“Where I Come From”
Nathan
It was Sunday afternoon, and life was pretty damn good. Our cabin didn’t see much sleep last night, so we spent the better part of the morning in bed, dozing and reading. Camille leaned against me, her hair brushing my bare chest, and devoured a racy romance on her Kindle. She kept me entertained by reading aloud the spicier bits as well as a few funny passages. I played at reading the news, but it was impossible to prevent my thoughts from straying back to the soft, warm woman sharing my bed. As checkout time loomed, I took her Kindle from her, rolled her onto her back and made love to her once more. And that’s what it was. It was quiet, languorous, nearly haunting. Her arms and legs cradled me as I filled her, over and again, smoothing hands through her hair and watching her eyes darken as we neared orgasm. One of her hands left my back, slipping between us to tease her clit. Her legs hugged me tighter, and she came around me, mouth open and eyes fixed on mine. Gratefully, I loosed what I’d held back and poured myself into her welcoming body. When we were done, I took her mouth, exploring thoroughly.
Her voice was hushed, and she regarded me with wonder. “What is this, Nathan? Where did you come from?” The questions didn’t require answers, but I shared her awe. I’d been in love, only once, and it wasn’t a feeling I could forget or take for granted. The beginnings were taking root in my gut, and I could only hope fervently that Camille felt it, too.
Now the GTO tore down Interstate 10 on a sure collision course with real life. Like any pair of new lovers, the prospect of returning to work and mundane reality after an escape was a distasteful one. We smiled and held hands, but the conversation was spare. We were approaching Tucson when I turned to Camille with an idea to postpone the inevitable goodbye.
“Hey. Do you want to see where I work? Check out one of the airplanes?” That sounded pretty lame and desperate, now that I heard it aloud.
A smile brightened her face. “That sounds great, Nate.” She poked her lip out in an exaggerated pout. “Truth is, I don’t want to admit the weekend’s over. This could be a good diversion.”
I chuckled under my breath at how in sync we were on this; then again, who looked forward to work after a weekend away? Half an hour later, I stopped at the front gate of the base, offered my military ID and Camille’s driver’s license to the MP guarding the gate, and returned his crisp salute. Pulling away, I heard a muffled snort and turned a faux accusatory glare on Camille.
She uncovered her mouth, threw her head back and laughed loudly. “You’re so G.I. Joe; it just kills me.”
“G.I. Joe is in the Army, Camille. The Army,” I reprimanded her. “You’re going to wind up in remedial military girlfriend training if this behavior doesn’t improve. You don’t want to get in trouble, do you?”
“Girlfriend?” She twirled a long lock of hair with one finger, cocking her head coyly and batting her eyelashes. “Why, Colonel Morgan. Do you want to go steady?” Her hand slid across the top of my thigh, perilously close to my cock, which immediately took notice. “My parents don’t let me go on car dates. How do you feel about sleepovers?”
“I think we’d better not even discuss more sleepovers until I get you alone again, ma’am. I’m going to have some trouble walking, and we’d better hope like hell no one else decided to come by the squadron on the way home.” I smiled at her silliness. I could benefit from this kind of easy fun in my too-orderly existence.
I opened her door, and she grabbed my hand as we walked toward the utilitarian building that housed the Scorpions. I tried the door, finding it unlocked, and swung it open. In the main area of the squadron, we encountered Bashful staring at the huge wall occupied by the magnetic scheduling board.
“Ah, hey there, Happy…Camille,” he called distractedly, his brows knit together. “Just trying to get some things cleared up here schedule-wise for my lieutenants. We were on track until we got word Thursday that two of our birds were hard broke. Screwed everything up. Gotta get these quarterly requirements knocked out.” His voice faded away as he swapped a couple of the nameplates affixed to the board.
I dropped Camille’s hand and stepped toward him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks for making an effort, Bashful. Keeping up with requirements is an ass pain, I know, and I appreciate you going the extra mile on it.” Jake lifted his chin in my direction and resumed his deliberation.
I led Camille down the hall, pointing out my office (still in mild disarray—completely unlike me), the snack bar, and the life support shop. Stepping out the back door, we were met with the imposing sight of a dozen Warthogs, parked in a meticulous rectangular pattern. Each airplane was over fourteen tons of metal, a story and a half tall, with a wingspan stretching almost sixty feet across. The gun, eighteen feet long by itself, jutted from the nose of the aircraft, ridiculously phallic. The thing was a fucking menace to the bad guys. And I was pretty proud of that.
I turned to look at Camille. Her mouth was open but smiling slightly. “It’s just…so ugly.” She threw her hands up, unable to find a better word.
I laughed, nodding in agreement. “Nobody in the A-10 community will tell you different. We embrace its appalling looks.”
She folded her arms, still staring. “Ugly. But scary. It looks like it’s in an atrocious mood.”
I walked with her toward one of the hulking jets. “It poses a lethal threat to enemies, particularly in tanks, who endanger our troops. Or our interests. The looks are unconventional, but it’s very effective in doing the job it was built to do.”
I answered a few more questions, grabbed a couple of cold bottles of water from the snack bar on our way out, and we were once again on our way. “As long as we’re close, do you want to meet Mayze and see where I live?” I was definitely grasping now.
“Sure,” Camille said. “Are you getting all settled in and making it homey? Needlepoint pillows and afghans? Or is that not something a cool fighter pilot bachelor does?” She poked me in the ribs, teasing.
She’d unintentionally hit a chink in my armor. It was home, at least technically. But homey it was not. I’d trained myself to look past the flavor-free functionality that characterized my surroundings. When thoughts of Eliott and the life we’d almost had together surfaced, I saw those visions in Technicolor. She’d brought hue and intensity to my existence. And she took it all with her when she left.
I startled at Camille’s voice. “Is this your house?” She didn’t wait for an answer as I’d already parked in the drive. Before I could make it around the car, she was jogging for the backyard, then standing on tiptoes and peering over the fence.
“Oh, hello,” she cooed. “You’re Mayze, aren’t you, baby?” She turned to me, face lit with a Camille smile. “Let me in; I wanna love on her.”
She was an animal lover. Another check in the plus column, I thought, putting my navel-gazing on the back burner. Unlatching the gate, I squatted to give Mayze a combination scratch/rubdown. She nuzzled me reluctantly, as close as she ever came to lavish devotion, and regarded Camille suspiciously.
“Come on in, angel.” I swung the door open, and Mayze waddled in ahead of Camille, making sure she knew who was boss.
“It’s a big place.” Camille’s eyes swept around the adjoining family room and kitchen while I tried to see it with a fresh perspective. Compared to the warm little bungalow Camille had clearly furnished with skill and care, this room seemed hollow. Very beige.
“It is big. Maybe a little too big for my taste, if I’m being honest.” I led her over to the sofa, moving one of the boxes of books that needed unpacking. She kicked off her sandals and made herself at home there, feet tucked under her. “The Air Force gives me this big three-bedroom because of my rank. I didn’t get my latest promotion until right before leaving the Pentagon, and I was a pretty small fish in that pond. No big house, for sure. And anyway, I had a townhouse there in Falls Church. Just right for Mayze and me. Right, Chiquita?” I bent to scratch her belly thoroughly.
Camille bent to join me, allowing Mayze to smell her for a moment, then rubbing her ears and tummy. She was making a lifelong friend already. She straightened and stood, beginning a leisurely perusal of the room. The few framed items decorating the walls of the living room did nothing to dispel the dreary monotony. And it suddenly occurred to me that the lone brass floor lamp was unbearably ugly.
Camille paused in front of a larger black frame and studied the sonnet it contained. “This is lovely, Nathan. I think I’ve read this poem before.”
I walked up behind her, wrapping her in my arms. “I’d be surprised if it isn’t displayed somewhere in every pilot’s home, the world over.” I chuckled. “My best friend from UPT, Nick Bamford, is a Navy brat. His parents, Commander and Mrs. Bamford, gave me this when I graduated from pilot training; she did the calligraphy lettering herself. It’s called ‘High Flight.’“
She read the verses softly, her voice tinged with the reverence I always felt when the poem was recited at graduations and memorials. “‘Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth, and danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings…’“
I’d heard the words so many times I could almost recite them from memory, but hearing them from her lips brought freshness to the archaic verses. The melody of Camille’s voice faded into the background, and I considered the meaning of the words I’d read so many times.
Surly bonds.
Camille and I struggled individually with the crushing weight of hopelessness and loss. Cruel bonds of grief that trapped us and robbed us of the strength to try again. But the poet’s carefree words spoke of a retreat from the heaviness of life’s burdens. A soul’s escape I could only now just begin to contemplate. I wondered if Camille saw the same possibilities in me.
She was quiet for a minute after she’d finished reading, and then she turned and looked around the open space. “You just need a little time to finish unloading your stuff.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Hang up photos, get your linens and pillows and lamps to add some color and warm it up. The place will feel like home in no time.” Her smile warmed me like a summer’s day. “You’ll see.”
But the boxes still stacked in the spare bedroom held only more books and manuals. Camille had no way of understanding why, but in my world, there hadn’t been much color. Not much texture or warmth, literally or figuratively, in quite some time. Those things were lent to me by Eliott. And she couldn’t stay.
Hard broke—An aircraft with a maintenance issue is referred to as “broke,” provided it’s expected to be repaired in time to launch with only minor delays. With a longer, or even indeterminate, delay of return to status by maintenance, the aircraft is said to be “hard broke.”