Seventh Wonder

by Renae Kelleigh

  She squinted at him. “What? You felt distracted?”

  “Constantly, when I’m with you.”

  She snorted, making him laugh. “Well, now that we’ve established that neither of us got anything out of the last hour and a half,” John said, opening her car door, “what do you say to some lunch?”

  They settled on grilled subs. An elongated room filled with smoke and steam and lots of loud noises, its paper wrapped sandwiches and cartons of fries dripping with grease and melted cheese. They sat in a back corner booth scarcely large enough to fit them, their knees knocking together beneath the narrow table.

  Meg talked as they ate. Incessant chatter seemed her only respite from the relentless undercurrent of fear and melancholy. She talked about the senator from Orange County who was up for reelection. About a little girl she’d seen riding her bicycle on the beach she and Virginia frequented, with a yellow balloon tied to her wrist, bobbing along in the breeze. About cleaning out her closet and volunteering at the library and searching for a job.

  John listened. He didn’t comment on the fact that she barely touched her food.

  * * *

  John dropped the last of his artwork into a large cardboard folder and sealed the top with acid-fast tape. He leaned it against the wall by the door and handed Meg a piece of folded up paper from his sketchbook.

  “That’s the address,” he explained. “Just make sure it’s all well protected. Write FRAGILE on the outside.”

  Her hand was trembling slightly when she reached out to take the paper from him. “What if I do something to ruin them?” she asked, her voice tremulous. “They’re yours, John. They’re your heart and soul.”

  He kneeled in front of her and took her hands in his own. “Even if something were to happen, I love you more than I love a few sheets of paper with pictures drawn on them.” He kissed the back of her left hand. “I trust you.” His voice carried enough strength for the both of them.

  She closed her eyes and exhaled, then squared her shoulders with a single nod. “I’ll take care of them.”

  They loaded their bags in the car and paid the hotel bill. Then Meg climbed into the passenger seat while John slid behind the wheel, and they started back toward Santa Monica.

  Meg was quiet as they drove. She’d talked nonstop for the better part of the day, but now she was sullen and drawn. He held her hand, but it was all he had of her. The rest had gone somewhere else.

  There was a roiling, churning ache inside of him. It was nauseating, this prescience of what was to come, a demon lurking above them, casting a pall over what should have been their last joyous hours.

  “I’ve been such a coward,” Meg nearly moaned as they passed Del Mar.

  John frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve selfishly avoided all talk of what will happen when you leave here tomorrow morning, because I was afraid of how it would make me feel.” She heaved a cheerless sigh. More quietly: “I’ve been so afraid of everything.”

  John raised her hand to kiss her knuckles without removing his eyes from the road. He squeezed her tighter, probably more tightly than was comfortable. “You’re not the only one who’s been afraid, sweet Meg.”

  She drew her feet up into the seat and let her chin rest on her knees, then turned to look out the window. “Tell me,” she said. “Just tell me all you know. I’ll regret it after you leave if you don’t.”

  John sighed. “What do you want to know?”

  “You’re going to Vietnam, right?” she asked. “Do you know where?”

  “Not exactly. I’ve heard from some of the guys who just got back that it takes several days to get that far. We’ll fly to Hawaii or Midway first, then probably to Guam.”

  “So you aren’t leaving the country right away?”

  “No. I’m supposed to report to the base in Oakland by 10 AM to begin processing. I’ll probably bunk with a few other guys from my assigned unit for the first night at least. After that I have no idea how quickly they’ll move us.”

  Meg nodded as she let this information sink in. “What are you allowed to take with you?”

  “Not much - not at first, anyway. They gave us a very strict packing list. We can get mail though, once we’re over there.”

  “So you’ll be able to write?”

  She still wouldn’t look at him. He was tempted to jerk the car to the side of the road, to pull the emergency brake just so he could make her look into his eyes. So he could touch her. He wished he could tell her everything would turn out OK - but he’d have to believe it first. He wouldn’t lie to her, not about something so uncertain. He wouldn’t make promises about things outside his control. After all, his doubtfulness applied to more than just his chances of survival - certainly he would do everything in his power to protect his life.

  Most men came back. Most didn’t die. Surely the odds were in his favor.

  “Sure, I can write,” he said after a moment. “If you want me to.”

  Now she turned to him; he could see her torso pivoting in his peripheral vision. He cast her a nervous glance.

  “Why wouldn’t I want you to?” she asked, sounding surprised and nearly tearful.

  His head fell back against the headrest. “I want you to be able to move on with your life, Meg,” he said carefully. “I want to write to you, but I would understand if you’d rather not hear from me. It wouldn’t be fair of me to assume.”

  She pulled her hand away, and he flicked another glance at her. Her face had flushed red, and her lips were drawn into a tight line. He’d been prepared for some variety of emotion from her, but anger wasn’t chief among those he’d thought to anticipate.

  “Don’t do that.” Her voice was incongruously quiet, yet more intimidating for it. “Don’t cheapen what we have, what we’ve had this entire week.” He opened his mouth to reply, but she raised her voice a bit to talk over him. “I told you I love you, for Christ’s sake. Do you really think I’d ever ask you to just...disappear? That I’d wish to be left alone?”

  On their left was ocean; on their right, a fruit stand surrounded by a dirt lot. John used the heel of his hand to spin the steering wheel to the right. He guided the Volkswagen into the vacant lot, shifted into first gear, and cut the engine.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as his hands fell from the steering wheel into his lap. “I never meant to devalue the last few days - trust me, they were more important to me than you’ll ever know.” Hanging his head: “But I can see how it might have sounded that way.”

  Meg’s forehead smoothed, and the set of her mouth softened. “It’s all right.” She sighed. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I just... If you’re going to go over there and live in harm’s way, I want to be there for you however I can be. I mean... I want you to know that you have me to come home to.”

  John drew in a great, trembling breath. Here was his moment: his window of opportunity. And damn if it didn’t completely shatter his heart, seeing her so clearly full of hope, knowing he would, within moments, completely obliterate that hope.

  He scrubbed at his face vigorously, breathing into his hands, clinging to his resolve with desperation and despair. Struggled to remember all the reasons he had for why she shouldn’t choose him: certainly not now, with his future so indefinite before him - and perhaps not ever.

  Be selfless, he thought. Look past your own happiness: think only of hers.

  “Think about what you’re saying, sweetheart,” he said, ever so softly, pleading with her to understand. “I’ll be gone for a year. Think of what you’d be giving up.”

  Her expression registered pain and shock, much as if he’d just slapped her. “What exactly are you trying to say? Please, just spell it out for me. Because I don’t see myself giving anything up in this scenario.”

  He allowed himself a moment, just a second or two, to steel his heart. Then he replied, “Don’t make me any promises, Meg. Don’t commit to me, I’m begging you.”

  She recoiled, physical
ly backing away from him, pressing herself up against the car door until she could retreat no farther. “Are you afraid I’ll hurt you?” she asked.

  His breath escaped him as a harsh chuckle that aired notes of misery as well as disbelief. “God, no, I wouldn’t have considered that for even a second. You’re the one I care about. You’re the one I don’t want getting hurt.”

  “How exactly do you plan on hurting me?”

  His hands gripped the steering wheel because they had nowhere else to go. He wanted to hit something, but he couldn’t risk frightening Meg. “I don’t plan on hurting you,” he murmured.

  Her hand reached across to him then, and touched the side of his face. “I’m not afraid of loving you, John. No matter what happens, I’m not afraid of giving myself to you. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  He closed his eyes as he covered her hand with his own, pulled it down to rest in his lap. He drew strength from touching her.

  “Meg, look. I love you. I love you. Absolutely nothing can change that, do you hear me? But I can’t - I won’t - take your life away from you. You may think you have it all figured out, and right now, in this moment, you probably do. But a lot can change in a year, or even a month.

  “You remember what I told you about Catherine? What you’re feeling right now, I thought I felt then. She did, too. Only now do I realize what a sham it all was.” Gesturing between them: “This? You and me? This is real. I know that now, beyond a shadow of a doubt. I am so in love with you, more so than I ever could have dreamt of being with Catherine. But it took years, a lifetime it seems, to figure that out.”

  He sighed. “My point is, I won’t let you make the same mistake I did, rushing into a commitment—”

  He stopped abruptly when Meg swiped her hand away. Before he could even process what was happening, her fingers were curled around the door handle, and she was half climbing, half falling out of the car. He started when the door slammed shut behind her.

  She stopped several feet from the car, bent over with her hands clasping her knees. He watched her for a moment, then slowly opened his own door and rounded the front of the car before cautiously approaching.

  When he was close enough to reach out and touch her, she spoke. “Please, just give me a minute, John. I’m...putting my thoughts in order.” Her voice was eerily calm.

  He froze in place, his fists clenched at his sides to keep from reaching out to her.

  Finally she turned around to face him. “I’m not Catherine. And I’m not you, either. I thought I was in love once, too, remember? And just like you, I learned from my mistakes. The difference is, and this is important: I didn’t try to make others learn from them, too. What hurts more than anything is that you think you can take away my choice in all of this. I may have told you I love you, but that doesn’t mean I’ve surrendered my right to make my own decisions.

  “And yes, you’re right, I could get my heart broken. Don’t you think I know that? Any time you put your heart on the line, you risk having it stolen from you. It’s up to me to decide whether you are worth the risk. Me. Not you. Please, just...give this to me. This one thing. Give me you.”

  * * *

  She had the sense he was waiting to speak. Perhaps he was awaiting some sort of signal, a sign she was finished.

  At last he mustered the courage to reply. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry. It is your choice. But at least be sure you’re making the right one. There’s a lot to consider here - more than just the difference in our ages. You told me the other day that your motto has always been ‘keep it simple.’ Nothing about what we’re discussing here qualifies as simple. Just the opposite, in fact. And the last thing I want is to make your life more difficult than it has to be.”

  “Again, my choice, not yours.”

  “Absolutely,” he agreed, nodding. “So long as it’s an informed one.” He held his hands out, asking tacit permission to touch her. She acceded with a subtle bob of her head, and he folded her against his chest without delay. Meg wrapped her arms tightly around him and buried her head between them. Before, she’d been afraid of separating from him only briefly - now she was terrified of it being permanent. And so, she clung.

  John lifted her chin. He stroked his thumbs over her cheekbones. “We can’t have children,” he reminded her. “You could never be a mother.”

  “We could adopt,” she replied, sniffling. “Never say never.”

  He kissed her hard on her forehead, then her lips. Without pulling his face away from hers, he whispered, “I might not come back.”

  Meg pushed against his chest until he was forced to take a step back. For the first time since she’d known him, his eyes were filled with wetness, a dam about to break. She wished she could scold him for saying such a thing out loud - but she couldn’t deny the truth of it. They’d been in denial long enough. So instead, she lifted up onto her toes and kissed the hard line of his jaw. “I know. But I have to believe you will.”

  She took a step away from him, watched as he gathered himself back up, bailing the debris of his spilled worries and fears back inside until he was whole again. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between them. When at last he lowered his hands, he came at her and lifted her cleanly off the ground. He kissed her sweetly on the lips, then slowly set her back down, deepening the kiss as gravity towed them downward. “I love you so goddamn much,” he said. Behind his words was a repressed sob.

  Meg caught his wrists in her hands as they cradled the sides of her face and leaned infinitesimally backward so as to peer into his eyes. “Then let me be yours.”

  Sighing, he touched his forehead to hers. “You are mine.”

  Chapter 15

  8 November 1969

  Dear John,

  By the time you read this, we’ll have already parted. I’m sure it was a very emotional goodbye - I’m sure I cried, while you did your best to console me. Probably you’re again questioning the wisdom of “staying together” through all of this. You may well have your doubts as to my ability to weather our separation.

  Or, maybe I didn’t cry after all. I can be strong - you’ve shown me that. In the absence of all else, at least carry that knowledge with you. No matter the outcome, I won’t be broken.

  I love you, John. I’ve loved you for months (probably ever since Cape Royal), though it feels closer to a lifetime. I told you before that I’d been in love, and maybe I was, but there isn’t any doubt in my mind: that was a different sort of love. It depleted me, because I lived in fear of losing it. Instead of feeling fortified by it, I felt debilitated - even crippled. Crippled by the mere thought of being without. It was the worst kind of co-dependency.

  This love, though - the kind I feel for you and from you? I’ve never felt richer, and certainly never stronger. I’ve never felt better equipped to confront the challenges of the coming months, no matter how many or how frequent.

  So, thank you. Thank you for making me want to be the best possible version of myself. And thank you for believing it’s possible.

  I love you.

  Meg

  i carry your heart with me,

  i carry it in my heart.

  i am never without it.

  anywhere i go, you go, my dear;

  and whatever is done by only me

  is your doing, my darling.

  i fear no fate,

  for you are my fate...

  (e.e. cummings)

  * * *

  9 November 1969

  Dearest Meg,

  I just finished reading your letter. It meant everything to me. It does me no end of good to have this reminder of your lion’s heart. Please forgive me for ever having doubted your tenacity.

  Tonight I’m sharing a cramped hotel room with five other men. Some of them have taken to the floor, but I get one of the beds on account of my senior citizen status (ha). They are all so young. One of them, Beckinsale (the Army doesn’t do first names
), is only eighteen. Fresh out of high school, if you can believe it. The poor kid is scared shitless, I can tell. He’s warmed up to me for some reason, though. Follows me around like a lost dog.

  They’re waiting on me to turn off the light, so I’ll have to save the rest for another letter. For tonight, I’m afraid it’s goodbye.

  From the bottom of my heart, Meg, thank you for choosing me, and for trusting me with such an extraordinary thing as your heart. I cannot pretend to claim you - I can only express that I am as much or as little yours as you would like for me to be.

  Always have been.

  Truly,

  John

  * * *

  November 1969

  Dearest Meg,

  I’m not completely certain of today’s date. I think it must be the 14th or 15th, but it’s difficult to tell since we’re rapidly jumping time zones. The International Date Line is hundreds of miles behind us by now.

  We left California at 0630 on the 12th and flew directly to Hawaii. I’m not sure where we were along the chain of islands - needless to say, we weren’t allowed any time for sightseeing.

  We deplaned while they refueled and swapped crews. They held us in a part of the terminal where they could keep an eye on us. I get the sense that the higher ups are pretty distrustful - with good reason, as it turns out. They called roll when we got back to the plane, and one guy had bailed. We got on the flight and left without him. I don’t like to think about what sort of future the deserter has in store for him. All I know is, he must have wanted out pretty badly to think of risking it all in such a heavily guarded area. It would’ve been simpler to disappear back in Oakland. I can’t imagine he got very far.

  Next we made a really brief stopover on Midway Island, which is quite literally just an airstrip in the middle of the ocean, apparently surrounded by other atolls and volcanic islands. I remember my Uncle Lloyd talking about it when I was really young - he was a naval commander who fought there in the Battle of Midway during the Second War. So it would’ve been interesting to see, had I been in the right mindset.

  Our last stop was in the Philippines. The original flight plan had us stopping in Guam, but we were diverted because of a typhoon. (Don’t worry, we steered clear of it.)