Promises to Keep (8 page)

When
Jack got to his tent, he pulled out his dog tags, undid the chain that hung
them around his neck, and slid the ring over the chain. Then he refastened the
chain and tucked the dog tags back under his shirt.

The
ring felt cool and heavy against his skin. The only way he'd ever lose it again
would be if he were dead and the dog tags were taken off his body.

In
that case, it wouldn't matter much anyway.

With
the ring safe, Jack kicked off his boots and lay back on his cot. One hand
behind his head for a pillow, he put his irritation at the jerk LaGuardia aside,
and fished in his pocket for Laura's latest letter.

He'd
already read it twice, but he found it calmed him. It took his mind away from
all of the shit he faced on a daily basis. Reading her letters was like an all
too brief visit with a friend.

Ashamed
to admit it, Jack had started having deeper feelings for Laura than simple
friendship.

Over
the months that they'd been corresponding, her letters became such a positive
force for him. He always had something to look forward to—another letter.

Jack
found himself thinking about Laura more and more. He began to picture what she
looked like. Thoughts of her helped him drift off to sleep, and once asleep, he
often dreamed of Laura and the ocean.

Jack
began to associate the two calming, centering forces in his life.

He
longed for both of them.

Jack
enjoyed writing to her but nothing beat getting her thoughts by mail. Laura's
letters gave him the mental escape that he so desperately needed. They were
like an oasis in this God forsaken place.

Jack
had been in Iraq too long. It had been so long that the life he'd had before he
first stepped off that helicopter in Fallujah, seemed like a dream. What he
hated most was that like a dream, his previous existence seemed to grow more
faded and fuzzy with every passing day.

Laura's
words took him back, back to the beach, back to ocean waves and fresh, salty sea
air. She reminded him that there was a whole world there, back in The States,
back
home.

Her
letters transported him from this hot and filthy place—full of blood, pain,
death, anger and fear to somewhere peaceful in his own mind. With her help, he
could almost smell salt in the air and feel a soft ocean breeze. As he read her
tidy, feminine script, he could hear waves pounding the beach in the background.

What
would she sound like? At times, he felt he could hear her lovely voice.

Jack
valued Laura's time and letters. He felt special, knowing that she'd taken the
time to write to him. It meant the world to him. Jack hoped he meant something
to her, as well.

He
mentally calculated the time difference. It was four in the afternoon in North Carolina.
What was she doing now? Was she thinking of him, as he was thinking of her?

Other
than talking on the satellite phone with his sister, Laura’s letters became the
only place he could find any peace these days. He relished every minute he
could get lost in her letters.

Dear
Jack,

Things
have been a little rough around here, but I don't want to talk about it. I
don't even want to think about it. I'd rather just talk about good things with
you and tell you what makes me feel happy. Maybe I can make us both smile and
feel good, if only for a little while.

I
love the sea. I always have. It smells so wonderful and clean to me. When I
wade in and feel the salt-water splash against my skin, I feel as if all of my
sins are being washed away. I finally feel really and truly clean. I know, I
know, millions of fish poop in the sea every day, so it really isn't clean, but
it feels like it is to me.

The other
day I got up just at sunrise and walked on the beach so far that I couldn't see
any houses or other people. I was alone-just the sand, the sea and me. It was
beautiful. Peaceful.

The
waves were coming in gently, barely breaking against the sand. They have a
rhythm, the waves—like the rhythm of a song or the rhythm of making love.
That's what I like to think is going on. The waves are the sea making love to
the land. I've always thought of the ocean as being a "she" and the
land as being a "he." Silly, I know, but that's how I've always
thought of them.

Anyway.
I was out on the beach and I was listening to the waves run up onto the sand,
when I heard this gentle scratching sound—just barely over the sound of the
sea. I heard it and at first, I thought it was just the wind in the tall grass.
Then I realized that there wasn't any wind. The air was still.

I
listened and listened and I finally figured out that the noise was coming from
the sand right at my feet. I knelt down and looked closely. I didn't see
anything out of the ordinary, it was just sand. Yet, the closer I got to the
ground, the louder the scratching sound was. I put my head down with my ear
against the sand right at that spot and I could hear it loudly. I heard a whole
bunch of scratching, coming up from the sand and I could hear little squeaks,
too. It sounded like baby birds or something.

It
wasn't exactly like the chirping of a baby bird, almost like a high-pitched
grunt. I don't know. It's hard to explain.

So
I'm listening with my ear to the sand and all of a sudden, I feel this tickling
against my earlobe. It was as if I was sitting next to you and you reached out
and wiggled your finger against my ear.

It
startled me. I certainly wasn't expecting to feel anything. I bolted upright
like a shot. I didn't know what it was.

I
was about to run away; when I looked down and I see a hole about as big around
as my fist just open up in the sand. Then these green things squirm out. I took
me a second because it wasn't fully light out yet, but I realized that they
were baby turtles. You know the green ones with the flippers—sea turtles? There
were dozens of them just pouring up out of the hole, as if it was the world's
smallest jailbreak.

They
came out and then they all started wiggling straight for the sea. It's as if
they knew exactly where it was all along—which I guess they did. Like you said
in one of your letters. We all come from the sea and the ocean is our mother,
right? That's what these turtles were like. They knew exactly where they
belonged. They were like little lost kids running to their mother.

It
was a rough trip for some of them. There were rocks, sticks and stuff in the
way. They'd go over, around and through anything that got in their way to get
back to the sea—their mother.

I
felt as if I knew how they felt. They just wanted to be free and to swim all
around the world. I feel like that sometimes. I want to be free and go wherever
I want, whenever I want.

I
was watching them and I noticed a couple of gulls fly down and snatch up a
turtle in their beaks. It seemed so unfair. The turtles just wanted to be free
and here come some jerks who want to stop them, to use them and to kill them.

That
made me really mad. It wasn't right, so I ran at the birds and waved my arms
and chased them off.

They
tried to come back so I chased them away and sprinted up and down the beach
where the turtles were, waving my arms like a crazy person, until they'd all
gotten into the water safely.

I
was about to go home—I was tired from all of the running and yelling. I stopped
to look into the hole before I left. There was one baby turtle who couldn't get
out. She was in there all by herself, trapped in the middle of all of the
eggshells. She couldn't get herself out of the hole.

It
was as if she was stuck in this pile of garbage, you know? Every time she made
it up to the side of the hole, the sand would give a little and she'd slide
back into that pile of eggshells. That wasn't fair. She struggled so hard.

There
was this little girl, who was just trying to get out and have a life, you know?
Everything was stacked against her: sticks, rocks and even hungry birds. It was
as if she was jinxed.

Right
then, I could identify with that unlucky little turtle.

I
think it's illegal, but I didn't care. I picked up that turtle and carried her
over to the water. I waded out until I was waist deep and I let her go so far
out that she was already ahead of her brothers and sisters.

I
thought that might even things up for her. She looked so happy when she swam
away. It was where she belonged. It felt so good to give the sweet little thing
the break she deserved, you know? I think we can all use a little help now and
again.

Anyway,
stay safe and come back home in one piece. We’re all rooting for you guys out
there.

Laura.

Jack
folded the letter and put it back in his pocket. He lay back and looked at the
canvas ceiling above.

Laura
was definitely a sensitive soul. An idealist who obviously cared, almost in a
childish way. He smiled as he imagined her soaking wet and covered with sand,
running and flailing her arms while shouting at the birds.

It
touched him that she felt concern for the little things.

Most
people would've just walked on by. They wouldn’t have noticed, or they wouldn’t
have wanted to get involved.

Jack
recalled his mom. She’d been a strong woman, but also passionate and kind. She
would have rescued the turtles, too.

That
was the thing about women. The best of them—like Laura—
cared.

Jack
sensed her pain. It was barely hidden by her writing. It let him see just a
glimpse of something deep inside of her, and he wasn't exactly sure what it
was. Her husband’s death would be the obvious answer, but he wasn't too certain
that was the whole story.

What
was going on over there? Jack was curious about her and her life. He wanted to
get to know her better. It was frustrating to care about somebody and be so far
away. He wanted to be there for her, to help her—just as her letters had been
helping him through the tougher times that he'd been facing.

This
growing attraction for a woman he’d never met disturbed him. Jack felt
extremely conflicted. He had to see her, to return the ring… but that wasn’t
why he wanted to see her.

It
seemed all wrong to want her—given how they'd met. Life sure could throw some
curve balls. Here he was, pining after a widow, the widow of a man who Jack had
sent out too soon into a war zone. A man he’d gotten killed.

Regardless,
he'd written her back right away and there he sat, in the desert, eagerly
waiting for her next letter.

Jonah
stood on the street and looked up.

Light
filtered through thin curtains, shining out into the night from Laura's window.
She was on the second floor so he couldn't exactly see in, but it didn't
matter. He was madder than Hell and determined to get his piece of her, one way
or another.

He'd
been just about to show her what she'd been missing, when that old nigger with
a gun showed up and ruined everything.

Jonah
would make sure that he'd get his too. Right now, he was horny and Laura was on
his mind. But he needed a plan to get to her.

The
hallway was no good. That old man would most likely be waiting for him, with his
gun. Fool. He probably thought he could white knight his way into Laura's
pants. Jonah didn't think that'd work out for him none too good. Fucking old
man probably couldn’t even get it up anymore.

She
likes 'em young and dumb, don't she, Jonah boy?
He
asked himself.

Damned
straight,
he answered right back.

Since
the front door was out, the window was his only option left. It was a warm
night but there was a cool breeze coming off the water. Jonah knew she'd leave
the window open to catch the fresh air. She was always going on about nature
and shit.

Just
like a God damned hippy chick.

She'd
been fun once. She used to be able to party with the best of them. Then she
changed—thought she was too good for old Jonah. Ungrateful bitch—that was what
she was. He'd taken her in and he'd given her food and a roof.

Laura
had been willing to smoke a little pot—but pot was kid's stuff. She was cool
until he'd asked her for just one little favor. Just one little thing just to
help him out, like he'd helped
her
out.

Fuck,
you'd think that pussy of hers was made of solid gold the way she freaked out.

So
what if Jonah was a little short in the wallet? He'd been good for it. But,
it's always
no pay, no play
. Without cash to turn into those little
white pills that made everything oh, so good, Jonah had offered his best dealer
a romp with Laura in trade.

I'll
give you a crack at her crack for some crack.

That
was a good line. Jonah had thought of it all on his own, and it’d made Chet
smile too.

He
took the deal and the trade was made. Only, Laura wouldn't have none of it. As
soon as he'd told her what he wanted her to do, she freaked. Yelling and
screaming—even throwing shit at him. Jonah found himself dodging plates,
bottles and all kinds of stuff. The bitch went fucking nuts!

Laura
said she'd kill him if he even thought of something like that again.

Hell,
he was just trying to get her to carry a little of the load. It wasn't like he
was sitting on his ass all day. He busted his hump down at the paper mill
putting food on the table and a roof over her head for Christ's sake.

It
wasn't his fault he got fired. Old man Martin, the shift boss, had it out for
him anyways. He was always up his ass, looking to catch him screwing up.

Fuck,
everybody gets high on the job—that's what made it bearable. When the old man
caught him snorting a crushed Percocet in the break room, he was out on his butt
and there was Laura not willing to help.

The
crap money she made at the bar wasn’t anywhere near enough to get high on.

Selfish
bitch,
Jonah breathed to himself as he remembered the
satisfying sound and sting he felt when he smacked her face with his open hand.
He'd done it just to calm her down, but it felt real good all the same.

That'd
torn it though, she kicked at him while he laughed and dodged and told her
she'd better get out and earn him some money.

Then,
before he knew it, she turned around, grabbed her purse, and ran out with
nothing more than the clothes on her back—not that she had much anyway. What
she did have, Jonah threw whatever he couldn’t sell or pawn into the street.

He'd
told himself that he was done with her, but he wasn't. He kept after her
secretly, watching her at her job down at the bar. Jonah wouldn't go in, but he
saw her come and go.

Sometimes,
if it was dark enough, he'd follow her home after her shift.

That
she’d managed to get her own place didn't piss him off as much as when he'd see
her talking to the Marines from the base. They were easy to spot, they had the
same stupid haircut and they all talked the same way.

Sometimes
she'd go home with one, and this really made him mad. She wouldn't put out to
help him, no sir, not her, but there she was shacking up with the pretty boys
in their pretty uniforms.

Faggots,
all of them.

Then
she landed her sailor, her new gravy train. That really stuck in his craw.

There
ain't a bigger faggot than a sailor.

Jonah
almost broke in on them, in her new apartment. He was going to kick his ass in
front of her to show she'd missed out on being with a real man.

Instead
he’d felt too sick. Jonah hadn't had his pills that day, so all he did was get
the shakes and throw up on the front steps of her building.

Tonight,
however, Jonah didn't have the shakes.

He'd
just gotten himself a new supply of oxy from a pharmacist who had a bad habit
of looking for dates on the internet. Jonah's advertisement had lured him in
like a fish to a big, fat worm.

Oh,
how he wriggled and pleaded and begged Jonah not to show his wife and preacher
the pictures Jonah had taken from the closet.

The
whore had gotten half the pills and Jonah the other half, for the set up. If
only Laura had been that accommodating.

She
would be now, though. Tucked in his genuine Army-Navy surplus store kit bag,
Jonah had a screwdriver, a roll of duct tape, some meth and a ball gag. Like it
or not, Laura would have herself a good old time.

Even
if she didn't, Jonah was certain
he
would.

The
front door was out, Jonah decided from the get go. That left her window. There
was no way that he'd get away with carrying a ladder down the street, even in
the dark. It had crossed his mind, but he'd have to be more stoned than
anything to give it a try.

He
slunk up to the wall and ran his hand along the rough, red brick. It was the
color of old blood in the dim light.

An
old blood house.
The thought made him giggle a little.

There
was a large vine that snaked up the corner of the building, not too far from
her window. "Arrowhead vine" his daddy called it. They had one
wrapped around and over their porch when Jonah was a kid.

One
thing he learned quickly, was that if the vine was old enough, it had parts
that were as thick and brown as tree branches. They were strong enough to
climb. Jonah could sneak in and out of his dad's place pretty damned easy by
shimmying up and down that damned vine. He got caught once or twice, and that
led to a Hell of a beating, but it didn't stop him none.

Dad
was always finding excuses to whip the snot out of his kids. Jonah was his
favorite punching bag, so an extra thrashing or two didn't bother him. It was
worth it for the freedom he'd gotten.

At
the base of the vine, he looked up at Laura's window. It had a wide sill—wide
enough to hold a few large pots full of green stuff. He knew Laura well enough
that he was sure it wasn't pot or anything like that—probably herbs and shit.
She liked cooking with fresh herbs, as if it made a difference.

Jonah
had always thought that pretty dammed stupid too. Why waste your time with
growing it if you could just buy the damned stuff in the store?

The
vine went straight up the wall and curled up over the roof. At the second
floor, it was only about a yard from Laura's window. Jonah was certain he could
reach out with his leg and get a foothold on the sill.

Stupid
little bitch can’t keep me out.