by Whyagain
The locker room smelled heavy as she entered. She knew it wasn't possible for something to smell heavy, just as air couldn't be thick, but, if anything could, this air smelled it.
He had come to the base with a duffle already packed, but here he was digging through his locker for . . . something.
"Sir."
He jumped at her attempt at a greeting.
"Jesus, Carter." It sounded more like a curse than anything else as his eyes met hers for barely a moment. Maybe it was. "You can drop the 'sir,'" he told her, returning to his task. "I don't work here anymore, remember?"
But she didn't feel like it. Frankly, she didn't know what else to call him.
"What are you doing here, Carter?" he sighed, turning out a pocket in his jeans.
"What are you looking for, sir?" She stood behind him, hoping to see him stuff his cigar box of photographs or the card she'd given him for his birthday into the bag--anything to help him remember, but remember exactly which part she was hesitant to admit.
"Nothing . . . just, nothing," he mumbled, still rifling through the scant clothing left in his locker. The rest had been cleaned out, sent to the wash or his house. Only a couple of civvies remained, a bottle of cologne, a pair of sunglasses.
"Sir?"
"I'm looking for a chain, Carter. Okay?"
She hadn't taken him for a fan of men's jewelry. Then again, she hadn't taken him for a lot of things. Thief. Liar. Defector. Still, she guessed that was what happened when two people worked together. They knew only one side of each other. Then again, maybe she didn't know anything about this man. She certainly didn't feel as if she did anymore, not after these past few days. Her ambivalence was apparent in her voice as well as her expressive eyes.
"What kind of chain?"
"A gold one. With a pendant," he grumbled. "I'm thinking of selling it."
"There can't be many pawn shops on Edora." Her tone was flat as her feeling was not.
He paused. "You heard." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah, funny thing about these military types, these close-knit units. Got to know everything about everyone--fast. Nice little grapevine."
He started at her last statement and stared into her eyes, something like genuine worry etched across his face. "What did you say?"
She snorted and looked away. This wasn't the time to watch him. She wouldn't get much chance else, but this wasn't the time or the conversation. "So, what's so special about your chain?"
"It's good luck," he replied, returning to the bottom of his locker.
"Right. Sir," she spat, moving to leave.
"Saint Michael."
"What?" She turned to find him yet facing the locker, but his hands had stilled their rampage.
"The pendant. It has Saint Michael on the front, a protection prayer on the back. I like to have it on--" he hesitated, fiddling with the buttons on one of his shirts, ". . . trips."
"Saint Michael?"
"Yeah. He's supposed to watch over people when they're . . . whatever," he said, throwing his hand into the air.
"I didn't take you for a zealot, sir." She hadn't meant to snap, but her voice was becoming more shrill as she thought on his decision. Edora was farther away than retirement--eons away. She could calculate the distance and had. Edora wasn't right. Lara, Edora, retirement--the entire thing stank of corruption and contrivance. But maybe that was a different part of her talking, the part of her she wasn't going to let speak right now.
"Jesus, Carter. I'm no zealot. Not for religion, anyway," he scoffed. "But, my parents gave it to me."
"Your parents?"
"Yeah. For Christmas. Their best, if you ask me."
She paused. "Sir--"
"Nah, Carter. Don't."
She actually hadn't been sure quite what she was going to say; likely she'd just have run, but she stopped anyway and seated herself on the bench.
"My dad was stationed in Maine that year," he started, pacing in front of her. "Cold as all get out. It snowed for a week before Christmas--five feet and more. No one was prepared, not the city and not us. The roads were impassable and the power flickered and was out most of the time. Come Christmas, we had a stew of canned beans, a couple of potatoes from the bottom of the box, a can of chicken stock, and some jerky over our old wood stove that saw no other use. Best goddamned meal I ever had, though I didn't think so then. Still, we all told mom that it was.
"We didn't have any presents, either. They promised the older kids presents when the weather cleared, but Bill and Jeannie were still young enough to believe in Ol'e Saint Nick. So mom cut up an old dress for fabric and sewed a doll and dad whittled down a wooden bookend into a soldier. God, you'd've thought they got the world, the way they looked at those toys. It was magic to them, and maybe it was.
"Well, they told us older ones that they didn't have any presents for us, but they found something for everyone. There was an old hat, a beaded necklace, a book, a whistle, a photograph, and some other things we didn't even know they had. It looked like a miracle, and it was." He smiled, standing silent for a moment.
"They sound like amazing people," she offered after a time.
"They were. After that, my father took me aside and gave me that pendant. He told me it didn't have a chain or anything, but that he hoped it would protect me. And it has." He turned to her still form.
"Sir--" she started, staring at the floor.
"Carter, don't say it."
"Sir?"
"Whatever you came in here to say, whatever curses you have for me, I just want you to hold them until--just--until."
"Sir . . ."
"Carter," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You have to do two things for me--just two."
She only stared.
"Remember that everything I just told you was the truth."
"What are you talking about, sir?"
"Every word of what I just said was the truth. Remember that."
She weighed the possible consequences of his story and came up with an empty motive. She took a breath and asked, "What's the second thing?"
"Save your speech, your reprimands, your confessions, for later. Please, just do this for me, alright?"
"I can't do that," she replied, taking her eyes from the concrete.
"Why?"
"Because you're not coming back. And I have something to say." Her eyes bore into his, conveying her message as clearly as the words could not.
"Carter," he protested. "I can't do this--you can't do this."
"You're not coming back. Even if you go to that planet not intending to stay, you'll take one look at that pretty woman with her soft hair and shining smile and you'll stay. You'll take one look at that little tot, the one that looks curiously like you, and you won't be able to leave."
"What--what are you talking about?" he stammered, but she knew he was too perceptive to be truly confused.
"You loved her, and with good reason, I suppose." Her mouth was running, as was her ire, and she seemed to have no will over either. "She wasn't a weakling, and she was a woman--a real woman. Cooking, cleaning--all sorts of useful housewifery I'm sure. She was pretty, strong, and smart, I imagine. And she wanted you--anyone could see that," she huffed, standing suddenly and moving about the room.
"Carter--"
"It wasn't surprising you'd want to start a new life, right? with the old one gone like that. I mean, who could blame you? Not us, for sure. I mean, it was my own fault, right?" She snarled at the irony.
"What--"
"If I hadn't taken so goddamn long in thinking of a way to get you out of there, you'd've never got that poor girl pregnant, right? I mean, if I hadn't taken so fucking long, you'd've never loved her. You'd've never wanted to go back. But, still, if I'd've left well enough alone, you'd be there. Happy as a lark. Raising your litter, talking about the rainy season or the next brew. You wouldn't've come into all of this trouble. You'd've been happy, right? And we'd've forgotten about you. Right? Did I get that right?"
"Carter . . . That's nonsense."
"Exactly which part of that is nonsense, because you're going to have to point it out for me," she cried, slamming her fist into a locker door.
"You're being . . ." he seemed unable to describe such behavior, which had never before been a part of his experience with her. "Hysterical."
She half expected him to come at her with open palms like she was a jumper or a disgruntled and armed employee. She would have laid him out if he did.
"Yeah. You're right," she said instead. "I am. So what the hell are you going to do about it?"
"I can't stay," he told her frankly. "There are things I have to take care of."
"Don't go. Don't go there," she replied in the same tone, letting her anger flow through her exhale.
"Where else would I go? I don't have a life here."
"Stay."
"I can't."
"Do we mean this little to you? Do I?" Her eyes registered the surprise of her words, as if she was herself surprised by them.
He ran scared fingers through his hair, dropping his eyes. "Everything I just told you was the truth."
"Stop saying that!" she cried. "Say something--anything--other than that. Yell, rage, cry--anything! Just say something!"
"Carter . . . Please," he tried to put distance between them, but she recognized a failed retreat when she saw one. "Just--just hold off on this, all right? Please. I know you're mad--"
"'Mad?'" She felt bile rise in her throat. "You think I'm 'mad?' That's what you think this is about? You--you think this is about that--that woman? Okay, Jack O'Neill. Go. Go off to Edora and to your little wife and your little family. Go and pretend you didn't throw your life on this world away! And see if I dig you out next time!"
She brushed past him to the door.
"Carter--"
"You know, sir?" she bit her tongue to calm her voice, her back to him. "You're going to need a lot more than Saint Michael protecting you where you're going. A hell of a lot more."
"There's always someone watching, Major."
His stiff tone forced her to whirl to face him. In his eyes, she saw her mistake. She saw his resolve and she saw her own stupidity and rash actions reflected upon her. Oh yeah, she'd fucked up real good this time. His intention stared her straight in the face and she felt her wrath melt. She took a step in his direction, but he halted her with a hand.
She understood his need for secrecy, but something had possessed her rational state of mind. As much as her sense knew her chance for confession was passed, her voice wouldn't give it up.
"Sir . . ."
"Save it. Whatever it is, later."
"Yes, sir." And she broke through the door and sprinted all the way to her lab.
She knew now. He'd come back. He'd come back from his damn secret mission and explain to all of them why he had to lie. He'd come back and be cleared. Probably more than that: He'd be deemed a hero. Again. Life and death kind of stuff. And then things would go on like they were supposed to, just like they always had. The thing was, she would never get to tell him. She'd never get to say what she went in there to say.
It'd all go on like normal.
What kind of hell was normal supposed to be?
*~*~*~*~*
whyagain
december 2006-january 2007
*~*~*~*~*
"The sky is gray; the sand is gray; the ocean is gray. And I feel right at home in this stunning monochrome, alone in my way. . . . What kind of paradise am I looking for?" --Gray, Ani Difranco