9

Okay, I lied. I'm not really dead, but I'm pretty damn close. The guerillas don't take too kindly to Navy Pilots, even if they are on the same team. I've been working down here for the past week—ever since the plane crash—and I think I am making some progress on breaking up the impulsive attacks on the American embankments. The only thing in my way was the language barrier. Portuguese apparently was not my forte.

The chain of command down there was completely fucked; no one knew who was in charge of anything. I had to wade through broken English and horrid translations to learn nothing, and it was seriously getting on my nerves. I hopped on a bus to the nearest city—it was hardly a village—and looked for a telephone. I needed to get my mind clear, because after a week of unwashed, untamed freedom fighters shouting constantly back and forth, anyone would be fucked up.

The bus barely stopped in front of the little town, and I hopped out onto the dry dust they called ground. My flight boots left little impressions as I walked into the middle of the busy square. Tan Brazilians shot awkward glances at my light skin as they rushed back and forth between old stone huts and larger, newer brick shops. I made my way to a local farmer's market and, eyeing some ripe melons, I asked in my best Portuguese: "How much?"

From what I could understand, he said, "Two melons for one Real."

"Do you take dollars?"

His eyes brightened and he nodded furiously. I handed him a dollar and took one of the small melons.

"More, more," the old farmer urged. I waved my hand.

"No, just one, thanks."

I looked for a shady spot and wound up sitting on a large wooden deck built right next to the forest, most probably from the trees that once stood here. I pulled out my knife and cut some deep slices into the ripe melon. Some juice trickled out between my fingers, and I quickly pressed the cut to my lips, drinking in the sweet, fresh nectar. I proceeded to cut the melon into slices and ate all but two. Those, I gave to some kids that reminded me of Callie when she was younger. They thanked me, but before they could run off, I asked, "Telephone?"

The kids looked unsure, so I opened my thumb and pinky, pressed them to my ear, and mimed dialing. They pointed to the large brick building I had spied on my way in and took off into the jungle.

The building was some sort of hostel, and the owner spoke beautiful English.

"May I help you, sir?"

"Yeah, I'm looking for a phone."

"We have one just around the corner." He pointed. "You'll need to dial 9 to get a dial-tone."

"Sure." I walked around the corner and dialed through my military access router. Four rings later, the answering machine picked up.

"Chris and Callie aren't here, so just leave a message!" I grimaced at the sound of Chris's whining voice, and started thinking of how much I would like to beat the snot out of the fuck.

I was startled by the sharp "Beeeeep," so my speech sounded broken and chipped.

"Callie? Are you there? Hello?" She had a bad habit of screening her calls, so I wasn't too worried about the machine; however, thirty seconds passed without her picking up.

"Callie, I need you to pick up." I thought it was obvious, but maybe she didn't. I thought she was still mad at me for hating Chris. My heart sunk deep in my chest, and the words that came out next shook wildly and surprised even myself.

"Ugh, I guess you aren’t there. Listen, I want you to know that I’m alright. I can’t talk about it now, but know I love you. Goodbye, California Dawn."

I walked out of the town. The bus had already departed for the night, so I started hiking back to the guerilla encampment. It was dark, but warm, and the stars shone brightly through the cracks in the night-blue canopy. I couldn't seem to keep the tears in, and every time I thought about my dear Callie I felt the warm sadness dripping down over my cheeks and off my chin.

I heard something move off in the distance, and I crouched. I could see figures—five of them—coordinating something. They spoke in hand signals, and with a point, point, slash, point, they all scattered. I reached into my vest, pulled out my pistol, an old SIG P226-9-NAVY, and cocked it as silently as I could. I took aim at a figure in the distance, released my breath half-way, and suddenly felt something round, metallic, and cold against my neck.

"You don't do the move," I horribly translated.

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Lazarus

Dr. Espinosa had been really clear when she told me that I needed to cut back on fast food and stress—it would hurt the baby. I could cut back on the food, but with Chris gone to Peru and my father possibly dead, stress was something I was soaking up like a kitchen sponge.

My cell rang loudly: “Somebody Told Me” by The Killers. I answered it the second time an androgynous boyfriend was mentioned.

“Hey Chris!”

“Callie, hey. How are you?” Chris sounded strangely monotone for being in South America.

“I’m fine. How was the flight?”

“Ah, yeah. It was pretty boring. Pregnant women and babies and all that.” I winced at the mention of boorish pregnant women.

“Wow, sounds like it must’ve been rough. How’s Lima?”

“Uh, good, you know, kinda’ nice. Different. What I wanted to ask you was if you had heard anything else about your father.”

“No, I haven’t gotten a call.” I was glad of that. I didn’t want to have to worry about my dead father and Chris’s weird reaction to South America. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I was just making sure you were still okay, with me gone and everything.”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll let you know if something comes up, okay?”

“Sounds good. I love you, Callie.”

“Love you too, sweetie.”

There was a harsh electronic hiss, and the call was over. I tossed the cell on the couch and looked through the fridge for something mommy and baby friendly. The sudden though of baby made me sick, and I rushed to the bathroom for the second time this morning.

The apartment phone rang over and over, but I couldn’t manage to get up from the cold tile floor. I just remained motionless, my back pressed against the bathtub, and listened to the answering machine do it’s thing.

“Chris and Callie aren’t here, so just leave a message!”

Beeeeeeep.

“Uhh….” The voice sounded young, male, and disconcerted. “This is Tad Walker with the United States Navy, and I regret to inform you that one, Chase Warren Depfield, has been killed while serving our country. I’m sorry.”

My head spun wildly as tears rushed to my eyes. My fingers and hands flailed like thawed packages of hot dogs thrown down a flight of stairs as I reached frantically for something—anything—to help me to my feet. My fingers wrapped around our cat-patterned shower curtain and, before consulting my brain, frantically pulled me up out of this situation.

“Bad idea,” said my brain as the curtain rings popped under my weight with a “Ping! Ping! Ping!” I fell backwards into the bathtub, twisted my hand on a bottle of Vital-Sassoon’s “Naturally Brunette,” hit my head on the soap-tray, and felt really sleepy. I closed my eyes and blacked out.

“Callie? Are you there? Hello?”

The voice of my father echoed in my delirium. I wanted to see him, or hear his voice once more. Tears came to my sleepy eyes as I picked myself up out of the tub. I felt blood dripping down my neck from a cut on my head. The blood felt warm and wet.

“Callie, I need you to pick up.”

As I heard my father’s words, the blood turned to ice, freezing me in place. I wasn’t dreaming. I was actually hearing him.

“Ugh, I guess you aren’t there. Listen, I want you to know that I’m alright. I can’t talk about it now, but know I love you. Goodbye, California Dawn.”

The blood on my face mingled with tears and a smile as his words filled me with strength. I sat down in the tub and screamed out all the tears I had kept inside since I left him.

In a hysterical, broken language, I mouthed two words at my father’s message.

“Come back.”

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Recruit

“Dearest Till,” I wrote in my carefully messy longhand. I couldn’t help but sit and just watch her sleep, gripping the pillows with such mistaken love. I wanted to take the place of her pillows—to correct her mistake—but all the emotion I could muster was letting tears fall softly onto my letter.

“I am leaving Tallapoosa to join the army. I have already made plans and talked with the local recruiter. After what happened to that pilot and what almost happened to you, I feel obligated to fight in this war. I am not fighting for America, or Missouri, or Tallapoosa. I am fighting this war for you.

“I know you don’t understand, and I’m not even sure if I do. All I know is that I can’t stay here any longer. Every night as I watch you sleep, I keep wondering: ‘What if she died? What if she gets tortured? What if she is a victim of the war?’ I don’t want to think thoughts like that, so I’m going to make sure I never have to.

“I will come back for you after the war, so please don’t worry about me. I have taken care of myself for this long, and I’m sure I can take care of myself for just a bit longer. Long enough to make sure you will be safe, anyway.

“Before I leave, I want you to know one last thing: Ever since I met you as a child, I have loved you. Loved you more deeply and more…”

I stared past Till’s still body and out into the warm, rainy night, watching the droplets fall like tears off the small window that framed my desk and couldn’t help but mimic the movements of nature. Flipping over the stub of my pencil, I used the non-existent eraser to half-erase, half-scratch the last paragraph, leaving a scarred, pinkish spot near the bottom of the sheet and proceeded to fill it with: “Yours, Gray.”

I couldn’t believe what I was doing. It wasn’t like me to want something like this so much, but watching Till sleep beautifully, the moonlight and scintillating raindrops lighting her soft body, I simply couldn’t help but leave her, safe in the cocoon of Tallapoosa.

Folding the letter thrice, I wrote “Till” in big letters on the front of the paper, gathered my belongings, and strode out into the night. The rain pattered down on my capped head, pooling around the curved bill, soaking my legs and feet. The Greyhound station wasn’t far, and my steps grew larger as I headed north in the dark.

It wasn’t until I crossed through Jackson, Mississippi that I realized I had forgotten something. In my silent rush, I forgot to grab the photograph I took of Till sitting on our hill. Something unknown popped deep within my body, and I couldn’t stop sobbing. The old woman sitting in front of me turned slightly and shook her head, but I didn’t care. I just kept sobbing silently on the back of that bus until I fell into a rough, restless sleep. I drifted in and out of consciousness and dreamt of Till, sitting on the edge of my bed. She was wearing my old Fraggle Rock tee-shirt, and it fit her like a maternity dress. I was sitting at my desk looking out at the cool, morning sunrise. She walked over to me, wrapped her arms around my neck, and hugged me close and tight. I thought she was about to whisper something, but no sooner than Till had said “Gray,” the bus hit a pothole, shaking my dream like an Etch-A-Sketch, erasing it along with the sleep.

Only another two-hundred miles to Ft. Rucker.

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Tallapoosa

A larger business man shuffled towards the gate as the flight attendant called for all “Premium Members.” He coughed loudly, making himself as noticeable as possible. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about business status or quality of meat, but this fellow didn’t look like he could pass for either. As he was wheeling his behemoth carry-on right in front of me, my cell phone started to vibrate against my leg. Then it rang.

Mr. Premium thought it was his cell and started groping in his jacket with his free hand, but he just couldn’t seem to reach his phone. At that point I forgot all about my call—who could answer the phone at a time like this?—and just watched this guy spaz out.

He tried to switch hands, but he lost his grip, and his suitcase fell over, spilling out all over my feet. He cussed loudly, and the flight attendant responded with a: “Final call for all Premium Members.” He cussed loudly again, and started scrambling to pick up his stuff. I only saw one suit, but I noticed at least seven ties. I guess he could have been a tie salesman, but I guessed insecurity.

By that time, I felt sorry for Mr. Premium, so I answered the phone. Realizing it wasn’t his, he started picking up his clothes with more vigor, bumping my feet and shins often and deliberately. I no longer felt sorry for him, so I held the phone in front of him.

“It’s for you,” I said. “It’s corporate.”

Mr. Premium looked at me, stunned, as if I just pulled a tie out from behind his ear. “Really?” He had forgotten about the plane and his things, trying only to unravel the mystery of the magic cell phone.

“No. Not really.”

A scowl swept across his flabby cheeks, but it was soon forgotten when the flight attendant announced, “Now boarding rows 41-50.” By the time Mr. Premium had collected the rest of his things and made it to the gate, there were already passengers crowded around. It served him right.

“Hello? Chris? Hello?” My editor’s voice sounded metallic and drained. “Chris, are you there?”

“Hey, sorry about that, Sara. Some guy spilled his clothes and I was trying to help him pick them up.”

“Ah. Okay. There has been a change of plans.”

“You’d better hurry up—my rows are about to board.” I stood up and began sauntering to the gate.

“You aren’t going to Lima, Chris. You are going to Tallapoosa.”

“Talla-what? Is that in South America?”

“Missouri.”

Fuck. I did not want to go to Missouri: I was packed for Peru and I was allergic to idiots.

“What’s in Missouri that’s more important than a war?”

Sara drew a long breath, as if proud of something she did, and said, “Why, only the first American wartime causality in the United States since the Civil War. Some Navy pilot, a Captain Depfield.”

Depfield? Tallapoosa was starting to look pretty good for me. I flashed the stewardess a grin and walked away from the gate. “So, you want me to do a piece on him?”

“Negative, Chris. The crash almost killed a kid—Grayle Welsh. I want a full story of his account of the crash, and how he is recovering from this catastrophe.” Sara dropped her voice while saying “catastrophe,” making it seem more ominous than it really should have.

“Oh. Sure.”

A change-over in Huston and a taxi ride later, I found myself banging on a hollow wood door belonging to one, Grayle Welsh. No one answered, so I finally shouted, “Hello?” After another minute, I assumed no one was home, so I turned my back to the door and began walking down the patchy gravel driveway.

“Excuse me,” said a young voice behind me.

I turned around to see a cute girl, probably 19, leaning against the doorway, squinting at the morning sun. She had blond hair bundled in a loose ponytail that draped over her shoulder and stopping right at her armpit.

“Are you the reporter?” She spoke with a heavy accent, almost as if she was playing the stereotype.

“Yeah, I’m looking for Grayle Welsh. Does he live here?” I made my way back to the house.

“He does, but you just missed him.” She held out a piece of folded paper. “But, you might be interested in reading this.”

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Journalist

I got a telephone call a couple of weeks after the crash from some newspaper in southern California. They wanted to do a piece on Gray and on the crash. I told them that I didn’t have a problem with it, but before I could mention that Grayle was somewhat particular, the snappy businesswoman thanked me, informed me that they would have a journalist come out within a week or so, and hung up the telephone with a loud “click.” I never did care much for the westerners. They were always in such a hurry.

I had known Gray for the better part of his whole life. We were both born in Tallapoosa, although Gray had been living here two years longer than I. After high-school, he went straight into his family’s business—Welsh’s Auto Detailing and Pawn Shop. The Welsh’s were born entrepreneurs, alright, and as sad as it may seem, their shop had competition: Fierce competition, as a matter of fact. Competition from none other than, and it sickens me to say it, Proctor’s Pawn and Auto. Yes, it’s true—my family was just as “ignerent” as Gray’s.

As a matter of fact, all of Tallapoosa was as inbred as the Welsh’s, and I mean that in the best possible way. That means, by just living in the same town and having families that were mortal enemies, we were destined to fall in love. Eat your heart out, Romeo. Heck, the first time my dad bent down next to me and pointed a calloused finger at Grayle and said, “You stay away from that there boy, ya’hear? He’s the work o’ the devil!” I knew we would be best friends. Of course with all this history, I knew exactly how he would react.

“What the Hell do you mean some fag reporter is goin’ to come an’—” Grayle winced as he sat up angrily.

“You really need to relax, Gray.” I looked at him and saw past the anger to the fear. He had always been scared of publicity and did his best to remain unknown. Even in Tallapoosa, he remained an enigma to many. “Just answer the journalist’s questions and he will leave you alone.”

“Yeah, he’d better.” Gray laid himself back down, gently. The fracture has nearly healed, but it still hurt him to jerk his neck. “I can’t believe you told him that it was okay. You know I hate those reporters.”

I squeezed his hand lightly, and he squeezed back. “It was a ‘she,’ actually, and she didn’t really give me a chance to explain. You know I wouldn’t do that to you, right?” I looked for validation in his face, and his scowl relaxed into a subtle smile. That was my second most favorite thing about Gray—he was such a sensitive guy. Everyone else thought he was some kind of manly-car-fixin’ man, but he actually hated cars. He hated his family’s whole business, to be honest. He just didn’t have anywhere else to go, other than our hill where we would talk about everything from the dirt to the sky, and now he didn’t even have that. That belonged to the cops.

Rubbing the back of my hand with his soft palm, he replied. “Right.” A smile—a real one this time—spread across his face like a barn fire. “You know I love you, Till.”

I lay down next to him, resting my head right below his shoulder, making sure not to disturb his brace. His breath resounded strongly and rhythmically in his chest, and after he draped his arm around me, I fell victim to the beautiful music of his heart.

The next morning I woke to a different rhythm—the frantic beating of a fist upon the hollow wooden door. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I looked around for Grayle. None of his clothes were strewn about the floor like they usually were, and his living room was alarmingly tidy. The beating on the door got louder and a meager “Hello?” was noticeably muffled by the door. Turning around, I noticed a carefully folded piece of notebook paper sitting on the bedside table. It wore my name on it, almost like a sad badge. My heart sunk deep into my chest.

“Oh Gray...”

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Vomit

I woke to the sound of running water and the smell of vomit. The sheets beside me were warm, but empty, and I propped myself up on one arm.

“Sweeite? Are you okay?” I could see Callie’s pink panties peering out from the bathroom door. I craned my neck to see if I could see the rest of her, but I could only make it to her small waist before I toppled over onto the bed. It was too much trouble, having a girl as beautiful as mine.

“Ugh,” moaned Callie. She slurped some water, sloshed it between her teeth, and spat it out into the sink. I detected a hint of disgust in that expectoration. “I’m fine, honey. It was probably just something I ate.” I doubted it. She had been sick three mornings this past week, and I had a feeling I was the cause.

I would be leaving from Peru the next Sunday, and she was worried sick. Literally. She was always moping around the house and eating, eating, eating. I felt bad for the poor girl, but work was work. Plus, I really felt like I needed to be there—now more than ever—to tell the whole story. The Associated Press was rife with politically-correct, politically-minded journalists, and I had yet to read a story that didn’t make me vomit: They all stank of pro-war bias.

“I’m going to start packing today, sweetie. Would you mind helping me?” On cue, I heard Callie vomit again, missing the toilet by a few seconds. “I’ll take that as a no,” I muttered. Rolling over, I buried my face in my pillow, breathing in through the gaps in the soft foam.

“Did you hear the news this morning?” Although I couldn’t see her, I could visualize the questioning glance that Callie cast at the back of my head. I turned over and was correct. Her lips were lightly closed, her hands were little fists on her hips and her left eyebrow was visibly arched. She also had a bit of dinner on the corner of her mouth.

“You missed a spot,” I said.

Blushing, she turned back to the mirror and washed the remaining drops of vomit off of her tan skin.

I wondered what crud the television was broadcasting this early in the morning—probably some high-definition video of Americans getting dismembered by guerillas again. Breakfast snapshots like those that almost replace coffee, except instead of filling you with caffeine, they fill you with freedom. And bullshit.

“What did the news say this time? More death?”

Callie stopped washing her face and stared eerily through her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “No. Well, yeah, kinda’. An American pilot was shot down. He crashed in Missouri.”

“Wow. That’s quite a long, un-manned flight from South America, isn’t it?” I wondered who would believe a story like that. Well, I knew one person who would. She turned and looked at me.

“He was shot over the Chesapeake Bay.” There was a sudden sadness in her voice that I understood immediately.

“Navy?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it—?”

“They don’t know. The plane exploded when it crashed, burning the pilot and the plane. The military isn’t saying anything.” Callie began to sob uncontrollably. She sat down on the bed, and I wrapped my arms around her, rocking her softly back and forth.

“I’m sure it wasn’t your dad,” I whispered in her ear. “They would have contacted you already.” I didn’t believe it, but Callie seemed to, and she stopped shaking so violently in my arms. She turned to face me, hugged me and thanked me for being so understanding.

Then she vomited on my favorite pillow.

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Twin

I was later told that it was one of our men: An American. No one really knew that the war was so close to home until he was shot down over the Chesapeake Bay. I was told that the pilot died instantly, but his twin-engine plane remained mostly intact and continued to fly until it ran out of fuel over the Mississippi River, coming down just outside of Tallapoosa. Those Peruvians sure can aim.

I don’t remember what the plane looked like, or what the voices of the men who lifted me up and carried me home sounded like. The only thing I remember was that Till’s high-pitched, nails-on-a-chalkboard rendition of my name was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. It might just be the fragment of the wooden propeller that knocked me out during the crash, but I think these feelings I have for her are real in the most complete way possible.

Till must have either sat next to my bed for hours or been incredibly lucky, because it was dark when I woke to find her hand in mine. When our eyes met, a smile the size of a watermelon slice appeared on her face.

“You’re awake!” Her green eyes shone brightly in the dark.

I smiled yes.

I’m not really sure why, but for some reason half of South America wanted to see the United States burn, from sea to shining sea. It was probably something about American emplacements we had been pushing on them since the late 1990s. Most of the fighting had been going on in southern Brazil: This was the first time there was a casualty on American soil.

“How are you, Till? Did you get hurt?” My query seemed to touch a nerve, as the girl started to sob, her chest heaving with what appeared to be painful undulations.

“Oh g-g-God, I was s-s-so s-s-scared.” The words dribbled out of her mouth like water from an old fountain. “W-w-when I s-s-saw all the b-b-blood…”

“But, are you alright?”

“Y-y-yeah.” I raised a hand to wipe her tear-stained cheeks, but I was greeted with a stabbing pain in my shoulder.

“D-d-don’t move, Grayle,” Till said softly, sniffing up her tears. “Your collarbone is broken. The doctor set it, but you shouldn’t move for a while.”

As I saw her sit there, shivering in the night with tears and fear, I realized that I could ignore the war no longer. I was a part of it; it was a part of me; and I wasn’t going to lie around and doing nothing while people I love died. I was going to war.

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Chase

I knew that the war would kill me eventually, but I never would have guessed that it would be on that flight. I remember cussing out the refueling boy for spilling some gasoline on the deck of the carrier before I took off. It wasn’t his fault for spilling it—those tanks are heaver than in—and it was his fault for looking almost identical to that piece of shit, but at that point, but he did, and that pissed me off.

I suppose I should back up. My name is, or was, considering the fact that I was KIA, Chase Warren Depfield. Of course, that’s Officer Depfield to scrubs; pilot for the United States of America’s Navy. All that razz. It was only three weeks ago that I gave my beautiful daughter to some shit kid with only a pen and a piece of paper to his name. Chris was his name, I think. My daughter was, for reasons unbeknownst to me, completely and totally enamored by him—head over heels, if you prefer simpler colloquiums.

Anyway, he asked me for her hand, and I said no. He pressed the issue and I cussed at him until he left. Once that piece of trash was gone, Callie sat me down and told me just how much she loved him, and she threatened to elope if I continued to withhold my blessing. I saw the sincerity in her soft eyes and had to let her win, but I made her know that I wasn’t going to like it. She skipped off, leaving a trail of fluttering “thank you daddy”s in her wake. She was just like her mother—too damn hard to deny.

A few months later, I found myself in uniform, pacing furiously in the lobby of an old southern-style church down in Mississippi. Chris had apparently grown up here and Callie thought it best for us to get married near his family. They were, as I expected, a bunch of deadbeats. Pot smokers, most likely. Every single one of them was some sort of writer or singer or painter or something else requiring no work and making no money. I shook my head and continued pacing until I felt a soft hand press lightly against my shoulder.

“Daddy? Are you ready?” Callie’s voice calmed me almost instantly.

“It’s for her,” I reminded myself. “Yes sweetie, I’m ready.”

I escorted my baby down the crimson, blossom-laden aisle while the organ coughed out some rancid melody. One of Chris’s relative’s pieces, I assumed. Shaking my head noticeably, I continued to strut down the aisle, trying my hardest to show those artsy-fartsies how a real man looks. They didn’t seem to care much for it, because they whispered and murmured to one another as I walked past.

Before I gave my daughter up, I gave her a hug and told her that she could always come back home to her daddy—he would always love her. She wiped the tears from her eyes, nodded her head and turned her back on me.

Anyway, I hadn’t seen her since the wedding, and my flight boots smelled like gasoline.

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War

“Two more soldiers were killed in Brazil today while performing routine inspection of their platoon’s motor pool. The Brazilian military denies any activity in that area, insisting that it was the act of anti-war guerillas. This attack brings the American death toll to three-hundred ninty-fo—” I unplugged the monochrome monitor from the wall as I walked past.

“Hey! I was watching that!”

“Tough.” I shot her a glance that could melt steel. “This war is bullshit. I’m sick of hearing about it.”

“Come on, Chris! I want to know if my dad is okay.” Callie looked at me and tried to imitate a pound puppy. She was a cute girl, but she failed miserably.

“Look,” I said, noticing the tears welling up in the corners of her crystal-blue eyes, “your dad is on a ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. How could some guerillas in Brazil hurt him? The war isn’t in America, and even if it were, it would be taking place on the land—not the sea.” My words seemed to provide some solace, but I could tell from her sniffling that the calm was only temporary.

“If you hate the war so much, then why are you leaving? I mean, my dad is already out there. I don’t need both the men I love to get killed.”

“I’m not going to die, Callie. Hell, I’m not even fighting! Why would a soldier shoot a guy with a pen?”

“The soldiers wouldn’t, but the bullets don’t care whose lives they take or whose family they destroy.” Callie was becoming visibly upset again as I quickly jotted that line down: It would be a good closer to an article I was working on.

“Well, you should look on the bright side. If I get killed in battle, maybe your dad won’t hate me as much.”

The joke went over much better than I expected, because a smile crept between Callie’s painted lips, and a quiet laugh skittered out.

“Shut up, Chris. He doesn’t hate you. And, you aren’t going to die, so don’t even talk like that.”

The thing is, I knew for a fact that her dad hated the fact that we were married: I could see it in his face as he gave her away at our wedding. It felt more like I was stealing her than receiving her as a gift. If I had it my way, we wouldn’t have had to worry about any of that, but Callie is Callie, and that means the wedding was going to be in my hometown with both of our (extended) families present. The fact that I was crazy in love with the girl more than outweighed the complete disdain I had for American tradition, so she got the wedding her way.

Her dad still probably blames me for that hideous wedding. Maybe I will die in the war.

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Crash

Till pointed lazily at a herd of vaporous rabbits gliding effortlessly through the mid-morning sky.

“Look at them all. They look so happy.”

“Yeah.”

I was more concerned with the way her hand was softly pressed against mine than the clouds. I could see the clouds every day, but this moment was something that I could not rely on.

Till silently rolled over and propped herself up on her soft shoulder. Her blond hair hung playfully in her eyes as they looked right at me.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“I like you.”

“Yeah. I like you, too.”

She let herself drop, her head falling against my chest. I felt her breathe out slowly, the sun warming her back. She looked just like a lizard, or a kitten, or some other lazy creature, just lying around all day without a care in the world. I picked at the grass by my elbow, making a little dirt patch on the hill. A single plane droned angrily against the silent morning.

“Hey Till?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever wanted to be there? Like, way up in the sky, flying around all day long until you ran out of fuel or energy and had to come down?”

“Sometimes, yeah. But if I ever had that chance, I don’t think I would come down. I would just keep flying until I died or ran out of fuel. Crashing to earth is worth those hours of unchained freedom, I think.”

“Yeah.”

I closed my eyes as the plane droned on. As it flew overhead, the buzz of it’s single engine grew louder and louder. I didn’t really think too much of it until I opened my eyes. The bottom of the plane grew exponentially, getting larger and larger, until there was no where else for it to grow than here.

“Till, get up!”

I pulled her small frame to it’s feet, scaring her out of a warm day-dream.

Four seconds later, the sound of twisting metal and crushing glass could be heard. Five seconds later, the back of my head felt like it was on fire. Six seconds later, I lost consciousness.

I don’t know how many seconds it had been since then. All I could hear were the frantic screams of a girl who liked me.

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