thewordofweb

The crucible of a group of men putting you through the fire to earn their belonging is one of the hardest battles that Webster has had to fight, this war. It seems strange, given the lack of bloodshed and fired bullets, but it's also been the hardest to come back in and fight to earn back respect once thought settled away after Toccoa. Still, when Joe Liebgott offers a hand out to Webster, he knows that the battle is won and this private war has been put away.

He throws his bag onto the truck, reaching out for Joe's hand when it all fades away suddenly, leaving Webster to struggle and reach for something that isn't there. The truck is gone, the men are gone, and most of Webster's things are gone, save for what he's carrying on him.

Alarm grips him tight as he tries to remember basic training, but the commanders never spent their time shouting to prepare them for this. Tropical forest behind him, and the open ocean before him, including several boats docked at harbor. Looking out, it's like he's on the coast again, but looking back makes him think he's landed somewhere in the Pacific, into a whole new theatre of warfare.

Webster turns cautiously, as if anticipating an ambush at any moment now.

His voice is stuck in his throat, not sure he wants to call attention to himself. His hand drifts to his gun to make sure it's still loaded, just in case, because he's been thrust away from one war and pushed into a seeming other, but this time, he's without Easy Company.

In the grand tradition of love-lost, I've found myself a drink, a dark and dank area, and a good block of hours in which to spend my time devoting a love letter to a strong drink that's never going to love me so much as I'm going to use it and then throw it away in minutes, like a wad of tissue that's served its purpose. The scotch is strong at the jazz club and the music is incessantly annoying, giving me a headache, but it's better than drinking alone and it's better than drinking with someone who knows me.

God forbid we have to talk, then. So instead, there is this. And maybe I let my eye wander here and there, where it will. Maybe I just can't help myself and maybe I'm looking to punish myself, as though Joe's vanishing is all my fault. What does it matter, really? All I know is that I have a good strong drink and the weather outside is frightful, so there's no going out to sea.

There's just being here.

The bed is no longer beneath my heavy body and I find out all-too-quickly when the heavy thunk of my ass on the floor is the loudest sound in the room. I groan and wish that this wasn't the way I'd woken up today, but it's not as if it's the first time. I slowly sit up and rub a hand over my face, shifting my Harvard t-shirt while peering blearily up at a sun-kissed room. "Goddammit, Joe," I complain under my breath, struggling to grasp at the beddings and haul myself back into bed. "What'd I do this time to earn the elbows?"

Because I'm sure I haven't tried to kiss him with morning breath or did something else entirely unapprovable. Hell, I'm sure that I haven't even had a disapproved dream. I squint slightly and open my eyes to look up at Joe before noticing...

"Oh shit," I exhale and swallow hard. "Joe," I insist desperately, now launching onto the bed. "Joe, wake up. Wake up, Lieb," I say, panic roughing the edges of my voice as I push at his shoulder.

There is a spring in Webster's step on this fine morning. He's got coffee for Skinny and he's got new sketches and storyboards and he's got on his very finest of silk shirts and purple ties. When he gets to the shop, he's even grinning at the children in the corner instead of muttering in German under his breath asking when they're going to leave.

He sets the coffees down on the counter and grins wider than before. "I sold five thousand copies," he announces with delight, as if that's why he's walking looser than before and why he looks like he's shaken off a dozen burdens. He even crouches to affectionately rub his hands over Rosie's ears, telling her how good a dog she is before returning to his feet to mark off inventory and sales.

I nearly didn't make it down to the boat today. I'd gotten up, done my chores around the house and said my goodbyes to Joe and Sophie, but then I'd gotten caught gaping at my reflection and what was undoubtedly some plan to foil my mood in the form of a gray hair. At thirty-two, I really shouldn't be spouting hair that shade, and yet, there it is.

I'd already been having issues. After all, boyfriend who's forty, relationship hitting ten years, the same routine over and over again on the Island. What are you even supposed to do? How are you supposed to live your life with any kind of...well, anything. Call it a midlife crisis, but I was having the most uncomfortable time when it came to this. Honestly, I just want to strike out, do something different, be somewhere else.

The only else I have though, is the boat. I drop my things down at the base of the dock to start loading it up, trying not to catch my reflection in surfaces, lest I see something new, like a wrinkle.

There are very few things that I like about being a woman. My back aches, Joe calls me all manner of nicknames, and I feel awkward when I catch Skinny and Grant eyeing my rack. Still, the one thing I do like is the leverage I know have over the boys, and specifically, over my one. I'm lucky enough to know a very fine woman and after a year's time, we've traded back and forth on favors that I've lost count of where we stand.

Still, she's the expert. Joe's continued attendance at the Catscratch proves it. I hurry and hustle, ceasing my jog when it starts to hurt and slow down to approach Helen at the club. "Helen?" I greet with a demure smile. "Hi. Got an hour?"

I haven't wanted to get up for days. The truth is, after returning from the sea without answers, I hadn't wanted to do much of anything, but I need to keep functioning. I still don't stray very far from the Homestead and have set out to sit on the swing in the gazebo, sketchbook open and pencil taking to drawing my sister's features, my brother's profile, Cam's curious hands when he gets a present. It's enough to tie me to a tether back home, to some thought that I didn't go out on the ocean in an effort to die.

It's still not much to convince me, though. I still feel...lost. My head rests despondently on the side of the swing and I drift aimlessly as I find myself swinging around.

It's not much. It's not enough to take my mind off 'five miles' and 'never came back'.

Grant's been right. The one thing that I've been putting off doing right now is the one thing I need to do, but the guilt has been swarming me something terrible. How can I help it? Joe spent the worst day of his life here (maybe second worst) and I'd been a shadow after that, never leaving his side if I could help it. And then because of one small trip to the bookcase, I was gone for nearly two days straight.

I had gone to the kitchen to see the damage and now that the sun is low enough in the sky, I'm back in front of my door, ready to head into the bedroom (mine, his...ours, I suppose). I said I loved him and then days later, I just vanished. I still don't know if I can even bear to tell him what's really going on.

All I do manage is opening the door and taking two steps in, hanging my head and swallowing down the lump in my throat, trying to keep myself on the precarious precipice so I don't fall off and lose my composure. "I'm back," I say, hushed, avoiding eye contact. I don't think I can look at him and not lose it. I really don't.

The truth of the matter is simple if you care to break it down into words that could belong in any book. I found the information on the bookshelf and I vanished in a fit of pique. Then I came back and neither Skinny or Grant could help me. And I still am too chickenshit to talk to Joe about it. I've barely just told him I love him, how can I possibly manage to ask him if he's willing to be enough for me to give up the rest of my life on the ocean for him?

Beyond that, I feel weary and broken. I've been spending the days to myself and even now as I go to fetch supplies to stock up the Homestead, my eyes are red and my cheeks are pale and wan, the result of too many hours spent shouting at the sea, screaming to a God who never listened before, shedding angry tears and feeling hopeless.

I just want to get in and out and as I descend the stairs past offices and beds, I just pray that no familiar faces can see my startlingly unfamiliar one.

The Catscratch Club is not the best place to write memoirs, but I find the ambiance distracting enough, encouraging enough to put down words on the page. I've got a drink in front of me, a cigarette going, and my notebook turned open to a page where I edit out the words before me, recalling my time in Buchloe, just before Landsberg.

Joe is upstairs doing...well, whatever he does up there. I don't priviledge myself to ask because I do trust him and by the time I finish my drink and enjoy the music, he's usually done and we can head home. I see no purpose in going upstairs myself. I wouldn't exactly enjoy the parade of flesh on display, whether female or male.

So I'm far more inclined to write. It's what I like and it passes the time.