A Battle Raging (9 page)

"Thanks, I'll tell her you said that. It'll make her day. She likes coming across as a bad ass. Tell me something, is that a slight accent I hear or am I imagining it?"

He smiled broadly. "You've got a good ear, then. Manchester England, born and partially bred. My family immigrated to the states when I was just nine. Thought I'd gotten rid of any trace of my humble beginnings, but sometimes it sneaks through."

"Especially when you use words like 'peckish'" she said jokingly.

Just then the waiter came with their entrees. The enticing smell as he set her plate on the table made Maya suspect that part of the earlier unease in her stomach might have been hunger. She'd made a sandwich a few hours before she left, thinking that would tide her over. But obviously she'd been wrong.

As he'd promised, he offered her some of his dish, forking
a couple of pitas and creamy looking spreads onto her plate.
Peckish
was the word for the moment as she took a bite of the tzatziki she spread on a piece of pita bread. She determined to remember the name of this, possibly find a recipe online. He seemed pleased at her obvious enjoyment as he took a bite of pita. Both dug into their appetizers with relish, then smoothed everything down with sips from their drinks.

They finished
their meal and then it was her turn to give some vitals that included her background in art and teaching. She managed to wrap up the highlights within a few minutes. She didn't talk about Mark or her mother's death. Too soon.

"My sister went
all left side of the brain since she inherited my father's gift of logic and anything having to do with the analytical. As for me, I inherited my mother's gift for cooking, drawing and anything just a bit artistic. Except for music; I'm rather terrible at that."

"Can't imagine you being terrible at anything, really."

She tried to hide a smile; it'd been a long time since she'd felt this flattered or appreciated. It was a definite uplift from that afternoon. She mentally kicked herself for going to that in her mind. Was she deliberately trying to mess up what was turning out to be a nice evening?

The lights dimmed and an older man in a lavender suit took the stage to introduce the headliners.

Within a few minutes, the band members stepped out without flourish, walking to their respective instruments. And then there appeared an elder man who took the stage with all the grace of someone regal. She remembered seeing pictures of Masekela from years ago. Though graying, the South African musician appeared agile and easily began a riff with his horn. The melody was smooth and sweet, the trills magical and soul-soothing.

T
he magic continued for nearly an hour, as he moved through a familiar repertoire. As the audience applauded between songs, Maya caught a movement to the left end of the stage. A couple of waiters were moving a couple of chairs. In a few seconds, Maya saw why. A man in a wheelchair was making his way toward the table.

Masekela began another song. She recognized it as "Stimela." He began a rendition that was wonderful. And yet, her eyes kept pulling in the direct
ion of the man in the wheelchair. There wasn't anything extraordinary about him. In the dim lighting, she couldn't really see his face, but she got the impression that he was maybe in his forties or older. Questions crowded her mind, weaving through the music. How long had he been disabled? Or did he even consider himself "disabled"? Zach…she could no longer think of him as Mr. Yarborough…would chafe at the descriptor. That much she knew about him.

Would he come to a place like this, enjoy this type of music?

She wondered what he was doing at that moment.

And then gave herself another mental shake.
Idiot
.

She was out with a seemingly wonderful guy, had enjoyed a wonderful meal with good wine, had a decent conversation and was listening to fantastic music. Why was she even thinking about
Zach?

Was it guilt? Or something else?

That second question made her uncomfortable just thinking about it. Maybe sensing something, Jules turned to her with a smile. Leaned over to whisper in her ear: "Enjoying yourself?"

She returned the smile and nodded. And determined to make it true for the rest of the evening.

Zach managed to get through Monday's group session that morning without any incident. Of course, he lied to Dr. Madison, at least by omission, deliberately
forgetting
to tell the doctor about the insignificant fact that he'd dropped the art class. In the end, it really didn't matter.

At least that was what he kept telling himself since he'd left her house.

Things had gotten out of hand that day because of the wine mixing badly with his meds. He knew that even a small amount of alcohol was strongly advised against. Except for that, he wouldn't have drifted off, or experienced his nightmare in the middle of the day.

The prior night was the first night in weeks he
hadn't been transported to the house in Pur Chaman. Instead, he'd dreamed of Maya. They'd been in her art room in the rear of her house. And as before, he'd held her hand, running his tongue along her palm. Only it hadn't stopped there. She'd welcomed his hand reaching below her shirt to unzip her jeans. When he'd pulled them down, he found that she wasn't wearing underwear.

And there had been
the sweet pungent scent of her desire, at least how he imagined it would be. His face had gravitated toward her perfume, trailing it with his tongue deep within her patch. He'd felt the heat and silk of her thighs on his skin, had probed deeper and deeper until he'd heard her moan from afar…

He'd awakened with a hard-
on that had taken several minutes to go down. Despite his frustration, he'd refused to relieve himself, masochistically reveling in his discomfort. It'd been such a long time since he'd felt the strain, almost pain, of non-release. When he'd gone back to sleep, he had slumbered peacefully, almost like a baby.

This morning, h
e'd felt oddly at peace and hadn't even minded Jerry going off with his regular paranoid spiel about the war and the government's conspiracy to destroy him. After the meeting, Dr. Madison had asked Jerry to stay a bit longer. The man obviously needed a punch up in his meds or something. He was a walking time bomb as far as Zach was concerned.

At home now, he opened the window to get some air in the cramped apartment. His place was Spartan, ironically befitting an ancient soldier. Just a divan in the living space and a couple of
wooden chairs his buddy Face (called that because of his facial tats) had purloined from a Chinese restaurant that had gone through a foreclosure. Red velvet backed the chairs, adding a splash of color.

He had
little real furniture, so he made due with plastic receptacles to hold his personal items, including a collection of books and magazines he'd accumulated over the years. Most of his reading material dealt with subjects on sketching and painting, the history of ancient civilizations as well as the military. He had a backlog of Veterans Magazine he still needed to catch up on.

The only attempt at decorating was
an old poster of Def Leppard hanging over the divan. It was one of the few things that had survived his unstable teen years, where he'd been uprooted from one foster home to another. His sister, Janey, had fared a little better, being adopted at ten, just a few years after their parents' death in a plane crash. No relatives had come forward, and he and his sister had had to survive the best they could. Now Janey was a middle school teacher with two kids living in Nebraska. They spoke on the phone occasionally, but their contact was minimal at best.

He didn't blame her.
It wasn't as though he made it easy for people to want to be around him. He had too many emotions brimming up at inopportune times. People got tired of that. Hell, he was tired of it, too.

One of the few
authentic pieces of furniture he did have, outside of his bedroom set, was the dining table just off the kitchenette. He rolled over to it, picked up the drawing pad he'd picked up at a Walgreens…after he'd quit the class. Or more like, after he'd quit her.

He'd also
purchased a drawing kit with charcoal and pencils of varying leads. He looked at the top sheet of the pad where he'd doodled some images, mostly cartoon figures. He'd discovered his penchant for drawing early on while he'd lived with the Hendersons, the second fosters he'd been assigned to. They had been decent enough, though. Mr. Henderson had been the one to buy Zach his first sketch pad for his thirteenth birthday, a pad similar to the one he held in his hand now.

He tore off the top sheet, r
eached over to the kit sitting on the table, and chose one of the pencils.

"C'mon, you can do this," he goaded himself.

He placed the pad flat on the table surface and began to draw in sweeping motions.

Mountains, the rays of a
rising sun trying to penetrate them.

It was a start. But he didn't know how to convey the heat, the damn heat of that
damn day…

A few more strokes and a row of buildings
appeared.

Next came the l
arge rocks and beams that had partially blocked the door.

He tried for one of the side walls,
a hole with ragged edges, blackened cement where the bomb residue had settled.

His motions were
faster now, his breathing quickened.

Now for the hard part.
He began with just a stick figure. The legs and arms came next. He widened the strokes, began fleshing out the figure of a man. Then the fatigues and the helmet. Everything sparsely done, barely there, but legible.

Now the gun…

His hand began trembling as he attempted to fill in the skeleton of the M27.

After several aborted attempts he finally
laid the pad down. He wiped a hand over his forehead, found he was sweating even though a breeze flowed through the curtain-less windows. The smell of the roses planted by his neighbor Mrs. Kowalski floated through on the air. He allowed the attar of the flowers to bring him back from memories of gunpowder, of guns going off at the wrong time.

She'd been
wrong, Ms. Maya Temple (what kind of name was that anyway?). Drawing wasn't assuaging the pain; it was making it worse.

He tore off the sheet, balled it up and tossed it in a plastic bin he used as a garbage receptacle.

The truth, if he admitted it to himself, was that drawing did make him feel better. The problem was in the subject she and Dr. Madison had chosen for him.

At that moment, h
e remembered the sketch in his night table drawer. It'd been in there untouched for weeks.

Zach
shifted to wheel into his bedroom. He opened the nightstand drawer, pulled out the folded drawing. Then half smiled as he remembered the thunder in her eyes when she'd first seen it. God, she had beautiful eyes.

He carried the sketch back to the
living/dining room, then opened it and spread it out on the table. He examined it closely. It wasn't half bad considering he had drawn it from total supposition. After all, he'd never seen her naked. Actually, this was his very first nude.

He
peered at the drawn eyes, then recalled her eyes as they had been during that last session at her house. There'd been pity, anger…and desire. He would never forget that. It had been such a surprise.

That was what he wanted to recapture.
Those eyes with desire.

Just the eyes…for now.

He selected a piece of charcoal this time, began the outline. His hand moved with more confidence, brushing the charcoal to the paper, putting in the shadows of her brows which were softly angled. He drew in the lengthy lashes that framed the lids, brought in some depth.

They were da
rk but not opaque. Light amber that lightened or darkened depending on what light she was in. He finished within minutes and when he was through, she was staring at him from the page. But he hadn't managed to capture the ardor he'd seen there.

He held the pad for
a few seconds before laying it back on the table.

He
made the decision from that second that he had to draw her. Her whole body. Up close and personal. It was more than an inclination or an idea. It was almost a need. Something akin to the need to eat or drink.

Still life. He'd never be satisfied drawing fruit or chairs or waterfronts.

He wanted something…someone…living and breathing.

Hell, he wanted her.
Truly wanted her.

And t
hat was the problem. He hadn't wanted someone for a very long time. Way before a bullet ripped him in two.

He wanted her more than
just a mere model to draw and replicate on paper, some one-dimensional woman he could only see, never touch.

He was a man…in a
wheelchair…but still a man with the desires of any other man. He remembered the surprise in her eyes when she'd witnessed that aspect about him. Something she hadn't anticipated when she had reached out to touch him. But he'd also seen her embarrassment, and had known from her expression that anything between them was the last thing she wanted.