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Author's Notes:
Can't believe this is number eight in this series. There's probably some big inconsistencies somewhere in these. Oh, well, we'll worry about those later. Anyway, this one is a lot lighter in nature than the last two or three. Remember that vacation which I think was first mentioned in Hide And Seek? Well, they finally make it there for some much needed downtime.
Hope you enjoy!
by
(Posted 06-19-00)
"Did I tell you about the time Naomi and I spent on a Cree Reservation? Man, I should have brought that spear along. You see, the Cree use this...."
I nod appropriately as the voice goes on. When we'd first stepped into the cool waters with our rods and reels, I'd told him that his talking would scare the fish away. That gained me a whole five minutes of silence. Then there had been a tentative question, followed by an occasional comment, and ending with a steady stream of information pouring from his mouth. I almost laugh when I realize that while the fish did indeed mind his talking, I don't. The sound is too familiar to be annoying. Sandburg talks like other people breathe. I've often thought about it. Why he does it. At first I thought it was nervousness. But as I got to know him, I realized Blair was silent when he was truly nervous, needing the quiet to assess what was going on around him. The only other time he's quiet is when he's in court. There he uses an economy of words, carefully chosen and couched in so many different levels of meaning that it appears he's talking much more than he is. God. No wonder I can smell apprehension on any lawyer he faces.
I have finally come to the conclusion that Blair talks so much in order to be heard. Yes, I know that sounds strange. The man is so famous that he has to fight to keep his words from being printed in one newspaper or another. But, I think, growing up he didn't have that many people listening to him. Now, I'm not dissing Naomi; I'm hardly one to have any say on what makes a good mother. Naomi loves her son. Naomi never abandoned him or...abused him, but I'm not sure she ever really listened to him. What I can gather from the stories Blair tells, his mom was always focused on a new cause or a new man. If he wanted or needed something, he usually found a way to get it himself and explained it to Naomi later-- if she noticed. At times, if he repeated something enough, she'd hear him and he would have the satisfaction of receiving a gift, instead of getting it himself. Apparently, that's very important to him. He tried to explain the difference to me on my birthday, but receiving gifts is nothing I've had practice with, so it basically went over my head.
Anyway, if I'm right and his mother didn't listen much, then she missed a great deal. I like everything about his talking. He can make any off-the-wall subject sound like it should be the topic of the next Time magazine. And he always knows what he's talking about-- so it's not just idle chatter. Then there's his voice. He has many of them. There's his client voice, his court voice, his playful voice, his Guide voice, and the one I like best: his soothing voice. It's different from the Guide voice, although similar in that it wraps me up in a cocoon of silken words. But the Guide voice is a protection against dangers to the Sentinel. The soothing voice is to protect me from the world. It's a gentle whisper when night presses too hard, confusing the memories in my head. It's a simple saying of my name when I've lost myself, or a repetitive croon that tethers me when darkness reaches out a grasping claw. The voice is a blanket when I find myself naked and freezing, a shelter when storms seek my destruction. His voice, all his voices, form the limits of my world, and ultimately show me that I have no limits at all.
"Hey, you zoning on me, man?" Sandburg calls.
"No. Just sucking up all the clean air I can," I answer.
"Well, you don't have to do that in the middle of a freezing river," he replies. "It's time to go inside. I promised your doctors we wouldn't overdo it."
"How can you overdo on a vacation?"
He makes a lot of noise splashing to my side. "I can tell you haven't been on many vacations."
"Just an Army leave or two."
"I would have thought leave was mandatory after some of your more infamous missions."
I shrug and reel in my line. "They can tell you to take the time off, but they can't make you go anywhere."
"You didn't want to travel?"
"I've never been big on blindly entering new situations, Chief. I relax better when I'm in familiar surroundings."
"So are you saying we should have stayed at home?"
I laugh. "Of course not. This is a great place. I can take deep breaths without choking on exhaust fumes. The only loud noises are the chatter of birds. When we go hiking tomorrow, there won't be any haze to block my view of the valley below. This is heaven, Chief."
"But it's not familiar."
I snort at the truth in that statement. No, I'm not the least bit familiar with heaven. But that doesn't matter. I pat his arm because I sense the conversation is making him anxious. He worries way too much. "It's okay. I brought my 'familiar' with me."
He looks at my hand on his arm, and he gets it. "I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted," he says with a grin. "Now maybe if you'd been listening to me--"
"The story about the Cree? Naomi's boyfriend who took you marlin fishing? The time you ate the fish head to impress Cheerleader Arlene?"
His mouths hangs open for a moment. "You were listening?"
"Of course I was, Chief. When you talk, I always listen."
"You do? Always?"
I nod and throw my arm around his shoulder as we trudge back toward our cabin. He looks like he can use the support. "Always, Chief."
*****
I glance at my watch, see that we've been fishing for a couple of hours, and decide it's time to go in. Although it's approaching two weeks since his collapse, Jim's still underweight and he has trouble sleeping through the night. I know the nightmares are to be expected, but I worry that he should be getting help for them. We've argued about that, and I know if I press the issue, he'll give in and see a psychologist/psychiatrist. But I don't want to push him. Enough people have "pushed" in his life. Besides, I know how pill-happy some of these professionals can get, and none of them have ever prescribed for a sentinel.
"Let's call it a day, Jim," I call, pulling in my line. Two hours. No fish. It would be a shame if we had indeed been hoping to actually catch something. But Jim was just content to be out in the water, and I was content just being with him. I think the fish had just been an excuse for both of us. I look around to see he hasn't moved. "Jim? Hey, you zoning on me, man?" Shit. I should have been paying better attention.
"No. Just sucking up all the clean air I can."
I wonder if I should believe him. "Well, you don't have to do that in the middle of a freezing river. It's time to go inside. I promised your doctors we wouldn't overdo it."
"How can you overdo on a vacation?"
Definitely not a man who's been to Disney World. My waders splash loudly as I make my way to his side. "I can tell you haven't been on many vacations."
"Just an Army leave or two."
"I would have thought leave was mandatory after some of your more infamous missions." Jim had worked covert ops on occasion. I can only imagine what kind of downtime you needed after something like that.
"They can tell you to take the time off, but they can't make you go anywhere."
I watch him bring in his line. Such economy of movement. "You didn't want to travel?"
"I've never been big on blindly entering new situations, Chief. I relax better when I'm in familiar surroundings."
Fuck. Had I screwed him up by dragging him to this resort? I'd thought getting him out of Cascade would be beneficial. But if he was uncomfortable outside his territory.... "So are you saying we should have stayed at home?"
He laughs. "Of course not. This is a great place. I can take deep breaths without choking on exhaust fumes. The only loud noises are the chatter of birds. When we go hiking tomorrow, there won't be any haze to block my view of the valley below. This is heaven, Chief."
You would think that the longer I know him, the better I'd be able to recognize his bullshit. However, he's quicker at adapting than I am. He knows how to play me really well. "But it's not familiar," I argue, trying to see if he has a problem with being here.
He pats my arm. "It's okay. I brought my 'familiar' with me."
He brought his familiar with him? What the hell does that mean? I look at his hand, and I get it. "I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted," I say, knowing a stupid grin's on my face. See? I told you he knows how to play me. "Now maybe if you'd been listening to me--"
"The story about the Cree? Naomi's boyfriend who took you marlin fishing? The time you ate the fish head to impress Cheerleader Arlene?"
I just stare at him. He heard all that? Damn. I'd just been talking off the top of my head, entertaining myself more than anything else. I'd grown used to people tuning me out. "You were listening?"
"Of course I was, Chief. When you talk, I always listen."
"You do? Always?"
He nods and throws his arm around my shoulder as we trudge back toward our cabin. "Always, Chief."
He blows me away sometimes. This man who describes himself as emotionally distant, who should by all accounts truly be an emotional cripple, can push emotional buttons that I don't even know I have until he engages them. It's awe-inspiring, and humbling, to know where this man came from and what he's been through, yet he has this strong sense of...love. That's it. Jim knows how to love. Maybe I shouldn't make him go see a professional. How could they possibly make sense of who Jim is? He came from bad genes, a bad environment, had more bad breaks than good ones, and spent ten years in a penal institution. However, he's saner than anyone I know, myself included.
"Jim?"
"Yeah?"
"Forget the therapy."
"Didn't want someone messing in my head anyway," Jim replies, looking at me curiously. The look turns suspicious. "Why the sudden about face, Chief?"
"Because I just realized they'll want to fix you, and you're not broken."
"Oh, I think some people would disagree with that."
I shake my head. "Not the people who know you, Jim."
"The unbiased few, huh?"
Sighing, I sit on the front step and tug him down beside me. "More than a few, Jim. The crowd at the funeral? They were there for you, man."
"If you say so, Chief." He shifts uncomfortably and I know he's going to change the subject. "I used to dream about places like this when I was in Starkville."
"How did you survive being locked up in that place?" In his hurry to escape, Jim has unwittingly maneuvered himself into a corner I've always wanted him in. The idea of a Sentinel confined that way is horrifying. I've seen Jim stalk the perimeters of the penthouse. Thinking of him doing the same thing in a six by six cell is heart-breaking.
"This is gonna sound kinda strange, but in a lot of ways, it was no big deal. Being Army, I was already used to a structured lifestyle. Following rules was second nature to me."
"What about dealing with those who didn't follow the rules?" I hedge carefully.
He laughs. "You watch too much TV, Sandburg. I wasn't gang-raped or beaten to a pulp. Yeah, I was involved in a few altercations, but usually because someone attacked one of my people. I don't like fighting, so I don't give a good show, and since that's what most of those assholes in prison wanted, they usually left me and mine alone."
"What do you mean 'you don't give a good show?'"
"The Army taught me how to disable an enemy in the quickest possible time. None of that wrestling, Iron Man showmanship for me, Chief. I just do what I have to do and move on."
A shiver crawls along my spine as I remember how Orrin Pierson died, the man Jim killed just before I got him out of prison. A quick snap of his neck. "So, your threats kept you safe? No one approached you for 'favors'?" I find that hard to believe. Jim is a good-looking man. I'm seen some of my gay acquaintances giving him the once-over. Hell, I've seen some of the straight ones give him a second glance. I can't believe that no one 'coveted' his fine form in Starkville.
Jim leans back against the railing of the rustic log cabin-- which just happens to be designed by the area's leading architect. Okay, we aren't exactly 'roughing it', but sometimes it's the thought that counts, right? "It's just a rumor, you understand?"
What is? Oh. This must be something good if he's already making excuses. "Okay," I say agreeably. I can play it anyway he wants it.
"I don't remember anything about it."
Now that I can believe. I nod helpfully.
"A lot of what went on around me was a big blur in those days. The trial, the early days at Starkville. The shrinks call it a period of adjustment, the first few weeks inside."
Ah. Maybe I'm starting to understand his reluctance to see a "professional". I knew talking to a psychiatrist was part of the standard debriefing when he was in the military. I didn't know he'd been subjected to it in his civilian life as well. "How often did you see the doctor in prison?"
"Once."
"Once?"
"I wasn't suicidal or homicidal; anything else really didn't matter."
Well, shit. That was sweet of them to take all that time to make such an analysis, wasn't it? "So what happened during this blurred period?" I prompt before I get angry.
"Seems like there was some guy who took it upon himself to teach certain lessons to the new meat. He was the kind of jerk who liked to shake his finger in your face while he talked."
"And?"
"And I bit the damn finger-- all the way to the bone."
"So that's why they left you alone?" It sounded painful, but I'm sure biting incidents went on all the time in such an environment.
"It seems I told the crowd that that's what I'd do to any body part they dangled in my face."
I frown. "And they believed you?"
He blinks and stares off into the distance. "That's uh, where the rumor part comes in. I didn't just, uhm, bite the finger. From what I gather, I got the man in a headlock, rolled a condom down the finger, then bit it. Took twenty stitches to repair the finger, and it never did work right after that."
I laugh when I look down to find my knees pressed together and my hands cupped protectively over my genitals. Hmm. I guess I understand why they left him alone. "Hey, man, I know I talk with my hands, but if I get too close, just give me a warning, okay?"
His eyes twinkle. "You're safe, Chief."
I nod and slide my hands under my legs just in case. "You'd had earlier problems with your senses. They weren't a problem for you when you were inside?"
"I didn't pay any attention to them. I left them alone and they left me alone."
"Meaning? You've admitted that you used them to watch out for your charges."
"Then I told you a lie because 'using them' implies that I consciously made the decision to focus my senses on those young men. There was nothing conscious about it," he says dryly, and I'm surprised by the bitter chuckle that accompanies the words. I know that he didn't like having the senses because his family had convinced him that they made him a bad person. I still remember how he'd panicked when I had discovered his secret, how he'd feared I'd leave him in prison because he was a freak. But I thought we'd gotten beyond that. I thought he'd accepted what a blessing his gifts were-- now, and then.
"You resented what your senses made you?" I guess.
"Yes. I just wanted to be left alone, Sandburg. Yet, thanks to them, I never was. I heard everything that went on, saw things I wish I hadn't, smelled things that never should have been smelled. If it crawled, I could feel it. If it existed, I could taste it. At any given time there was at least a dozen guys pissing, crapping, or fucking. Prison was one big fucking kaleidoscope of sensations, and my abilities magnified those sensations ten times over. I knew which guys were raped, when they were raped, how they were raped, and how many tears they cried as they were raped. I knew the rapists, each one's habits and kinks. I knew which ones wanted me, which ones wanted the guys I protected."
"So I ask again, how did you survive?"
"Like I always do I guess."
I hear a hint of defensiveness in his voice and know I'm being annoying. He's not a courtroom adversary, or the research project he thinks he is. It's true that I told him I wanted to study him, and to some degree I do find him academically fascinating. But more importantly, he is my friend. I want to know what makes him tick. I want to know his boundaries. "And how is that particularly?"
He plucks a blade of grass and studies it intensely. I reach out when I feel he's getting too intense, but he pulls away from me. "It's not a defined process. Stuff happens and I just let it go."
"How?"
He jerks to his feet. "Is this payback for not submissively following your 'suggestion' of talking to a shrink? Got a license for what you're doing, doctor?"
"You think I want you submissive, Jim?"
"I don't know what the fuck you want, Sandburg! That's always been the problem with you. Please, just tell me what it is, and I'll give it to you."
"Is that how you let stuff go? You just give whoever whatever it is they want?"
He laughs, crossing his arms. "Don't knock it until you've tried it, Chief. Sometimes it's just best to go with the flow."
"And what happens when that's not the best answer?"
He leans against the front porch railing, laying his cheek against the meticulously sanded wood. "Then you're in for a world of hurt." He sighs and I see him gather back to himself the stray emotions he's loosed. So controlled. So contained. "Don't try to get into my head, Sandburg. You won't survive in there. You can't."
"Why? Is it because I'm weaker than you are?"
"Hell no."
"Then why won't I survive? Tell me the truth: do you think I could handle Starkville?"
He brings his head up to stare at me. "No."
"Why not?"
"You're not tough enough."
"I can handle myself," I argue stubbornly. I have no doubt in my mind that Jim knows what he's talking about. If he says I can't make it in Starkville, I can't. But he knows me well enough to know he has to prove the statement.
"You can handle yourself in your world. Prison would be like a different planet to you. So would the Army."
"So now I can't even handle what the average soldier can? Gee, your faith in me is heartwarming."
"You expect fairness. You expect justice. Those things occur in your world. I know because you've arranged for me to be in that world with you, and believe me, I've enjoyed this vacation from my usual haunts."
"The legal world can be cutthroat."
"In my world, cutthroat is a verb, not an adjective."
"I'm adaptable."
"Hopefully not that much. But even if you are, then the answer is the same. It won't be you who survives."
Shit. I've taught him well, haven't I? A highly successful argument. I'm so proud of him. Still, I don't enjoy being labeled a wuss. "I can bite a finger as easily as you."
"But could those standing around you look into your eyes and know that you've seen the depths of hell? Know that no matter what they do to you that they still can't match what's already been done? I was my mother's fuck toy, my father's whipping post, and my brother's punching bag! There was nothing they could do to me. Even killing me had already been tried. The helicopter crash in Peru was a setup. A fucking colonel thought I was getting involved in his action, so he planned on taking me out of the game."
Okay. That's a shock. He's never talked about that period of his life, and officially it's wrapped up in national security red tape. I'd thought, however, that the Army had been his one saving grace, a length of time where he'd been protected from abuse. I mean, I know that they screwed with his mind, and made him do stuff that he wouldn't ordinarily do, but hey, that's what the Army does. I never thought it had gotten "personal" during his stint. "Did...did you tell someone about this when you got back?"
Jim grins wolfishly. "The rat bastard was working for the CIA by the time I was recovered. Thought he was going to maneuver things so that I would get court-martialed for my incompetence."
"What happened?"
"I got my honorable discharge."
There are two things that every successful lawyer learns not to do in a courtroom: one, ask a question that he doesn't already know the answer to; and two, ask a question he doesn't want answered. Therefore, I skip the next logical question and go back to a previous topic. "Would it be the imprisonment itself I couldn't tolerate, or the conditions?"
Jim brushes at a speck of mud on his boot. "The conditions. I think maybe you could handle the confinement. I've seen you holed up with your books. With an adequate library," he says, his eyes dancing impishly, "you could do the time."
"But?"
"But the suffering of your fellow inmates would eventually get you killed. You'd interfere. You'd complain. You'd rattle you cage bars until someone would either take you out or pay to have it done."
"So, it wouldn't be because I was a wuss?"
"Wusses survive. Egoists survive. People who don't give a damn survive. You wouldn't last a week."
I tilt my head to look up at him. "I think there's a compliment in that somewhere."
"There is."
"Which one were you?"
"I definitely didn't give a damn."
"Yet you protected Garrity and the others."
Jim smiles deprecatingly. "Never said I was perfect."
I find his statement incredibly funny and lay back against the porch laughing my ass off. Polite bastard that he is, doesn't call me on this show of insanity, but merely shakes his head indulgently.
I don't think he'll ever stop amazing me.
*****
"What happened?"
"I got my honorable discharge."
I am a fool. I mean, it was already a given, but sometimes it smacks me full in the face. Like now. What the hell compelled me to mention that cock-sucking Col. Oliver? It's not like I regret what happened to him. Well, actually, his death could have been more painful and a tad more lingering, but it had still been gratifying. Guess that takes care of the remorse question, too. But how could I feel guilty over the death of someone who had killed eight men just trying to get to me? If the son of a bitch had just called me out, I probably would have given him what he wanted.
So now Sandburg's going to ask for the rest of the story and I'm either going to have to lie, or cop to a major, albeit accidental, felony-- accidental because if I'd had any control over the situation whatsoever, Oliver's death would have been a helluva lot messier. Still, a felony is a felony. Not that telling Sandburg would matter. He's my lawyer. Confidentiality rules would probably kick in. But here's the thing. He's not just my lawyer; he's my friend. It's bad enough that I almost lost it earlier, screaming at him about what he wanted from me. I know what he wants from me; he's always been up front about that. I'm a Sentinel, an oddity he wants to study. Oddity. 'Nother word for freak. Damn. I can't believe that word still hurts.
But that's a self-discussion for another time. Now, I have to figure out how to get out of the hole that my mouth has dug. I don't want to lie. Not to this man. Whatever his reasons, he's stood by me for longer than anyone else in my life. I don't want the relationship to end. I mean, I know it's going to end some day, but not right now. Not when all that shit with my family is still so close to the surface. Why can't I bury it like I did before? Why does my past have to taint everything that I touch? Why do I have to carry it everywhere I go?
"Would it be the imprisonment itself I couldn't tolerate, or the conditions?"
I cover my surprise at the change in topics by wiping at a streak on my boot. "The conditions. I think maybe you could handle the confinement. I've seen you holed up with your books. With an adequate library, you could do the time."
"But?"
"But the suffering of your fellow inmates would eventually get you killed. You'd interfere. You'd complain. You'd rattle you cage bars until someone would either take you out or pay to have it done."
"So, it wouldn't be because I was a wuss?"
How the hell could someone as strong as Sandburg think he was a wuss? That definitely would not be his problem. "Wusses survive. Egoists survive. People who don't give a damn survive. You wouldn't last a week."
He looks up at me. "I think there's a compliment in that somewhere."
"There is."
"Which one were you?"
Finally, an easy question. "I definitely didn't give a damn."
"Yet you protected Garrity and the others."
I smile, laughing at myself. "Never said I was perfect."
Sandburg thinks this is hilarious and falls back laughing. I watch him, thinking the comment wasn't that funny, but proud that it was something I did that's giving him such joy. Whenever this all ends, I think the sound of his laughter and his quick smile will be the things I remember most about the time I shared with him. No. It's time I stop lying to myself. I will remember everything.
"As soon as you're finished," I say before my thoughts get out of hand, "maybe you'd like to laugh your way into the kitchen and figure out what we're going to have for dinner since as mighty fishermen, we suck."
"You trying to say that an esteemed lawyer and a veteran Army Ranger are both dumber than fish?"
"Yep."
"I'd sue you for defamation of character if it wasn't so painfully obvious your statement is true." Sandburg stands up and brushes the dust off the seat of his pants. When he turns, I complete the dusting. During his sprawl on the porch, his back and ponytail have also gotten dirty.
"I think I spied a can of beans in the pantry." I lead the way into the cabin.
"Beans? Man, I hate beans. As soon as I graduated law school, I swore I'd never eat another can of beans. Don't make me go back on my word, Big Guy."
Okay, I admit it. If I was a guy who indulged in preferences, I'd prefer no beans as well. A childhood of the things, combined with Army and prison life-- where beans were standard fare-- left me less than thrilled to eat any kind of bean, especially the canned ones. Still.... "You got another option, Sandburg?"
He grins and saunters over to the desk where he pulls out a laminated sheet of paper. "Yeah. How about Room Service?"
I glance at the list of four and five course meals that can be ordered from the Main Lodge and delivered via an SUV in an hour or less. Camping: Sandburg-style. I could learn to like this. "Mmm. A porterhouse steak." He holds the list steady. "Gourmet catfish?" The second choice gets a nod of approval, and he picks up the phone.
Sometimes I think I'm in Wonderland. If I skinned the White Rabbit, do you think I'd get to stay?
*****
I watch him move easily on the path ahead of me. He's a powerful man in repose, but in movement, you get the full force of who he is. What is it about being out in the forest that brings out the feline in him? Such sinewy grace and agility. If he falls, I swear he'll land on his feet. But that's what he's been doing his whole life, isn't it? Falling-- being shoved-- and landing on his feet. Sometimes I can understand the atheist point of view; surely there can't be any deity directing the crap that comes into Jim's life. I can also see the satanist's side-- serve the power that's the strongest, and that appears to be evil. But the theist version of Jim is also valid; he's an honest-to-goodness miracle, absolute proof that something other than evil and genetics dictate who and what we are.
How could something as wonderful as Jim spring from the womb and loins of the likes of Grace and William Ellison? There's not an abusive bone in the man's body. He could have used Garrity and the other young men in his care at the prison, but didn't. He could have ripped me off or hurt me when I invited him to live with me, but he hadn't, despite the warnings of my good friends. Even my mother had made an infrequent appearance to warn me of my foolishness. But they were the ones who were fools. They never looked past Jim's exterior to see the massive, bruised heart residing just below the surface. They judged him by a past that was mainly cardboard and construction paper. Just as he'd been judged his entire life.
I bump into something hard, something the same color blue as Jim's shirt. Duh. I take a step back and look at him. "Sorry. I didn't see you stop."
He thumps my forehead. "You get lost up there?"
I grin. "Yeah. Maybe I'm the one who needs to see a shrink."
He smirks. "I'd love to see someone who had enough balls to take on a job like that. He'd have to be more bowlegged than a cowboy."
I blink as the image pops up in my mind. I laugh so hard I have to sit down. The vision is funny, but what has me so tickled is that Jim has made two jokes in as many days. He's healing. Whatever that beautiful thing is inside him, it's healing the damage of the past several weeks-- just as it had healed him in the past. Thank God. Hmm. Guess that makes me a theist, after all.
*****
I reach out my hand and he takes it, getting to his feet. I shake my head. I had no idea he enjoyed wallowing in the dirt so much. "C'mon, Sandburg. At this rate, it's going to be noon before we reach the top." The brochure said that the morning view from the medium-sized peak was spectacular. That's why I'd pulled his laughing majesty out of bed at four a.m.
"If you wanted speed, you shouldn't be making me waste all this breath laughing."
"Not speed-- just forward movement would be appreciated. Or should I throw you over my shoulder and haul your ass up there in time to see the sunrise?"
"Isn't that part of your Ranger motto-- faster than a nuclear missile, able to leap tall buildings with an injured man on your back? Urp!"
I sling him over my shoulder and proceed up the path. Damn good thing I've kept to my routine of pumping iron. He's solid as a rock. Thankfully, we only have a few more yards to go, and I'm not even breathing too heavily by the time I lower him to the ground. He trembles and I reach out to steady him, thinking he merely needs to get his sea legs. But it seems to be more than that. "Sandburg?"
"Did I ever mention I have a thing about heights?"
Shit. We're, like, standing in the middle of the sky at the moment. "Don't you think that's something you should have shared before we got all the way up here?"
"Would you believe me if I said I forgot?"
Yes, I would. He's always forgetting about his own cares and worries. He's always forgetting about himself. But he has me now. I won't forget. I firm my grip on his arm. "Come on. Let's go back to the cabin."
"Nah, man. As long as you hang on, I'm good. 'Cause you're not going to let me fall, right?"
Never. "Right, Chief."
"Good. Now, which way is east?"
"Probably over here where the sun is coming up."
"Smartass."
I sit and pull him down beside me. "If you have a problem with heights, why do you live in a penthouse?" I ask as he makes himself comfortable by grabbing the back of my shirt.
"An ostentatious display to get back at my mother."
I grin at him. "You're truly fucked up, you know that, don't you?"
He leans against me. "Yes. But now I'm not fucked up alone."
He's quiet as we take in the awesome sunrise. Even as I absorb the experience, almost losing myself in the dazzling display of color, I wonder how much of it he's seeing. I avert my eyes to his face and I'm surprised to see he's fully alert, so sure of his safety at my side that he's put his fear behind him.
"What is it?" he asks.
I turn back to the sunrise. The warmth of it, and the warmth of the hand against my back infuse me with a feeling I'm not used to. "This is just a hypersense I can enjoy from its start."
"What sense is that, Jim?"
"A sense of peace, Chief."
*****
"Did I ever mention I have a thing about heights?" I say, leaning into his grip.
"Don't you think that's something you should have shared before we got all the way up here?"
It would have been appropriate, wouldn't it? But for some reason, I never equated mountain-climbing with heights. All I had been thinking about was how excited Jim was about the hike. "Would you believe me if I said I forgot?"
"Come on. Let's go back to the cabin."
"Nah, man. As long as you hang on, I'm good. 'Cause you're not going to let me fall, right?" I didn't have to ask. I could feel the surety through the palm wrapped around my forearm.
"Right, Chief."
"Good. Now, which way is east?"
"Probably over here where the sun is coming up."
"Smartass." He sits and pulls me down with him, never letting go. I figure he has better things to do with his hands, so I grab his shirt as my own private safety net.
"If you have a problem with heights, why do you live in a penthouse?"
I used to ask myself that question a lot before he came to live with me. However, when I see him standing out there, obviously master of all he surveys, I know exactly why I moved there. I was waiting for him. "An ostentatious display to get back at my mother," I say, earning a chuckle from him.
"You're truly fucked up, you know that, don't you?"
I rest my head against his arm. "Yes. But now I'm not fucked up alone."
The brochure didn't lie. The sunrise is stunning and I'm amazed that I'd never thought so before. Yes, I've been up to see the sun rise on several occasions, but it's never seemed so real to me. I turn to find Jim watching me instead of the sun. "What is it?"
I think he's embarrassed to get caught staring because he glances away quickly. "This is just a hypersense I can enjoy from its start," he says softly.
"What sense is that, Jim?"
"A sense of peace, Chief."
The words go straight to my heart, and bloom throughout my body. The sky becomes a riot of colors and light, and everything about me melds into something more than it was. I smile and close my eyes. Peace.
Finally there is an enhanced sense that we share.
THE END