Cubbyholes
Cubbyholes. We all have them – places where we stash our memories. A look at Jack's.
A companion piece to "Jack's Eyes."
Disclaimer: These are not my characters. I'm just borrowing. There is no profit involved, unfortunately.
Cubbyholes. Strange what words the mind chooses to bring forth on a particular day, when one is dressing.
Jack had not thought of that word in a long, long time. It was a word that hearkened back to his kindergarten days. A cubbyhole was the compartment where Jack placed his belongings, as did every child, each in his own spot. He could still remember his name taped above, with the "J" written large, in red, by the teacher. It held a small, tattered yellow blanket for "story and nap time," along with a few odd items precious as only a five-year-old could count them precious. "Don't touch my stuff!" the feisty brown-eyed kindergartner warned others, and they didn't.
My life consists of cubbyholes, thought Jack, most of them under the category of "past."
There was the cubbyhole of his childhood – gray and dusty, draped across with cobwebs. It was a deep, cave-like cubby, one he seldom visited. If he got at all close, he could hear the echoed angry voices of his parents. They were dead now. There was a typewritten birth certificate, his own, rolled up and secured with a rubber band. He could just glimpse the reel of his fishing rod, the rod that served as an escape and a way to find nature's peace for at least one season out of four. All the other items were mere shadows.
One was labeled "Teen Years." There was a football, another means of escape, a physical release for his emotional frustrations, and a way to gain the respect of others. There were several papers in there, including a much-folded note hastily passed in English class, written by the girl who gifted him with his first kiss. Her first name he would never forget, nor would he ever, ever forget that kiss. Then there were love letters from his first love, still faintly smelling of perfume and written in script...all except one, which was unadorned and plainly written. He felt a bittersweet and almost physical pang. A few airline ticket stubs fluttered out of the cubby. They represented the bright spots in his life -- the occasional plane trips between "home" and his dad. The take-offs and landings had thrilled and energized him, serving as the catalyst for his career.
Jack's college and military academy years were tumbled together in another cubby. Some memories were blurry from far too many beers. Others stood out in stark relief, like when he was almost expelled for insubordination -- for mouthing off at his commanding officers, and for willful disobedience. He always liked "sticking it to the man," and it often got him in trouble.
Military, pre-SG1. This was a cubbyhole where Jack "found his stride" and excelled, moving from lieutenant, to captain, to major, and now to colonel. He could see the bars and oak leaves that indicated his progression through the ranks, along with various other recognitions of his service. He was knowledgeable, he knew how to fly, and he knew how to command, despite having a style some called, politely, "unconventional." The action he saw in the Gulf was gut-wrenching stuff, the memory of which he had tried many times to clean out of that cubbyhole. Some desert sand remained, however, stuck to the wood where the blood had dried. Then there were faces, the gallery of those with whom he had fought side-by-side. He never wanted to forget them; some existed now only in his mind and in the mind of others.
Jack was drawn to Charlie's cubbyhole, close by. "The gun" was there, he knew, front and center, in a pool of fresh blood. It would always be fresh. He forced himself to look beyond, to Charlie's face – the round, cherubic face that could turn devilish in a moment. There was Charlie's bike, his softball and bat, and the family picnic basket – all good and wondrous things that warmed his very soul to bring forth. An aching, everlasting love welled up within him for his boy, his only child. The plethora of dark emotions tucked in there tumbled out now as always -- disbelief, the fierce feeling of loss, and the mind-numbing guilt. Sarah's face shared this cubbyhole, contorted with grief and awash with tears. She used to have a cubbyhole of her own, but not anymore. The divorce decree, there in the far corner, had changed that, but he could not blame her for it.
SG-1. That was a big one, a messy one, littered with dirt, sand, and volcanic ash. The sides were spattered with blood. It was full to overflowing with emotions, adventures, conflicts, battles lost and battles won, and a myriad representative objects. It would take a long, long time to plumb the depths of this cubbyhole in a way that would do justice to the whole experience, and to the people – especially his team – who were such an integral part of it. Sam was a big part of that cubbyhole, a glowing light that illuminated his life, giving it fullness and meaning. It was so, now. It should have been so, sooner, thought Jack, with a twinge of regret.
It was time to use a new cubbyhole, one that was new and shiny and painted a deep blue – the blue of Sam's sparkling eyes, as deep and fathomless as the ocean. Carefully he moved everything that was "of Sam" from the SG-1 cubbyhole, into one labeled "Sam and Jack – Now and Forever."
That done, Jack slipped on the black suit jacket, and then straightened his tie in the mirror one last time. He checked the gleaming gold ring – bright with promise – then flipped the velvet box shut. He slid it into his vest pocket, where it would be secure and close to his heart. It would figuratively be added to the special new cubby, their cubby, after he slipped it onto Sam's finger on hour from now...for real.