Fire and Forget (27 page)

A barista walked by their table, mopping the floor in slow, deliberate swirls. Neither Liz nor Brett moved their feet for the mop. The shop was well lit and clean, and the humming of an unseen air conditioner filled the silence. Liz studied the walls splashed with abstract portraits of dead Hawaiian kings and queens. Eventually the barista moved out of earshot.

“The coffee guy is definitely checking you out. He must have a tall blonde fantasy.”

“Brett!”

“Hey, it's not his fault. Seriously, your shorts—I have boxers that cover more.”

“Stop it! They're just normal workout shorts.”

“No worries, my dear. This is Hawaii! All in the Aloha spirit.” An elastic smile stretched out across his face and he gave her the shaka sign. His eyes moved up and down her body, settling on the moisture at the edge of her neck. “But a sports bra?” he continued. “The poor boy must be about sixteen. You have no idea what you're doing to his brain.”

“What do you know about the Aloha spirit? You're more of a mainlander than I am. At least I lived here before law school.”

“Very true,” Brett said. “But to be fair, if my college girlfriend—boyfriend in your case—dropped out after 9/11 and got stationed in paradise, I'd have followed, too.”

“Don't be a jerk. Let's study. I've been so worried about our Torts exam, I've been getting headaches.”

“Torts?”

“Torts.”

“Yes, well, I brought everything we should need. Sometimes I feel like your little errand boy.”

“I know, I'm sorry. But it's been so crazy these past couple weeks.”

Brett attempted to peer into Liz's shaking eyes, but she looked away, though not before he noticed the puffy bags she'd tried to obscure with a cream-colored makeup. He took a deep breath and smelled a blend of ocean water, orchids, and coffee grinds. After a few seconds, he spoke. “You sure you're okay with him leaving again?”

She looked down at the table and put her head into her hands. In response, Brett slid his plastic chair around the table,
and put his arm around her shoulder, covering up a sigh with a quick sweep of his long, brown bangs.

“He do anything else?”

“Not really,” she said. “But things have been, they've been . . . I guess things have been weird for a while.”

“How so? Is it because you moved into his place?”

“I don't think so. That was supposed to fix things. Mainly since we got back from our trip home to Michigan. So it's not . . . it's not that. It's all the other stuff. I told him that he doesn't need to go back, because of his, well, because he's already been over there and done his part.”

“Absolutely right.”

“But he doesn't listen to me. He only listens to Sergeant Snow, who says they're going to finish the job this time. And Will thinks that if he stays here, he'd be abandoning the platoon.”

Brett grimaced and removed his arm from her shoulder. “That's . . . gallant, I guess. But there are plenty of soldiers. Who's Sergeant Snow?”

“His squad leader. Will absolutely worships him. He went to Diyala and his tank got bombed.”

“Oh.”

“He won a big award for pulling out his driver before it blew up. The Silver Star.”

“Oh.”

 “He's overly demanding and unfair, but I understand why. Or at least I think I do. I try to.”

“Of course.”

“I don't know what to do,” she said. “Every time I try to talk to Will about this, he either ignores me or tells me he's fine and not to worry, but I just want him to talk to me.”

“Well,” Brett said, bringing his hands together, “you want to know what I think?”

“Of course.”

“You sure? You might not like it.”

“Brett.”

“I think that you need to be selfish about this.”

She frowned and stared at a Hawaiian queen on the wall made of red and yellow circles standing by a sea of blue circles. The queen held a spear in one hand and a dark Tiki mask in the other. A strong gust of wind blew by the shop, bending the palm trees by the windows into upside-down horseshoes. Rainwater cut across the air sideways.

“It's
okay
to be selfish about this,” he continued. “It doesn't help either of you, being stuck in an unhealthy relationship.”

“It's not—”

“He's self-destructive, controlling, and emotionally abusive.”

“That's not fair.” Her cheeks flushed as she said this. “I don't think he is, I don't think he is those things.”

“That's the way it seems to me, Liz. Being a soldier is a wonderful thing, but that doesn't erase all of the other aspects of his personality. And he's about to go back to the place that contributed to making him that way. Did he even consider you or your relationship?”

“He did. We talked about it.”

The smile stretched out again. “And did it change his decision?”

“No.”

“No. Remember—he signed on that dotted line, not you, and now he wants to drag you into that world, too. And it's not like you're married or anything. How can he possibly expect you to stay with him for an entire year while he's away? You told me that you two broke up the last time he went to Iraq. Do you really want to go through all that again?”

“It was just for a month. And that was because . . . never mind, it doesn't matter. He's going to need me. He will need my support. I know that this time.”

“That's his self-centered worldview talking. He's using you as a crutch instead of dealing with his problems. You have your own life to lead—you're young, fun, social, and there's a lot going on beyond these wars. You need to ask yourself—is this what you really want? To be a military wife for the rest of your life, wondering when or if your husband will return? And even if he does, whether he'll ever be normal again? You want to support him. I understand that, and that's very noble of you. You're a good person. But that doesn't mean you have to stay with him right now. You can always just get back together when he comes back. Until then, you can support him the same way the rest of us do.”

Liz held her gaze steady, and though her eyes were wide, she didn't speak. Brett looked back without blinking.

“Well?”

“I didn't know you felt so strongly about it,” she said. “And I'm not at all sure what ‘support him the same way the rest of us do' means. These guys have been completely abandoned by the rest of the country.”

“I don't think that's true,” Brett said. “And it's not about me feeling strongly, because I don't. It's your life. I just think you should be reasonable about this.”

Liz's back bristled and she tilted her head. “Most things in life aren't reasonable. I love him, Brett. I've loved him ever since I broke my ankle ice skating at the Valentine's Day formal, and he stayed with me at the hospital all night, just holding my hand and making jokes about the drugs I was going to get. I love him.”

Brett unclasped his hands and smiled. “Of course you do! And that's what is most important.”

“Maybe,” she said. “I'm going to find him tonight at Sergeant Snow's house. He leaves Tuesday, after all. Things are going to be fine with us this time. I just need to remind him of that.”

“If that's what you want to do.”

Brett stared behind Liz at the clouds outside, rolling off of the mountainside. The tops of the distant cliffs were now visible from the coffee shop, bearing down from above like a mouth of green razorblades. The wind whistled sharply and the sound of rain echoed through the coffee shop. The barista watched his only customers from behind the front counter and grinned to himself.

“Stupid tropics,” Brett said, yawning. “Always storming.” A clap of thunder shook the windows. “See? There it goes.”

* * *

“Why is that person sitting in the rain?”

“Because,” Cheryl said to Sunny, “some people like the rain.” The two sat under a covered patio, feeding breadcrumbs to a group of wild chickens. The night was dark and still. Grey clouds hung in the sky like ornaments, masking a dull moonrise. The area around the house was a jungle, all thick, wet leaves and sticky air. Across the two-lane road, black rock crags formed the land's first line of defense against crashing metallic waves.

“I don't like the rain, Grandma,” Sunny said, as she tugged at a pair of overalls. “It's ugly and sad. I like pretty things.”

Cheryl laughed. “Of course you do, sweetheart. That's why your name is Sunny!” She tickled the girl with bony fingers and continued. “But rain isn't always sad. You remember what comes after rain, don't you?”

“Rainbows!”

The noise caused Will to look over at them from the adjacent yard. He squinted at first, adjusting to the porch light. Sitting alone in a lawn chair with a bottle in his hand, he waved and called out.

“Hello!”

Slender in a white T-shirt and cargo shorts, he didn't seem to notice that his clothes were drenched. A baseball hat with a marlin on the front of it crowned a head of short, brown hair. A small,
pink scar the width of a piece of silly string ran down from his left earlobe to the top of his neck. Cheryl told him to come over. Will grounded the bottle and walked through the gate in the fence that separated the two yards, joining them under the covered patio. He moved through the group of chickens without care, the birds parting around him in disturbed squawks, though most quickly returned to their previous positions.

“Evening.”

“You are soaked to the bone!” Cheryl said. “That fire water may keep you warm, but it won't keep you from getting sick.”

Will smiled. “I don't mind the rain here.”

“Are you crazy? Grandma says that crazy people live next door. Is that why you don't feel the rain?”

“Sunny!” Cheryl said, while Will laughed again.

“Your name is Sunny?” he asked.

“Yeah. And this is my grandma, Grandma.”

“You may call me Cheryl, if you'd like.”

Will studied the old woman's pointed nose and sunken eye sockets. Sunny was also thin but all limbs, like a colt. Her skin glinted with the deep brown of an Islander, contrasting with the milky complexion of both adults. The girl's overalls were bright orange and caked with mud at the knees and hips, matching her hands.

“Pleased to meet you both. My name is Will.” He paused. “Kind of a boring name, when you compare it to Sunny.”

“Do you want another name?” Sunny asked.

“Sure. What do you have in mind?”

Cheryl whispered something to Sunny, whose eyes widened in agreement.

“You have a new name, now,” Sunny said. “You are Jade. 'Cause you have green eyes.”

“Jade? I like it, although I'll admit to hoping for something a bit more . . . disreputable.”

“You're silly,” Sunny said.

“Well that's a good thing, Sunny,” he said. “Because you seem to be far too serious of a girl for . . . eleven, twelve?”

“I'm eight!”

“Eight years old, and already you can recognize crazy people? Impressive. I didn't learn how to do that until I was at least ten.”

“I don't think you're crazy,” Sunny said. “How old are you?”

“I'm twenty-three. Which is pretty old.”

 A loud crash echoed across the yard from the house next door. This was followed by shouting, which was in turn followed by glass shattering. More shouting followed.

“My friends. My platoon.”

“Ah,” Cheryl said.

“I've lived here my whole life, and they always break things,” Sunny said. “I don't like them, and I told the ugly man that lives there that I don't like them. He has bad breath! Why do your friends always break things?”

Will looked at her and frowned. “I don't know,” he said. “I guess because that's why we're here. To break things.”

“Do you live up here, too, Jade?”

“I don't. I live in Waikiki. I like it up here, though. It's calming. I wish I'd moved up here when I had the chance.”

“Are you going to Iraq too, then?” Cheryl asked. Will nodded. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Don't be,” he said. “I don't mind. I've been there before, so it should be easier this time.”

“And what do you do in the military?” Cheryl asked.

“I'm a scout.”

“Is that a good thing to be in war?”

Will thought for a few seconds and then said, “I'm proud of it.”

Cheryl shook her head and closed her eyes. “You're not even old enough to shave.”

“Ehh, I won't be able to grow a beard at fifty. It doesn't matter.”