by Eddie Jones
“Then, boys and girls, I’d say it was a good day’s work on behalf of the American taxpayers.”
“Weekend, Mr. President,” said Tommy, correcting him.
“I was speaking metaphorical, Tim. If you’re gonna be in the White House, you need to pick up on my nuances.” He turned to the others at the table. “So everyone’s safe and sound?”
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff flicked off his laser pointer and the flattened map of the globe went dark. “It would appear so.”
“And here I’ve wasted all this time with you clowns when I could’ve been watching the ‘Skins’s game. Class dismissed!”
****
From beneath starched sheets on a bed in the Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Special Agent Anna Fortune awoke from a drug-induced sleep.
Her ex-boss was sitting in a green chair beside her bed, rimless glasses perched on his nose. Tommy thumbed through the sports section of a prominent Washington newspaper now in receivership.
Anna’s gaze settled onto the headline above the fold. “The Redskins won?”
“In overtime. Ran the old fumble rookie play. The offensive line, quarterback and halfback all went left. Defense took the bait and the ‘Skins’ left tackle stayed home, picked up the ball and rumbled nine yards for the touchdown. How you feeling?”
“Like someone drove an ice pick into my chest.”
“That’s the broken ribs. Doctor said you were lucky to be alive. That if the fractured bone had moved just a hair it would have nicked an artery. Martinez must’ve thumped you pretty good.”
She struggled to recall the scuffle in the sub.
“If it gets too bad just squeeze that button clipped to your finger. It’s a morphine drip.”
She looked at the thick gauze bandages wrapped around her knuckles. Next to her hand, hanging over the bed rail, was the front page of the paper. The top half of the section showed a grainy picture of a flattened island. Trees down, stone foundation of a sea wall covered in mud and debris. In the background, resting beside a long concrete dock was the partially buried hull of the Wicked Witch.
“Is he OK?”
Her boss looked down, picking dog hair from his dark gray slacks. “The boys from Delta Team got there as fast as they could, but things were pretty chaotic, what with our destroyers jostling with the Cuban navy and our helos dropping Navy S.E.A.L.S into the water. I’m sorry, Anna. We did the best we could.”
She glanced away, looking out the window towards a parking deck where a construction worker stood on a scaffold, plastering a cement wall with tan stucco. From that far away, the hose looked as if it were spewing mud. A single tear trickled down her cheek.
Her gaze settled on the sidebar headline next to the front page article. “He’s to be buried in Arlington National Cemetery?”
“In absentia. He was a vet, even if he never shot anybody. The President wasn’t too happy about having to skip the Belgian summit, but he’s flying back for the ceremony. If you’re feeling up to it, he wants you to sit next to him.”
She couldn’t imagine why anyone would go to all that trouble for a toilet paper salesman. Maybe she’d misjudged Sonny.
Anna said, “The President? Really?”
“Politically it might not make sense. The smart thing to do is stay as far away from this story as possible. But the President knows how close you two were so he’s willing to take a hit in the polls and show support.”
Her ex-boss’s cell phone buzzed. He looked at the display. “Speaking of the President, I have to take this call.”
The drone of hallway noised faded as the door closed, and she felt herself beginning to break.
She tried to block out the image of Sonny’s whimsical grin and laughing eyes, his long, loping gait and the way he would, at odd times, look upon her with a tenderness that cut straight into her soul. Her shoulders quaked. She cinched her eyes shut as she tried to stop the tears and dampen the ache in her heart, but she couldn’t. She punched the button, dispensing more medication. And still the tears came until she could no longer feel the wetness, or the button, or the throbbing ache in her chest. Her boss’s voice brought her back from the edge of sleep.
“That was the White House. The President has asked the members of the Army’s 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment to bear his flag-draped casket during the funeral procession. They’re going to bury him near the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. There’ll be horses and caissons, the whole deal. The honor guard will make a nice touch.
“I told them I wasn’t sure if you would be released by then, but Thursday is the only day that works for the President. He’s flying to Brussels right after the ceremony. Thanks to you, this meeting on nuclear disarmament is the first chance we’ve had in a long time at lasting world peace.”
She wanted to lift her head and ask for more details but all she could get out was, “Umm... honor guard? For a paper salesman?” Her words sounded slurred and far away.
Her ex-boss chuckled and patted her hand. “Must be the drugs talking. The funeral is for your friend, Congressman Bill Boggs. I assume you’ll…”
But before he could finish, the narcotics shuttered her eyes.
39
On a warm afternoon in early October, in a little cove tucked deep in the Exuma Islands, a black schooner tugged on its anchor rope making a lazy half-circle turn. Anna watched the Miss Fortune from a rusty beach chair parked near the high tide line. The sun warmed her face, forcing rivulets of sweat to erupt on her forehead.
A few hundred yards up the beach, a shirtless boy with dreadlocks cranked a wooden handle, slowly turning a wild boar over the fire pit. Hoofs up, haunch down, the swine’s glossy brown meat dripped, causing the embers to pop and sizzle. The aroma of the marinade sauce and burning wood hung over the harbor, luring tanned cruisers ashore.
Enjoying a moment of contentment, Anna eyed her yacht among the fleet of sailboats and motor yachts. She did not want to move from this chair, or this beach, or these islands for a very long time.
Above her schooner, a seaplane came winging in low. The aircraft banked sharply, gliding over a green forest of banana trees and skipping across the water, its white belly leaving a broad wake on the turquoise sea. The dull roar of the spinning propellers merged with the sound of surf, growing louder as the aircraft taxied toward the beach. Within moments, the pilot killed the engines. An anchor splashed. The ugly metal bird waddled onto a pair of yellow pontoons while a crew member pushed open an exit door.
The flight attendant stepped back and Anna saw Joe, his hand shielding his eyes as he scanned the harbor and beach. His black tank top rode up his chest, exposing the elastic waistband of crimson surf trunks. Behind him was the woman from the kitchen cooler, Boggs’s speech writer.
Anna waved.
Joe pointed—first at Anna, then at the Miss Fortune, motioning to his date where they would be staying for the next few weeks.
Near the barbeque pit, a yellow skiff backed away from a rickety pier and sped toward the seaplane. When it pulled alongside the fuselage, Joe tossed the skipper his bag and backed down the boarding ladder, holding the launch close to the pontoon for his girlfriend. She wore a white sleeveless blouse, ruby red shorts and sandals. Joe helped her into the skiff.
An elderly black man in a white seersucker suit stepped from the boat. He carried a Bible in one hand; with the other, he held the handrail of the boarding ladder. When the passengers were safely seated, the skiff backed away from the pontoon. The black man entered the aircraft and the door closed behind him.
The skiff’s outboard motor throttled down. Anna peeked through heavy lids and saw Joe sitting on a bench seat, his arm around the woman’s shoulders, her unfurled curls flying off her shoulders. How he, of all people, had been able to bag the former Miss Minnesota, Anna would never know.
The boat docked; the pair climbed out and started up the beach towards her. Anna reclined, listening as the sound of waves crashed onto the reef. The hum of the seaplane’s
propellers purred. Yes, it’ll be fine, she thought, imagining herself on the boat with Joe and Miss Minnesota. It has to be.
Over the drone of the seaplane’s turbine engines, an outboard coughed and sputtered. She peeked. Bending over her dinghy’s transom, a man stood, wearing faded orange surf trunks, no shirt and a wide Panama hat with the cord dangling under his chin. The long days of diving, beach walking and surfing had slimmed him down nicely, turning the soft rolls into muscle. Another pull and the outboard hiccupped to life. He throttled up and sped toward her, leaning into the wind like a Lab riding in the back of a pickup.
Swimmers yelled at the skipper of her inflatable; he appeared not to hear them as he raced through a flotilla of inner tubes, blow-up air mattresses and foam noodles. He punched the dinghy onto the beach, stalling out the motor. Carrying a portable cooler up the beach, he dropped onto the sand, slid open the cover and thrust his hand in, rattling ice.
Pressing the cold can against Anna’s neck, Sonny asked, “Need a drink?”
The chilled container felt good against her skin. “No, just you.” She stroked the back of his wrist with her thumb. Lifting his hand she kissed his knuckles and turned his palm over, examining the pink, button-small scar stamped in the deep brown of his hand. “I’d say your gunshot wound is healing nicely, Mr. Cay.”
“I give all the credit to my nurse. I told her not to bother, but she insisted on loving me to death.”
Anna massaged the pad of his palm. “There are worse ways to go.”
“Tell me about it. I don’t think they’ll ever find your boy, Martinez.”
“Can’t believe you flushed him out of that torpedo tube.”
“Man shoots me at point blank range, he has to know I’m coming for him.” Sonny pressed his thumb on her shoulder and slipped under the strap of her bathing suit. “You need more sunscreen.”
“And you need a shirt.” She brushed his hand away. “What if you’d gotten stuck?”
“Umm?”
Anna tugged at her top, pulling it up. “In the torpedo silo.”
“Oh, that. Knew I’d make it. Held my breath a lot longer than that when I was waiting for the barracuda to swim away.” He took a long pull from the can.
She touched the side of his cheek with the back of her hand. “You need to shave.”
“Been thinking I might not. Just go with this scruffy pirate look.”
“But your whiskers, they’re gray.”
“You worried about being seen with an old man?”
“I should be so lucky.”
Sonny took another long draw and, waiting until the couple was within shouting distance, called to Joe.
The skinny friend stopped and looked back as if there were more than one on the beach. The thought of Joe and Sonny sailing together on her boat made Anna’s head hurt.
Joe dumped his duffle bag on the sand and eyed the cans in the cooler. “Those for us?” Before Sonny could answer, Joe snagged two from the ice. “You remember Ingrid, don’t ya?”
“How’s the speech writing business these days?” Sonny asked.
“Busy,” she said, taking a long pull. “You wouldn’t believe what putting a positive spin on the lies and distortions of a dead presidential candidate can do for a career. I’ve got an assistant now who does nothing but field calls from prospective clients wanting to make a run for office.”
“Did you bring it?” Sonny asked.
Joe picked at a wad of tar stuck between his toes. “What?”
“You know.”
Joe planted his can in the sand and began rummaging through his duffle bag, pulling out Speedo swim briefs, white tube socks, Paisley shorts, bottles of generic-brand sun screen, a tube of zinc oxide and a clear jelly jar filled with candy.
Sonny inspected the jar, turning it around so he could see each one of the Hershey’s Kisses.
“Oh, this ought to be rich,” said Anna.
Sounding disappointed, Sonny said, “Don’t see it.”
“Trust me, it’s in there. Ingrid, what say you and me take a walk. That pig smells about done.”
“But I just sat down,” she whined.
“Come on,” said Joe, pulling her up. “I’ll buy you one of those fruity drinks with an umbrella in it.”
“Wait,” said Anna. “Any word on Will and Betsy?”
“Got a text from him in the airport before we left,” Joe replied. “They bought a house in New Jersey. Said it was more than they could afford, but they got a good deal on a foreclosure.”
“That’s nice. So they finally landed that recording deal?”
“Gave up on that dream. He took a job at an investment firm selling dirigibles.”
“I think you mean derivatives,” said the speech writer. “Dirigible is a blimp.”
Joe winked at Sonny. “Smart and pretty. Am I lucky or what? Shame the campaign tanked like it did. You would have made a great press secretary.”
“Hard to win an election when you’re candidate is dead,” Ingrid countered.
“Let’s go,” said Joe, tugging Ingrid along. “And leave these two love birds to sort out their future.”
“But I want to watch,” protested Ingrid.
Joe glanced hopefully at his best friend.
“It’s OK with me,” said Sonny. “I’m dying to hear what she’ll say.”
“Speaking of dying, shouldn’t you be dead by now?” Joe said.
“Turns out I don’t have cancer. Naval hospital in Key West insisted on doing a full workup. I kept telling them not to bother, that I’d accepted my fate. They should, too. But the doc kept poking and cutting until he gave me a clean bill of health.”
“So the cancer,” said Joe, looking confused. “It just vanished?”
Sonny grinned. “Remember how I told you that young doctor at the VA hospital kept calling me ‘Mr. Kaye’ instead of ‘Mr. Cay?’ Turns out he had the wrong chart. There really was a Mr. Kaye. Only he served in Patton’s third army. The guy is like ancient. Staff got our charts mixed up.”
“It’s a miracle!” screamed the speech writer.
“Or just another example of a broken health care system,” groused Sonny.
Anna stiffened. “You don’t think this as an answered prayer?”
“Hadn’t really thought about it until the past few days. Fact is I never asked God for anything except you.”
“And here I am.”
“So you are.”
“Maybe it was me doing the asking. Pleading with God to cure you. Ever think about that?”
“I suppose.”
“You suppose? You Suppose!”
“Look, maybe you prayed and God healed me. Or maybe you prayed and I never was sick. Only thing that matters is that I love you. And Someone—OK God—did something to bring us together. I could have died. Should’ve, even without the cancer. I’ve certainly done enough stupid stuff the past few days. But I didn’t. Is that providence? Is that His protection? Sure, I have to say yes. I’d be a fool not to. But understand, Anna, I’m still struggling to understand this faith thing. I mean, why us? Why now? Why not save a child in Haiti instead of me? Is there a God? I can’t look at the stars or the beauty of these islands and not believe that Someone smarter than me designed it all. Designed us, too. You used to remind me we’re created in His image so we could have a relationship with Him. But why would God want to do that? I’m just a toilet paper salesman.”
“Are you kidding me? For the same reason I would. Because He loves you.”
“See, you never waver, never doubt. After everything that’s happened, sure I can stand here and say, yeah, I believe there’s a God, and yeah I believe He saved my lousy hide—can even thank Him for it, too—I just don’t get why.”
“Look, you loved your boys, right? Would do anything for them? Whether they deserved it, or not.”
“Absolutely. I’d give anything to have them back.”
“That’s God. That’s His unconditional love. The difference is, He can a
nd does bring us back from the dead because that’s where we are apart from Him, spiritually dead. Sometimes He does this through our pain, other times through beauty. But His purpose is always the same, to draw us to Him. Isn’t that what you were trying to do with me? With the Kisses, and this trip? Your fingerprints are all over this adventure. And I can see His hand on you, too.”
“Well, I know one thing. This isn’t the way I planned for us to get back together and yet it worked out, so I believe I had some pretty powerful help. Speaking of help, why don’t you help yourself to one of these candies?” He rattled the jar and poured a single Kiss into his palm. “Try this one.”
“Maybe later,” said Anna.
“Please. For me.”
She eyed the red foil wrapper.
“Poor Mr. Kaye.”
“Give it a rest, Joe. The guy was like ninety.”
“And probably hoping to live to ninety-one.”
“That’s what I love about him,” said Ingrid. “He’s so caring. So compassionate.”
Sonny dangled the candy by its paper tail. “Come on, just one, please?”
Giving him a curious look, she slowly peeled away the foil, licking chocolate from her fingers until her eyes widened. There, coated in gooey chocolate was the glitter of a gold band and sparkle of small diamond.
“Anna Fortune, will you marry me?”
Click.
Ingrid’s disposable camera flashed.
Anna opened her mouth, but said nothing. She wanted to say yes, to be his forever girl, but with Sonny who knew how long forever would be.
As if sensing her fears, Sonny slipped the ring on her finger. “There are no guarantees. Never have been. It’s just me and you and my promise in front of God and all these witnesses to be here for you as long as I can. We have today. Let’s live as if that’s enough. I’m tired of loving you during the day and leaving at night. That cottage on the beach is some kind of hot when there’s no breeze. We’ve waited too long, lost too much time. I want us to sail into the sunset and build houses for orphans, finish each other’s sentences and argue like old people who’ve been married too long. We can’t do any of that, though, until you say ‘yes.’”
