Captured(20)

The rain finally stops, and the clouds gradually clear as the hours of the night crawl by. I’m lying in an animal stall. I passed the first hour or so cleaning the stall out and laying down fresh hay. I checked out the workshop, but it was…it was a Tom space. Full of baseball memorabilia, NASCAR posters, a few of his old high school baseball trophies, a baseball signed by Nolan Ryan. The tools, the car parts. It’s all Tom. He talked about this place almost as much as he talked about Reagan. He grew up on this farm, planned on phasing out of the Corps and going back to farming. Talked about taking apart engines with his dad and old Hank down the road. Riding horses across the pastures, breaking colts, and breaking his arm in the process once. He used to spend hours in the shop, getting away from the miserable reality of his dying mom. He always regretted that, not spending more time with her while he had her around, but it was always too hard for him, he said, to see her lying on the couch, skinny and sick.

So, yeah, I’ve never been here until now, but I know this place, this barn, the workshop. Hours and hours spent marching on patrol with nothing to do but talk to the buddy beside you, you relate all sorts of shit you never thought you’d talk about. For Tom, it was always this place. The land, the barn, the house.

I’m exhausted, sleepy. But when I close my eyes, I see Tom, clutching my hand, begging me to tell Reagan he loved her.

I told her, buddy.

I manage to catch a couple hours of fitful sleep before the dreams wake me. Dawn is painting the horizon with a gray-pink brush, visible through the open barn door. I rise, brush the hay from my clothes, lace the combat boots. Stretch the kinks out of my back and head outside. The grass is still wet, creating a pungent smell. It’s early, probably barely five in the morning, but it’s already warm.

The farmhouse is still and quiet. I can see into the kitchen from where I stand, no sign of movement. The farmhouse is a classic model of rural Texas style. Deep front porch, three steps up. Gables and eaves, white wooden siding in need of paint. Thick green grass around the sides leading to the backyard, where cottonwoods and willows surround a small green pond. Out in front of the house, there’s a circle drive, gravel, a patch of not-as-green grass with a small maple tree in the middle of the island. The drive is a good three-quarters of a mile to the nearest road, which is only a slightly wider track of graded gravel leading away in a ruler-straight line. The barn is a huge building, faded wood, ancient peeling red paint. There’s a good fifty acres in open pasture to the north and east of the house and barn, cotton to the south, hay to the west. The pastures are fenced, what must be miles worth of actual wooden fencing. Hell of a lot of upkeep, I think. Especially for a woman like Reagan. Alone. Plus a kid?

How does she do it all?

From where I stand, though, I can see a shitload of things that need doing. Several fence boards down, the steps up to the house loose and needing replacement, peeling paint all over the place. Getting toward the end of harvest season, and the hay and cotton need to be brought in, then baled and sold.

The sun peeks up over the horizon now, washing the land golden-red-orange. Open land, as far as I can see. Peaceful. Quiet. I can see why Tom loved it here. After the dead desert of Iraq and the often-barren terrain of Afghanistan, the miles of crops and lush green pastures of Texas are a welcome change. I’m not at peace, but as near as I can be. In this moment, at least.

I’m restless, though. Hungry. Worn out from dodging dreams.

I spy some boards sticking out of the bed of the rusting blue pickup truck. Crossing the yard, I peek into the truck bed. Some fifty new planks of treated wood, a big box of screws. Screw gun in the cab. The keys…under the sun visor. I start the truck and aim it toward the section of fence in most need of repair. I yank off the hanging, broken slats, tossing them aside. Screw the new board up. Repeat. Repeat. Move down the line, replacing boards. The sun rises fully, heating me until I shed my shirt. It’s tedious work, but it keeps me occupied. There’s a vertical post rotting through toward the north end and, conveniently, a new post and a shovel in the truck bed. Pulling the old post out has me grunting and cursing, but I manage it, dig the hole deeper, replace the post and fasten the boards to it. I steadily make my way along the fence line that divides the north pasture from the east, which, thankfully, is mostly intact.

I’m sweating profusely and wrestling with a stubborn fence slat and a stripped screw head. I don’t hear her approach until she’s right beside me.

“Derek, what are you doing?” She’s got a Thermos of coffee and a paper plate piled with scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, all covered with plastic wrap.

I move away from her. She’s too close — makes me nervous. She smells good, some faint perfume. I risk a glance at her as I finally wrench the old board free. Hair the color of sunlit honey, loose and brushed to a shine, hangs in waves around her shoulders. Eyes a pale blue, just a shade darker than the color of the sky above. She’s wearing a red V-neck T-shirt, jean shorts, shin-high black Bogs for the mud from yesterday’s rain.

I lift up the screw gun. “Fixing the fence.”

“Why?”

I shrug. “Needed doing. I was up.”

“Did you sleep okay?” She shifts from side to side, eyes flicking nervously. “I should’ve brought you a pillow last night. I’m sorry I didn’t. I just—by the time I got Tommy in bed….”

It’s a lie. I can tell by the way she won’t look at me. I remind her of Tom. What she lost. I’m here and he’s not, and the lie covers the fact that she couldn’t bring herself to see me again.