Lies That Bind

Jack majored in journalism in college, and used his military experience as a springboard to reporting news in foreign countries. Lately, all he seemed to see was death and destruction. He rubbed his hand across his eyes. He continued to see it in his dreams at night. But if he didn’t keep going, he might take time to rethink things. Who knew where that would lead? Look at Sam. From a detective in New Orleans to a sheriff in a backwater town in Mississippi.

Losing his wife must have been hard. Jack had liked Patty a lot. How had Sam stood it?

“Contentment?” Jack said, just to prod his old friend. “You sound like you’re ancient. What happened to the fire you had for righting wrong?”

“Hey, I can right wrongs here as well as in New Orleans,” Sam replied easily. “I know my neighbors. I’ve made some good friends over the last couple of years. And I don’t see the drug dealers or killers like I used to in the city. It’s realigned my thinking about mankind.”

“Don’t you get bored?”

Sam shrugged. “Not as much as I thought I would.”

“So what am I supposed to do while I’m here?” Jack knew he was whining, and didn’t like it. The thought of moving elsewhere didn’t help. Who else would put up with him while he convalesced?

“I’d suggest we go dancing, but with your bum leg, I don’t think that would work.” Sam laughed at Jack’s dour expression.

“I don’t go dancing even when my leg isn’t banged up,” he groused.

“I know. Tomorrow you can ride shotgun with me, see the town, meet some folks. Maybe you’ll find something to do. If not, you’re on your own. I’m not your keeper.”

Not like his mother or sister, Jack thought, who fussed over him every moment he was awake. They hadn’t wanted him to do anything more than sit in front of a television all day to rest his leg. That had driven him nuts. He wasn’t an invalid, just temporarily sidelined.

Maybe he was still a little nuts. He couldn’t settle down for a minute. He was restless sitting on the porch. Sam, on the other hand, seemed content to linger in the twilight and talk with an old friend.

Was he destined to seek that adrenaline rush all his life? Jack wondered. If he didn’t find some diversion soon, he’d head back to New Orleans.

To what? A motel room and television? He didn’t even have an apartment to call his own. Since he traveled all the time, it made no sense to have one. Mail was sent to his folks’ house, where they held it until he made one of his infrequent visits, or to the office in Atlanta to be forwarded to his latest posting. Any bills were paid through his bank.

He looked at the porch, at the yard. Not a lot to see in the gray of evening. “You buy this place?” he asked.

“Yep,” Sam said.

“So you’re staying.”

“I’ve been here a couple of years. Like what I have. I’m staying.”

Two years in one place. A house. Jack looked at his friend, feeling the gap widen. They’d been close as boys, even as young men, talking big, living for adventure. But their paths had diverged, and now Sam seemed to belong to another world, unlike the one Jack was familiar with.

Or was he the one who lived in another dimension? Risking life and limb daily to get the story. Seeing the hot spots in the world. Making a difference. God, he couldn’t wait to get back.

He stretched out his left leg, wincing at the pain that shot through it. His foot had all but been blown off. Only the skill of the surgeons at the military hospital in Germany had saved it. Whether he would ever regain full function was still questionable. He could walk, though, using a cane. That was what mattered now. He’d work on the mobility once the cast came off. With any luck, he’d be back on the front lines in only a few months—if he survived this interval in Maraville, Mississippi.

“Okay, I’ll give it a shot,” Jack said, knowing he didn’t have any choice.

They were silent for a while. Then Jack looked at Sam. “Been dating lately?” Patty had been dead for more than three years. He was curious as to whether Sam was moving on.

Sam shook his head. “You?”

Jack shrugged. “The front lines of a war aren’t exactly conducive to meeting women. Any prospects in Maraville?”

Sam laughed softly. “Not unless you like them really young. Anyone our age is already married, or has long left for brighter lights.”

“See, I was right. This town is dead. No one stays here if they can go elsewhere.”

“So I’m getting to be an old fogy, is that what you’re saying?”

“If the shoe fits.”

“I’m not ready,” Sam said softly. “I still miss Patty like she died yesterday.”

“At least you had five years together. I’m sorry as hell, Sam. She was the best.”

“You ever think about settling down?”

“Never. I’ll be reporting to you live from the next trouble zone when I’m in my eighties.” Jack hoped it was true. If his foot didn’t heal properly, he might never go on that kind of assignment again. He didn’t want to think about it.

“I told Etta Williams you were coming to visit,” Sam said.

“Who is Etta Williams?”

“The local librarian. She wondered if you would do a couple of talks at the library about being a foreign correspondent.”

“I don’t see myself talking to a bunch of gray-haired old ladies about the death and destruction in Iraq.”

“Etta seems to feel younger people would be interested in how to get into journalism, how to get into foreign reporting. The basics of the business, with an occasional personal story thrown in to showcase your unique style.”

Jack laughed. “My unique style?”

“Standing in front of firing artillery to report the latest developments,” Sam said drily.

“Hell, why not? It’s not as if I have a lot of other pressing engagements.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d feel that way.”

“So you already accepted for me?” Jack asked.

“No, it’s still your choice. But it’ll give you something to do. How about Wednesdays for a few weeks.”

“If I stay here that long.” Jack wondered if the medication was dulling his senses. He wasn’t used to giving speeches or answering questions. He reported news—hard news. He wondered when the last thing of any interest had happened in Maraville. Probably during the Civil War.

“Stay, or go,” Sam said. “But if you stay, try to fit in, don’t find fault with everything you see. I know we’re not Baghdad or Cairo. But this is a nice town. The people are real. These are the folks the soldiers are fighting for.”

“So maybe I can do a human-interest story.”

“Or maybe you can just live here for a while and not do a story,” Sam suggested. “When was the last time you lived your own life and not a news story?”

Jack frowned. It was what he was made for—getting the news out to the rest of the world. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

Until then, he might as well regale people with the realities of reporting. It wasn’t all glamour and excitement. A lot of it was drudgery—digging for facts, verifying each one, cross-checking references and sources. Making sure the report was as unbiased as possible.