Captured(18)

“All that time? You kept it—held on to it…through everything?”

He swallows; I can see his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yeah. I promised him.” He’s rubbing at the envelope with a thumb, rubbing at what are obviously bloody fingerprints. With what I can tell is a concerted effort, he looks up at me. His eyes are red, searching mine. “I swore—I’d tell you. You were—you are…his everything. I swore on my soul, I’d tell you that. Those were his last words. He wanted you to know he—he loved you.”

I reach for the envelope, a tear trickling down my cheek. Derek, somewhat hesitantly, relinquishes it to me, but he never takes his eyes off it. It obviously has enormous significance to him. I touch the bloody fingerprint. I wonder if it’s Tom’s blood, or Derek’s. Or someone else’s. I won’t ask, though. Gingerly, slowly, I open the flap and pull out the letter. It’s been folded and unfolded and refolded a thousand times, creased and lined, dirty, the two pages molded in a curve, as if carried for ages against a body.

Thomas, my love.

I break down. I cry so hard I can’t see.

“He—Tom carried that letter, unopened, all through the campaign,” Derek says. “He wouldn’t read it. Said he was saving it. Then…then our convoy was ambushed and—he got hit. They took us. He was in a bad way. Somehow they didn’t find the letter when they searched us. I don’t know why, but they didn’t. He—I read that letter to him a hundred times a day. Day after day. Every time he came to, I’d read it to him. It kept him going. Kept—kept me going. After he—after Tom died, it was all I had. That letter, and my promise to find you. To tell you he tried, so hard, to hold on. That he loved you, and he wanted to come home.”

“Derek…I don’t even know how to thank you.” I put the tags in the envelope with the letter and tuck it in my back pocket. I look up at him, and can’t help but ask. “How—how did he die? I know I shouldn’t—shouldn’t ask. But—but I—”

Derek nods, and I’m not sure what he’s nodding about. “He was wounded, in the battle. The ambush. Stomach wound. He held on for—for weeks.”

“He suffered?” Stupid, stupid question.

Derek squeezes his eyes shut; his jaw grinds, fists clench. Turns away. “I—he…f*ck. Fuck.” He stumbles down the steps, out into the rain, head bowed, shoulders arched, heaving. After a minute, he straightens, grinding the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. He takes a deep breath, turns, and comes back, damp from the sluicing rain. “Sorry. It was a bad situation, Reagan. I don’t know what else to say. It was bad. I did my best for him, but there just wasn’t anything I could—could do. I tried. He deserved…he should’ve been the one to make it. I think that every f*cking day. It should be him here. Not me. So—so I’m sorry. So, so sorry. It should be him, but—but I couldn’t save him.”

“Derek, no. You can’t think like that. I didn’t mean—I’m sorry. I—”

He shakes his head and cuts me off. “I know. I know. But I can’t not think that. It’s true. It’s all I can think about.” He gestures at the letter. “You have that, and the tags. So…I’ll go. See ya.”

I follow him toward the steps and stop short of actually grabbing his arm. “Wait, how’d you get here?”

“Bus from San Antonio to Prairie View.”

“How’d you get here from Prairie View?”

He digs a heel in the mud. “Walked.”

“That’s a long walk.”

He shrugs. “I’ve marched farther carrying full gear. Don’t mind it.”

“Where will you go?”

He shrugs again. “I don’t know. Somewhere. Anywhere. Iowa, maybe. They want me back at the Medical Center for more ‘rehabilitation’” —he spits the word, bitterly— “but f*ck that shit. Been there three months. Done with it.”

“You can stay here.”

He shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’ll walk.” He starts down the steps. “Told you, I don’t mind it.’

“Derek, don’t be ridiculous — it’s miles from anything, it’s near dark, and it’s pouring rain.”

He stops, heedless of the rain beating down on him. “Why do you want me to stay here?”

I swallow and blink and hunt for words. “You—you were Tom’s best friend. You came all this way to honor his last—” My voice breaks, and I have to start over. “To honor his last request. I can’t—I won’t just turn you out in the rain.”

“All right. I don’t want to inconvenience you.” He jerks his head at the barn. “I’ll stay over there.”

“There’s the couch, I could—”

“Not a good idea.” He nods at the front door, where Tommy is visible through the screen, watching, listening. “I don’t sleep well.”

“Bad dreams?”

He shrugs uneasily. “You could say that.”

“Okay, then. The barn it is. I’ll bring some things over. Blankets, a pillow. There’s a little workshop in the back. You can sleep there.” I pause, and then ask, “Have you eaten? There’s some leftovers—”