Rachel Gibson - Rescue Me

He fell asleep somewhere over the Gulf of Oman. The last untroubled slumber he would have for several years. Once the Hercules touched down in Bagram, his life would change forever in varied and unforeseeable ways.

His life was different now, but the dream was always the same. It started in the mountains in the Hindu Kush with him and the guys on a routine mission. Then the dream changed, with him scrambling for cover, loaded down with enough firepower to fight his way out of any Taliban fight. It ended with him kneeling over Wilson, his head spinning and ringing, nausea turning his stomach and the dark corners of his vision closing in on him as he thumped his best friend’s chest and forced his own breath into Pete’s lungs. The unmistakable beat of howling U.S. airpower, rotors screaming, thundering and whipping the dust into sandstorms. The ground shuddered as the military blew the hell out of slopes and crevasses of the Hindu Kush Mountains. Blood stained his hands as Vince thumped and breathed and watched the light fade from Pete’s eyes.

Vince woke, his heartbeat pounding in his head as it had that day in the hell of the Hindu Kush. He stood somewhere, disoriented, his eyes wide, lungs pulling air like bellows. Where was he?

In a room. A soft streetlamp burned in the distance and lacy curtains were wrapped about his fist.

“You okay, Vince? I heard thumpin’.”

He opened his mouth but a gaspy wheeze came out. He swallowed. “Yeah.” He purposefully opened his shaking hands and the curtain fell to the floor, the thin rod a tinny clang.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Everything is okay.”

“Is someone climbing in your window? If so, have her use the front door.”

Which would explain why she wasn’t busting down his door.

“No one’s in here but me. Good night, Aunt Luraleen.”

“Well, night then.”

Vince scrubbed his face with his hands and sat on the too small, too frilly bed. He hadn’t had that dream in a while. Not for a few years now. A Navy shrink had once told him that certain things could trigger posttraumatic stress. Change and uncertainty were two of the big ones.

Vince was a SEAL. He did not have PTSD. He wasn’t jumpy or nervous or depressed. He had a recurring nightmare.

One. That was it.

That shrink had also told him that he’d shut down his feelings. And that as soon as he started to feel, he would heal. “Feel to heal” had been that shrink’s favorite catchphrase.

Well fuck that. He didn’t need to heal from anything. He was fine.

Every year on the second Saturday in April, the Lovett Founder’s Day kicked off at nine A.M. with the Founder’s Day parade. Ever year, the reigning Diamondback Queen rode a huge rattlesnake made of tissue and toilet paper. Its big head and bejeweled eyes looked out at the crowd while its forked tongue flicked the morning air. The queen sat atop the coiled body, waving for all she was worth, like she was the Rose Queen making her way down Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena.

This year, the float was hauled down Main by a classic 1960 Chevy F–10 furnished by Parrish American Classics car restorers. A second restored car followed behind the float. Twenty-three-year-old Nathan Parrish drove the completely restored 1973 Camaro; its big V–8, 383 engine pounded the morning air and vibrated the Diamondback so bad the tongue fell out around Twelfth Street. Marching closely behind and sucking up fumes, the Lovett High School band played the “Yellow Rose of Texas” while the dance team shimmied in their sequins and fringe.

After the parade, Main Street was closed off to cars. Vendors’ booths ran up and down both sides of the street selling everything from jewelry and hair bows to pepper jelly and knitted cozies. The beer court and food vendors were set up a block off Main on Wilson and were crammed with people from as far away as Odessa.

The Lovett Historical Society members dressed in period costumes. By noon it had warmed up to sixty-three degrees; by five, it was a balmy seventy-two and the society was looking a bit damp. In the Albertson’s parking lot, artists and cloggers performed throughout the day. That night, a local favorite, Tom and the Armadillos, was set to play at one end of the big lot while a pool tournament took place at the other end.

At seven P.M., Sadie pulled her Saab into a parking slot in front of Deeann’s Duds and hit the vendors down the street. What else was she going to do? Go home and stare at the walls? Watch more television? Check out YouTube until her eyes bled? God, how many talking dog and teenage prank videos could she watch?

She needed a life beyond the rehab center. Her father had always refused to give her responsibilities at the JH. Granted, at the moment she couldn’t analyze grazing reports and animal tracking data, but she’d taken plenty of college courses and was sure she could read graphs if someone took the time to show her.

There had to be something for her to do besides making her bed and washing her own dishes. Something easy. Something to keep her occupied that didn’t carry with it a big weight of responsibility. The responsibility of maintaining ten thousand acres, over a thousand head of cattle, and a herd of breed horses. Not to mention two dozen or so employees. Because she was a girl, her father had never taught her the business. Beyond just the basics she learned from living at the JH for eighteen years, she didn’t know a lot. She didn’t know what she would do once her daddy died. She’d been thinking about it a lot lately, and just the thought of the responsibility made her fidgety and filled her with an overwhelming urge to jump in her car and get the hell out of town.

After she’d visited her dad earlier, she’d gone home and changed into jeans, blue T-shirt, and a Lucky zip-up sweatshirt with a Buddha on the back. She dug out the white cowboy boots and white Stetson she’d worn in high school. The boots were a bit tight, like maybe her feet had grown half a size, but the hat fit like she’d worn it just the day before. She found her old custom-made belt with the JH brand worked into the leather and “SADIE JO” etched in the back. It was a bit stiff, but thank God it still fit.

She might live in Arizona, but she was a Texan and Founder’s Day was no joke. It was an occasion to “dress.” As she walked to the food vendors, she was glad she’d duded up. Given the size of the hats and belt buckles, teased hair and tight Wranglers, no one was messing around.

At the food booths, she bought a hot dog with mustard and a bottle of Lone Star.

“How’s your daddy?” Tony Franko asked as he handed her the beer.

She knew Tony from somewhere. She wasn’t quite sure where. Just like most everyone else around her, she’d grown up knowing them and they her. “Better. Thanks, Tony.” It had been a week since she’d moved him from Laredo.

As she moved down Main, she was stopped several times by well-meaning people who asked about her dad. She paused at the bead booth long enough to buy two coral bead bracelets for the Parton twins.

“How’s your daddy?” the woman asked as she took Sadie’s money.

“Better. I’ll tell him you asked.” She slipped the bracelets into her pocket and moved past the pottery and beeswax candle booths. As she looked at little armadillos and corncobs carved from stone, she polished off her hot dog and felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Dooley and me was real sorry to hear about your daddy, Sadie Jo. How’s he doin’?”

She looked across her shoulder at a woman she recognized from her childhood. Dooley? Dooley? Dooley Hanes, the veterinarian. “He’s doing better, Mrs. Hanes. How’s Dooley?”

“Oh dear, Dooley died five years ago. He had the cancer in his testicles. It was advanced by the time they found it.” She shook her head and her big gray dome wavered. “He suffered something fierce. Bless his heart.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She took a drink of her beer and listened as Mrs. Hanes listed all the poor misfortunes that had befallen her since the demise of Dooley. Suddenly, sitting at home watching dog videos didn’t sound so bad. Dog videos and a hammer upside the head sounded like heaven.

“Sadie Jo Hollowell? I heard you were in town.” Sadie turned and looked into a face set with dark brown eyes and a huge smile.

“Winnie Bellamy?” She’d sat behind Winnie in the first grade and had graduated with her. They hadn’t been best friends, but they’d hung out with the same group. Winnie had always had long dark hair, but she’d obviously given in to the Texas in her and had dyed it blond and poufed it up.

“Winnie Stokes now.” She pulled Sadie against her chest. “I married Lloyd Stokes. He was a few years ahead of us in school. His little brother Cain was our age.” She dropped her hands. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Cain’s single and he’s a catch.”

“If he’s such a catch, why didn’t you marry him instead of his brother?”

“He’s a catch now.” Winnie waved the question away. “He and Lloyd are playin’ in the pool tournament. That’s where I’m headed. You should come and say hey.”

The offer sounded better than Mrs. Hanes, dog videos, or a hammer. “Excuse me, Mrs. Hanes,” she said, and she and Winnie caught up on old times as they made their way to the Albertson’s parking lot a few blocks away.

Orange and purple streaked the endless Texas sky as the giant sun sank lower west of town. At one end of the grocery store’s parking lot, two rows of five pool tables were set up beneath strings of Christmas lights. Cowboy hats crowded the spaces around each table, broken up by the occasional trucker’s hat. Only one man braved the event out of costume.

Beneath the white Christmas lights, Vince Haven leaned a big shoulder into one of the square posts. He wore non-issue, beige cargo pants, plain black T-shirt without any sort of flag ironed or embroidered on it, and his head was bare. Obviously the man didn’t know the seriousness of the day, and he stuck out like a sinner among the converted. He held a pool cue in one hand and his head was cocked to the side as he listened intently to the three women gathered about him. Two wore straw cowboy hats; the other had teased her red long hair into a massive pouf like the Little Mermaid. She held a cue in one hand, and as she bent over the table, her hair flowed down her back to her butt in a pair of tight jeans.