about the size. They're about the loyalty and love you put into them.”

  “Clint, do you know if Haven washed my gray-and-white pinstripe shirt?” Sir's voice pierces my room and my thoughts. At the sight in my hands, his jaw opens, and he looks dumbfounded. “Where'd you get that?”

  I don't answer.

  “Clint, where'd you get that?”

  “Mom's jewelry box, Sir.”

  My eyes watch Sir's movements. They are few. Very select. His breathing pattern has slowed down severely. His gray eyes are narrowing in on the ring in my hand. He's livid.

  “You have no business having that.”

  “With all due respect, Sir, you told me I could have anything from the boxes.”

  “Not her ring!”

  “It was in the boxes, Sir.”

  “Clint, I was looking everywhere for that.”

  “To sell it, Sir. I remember.” I place the ring back inside box and shut it. “And it wasn't yours to sell, Sir.”

  “I picked it out! I bought it!”

  “And gave it to her, making it hers, Sir. You informed me I could have whatever I wanted, Sir, so I took it.” I rise to my feet, standing my ground. My body takes its natural military stance. “When you wanted to sell it, it was no longer yours to sell, Sir.”

  Frustrated, he growls, “Why are you gawking at it? Are you thinking about selling it yourself?”

  “I would never sell her things, Sir. Not even if I was starving to death. Especially not her wedding ring.”

  “Then what were you gonna do with it?” He repeats the question, the pressure of the idea of marriage screaming in my brain to remain silent. I don't even know if I'm ready for this yet. It was just a thought. An idea. The ultimate path to happiness but still in idea form. “You can't possibly be thinking of marrying Haven.” I keep my lips shut. “You cannot.”

  “I heard you the first time, Sir.” I walk past, hoping that is the end of the conversation.

  “Hearing me and listening to me are two very different things, Clint.” His voice trails after me as I head into the kitchen in hopes of getting something to drink, an action taken to declare our discussion over. “You can't marry Haven.” Still getting no response from me, I reach the other side of the kitchen. “You barely know her!”

  My body shakes in anger. I've had enough! First the lectures from the jarheads, now the lectures from him. I can't handle any more lectures. Enough is enough.

  I snap around and point a finger at him, “Do not tell me that, Sir.”

  “It's the truth!”

  “It is not the fucking truth! I know more about her then you could possibly imagine. Do not sit and judge our relationship, Sir.”

  “Fine! You're too young, however, to be thinking about marriage.”

  “You know what, Sir? I'm an adult. In an adult relationship. If I choose to think about marriage or plan for it with Haven, then that is my business. If I want to give her a mood ring, a promise ring, a wedding ring, or Mom's wedding ring, then that is my decision.”

  “Goddamn it, Clint! I said–”

  “I wasn't asking.”

  “I'm your father!”

  “Today?” The word seems to have struck a chord within him. “Tomorrow? Are you my father only when it’s convenient for you?”

  “Clint–”

  Suddenly, it feels like my mind isn't willing to back down from this fight, this fight we've never had before but needed to. That's the thing about emotions. You can't just take the good ones. “Were you my father when I got jumped my freshman year? Beaten so badly I could barely see out of my right eye? How about the day I graduated? Were you my father the day I left to join the Marines?”

  Sounding hurt, he tries again, “Clint–”

  “What about when I was seven and gave my lunch money to Tommy Tillman because he couldn't afford food four out of five times a week? How about when I got six acceptance letters for college? Then?”

  His face is trembling. I should stop. I know I should. But, I can't.

  “Were you my father the day Mom died?”

  “That's not fair!”

  “Tell me, Sir!” My voice reaches an octave that forces the last of my lingering emotions to the surface. “Tell me why you didn't give a fuck then! Tell me why I should give a fuck now!”

  “Because I know what's best for you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then, tell me, Sir, how is it best to be without the one person you'd die for without orders?” His voice seems to be trapped in his throat. “Tell me, Sir, that if it were Mom, you wouldn't do the same goddamn thing.”

  “It's not the same, Clint.”

  “You would do the same thing.”

  Bringing Mom out into the open like we have for this argument isn't something I would normally do. For some reason, though, I can't help it. Between the stress of his judgments, my friends’ judgments, and the simple fact that all I want more than Mom to be here right now to explain to me that it's normal to be this crazy over another human, for her to tell me to follow my heart and my instincts, is for Haven to be nestled against my chest, pressed firmly against me, giving me the peace I severely need in this moment.

  “Ouch!” Haven's voice squeals. When did she get here? How long has she been here? Quickly, Sir and I both turn to look at her, seeing she stubbed her toe. “Didn't mean to interrupt.”

  “Haven,” I gasp, hustling to check for any damage. “Are you OK?”

  Embarrassed, she repeats, “I didn't mean to interrupt.”

  “It's OK. We were done.”

  Sir tries again, “Clint.”

  “Sir,” I sigh, my eyes falling deep into Haven’s. They are a swirling sweet brown, lit up from the sight of me alone. How can any one person be so pleased to see me? I push a strand of hair behind her ear. Immediate relief flushes over me. I tilt my head and say, “Done.” Perhaps for Haven’s sake, Sir stands down.

  Desperate for a closer touch, I wrap my fingers around hers, “I missed you.”

  Sweetly, she responds, “I missed you.”

  I wrap both my arms a
round her and squeeze. Thankfully, she wraps her arms around my neck and gently squeezes in return. The pain of the arguments, the pain of being the wayward son, the pain of the neglectful father, the pain of my mother's absence are all gone. Erased. How could I not want to marry this girl?

  She pulls away and turns to face him, “Hi, Whiskey.”

  Grabbing his keys off the counter, he smiles at her, comes over, and plants a kiss on her forehead. He swallows the pain down to his chest, which rises like it's filled with agony. “Have fun tonight, Haven.”

  His eyes lock with me, “Be careful.”

  The words aren't about where we're going tonight. It's about the choices I'm making in my life. My life.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Once the front door is shut, she withdraws from me completely. “Hey, Clint. What were you and Whiskey fighting about?”

  My face goes military strong. Now's not the time for that. Now's not the time to talk about marriage or past demons that are troubling me. Today is the day to enjoy a baseball game, to get her out to have some fun and enjoy the little things in life, while we still have time.

  “Nothing.” She pouts. I'll be the first to admit it's a hard look to fight. “Nothing.”

  As far as I'm concerned, it is nothing. Nothing matters right now but the two of us together.

  With a little pushing, eventually Haven changes, and we head to one of the last games of the season. It's not until we fall into our seats with hot dogs, nachos, popcorn, cotton candy, a large soda, and a small beer that I realize maybe we're overdoing it with the food a bit. But it's her first baseball game. I want this experience to be as special for her as possible.

  The sounds of the crowd are exhilarating. I can feel their excitement pumping through my veins. Their hope for a win is so strong it twists my heart. Contorts it out of the shape of normality it was beginning to take. Memories of a lifestyle that once was start sloshing around in my mixed-up head.

  I take a huge bite, hoping to distract myself. With a mouth full of hot dog, I ask, “Great seats, huh?”