Havoc (22 page)

“Tell me, Sir!” My voice reaches an octave
that forces the last of my lingering emotions to the surface. “Tell
me why you didn't give a fuck then! Tell me why I should give a
fuck now!”

“Because I know what's best for you.”

“Do you?”

“Yes!”

“Then, tell me, Sir, how is it best to be
without the one person you'd die for without orders?” His voice
seems to be trapped in his throat. “Tell me, Sir, that if it were
Mom, you wouldn't do the same goddamn thing.”

“It's not the same, Clint.”

“You would do the same thing.”

Bringing Mom out into the open like we have
for this argument isn't something I would normally do. For some
reason, though, I can't help it. Between the stress of his
judgments, my friends’ judgments, and the simple fact that all I
want more than Mom to be here right now to explain to me that it's
normal to be this crazy over another human, for her to tell me to
follow my heart and my instincts, is for Haven to be nestled
against my chest, pressed firmly against me, giving me the peace I
severely need in this moment.

“Ouch!” Haven's voice squeals. When did she
get here? How long has she been here? Quickly, Sir and I both turn
to look at her, seeing she stubbed her toe. “Didn't mean to
interrupt.”

“Haven,” I gasp, hustling to check for any
damage. “Are you OK?”

Embarrassed, she repeats, “I didn't mean to
interrupt.”

“It's OK. We were done.”

Sir tries again, “Clint.”

“Sir,” I sigh, my eyes falling deep into
Haven’s. They are a swirling sweet brown, lit up from the sight of
me alone. How can any one person be so pleased to see me? I push a
strand of hair behind her ear. Immediate relief flushes over me. I
tilt my head and say, “Done.” Perhaps for Haven’s sake, Sir stands
down.

Desperate for a closer touch, I wrap my
fingers around hers, “I missed you.”

Sweetly, she responds, “I missed you.”

I wrap both my arms around her and squeeze.
Thankfully, she wraps her arms around my neck and gently squeezes
in return. The pain of the arguments, the pain of being the wayward
son, the pain of the neglectful father, the pain of my mother's
absence are all gone. Erased. How could I not want to marry this
girl?

She pulls away and turns to face him, “Hi,
Whiskey.”

Grabbing his keys off the counter, he smiles
at her, comes over, and plants a kiss on her forehead. He swallows
the pain down to his chest, which rises like it's filled with
agony. “Have fun tonight, Haven.”

His eyes lock with me, “Be careful.”

The words aren't about where we're going
tonight. It's about the choices I'm making in my life. My life.

“Yes, Sir.”

Once the front door is shut, she withdraws
from me completely. “Hey, Clint. What were you and Whiskey fighting
about?”

My face goes military strong. Now's not the
time for that. Now's not the time to talk about marriage or past
demons that are troubling me. Today is the day to enjoy a baseball
game, to get her out to have some fun and enjoy the little things
in life, while we still have time.

“Nothing.” She pouts. I'll be the first to
admit it's a hard look to fight. “Nothing.”

As far as I'm concerned, it is nothing.
Nothing matters right now but the two of us together.

With a little pushing, eventually Haven
changes, and we head to one of the last games of the season. It's
not until we fall into our seats with hot dogs, nachos, popcorn,
cotton candy, a large soda, and a small beer that I realize maybe
we're overdoing it with the food a bit. But it's her first baseball
game. I want this experience to be as special for her as
possible.

The sounds of the crowd are exhilarating. I
can feel their excitement pumping through my veins. Their hope for
a win is so strong it twists my heart. Contorts it out of the shape
of normality it was beginning to take. Memories of a lifestyle that
once was start sloshing around in my mixed-up head.

I take a huge bite, hoping to distract
myself. With a mouth full of hot dog, I ask, “Great seats,
huh?”

She nods, nibbling away on her hot dog at a
steady rate, which makes me wonder if Mindy remembered to feed her
lunch.

“How'd you get tickets?”

I wink. Haven sprouts a sarcastic look, so I
shoot her back a childlike, innocent grin.

Once I'm finished with the last of my hot dog
and have successfully swallowed down the anxiety with it, I wipe
away the mustard off the corner of my lips and tug Haven's baseball
hat down in a playful way.

“You know, Mom didn't care for sports, like
at all. And Dad was a sports guy but a hockey man. I went to hockey
games all the time. There were pictures of me in hockey jerseys at
two months old cuddled in his arms. Apparently, I came out of the
womb cheering for toothless guys.”

I toss my head back in laughter.

“I loved hockey games with my Dad. They were
like our own getaway together. Sharing food like this . . .” The
memories of her father look like they are flooding back in full
force. Rapids of emotion seem to be pushing her into the same
position I was in earlier. Funny how that works. Trying to gain her
footing, she asks, “You like hockey?”

“Can't say I've seen many games.”

“But baseball is your favorite?”

I raise the beer to my lips. “It used to
be.”

My eyes glance over to see Haven, who is
staring at me as if waiting for something more. With everything
else that's just managed to fall out of me, what the fuck’s one
more, right?

I slowly lower the cup. “Sir was a huge
baseball fan. I started playing very young. I could hit a ball
before I could walk is what my mom used to say. Sir started calling
me Slugger. Mom loved that. Thought the name fit perfectly. I
played T-ball then baseball. Our team always won. I was known for
hitting them out of the park.

“Mom swore I’d get a college scholarship.
Play in the big leagues. I played year-round baseball. In season,
off season, never more than a couple weeks where I wasn't on a
team. Never more than a day when there wasn't a bat in my hand.
Whether it was practice or the backyard, it didn't matter. I
breathed baseball.

“The weekend of Mom's brain aneurism was the
last time I ever picked up a bat, stepped foot in a stadium, or
even thought about baseball.”

She shifts toward me, offering me immediate
comfort. I wrap an arm around her shoulder, my other hand gripping
the nacho container in my lap. She slides her hand around the
cotton candy and popcorn in her lap over to my thigh. I feel a
soothing rub.

I glance down and then over to her, “Haven, I
haven't been to a game since I was ten.”

“That was–”

“Eleven years ago.”

Instincts are telling me she has a million
questions brewing inside her. Honestly, I don't think I could
handle the interrogation right now, but if she asks, I won't deny
her the answers. I don't think I could deny her anything. Ever.
Instead of asking me anything, she simply reaches over, dips a chip
in cheese, and brings it to her lips, and makes a loud crunch.

A smile seeps out of me as I shake my head,
“You've got . . . cheese.”

With the hand that was holding the food
hostage, I wipe it away from the corner of her mouth. God, I wish I
could slide my thumb across her lips and let her lick the cheese
off, have her warm mouth wrapped around mine. Or any part of me
would do. I feel a familiar stirring in my pants. Stroking her
cheek for a moment, I can't stop staring at my lifeline.

After a quick swallow, she says,
“Thanks.”

“Thank you.”

The response is followed by the announcer
pulling me back to reality. Baseball, America's favorite pastime, a
sport that reminds so many of their childhoods, me included.
Nostalgia hums all around. Everyone glues their eyes to the game
ahead. I'm no exception.

Eleven years ago was the last time I picked
up a bat, and the sight of one now causes tension to flood through
me. When all this was buried, it didn't matter. I could see a bat,
hear a game, sit through a conversation about teams in the league,
completely un-phased. Now . . . now memories suffocate me at
moments, making me feel like I'm back on the baseline, the cheering
from the crowd behind my mom's sweet, angelic voice.

Through the game, Haven remains fully
engulfed in the cheering and the booing and the singing of songs
that help pass the time. She laughs, she giggles, and she stuffs
her face until I think she's going to pop, never missing the chance
to be happy, never taking for granted this moment we have together.
I find myself replacing haunting memories of the sport with these,
these precious indications that baseball has always been more than
just a sport to me and always will be.

The bases are loaded. Everyone’s on the edge
of their seats except me. With my arm still draped around Haven, my
mind seems to be stuck at a halfway mark between the past and the
present, swaying gently between the two. As the batter goes to the
plate, suddenly, I'm behind the plate, my hand gripping the bat. He
swings, I swing, the ball soars sky high, and in a soft whisper, so
light that it could easily get lost in the wind, “And it's out of
here . . .”

The announcer echoes, “And! It's! Out! Of!
Here!”

She looks up at me and laughs, “What was your
favorite team you were on growing up?”

“The Rattlesnakes.”

“And . . .”

“I was seven. Last team I played on before we
moved to Reckonberg. The last year of normalness. Coach Becker had
a crush on Mom. Made her snack captain. Not usually her scene, but
anything that had to do with supporting me or my baseball habit,
she was all for. I hit a home run every game that season. We won
the championship. She framed the jersey that year. It was hung over
my bed up until she died.”

“Where is it now?”

“Back of my closet.”

“I'd love to see it sometime.”

“I'd love to show you.”

The word love bouncing between us keeps the
feeling of serenity that has settled flowing steady. It feels like
such a safe place, a place where we can talk about anything.

“How many games did Whiskey see that
year?”

“None.” I divert my attention to the
scoreboard. And just like that, the peace is shattered, leaving the
air sticky with bits of remorse for being destroyed.

The game tires the two of us out quite well.
As soon we get home, we barely make it to change before we are
snuggled beneath the sheets, morphed together like two pieces of a
misunderstood puzzle.

“But, Mom,” I whine, stomping my cleats. “You
promised.”

Smoothing out the wrinkles on my uniform, my
mom lets out a deep breath, “Slugger, I know what I said, but–”

“He does this all the time!” My
eight-year-old frame pushes past her. I want out of the bathroom
she corned me in.

“Slugger–”

“No! It's always something!”

“It's not his fault.” She pulls her hair high
up into a ponytail.

“It's never his fault!” Her arms fold across
her chest, settling in to let my tantrum continue. “He loves this
stupid country, his stupid job, more than he loves me!”

“Clint.” The tone in her voice freezes me in
place. “That's not true, and you know that. Your father loves you.”
I open my mouth to argue, and she lifts a finger. “And even if he
can't be at your games, we always record them, so he can see them
when he returns. Orders change, Slugger, and you know that.”

“What I know is he is never here.”

A small smile tries and fails to come to her
face, “I promise you, baby. He's here when we need him, and he'll
always be there for you.”

She's just trying to make me feel better. She
knows he doesn't love me but doesn't know how to say it. It's like
I'm a disappointment or something. Like he's not proud to be my
dad. Like he's more proud to be an American soldier than father of
Clint Thomas Walker. Well, I don't need him. Not now. Not ever.
Because I have her. I'll always have her. I mean, come on. She's my
mom.

Stirring, I reach out to clutch Haven to me,
needing a little peace to drift off back to sleep. When I don't
feel anything, I lunge straight up, panicked. I prepare to leap out
of bed when her beautiful face appears in the doorway, the light
from down the hall surrounding her with an angelic glow.

She blinks. “It's OK.”

I relax against the pillows and ask, “Are you
OK? Do you need something? Did you have a nightmare?” Even though
I'm the one who had the nightmare, she doesn't need to know that.
Another problem with dreaming. You get your heart’s desires right
alongside your biggest nightmares.

“I went to the bathroom.” Climbing back in
bed, she curls up like a kitten beside me, a look of comfort on her
face. I hold her a little tighter than I was before, the
realization that I won't always get to sleep with her like this
fresh on my mind.

Today has been the day from hell. Screwed up
orders during training. Mis-assembled my gun. Both rookie mistakes.
Ass chewings one after another. I've never been so sloppy. I've
never been so clumsy, even when I was just beginning. But, my mind
couldn't get focused. I couldn't put my ducks in a row knowing
that, at the end of it all, I would be going home back to the love
of my life. She clouds my judgment. Digs her way into almost every
thought I can conjure up. And to top it all off, my orders got
moved up. We're deploying a month earlier than we're supposed to.
Two days ago, I had more time to prepare Haven for my departure. To
prepare me. I haven't been thinking about time away from her
because I figured there was still so much time to go. Now it feels
like my entire world is crumbling before me. There's no way that
today can possibly get any worse, though with the way traffic is
brutally preventing me from getting home in a timely fashion, it's
like the world begs to differ.