(no subject)
Hmm. It's sort of late. I sort of have class in the morning.
Hmm.........
Short story for that creative writing prof:
June 1968
Only two days had passed since his eighteenth birthday, but there was no way she could have known that. She watched him through the large café window as he adjusted his freshly-ironed army greens, and her tongue darted out between her teeth just enough to moisten her painted lips. She watched him while she set the Davis’ food in front of them, watched him while she rang up Bill Hutchinson’s order, and watched him while she poured Mrs. Johansen’s black decaffeinated coffee, catching herself just in time to stop the cup from overflowing. Mrs. Johansen, an elderly woman with iron-gray hair and two blue eyes that spoke of a fountain of untapped knowledge, simply curled her lips up into a twisted smile and reached forward to pat the girl’s smooth, pale hair with her own translucent, wrinkled one.
“He’s too old for you, darling,” she said in a horse voice that made the girl swallow hard.
“I-I wasn’t-” she started, but Mrs. Johansen laughed a cracked, gritty cackle that made gooseflesh appear on the girl’s arms and the hair on the back of her neck stand at attention.
“Whatever you say, darling,” she murmured in a disbelieving tone. “Take a good long look at him now, because if he’s heading off to ‘Nam, chances are he won’t look like that if he returns.”
Something in the girl’s chest tightened as she raised her eyes to do as the old woman had told her. He was one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, she decided; his hair, a liquid black color that didn’t quite suit his lighter complexion, was shaggy and fell into his eyes. He didn’t bother brushing the locks away, she noticed; he seemed content having to look past them in order to see. When he turned around, she realized his shoulders were broader than she’d originally thought-soldier’s shoulders, her mother had once called them while they watched rugged, seasoned men and terrified boys barely out of high school marching past the cameras on the nightly news.
She couldn’t tell what the color of his eyes was, even though she found herself looking directly in them. It took her a moment to realize that, just as she was studying him, he was studying her as well. Her heart leapt into her throat and she fumbled the coffee pot, grateful that after pouring Mrs. Johansen’s cup it was less than half-full.
Mrs. Johansen clucked in an annoyed manner and shooed her away, and the girl could only conclude that the old woman feared she would drop the pot and scald her. For the second time in as many minutes she did as she was told and scurried over to her proper place behind the counter. She settled the pot back on its burner and smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles in her salmon-pink uniform, feeling very self-conscious after being looked at so by the young soldier.
When the bell on the doorway tinkled, signaling someone had come into the small café, she didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. She held her breath as his heavy footsteps fell on the tiled floor, bit her lip when she heard the sound of his duffel fall to the floor, and looked down at her sneakers when the thin plastic cushions on the back of one of the booths squeaked.
“You have a customer,” another waitress hissed while she rushed past the girl. She nodded, even though the other waitress was long gone and couldn’t see her, and swallowed nervously. Her shoes made no sound as she walked out from behind the counter to the booth where the soldier sat.
“Good afternoon,” she said in a tight voice, pulling out her pad of paper and pencil and trying not to stare. “What can I get you?”
The soldier’s eyes rolled upwards to look at her, and she held her breath. Amber. They were the most gorgeous-the most frightening-the saddest shade of amber she’d ever seen.
“Could I have a chocolate milkshake?” he asked in a voice so quiet that she had to strain to hear him.
She bit her bottom lip and glanced down at her notepad. They didn’t serve chocolate milkshakes.
“Sure, sir,” she said in just as soft a tone as he had spoken to her. “Would you like a hamburger as well?”
He gave her a small smile and nodded. “Please, ma’am-and my name’s not sir. It’s Michael.”
It was her turn to smile. “And my name isn’t ma’am, it’s Lila.”
“I saw that,” the soldier-Michael said easily, glancing down at her nametag. Lila blushed and hurriedly wrote down the soldier’s order.
“I’ll be right back with your milkshake, Michael,” she said in that same soft voice before walking back behind the counter once more, glancing over her shoulder to see if he was watching her. He was.
“Teresa, I’ll be back in five. Watch my tables for me, would you?” she asked in a hushed tone, so the soldier wouldn’t hear. Teresa, the other waitress, nodded.
“Sure, sugar. Make it quick or I’m taking my share of your tips.”
Lila nodded and hurried out the back door. The sun beat down upon her on the warm June day, but she didn’t notice; her destination was a few buildings down, and she only had eyes for the ice cream parlor towards which she was heading.
She returned seven minutes later, a large chocolate shake in hand. Lila set the unmarked paper cup down in front of the soldier and gave him a shy smile.
“If you need anything else before your food comes up, let me know, okay?”
Michael nodded slowly and took a sip of his shake. A thin line of chocolate malt lined his upper lip, and Lila giggled softly. With one quick motion his tongue had caught most of it, and he too shot her a sheepish grin.
“Actually, Lila, there is something, if you wouldn’t mind,” he said, his eyes flicking toward the empty seat in front of him. “Would you mind sitting down for a while and talking to me a bit? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble and all-if you’re not busy. Even if you are, I can wait,” he offered hurriedly, as if he were afraid she would walk off before he could finish. “It’s just-I don’t really have anyone to talk to and I’m a little lonely right now. Having company as pretty as you would make my day.”
Lila felt her cheeks burn and knew she must have been roughly the color of the ketchup that sat to the left of Michael’s elbow.
“Sure,” she said softly, glancing around to make sure the rest of her tables were set. For now they were, she decided, and gingerly took a seat on the uncomfortable plastic booth.
“How old are you, Lila?” Michael asked, his steady amber eyes watching her with such intensity that Lila felt she might fall into whatever trance he was trying to put on her.
“Sixteen,” she said quietly, suddenly feeling very much ashamed of that number. He was quite obviously so much older, with his rugged look that reminded her more of the men she’d seen on the television rather than the boys whom she’d felt so terrible for-
“Sixteen?” he replied quietly. “That’s a good age-a very good age. I just turned eighteen two days ago.”
“Did you?” Lila asked, her eyes widening slightly with surprise. “You look-you look older.”
He nodded and slouched down in his seat. “Yeah, well, I feel older, I suppose.”
Lila remained silent, feeling awkward. Vietnam was something polite folks didn’t talk about in her town. Already a number of boys she’d known had been killed or seriously wounded in action, and she figured Mrs. Johansen was right; she might very well be the last civilian of Chippington, North Carolina to see Michael alive.
“I enlisted, in case you were wondering,” he finally said in a voice as soft as the one he’d first used. “My uncle-he raised me. He fought in the Second World War, on the European front-survived Normandy. He knew Eisenhower. Died eight months ago, and he made me swear I’d grow to be a man he’d be proud to know.”
Before Lila could form a response, the bell in the kitchen rang and her name was called. She mumbled an apology and got out of the booth, hurrying over to the window.
“Table 3,” the cook, said when she approached him, sniffing his magnificently large nose and wiggling his bushy moustache. “Added extra pickles on the side just in case.”
“Thanks, Howie,” Lila said, as she always did when Howie prepared a meal for one of her customers.
“No problem, doll,” he said, tipping her an enormous wink before ambling back to the grill.
Lila carried the soldier’s plate over to him, careful not to spill any of the French fries that threatened to launch themselves off the cream-colored porcelain. “Here you go,” she said in a friendly tone, wanting to forget the topic of Vietnam and the next-and perhaps last-era of his life had been broached.
“Thank you,” he said cautiously. When she stood there for a moment, not moving, he gestured toward the empty seat before him once again. “If you want.”
Lila nodded, glancing briefly at her other customers. She was beginning to get angry looks from a few of them.
“I-I get off in an hour,” she offered hesitantly. “If you’d like-I mean, if you have the time and all, maybe we could-I don’t know, spend a little time together before you have to…?”
His shy smile expanded quickly into a gratifying grin. Lila let out a small sigh, relieved she’d said the right thing to this man-child who was about to stare death in the face. She sent up a brief prayer that he would, in the end, be victorious.
At dusk Michael took her hand as the two had walked along the nearby pier. The sunset was a glorious array of scarlet and gold, rose and emerald, navy and fire, and the pressure his already-calloused fingers put on her delicate hands was, in a way, satisfying beyond her conscious understanding.
“Lila, can I tell you something?” he asked quietly as they stopped at the end of the pier. She tore her eyes from the dying sun and painted sky to look at him. His face was pinched in a way that frightened her, in a way that told her the thoughts that were running through his mind were things she’d never understand-things she didn’t want to understand...things she wished he didn’t have to understand.
“Of course,” she replied, squeezing his hand and offering what little strength she had to him.
He cleared his throat and pressed his cracked lips together. Michael stared out to sea for a long moment before speaking, and all the while Lila kept her eyes locked on his tense features.
“I’m afraid,” he finally admitted in a voice so wrought with shame that it pained Lila to hear the words tumble from his lips. She didn’t need to ask of what.
“That’s okay,” she murmured, looking down at their joined hands and covering the top of his with her free palm, so his hand was between both of hers. “You’re allowed to be afraid. If you weren’t, I…I don’t think that’d be right.”
He sniffled and rubbed briefly at his eyes. Lila thought she saw tears forming, but she was sure he would never admit to it.
“How can I be the man I’m supposed to be if I’m afraid?” he asked gruffly. “How-how am I supposed to go to Vietnam and face all of that if I can barely find the courage to step onto the bus that takes me to boot camp?”
“I don’t know,” Lila whispered. “I don’t know what to say, Michael. I’m sorry.”
He looked at her and gave her a tight smile. “Don’t be sorry,” he said hoarsely. “That’s one thing my uncle taught me well-never be sorry.”
She bit her lower lip and stared up into his melancholy amber eyes. “I think your uncle would be proud of you no matter what. Fear-it’s sort of something everyone goes though, right? I think that-that you’re the most courageous person I’ve ever met, just by wearing that uniform and-and enlisting. And…and by saying you’re afraid…” She paused for a moment. “I think that makes you less afraid or-or even more courageous.”
He sniffed again and wiped at his cheek. She could barely see as a tear trickled down his face.
“May I-may I write to you?” he asked suddenly, squeezing her hand with his. “I don’t really have anyone to write to, not anymore. I promise I won’t write too much, and you don’t even have to write back if you don’t want, but-I just want to tell you what’s happening to me. Is that all right?”
The hesitancy in his voice nearly made her burst into tears, but she held back, forcing herself to be strong for him. Now wasn’t her time to cry-it was his.
“Of course you may,” she replied tightly. “I’d be hurt if you didn’t.”
As the last rays of sunlight fell behind the infinite horizon and endless sea, he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. At that moment she finally allowed her tears to fall.
August 1968
Dear Lila,
I am so sorry it has been so long since my last letter. They have really been working us at camp. We are going to go through Tigerland next week. It is the closest thing to hell in the United States of America. That is what my drill sergeant says. He says it is almost an exact replica of Vietnam. He says if we are going to survive Vietnam, we have to be able to survive Tigerland. I think I can do it.
Lila, I know this is probably a bad time, but I have been thinking about you a lot lately. Maybe when I get back we can spend some more time together. Are you still working at the café? We could go to the pier again. I liked that. I think you did too, maybe. I hope you did. I am still scared, but not as much as I was then. Getting on the bus was the hard part, I think. After Tigerland I am being shipped out to Vietnam. I am afraid, but the thought of you makes me not so afraid. You think I have courage, so for you I will have courage.
Sincerely,
Michael Washington
Lila’s mother watched as her youngest daughter read the letter that was postmarked two weeks before. The girl’s hands were trembling and she was deathly pale, but a hint of a smile tugged at her lips. Mrs. Anderson swallowed a sigh of sadness and frustration. She knew the look of blossoming affections when she saw it. What frightened her was how deep those affections may have run.
“Sweetie, he’s too old for you,” she said gently, reaching across the kitchen table and covering her daughter’s hand with hers. “He’s a soldier going to Vietnam. Do you really want to put all of your hopes on him returning?”
Lila ignored her mother and carefully folded the letter. She pushed her chair back slowly, as to make sure the legs didn’t squeak against the tiled floor, and stood up. Her footsteps fell softly through the kitchen, up the stairs, and into her bedroom, where Mrs. Anderson heard her door shut quietly. The lock click that followed was barely audible.
September 1968
Dear Lila,
I am so sorry it has been so long since my last letter. Vietnam is everything we were told in training. It is scary. It is the scariest place I think I have ever been. I have shot many enemies and I do not like it. I do not like killing them. They send small children after us with bombs sometimes. We are always told to be aware of what is going on around us. It is very hard when we do not get much sleep and must walk a long distance every day, but it is manageable. When things get really scary, I always think of you and the pier. That meant a lot to me, Lila. I wish I could tell you that in person. One day I will.
We were told we would not be able to write for a while. There is no way to mail letters quickly here. If you do not hear from me for a while, do not be afraid. I am okay. As long as I can think of you, I will be okay. You are the prettiest girl I have ever seen, both inside and out, as my uncle used to say.
I think he would be proud of me. I hope you are proud of me, too.
Love,
Michael Washington
Mrs. Anderson watched from her daughter’s doorway as Lila fell to her knees and pulled out a small shoebox that was partially full of letters and other small things that had sentimental value beyond worth to her daughter. Instead of clearing her throat and alerting Lila to her presence, Mrs. Anderson turned around slowly and walked down the hall, at a loss as to what to do.
November 1968
One thing Michael had realized early on was that no matter how far away from the cities they went, Vietnam reeked. It took him only a few days to realize it wasn’t human waste and swamps he was smelling; it was decomposing bodies and oceans of blood that covered the land, replacing fallen leaves and river water.
They were in the middle of another battle amongst the bloody swamps, resting behind bunkers made of rotting flesh. The man beside him was dead and his face was obliterated. Bits of the nineteen-year-old’s brain stuck to Michael’s sweaty neck and his left cheek, but he was too busy keeping himself alive to mourn. He cared-he cared so much that he felt as if he would shatter into a thousand pieces-but for the sake of his sanity, he couldn’t take it to heart. Not yet, anyway.
An explosion rocked the battlefield, and Michael wondered in a detached sort of way whether it was the United States of America that had set it off, or if the Enemy had been the ones to do it. When the body of his commanding officer, his lower half charred black, flew through the air and landed on the body of the nineteen-year-old boy next to him, he knew the Enemy was winning. His commanding officer groped blindly for something to hold onto, and Michael reached out his hand to take the man’s own blackened fingers in his. Blood gushed from the sockets where the man’s eyes had been only moments before, and the deafening nightmarish screams that filled Michael’s ears ceased after only a second or two.
When the sun exploded and the sky turned the exact shade of orange he’d seen the night on the pier with Lila, he smiled.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy Name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”
“Amen.”
To Lila it seemed as if the entire school had turned out for the final football game of the year. She shifted from one foot to the other nervously, waiting for the principal to make his speech thanking everyone for their support of the team, and for the obligatory list of local Vietnam dead.
It’s the only reason she went to every football game her school played.
The principal of her high school was a beefy bald man who was dressed in a pinstripe suit. He wiped his glistening brow with a stark white handkerchief Lila had to squint to see from her position amongst other anxious students.
“Folks, tonight I ask you for a moment of silence for those who had died in Vietnam. The ever-growing list weighs heavily on our small town, and it is my sad duty to add four names to the gravestones in our hearts.”
Lila looked down at her hands, which were clasped together so tightly that they were white. She didn’t notice the pain though. Instead all five of her senses seemed to be focused solely on the names the principal was about to said.
“Garrett Duncan.”
A sob escaped from Lila’s throat, joining the half-dozen others that rose from the crowd. He’d been a senior the year before, but he wasn’t the reason Lila was crying.
“Bruce Harrison.”
More sobs from the crowd this time. He’d graduated two years before, top of his class. He’d had to drop of out college for financial reasons. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to force back the tears that spilled onto her cheeks. It was futile; that only made her sobs come harder. The man next to her set a cautious hand on her back and began to rub soothing circles onto her shaking body. Lila didn’t even notice.
“Christopher Patterson.”
A child’s scream this time; he’d had a wife and two small children. Lila couldn’t take it any longer and, without bothering to say a word to the man sitting next to her, she stood up and stumbled down the bleachers, nearly losing her footing twice. She made it down before the fourth name was read, however, and she darted underneath the bleachers, where the sound of the crowd was muffled. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need to hear the fourth name; she already knew. There would be no cries but hers for him.
“Michael Washington.”
That night, her school’s football team won to the animated cheers of the crowd. Lila stayed crouched underneath the bleachers, sobbing harder than she’d ever cried in her life. In many ways she’d loved him, even though she had known he was a dead man from the moment she’d first laid eyes on him. There had never been any real hope in her, and for that she felt a stab of guilt so strong that she doubled over, weeping into her sleeves.
However, more than the sadness, more than the grief…she was proud of Michael.
And yes, a few of the lines are lifted directly from the song. I'm gonna tweak it when I'm more awake and conscious and all that good stuff. I don't really like the ending. Thoughts? The HTML is messed up, so don't mind that.
(And NO, I didn't not choose that name because of my Navy Michael. I chose it 'cause of simply_amused, thank you.)
Ciao,
aC
Hmm.........
Short story for that creative writing prof:
June 1968
Only two days had passed since his eighteenth birthday, but there was no way she could have known that. She watched him through the large café window as he adjusted his freshly-ironed army greens, and her tongue darted out between her teeth just enough to moisten her painted lips. She watched him while she set the Davis’ food in front of them, watched him while she rang up Bill Hutchinson’s order, and watched him while she poured Mrs. Johansen’s black decaffeinated coffee, catching herself just in time to stop the cup from overflowing. Mrs. Johansen, an elderly woman with iron-gray hair and two blue eyes that spoke of a fountain of untapped knowledge, simply curled her lips up into a twisted smile and reached forward to pat the girl’s smooth, pale hair with her own translucent, wrinkled one.
“He’s too old for you, darling,” she said in a horse voice that made the girl swallow hard.
“I-I wasn’t-” she started, but Mrs. Johansen laughed a cracked, gritty cackle that made gooseflesh appear on the girl’s arms and the hair on the back of her neck stand at attention.
“Whatever you say, darling,” she murmured in a disbelieving tone. “Take a good long look at him now, because if he’s heading off to ‘Nam, chances are he won’t look like that if he returns.”
Something in the girl’s chest tightened as she raised her eyes to do as the old woman had told her. He was one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen, she decided; his hair, a liquid black color that didn’t quite suit his lighter complexion, was shaggy and fell into his eyes. He didn’t bother brushing the locks away, she noticed; he seemed content having to look past them in order to see. When he turned around, she realized his shoulders were broader than she’d originally thought-soldier’s shoulders, her mother had once called them while they watched rugged, seasoned men and terrified boys barely out of high school marching past the cameras on the nightly news.
She couldn’t tell what the color of his eyes was, even though she found herself looking directly in them. It took her a moment to realize that, just as she was studying him, he was studying her as well. Her heart leapt into her throat and she fumbled the coffee pot, grateful that after pouring Mrs. Johansen’s cup it was less than half-full.
Mrs. Johansen clucked in an annoyed manner and shooed her away, and the girl could only conclude that the old woman feared she would drop the pot and scald her. For the second time in as many minutes she did as she was told and scurried over to her proper place behind the counter. She settled the pot back on its burner and smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles in her salmon-pink uniform, feeling very self-conscious after being looked at so by the young soldier.
When the bell on the doorway tinkled, signaling someone had come into the small café, she didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. She held her breath as his heavy footsteps fell on the tiled floor, bit her lip when she heard the sound of his duffel fall to the floor, and looked down at her sneakers when the thin plastic cushions on the back of one of the booths squeaked.
“You have a customer,” another waitress hissed while she rushed past the girl. She nodded, even though the other waitress was long gone and couldn’t see her, and swallowed nervously. Her shoes made no sound as she walked out from behind the counter to the booth where the soldier sat.
“Good afternoon,” she said in a tight voice, pulling out her pad of paper and pencil and trying not to stare. “What can I get you?”
The soldier’s eyes rolled upwards to look at her, and she held her breath. Amber. They were the most gorgeous-the most frightening-the saddest shade of amber she’d ever seen.
“Could I have a chocolate milkshake?” he asked in a voice so quiet that she had to strain to hear him.
She bit her bottom lip and glanced down at her notepad. They didn’t serve chocolate milkshakes.
“Sure, sir,” she said in just as soft a tone as he had spoken to her. “Would you like a hamburger as well?”
He gave her a small smile and nodded. “Please, ma’am-and my name’s not sir. It’s Michael.”
It was her turn to smile. “And my name isn’t ma’am, it’s Lila.”
“I saw that,” the soldier-Michael said easily, glancing down at her nametag. Lila blushed and hurriedly wrote down the soldier’s order.
“I’ll be right back with your milkshake, Michael,” she said in that same soft voice before walking back behind the counter once more, glancing over her shoulder to see if he was watching her. He was.
“Teresa, I’ll be back in five. Watch my tables for me, would you?” she asked in a hushed tone, so the soldier wouldn’t hear. Teresa, the other waitress, nodded.
“Sure, sugar. Make it quick or I’m taking my share of your tips.”
Lila nodded and hurried out the back door. The sun beat down upon her on the warm June day, but she didn’t notice; her destination was a few buildings down, and she only had eyes for the ice cream parlor towards which she was heading.
She returned seven minutes later, a large chocolate shake in hand. Lila set the unmarked paper cup down in front of the soldier and gave him a shy smile.
“If you need anything else before your food comes up, let me know, okay?”
Michael nodded slowly and took a sip of his shake. A thin line of chocolate malt lined his upper lip, and Lila giggled softly. With one quick motion his tongue had caught most of it, and he too shot her a sheepish grin.
“Actually, Lila, there is something, if you wouldn’t mind,” he said, his eyes flicking toward the empty seat in front of him. “Would you mind sitting down for a while and talking to me a bit? If it wouldn’t be too much trouble and all-if you’re not busy. Even if you are, I can wait,” he offered hurriedly, as if he were afraid she would walk off before he could finish. “It’s just-I don’t really have anyone to talk to and I’m a little lonely right now. Having company as pretty as you would make my day.”
Lila felt her cheeks burn and knew she must have been roughly the color of the ketchup that sat to the left of Michael’s elbow.
“Sure,” she said softly, glancing around to make sure the rest of her tables were set. For now they were, she decided, and gingerly took a seat on the uncomfortable plastic booth.
“How old are you, Lila?” Michael asked, his steady amber eyes watching her with such intensity that Lila felt she might fall into whatever trance he was trying to put on her.
“Sixteen,” she said quietly, suddenly feeling very much ashamed of that number. He was quite obviously so much older, with his rugged look that reminded her more of the men she’d seen on the television rather than the boys whom she’d felt so terrible for-
“Sixteen?” he replied quietly. “That’s a good age-a very good age. I just turned eighteen two days ago.”
“Did you?” Lila asked, her eyes widening slightly with surprise. “You look-you look older.”
He nodded and slouched down in his seat. “Yeah, well, I feel older, I suppose.”
Lila remained silent, feeling awkward. Vietnam was something polite folks didn’t talk about in her town. Already a number of boys she’d known had been killed or seriously wounded in action, and she figured Mrs. Johansen was right; she might very well be the last civilian of Chippington, North Carolina to see Michael alive.
“I enlisted, in case you were wondering,” he finally said in a voice as soft as the one he’d first used. “My uncle-he raised me. He fought in the Second World War, on the European front-survived Normandy. He knew Eisenhower. Died eight months ago, and he made me swear I’d grow to be a man he’d be proud to know.”
Before Lila could form a response, the bell in the kitchen rang and her name was called. She mumbled an apology and got out of the booth, hurrying over to the window.
“Table 3,” the cook, said when she approached him, sniffing his magnificently large nose and wiggling his bushy moustache. “Added extra pickles on the side just in case.”
“Thanks, Howie,” Lila said, as she always did when Howie prepared a meal for one of her customers.
“No problem, doll,” he said, tipping her an enormous wink before ambling back to the grill.
Lila carried the soldier’s plate over to him, careful not to spill any of the French fries that threatened to launch themselves off the cream-colored porcelain. “Here you go,” she said in a friendly tone, wanting to forget the topic of Vietnam and the next-and perhaps last-era of his life had been broached.
“Thank you,” he said cautiously. When she stood there for a moment, not moving, he gestured toward the empty seat before him once again. “If you want.”
Lila nodded, glancing briefly at her other customers. She was beginning to get angry looks from a few of them.
“I-I get off in an hour,” she offered hesitantly. “If you’d like-I mean, if you have the time and all, maybe we could-I don’t know, spend a little time together before you have to…?”
His shy smile expanded quickly into a gratifying grin. Lila let out a small sigh, relieved she’d said the right thing to this man-child who was about to stare death in the face. She sent up a brief prayer that he would, in the end, be victorious.
At dusk Michael took her hand as the two had walked along the nearby pier. The sunset was a glorious array of scarlet and gold, rose and emerald, navy and fire, and the pressure his already-calloused fingers put on her delicate hands was, in a way, satisfying beyond her conscious understanding.
“Lila, can I tell you something?” he asked quietly as they stopped at the end of the pier. She tore her eyes from the dying sun and painted sky to look at him. His face was pinched in a way that frightened her, in a way that told her the thoughts that were running through his mind were things she’d never understand-things she didn’t want to understand...things she wished he didn’t have to understand.
“Of course,” she replied, squeezing his hand and offering what little strength she had to him.
He cleared his throat and pressed his cracked lips together. Michael stared out to sea for a long moment before speaking, and all the while Lila kept her eyes locked on his tense features.
“I’m afraid,” he finally admitted in a voice so wrought with shame that it pained Lila to hear the words tumble from his lips. She didn’t need to ask of what.
“That’s okay,” she murmured, looking down at their joined hands and covering the top of his with her free palm, so his hand was between both of hers. “You’re allowed to be afraid. If you weren’t, I…I don’t think that’d be right.”
He sniffled and rubbed briefly at his eyes. Lila thought she saw tears forming, but she was sure he would never admit to it.
“How can I be the man I’m supposed to be if I’m afraid?” he asked gruffly. “How-how am I supposed to go to Vietnam and face all of that if I can barely find the courage to step onto the bus that takes me to boot camp?”
“I don’t know,” Lila whispered. “I don’t know what to say, Michael. I’m sorry.”
He looked at her and gave her a tight smile. “Don’t be sorry,” he said hoarsely. “That’s one thing my uncle taught me well-never be sorry.”
She bit her lower lip and stared up into his melancholy amber eyes. “I think your uncle would be proud of you no matter what. Fear-it’s sort of something everyone goes though, right? I think that-that you’re the most courageous person I’ve ever met, just by wearing that uniform and-and enlisting. And…and by saying you’re afraid…” She paused for a moment. “I think that makes you less afraid or-or even more courageous.”
He sniffed again and wiped at his cheek. She could barely see as a tear trickled down his face.
“May I-may I write to you?” he asked suddenly, squeezing her hand with his. “I don’t really have anyone to write to, not anymore. I promise I won’t write too much, and you don’t even have to write back if you don’t want, but-I just want to tell you what’s happening to me. Is that all right?”
The hesitancy in his voice nearly made her burst into tears, but she held back, forcing herself to be strong for him. Now wasn’t her time to cry-it was his.
“Of course you may,” she replied tightly. “I’d be hurt if you didn’t.”
As the last rays of sunlight fell behind the infinite horizon and endless sea, he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. At that moment she finally allowed her tears to fall.
August 1968
Dear Lila,
I am so sorry it has been so long since my last letter. They have really been working us at camp. We are going to go through Tigerland next week. It is the closest thing to hell in the United States of America. That is what my drill sergeant says. He says it is almost an exact replica of Vietnam. He says if we are going to survive Vietnam, we have to be able to survive Tigerland. I think I can do it.
Lila, I know this is probably a bad time, but I have been thinking about you a lot lately. Maybe when I get back we can spend some more time together. Are you still working at the café? We could go to the pier again. I liked that. I think you did too, maybe. I hope you did. I am still scared, but not as much as I was then. Getting on the bus was the hard part, I think. After Tigerland I am being shipped out to Vietnam. I am afraid, but the thought of you makes me not so afraid. You think I have courage, so for you I will have courage.
Sincerely,
Michael Washington
Lila’s mother watched as her youngest daughter read the letter that was postmarked two weeks before. The girl’s hands were trembling and she was deathly pale, but a hint of a smile tugged at her lips. Mrs. Anderson swallowed a sigh of sadness and frustration. She knew the look of blossoming affections when she saw it. What frightened her was how deep those affections may have run.
“Sweetie, he’s too old for you,” she said gently, reaching across the kitchen table and covering her daughter’s hand with hers. “He’s a soldier going to Vietnam. Do you really want to put all of your hopes on him returning?”
Lila ignored her mother and carefully folded the letter. She pushed her chair back slowly, as to make sure the legs didn’t squeak against the tiled floor, and stood up. Her footsteps fell softly through the kitchen, up the stairs, and into her bedroom, where Mrs. Anderson heard her door shut quietly. The lock click that followed was barely audible.
September 1968
Dear Lila,
I am so sorry it has been so long since my last letter. Vietnam is everything we were told in training. It is scary. It is the scariest place I think I have ever been. I have shot many enemies and I do not like it. I do not like killing them. They send small children after us with bombs sometimes. We are always told to be aware of what is going on around us. It is very hard when we do not get much sleep and must walk a long distance every day, but it is manageable. When things get really scary, I always think of you and the pier. That meant a lot to me, Lila. I wish I could tell you that in person. One day I will.
We were told we would not be able to write for a while. There is no way to mail letters quickly here. If you do not hear from me for a while, do not be afraid. I am okay. As long as I can think of you, I will be okay. You are the prettiest girl I have ever seen, both inside and out, as my uncle used to say.
I think he would be proud of me. I hope you are proud of me, too.
Love,
Michael Washington
Mrs. Anderson watched from her daughter’s doorway as Lila fell to her knees and pulled out a small shoebox that was partially full of letters and other small things that had sentimental value beyond worth to her daughter. Instead of clearing her throat and alerting Lila to her presence, Mrs. Anderson turned around slowly and walked down the hall, at a loss as to what to do.
November 1968
One thing Michael had realized early on was that no matter how far away from the cities they went, Vietnam reeked. It took him only a few days to realize it wasn’t human waste and swamps he was smelling; it was decomposing bodies and oceans of blood that covered the land, replacing fallen leaves and river water.
They were in the middle of another battle amongst the bloody swamps, resting behind bunkers made of rotting flesh. The man beside him was dead and his face was obliterated. Bits of the nineteen-year-old’s brain stuck to Michael’s sweaty neck and his left cheek, but he was too busy keeping himself alive to mourn. He cared-he cared so much that he felt as if he would shatter into a thousand pieces-but for the sake of his sanity, he couldn’t take it to heart. Not yet, anyway.
An explosion rocked the battlefield, and Michael wondered in a detached sort of way whether it was the United States of America that had set it off, or if the Enemy had been the ones to do it. When the body of his commanding officer, his lower half charred black, flew through the air and landed on the body of the nineteen-year-old boy next to him, he knew the Enemy was winning. His commanding officer groped blindly for something to hold onto, and Michael reached out his hand to take the man’s own blackened fingers in his. Blood gushed from the sockets where the man’s eyes had been only moments before, and the deafening nightmarish screams that filled Michael’s ears ceased after only a second or two.
When the sun exploded and the sky turned the exact shade of orange he’d seen the night on the pier with Lila, he smiled.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy Name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”
“Amen.”
To Lila it seemed as if the entire school had turned out for the final football game of the year. She shifted from one foot to the other nervously, waiting for the principal to make his speech thanking everyone for their support of the team, and for the obligatory list of local Vietnam dead.
It’s the only reason she went to every football game her school played.
The principal of her high school was a beefy bald man who was dressed in a pinstripe suit. He wiped his glistening brow with a stark white handkerchief Lila had to squint to see from her position amongst other anxious students.
“Folks, tonight I ask you for a moment of silence for those who had died in Vietnam. The ever-growing list weighs heavily on our small town, and it is my sad duty to add four names to the gravestones in our hearts.”
Lila looked down at her hands, which were clasped together so tightly that they were white. She didn’t notice the pain though. Instead all five of her senses seemed to be focused solely on the names the principal was about to said.
“Garrett Duncan.”
A sob escaped from Lila’s throat, joining the half-dozen others that rose from the crowd. He’d been a senior the year before, but he wasn’t the reason Lila was crying.
“Bruce Harrison.”
More sobs from the crowd this time. He’d graduated two years before, top of his class. He’d had to drop of out college for financial reasons. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to force back the tears that spilled onto her cheeks. It was futile; that only made her sobs come harder. The man next to her set a cautious hand on her back and began to rub soothing circles onto her shaking body. Lila didn’t even notice.
“Christopher Patterson.”
A child’s scream this time; he’d had a wife and two small children. Lila couldn’t take it any longer and, without bothering to say a word to the man sitting next to her, she stood up and stumbled down the bleachers, nearly losing her footing twice. She made it down before the fourth name was read, however, and she darted underneath the bleachers, where the sound of the crowd was muffled. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need to hear the fourth name; she already knew. There would be no cries but hers for him.
“Michael Washington.”
That night, her school’s football team won to the animated cheers of the crowd. Lila stayed crouched underneath the bleachers, sobbing harder than she’d ever cried in her life. In many ways she’d loved him, even though she had known he was a dead man from the moment she’d first laid eyes on him. There had never been any real hope in her, and for that she felt a stab of guilt so strong that she doubled over, weeping into her sleeves.
However, more than the sadness, more than the grief…she was proud of Michael.
And yes, a few of the lines are lifted directly from the song. I'm gonna tweak it when I'm more awake and conscious and all that good stuff. I don't really like the ending. Thoughts? The HTML is messed up, so don't mind that.
(And NO, I didn't not choose that name because of my Navy Michael. I chose it 'cause of simply_amused, thank you.)
Ciao,
aC