The Long Night Page 4

  "I know." He kissed the top of her head, her hair like silk beneath his lips. He'd managed to stay hydrated since he was home on leave. No dead skin on his lips caught on her hair.

  "You don't have to go back," she whispered. "We can move to Canada. Seek asylum. Protest the war."

  "Well, aside from being a felon for the rest of my life, you'd have healthcare for Peanut."

  She slapped his chest. "I'm not joking." Her voice broke over a sob. "I don't want you to go back."

  "Baby, I don't have a choice," he whispered.

  "Yes, you do."

  "No, I don't." An edge came into his voice, a tight twist of anxiety. He hated fighting. Especially with her. "I have to go back. I have men counting on me. I can't leave them to fight the war alone. Lewis and Hale would kill each other inside of a week without me."

  She pulled away from him and stood up. She moved like a caged wolf, angry and protective. He thought of Maggie, her head down, her teeth pulled back in a snarl. "I don't care about Lewis and Hale. I don't care about any of them. I only care about you. I want you home, Sam."

  He stood and tried to pull her to him. Nothing in the war had taught him how to deal with a hysterical female. At least, not how to deal with a hysterical female appropriately. Thunder rumbled over the house, shaking the frame. It reminded him of being too close to an IED. He waited for the concussion of the blast a moment later.

  It came, shaking the old wooden house around them.

  "Faith, I'll do everything I can to come home."

  "That's not good enough!" She ran her hands over her hair. "I want you to promise me. Promise me that you'll come home."

  "I can't control that, Faith. You're asking me to make a promise I can't keep."

  "No, it's a promise you won't keep." Her voice was higher than normal, her eyes wild. Tears streamed down her cheeks, causing dark blue splotches on her tank top as she choked back a sob. "Whatever it takes. I want you home, no matter what."

  "Faith—"

  "I don't care what your mother says. I don't care what you have to do."

  He finally managed to capture her, pulling her against him. She was stiff and unyielding.

  "You don't mean that." His skin was cold.

  "Yes I do. I don't care what you have to do. I don't care if it's a little kid holding a puppy, if that little bastard has a gun, you blast the fucker." Her words were fierce. Sam wondered whether she'd say such a thing if she'd ever stared down the sights on her weapon and seen exactly that.

  He didn't think she'd be so determined for him to act then. But he didn't tell her that.

  He didn't think she'd understand.

  Her sob broke against his chest. He tightened his arms around her. He held her while she cried, her hushed grief and fear chipping away at the lock he held on his own emotions. The weight of his sins—those things he'd done and failed to do—threatened to break him.

  He moved them both to the overstuffed chair they'd bought at a garage sale a few years ago. She'd fixed it up with a slipcover that had cost more than the chair.

  Concern licked the base of his spine when she was still sobbing minutes later. He whispered soothing nothingness against her hair.

  "Promise me?" she begged.

  Sam closed his eyes. Knowing it was a lie before he even spoke the words, he nonetheless whispered into the darkness. "I promise."

  The storm stopped abruptly. No rain. No distant thunder. The house was shrouded in darkness and silence except for the sound of Faith's sniffle against his chest.

  He shifted, cupping her wet cheeks in his palms. "I promise, Faith. I'll come home to you."

  Her bottom lip trembled a moment before she kissed him. He felt the relief in her body, her mouth. But there was no relief for him.

  Instead, a deep fear rumbled in the distance as the storm moved away. But it left behind the nagging fear that Sam was going to die.

  * * *

  The universe was fucking with him.

  Fog blanketed the house, an ominous thick soup of heavy air.

  It felt as if he was stepping into the seventh level of uncertain Hell as he stepped off the porch to start Faith's orange Subaru.

  He'd be on a plane before the sun came up. The last thing he would remember about his visit back home would be the headlights reflecting back into the vehicle from the thick wall of fog.

  He walked back into the house, where Faith was filling his assault pack with snacks. He didn't have the heart to take the Clif bars out of the pack and leave the Slim Jims and Snickers unmolested by the alleged health food. He'd just give them away on the plane.

  He supposed it was a sign that she cared, right? Health food meant she didn’t want him to die of a heart attack at twenty-nine like his Uncle Chet.

  He stood in the archway of the kitchen for a moment and watched her flitter around the small space. He tried to memorize the shape of her body beneath the thick grey sweater, the tiny bulge of her belly. He wanted to take the shape and smell of her back with him. Maybe it would give him something to think about during the long patrols other than the worry of getting blown up around the next corner.

  He shifted and hitched up his pants. He'd lost weight while he'd been home on leave, which was the opposite of what normally happened. He was tempted to punch another hole in his Army-issued belt before he got on the plane. It would drive him nuts, constantly hiking his pants up while wearing his body armor.

  Faith turned and smiled. The smile did nothing to mask the sadness in her eyes that she'd tried to hide beneath makeup. "Sorry I fell apart on you," she said, offering him a cup of coffee.

  He kissed her lightly on the cheek. "That's what I'm here for," he said. "I'm good in stressful situations."

  "You must be used to a heck of a lot worse than me crying in your arms."

  He smiled and dumped a bucket of cream in his coffee. “I won’t have cream in my coffee again until I get home.”

  “They don’t have it over there?” Faith asked.

  It was an excruciatingly normal conversation. They were both trying so damn hard not to think about what was coming.

  “The main chow hall on the big base a few hours away has Coffee-mate sometimes. The closest thing to cream is half-and-half and to get that, we have to convoy five hours and cross a bridge that’s known for ambushes.” He grinned up at her. “Somehow, it doesn’t really feel like it’s worth the trip, ya know?”

  “I can send it to you. If I put it on dry ice, it’ll make it.”

  “It’s okay. I get used to drinking it black.” And he'd like it that way because if he complained, the rest of his men would complain. And all that complaining would lead to something stupid, like trying to convoy for cream and sugar or dip and smokes. “Besides, the one and only time we actually risked getting blown up for smokes and cream, the PX on Balad had been out of cigarettes and the Coffee-mate was expired.” He shrugged. “So it’s not something we’re going to repeat. Not when Hale still sits funny from the shrapnel in his ass.”

  “You make it sound so…ordinary. Like getting blown up going to the store is just a normal thing.” Her voice was quiet. Her words, hesitant.

  He didn’t know why he was telling her this. Maybe he wanted her to know all the stupid shit that happened over there. Maybe he wanted her to understand a little more when he needed a break and couldn’t pretend that everything was normal when it wasn’t.

  And it probably never would be again.

  Satisfied with his coffee and knowing it was going to be the last time he tasted heaven for quite a few months, he pulled his combat t-shirt over his head and stuffed it into the belt on his pants. He surveyed his stuff. His assault pack on the table. His duffle bag by the front door.

  His gaze landed on Faith. Who wasn’t sobbing. Wasn’t making a scene. Steady, reliable Faith. He reached for her then, tugging her close and simply needing to hold her for a moment.

  Her arms slid around his waist, her palms flat against his back.

  Fait
h breathed out a trembling sigh. "Guess this means you’re ready?"

  "Yeah. Want me to drive?"

  She shook her head. "I'm fine. I'm used to driving in this stuff. You're not."

  Sam slung his assault pack over his shoulder and stuffed his wallet into his front pocket. He picked up his coffee and sighed. "Well, I suppose.” He hesitated, hating that he was questioning whether he should say good-bye to his dog. And hating even more what that thought meant for his mental health. He scrubbed his hand over his face. Jesus, he was losing his fucking mind. “Maggie!"

  The yellow lab came trotting down the stairs, her butt wiggling as she descended. Sam hesitated, then crouched down. "Be a good girl, ’kay?"

  Thump thump. Her tail thumped on the floor; her big brown eyes looked at him with adoration. He rubbed her head and she lifted her paw, setting it on his thigh to keep him from stopping. He scratched beneath her chin where she loved being scratched, then stood up.

  He followed Faith out into the fog and to the waiting Subaru. The tires crunched on the gravel driveway as she pulled out onto the main road that led from the middle of nowhere toward town and civilization. Or as much civilization as could be said to exist in the middle of Maine, hours from Bangor.

  The road was dark and winding. They passed the occasional logging truck, barreling up the road toward the logging trails deep in the great north woods. The fog was thicker when the road dipped right before Charleston Hill. The bog at the bottom of the hill was spooky in the daylight, but in the dark, the fog seemed to swallow the headlights.

  Faith flicked the lights to low beams and slowed down as she approached the hill.

  "Why are you slowing down?" he asked.

  "It would really suck to slam into a deer. Even if it would mean you got to stick around because you missed your flight." She glanced at him, her face lit by the dashboard. "On second thought—"

  Sam reached over and stroked the back of her neck. Her skin was warm and dry. Not like the viscous fog. He was tempted to close his eyes but the fog danced between the evergreen trees, casting shadows where there shouldn't have been any.

  They were at the airport far too soon. Faith pulled into the brightly lit parking lot and turned off the car. Silence fell over the vehicle when she reached for the keys.

  He stopped her, his hand covering hers. The words he needed were locked in his throat.

  Harder words he'd never spoken.

  "I don't want you to come in."

  * * *

  Silence, cold and thick like the fog. Sam knew he was being a selfish prick. That didn't make his next words any easier to speak. Worse still for Faith to hear.

  "I need to make the break clean, Faith. Dragging it out only makes it harder for me to leave."

  Still she said nothing. He felt smothered, tense, waiting for her reaction.

  She wouldn't be wrong if she slapped him. She was stronger than she looked. Her palm would be wet and hard against his face. She’d leave a mark if she hit him. He’d deserve it. He wasn't about to encourage that course of action, not by a long shot, but that didn't mean she wasn't thinking about it.

  He'd seen Faith moved to violence only once in his life: they'd been in high school and the captain of the soccer team had told the entire senior class that Faith—then a freshman—gave horrible blowjobs.

  She'd slapped him. In the middle of the cafeteria, when the soccer captain’s hands had been otherwise occupied by a tray of sloppy joes and Mountain Dew, Faith had hauled off and decked him. Travis Paulson had never lived down the split lip. And no one else had spread rumors about her, at least not for the rest of her freshman year.

  She'd gotten in trouble, of course. She wasn't from one of the good families in town. Her father hadn't even bothered to show up and defend her. She'd served in-school suspension—with Travis, no less—and then gotten on with her life.

  But when she didn’t move, didn’t speak, Sam wondered what she was thinking. Her expression was blank. The only movement was the tapping of her thumb against the steering wheel.

  Finally, she broke the silence. "That's an asshole thing to ask of me," she whispered. "I'm not going to see you for seven months. I'm probably going to have this baby without you. And you can't wait to walk away?"

  Sam shifted to look at her. Faith did not bother to hide her anger or her hurt.

  "It's not like that," he said softly.

  "Then tell me what the rationale is for taking away the last thirty minutes we have together."

  Sam sighed hard, releasing a tiny bit of tension bound in his chest. He saw it then, a brief flicker of emotion in the quiver of her bottom lip.

  "Aw, honey, don't cry." He reached for her, pulling her as close as he could over the center console in the small car.

  She resisted, pulling away when he would have offered comfort. "Don't," she sniffed. "Don't offer comfort when you won't be here in an hour. I can cry by myself, thanks."

  "You don't understand how fucking hard it is to walk away."

  She looked at him then, her eyes shrouded in darkness.

  "I love you. So fucking much. It rips my soul out knowing you're going to have our baby without me. I'm terrified of leaving you alone." He paused, rubbing his hand over his clean-shaven jaw. "But I've got to put away everything I feel for you and focus on the mission. I've got to turn it off, put it away. I'm not going to play cards with the locals." He tried to reach for her hand. She didn't pull away, and he covered it where she still gripped the steering wheel. "I can't be thinking about you when I'm over there."

  Because you're everything that is good about this world. And over there life is empty and dark without you.

  But he didn't say that. She didn't need to know that she was his hope and fear all bound into one. That was too much to ask of one person. Too much to ask of anyone. So he kept silent, hoping his explanation was enough.

  "Sam—" She leaned into him, resting her cheek against his shoulder awkwardly. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. "I'm going to miss you."

  He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the smell of her shampoo once more.

  He didn't want to taint her with the filth.

  "Me too."

  He squeezed her hand and stepped out of the old Subaru. For a second, he thought she wasn't going to follow him, but then she stepped into the darkness.

  He dropped his duffle bag on the damp concrete and pulled his assault pack out of the back. He slammed the hatch. The fog seemed to swallow the sound.

  He didn't want to drag this out. Didn't want her to see the emotion that threatened to choke him. It wasn't easy for him to walk away from his future wife and child, no matter how much she seemed to think he was anxious to get back to the war.

  The war was simpler. Easier somehow. And the addiction it fed was something sinister. Something Sam wanted to pretend did not exist.

  Something he wanted to leave behind when he finally came home.

  He opened his arms and she didn't hesitate. She stepped into his embrace, resting her head against his heart. Her breath was warm on his neck.

  He kissed her eyes. The tip of her nose. Her mouth. Then he dropped to his knees and kissed her belly. "I'll see you in a few months, okay, Peanut? Be good to your mommy. No weird cravings or anything like that."

  Faith's hand rested on his shoulder. Her fingers flexed when he rested his cheek against her belly.

  "I love you," he whispered.

  She said nothing as he slung his duffle bag over one shoulder then hefted his assault pack in one hand. Without a final look, he turned toward the terminal.

  "Sam?"

  He stopped. Looked back over his shoulder.

  "Whatever it takes." Her soft words broke with fresh tears.

  “Whatever it takes,” he whispered into the fog.

  And then he walked away.

  6

  The flight from Bangor to Atlanta wasn't bad, considering they sat on the runway in Bangor two hours, then on the approach to Atlanta, ci
rcled for another half hour before they were allowed to land. By the time Sam made it into the terminal, he'd eaten three of his twelve Snickers bars and contemplated breaking into the Slim Jims.

  Except that if he ate the jerky, he wouldn't shit right for a week. He wasn't quite ready for that fun side effect of deployment to start up again.

  His hands were shaking as he counted out the change for an egg-and-cheese bagel and large coffee. The bagel disappeared in record time, but his hands still shook as he waited for the food to hit his bloodstream.

  He'd been hungrier before. The last mission before he'd gone home on R&R, he'd been at a remote combat outpost that had been cut off from supply routes. Actually, those fucking civilians in charge of their logistics had refused to convoy to their location because they got attacked every time they crossed over that goddamned bridge that kept getting blown up.

  The day before the patrol had arrived to shut down the base and escort them back to the main base, Sam had eaten two ketchup packets and half an MRE cracker. It had been the best fucking cracker he'd ever eaten. Other than remembering the ketchup, that entire mission was a blur. At least he kept telling himself that.

  Wishing he could forget the parts that weren’t a blur.

  He still saw that one little girl with aching clarity. He wondered if she’d haunt him for the rest of his life or if he’d ever forget about her.

  He dragged his hand over his face, then reached for his cell phone. No calls. Hopefully, Faith had gone back to bed. He shouldn't have kept her up that late. It was probably bad for the baby.

  He shouldered his assault pack and made his way to the Admirals Club. One of the perks of fighting his nation's war: the corporations who sponsored it got good PR from giving soldiers free shit—in this case a chair that reclined while he waited for his flight back to Hell.

  He signed in at the front desk and wrote down his flight information when asked. The young woman at the desk looked like she was barely out of high school. When had he started looking at twenty somethings and feeling like an old man? Or worse.

  He wasn't the only soldier in the dimly lit Admirals Club. A skinny kid with bad skin was deeply involved in whatever he was reading. His lips moved while he read. The entire airport could have blown up, and Sam doubted the kid would have been jolted from the words on the page of the leather-bound book. It was probably a Bible. Lots of kids heading to war the first time found Jesus. Or God. Or whatever power they felt would get them through the relentless terror of combat.