Promises to Keep (5 page)

To
Jack's relief, the other HUMVEEs in the patrol had noticed the blast and
stopped. He could see a number of Marines dismount and fan out on either side
of the road, their rifles pointed outward, to make a defensive perimeter.

When
Jack and Chief reached the wrecked vehicle, two Marines were already at the
front, spraying under the hood with their fire extinguishers. Jack pulled open
the driver's door, prepared for the worst.

Unexpectedly,
the driver tumbled out, falling like a rag doll. Hyper-alert due to the blast
of adrenaline rushing through his veins, Jack managed to stop the soldier’s
fall. He recognized the driver as Lance Corporal Baker, an all-around good kid.
Jack tried to remember where he was from.

"You
OK?" Jack asked.

The
kid looked up at Jack, with blood streaming from his ears. "What?"

Jack
grabbed him by his collar and pulled him in close, face to face. "Are you
OK?" he yelled.

"I...I
think so."

"Good.
Sit down. Drink water," Jack yelled at him.

Jack
gently lowered the man to the ground, handed him a bottle of water and crawled
into the HUMVEE.

The
passenger side was completely caved in, pinning the Marine in the seat between
the crumpled door and the large center console. The Marine groaned—which was
good. It meant that he was still alive.

Jack
focused for a moment, trying to remember his name.

He
couldn't.

"Easy
there, fella. We'll get you out."

Jack
crawled onto the crumpled center console to evaluate the man. He was bleeding
from his mouth and nose—definitely not a good sign. He ran his hands along the
soldier’s chest and instantly knew why.

The
sharp, jagged edge of a rib protruded through the man's jacket. Red frothy
blood, lined the wound. Pinkish bubbles rose and fell in time with the Marine’s
breathing.

Fuck.
He dropped a lung
, was Jack's first thought.
We've got to
get him out of that seat
, was his second.

"Chief!"
Jack shouted over his shoulder. "Get a God-damned crowbar and get that
God-damned door open—
NOW!
"

Jack
turned back to the Marine. "Easy there, everything's going to be
alright."

The
Marine didn't say anything; he just looked back at Jack with wild, panicked
eyes. After what seemed like forever, but was really less than a minute, Jack
looked across the wounded Marine to the action outside.

Chief
Whitley, along with several other grunts, were all pushing and pulling at the
passenger side door. There was a long screech of twisting metal, followed by a
hollow pop, and the offensive barrier fell free.

"Watch
him!" shouted Jack. "Don't let him fall. Lift him out
gently
."

He
knew they had to transfer the man carefully. Broken ends of bones could be very
sharp. Movement could cause them to saw into or through organs and arteries,
like a butcher's knife.

Gingerly,
Chief and the other Marines lifted the injured man from his seat, then out of
the twisted wreckage. Someone had spread a tarp down on the side of the road.
They gently laid the wounded man on it.

Jack
backed out of the HUMVEE and sprinted around the vehicle.

"Dustoff's
coming?"

"Already
called," answered Chief Whitley. "Helo's on the way. ETA five
minutes."

Damn,
they're efficient. Those pilots work fast.
Jack grabbed his
medic kit and knelt over the man.
I've got to work fast, too.

Tearing
open the man's jacket, Jack cut away his T-shirt, exposing the wound. It looked
even worse, now that he could see it fully. A good inch of rib protruded from
the young Marine's chest.

Jack
pulled a sterile, plastic sheet from his kit and pressed it over the gash in
his chest.

The
surgeons back at base would fix him up. Jack just had to make sure the injured
Marine would make it there alive. Bubbling, frothy, blood immediately stopped
oozing out, from under the airtight dressing.

Now
Jack had to move even faster.

Since
air was no longer able to escape the injured lung, it would build up and up, until
the pressure in the injured lung kept the man from pulling air into his good
lung.

With
a quick and deft movement, Jack pulled an IV needle from his kit and pushed it
into the top of the man's chest, above the now covered wound. The hissing sound
made by escaping air confirmed he was on target—the building pressure was being
relieved.

Jack
sat back just as the sound of helicopter blades tore through the afternoon air.

He
had the ridiculous impulse to raise his hands in the air and yell, “Done!” as
if he’d tied a calf at a rodeo or something. He’d certainly gotten his work
complete, and under time, too.

"The
Dragon loses today," Jack said with a shit-faced grin, as he looked up at
Chief.

"Fuck
the dragon," Chief Whitley growled.

Usually
as carefully groomed as one could be in this Hellhole, dust and grime covered Whitley’s
dark complexion. Even his bald head wasn’t shining; he was so coated by soot.
With his perfect white teeth bared, Chief was smiling.

It
took them less than five minutes to wrap the Marine up in the tarp and carry
him to the waiting chopper. They barely had time to put him in and back away
before the MEDIVAC helicopter leaped skyward once again, with an almost
triumphant roar.

Jack
and Chief Whitley hurried back to their HUMVEE. The patrol resumed its trek up
the road. The last thing Jack saw of the village, were marines tossing
incendiary grenades into the badly damaged HUMVEE.

He
knew the Marines didn't want to leave the enemy anything they could use, so
what they couldn't take with them, they burned.

The
rest of the patrol was uneventful, but everyone was understandably on edge. It
was the heat. It was the pressure. It was the smell of blood, dust, gas and
soot. It was the nearness and prospect of death.

When
they finally rolled into home base, the first thing Jack did was to walk
between two of the tents, take off his grimy uniform jacket and douse himself
with bottle after bottle of water. He wanted to feel clean.

It
felt like forever since he'd had that feeling.

Cool,
clear water flowed over his head, washing the dirt and dust away from his face,
out of his ears, and his mouth. The water that pooled at his feet was tinged
red with the blood from the soldier in the blown up HUMVEE.

Jack
just kept pouring the water over himself until it ran clear.

"Doc?"

Jack
turned around to see Chief Whitley standing behind him. "What's up,
chief?"

"I
just got off the radio with the hospital. That Marine’s going to make it. Good
job."

"Thanks,
Chief. Good job to you, too."

"It
feels good to win one, don't it?"

"It
sure as Hell does."

Chief
Whitley started to turn away, but paused and pulled something out of his back
pocket. "I almost forgot, mail came in today. You got this letter."

He
handed it over.

Jack
took it and held it up to the light. At first, he didn't recognize the return
address, but then, with some surprise, he realized where it must've come from.

Bob
Wynn’s wife.

Chief
Whitley left as Jack settled down on an empty jerry can and tore open the
envelope.

He
smelled the faint scent of a lady on the paper. It wasn't any overly flowery,
feminine perfume, nothing as tacky as that. It was just the clean, wholesome
smell of a woman.

Feeling
a little sheepish, Jack pressed the letter to his face, shut his eyes and took
a deep breath. He allowed the scent to transport him back, if only for a
moment. Inhaling, he smelled the fresh air of home—of a normal life, of family,
friends and familiar goodness.

Man,
he missed those things.

The
letter wasn’t typed. Her cursive script was handwritten in large letters, with
small neatly spaced loops. In some inexplicable way, the writing was visibly
feminine.

Dear
Doctor Curren;

Thank
you so much for your heartfelt letter.

Things
have been really rough here all around. I'd honestly started to put everything
behind me by the time your letter finally arrived. I'd convinced myself that
sometimes it was best just to forget things that hurt, and move on with life. I
tried to let the past be the past.

What
you wrote to me in your letter got me thinking. You made me reconsider my
philosophy. I now believe that it’s important to remember, even if it's
painful.

Early
in the morning, I often go down to the beach and watch the sunrise over the
ocean. It's so quiet then. Even the waves don't make much noise. That’s my
thinking time.

Once
I read your letter, I immediately started to write back to you. Then I stopped
until I'd had a chance to go over it in my mind. I went down to the beach and
sat there just at the high tide mark and thought and thought. I concluded that
it would be wrong to forget Bob—who he was and what he did.

You
can't just let the past go and I guess no matter how painful it is, it’s wrong
to try. It’s a part of you, of who you are. The past changes you. It colors how
you see the present and the future—all at once.

Thank
you so much for taking the time to reach out to me, and for what you did for
Bob. I know you did everything possible.

Thank
you too, for all you are doing for those boys who are still over there. I hope
that you, all of you, come back home safely.

God
bless,

Laura
Wynn

Jack
leaned back, strangely moved and comforted by her words.

He
thought about the cold and foggy mornings that only LA could have in the middle
of winter. How he'd get on his surfboard and paddle out as far as his arms
could take him.

Then
he’d just sit and listen to the silence.

The
ocean was like his church. It thrilled him when he caught a wave. It calmed him
when he was troubled. He loved the ocean as much as anyone loved their
hometown, their first school or their favorite band.

Homesick,
inspired and pleased with the memory, he stood up and went looking for a pen
and some paper. When he finally sat down to write, he sifted through his
emotions for a moment, trying to isolate exactly how her words made him feel.

Jack’s
lips tugged up into a smile when he figured it out.

The
woman had given him a rarely felt sense of peace.

Laura
stumbled on the stairs.

She'd
stopped at Miller's grocery store on the way home from work for a few
essentials. Without a car, she'd had a trying time balancing her grocery bags
and her shoes. Her boss insisted that she wear heels when she was working the
bar. He thought it gave the male customers something to look at.

“You'll
get better tips if you sex it up a little, darling,” he'd said. Despite the way
he’d said it, it was an order, not a suggestion.

All
Laura seemed to have more of at the end of the day, was sore feet. She began
stashing a set of heels out behind the kegs. She'd walk to work in sneakers,
then change once she got there.

When
her shoes suddenly went missing, and nobody would fess up to taking them, she
needed a change of plans.

Laura
couldn't afford to shell out sixty bucks for another pair of pumps, so she
carried her last remaining pair to and from Clancy's every shift. This wasn't
much of a problem if that was all she had to carry, but she'd gotten the bright
idea to save herself a trip and do a little shopping.

She'd
managed to keep the bags from spilling but she smashed her knee against the
wooden steps in the process.

Dammit.

Laura
regained her balance and walked to her door where she was confronted with the
task of juggling her keys, her shoes and her grocery bags.

She
finally decided to drop her shoes, shift both bags to the crook of her left arm
and try to unlock her door with the key in her right hand. That's when she
heard a voice behind her.

"Need
some help?"

Her
mind and body froze instantaneously. A thousand years later, Laura carefully
turned to face her ex.

"No,
I don't need your help."

"Looks
to me like you do," Jonah Lacks said, as he reached for the groceries.

"No
I don't." Laura took a step back. She felt the doorknob press into her
hip. "I told you, I didn't want to see you again. We’re over."

As
far as ex-boyfriends went, Jonah was the worst. Just like her mother, Jonah
started out kind and caring, but changed as time went on. He had a temper and
an unhealthy love of alcohol that made her uneasy.

Laura
had promised herself to leave him time and time again, but she'd always
stupidly come back.

Why
that was, she didn't even understand herself.

When
he’d trashed her car while drunk, so her insurance wouldn’t cover the cost, she
was furious, but she still didn’t leave. It wasn't until he started taking
pills
—and
much worse, she suspected—when she finally found the strength and resolve to
walk out and never look back.

A
few months later, she'd met Bob and decided that there might actually be a nice
guy out there for her after all.

Now
Bob was gone, and it looked as if nice guys had an expiration date, where
assholes kept turning up, over and over again. Just why was that? If only it
could be the other way around.

"We’re
over?" Jonah snorted derisively. "You said it back then, but now I
hear you're single again. I figured we might get together or something—you know—for
old time's sake or somethin’."

"Single
again?" Laura said through clenched teeth. "
Single again?
My
husband was killed. That makes me a widow. You make it sound like I just broke
up with somebody."

Jonah
shrugged and reached out to touch her ear lobe.

Laura
flinched and recoiled.

"What's
the difference? I'm lonely—you're lonely. Two lonely people like me and
you." Jonah wobbled as he sang the last sentence to the tune of a once
popular song. He might've thought it was charming, but it reminded her of the
times he'd get messed up on something or another and start acting out.

Laura
looked into his eyes and saw that his pupils were tiny, barely there pinpricks
in the center of his blue irises.

Pinning.
That's
what 'pill-heads' called it when their eyes looked that way. Laura knew from
sad experience that it meant that Jonah was on a butt load of OxyContin. It was
something about how the narcotic messed with a person's system. Their eyes got
all weird and their pupils shrunk to almost nothing.

She
always thought it made him look possessed, like someone in a cheesy horror
flick.

Drugs
can affect people in different ways. Some people just got stupid on oxy. They'd
curl up and fall asleep—not Jonah, unfortunately. Oxy fired him up, made him
act as if he was invincible and could take on everybody and anybody. It also
made him
mean
.

Laura
pressed herself back against the door, and she felt the knob dig in even
deeper.

"That's
not happening, Jonah. I’ve got nothin' to say to you. You'd better leave."

"I
wasn't plannin' on talkin'." Jonah pressed closer, invading her personal
space. "We don't have to do no talkin' if you don't want to."

Laura
pushed her bags in front of her, using them as a shield of bargain basement
vegetables. The stiff brown paper crackled as he pushed into her. She glanced
down and saw her carton of milk—on sale that day only—warp under the pressure.

For
a second, she was sure it was going to explode and squirt a white stream up
into her face and all over her hair.

The
waxed paper held.

Jonah's
hot rancid breath was in her face and she tried not to breathe it in. His
stench sickened her.

“Jonah,
you're messed up. Back off."

"No
Laura, I'm tired of backing off."

He
brought his fist down hard into the bag of groceries that was in her arms. The
brown paper gave way and everything went flying—like a fruit and vegetable
shrapnel bomb. The dented milk carton fell down, and Laura could feel the cold
liquid splash over her foot, as it finally ruptured.

A
cacophony of dull thuds sang in her ears as her groceries bounced all over the
wooden floor.
Shit!

"I
was tired of standing back and watching while you played with all of those
little boys in their fancy uniforms. I was tired of standing back when you
shacked up with that Navy pussy. What? You think he wouldn't figure out that
you're nothing but a while trash whore? You think he'd take you away from here?
From me?"

Laura
was fully pressed back into the door. The knob was really beginning to hurt the
small of her back. The pain was nothing. Right now, she was scared.

"Please,
just leave," she said through frightened, angry tears.

"You
think you're better than me? You think you gonna rise up and be better'n what
you are?"

Without
the bags to shield her, Laura was fully exposed. She felt so vulnerable, scared
and helpless. Jonah reached up and grabbed her left breast. She winced as he
squeezed it
hard.

Her
reaction was instinctive—using both hands, she pushed him off her. At the same
time, she raised a knee as fast as she could, to nail him in the nuts.

Jonah
just laughed and jumped back.

"Na-uh.
Bad girl.” His face contorted into a vicious, cruel grin.

Panting
with fear and effort, Laura squirmed, trying to get away as he pushed up
against her. His hand returned to her breast.

“Now
I'm gonna show you just what you're good for."