by Eva Charles
“I have three brothers. Had three brothers. The youngest died in Iraq. No sisters.”
“What was your brother’s name?”
“Liam.”
“I’m sorry about Liam. War is a terrible thing. Not just for those deployed, but for those who are left behind to carry on, and to worry.” She’s wistful. “You made quick work of those snap beans. You ready for the blueberries?”
“I think I’m up for the challenge. Any tricks?”
“Afraid not.” She replaces the beans with two quarts of blueberries. “It’s tedious.”
“This is a lot of berries.”
“I’m making a big crisp. Smith likes to eat it for breakfast. He never asks for much, so I like to spoil him when I can.”
It’s true. I smile to myself. After his run and a protein shake, he scrounges for leftovers before he leaves for work.
“My mom died when I was thirty-five,” she says, with a touch of melancholy. “I was married with children, but it was still awful.”
Here it comes. I’m not sure what exactly, but—
“My dad remarried a few years later,” she continues, wiping up the counters as she talks. “To a woman named Alice. It was uncomfortable when he started bringing her around, but he had loved my mother deeply, and he was lonely. My sisters and I decided we were going to suck it up—to use a phrase my children are partial to.” She smiles. “What I love most about Alice is that she never tried to replace my mother. She let my sisters and me dictate the boundaries to a large extent, and we each have a wonderful relationship with her—but all different. She was wise from the start. Mother’s aren’t like trading cards. You don’t swap them out.” She sighs, drying her hands. “How do those berries look?”
She just sent a message, in her own roundabout way, which is interesting because her interactions with Smith and her husband are very direct. But I appreciate it, because I don’t have a heart-to-heart in me right now, or the fortitude to deal with direct. “The berries are plump and juicy,” I respond with a grateful smile. “They’re almost destemmed.”
“Give them a quick rinse when you’re done.”
She looks out the kitchen window. “He’s already back with the ice cream. That didn’t take long. I hope you’ve got some errands to keep him busy. I don’t care how many presidents he’s advised, when he’s sitting around with nothing to do, he’s a pain in the ass.”
I laugh. There might be plenty of people who have taken orders from General Sinclair over the years, but I suspect this woman, standing right here, isn’t one of them.
“I don’t. But maybe Smith has something to keep him busy.”
“Now that would be interesting,” she says.
50
Kate
I go down to the kitchen to find Smith’s dad sipping coffee. “Good morning,” I say, glancing at the toolbox at his feet.
“Good morning.”
“Smith out for a run?”
He nods. “I noticed last night that this faucet leaks. I didn’t mean to interrupt your solitude.”
“My guess is I interrupted yours.” The corner of his mouth twitches as he takes another sip. “Can I make you some breakfast?”
“I’ve already had breakfast, but how about if I get you something? I make a mean omelet.”
He says it with such zeal that I laugh. “No, thank you. Just coffee for me.”
It’s quiet while I pour cream into my coffee. Almost too quiet. “What are your plans for today?” I ask, as he organizes some tools at the base of the sink.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and the quiet vibrates in the room.
“Kate, bring your coffee and keep me company for a minute,” he says on his way to the kitchen table.
I don’t want to keep him company, but I follow his directions, because he didn’t mean, if you feel like it. He meant, get over here and sit your ass down.
Smith might have his mother’s eyes, but he has his father’s strong jaw and his build.
“I’m not what you call a big sharer,” he begins. “I mean, I’d share my last drop of water with a thirsty man or my last bite of food. Unless it was chocolate cake, then all bets are off.” He smiles, and I smile back—his is wistful and mine is nerves.
“But I don’t share my feelings. I’m a private man. Especially about things that happened while in combat.”
I glance at him. He’s clutching the coffee mug between his hands. “But there’s something that happened to me when I was a young soldier that I think you need to hear.”
His tone is serious, and although I don’t know exactly what to expect, I suspect it’s not a heart-warming story about teaching Iraqi children how to play soccer in an empty field.
“When I was a young captain, a mission I was on went bad. I was captured. Held for a month before they found me, and longer before I could be extricated safely.” He peers into my eyes, seeing more than I want to show him.
“During that time,” he continues, “I was beaten, waterboarded, starved, left naked in a room with rats who fed off my open sores. I didn’t know day from night, and I was penetrated with objects by men who believed they were doing God’s work.”
Despite my numbness, I feel the trickle of a lone tear slide off my chin.
“I had a new bride, and a war to win, and a lifetime of shit to get done. Just like you. There’s nothing that you can tell me that I haven’t personally experienced, or that I haven’t heard before.”
We sit in silence for what feels like an eternity. “When you’re ready,” he says gently, sliding me a card with his contact information. “I’m a good listener.” He stands and starts toward the sink.
“I don’t remember everything,” I say with a wobbly voice. “Sometimes I think I don’t remember the details because they’re too painful—physically painful—to recall.”
General Sinclair comes back to the table and sits down quietly.
“I woke up chained to a bed in a cold room.” The story, everything I know, begins to pour out. It starts dispassionate, a bubbling brook, but the storm surges, until the flood of emotion breaches the barrier and the memories spill out.
The general sits calmly across from me. He offers a pressed handkerchief but doesn’t say a single word until I’ve gotten it all out.
“You did great, young lady,” he says after I’ve quieted. “You had one objective, and that was to stay alive. You did it, and the enemy has been defeated. You deserve not only a medal, but a promotion.”
“What if I had killed Smith? Why did he take that chance with his life?”
“Because he’s a good soldier. A natural leader. He was born with instincts some men never learn.”
I still don’t understand. What if I had shot him? It haunts my dreams.
“He could have taken out the enemy, but that would have left you always looking over your shoulder. Always wondering if you could take care of yourself. You must be pretty important to him.”
I sniffle.
“Can I touch you?” he asks, before taking my hand, just the way his son did. It’s clearly something they were taught about trauma victims. Only from him, it’s not so hard to hear.
I nod.
“Smith is up to this, Kate. He’s been in some bad places with some bad people. What you have to say to him will surely feel like a dagger through the heart, but it’s not the first time he’ll have heard it, or something damn close.”
“I don’t know how we can go on from this.”
“Because you’re broken? Dirty? Ashamed? I felt that way for a long time. There’s something about being sexually violated—and you were, even if you weren’t raped. You were forced to watch what he did to that woman and made to believe your turn was coming. You felt as close to death as you’ve ever been.” He grips my hand tighter.
“But not getting through it. That’s bullshit, Kate. I can’t tell you how, because it’s different for everyone, only that you can. I’m sure of it.”
“I’m not
,” I whisper.
“You gotta want it bad enough. My biggest regret was that it took me a decade to tell my wife what happened. I held the shame close. Took it everywhere, even into our bed at night. It didn’t make me a better man, or a better husband, or even a better soldier. Don’t make the same mistake.”
I’m wiping away tears when the kitchen door slams shut. “What the fuck did you say to her?”
General Sinclair stands, with his shoulders squared and his head high.
“Smith, stop!” I jump up. “Please, stop. He didn’t do anything.”
“I don’t need you to defend me, Kate,” he says, before turning to his son whose hands are fisted at his side. “I told her some things she needed to hear. I don’t need your permission, son, to talk to anyone. And if I were you, I would learn to use my words more judiciously. This might be your home, but I still outrank you in every way that counts.”
He lays a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but everything I said earlier about him, it was all true.”
I turn and wrap my arms around him, clinging tightly as he embraces me. He’s a four-star general, the former head of the Joint Chiefs. I’m not under his command or his responsibility. He doesn’t even know me, but he threw me a rope, one human being to another, and secured it to an anchor. He recognized that I needed to talk but didn’t know how. He trusted me with, perhaps, his darkest secret, even though I’m a reporter.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. It hardly seems like enough.
“Hang onto that card,” he tells me, before giving Smith a stern look, and walking out the door.
“What happened with my father?”
I’m not sure what to say. “He told me about an experience he had as a young soldier.”
“When he was captured?”
“If you want the details, you’ll have to ask him.”
Smith nods. “You sure you’re okay?” I expect him to pull me in, but he’s still careful about my personal space, and he doesn’t. It’s another one of the many things that’s changed between us.
“I’m fine.”
“Why are his damn tools all over my kitchen?” he asks, in an obvious pivot. I’m sure the changes eat at him, too.
51
Smith
My father is fixing a leaky faucet that I keep forgetting about. Something about seeing him taking care of it makes me feel inadequate. Like I’m not man enough to take care of my own business.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say more gruffly than I intend. “I’m capable of putting in a new washer.”
“It’s the gasket, and you’ve got a lot on your hands. I’ve got nothing but time on mine. Retirement is horseshit.”
My mother has stronger words for it. I’m sure he’s insufferable hanging around the house without wars to plan, or troops to inspect, or presidents to confer with. I owe him an apology, and this seems like as good a time as any to grovel.
“I don’t know what you told Kate, but she seemed to appreciate it. I’m sorry—I was disrespectful earlier—but she’s been through a lot, and sometimes you’re heavy-handed.”
He chuckles. “I have a wife, three daughters, and five granddaughters. All of them handfuls—especially the wife. I have plenty of experience talking to women. Hand me that socket wrench, will you?”
“I can fix the leak later.”
He ignores me. “She’s going to need some time, and someone to listen without judgment, and without flying off the handle when they hear the story. I told her you’re up to the job.” He grunts as he pulls off the washer. “Why didn’t you call me when you knew they had her—before you went in?”
“I knew I could take care of it.”
“Men don’t go in alone.”
“I wasn’t alone.”
He hands me the wrench. “You took a risk handing her the gun. She was disoriented.”
The image of Kate in that church is something I’ll never get out of my mind. “It was important.”
“I told her that, too.”
“I didn’t call because it was a simple extrication that any rookie could have successfully completed.”
“Extrications are never as simple as they look from the outside. You can’t plan for all the contingencies. That one certainly wasn’t simple. The thing that made it complicated was how much you care about the hostage. It would have been prudent to run the plan by someone.”
“I’m sorry I disappointed you.”
“I’m not disappointed, although the plan was ill-advised. But do you know how many times I’ve headed into danger with an ill-advised plan?”
I shake my head. “Not about the rescue. I’m sorry I left the Army—that I didn’t make it a career. I don’t regret the decision, but I’m sure it was hard for you to swallow.”
“You’d have never been satisfied with their plan for you. Not at your age.”
“I volunteered to give up a piece of my liver—it was an excuse for getting out. I’d had enough of the politics. That doesn’t make me a very good soldier.”
“You are the best kind of soldier. You served with honor.”
“I didn’t want to follow orders anymore.”
“So you left. That’s what good soldiers do. What they don’t do is stay in, and then do whatever the fuck they want. You served honorably right up until the moment you were discharged. You have never disappointed me. Was I disappointed by your decision? Not going to lie—you’re the kind of man that men like me dream of having under our command. It’s a loss to the United States military and to the country. So yes, I was disappointed in the way it worked out, but never in you, son. Never in you.”
He looks up at me. “But when I hear you talk like this—I’m disappointed in myself that I didn’t speak up. That I didn’t tell you how proud I am, and have always been, to be your father. I’m sorry I pushed you into the military.”
“You didn’t push me. From as far back as I can remember, I wanted to be a soldier—like you. It was an honor to serve … until it wasn’t.”
“You didn’t go to West Point because your mother believed you should have a choice. She understood that you had a rebellious streak in you that would make following orders that didn’t comport with your worldview difficult. I thought it made you a badass. I should have bent over backwards to make sure you looked carefully at all the choices.”
“I don’t regret one second of it,” I say firmly. It’s the truth. “It’s just the politics became too complicated, and it was showing up in all sorts of ways that made it hard for me to sleep at night.”
“I respect that. More than you can imagine. And what you’re doing—what you’re planning to do—I respect that too. Not everyone who serves wears a uniform.”
“What I’m planning requires a good deal of expertise and sound judgment. JD is helping me get the business aspect off the ground. But there’s the planning and execution—I could use some advice with that part.”
“You want me to work for you?”
I laugh because he asks it in a way that screams, “You have to be fucking kidding me, kid.”
“Yeah.”
“It would be an honor, soldier. But I promised my wife I’d retire, so it will have to be strictly on a consultant basis. She probably doesn’t need to know the details. And I still outrank you, of course.”
“I could have fixed that faucet about three times by now. I think you’ve been polishing the brass for too long.”
He hands me the wrench. “Have at it.”
52
Kate
I’m alone for the first time since I’ve been back. Smith’s parents left early this morning, and he’s at work. I assured him I would be fine, but a panic threatens to derail me when the doorbell rings. I force myself to take several calming breaths. It’s impossible to get onto the property. At least that’s what I tell myself.
When I get the courage, I peek through the peephole. JD. What could he possibly want at this hour? I grip the woo
den frame, opening the door.
“Good morning,” he says, in a non-threatening way that helps me relax a bit.
“Smith already left for work. He’s probably next door.”
“I came to see you,” he says pointedly, in that clipped tone he uses.
Immediately, I want to say, I’m sorry I’m still here. I know you don’t want me here, but I’ll leave as soon as I can—but I don’t say anything resembling that. I’m through apologizing to every goddamn person just for breathing.
“What can I help you with?” I ask in a voice that’s not aggressive, but not particularly friendly, either. It’s déjà vu, I realize, only this time, he’s the unwelcome guest.
“May I come in?”
I step aside. “It is your house.”
“It’s Smith’s place,” he answers curtly, on his way in.
“But you own it.”
He doesn’t respond to my churlishness. “I came to apologize.”
My jaw falls open. He’s caught me off guard and I don’t know what to say.
“I’m surprised too,” he quips. “I’m not big into apologies.”
“Did Smith ask you to come?” Why else would he be here?
“Smith doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Gabby?”
“No, Kate,” he says impatiently. “Despite what everyone seems to believe, I’m quite capable of conducting my own affairs without input from my wife. Although if she learns about this, it’s likely to buy me a lot of goodwill.”
I almost smile, because he’s right.
“Gabrielle likes you,” he continues. “And Smith liked you from the minute he set eyes on you. I did everything I could to discourage it. That was wrong,” he says, sincerely. “You’re Smith’s person, and that should have been enough for me. More than enough.”
He seems so contrite, so earnest, I almost feel bad for him.
“I know you’ve dealt with a lot of press in your life, and I’m sure that it’s often been unpleasant,” I say. He raises his brow, leading me to believe that unpleasant is not the word he would ascribe to the encounters.
