Her letter is flickering on a computer screen not a day after I sent mine off. The Master Sergeant yelled for me right after breakfast, shouting about me having an email. It surprised me a little bit. I never got letters before, not unless Pilar sent something for me with her packages for Manny. I flop down in the computer chair, prepared to see some words from Brendan, or maybe Pop. Instead, I see this:
Dear Tommy,
I was glad to see your letter. To answer your question, yes, it is starting to get cold here. I need to start getting out my winter clothing. It makes me miss Los Angeles. There is still a California girl in me, and even though Connecticut is beautiful, I miss the beach. Have you ever been to a Cali beach? Most of them are crowded and dirty, but some of them still are beautiful. I love lying in the sand, feeling the waves lick up my legs. There is no better feeling than being at the ocean. When you come back, we should go. It puts life in perspective somehow.
It is no wonder that the men out there love you. You should see all the attention you are still getting out here. My coworkers ask about you all of the time, especially my friend Gavin. I think he has figured out that something happened between us. I have not told him the details and he has not said anything to anyone. He is probably the only one at work I can trust. Everyone else would report what I said before I could even finish my sentence (it is the problem with having journalist friends). You are a big deal out here. If they are not talking about your future as a fighter, they are talking about what you going back means. Whether you like it or not, you changed things. People are going to want to talk to you.
You should talk back. I do not mean to lecture, but you undersell yourself. There is something about the way you speak; you are so honest. It is a rare quality. I miss talking to you. I miss your bluntness and your deadpan jokes. Do me a favor? Don't lose that side of yourself. It is more beautiful than you know.
If you want, you can send me the other marines' questions. I can coach you on how to answer them. But, to be honest, I think you can handle it yourself. They aren't looking for my insights, but yours. Maybe just try listening. Half of the time, people just need someone who will listen to them.
As for your needs, I could send you some magazines, but I really do not want you comparing me to them. Call it girlish insecurity, but I like being the one you think about. I think about you too, especially at night.
I miss you Tommy. Be safe and keep your head down. I hope I see you soon.
Nicole
I read her letter twice. It bothers me that it's on the computer. I want a paper copy, something old-fashioned. I end up copying it into my book, where I can read it wherever I want to. I wish it was in her handwriting instead of my chicken scratch. She probably has girlie handwriting, with loops and pretty swirls.
When I copy the part where she said that she thinks about me, I stop. I feel my ego swell up. The thought of her laying on a beach is enough to get my blood going. Nicole could have any man she wants, and she's thinking about me at night. I wish I was there with her, wish she was naked under me, panting my name. Those thoughts do me no good over here. I can't even see her, can't touch her. I pull my mind out of the gutter and focus on the rest of what she said.
She wants me to talk to the privates. It ain't like I've got anything against them, but they're all kids. The world probably hasn't knocked them too hard over the head yet. When I enlisted, I was already broken. I stomped around, I didn't talk, and I beat the shit outta guys in training. The Corps didn't mind my anger, it was an asset. It wasn't till I met Manny that I started feeling like myself again. Guess I was looking for a brother figure. As a kid, I used to follow Brendan around like a duckling, but he was always good to me. Broke my heart when he picked Tess over me and ma. I don't think I'll ever understand it. I don't know if I'll ever forgive him.
But Manny left me too. And then I didn't have a brother at all. But now Brendan's trying and Pop's trying and even Tess is trying to win me back. Maybe I owe it to them to let them. But it's gonna take time. Good thing it's all I got out here.
It'd be nice to laugh again, joke around. I was a prankster as a kid, always in time out or detention for some shit I pulled. Brendan used to help me when I was filling up water balloons or whoopee cushions or putting buckets of water on doorways. I didn't laugh for a year after ma died. Not until Manny cracked a joke in basic training. We got paired up for sparring. Surprised the hell out of me when he didn't go down without a fight. He managed to split my lip and I paid him back with a black eye. Instead of getting pissed he looked at me and laughed and asked if I wanted to be his friend.
He was the best friend I ever had. I miss him every day. It's hard when Pilar sends me pictures of the kids; they look just like him. Reminds me of all the dreams he had for them, all the plans for when he got out. He had everything to live for and I had nothing and I'm the one standing here today. The world don't make an ounce of sense.
I must look like I'm thinking really hard because my bunkmate is looking up at me like he wants to say something. I stare back at him, waiting for him to slink off with his tale between his legs. It takes him about ten seconds to back down but as he starts to walk away, I remember what Nicole wrote. And all the sudden, I find myself talking.
"Did you need something?" I'm aware that my question sounds like a challenge, but I don't know any other way of talking. The kid nearly pisses himself.
"I was just wondering if you were all right, Corporal Conlon," he's stuttering all over the place.
"I'm fine."
"Good, you just looked…" he trails off again.
"Just thinking," I tell him.
"About what?"
I stop, trying to decide what to tell him. I'm quiet for so long that he starts to pace back and forth, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He starts to turn around again, but then I speak.
"'Bout life, I guess."
"It's about the only thing you can do out here," he says. His answer surprises me. The kid can't be more than 19.
"What do you know about life?" I chuckle a little bit. It almost hurts my throat. I need to practice laughing more.
"I know it can be shit," he says. And then, all of the sudden, he's telling me his life story like I'm a goddamn journal. It looks like Nicole was right; this kid (his name's Drew) found someone to listen to him and he's talking a mile a minute about being a foster kid, his life of hard knocks. I don't say anything, but I don't have to. Drew sits down backwards in a chair, stares at the ground and tells a total stranger things I wouldn't even tell my family. By the time he gets it all out, it's time for training. Drew partners up with me for sparring. Everyone is looking at him like he's got brass balls. I give him a nod before I lay him out face down on the mat. It has to hurt like hell, but he gets up grinning like a damn fool. The rest of the regiment cheers him on, and even I have to smile.
I think I just made a friend.
It takes another two days before I am sure of it. And now that the rest of the guys found out I can talk, they're jumping over each other trying to chat with me. I feel like a counselor. I've heard more sob stories in the last 48 hours than I've heard my whole life. But every kid who tells me something strangely makes me feel a little better. Misery loves company.
I write to Nicole about it:
Nicole,
I took your advice. Now these damn kids won't shut up. I might as well put a hat out and charge by the half hour. Seems like everyone here has a story to tell, and half of them are shitty. Is this how you felt when you talked to me?
They've got me teaching kids how to wrestle. It ain't fair. It's like beating up school girls. These boys have no idea how to fight at all. One kid managed to knock me over at least, but to be honest, I was spacing out when he did it. The whole regiment is proud of him though.
Don't worry about the magazines. I wouldn't use them anyway. If you want to send me a picture of yourself though, I'd be cool with that. It doesn't have to be nothing fancy. I can send you one of me too, if that makes it fair. I'll even do a little photo shoot. I'm sure one of the guys will help me out. They seem to get off just hanging around me.
Pop's been writing to me. Sometimes it's hard to read what he sends. Half the time it doesn't make sense. I get the feeling he wants to say something specific to me, but he doesn't know how to write it. Brendan's letters are a little bit better, but they're kinda sappy. I guess some people go their whole lives telling their brothers their feelings, but the Conlon's ain't built like that. I don't know what to say most of the time. I just keep talking about what's going on out here. It's easier than actually saying something.
How have you been? Still thinking about me at night? What exactly are you thinking about?
Still miss you.
Tommy
Her letter comes back quickly, just like her first. I copy it down with the other one.
Well Mr. Conlon,
I do believe you are flirting with me. It would hardly be proper for a nice young lady like myself to divulge such vulgar details to you. You are going to have to use your imagination, sir, to fill in the blanks.
Do you like my southern accent? I realize that you cannot hear it, but I figured you might get a kick out of it anyway. And no, talking to you is not a chore and I doubt it ever will be. I love talking to you.
Go easy on those guys. I doubt the Corps wants them all beat up before they actually do any fighting. You haven't been fighting have you? Every time I hear something on the news, I am afraid it is you they are talking about. Would you tell me, if you had to actually go to war? Please tell me. I will worry (more than I already do) if you do not.
I am glad to hear that your family is writing to you. They call me every once in a while, just to check up. It is going to take time, I think, before you are totally comfortable with them, but you guys are taking steps in the right direction. Keep it up, jarhead.
And I'm sending you a picture, the old-fashioned way, in the mail. Be ready for it Conlon. It will knock your socks off.
I miss you Tommy.
Nicole
Her picture does come, a week after her email. I open it in private, away from other eyes, just in case. I feel like a kid on Christmas. When I shake it out of the envelope, it falls out on my lap and I start to laugh right away. I laugh so hard that Drew comes running in, trying to see what's wrong. In the end, he has to just pull it out of my hand to see.
Nicole is standing there in the self-portrait, dressed in a white tank top and Superman panties, with half her hair straight and the other half curly, pulling the most unattractive face I have ever seen. She's got some sort of torture looking thing in her hand that I figure must be a hair straightener. It isn't what I expected at all, but I can't stop laughing. I laugh until my sides hurt and pass the picture around, letting the other guys laugh along with me.
"Is this your girl?" Drew asks me.
"Yeah," I smile at Nicole's picture. "Yeah it is."
Review please!
