The Top Gun's Return. Kathleen Creighton
Frank had on sale down at the produce stand. They were goin’ fast, so I thought I’d better get ’em put up while they still had some good in ’em.” Red-faced and sweaty, she flashed Jessie a smile.
“Let me get changed,” Jessie said. “I’ll help you.”
“Oh, heavens, I’m about done here—just these last few jars. Then I’m gonna put the kettles to soak and go in and catch Dan Rather. You go on and sit—there’s tea in the ’fridge.”
Jessie picked up her pocketbook and slung the strap over her shoulder. “Thanks, I will in a minute. Where’s Sammi June? Doing her homework?”
“Finished—at least, that’s what she told me. She and J.J. are off ramblin’ down by the creek somewhere.”
Jessie nodded. “I get a letter today?” She asked it in that way people do when they think they’re going to be disappointed.
Not this time, though. Her mother smiled and pointed with the spoon. “You did. It’s on the desk in the—”
And Jessie was already gone, her heart going thump-thump in time to the whapping of the swinging door behind her. In the hall, she let the pocketbook fall to the desktop as she picked up the familiar envelope and pressed it against the place where her heart was beating so fast, fighting the little shivers of joy inside her only because she knew if she wasn’t careful they’d turn into tears. When she had herself calmed down some she went back into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of tea. She carried the glass and the letter out to the front porch and sank into one of the white-painted rocking chairs that sat there in all kinds of weather.
For a while she rocked and held the letter close in her hands while she thought about how beautiful it was just now, with the day lilies blooming along the lane, and the front lawn dotted with yellow dandelions, and the air warm and smelling sweet from Momma’s roses rambling over the porch roof. Finally, having savored the moment about as long as she could stand to, she tore open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet of lined notepaper.
It took only a minute or two—never long enough—to read the words written there. Everyday words about the everyday things that made up Tristan’s life on board an aircraft carrier somewhere in the Persian Gulf: what they’d had to eat, the last movie they’d seen, something some buddy or other had done that made him laugh. Then a line or two about how much he missed Jess and Sammi June, but how glad he was to be where he was, doing something so important. The same words that nearly always ended his letters home.
I know I’m doing what I was meant to do. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be able to stand being away from you guys. But I do believe it, with my whole heart and soul, and I want you to, too. I need you to believe in me, honey. I love you and miss you always.
Inside the house she heard the TV turn on. Heard the introductory fanfare to the evening network news. Then Dan Rather’s familiar voice.
The screen door creaked open. From inside, her mother’s voice called, “Jessie, you need to come in here.” Jessie stopped rocking and turned halfway around in the chair, not quite understanding. She saw Momma standing there, holding the door.
“There’s been a plane shot down over the no-fly zone,” Momma said. “They’re saying the pilot’s missing. They won’t tell who it was until they notify—”
Somehow Jessie was on her feet, and she felt the screen door’s wooden frame under her hand. It’s not Tris. He’s not dead. I’d know if he were dead. I’d know. “It can’t be Tris,” she said. “I’d have heard something. They’d have told me…”
Over the sound of her own voice and the music of a commercial on television came the crunch of tires on gravel.
As Jessie turned, her world shifted into slow motion. Sounds faded. Floating in the silence, she watched a strange car come along the lane and pull to a gentle stop in front of the house. It was one she’d never seen before, a dark sedan with writing on the doors, but she knew it just the same.
She watched, suspended in time and silence, as the doors opened and two men got out. Men she didn’t know. Tall, dignified men wearing dark-blue Navy dress uniforms, their white hats gleaming bright as moons in the evening sun.
Looking back on that day, Jess recalled that she’d stood alone on the wide front porch, watching those two men come toward her across the lawn with its happy polka-dot riot of yellow dandelions. She didn’t remember Momma coming to stand with her, putting her hands on her shoulders.
She remembered that she held out her hands when the men took off their hats and began to mount the wooden steps to the porch where she was. She held her hands with the palms out, as if she were going to try to hold them back. As if she were going to push them away. As if by keeping them away, she could keep them from saying to her what they’d come to say. As if keeping them from saying it would make it not be true.
She remembered thinking, How in the world am I gonna tell Sammi June?
But after that, she didn’t remember much of anything for a very long time.
Eight Years Later—Near Baghdad, Iraq
The bombs had stopped falling. He wondered if it was for keeps this time, but doubted it would be. The bombs had been falling on and off for six days. On the seventh day they rested?
Lying in the silent darkness he thought about the bombs. He was sure they were American bombs, and wondered if the next round would finally bring the ancient prison tumbling in on top of him. No telling what this place was disguised as, and no one had any idea he was here, anyway. He thought what irony it would be if it turned out it was the Americans who finally killed him.
“Missed again,” came a hoarse whisper from beyond the damp stone walls of his cell.
He grunted a reply. Rising stiffly from his pallet, he made his way to the heavy wooden door and leaned his back against it.
“You think they’re done for tonight?” the whisper came again. The whispering was from long habit; talking among prisoners wasn’t allowed.
He turned his head and addressed the small barred opening high in the door. Though it was invisible now in the darkness, he knew its position exactly; through it, for the past several weeks, at least, had come everything he depended on to stay alive. As well as everything he most feared. “Maybe. Seems early, though.” An unnamed tension gripped his muscles and his nerves quivered as he and the whisperer fell silent, listening to distant noises of chaos: shouts, small explosions and the rattle of gunfire.
“Listen—” It was a faint hiss, like spit in hot coals.
He’d heard the new sound, too. Footsteps.
Footsteps spoke a language all their own, one he’d learned well over the years. These were not the usual footsteps, firm with authority and menace, that set his nerves and muscles and sinews to vibrating with conditioned fear responses. These were furtive footsteps. A lot of them. Hurrying footsteps. Running, but not with thumps. Like…scuffles, rhythmic and purposeful.
A shiver crawled down his spine. He pressed it hard against the door, and with the drumming of his pulse in his ears he almost missed the voices. They were only intermittent mutters at first, and whether it was due to that or a self-protective refusal to believe, it was a while before it dawned on him they were speaking in English.
“…Clear!”
“Panther one, clear!”
“Move on three…”
“Roger that—go, go go!”
The footsteps were growing louder, now broken by pauses, thumps, brief explosions of gunfire that crashed like thunder against the stone walls. And in the dying echoes of the thunder, the voices came again.
“We got a live one here. Barely.”
“Ah, Jeez. Look at this. Poor bastards…”
“What do you want to do with ’em?”