Suzanne was in Key West, writing her romance novels and basking in the sun while Henry had been hunting down terrorists from Kabul to Rio to Cheyenne. When he thought about that, the serpentine thing coiled around his heart seemed to convulse, and his vision narrowed, tinged with red and violence.
They’d been married for eleven years, and most of them were good ones. They were a team, the two of them against the world. She endured the frequent moves and long deployments. She used to wait on the tarmac for him with a sign saying “Welcome Home!” and then wrap her arms around him with fervent kisses and then they’d stay in bed for a week. She’d lie on his chest and listen to his stories and jokes and he’d run his fingers through her long honey hair and she would make him feel whole again. They talked about her writing and built castles in the clouds together, the vacations they would take, the boat on davits at a dock they would build where the water was warm, and she was beautiful and he was good.
When he’d separated from the 75th and joined the Wolf Pack, she’d been happy for him. When she wanted to purchase a home in Key West to be closer to her father, he acquiesced, even though it meant most of the time he was alone in Tennessee in a dismal one-bedroom flat. When Taylor had been born, Henry was terrified and overjoyed; something seemed to shift or tear in Suzanne. Resentment began to creep in to her eyes and she started using words like “incompatible,” and when he came home from an operation, sometimes the house was dark. They argued about politics. They fought over money. When they had no money, they hadn’t cared about it. Now that she was earning six-figure advances, it was an issue. Henry recognized that while they argued over money, the real issue was his job. Money seemed to be a way of fighting about it without actually addressing the underlying problem.
He planned on getting out of the Pack, working the dive and fishing charter business with his old friend Bart, but then the country started to slide into hell, and Henry couldn’t justify quitting. He felt needed. He loved his country in a way that transcended duty, and he loved his brothers-in-arms. The domestic terror attacks, the hate groups, images of slain children kept him awake at night. He could not walk away. He was a warrior.
Now he was paying for it.
The last time he’d seen Suzanne, back in October, he’d seen hardness in her eyes, a resolution.
“Are you having an affair?” he’d said.
They were lounging at the pier in Key West, watching a glorious sunset, drinking frozen margaritas. A band was massacring a Jimmy Buffet song, and the air smelled like conch fritters and coconut oil. She was lithe and tan in a sundress. She knew he hated tourists and crowds, but she had wriggled and cajoled and made it clear she was ready for a date night.
He had to ask. “So?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.
“Well, there’s something.”
“I’m just busy with my book tour.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure. Let’s dance.”
“If you’re not happy, tell me, for God’s sake. There’s something.”
“No. You’re just jumpy. Realizing you don’t deserve me.” She giggled and kissed him on the mouth, and she tasted like tequila and lust and hope.
Over the last year, he’d felt her eyes, though, flat with veiled disdain when she thought he wasn’t looking, smelled the condescension at wine tastings and book releases and art galleries. He’d heard the snickers and she’d heard the screaming in the middle of the night. And he’d endured because that’s what you do. Soldier on; find your balls, never quit.
The first question from one of these clowns was always, “So what do you do in the army?”
“Logistics and support,” was the pat answer. He couldn’t tell the truth. Interest would fade, the condescension would begin, and Henry would watch it happen, predictable and infuriating and full of pretentious merlot and cheese. He did not care what those fools thought about him, but it did matter what the love of his life believed. She knew he was involved in special operations of some sort, but she resented it.
And then, there with the Key West sunset and the music and margaritas and long blonde hair, she’d seemed to be all right and not so distant. She’d pressed herself against him and the sky was painted pink and purple and there was a baby at home he wanted to get to know better. He’d pushed his doubts back behind carefully constructed walls, subdued the darkness.
The sedan deposited Henry in front of the barracks he shared with thirty other members of the Wolves for the moment. Colonel Bragg had no more harsh words, probably because he was engaged in a heated conversation with some egghead at NSA over his comm. The chain of command was getting complicated, but that was beyond Henry’s pay grade.
Henry staggered into the spartan building, found his rack, and collapsed into it. The long room held two rows of bunks, and the soldiers slept and tossed and snored and cursed in their sleep.
He closed his eyes. His head throbbed from the blow he’d gotten from the bottle. He had regrets, and there was no way for him to escape the consequences.
If only… Two of the sorriest, whiniest, most pathetic words in the English language. If only what? If Texas hadn’t decided to secede from the United States… If that last op here in Montana had gone differently… If I hadn’t joined the Wolves… If Momma hadn’t been a worthless pill head who ran out on her family… If Dad had been around more instead of banging nails to keep a roof over my head.
If only, then what? The world is tough, and there’s nothing that’s supposed to be easy about it. You pick yourself up and you soldier on and suck it up.
Henry despised self-pity. He preferred self-denial, self-control, and self-confidence. His father had instilled this in him from the time Henry could walk. His chosen family, the United States Army, had reinforced it. His experience in war taught him the virtues of following his personal creed: “You may destroy me but you will not defeat me.” He’d stolen that from Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea. It captured how he looked at life. Santiago fighting a perfect fish and sharks and time, and even at the end, not giving in to any of it. Undefeated because that’s how he chose to see it. Prepare for the next fight. Get up and grab your nuts and get ready for the next battle until you can’t do it anymore because you’re dead. Somewhere in there, if you’re lucky and strong and disciplined, there would be some glory in living. But you damn sure don’t sit around feeling sorry for yourself, because when the moment comes for a perfect sunset, you miss the light and color. You miss it because you’re too busy embracing the darkness inside.
Colonel Bragg made a valid point. Henry seemed to have a major malfunction, and he needed to fix it.
The country he loved had a major malfunction, too, but Henry was too exhausted to contemplate choices and consequences on that scale and he slept.
Henry dreamed about Operation Snowshoe. His dream was factual, for the most part, although some things did not happen exactly the way he dreamed.