The Non-Commissioned Baby

Jeff inhaled sharply. Better if he didn’t let his mind wander too far down that road. Deliberately, he took another look at her worn robe before meeting her deep brown eyes. Those shadowy depths sparkled with impatience and suspicion as she watched him.

“Not the whole time,” he said with a shrug, and held out one of the crystal wineglasses toward her. “Wine?”

She ignored the offer. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I was talking to Miranda,” he said, wondering now why it was that he’d wanted to see her. “Do you want the wine or not?”

“Oh.” She looked at the glass, then back to him. “I don’t think so.”

Still holding it toward her, he said, “It’s only half a glass, Laura.”

She thought about it for a moment longer, then reached out and took it from him. “All right. Thanks.”

Inclining his head slightly, he said, “You’re welcome.” Taking his wine, he walked past her into the living room. A single lamp had been left on. The room lay mostly in darkness, with deeper shadows gathering in the corners.

Tossing his hat onto the coffee table, Jeff sat down on the couch, leaned his head against the high back and sighed heavily. Damn, it felt good to relax. He propped one foot on the edge of the table, and as proof of his tiredness, didn’t move a muscle when Laura stepped over his extended leg to take a seat beside him on the sofa.

Turning his head slightly, he looked at her. She was watching him again, with that solemn stare he was already getting used to.

“Bad day?” she asked.

“Long day,” he corrected.

Moments of sweet silence stretched out between them. After being surrounded by people and the noise and hustle at the base all day, Jeff had always craved the peace and quiet of a few minutes alone. Solitude helped him think. Gave him time to consider his past, his future.

He’d been alone for so many years, this small ritual was second nature to him. But tonight it was different. Tonight there was someone else’s breathing whispering into the darkness. Instead of absolute, undisturbed silence, he heard the hush of skin brushing against skin as she crossed her legs beneath her, Indian style. When she took a sip of her wine, the tiny clink of her front teeth hitting the crystal sounded out.

Surprising himself, Jeff found that he was actually enjoying sharing this moment of quiet with someone who valued peace enough to know not to talk.

It was...comforting in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Was it true?” she asked softly.

Jeff smiled to himself. Apparently, Laura could be quiet. She simply preferred not to. “What?” he asked.

“Everything you said about Miranda’s father?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, took a drink of wine and sat higher on the couch, half turning to look at her.

“But you said yesterday that you didn’t even remember him.”

“I know.” He reached up and rubbed one hand across his face. Jeff had read through Hank Powell’s files three times. Each time, he had asked himself how he could have mentally misfiled the man.

The only answer he had come up with was one he was sure Laura wouldn’t understand.

“I just don’t get it,” she said. Scooping one hand through her hair, she propped her elbow on the sofa back. “How can you forget a friend?”

Jeff shook his head. “I didn’t say he was a friend.”

“You said he saved you from making a fool of yourself.”

He winced tightly. There was a memory he didn’t particularly want to relive.

“He did,” Jeff admitted, hoping she’d let it go at that. He should have known better.

“Then—”

“He wasn’t my friend,” Jeff interrupted. “He was my sergeant.”

In the dim light, he saw her shake her head in confusion. Suddenly unable to sit still, he got up, walked to the nearest window and yanked on a nylon cord. The window blinds flew up with a loud clatter. When they were secured, Jeff set his wineglass down on the windowsill, leaned both palms on either side of it and stared through the glass at the town outside.

Bright splashes of neon decorated the night. Shimmers of primary colors reflected off the night sky. Convenience stores, gas stations, even the theater down the street added to the blazing clutter.

He stared at civilization’s landmarks until they faded into a kaleidoscopic blur of light and color. Slowly, his mind replaced the familiar view with one he’d spent years trying to forget.

A sun-washed desert rose up in his memory. Men and machinery moving across endless miles of sand and heat under a sky so wide and empty it glittered in the noonday sun like a stainless steel skillet.

Hank Powell, a grizzled, tough, no-nonsense first sergeant, had had the guts to look a fresh, young, know-it-all lieutenant in the face and tell him he was wrong.