Captured(16)

By the time I make the hour-plus drive from downtown Houston back to the farm, I’m coated with a thick layer of sweat, and I stink. Tommy is dead to the world, the sucker stuck to his shirt, his face covered in a sticky purple mess, his fine blond hair pasted to his forehead. My little trooper, nearly three hours in a forty-year-old truck without AC in ninety-degree weather, and not one complaint.

All that, and I didn’t get the loan.

I park the truck beneath the old spreading oak tree between the house and the barn, the best shady spot to park. The temperature in the truck drops immediately, and I wipe my forehead, cheeks, upper lip. I rest my head against the steering wheel, peeling leather sticking to my skin.

Let myself cry for a minute. Two. Three. When sobs threaten, I cut it off. Shove it down. Throw open the door and go around to get Tommy. I cradle him to my chest, head on my shoulder, the sucker dropping forgotten in the dirt and grass. I lay him on the couch and point the oscillating fan at him, and then I get a sippy cup of lemonade ready for him for when he wakes up.

Not knowing what else to do, I sit down at the laptop, an aging Dell purchased secondhand, and go through my budget. There’s the twenty acres I lease to the Pruitts, and that brings in some. Meager income from the farm itself. Support from the Corps, also helpful. But none of it is quite enough. I sort through the bills, none of which I can pay.

The phone rings, sudden and jangling and jarring. Tommy stirs on the second ring, and then falls back asleep as I pick up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Barrett? This is Sergeant Major Bradford. I wanted to share some news with you. Corporal Derek West has been recovered, and he’s currently at the San Antonio Army Medical Center for rehabilitation.”

“You—they found him? Alive?”

“Yes, ma’am. We received some intelligence hinting that he was alive, along with a possible location. Recon units verified the intelligence, and a detachment of MARSOC Raiders went in and retrieved him.”

I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about this. “Is he—is he okay?”

“He’s been through quite an ordeal. Three years as a POW…he has some recovery time ahead of him but I think, in time, he’ll be okay, yes.”

“Should I visit him?”

“Actually, I think it’s probably best to hold off for now. It’ll take some time before he can fully reintegrate socially, and medical personnel feel he needs to remain isolated at first, and then they’ll gradually introduce new elements. It can be very overwhelming at first, they say.”

“That’s understandable, I suppose.”

“Yeah.” An awkward pause. “Well, I just thought you’d like to know.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Bradford.”

“Of course. And, as always, if there’s anything I can do, you have my number.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Goodbye, ma’am.”

“’Bye.” I hang up the phone, trying desperately to sort through my thoughts and emotions.

Derek is alive.

I remember Derek West as a big, easygoing man with blonde hair, dark green eyes, and a quick, charming smile. He had a reputation in the unit as a ladykiller, which I could easily believe, being fantastically good-looking. Tom always described him as deceptively laid-back, always ready with a joke, no matter the circumstances, and fiercely loyal to his comrades-in-arms. Derek raised hell when Hunter Lee went missing in Iraq, and went AWOL with his unit to rescue him when the brass wouldn’t send in a team. Tom admired Derek, and considered him closer than a brother, that special bond only men who have seen combat together can form.

Tom died; Derek lived. Tom came back in a body bag; Derek likely came back to wild media coverage, touted as a “returning hero.” I doubt Derek himself would agree with that, but still.

I can’t help wondering if Derek was there when Tom was killed. No one would tell me any details about his death, said they didn’t have any information they were at liberty to share. I suspected they did have information, but just wouldn’t tell me. Maybe Derek will tell me.

Maybe Tom had last words for me.

I can’t follow that line of thought any further.

It hurts too bad.





*





Three months later





An autumn downpour soaked me to the bone as I struggled to replace a broken fence board on my own. Hank is busy with his own chores, his grandsons back up in Dallas for the school year, and so I’m on my own. I’ve got three massive slivers in my palms from pulling the old board down, and I’m having trouble holding up the new one while trying to get the screw gun in position.

I’m way, way out on the farthest northern fence line, nearly a mile from the house. My pay-as-you-go cell phone rings, the only way to reach me when I’m out of earshot. It’s generally only used for emergencies, in case Ida needs something while watching Tommy. When it starts trilling in the cab of the truck, panic hits me. I drop the board and the screw gun, and run to the truck.

“Hello? Ida? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes dear. Everything is fine, I’m sorry to worry you. It’s just that you have a visitor.”

“A visitor?”

“Yes. A young man named Derek. He says he knew your husband.”