The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline (6 page)

“And the second?”

“You go help anyone in trouble.”

Obvious, when you think about it.

“Sebastian, don’t let me keep you from your friends; I’m quite happy to sit here and watch.”

He shook his head and looked at me intently.

“I can surf anytime; I’d rather be here with you.”

I stared down at my notepad, unsure what to say, but absolutely certain that if I looked up I’d be caught in the net of his blue-green gaze. But I also needed to be clear.

“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that, Sebastian. I’m a married woman. It makes me … uncomfortable.”

I still hadn’t been able to look up. I dug my toes further into the sand, as if burying one small part of my body could hide me from him.

“I really like you, Caroline,” he said softly.

I felt his hand touch my arm; he was trembling.

I had to look up. His face held such an expression of longing, mixed with anxiety. I slid my sunglasses from my hair to cover my face and stood up, abruptly.

Walking along the beach and breathing deeply helped restore some of my stolen equilibrium.

Why the hell did he have such an effect on me?

But I knew why: I was attracted to him. He was beautiful and sweet and kind—and he liked me. I had no idea why. I mean, I was nothing special—just an insipid, boring woman who lived down the road from him. What on earth was there to interest someone like him?

Why had he touched me like that? He said he
liked
me—what did that mean? What did he want?

I was irritated with myself as I stalked up the beach. It was beyond ridiculous.
I
was beyond ridiculous.

For fuck’s sake. He’s just a kid. Write your damned article and you won’t see him again.

The thoughts were a warning siren blaring through my skull.

I was relieved when Mitch paddled toward the shore. I made certain I asked him endless questions, about surfing being so resolutely non-military and a way for Base personnel to relax. I wasn’t giving anyone else a chance to talk to me—certainly not Sebastian.

“Well, the thing is, Caroline, there’s just
no point
to surfing,” said Mitch thoughtfully. “It isn’t like skiing; you can’t use it for anything. You might get military skiers like they have in those Nordic countries, but the military doesn’t have any use for surfing. Plus there’s a certain kind of rebelliousness to surfers. Call it individualism or what you will, but some people sure don’t like it.”

“Donald Hunter?” I said quietly.

Mitch’s eyes narrowed and he looked around quickly to make sure Sebastian couldn’t overhear him.

“He’d be on the list,” he said shortly.

I knew better than to pursue that line of questioning.

I glanced at my watch and realized with horror that it was already 6
pm
. I couldn’t believe how the time had flown. David would be on his way home; he wouldn’t be pleased to find an empty house. With a sinking feeling I realized that he’d also loathe the fact that I’d been spending time with a non-commissioned officer. He felt it reflected badly on him in some way.

“You okay, Caroline?” said Mitch. “You look kinda worried.”

He was too observant.

“Oh, not really. I just realized how late it had gotten. Enjoying myself too much.” I gave him a weak smile. He understood me instantly.

“We’ll get you home, on the double,” he said good-naturedly.

He yelled toward the ocean, parade-ground loud, and gave the time-honored time-out signal.

Ches was the last to surf in, complaining bitterly that he just wanted to catch one more wave.

“We’ve got to get Mrs. Wilson home,” said Mitch, looking pointedly at his son.

The look and his tone was enough.

We walked back to the van together, Sebastian unnaturally quiet, while the rest analyzed the afternoon’s surf, talking about tubes, green rooms and wipe outs. I turned my back while they
peeled off their surf-shorts and dried themselves with old beach towels, pulling on t-shirts and jeans for the drive back.

I could barely listen to their cheerful banter, tension filling me up like an overflowing drain. I did manage to pull myself together enough to ask Mitch if he would read through my article once I’d written it.

“Oh no!” he shook his head laughing. “I don’t do words, Caroline, not reading and writing words. You should ask one of the boys—that’s more their thing.”

“Sebastian will do it,” said Ches, throwing a teasing look at his friend.

Fido snickered quietly while Sebastian scowled.

“Okay with you, Seb?” asked Mitch, restoring order swiftly.

“Sure,” said Sebastian quietly. “Whenever you like, Caroline.”

I felt bad, he looked so miserable; but better like this than … I couldn’t bring myself to think of the alternative.

Twenty minutes later Mitch dropped me off. I raised my hand in a small wave and sprinted to the house. The small burst of speed didn’t make any difference because David’s Camaro was already parked in the driveway.

I fished in my beach purse for the key and tentatively unlocked the door.

“Caroline?”

Who else?

“Hello, David. Sorry I’m late getting home.”

He was waiting for me at the kitchen table. He didn’t look happy—irritation rolled off him in waves.

“Where have you been? Your car was parked out front.”

“Sergeant Peters gave me a ride; he was helping me out with an article I’m writing for
City Beat
.”

“Peters? Which one is he?”

“Um, he lives out on Murray Ridge. He’s a Staff Sergeant. His wife is Shirley.”

“You know I don’t like you mixing with the non-coms, Caroline,” he said, with finality. “When will you understand that it undermines my authority if my wife hobnobs with the enlisted men—and their wives?”

“I’m sorry, David, but he really was very helpful. He…”

“I’m not interested in your excuses, Caroline.”

I felt the control on my temper starting to slip.

“I’m not making excuses. I’m very grateful for Staff Sergeant Peters’ help today.”

A chilly silence descended.

“I’ll go make supper,” I muttered.

“Don’t bother,” he said sharply. “While you were absent, I made other arrangements. I’m meeting one of my colleagues in the mess. Don’t wait up.”

He strode out of the house and I heard the Camaro screech down the road.

I knew what this meant: David was going on one of his rare drinking binges. He’d probably be falling out of a taxi at two in the morning, breathing his beery fumes in my face.

I was glad when he went, but I knew I’d have to face his wrath at some point.

I tried to settle down and type up my notes, but the yawning absence of his disapproving presence made me restless.

It was starting to get dark, with stars appearing in the east. I dug a coat from the closet, pulled on some sneakers and headed out for a walk.

I took a circular route, wandering toward the park, when I realized that it might not be the most sensible place to be as darkness approached. I looked across and could see a man sitting on one of the benches, his sweatshirt hood pulled over his head.

I was alert but not overly worried: not yet. The quickest way home was to walk past. I debated whether this was the smart thing to do and, in the end, decided that as he wasn’t looking at me, I’d risk the most direct route.

As I got closer I realized the silent figure was Sebastian. What was he doing out here by himself? I almost walked past. I really didn’t need another uncomfortable encounter with him. I had enough on my plate dealing with David’s petulance. But he looked so alone, that I decided to risk a quick word and make sure he was okay. I wondered if he’d had another fight with his father. I hoped it wasn’t because of me again. Or, rather, because of the surfing.

“Sebastian?”

His head jerked up and he looked directly at me before dropping his eyes to the ground.

I gasped. He had a bruise across one cheek, and his lower lip was split.

“Oh, my God! Are you all right?”

What a dumb question: any fool could see he wasn’t all right
.

“What happened?”

He didn’t answer, but hunched his shoulders and carried on staring at the ground, as if the answer would spring from between the scraggy blades of grass.

Without any conscious decision, I raised my hand and lifted his head carefully.

He jerked his face away. “Don’t look at me,” he whispered.

“Did your father do this to you?”

He nodded, and a slow burning anger began to build in me.

“Sebastian, let me see. I want to make sure you’re not hurt too badly.”

“I’m okay,” he said in a hollow voice. “I’ve been hurt worse than this.”

The pain in his voice was more than I could bear.

I stroked his face and felt tears beneath my fingertips.

“Don’t cry, Sebastian. It’ll be okay.”

I didn’t feel any force behind my words; we both knew they were empty.

I walked around to stand in front of him. Finally he looked up and met my eyes.

“Come back to the house. I’ll fix you up and drive you home. Okay?”

My words seemed to sink in slowly. He stared for a moment longer, then stood up.

He walked as if dazed, in silence, unseeing. Twice I had to stop him before he plowed into the road at an intersection. His behavior was starting to get me really worried.

When we finally got back, the house was dark. I was intensely grateful for David’s continuing absence; I was certain he would have insisted on phoning Sebastian’s parents had he been there—and no way would anything good result from that.

I opened the door, switching on lights as I went and led him into the kitchen. I pulled out a chair and, after a moment’s hesitation, he sat down.

I had to ferret around several drawers before I could remember where I’d put the antiseptic cream. More urgently, I needed a cloth to fill with ice to try and take down some of the swelling. I smashed the ice tray on the counter and saw Sebastian jump.

“Oh, sorry!” I said softly. He still didn’t speak.

Gently, I placed the ice pack against his cheek and lifted his hand for him to hold it in place.

I pulled down the hood of his sweatshirt and an involuntary gasp escaped. Someone—Donald, I guessed—had hacked off chunks of Sebastian’s hair.

“Your father?”

He nodded, his eyes flicking to mine briefly, then away.

Fury coursed through me.

“Because of the surfing?”

He closed his eyes and nodded again.

“Because of me?” I said, my voice a whisper.

His eyes blinked open. “No, it would have happened anyway. I’d already planned to go out with Ches and Mitch today. It’s not your fault…”

But it felt like my fault—I felt guilty.

“Do you want me to fix it for you?”

He didn’t seem to understand my question.

“Do you want me to turn it into a buzz-cut?”

It was the only viable option, short of shaving his head completely.

“Okay.”

I led him upstairs, through the bedroom and into our bathroom, pulling out a chair for him to sit facing the mirror.

“I don’t want to look at myself,” he said, angling the chair away so he couldn’t see his reflection.

David’s shaver was in the cupboard. I’d trimmed up his crew cut many times and for once I was grateful that I could perform this simple task well.

The buzzing sound filled the small room as I ran the shaver over Sebastian’s head. His sun-bleached hair fell to the floor in unhappy clumps. When I’d finished I took my towel and dusted away the small hairs frosting his face and neck.

He looked older, harder, and I didn’t know if this was simply the result of his new haircut or something resolving inside him.

“All done,” I said hoarsely, unshed tears making my voice rough.

His head sank to his chest as if a great weight pulled it down. I was desperately tempted to run my fingers over his short, soft hair, to soothe him in some way.

“It’ll be okay,” I murmured, pathetically.

He looked up, his eyes meeting mine. “Will it?”

“Yes. When you leave home. You won’t have to see him again—either of them.”

He nodded slowly, as if the thought were difficult to process.

“Would you like me to get the ice?” I said gently.

He shook his head.

“Let me look.”

Gently, I lifted his chin so I could examine his cheek; the bruise was coming through darkly but his swollen lip was looking better.

Then he laid his hand over mine and I felt the shock of his touch surge through me.