by Whyagain
Her thoughts were ferried, as if on torrential waves of wanton emotion, back to that place, that cold place, long after the physical effects were healed.
She needed his reassurances and his promises of endurance--needed them like air, like water, like warmth. Even as his chest was heaving and his body broken, he found it in himself to give her hope. The truth was, she told herself, he was doing it for both of them. He required their survival, though he might have not believed such a miracle or two possible, and he told her that they were going to make it.
Yes, they made it. One broken leg, five broken ribs, and forty square inches worth of frost bite later, they made it. And one broken heart.
She realized it at the same time she realized she'd failed him, when she felt him drifting away, when she thought he was going to die in her arms and she in his. She always knew he mattered. He mattered in the same way her father mattered, her brother mattered, her teacher mattered. But when she thought she'd failed him, her heart sunk in a way she'd never imagined it would.
He told her it was an honor. Faint and static-filled, his last intentional confession burned a place in her worst nightmares. Over and over again, she felt him slipping away. Sometimes in a steamy jungle, sometimes surrounded by sand, and sometimes on a bed of ice, she heard the only approval he had ever given her. He gave it to an officer. The conscious words he spoke last were going to be, "It was an honor." Yes, it was an honor. But that's not all it was. That's not all it had become.
True though it was, there was only one more surprise for her. One surprise and one broken heart later, she found herself vacillating in front of her idle monitor, wishing truly and purely for the first time in her life that she was another woman.
She never envied the models in magazines, the telecasters on TV, never craved their looks or lives for more than a fleeting moment of physical passion. Nothing about gaunt, stretched bodies and smooth faces held any appeal to her empirical senses. Being a martial of cold facts, she understood complex formulations and algorithms in the same way she understood the orders of her superiors: simple, direct and unequivocal. The military was only an extension of her naturally ordered mind.
But to be that word, that woman, would be something she had never before been, not to any man and not for herself.
Maybe she tried too hard to believe the maxims of feminism, or despised the stereotypical anachronism a little too much. Maybe the rhetoric and rumors of "That Old Boys Club" and their conduct in such matters precipitated a profound hatred, and subsequent extreme avoidance, of anything remotely antiquated in nature. Maybe it was for a lack of trying, or a lack of foresight, or a lack of priority, but now she knew surely it was not for a lack of emotional ability. Capable she was: Her sudden inability to free her sentiment served the mascot of the change, though she found new alterations of her character every hour.
However, to explore that part of her spiritual anatomy was unthinkable in a man's world; maudlin yearnings hated such society. That nearly fatal last word was not made in final perfunctory praise, but in desperation.
At first, it seemed a dream, a horrible nightmare, so induced by the cold's delirium. Now, she barely remembered being hoisted from the cavern, the roar of the chopper, or the shouts of the faux-medical staff. Only concern forced words from her frozen body, as gentle admiration perfusing her reason was replaced by admonition chilling her soul. As reason and remembrance took the place of thoughts of mortality and death in the light of recovery, his word became clear, hard, and cold.
And she had seen, of course, the vital man. She had been with many military men--lived with them, befriended them, dated them--, and they often loved like they lived. Honor, valor, control were the phrase words of the emotion like they were the motto of the battlefield, fidelity, strength, determination. Semper Fi in all things. Marine men, navy men, air force men all held the same motif. The subtle differences were not enough to hide the conditioning and the natural disposition.
She held a respect for these men, yes, but it often did not extend to the bedroom. Their orders and their airs were never acceptable and much less the aphrodisiac when coming from her lovers in comparison to her superiors.
There is was, though. There was her problem with her. She learned to admire these men and all their imperfections; and, just as she had learned to praise them, she learned to leave them. Knowing all of their tactics, she planned all actions and events like well-constructed campaigns, equipped with both the first-strike and coup de grace, worthy of the same veneration of all the greatest stratagems. Knowing all of their tricks, she possessed no fear of concealed knifes and could, therefore, never be pierced. Maybe, rather than leaving them, she pursued her own course, breaking from their inflated gravity like a rogue celestial body, while they drifted along in their orbits. Still, she felt no motion in her decision, only calm resolve under a deluge of anguish.
That was melodramatic, however. She was exceedingly content with her career choice, held it in front of her like a lamp, a guidepost, a teacher. Her job educated her every day, excited her every hour. She relished the order, so concurrent with the numbers she held in highest regard and so different from the tempestuous life she lived at home. The military served as the order in her life, just as it had not in her early years.
Being moved from base to base, from town to town, without reason tainted her early perceptions of the military and such a life. Her brother attempted to fill the void, placing himself as a protective barrier between the world and his sister. But, rather than amputating her resolve, her brother's protection only fueled her ire. With the death of her mother, all remaining that was orderly fell into utter chaos. Such little made sense--not her father's apathy, not her brother's stoicism, not religion, and not nature.
"Buck up, soldier," her father used to chide when the silence became too thick.
And that was it. As a conciliator, her family was meek, but their orders stood indomitable. She found sense in their doggedness and held fast to that little piece of stability as she discovered her own talent for the steadfast world of numerals. The government saw her innate ability and offered her the chance of a lifetime, they promised. She saw only order and took their offer.
But this thing--this ordinary thing--sent her world spinning and her sense to shame. There was no symmetry, no regularity, in this emotion. Sometimes, great men who lead great lives dream of simple things. What an ordinary thing this was, what an ordinary emotion.
She tried hard not to picture herself in such a manner and in such a state. Her thoughts, usually rampaging around from topic to topic, were inordinately tramping one small, and mostly virgin (that is to say unexplored) territory of her mind. Different from obsession was infatuation, but she was sure it could be neither. This pattern was having the infelicitous side effect of igniting her imagination which was usually put to work only on great formulas and intricate algorithms. Such was her mind affected that she quickly recognized the need to harshly chastise herself for such thoughts, lest her faculties become as obsessed. Prudence and necessity, however, would have rather taken a back seat to passion.
Still, she felt her comprehension compromised and tried to thoroughly to admonish her roving sentiments, but her heart wasn't in it. Instead, she felt intoxicated and liberated, though tethered fast to the earth by reality and realization of circumstance.
"Jack," she tested the whispered word on her tongue, weighing the heft and feel of such a iniquitous desire.
How ordinary it was.
"Jack." The definitive sound could set scandal to her career, bury in bureaucracy and scorn the life she chose. All the more dangerous it was to voice than to just feel, but it suddenly felt so necessary, each time bolder and each time better.
"Jack." A murmur.
"Jack." A sigh.
"Jack." A plea.
A heavy tread advancing down the hall woke her from her transfixed state. She felt the remarkable horror of his name on her lips as his body stepped into her doorway.
"Saw your light."
"Just finishing up, sir." Her conditioning did her justice. Schooling her features was always her failing subject, but her voice stood its ground. With hands she hoped were not visibly shaking, she flicked her monitor off, wishing the semi-darkness would hide her flush.
"Still working?"
"Yes, sir," she answered, rifling ineffectually through papers she had no ability to recognize and she couldn't remember putting into her bag.
"Oh."
And he waited, glancing around the darkened lab, just for what, she couldn't be sure.
"Carter . . ."
"Sir?"
"You do have a house, right?"
Something within her recognized the flavor of insinuation, but the only response she could ever give was quite the status quo.
"Yes, sir."
"And you have a watch, too, right?"
"Standard issue, sir," she smiled, trying to take his concern in stride.
"Oh. Well, that's good. Just--just checking."
Again, his glance fled around the room with much the same rhythm as the butterflies that seemed to grow in her stomach.
"Okay. Night, Carter."
"Night, sir."
And he was gone.
Questions and doubts raged through her mind and consequently across her countenance. How ordinary and feminine had she become in her vanity and in her self-assurance! One ambiguous visit, one shaded look, one word and she threw herself into a flurry of emotion.
But who was she but a great woman, dreaming of a simple thing? Her specialty was the fantastic and the impossible. She did not wish for a simple life, but for the comforts that accompany such security. Impossible dream; impossible life! What scorn she could acquire, what disgrace, what utter ruin. She would not be beaten by such a thing on any field, and certainly least on a field of ignominy.
How ordinary she was.
It took almost dying to bring it out and coming back to life to hide it again. The real world had the habit of shattering those dreams so often cultured in far-off places and on amazing adventures. It was just too bad that such adventures had to end, grounded hard and fast by certain regulations of reality.
"Oh, Carter."
His appearance startled her again.
"Almost forgot. Tomorrow. Briefing's at 0800. Apparently Hammond's got . . . things."
"Right. Thank you, sir."
"'Kay. Well, night again, Carter."
"Night. Sir."
A million times since and a million times still to come, such a cross is borne only by those martyrs believing they are martyrs. Being so prepared to take a bullet for her country, she did not think giving the same consideration to that man as an (dare she think it!) inamorato after she had given that promise to her country and all of her superiors was quite meaningful enough, such was her devotion and her complex. Presenting her career didn't seem prudent, and giving her honor didn't seem sophisticated. Resolving to find something more consequential and less damning to offer such a great man only caused her more discontent.
The truth of the matter rested on the fact that she had nothing to extend to him but herself, and that hardly seemed plausible when all he wanted was his past. Certainly she could give him a child; she was young, after all. But what a thought! Thinking of children and she was the worst kind of sentimental stereotype she believed she had clean avoided.
But another thought presented itself cloaked in pride: Why should she give him anything? What had he offered her except a damed career and a roving mind? because what could be more condemnatory than a distracted soldier with the object of her desire taunting her and his death equally? If the rhetoric was to be believed, she had a long, hard road in front of her, with little chance of satisfaction.
For now, however, she had to be content in promising herself she'd tell him later.
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whyagain
september-october 2006
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"I am an all-powerful Amazon warrior, not just some sniviling girl." -Origami, Ani Difranco