Disarm (29 page)

Henry and I didn't go back to California for Thanksgiving. Instead, we spent a fair amount of the day in bed, snuggling while watching the Macy's Thanksgiving parade on television. There was something romantic about spending our first holidays as newlyweds alone together, starting our own traditions in our new home.

“How long until we eat?” Henry asked with his arm around me.

I stretched my limbs, straightening my toes and fingers. “The turkey's not even done thawing yet. And we haven't cooked anything else.”

“But. I'm. So. Hungry,” he said, grabbing his stomach for effect.

I laughed at his theatrics and pinched at his side, unable to find an ounce of fat anywhere. “Poor baby, starving on Thanksgiving.”

“It wouldn't be the first time,” he said. “Remember that Thanksgiving when we went skiing and Jason forgot to make restaurant reservations?”

I nodded, feeling a sudden rush of emotion at the mention of my brother and that time long ago before death and heartache had touched our lives. Jason, Henry, and I had all gone to Vail, Colorado, to spend the holiday weekend skiing. Without dinner reservations, we had ended up going to the grocery store and buying bread and sliced turkey, eating the sandwiches in our hotel room instead.

“How could I forget? Jason poured jarred gravy on his sandwich, thinking it would taste good. It was nasty but he ended up eating that sandwich anyway,” I said, laughing as the memory of my brother filled me with warmth.

“I tried it. It wasn't so bad,” Henry said. “Though it would have been better if we'd had a microwave to warm it up in.”

“Yeah, no. It was gross.”

“That was a fun vacation,” he said, his voice taking on a wistful tone.

“Yeah it was.” I sighed. “I miss him.”

He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the television, grunting out a soft, “Yeah.” But despite his nonchalant attitude, I knew Henry still missed his best friend. He and my older brother Jason had grown up together; they had gone through ROTC, college, and even the Air Force together. Jason was a part of Henry as much as he was a part of me, and even now, nearly six years after Jason's death, his memory was like a phantom limb, a daily reminder of the person we loved and lost.

Sharing the death of a brother—whether by blood or by choice—bound Henry and me together, made certain that we were always linked by that common loss.

Determined not to keep dwelling on the past, I slid out of bed and pulled on some yoga pants and a T-shirt and twisted my hair up into a bun. “Come on, let's get cooking.”

He was pulling on a pair of gray Air Force sweat pants when the phone rang. He read the name on the caller ID before answering. “Hello?”

I raised my eyebrows at him, trying to decipher by Henry's voice if the caller was my mom, or maybe Julie, the woman my brother had intended to marry.

“Bergen!” Henry called, his voice taking on that brash tone he used with his male friends. “What the hell are you up to, man?”

Satisfied the call wasn't for me, I went downstairs to start preparing the food. Several minutes later, Henry followed. “That was my old buddy, Bergen. We were stationed together in Korea,” he said, standing by the counter and snapping the green beans with his fingers.

I slipped my hand inside the turkey, reaching around for the elusive giblet packet. “Where the hell is it?” I mumbled, grimacing at the cold, clammy things I was touching.

“Is it wrong that I find your turkey fisting incredibly hot?”

“You should see what I can do with a duck,” I grumbled, my fingers making contact with something plastic.

“Please tell me it rhymes with cluck.”

I came up with the plastic package and threw it into the sink. “What's Bergen up to today?” I asked, placing the small turkey inside the pan and rubbing two entire packets of French onion soup mix all over it, a trick I'd learned from my mom.

“He's driving through Denver on the way to Colorado Springs. Do we have enough food for another person?”

“Oh definitely,” I said, helping him with the green beans once the turkey was in the oven. “You want to invite him over for dinner?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Already did,” he said and crunched on a green bean.

A few hours later, while I was still getting ready, the doorbell rang. I could hear Henry greeting his friend downstairs, their deep, masculine voices echoing throughout the house.

I hurriedly dressed then applied my makeup. I looked at myself in the mirror, trying to decide what to do with my hair, but laziness won out, so I just pinned it up and left a few tendrils down. “Good enough,” I said and went to meet our guest.

Bergen, a tall man with beautiful chocolate skin, a shaved head, and a bright smile stood up when I entered the room. “You must be the lovely Mrs. Logan,” he said, holding out a hand. “Henry has been talking about you for years.”

I smiled and returned the handshake. “And you must be the mysterious Mr. Bergen.”

“Major Jackson Bergen, ma'am.” He waited until I sat down before following suit.

“I'm glad you could make it, but if you call me ma'am again, you're not getting any pie.”

“Yes, sir,” he said with a tiny salute, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

“At ease.” I grabbed Henry's beer from the coffee table and took a sip.

“Hey now,” Henry said, and touched his cold fingers to my neck in retaliation.

“Whipped,” Bergen coughed into his hand.

Henry laughed, leaning back into the couch and resting his arm across my shoulder. “I guess I am.”

Bergen smiled. “That's good to hear, man.”

We ate our Thanksgiving meal at around three p.m., passing dishes around the table wordlessly as we heaped food on our plates. Years of cooking with my mom had conditioned me to prepare more food than was necessary, so we thankfully had enough to share with a large man with an equally large appetite.

“So, Bergen,” I said after we'd been eating for several minutes. “What was Henry like at Osan?”

The two men exchanged a quick look that sent my spidey senses tingling. “He was a mess when he first got there,” Bergen said nonchalantly. “He was one depressing peckerhead, always talking about the meaning of life and finding yourself.”

“Ah, I wasn't so bad,” Henry said, washing his food down with beer. “So anyway, what are you doing in Colorado Springs?”

Bergen took the hint and moved on, talking about his new job at NORAD. I sat back and listened, chewing thoughtfully and watching Henry's face as they exchanged stories. Something about the way he talked—carefully, with every word thought out—gave me the feeling that he was being extra cautious about what was being said.

There was something the man wasn't telling me and I, being who I am, intended on finding out.

After dinner, Bergen and Henry cleaned up while I was banished to the living room for some R and R. I turned on the television and burrowed under a blanket on the couch, in a pleasant state of drowsiness.

My eyes were starting to get heavy when I remembered something. With great effort, I pushed up off the couch to remind Henry to put the pie in the oven but the sound of their hushed conversation froze me from around the corner.

“She doesn't know about what happened at Osan,” Henry said in low voice, almost inaudible under the sound of running water.

“You never told her?”

“No. It's not exactly something you want to tell your wife, you know?”

I walked around the corner, deciding that getting the answer from the horse's mouth was better than eavesdropping. “What is this big secret?” I stood in front of the two men, who were behind the sink with identical looks of
busted
written all over their faces.

Bergen took a deep breath and said, “I need to use the restroom,” and left the room, not bothering to slow down and ask where the restroom was.

I crossed my arms across my chest, staring down my husband even as he towered over me.

“It's not a big deal.” He scratched his forehead.

“Then why are you keeping it from me?”

His jaw tightened and eyes turned wary, reminding me of that same stranger who came back from a six-month deployment to Afghanistan. “I'm not keeping it from you to hurt you, okay?” he said, his voice taking on a frustrated edge. “It has nothing to do with you.”

“Really, Henry?” I asked. I glanced down the hall to make sure our guest was still out of earshot. “This is how it's going to be again?”

He ran a palm across his scalp, a nervous habit that persisted even without his long hair. “There are some things that I can't tell you, Els.”

“Is it classified?”

He blinked a few times then said, “No.”

“Then why can't you tell me?”

“Because it's personal.”

“I'm your wife. I think I can handle personal.”

“There are some things that need to be kept secret between us.”

“Why? What's the purpose of that?” I asked. “I tell you everything.”

“Am I supposed to believe that you've told me every little thing about you, every shameful detail of your past?”

“Yes, for the most part.” I shook my head. “Anyway, this isn't about me. This is about you keeping secrets again.”

He dodged around the counter and came toward me with an exasperated look. “Els, can we please just drop it for now and enjoy the rest of the day?” he asked, rubbing my arms.

“Why can't you just tell me? Whatever it is, it can't be worse than what my imagination can cook up.”

His eyebrows drew together as his eyes roamed over my face. “Yes, it can,” he said and left it at that.

Bergen stayed until late into the night. He and Henry pounded beer after beer while they caught up, and by the time midnight rolled around, it was clear he wasn't going to be driving anywhere. I offered Bergen the guest bed and he accepted readily, if a little ungracefully, kicking off his shoes before stumbling face-first into the pillows.

Henry was usually a chatty and affectionate drunk, but he sensed my foreboding mood and didn't try anything in bed. I turned away from him, the ball of frustration growing in my belly. How many times had he kept secrets from me only to have it blow up in his face? You'd think he'd have learned his lesson by now.

I stared at the digital numbers on the clock, seething. When I could no longer keep it in, I sat up and shook his shoulder. “Wake up,” I hissed.

He stirred and immediately took in his surroundings. “What? What is it?”

Trying to take advantage of his drunk state, I said, “Tell me what happened in Korea.”

He rolled onto his back with a sigh and covered his eyes with one arm. “Elsie,” he groaned. He was quiet for so long, I thought he'd fallen asleep again, but he finally gave a deep sigh and said, “I was cornered in an alley and assaulted by a group of men.”

“What? Why?”

He shrugged. “Money. Maybe because I looked like a big, dumb American.”

“Were you badly hurt?”

“Bad enough to be hospitalized,” he said.

“Where? How?” I couldn't find words beyond those breathless questions. How had I not known that Henry had been so badly hurt? Wouldn't I have felt it in some way?

“I don't want to talk about it anymore, Elsie,” he said. “Please. I told you what happened, don't make me relive the entire night again.”

I couldn't sleep that night, imagining Henry being attacked and unable to defend himself. When my alarm rang at six, I decided that it was just as well, because my sleep would no doubt have been riddled with ugly, violent images anyway.