by Dan Dillard
“Oh it’s not like that at all,” he said. “I find you quite easy to look at.” His face reddened.
She continued staring at the tree, watching as the branches and leaves again swayed in the moving wind. Scuffing his boot on the worn path, he kicked up some dry dust, and shoved his hands into the back pockets of his patched jeans.
He cleared his throat. “So, what is so interesting up there?” he said.
She smiled. The expression spread slowly and lingered for a period of time that made him impatient.
“Ma’am?” he said.
“There is an angel up there.”
“No fooling?” He said. They young man strained, covering his eyes to shield the sun, and peered up into the branches. “Why, I don’t see anything but leaves and bark and limbs. It would make some fine furniture, a tree that size.”
“Don’t you dare, sir. There’s an angel there. Just above the largest branch. She stays there while I watch over her.”
He looked again, taking a step closer. The pale girl watched him from the corners of her eyes. Her heartbeat quickened.
“No. I still don’t see nothing but a rocking chair, a dining table and some beams for my new roof. I’ll be building my own home soon, farming just like my father did. Starting a family.” Again his face reddened.
She understood why he’d come up there. He wanted a wife, someone to give him children and care for them. The thoughts didn’t interest her as they had her sisters, as they did most people. To her, marriage was a chain that held people to each other. She wanted freedom.
“That sounds fine,” she said, hoping it would appease him and send him on his way.
He took a step closer, no longer looking at the tree, but at her.
“That’s why I came to you,” he said. “I thought, in time, we might fall in love. We might make a family and have boys that would grow and then they each might find their own beautiful woman on a hill. One who sees angels in the tops of trees.” He waved his hand, indicating her tree.
She smiled again, but didn’t look at him. She watched her tree. He moved into her line of sight.
“Might you even look at me when I speak?” he said. His words weren’t angry, but desperate.
“I don’t need to see you,” she said. “And I don’t intend to marry you.”
“But how do you know? You’ve only just met me. Why don’t you walk with me, and we’ll learn more about ourselves?”
“I know all I need to, sir. I need to watch over my angel. You will need to find another beautiful woman on another hill.” He frowned at her statement, then grinned. It was a sparkling grin that she felt most ladies would find irresistible.
“I’ve never heard of a person guarding an angel. Isn’t it typically the other way round?”
“I suppose,” she said. “But not in this case.”
“Then, perhaps I could assist you?”
She looked past him, into the ash tree, and saw the movement she had expected. He was unaware. The pale woman didn’t let on that her angel was waking, that it was coming down from its perch. “I don’t think that would be wise,” she said.
The angel, with skin of bark, and wings of green leaves, scaled the trunk of the mighty tree like an animal, silent, crawling upside-down as it came. Its hair was like wiry grass, and its face was flat, with black eyes and no nose. The mouth stayed a rigid line as it climbed. The young woman watched as the young man continued to plead his case.
“Wise?” he said. “Is something threatening me?”
“I don’t know,” she said, still watching the angel. It reached the ground and stood, straightening as the wind blew in its branch-like wings. The creature stretched and the humanoid face appeared to yawn, although no sound came out.
“Where could I be safer than between you and a tree with an angel as its tenant?”
“Just about anywhere, I would imagine,” the young woman said.
With a flap, the angel’s wings snapped open, spanning twelve feet. Muscles rippled under the bark-skin, and its mouth opened in a scream like the call of a hawk. The young man tried to turn, but he was dead before he saw the creature.
The young woman, pale and freckled, smiled as it ate. She stroked the leafy feathers and sang to it. When there was nothing left, it nodded to her and flew away. She walked back down the hill at dusk to her empty home, knowing that angel would be back soon enough.
MIDWATCH
Spectacles, testicles, watch and wallet. Spectacles, testicles, watch and wallet. Fire controlman third class Phillip Reyes repeated these words absently in his mind as he crossed himself. He’d been taught this by his older brother Kyle back when he was a kid going to bible school and catechism. He’d thought it was funny then…not so much now. Kyle had tapped him on each point, paying special attention to the nut punch, something brothers did when they were close enough in age to torment each other. Kyle had gone through the class three years prior and found it funny to see his little brother dressed in a shirt and tie with shiny shoes. Funnier still when he’d first played that prank.
“Just remember, spectacles, testicles, watch and wallet,” Kyle had said.
“What?” Phillip asked and giggled.
Testicles was a word he only heard from his doctor, and once from his mother. His father always said ‘balls’.
“Come here, I’ll show you.”
Phillip, all of five years old and fully trusting of his eight-year-old brother, who he looked up to and followed anywhere and everywhere, approached in his uncomfortable shoes. Years later, he’d even followed him into the Navy. Phillip pulled a finger around the perimeter of his collar, trying to find air where the tie had choked it off. His face was a tan grimace, his ink-black hair combed to perfection and held together with a little gel and the threatening look his mother had given him. “Don’t you dare,” that look said.
Kyle pointed at each place on his brother’s body. “Spectacles,” he said and pointed at his brother’s eyes. “Testicles.” He pointed to his crotch.
Phillip giggled.
“Watch,” Kyle said pointing to his brother’s left side. “Wallet.” The right side.
Phillip narrowed his eyes, questioning his brother’s motive. He’d seen his mother and father cross themselves a million times. He’d done it himself on occasion. What was different about the way his brother was doing it? Probably nothing, and he risked the question, knowing he’d probably end up being wrestled to the ground and made to say uncle. What’s worse is that he might mess up his hair, or get dirt on his clean pants, or scuff those shiny shoes and then he would get the other look from his mother, the one that said, “I’ll deal with you later,” or worse yet, “wait until your father gets home.” Pops was on deployment though and wouldn’t be home for months.
“It’ll help you remember,” Kyle said.
“I already know.”
Of course I know. How could I not know?
“You say that now. But if you do it wrong in front of one of the nuns? Doomsday, little brother. Doomsday.”
Kyle’s face was solemn, like he’d witnessed something horrible and didn’t want his brother to suffer the same fate. The boys stood patiently for a moment and stared at each other, neither giving in to the other’s stare.
“Let me show you once more,” Kyle said.
Phillip shrugged and then relaxed, standing still and paying attention to Kyle, his hero. Kyle stepped up and pointed at his little brother’s face. Spectacles. He said the word, and Phillip repeated it. This time the giggling started before the word. The anticipation of the word that meant balls was enough to get the chuckling started. He giggled, and in giggling, let his guard down. Phillip should’ve known it was a trick. He should’ve known his brother was playing him like a well-tuned ukulele, but the giggle was too big to control and too easy to unleash. Balls was too much for a five year old to be expected to handle.
The giggling stopped abruptly, however, when Kyle popped him in his very own pair w
ith the first two knuckles of his right hand like he was knocking on a door. The pain bent Phillip over immediately. He grabbed himself and fell to his knees. Kyle finished off the prank with a punch to each arm, while saying, “Watch and wallet.” Phillip didn’t feel either of those, not really, not compared to the sharp pain in his crotch. He hated Kyle for a second, and was embarrassed that he’d fallen for the joke, but after a few minutes of agony, he was laughing and Kyle was laughing and his tie was still straight. His hair might have messed up a bit, but mom would just have to deal.
It was an early lesson, one he would never forget. There were many more pranks, many more nut punches between the brothers, and Phillip eventually grew faster, smarter, possibly more wicked than his brother and he got in a few of his own nut punches. Here some fifteen years later, he was crossing himself for real, in the direst of realities. Something so real, it seemed unreal and even under those dark circumstances, he was thinking spectacles, testicles, watch and wallet. Kyle was right. It had helped him remember.
*****
Phillip, known about that ship as Reyes, or quite often simply ‘FC3’, was on watch—a midwatch—six hours of typically dull, wandering around the topside of the ship with a rifle, looking for something. But what? What was he looking for? Bad guys? Swimmers in the water? Small boats or jet skis that might approach too near that mighty warship of the United States. He’d been to training for force protection, training repeated each duty day, repeated until he thought he could vomit the shit up in his sleep. That was, of course, if he could ever get any sleep.
The destroyer was a small ship by navy standards, sometimes called a small boy. An Arleigh Burke class guided missile destroyer held a crew in the neighborhood of 330 people depending on whether there was a helicopter or two along for the ride. Reyes stood on the aft missile deck staring up at his gun, the Close In Weapons System often pronounced like sea-whiz. He dreaded a long day of teardown, cleaning and rebuilding he had after his watch.
Being low on the totem pole kept him busy. There was study for his upcoming advancement exam, study for his enlisted surface warfare specialist qualification, cleaning berthing, cleaning workspaces, maintenance on equipment, standing watch underway and standing watch in port, and trying his best to get that new female Quartermaster to look at him.
FC3 Reyes was finding a relative lack of success at all of those things. He was unnerved at sea and could never find any peace in it. He watched his friends on the smoke deck. Jokin-n-smokin’ they called it. He smoked as well, but never really enjoyed it, not since they’d left port back in October. He watched the flying fish leaping and gliding, saw whales in the distance, heard one of his coworkers, another FC3 named Jeremy Rollins talk about the stars and how peaceful it was to see them all the way down to the horizon, something you couldn’t do on land—at least anywhere he’d ever been.
“You can’t see your hand in front of your face at night, but the stars at sea are brilliant,” Rollins said.
Reyes thought Rollins might be gay. It was a common thought around the ship where derogatory terms and racial slurs flew like gnats from a freshly cut lawn, but peaceful thoughts, intelligent thoughts—even artistic thoughts were laughed away in a barrage of foul-mouthed expletives. He didn’t really care, but it didn’t help his lack of peace and that bothered him. If a gay man could find a place in the navy, find something to cling to, why couldn’t he?
His father had deployed six times while he was growing up; the man seemed to be born for it. He was always excited when he came home, glad to be back with his family, but also about the tales he got to tell, the places he had visited, the world in general. When Kyle decided to join, their father was beside himself and when Phillip Reyes went to the recruiter, he had beamed with pride.
Then his father died of a heart attack while Phillip was in basic training, and he’d lost his drive. Standing at the funeral on a two-day pass in his suit next to his brother in uniform felt surreal. The whole conversation that day was about how much his father loved the Navy, loved serving his country. It was about a fantasy that Phillip couldn’t wrap his head around.
The reality was very different to him. On the inside he was terrified. The ship frightened him, the water frightened him, and the thought of actually having to fire a weapon or be fired upon frightened him. On the outside, he showed nothing but a smile, especially to that new Quartermaster. King was her last name. QM2 King. Even in the baggy uniform coveralls with her blonde hair pulled in a tight bun and no makeup on, she made his cheeks burn and his tongue refuse to cooperate. He’d spoken to her exactly three times, each to say good morning or hello in passing. But he’d seen her on the mess decks glancing at him as she laughed with her friends, and maybe, just maybe he caught her looking at him once during an all hands call. Maybe it was wishful thinking, because he was looking at her. She always managed to catch his eye. Every night, when he hit his rack and jerked off into a sock, it was her he was thinking about.
Still, it all made him sick. Not seasick, but sick-sick. He wanted nothing more than to go home, back to Texas and his family. He would work anywhere, fast food, the mall, anywhere else and be happy to do it. He just had to get away from that ship. He’d gotten an email from his brother that morning in response to his own note about QM2 King, about how he hated the ship and wasn’t sure the navy was for him. Kyle was a first class, and had been in three years longer. He knew a lot of people and enjoyed the lifestyle much like his father had. The email was short and to the point.
Phil,
Pull out your tampon and go talk to that honey. What have I told you? If you can find one without an NIA, you need to jump on it and ride that wave until it hits the beach, bro, because there’s nothing else to do out here in the suds. You study for advancement? Stick with it, little brother. Life gets better when you move up. There are still headaches, but they don’t deal with cleaning toilets or painting shit. Remember what dad said, look for the good. It’s always there. Love you fucker.
Kyle
He’d printed it out that morning and stuck the paper in his pocket. NIA stood for Navy-Issued-Ass and was a term he’d learned in basic training. The common thought among males in boot camp was that most military females were ruined by the military and grew fat as a result. Therefore logic would dictate the large asses were issued, as they had not brought them with them when they showed up at Great Lakes. There were many such false acronyms. They all sounded legitimate, and in truth, are as much a part of the navy as anything else. Another he learned was BCG’s. Birth Control Goggles were the horrible 1950’s glasses issued to booters in that never ending attempt to make them all look the same. Wear your BCG’s boys or you might end up going home with a fat chick and her NIA.
Look for the good.
It was true. His father always said that, but more, he lived it. Every storm ended in a rose-colored pile of rainbow, fruit-flavored, unicorn shit. Reyes had seen that once on deployment. It was the day they first rode into the Arabian Gulf, cruising through the Strait of Hormuz next to the shark-shaped island of Jazireh-ye Qeshm. The line of ships in the battle group white-knuckled it through in single-file, hating everyone that lived on either side of that narrow belt of water, ready for anything the enemy might throw at them. He was standing watch then as well, but it was in full battle gear and pointing a mounted .50 caliber at the water. He’d been scared that day, maybe more scared than any other time in his life. Suddenly all the training was real and shit could go down. That was when he saw them. Off the starboard amidships, as if nothing was wrong with the world, swam an enormous pod of dolphins. His father’s silver lining in their gray, slippery flesh.
That was then. He couldn’t find the good this night if it showed up with tits, beer and a month of leave. There was something cold about the vessel that evening as if floated next to the pier. Something tangibly missing from her. Much of the crew was in town, spending their saved money, getting peeled and looking for love in all places, not just the wrong
ones. They were blowing off the steam they’d built up in the first ninety days of deployment. The ship was empty except for the duty section and maybe a handful who were broke or on restriction. At 0245, anyone who wasn’t on watch was knocked out. He could go to the quarterdeck and waste some time with the Officer of the Deck or the Petty Officer of the Watch, but he didn’t like either of them, so he radioed in instead. “Quarterdeck, Topside. All secure.”
“Quarterdeck,” they replied.
The very cold conversation matched his feeling. Clinical, impersonal, gray and metallic. Dead, just like the vessel itself. The radio bleeped and then in a fit of quick static, was silent again. He lit up a cigarette. It was forbidden to smoke on watch, but everyone did whether they admitted it or not. As long as you didn’t get caught or light anything on fire, what was the harm? Sure someone could see that cherry burning from a ways away, maybe even target him because of it, but it didn’t concern him as much as the cold he felt.
He saw something in the flicker of his plastic disposable lighter. A person. His lighter wasn’t Bic brand. They didn’t sell Bic at the hadji store as his friend and boss FC1 Quinn had offensively put it.
“Hadji sells cheap copies. Rolex with two L’s. Apple computers where the logo isn’t missing a bite. DVD’s for movies filmed with a cell phone where folks are walking in front of the screen. None of that good quality made-in-China shit we get back home,” Quinn told him.
It was the first genuine laugh he’d had in a while but he wasn’t laughing then. He was momentarily blinded by the flickering flame of the lighter and the smoke from the end of the cigarette, but he’d have sworn there was a woman walking towards him on the non-skid. Her feet were silent. He pulled the cigarette slowly from his mouth. If she was there, he was already caught.
*****
“Who goes there?” he said, half joking.
The smoke cleared from his eyes and he saw the silhouette, black against the black-blue overcast night. He saw her. Long hair hung down past her shoulders. She wore a tank top and jeans, both tight enough his imagination took the night off. It was her, QM2 King.
