When I returned to my apartment, I was feeling joyful.  I poured a short glass of Jack Daniels to celebrate real progress in my endeavor to reconnect with Henry.  That drink proved so satisfying, I poured a second, and then a third, for good measure.

It is a truism that bourbon can alter your mood.  It can wrench the lurking darkness from the corners of your mind and illuminate it with a blinding spotlight.  And so it was that somewhere between the third and fourth drink, my focus shifted from Henry to the General, the review board hearing and my infertility.

I use the term 'infertility' because at the time of the hearing any derivative of the word 'sterility' was too difficult to utter.  This was yet another by-product of my time spent at the hands of Preston, the interrogator.  Having finally determined Jimmie was in fact telling the whole truth that I had only one child, and having done sufficient damage to that relationship with my son through his conditioning, Preston then focused on ending my ability to reproduce.  "Prevent an Australian offshoot and spare the world a weed." 

So instead of cigar burns to my back, he applied them to my inner thighs and eventually my testicles.  During the process, he told me the resulting infections would prevent any future offspring.  Then he would feign sympathy, speak slowly and ask, "Did you want more children, Lieutenant?" 

Finally, just for fun, and to make sure I understood completely what he was accomplishing, he would end each session by extracting from me the word "sterile".  He would touch the burning embers to my scrotum and remove them only when I said the word aloud.  I fought it.  I delayed as long as possible.  But I said it, of course.  I knew it would reduce the pain.  He was consistent that way. 

After our liberation the immediate effect of those interrogations, other than the confirmed damage, was my inability to speak that word without stuttering.  I had tried so hard not to say it to Preston, it became challenging to say to anyone.  All of this was documented in my file and served as playful fodder for the General at the review itself.

I had managed to make it through the mandatory six week waiting period prior to the hearing.  Although early on I contacted Major Marcus to see if the date of my return to active duty might be accelerated, he had no leeway in the protocol.  A return to normalcy may be in the best interest of the soldier, he told me.  But it was in the best interest of the army to assure that the physical and emotional consequences of captivity had been well and truly resolved prior to reassignment.  Those six weeks felt like six months.

I circumvented my frustration by building up my physical stamina.  That at least made me feel like I was moving forward.  Two hours every morning in the gym, followed by running the base track twice a day began the process.  But my newly discovered affinity for racket ball seemed to make the most dramatic changes in my physicality.  That, and a high protein diet, effectively restored my pre-captivity physique. 

Racket ball, I had decided, was invented purely as a method to channel one's aggression.  Bashing that ball only to have it return to be bashed again was a metaphor for life.  Poor Sisyphus had pushed the boulder to the top of the hill only to have it roll down again and demand that he repeat the labor.  But racket ball, conversely, allowed me to smash my frustrations continuously until the ball itself unraveled from my wrath.  It was cathartic, indeed.

Unfortunately, it was not kind to the sutures in my back.  A medic had decided he could minimize the scar tissue there by forcing the surrounding flesh up and over it.  The theory was as ineffectual as his work, and had required occasional replacement and fine tuning ever since.  The action of twisting with force wrenched the sutures from either origin or destination, and left nasty blood stains on my favorite Nike t-shirt.

I was particularly drawn to racket ball, perhaps with too much enthusiasm, in the last days before the hearing.  The evening immediately prior found me in the hands of the same medic, apparently personally insulted that I had undone his not-so-handy work yet again.  He repaired what he could between huffs of distain in a quick but less than gentle manner, and gave me some pain meds as compensation.

Concerned that the quality of his work wouldn't last the night, his assisting nurse took me aside and put me on the patient roster to return in the morning before the proceedings to have them checked.  I did not object, as this would put me in close proximity with the doctor who would be speaking at my hearing.  The opportunity to appeal to his sense of privacy was something I had intended to manufacture - now it was required.

The next morning, fate nodded favorably in my direction, and the doctor himself entered the examination room I was taken to.

"I pulled your file this morning, Lieutenant, in preparation for the review and noted you visited us last night.  I hear you're being unkind to your sutures," he smiled.

"My apologies.  Racket ball."

"I know the attending medic's skill level.  Let me have a look."  He motioned for me to remove my shirt, examined my back and spoke with an edge of irritability.  "I'll order some pain medication for you immediately."

"I'd rather not, sir.  I need to be sharp for the review."

"Exactly, Lieutenant.  Taking the edge off the pain will benefit you in that regard."

"It's not necessary, sir, really."

"Lieutenant, pain makes the muscles tense, which can pull out even adequate sutures.  These are tenuous at best."  His irritable tone was quickly tempered with an appeal of concern.  "Unless you've been through a review before, I think you're underestimating the level of tension it inspires.  It won't take much to loosen these."

"I'll be fine, sir," I insisted respectfully.   "I'll report back here after the hearing for pain meds if it seems required at that time."  Now for the redirect.  "Sir, I understand you'll be interviewed by the board."

"I am not at liberty to discuss my recommendations with you."  

"I understand, sir," I said quickly.  "I only wanted to ask if you'll be discussing the....the infertility issue."

He paused, which was the confirmation I dreaded.  "They will ask if injuries received during captivity resulted in any permanent conditions.  So yes, Lieutenant, it will be mentioned."

I felt my jaw clench.  What could that possibly have to do with my ability to command?  He registered my silent frustration.

"I understand your request for privacy on this, but I really have no choice.  I assure you that only the review board members are privy to this information."

That was exactly the problem.

"General Wallace is on the review board," I explained.  "He's my soon to be ex-father-in-law.  I would rather he not know."

"He knows already," he stated.  "My report was sent to the board officers in time for them to formulate follow up questions.  He's known for over a week."

My mind froze.  He knew.  While I was sitting at his fucking dinner table, he knew.  I'd gone to their home for dinner the previous weekend in response to Henry's plea to let us be a family one last time before the divorce was final.  And the General knew.  When he lit that cigar across from me, he knew.  He must have been gleeful at the sight of my discomfort, but he must have been positively ecstatic about this news.

"Lieutenant," the doctor's voice startled me.

"Sir?"

"I will be recommending you return to active duty with no restrictions."

"Thank you, sir."

I looked around my empty apartment all these years later, nursed my fourth drink and pondered the General's hatred of me.  It was never as glaring as during that review.  He finally had not only direct power over my future reinstatement, but an audience in front of whom he could attempt to discredit me.  I went to the hearing fully aware that it would serve as a public battleground between us.

The five officers on the board were each assigned a separate directive.  One served as the presiding judge whose role it was to keep questions on point and the proceeding's protocol in tact.  One officer questioned the doctor; one questioned the PTS (Post Traumatic Stress) counselor; one questioned my men who were also in camp.  The fifth officer, General Wallace of course, had requested that he be assigned the role of questioning me directly.

I sat outside in the designated waiting area, unable to hear anything happening in the review chamber.  Although I was confident in my physical and emotional condition, and knew the doctor and counselor would concur, I felt increasingly tense.  There was an undercurrent of resentment that I should be questioned at all.  A pat on the back and a meaty reassignment would have been more fitting.  And the idea that the General could affect my future made me feel as vulnerable as it did angry. 

As I waited there, trying to quell the growing tide of venom, I stretched from time to time.  I felt the wetness on my back almost immediately.  The corresponding spike in pain confirmed the doctor's concern.  Willing myself not to due further damage, I settled into the chair with a forced comfort just as I heard my name called over the speaker. 

The room was cleared with the exception of the reviewing officers.  I walked to the table facing them, came to attention, saluted, waited for the returned salutes and sat in the obvious seat.

General Wallace sported a Cheshire cat grin.  I maintained an expressionless demeanor.  And it began.

He clipped his words quickly.  "Lieutenant Thorne, are you under the influence of any pain medication at present?" 

"No, sir."

He cocked his head.  "The doctor reports that your back was re-sutured last night."

"Yes, Sir."

"Were you given pain medication at that time?"

"Yes, Sir."

He sighed impatiently.  "When was the last pain medication you took?"

"Twenty-two hundred last night, sir."

His grin widened.  "You expect this board to believe that?"

"You may verify it with Dr. Holifield, Sir.  He and I discussed it this morning."

His eyebrows lifted with hope.  "And what did he recommend?"

I knew he was trying to bait me, but I maintained my flat tone, if only to irritate him.

"He recommended that I take medication prior to the review."

He feigned indignation.  "Are you in the habit of disregarding orders, Lieutenant?"

"It was not stated as an order, Sir," I replied calmly.   "It was a suggestion.  I asked that I might delay medication until after these proceedings."

He was undaunted.  "So you felt the need to argue with him."

"I would not characterize it as an argument, Sir.  It was a discussion.  He is still gaining a full understanding of my level of pain tolerance."  

That last statement was a mistake which I gauged internally.  

His smile confirmed it.  

"A full understanding of your level of pain tolerance," he echoed in a mocking tone.  "And did your captors gain a full understanding of your level of pain tolerance, Lieutenant?"  He reveled in the thought of it.

"That was their intent, Sir."  

"I'm not asking their intent," he bristled.  "I'm asking their level of success.  Did they reach your threshold of pain?"

I paused.  I shouldn't have.   "Yes, Sir."

"Did they exceed it?" he asked quickly.

"On occasion," I answered.

He rustled his papers needlessly.  He knew everything he intended to attack me with.

"Your men have stated that they could hear your screams all the way from interrogation room B to the barracks," he said smugly.

I couldn't stop the smile that spread briefly across my face.

"You find that amusing, Lieutenant?" he bristled again.

"Interrogation room B shared a wall with the barracks," I explained calmly.  "It was a rather insubstantial wall.  It was part of their intimidation tactics for everyone to hear those particular interrogations.  Conversation could be heard through that wall.  So, yes, it would be quite easy to hear sounds of pain administration."

"So you admit you were screaming," he smiled.

"I may have let out a yelp or two," I deadpanned.

He sat up smartly.  "Watch your tone with me, Lieutenant."

I spoke with appropriate deference.  "Sir."  

"Would you say you 'let out a yelp or two' while they were burning your testicles?" he quipped.

"Probably, Sir."  I grit my teeth.  Here it came.

"Are we to understand correctly from the doctor that these interrogations have left you sterile?"  His gleeful expression ignited the smoldering anger I had tried to suppress earlier.

What did this have to do with my ability to command?  Why was this even being mentioned except for his enjoyment?  My attempt to quell the rage dropped my volume as I spoke.

"Yes, Sir," I whispered under my breath.

"Audible answers, Lieutenant," he demanded curtly.

I cleared my throat.  "Yes, Sir," I faltered.

"Yes, what?" he pressed.  "The doctor confirmed what?"

The son of a bitch knew.  He knew I couldn't say it.  He knew from my file that I had bit my lips bloody, arched my back in pain to avoid it, but ultimately screamed it.  I'd not been able to stop the stutter ever since.  He knew.  And that's why he demanded it. 

I could feel my nostrils flare like an angry steed, reeling against the reins.

"The doctor has confirmed," I said strongly, "that I'm st..sterile, Sir."

Fuck.  I handed him a victory as sweet as he had planned.  He smiled broadly.

"Are you also impotent?" he asked glibly.

My shoulders tensed; the suture pain spiked again.

"No, Sir," I said resolutely.

He continued, now comfortable in his stride.

"The doctor's report characterizes the scar tissue on your testicles as 'significant'."  He sounded pleased.  "Do you feel you've been disfigured?"

"Not particularly, Sir."  Get off this subject.  Move on to something relevant.

"Could you be more specific, Lieutenant?"

Oh, he still wanted to taunt, did he?

"Do you have a specific definition of disfigurement, Sir?" 

The other officers directed their focus from the General to me and back as if at Wimbledon.  He was not amused.

"Lieutenant," he sneered, "before I require you to drop your trousers so we may make that determination ourselves, I suggest you answer the question.  Are the scars disfiguring?"

"No, Sir."

He tilted his head, dramatically.  "Since they are in a, shall we say, delicate location, would a woman agree with your assessment?"

"It would depend on the woman, I suppose," I retorted, feeling the lava of anger bubbling again.

"Well, let me be specific and say your wife, then.  Would she characterize the wound as disfiguring?"

"You would have to ask her, Sir."

"She is not at these proceedings, Lieutenant," he said firmly.   "I'm asking you.  What did you observe was your wife's first reaction when she saw the scarring?"

Oh God.  Did she discuss it with him?  Did she tell him how she covered her mouth at the sight of it?  Maybe she didn't.  Maybe he's just baiting me.

"She inquired as to the cause," my voice was starting to falter again.

"Specifically, Lieutenant, what did she ask?" 

She told him everything.  She must have.  He'd never ask a question like that if he didn't know the answer.  This was a battle I had already lost.  

"She asked if..." I cleared my throat, remembering her face as she turned on the light.  "She asked if it was caused by a disease."

"Was she repulsed by it, Lieutenant?  Did she have a difficult time looking at it?"

"Yes, Sir."  I grit my teeth.

"Did it inhibit her ability to have relations with you?"

"Yes, Sir."  I clenched my jaw.

"Was it a factor in her decision to file for divorce?"

Two officers looked up in surprise.  Of course, that information would not have been in the file they were provided.  He only used it to shove his fist further down my throat.

My rising anger strained toward the surface.

"No, Sir, I don't believe so," I said strongly.

The General's stride momentarily lost its pace and he looked startled.

"On what do you base this belief?" he asked, as if it was incomprehensible.

Fight back, damn it.  Don't hand it to him.

"She had a full understanding," I stated firmly, "that once the infection was contained the tissue would heal to some extent and that the initial appearance of the wound wouldn't be permanent.  I don't believe she would base her decision on a temporary condition."

A look of triumph overtook him.

"Well, then, was the permanence of your sterility a factor in the decision for divorce?"

That fucking word, again.  I lived through the months at camp, I fought for your fucking Queen, I made it through and this is the respect I get?  

It was all I could to do to stay seated and not hurl myself over the table toward him.  That image claimed my focus.  I stammered for a response, swallowing hard.  Stop saying that fucking word.  I couldn't think.  I couldn't speak. 

Thankfully, Major Marcus, acting as protocol counsel, interceded on my behalf.

"Excuse me, General," he said formally.  "Could you explain the relevance of this line of questioning?"

"Of course," he said with confidence.  He had anticipated this interruption.  

"We are reviewing the full consequences of his captivity, both physical and emotional.  We are discussing permanent disfigurement and damaged abilities, and the effect that has on his emotional state.  We are also assessing the stability of his current situation." 

He made eye contact with each of the officers in turn.

"I think his impending divorce speaks to the instability of his environment.  If we can establish that the divorce is a direct result of his captivity, this will verify that he may have deep seated resentments toward the service.  This may affect his judgments."

He was now gesturing broadly, as if conducting an orchestra.  Yes, orchestrating my demotion, something he had dreamed of ever since Penny first announced her pregnancy.

"Let us remember, gentlemen, this is not a soldier seeking reinstatement, but an officer, a man whose decision making abilities and judgment will affect the lives of men under his command.  These are very relevant issues, Major.  May I proceed?"

There was nothing for the Major to pursue.  The case had been stated convincingly.

"Yes, sir," he conceded.   "Proceed."

Pleased with himself, the General resumed his accusatory tone.

"Answer the question, Lieutenant.  Was your sterility a factor in the decision for divorce?"

She told him.  She must have quoted the whole conversation verbatim.  Daddy's little girl.  There was no way to fight this without perjuring myself and he knew it.

"Yes, sir."  

"So you would conclude that your divorce is a direct result of your captivity?" he beamed.

"No, sir," I said resolutely.  "The diagnosis was a factor.  It was not the only factor."  Ah, victory snatched.

"And the other factors were?" he barked.

None of your fucking business, that's what they were.

"The other factors were unrelated to my captivity.  Sir."

He unleashed his fury, shouting.  

"Lieutenant, do you understand your responsibility before this board today?  If not, let me make it clear to you.  You are required to answer questions with full disclosure.  It is not your place to decide what is relevant or not nor what is related to your captivity or not.  We will make those determinations."  His face was red with anger.

"Are you physically incapable of answering this question?"

"No, Sir."  My fists were clenched on the table.

"Shall I note that you were uncooperative with the review board?"

"No, Sir."  My back stung with renewed vigor.

"Then answer the question," he shouted.   "What were the other factors in your divorce?"

Fucking prick.  To make me admit it, hell, announce it, in front of other officers.  There was no way out.

"My wife decided to divorce me because she found someone else she would rather be married to.  She became engaged the day after she filed."

His berating tone continued.

"And you think this is unrelated to your captivity?  That you were out of contact for almost a year, during which time she may well have assumed you were dead.  That her loneliness and fear gave her the impetus to find someone else.   You think that is unrelated to your captivity?"

My rancor could no longer be contained.  I drew a long breath and counter attacked.

"I think it was made more convenient by my captivity, but was not contingent upon it."

"I think it is perfectly clear...," he started.

"Excuse me, General," I interrupted, "but in the interest of full disclosure, Sir, it would not have been necessary for me to be gone for her to have found someone else." 

He gestured wildly to the other officers, as if to ask for their concurrence.  "I think it is quite obvious..."  

"Out of respect to you, General," I bellowed, "and to the fact that my wife is also your daughter, I am not sure this is the appropriate forum in which to discuss her history of infidelity, Sir.  It is not, therefore, related to my captivity."

"Perhaps you are correct," he conceded, surprisingly.  "I believe, as I stated before, that the true cause of the divorce is your sterility."

That word again.  It took the wind out of my mounting defense.

"Isn't it true, Lieutenant," he proclaimed, "that you suggested the divorce the same day you received the diagnosis?"

Get off this subject.

"We had not discussed divorce until that time, but the seeds were already..."

"Isn't it true, Lieutenant, that you suggested the divorce because you didn't want your son to be an only child?"

I could hear myself panting with anger, but couldn't control it.

"Yes, sir, but..."

"So the sterility caused your divorce, Lieutenant."

Stop saying it.  Jesus Christ.  Stop saying that word.

"She had another relationship," I stammered.  "That was the ultimate reason for not reconciling."

"But you stated that she had had other relationships during your marriage, and those didn't cause a divorce."  

"It wasn't the captivity," I floundered.   He had me check mated.  I felt like I was gasping for air.  "It was her infidelity, her decision to..."

"Well, for the record, Lieutenant," he beamed, "this board will make note that your wife had a long history of determining you were not man enough for her, even before it was medically documented."

I closed my eyes and literally saw red.  My blood boiled, my heart raced, my pulse pumping faster than it did during my beloved racket ball.  Make him stop.  Make him stop before I choke him to death with my bare hands.

The Major interceded again, impatience in his voice.

"General, I think this line of questioning has been taken to the dust.  Have you anything else?"

Thank God.  It's over.  Thank God.

I glanced up, expecting him to confirm the review's conclusion.  Instead, the General smiled.

"I have only one other question."  Our eyes met.  He feigned a sympathetic expression and spoke slowly, deliberately.  

"Did you want more children, Lieutenant?"

The room spun and I closed my eyes.  Preston was there, inches from me, cigar in hand, pain at its pinnacle.  Did you want more children, Lieutenant?  I couldn't breath.  I couldn't think.  My hands shook.  Preston's face loomed before me, his smug smile, his unrelenting sneer.  Did you want more children, Lieutenant?  He had taken it all from me: my future children, my marriage.  The walls felt nearer, the room steamy hot, my back burned in memory.  He's not here.  Open your eyes.  He's not here.  Did you want more children, Lieutenant?  It's a memory.  He's not...he's not.

I opened my eyes, honestly fearing Preston, but instead was confronted with the General's grin.  He had read it in the file.  He knew that phrase would undo me.  He knew.

The officers stared at me.  I knew I had to respond, but my jaw quivered uncontrollably.   I mustered all my strength to give an audible answer I wouldn't have to repeat.

"Yes, Sir."

I felt the empty glass of bourbon leave my hand.  I didn't intentionally throw it, but it certainly traveled further than a mere toss would have accomplished.  Felt good.  Felt good watching it sail.  Felt even better hearing the crash as it broke into pieces on the kitchen tile.

I wanted to hear something else break.  The plate of untouched dinner in front of me followed, but without the same satisfying demise.  So the silverware joined the growing jumble of litter on the floor. 

Then it just felt right to clear the table top entirely with a grandiose, dramatic sweep of my arm.  Just like in the God damned movies.  The half full bottle of bourbon skittered to the edge then jumped, making its hurried escape.

I drew an exhilarating breath and looked for something else worth destroying.  Could this distract me?  Could this take my mind off of everything: the General, the complete powerlessness I had felt at that hearing, the reminder of the lost chance for more children?  Could it?  Did I feel relief yet?  Was this the answer?  Was there any answer?

And in my flailing and my rage, I realized the only thought that could truly chase the angry memories from my focus was Alice.  She could calm me.  She could pull me out of the past.  If she were here, I wouldn't be wallowing in loneliness and anger.  We'd be talking.  We'd be touching.  She'd be in my arms, the scent of her hair making me dizzy with desire. 

I closed my eyes, trying to relive those moments, our night together, her skin against mine, my lips caressing her neck.  I should have told her.  I should have said it.  Maybe she would have left him.  Maybe I could be holding her still.

Damn it.  My eyes snapped opened to this empty apartment once again.  I couldn't have her, ever.  I would have to face life alone, more alone than ever.  Damn it.  I would have to confront the past as it seeped, uninvited, into my empty hours.  Alone.  Without her to guide me. 

And there was the unrelenting truth.  Those angry memories could only be distracted by longing and loss.  I felt my heart breaking anew.  

I needed something else to break.  I stood and swung around in desperation, searching for my next victim.  The potential clatter of a full drawer of utensils was too great a temptation, so I pulled it out with unmitigated force.  The next drawer followed, adding to the choir of noise.  I spun like a mad man, my desperation not yet assuaged.

And the door bell rang.

Thank God.  It must be Dino.  He would distract me.  He'd know what I needed.

I raced to the door, gripped the knob with relief, and spoke even before it was open.

"Thank God, Dino," I chirped, "I was about to..."

It took me a moment to refocus.  It wasn't Dino.  It was Penny.

"Hi," I said, trying to hide my embarrassment.  Why would Penny be here?  I felt a sudden sense of alarm.  "Is everything okay?  Henry alright?"  

"Yeah, he's fine.  I was in this end of town and just wanted to stop in and say hello."  She smiled, her eyes bluer than I remembered.  "You were expecting Dino, then?"

"No," I fumbled, "I wasn't expecting him.  It's just...he's just... he's the only one who just drops in."  The truth of it rang too loudly and I stopped.  

"Guess I should have called first."  Her voice sounded clear and genuine, bringing me into the moment.  "If this is a bad time, I could come back."  

"No, it's fine," I smiled tentatively and sighed, "I could really use the company actually."  I waved her in.

Her eyes immediately swept across the mess in the kitchen.  I tried damage control.

"I was...reorganizing some things."  Yeah, it sounded that lame.  Penny knew me well.  She knew I was meticulous about my surroundings and would never tolerate things out of place, much less piles of broken glass and kitchen utensils on the floor. 

She gave me that amused grin she showed whenever I foisted a benign lie on her.  I was warmed by the thought that she knew I was lying.  She knew something about me.  Someone knew me.

"I was feeling a bit...frustrated by life," I restated.  "I thought it might help to throw things around a bit."

"Did it?" she asked casually.

"Not really," I shook my head.   "I'd offer you a drink, but..."

We both glanced back to the broken bottle in shards and the growing pool of Jack Daniels on the tile. 

"How about I make us a cup of tea?" she asked lightly.

"Good idea." I heard myself laugh.  Nervously, but still...a kinder sound than had been in my head prior to her visit.

She surveyed the floor, taking a silent inventory of the victims, and opened exactly the cupboard door where I kept the tea. 

"And the cups would be here," she smiled as she opened the next cupboard door.  "And the kettle would be here."  She swung around to the corner hutch, grinning triumphantly.  I shared in her moment.

"Am I that predictable?" I laughed again, more easily this time.

"Not predictable - just orderly.  You have a military sense of order," she laughed back.  "I always liked that about you.  Most men are such slobs."  She continued her quest.  "And the broom and dust pan would be..." she found them easily next to the pantry, "here." 

"You really don't need to help me with this," I fumbled, crouching down to start the clean up process.

"The tea will take a minute, let's do this together."

We worked in tandem, disposing of the large pieces of glass, sweeping up the rest, mopping up the mixture of water, baked fish, chips, and Jack.  

It was comforting having her there.  Domestic relief.  Something I had learned to crave while in Tecala.  My mind drifted to Alice's face, but I tried to refocus on the moment.  Talk.  She'll get out of my head if I talk.  I spoke her away. 

"I'm leaving on a short trip tomorrow," I said.  "I was thinking you should have my mobile number, in case you need to get in touch with me ...if something happened with Henry, I mean." 

"Good thought," she nodded.

"It's 020 457...." I started.

"Wait," she said quickly.  "I'm terrible at remembering numbers.  Pen and paper?"

"Desk." 

I gestured toward it and continued wiping the wasted bourbon from the floor.  She found a pen and rummaged in a drawer for paper.  That drawer.  I looked up suddenly to see her staring with astonishment at the stack of letters.  I never intended to mail them, so they weren't in envelopes.  They were just resting there in their own little purgatory. 

Our eyes met and I was instantly embarrassed.

"You said you had business on this end of town."  I redirected with a forced lightness.  "What brings you all the way over here?" 

Now it was her turn to feel awkward.  "That was a fib." 

She walked toward me, away from my collection of written futility and into the kitchen.  After silently fussing with the tea, she set my cup on the table, took her own and sat uncomfortably on the edge of the couch. 

"I...I actually came here just to see you.  I knew you talked about camp today.  I know that's rough ground for you to cover.  I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Genuine concern.  Hmmm.  I finished the clean up detail, took a sip from my tea cup, and eased slowly into an adjacent chair.

Truth was, I didn't know if I was okay or not.   A violent mixture of emotions still surged inside my chest, a tidal wave that only Alice could have calmed.  Alice.  I pulled myself back from her memory again.

"You're sure Henry's alright?" I asked.

"Seems to be," she paused, "did you make it through it okay?"

What had Henry thought as I left the car so quickly?  I wonder what expression had been on his face.  I never looked to see.  I didn't want him to read the pain in my eyes.

"I got more...." I took a breath, "emotional than I intended to."

"That's understandable," she said gently.

"Did he say anything?"  I didn't want to know the answer.

"Not a word about any of it.  Just said he had a lot to think about and stayed in his room after dinner."

Was that discretion or apathy?  Whichever it was, I needed to debrief her.  

"I was going to call you tonight anyway to give you a heads up on some things I talked to him about."  I shifted uncomfortably in the chair.

"I purposely avoided going to any level of detail with him.  I told him I was burned during questioning.  He needed to know that much.  But he figured out for himself that the burns were from a cigar."

"How'd he work that one out?"

"It was a combination of a memory of your father lighting a cigar at the dinner table to taunt me and my involuntary reaction to it...and....and I showed him the scars on my back."

"You showed him?"  She sat up straighter, slightly provoked.

"Yeah, he seemed to need something tangible to help clarify things.  It was all just words and concepts until then."  

She frowned.  I persisted.

"It doesn't do any good to tell him about it if it doesn't sink in."  

She wasn't persuaded.

I pressed on.  "I don't think it affected him much.  He had a teenage boy's normal fascination with scar tissue but it didn't seem to bother him.  I'm not really worried about that."

I paused before I confessed the next part.  I was still angry at myself.

"But I did tell him something I didn't intend to.  I was a bit out of control."  I shut my eyes briefly, and then owned up.

"I told him about Jimmie."

Her eyes opened wide, with a combination of concern and condemnation.

"How much did you tell him?" she probed.

I shook my head in exasperation and bristled before I spoke the words.

"How he died."  

"Jesus, Terry," her tone bordered on outrage.   

I tried to justify it, but couldn't.

"I know.  I'm sorry.  Henry asked how the interrogator knew about him.  When I explained they'd gotten it out of Jimmie, he eventually redirected all of his anger at him.  I felt compelled to...I don't know....to defend his memory or something." 

But I shouldn't have.  I should never have put that picture in his mind.

"I didn't get graphic with him," I said quickly.

God, the things I could have told him.  I closed my eyes and saw the blood again, everywhere, splattered blood.  

"But I did tell him that he..." I cleared my throat, "sh...shot himself," my voice cracked despite it, "in f...front of me..."  

My words trailed off, somehow distant. 

"How did he react?" she tried to sound calm.

A fresh wave of guilt washed over me.

"I don't know.  I got...that's when I got emotional, so I left the car to get some air.  I didn't really see his face...I was...too far into the memory of it."  

She didn't hide her disappointment, but said nothing.

"He seemed okay afterward.  We talked about other things.  We even got each other to laugh.  He might be okay."  I was rationalizing my own behavior like I had done so many other times with her.  This time I actually cared.

"But I want you to keep an eye on him in case he has ...any negative dreams."

She paused and I felt the question, even before she asked it.

"You don't still have your nightmares, do you?"

The words spilled out before I could catch them.  "Some images just don't go away."

She understood and forgave me in one breath, speaking softly.  "Is that why you were throwing things around earlier, because you were thinking about Jimmie?"

"No," I shook my head slowly.

"Camp in general then?"

"No," I answered.  "Talking about it ramped me up, I suppose.  But that," I tilted my head toward the kitchen, "that was about something else entirely."

She glanced back toward the desk, and then returned her gaze to me, her voice calm and gentle.

"Were you thinking about her tonight?"

I searched her eyes and considered.  Do I talk about Alice with her?  Maybe it would help.

"I think about her every night," I whispered.  "Some nights are just more....difficult than others."

There was an awkward silence which she finally broke.

"I think you're not used to this much time to yourself," she said lightly.  "Downtime can be very challenging for a workaholic."

I smiled.

"Why don't you come over for dinner after you get back?"

She was being sweet and I could feel a burden lift in response. 

"You don't need to do that."  

"I think it might be good...for you and Henry.  To have some time together when you're not tackling the big issues.  Just dinner table chatter."

She sensed my hesitation.

"You could view him in his natural habitat.  Think of it as reconnaissance." 

I snorted a quiet laugh.

"You do remember I'm a good cook, don't you?" she purred.

"Yeah, I do remember that," I smiled. 

"You're leaving tomorrow, right?  When do you get back?"

"Thursday morning."

"Great.  Thursday night, at 6:00."

I considered it slowly.  Dinner.  What would it be like to share a meal with a family?  Not really my family - a fragmented version of my own perhaps.  Still, a chance to live vicariously in the glow of someone else's contentment.

"Should I bring white wine or red?"

"I have three children under the age of fourteen," she smirked, playfully.  "We don't drink at the table."

"My father always drank at the table, from my youngest memory."  I contemplated the impact that had on the meals.  "Yeah, there's a ringing endorsement," I laughed.

I walked her to the door.  She laid her hand on the knob, turned back to me and grinned.  I found myself smiling in return.

"Thank you," I whispered.  There was a palpable sound of relief in my tone.  "And thanks for checking in on me.  That was a nice thing to do."

Her smile turned suddenly sad.  "It's a shame we were never this nice to each other when we were married."

"Yeah, well, we were young and stupid," I quipped.

"And now we're older and world weary," she said slowly.

"Nah," I teased, "not you.  You got what you wanted, didn't you?  A bit of excitement followed by a stable family life and a house full of kids."  We both felt the undertone of envy in my voice.  A house full of kids...something I'd never have.

"And you got what you wanted, right?" she countered lightly.  "Adventure, a chance to travel the world and conquer it, to live life with a sense of purpose."  She held my gaze, as if she needed a response.

My sigh was louder than I intended.   "Yeah, but I discovered there's a bit more I was missing."

"But you found it at last."  Although her reference was innocent, it stung.

I shook my head slowly, took the knob from her grip, and opened the door. "I only caught a glimpse," I said quietly. "Thursday at 6:00, then."

She laid her hand briefly on my shoulder, then left.

I closed the door and stood immobile.  The physical touch of her hand was unexpected and jolted me into a state of yearning.  I remembered Alice's hands on my face, her arm gripping my chest, her thigh across my knees. 

Memories.  Wonderful, visceral memories.  But as much as I craved the feeling, I wanted the memories to stop.  Or at least only come when beckoned.  

Following our successful rescue of Bowman and Calitri in Tecala, Dino and I had hatched a plan to leave our current employers and open our own shop.  Restless by nature, Dino had left Luthan Risk two years ago and now already appeared disillusioned with management at his current company.

I, of course, was out of a job.  By staying and helping Alice, against Luthan Risk policy and direct order, I had effectively severed my employment with them.   Lord Luthan himself had asked me to return, and I may have considered it, had it not been for his co-owner and the man truly in charge, Ian Thorpe.  His habit of waving the words "management assignment" in front of me, then never following through had soured me on the organization as a whole.

So it seemed a good time for a directed effort, and with more than a little poetic revenge for Ian's past unrealized promises, I agreed we should set out on our own.  The list of firms we could steal out from under Luthan Risk loomed as an irresistible temptation and easily attainable goal.

We divided our target clients into those who would appreciate Dino's adventuresome, over the top dramatics and those who preferred my calmer confidence and fact-based pitch.  Portugal's contact had always felt more comfortable dealing directly with me rather than upper management, so it didn't take much to bring him on board.  In short, my trip to Portugal was successful. 

I returned, pleased with the outcome, but a little hesitant about my promise to attend dinner at Penny's.  Michael and I hadn't gotten off on the best footing originally.  Well, he was doing my wife while I was in captivity.  He wasn't a bad bloke in general, but our introduction didn't go well.  As I drove home from the airport, the memory replayed itself.

Penny had invited me to a park where she often took Henry.  When I got there, Michael was with them.  Cheeky bastard strolled immediately to me as I had gotten out of the car.  Good thing we were out of the earshot of Penny and Henry.

He had approached me, hand outstretched, awaiting my handshake.

"Hi, I'm Michael."  His tone was light, as if he was introducing himself as a new neighbor.

I looked him over but didn't offer my hand.

"Best you keep an arm's length, mate," I sneered.   I was trying to get my bearings.  He was too friendly, too gleeful.  It pissed me off straightaway.

His frown may have been sincere embarrassment, but I took it as condescension.

Sympathy washed over his face.  "I can understand why you're so angry.  Particularly considering what you've just been through."

I laughed.  "Well, I can't think of anything I'd like more than your understanding and pity, but I think I'll manage."

The misguided fool kept on.  "If there's anything we can do to help your transition back to normal life, we'll be happy to."

I grinned through gritted teeth.  "You should have thought of that before you started banging my wife, Mike."  I watched him bristle, and it served to fuel my sarcasm.  "That complicated my transition to normal life a bit."

I angled my head, savoring the chance to attack.

"Actually," I chuckled sardonically, "I was gonna ask if there was anything else I could do for you - I mean, you've gotten free use of my house, my wife and my son.  And if the General gets the divorce settlement he's pushing for, you'll probably get my pension.  Want me to stop by on Saturdays and mow the lawn or anything?"

The sympathy disappeared from his expression and was replaced by narrowing eyes and a sturdy chin.

"Look," his voice was lower now.  "I came here to try to make some peace with you.  If that can't happen, so be it.  But I think it would be in Henry's best interest if you and I could tolerate each other."

Steam rose through me from my heels to the crown of my head and I spat back.

"Don't you ever try to tell me what's in the best interest of my son," I said in a quietly firm drill sergeant voice.  "You're nothing in this.  You're just some guy Penny's screwing.  I'm Henry's father.  Let's not get confused about that.  He's not."

"Yeah?" he countered.  "Well, which one of us does he call 'Sir' and which one does he call 'Dad'?"

He calls him 'dad'?  I felt that in my chest and took in a breath to relieve the pressure.  I was too gutted to speak.

"Look," his voice now conciliatory.  "I love that boy.  I know you do, too.   We'll both be in his future.  And I'll make that as easy on him as I can.  I hope you'll do the same."   He nodded his head.  "We can make this work."

I didn't know whether to hit him or shake his hand, so I did neither.  He had reinforced that I had no control over anything happening with my son, my family, my home, or my life.   My voice quivered with anger and a sense of helplessness. 

"Well, don't go planning any family outings for the four of us just yet, eh?" 

A lot of time had passed since then, and predictably, Michael and I had spent very little time together.  My jealousy and resentment of him was tempered by a gratitude that someone was there for Henry while I couldn't be.  Now, that could end.  I could pick up the reins and if not be his father, at least be something to him again.

I wondered how standing toe to toe with Michael would be now.  Henry's questions about my father's rough treatment had prompted me to mistrust Michael anew.  I needed to see how the two interacted, to be sure Henry had told the truth when he denied any violence.  With that mission in mind, I knocked on the door at 6:00, my senses honed.

Penny greeted me warmly, ushered me in, reintroduced me to her two other children whom I hadn't seen in quite some time, and calmly reported that Michael would not be joining us.  He'd been detained at the office and wouldn't be home until late.  My plans thwarted, I instead found myself relieved and relaxed. 

Her other children, a girl, five, and a boy, three, were animated and refreshingly silly.  Perhaps they were showing off for the dinner guest, but there was a surprising lack of tension.  Even Henry seemed at ease. 

The talk was indeed benign.  Most of it centered on antics of friends and discussions of the upcoming school term.  Henry would be returning to the academy next week, and although they giggled at the prospect of searching his room after he left, it was obvious they would miss his presence.  There was a genuine affection between them all, and I found it engaging to watch.   It was also difficult not to envy.  Family affection, simple chatter, domestic comfort.  Things I could only observe, not truly share in.  Not yet, at least.

After dinner, the younger children ensconced themselves in their rooms and Henry went to a friend's house, leaving me alone with Penny and the evening.  I helped clear the dishes from the table and lingered in the kitchen to thank her.  Somehow I didn't want this fog of domestic bliss to disperse just yet.

I pointed at the dishes.

"I'll help you with those."

"Really?" she replied as if no one had ever offered before.

"You wouldn't allow wine, so at least let me earn my keep.  I've done a fair share of kp in my day.  I think I can handle a round of family dishes."

Her look of skepticism prompted further explanation.

"Alright," I confessed.  "I don't want to face my apartment just yet.  Okay?"

She tossed me a towel and ran water in the sink. 

"I'm sorry I missed Michael," I said.  It was the truth, if only to observe him with Henry.  

"He's been working late every evening this week," she said casually.

"Some big case or something?"  I vaguely remembered he was in the legal division of the military.

"No," she clipped her words.  "He's avoiding me.  We had a fight."  She put a clean dish in the drainer.

"Sorry," I said under my breath, drying the dish slowly.   "None of my business."

"Well, actually it is, since you're the reason we fought."

I frowned.  "I thought he was fine with my spending time with Henry."

"He is."  She slipped in another dish.

Irritation crept into my tone and I put down the towel.  "Then what's the problem?"

Penny paused.  "The problem is.....I called him by your name the other night during a rather inopportune moment."

Good God.

"Why would you do that?" I stammered.

Her voice was decidedly matter of fact as she continued scrubbing a pot.  "Probably because I was fantasizing it was you."

I was too stunned to respond.  She continued, almost as if talking to herself.

"Although how I would confuse your two styles I have no idea, or his lack thereof, I should say."  

I found my voice.  "I really don't need to hear this."  Resuming the towel, I tried to speed up the process.  Suddenly I felt like leaving.

"It was the night I came to your apartment.  Something you said to me.  How I'd gotten what I wanted - a little excitement followed by a stable family life."  She turned to face me.  "It reminded me of how much I missed the excitement.  Michael is far from exciting in that regard."

"We really don't need to talk about this," I insisted, drying another dish and placing it with its companions in the cupboard.

"Come on, Terry.  You have to admit.  We were always good in bed together."

"That was the only thing we were good at."

"True," she laughed.  "I guess the things that made you a stunning boyfriend made you a terrible husband: an insatiable sexual appetite unfortunately accompanied by the restless need for adventure and travel.  Ah, if only you could have had one without the other.  If only you could have consolidated those efforts with me." 

"You were less than consolidated with me, too, my dear."

"I had no option.  You were always away.  If you'd been available, you'd have been my first choice."

I laughed out loud.  "So with all that choice, you threw me over for someone boring, eh."

"I was looking for security then," she said wistfully.

"Not a bad thing to have now."  I met her gaze and held it to convey my seriousness.  "You've got a good thing with Michael."  I paused.  "You're not gonna screw it up, are you?  You've consolidated your efforts with him, right?"

She felt my intent.  "I said I was fantasizing.  That's as far as it goes."

I hoped she was being truthful, but I sidestepped by focusing on my real concern.

"It's a good thing with Michael and Henry, too, right?"  I asked, tentatively.  "I mean, he's good with him, isn't he?  He's not rough with him?"

"What do you mean rough?" she said vaguely.

Just ask.  Then watch her first reaction.

"He doesn't hit him, does he?"

"No, of course not."  She looked incredulous.  "Where would you get that idea?  Henry wouldn't say that."

"No, he didn't," I said quickly.   "He denied it when I asked.  I just wanted to confirm it."

She put down the dishrag and softened her tone.

"I know why you're asking."  There was a sudden shift in mood.  "Why didn't you ever tell me your father beat you?"

I scratched an eyebrow to hide my wince.

"Guess I'll need to remind Henry our conversations are meant to be private."

"He made the reasonable assumption that I knew."  She awaited my response, and in its absence, continued probing.  "You told me a lot of things about your father.  Why not that?"

"It didn't seem important," I evaded.

"Oh, Terry," she purred dramatically, "you can think of a better story than that one.  You know, I could always tell when you were lying."

I gave her a side glance and wicked smile. "Not always."   Then I laughed.  "Anyway, I have to lie on this.  You'd never believe the truth."

"Try me."

The thought amused me.  I could tell her the truth about all things now and it didn't matter.  There was nothing riding on it between us.  How comforting.

"Alright," I grinned mischievously.  "I didn't tell you because I was afraid if you knew, you might not marry me."

She was stunned.  Speechless.  A rare condition for her.  My heart leapt in triumph and I memorized her look of utter surprise.

She found her voice, sort of.  "What?" she stammered.

My laugh relieved her frozen confoundedness.

"Well," I started, "it's common knowledge that men raised in violent homes tend to perpetuate the cycle.  I thought you might be afraid of me.  Or at least of my being around Henry."  I searched her eyes.  "I knew I'd never hit either of you, so it seemed counterproductive to tell you."

She shook her head slowly as the implications crystallized in her mind.

"But...but you could have used that to get out of marrying me."

"I didn't want to get out of it," I said quickly.  To my delight, her dumbfounded look returned.

I laughed again in response.  This was actually fun.

"Penny, if I hadn't wanted to marry you, I wouldn't have.  You give your father too much credit for my behavior."

"He threatened to demote you.  To nothing."

"Yep"

"He would have done it."

"Yep."

She crossed her arms resolutely.  "And what would you have done?"

"Gone back to Australia," I countered.  "Rejoined the army there, worked my way back up."

She pursed her lips.  "But you would have been a deserter."

I chuckled.  "I doubt they've have traveled half way around the world to arrest me.  Besides, plenty of places to hide in Oz."

"But they would have notified the Australian military," she insisted.

My eyes opened wide.  "That I deserted the POMHs?"  I let loose a belly laugh.  "They would have thrown me a parade!"

I forced the smile from my face.  "The point is: I had other options.  I wanted to marry you."

She looked lost again.  "Well, this is a hell of a time for that revelation."

"Ah, don't get all misty eyed on me.  It wasn't that I wanted to be a husband.  I wanted to be a father."  I paused.   "I just wasn't ready to be one then."

Her smile returned.

"You seem to be ready now," she beamed.

It was true, and it struck me.  It may have been as surprising to me as it was to her.  But it was true, nonetheless.

"Yeah," I said warmly.

She shook her head again in playful dismay.  But I could feel it; she knew it was sincere.

"This last job really changed you," she whispered at last.

"Yeah," I closed my eyes briefly to allow the rush of Alice back full force into my heart.  "She did."

Dear Alice,

I've changed.  Penny's right.  Who better to judge the difference between what I was before and what I am now becoming?  She can see it and I can feel it.  What a long way I've come in such a short time, thanks to you.  It's as if you opened a flood gate of emotion and possibility. 

I thought you were just pointing a direction for me to take.  But you were tapping into a potential you saw, the potential for growth and for hope.  Maybe even the eventual realization of a better man.

Despite my occasional lapses back into the stranglehold of my past, now I know absolutely that there will come a time.  A time when the memories fade:  of camp, of Preston, of Jimmie, of the General, all of it.  They will fade because they will be replaced by something better.  By times spent with my son.  By the days to come - full of wonder and surprise.  Maybe even by love.

That road ahead becomes more appealing every day.  I feel more certain than ever that Henry will be on that road with me.  But it might include someone else as well.  Someone I may not have even met yet. 

And that someone will see a man.  Not a boy seeking adventure, not a bastard seeking conquest, but a real man.  The one you found in me.

I will always cherish you, for those things you saw in me, for the belief you had in me, for the push you gave me.  

You woke up my heart.  And no matter who eventually resides there, I will always know it only beats again because of you.    

Terry