It was Valentine's idea to get out of the house for awhile. Christopher is firmly aware of the fact that over the past month, Valentine has been busily preparing things for their upcoming nuptials, plus whatever else she's been up to—including cleaning up parts of Mrs. Wannop's current manuscript and posting it off in bound form to the editor for review.
Right now Christopher is leaning against the kitchen sink; his shoulders are rounded slightly in an effort to keep from hitting his forehead on the fancy wooden piece mounted between the cupboards on either side of him. He is actively scrubbing a particularly dirty frying pan that he messed up in an attempt at making crab cakes for dinner last night. Christopher scowls at the black edges of the metal pan as he hauls it back up out of the soapy water for another go at it. Maybe he should just give up on trying to make himself feel useful if it's going to be this much work.
He finally gives up for the time being and shoves the irritating thing back into the sink so hard soap bubbles run over the front of it and into the floor. Christopher stares at them for a moment then grabs a dry towel and leans over, carefully bending at the waist and locking his knee in place against the cabinet in order to hold his bad leg still. The muscle spasms still come on without a warning, but they seem to ease up much quicker. In the afternoons, he and Valentine often take long walks around the property and the exercise is making a difference.
Going back to the sink with a disgruntled snort, he pulls the plug and leaves the frying pan full of soapy water. He dries his hands then wipes down the faucet and the sides, leaving the whole area gleaming save for the one pan. The dishes he has washed stand drying in the rack to his left, over the built-in-dishwasher that Christopher has been ignoring. He discovered quickly that the constant bending to place plates and bowls and things into it is worse than just standing here washing them the old-fashioned way. So in order to not feel completely useless, he has taken it upon himself to help out. He moves from the kitchen to the dining table where a small grey box sits atop a pile of paperwork and a laptop. The box is filled with Mrs. Wannop's receipts, the laptop with an accounting program and both of these things serve to fill up some of the spaces in Christopher's head that he tries like hell to avoid in the daylight hours. The menial work helps keep him grounded. He runs his palms over his jeans to make sure they are dry before opening the box and pulling out papers to sort through.
"…I first heard about the bombing, I was terrified, Amanda. I couldn't even imagine what my life would be like without him…yeah, yes. That's it exactly. It was like a black hole…"
Valentine is pacing back and forth between the kitchen and sitting room, talking to her friend on her phone, hips swinging back and forth to the rhythm of her bare feet on first carpet then tile. Christopher always feels slightly unsettled when their conversations seem to go forever and a day, though there is something domestically comforting about two women chatting away while he flips through slips of paper and makes a genuine effort to organize them.
"Yes. He is getting better. Everything they told me at the hospital…" is all Christopher hears as Valentine breezes back through, giving him a smile and a wink as she does so. They are half way through summer and he cannot deny that he actually likes watching her flit past him in those white denim shorts. She's got a tan from all the time outside either walking with him or overseeing the construction of the wooden archway that is being put up in the back garden for them to stand under and recite their vows, among other chores.
After a little while, everything fades to background noise as he shuffles through Mrs. Wannop's receipts with one hand and enters data into the spreadsheet on the laptop with the other. He considers the times when he feels like he is coming back to life, ever so slowly. Like just now, where the brightness of Valentine's clothing seems to radiate from her, giving him a glimpse of the maroon-colored tiles of the kitchen floor and the dark blue woven cloth of the towel he hung over the side of the gleaming silver metal sink.
It only lasts for a few minutes, however, then everything is back to doesn't matter because numbers are all black and white anyway. Valentine has shown him photograph after photograph of things she has picked out for their wedding and he's done his best to choose, but when all the flowers are shades of the same color who is he to say what will look good and what will not? Mostly, he takes her lead and chooses what she seems to favor. She always beams at him then flits away satisfied before moving on to the next part of whichever project she's working on.
After a while, Christopher becomes engrossed in the rhythm of entering the details of each receipt into the laptop. Slip one out of the box, read it, check the total and then put the information into the correct field, flip that one over next to the box and begin the next one. In and out, like marking time.
Two hours easily roll by in this manner until movement out of the corner of his eye breaks his attention; Christopher looks up at last to find Valentine across the table regarding him with a soft expression. His fingers stop in their flurry of movement on the keyboard.
"Hey." She smiles. "Been awhile seen you had a break. Feel like some company?"
Christopher pulls the now empty box over, he's actually surprised to find that he's completed the project. "Yes." He nods. "Give me a moment." He clears his throat at the sound of his deep and scratchy voice.
He returns the receipts to their box and picks it and the sheaf of papers up in order to return them to Mrs. Wannop's study.
"I'll take them up there." Valentine informs him, sweeping the whole lot of out his hands and gliding from the room. She's left her hair down and it falls about her shoulders in a gold wave.
Christopher waits until he can hear her quiet footsteps on the carpeted stairs before pushing his chair away from the table. Sometimes standing after sitting in one spot for so long is difficult; he braces himself against the table as he tests to see both legs will take his weight. The bad one shakes a little, but gives him no trouble this time as he turns towards the loo in the hallway.
When he returns, Valentine has spread out some sandwich makings. Mrs. Wannop is apparently joining them for lunch. The older woman smiles up at him when he leans down to kiss her cheek.
"Thank you for organizing that mess." She pats his big hand.
"You're welcome," he says. "It wasn't as bad as all that once I got it started."
Valentine takes her place next to him at the table after sliding an enormous sandwich right under his nose. He must make a strange expression because she pats his shoulder and grins. "Go on, eat that, you need some energy."
Christopher freezes in the middle of lifting the thing to his mouth for a bite. "Why?" He asks as he eyes the concoction of sliced deli meat and tomatoes.
"I thought we would go out for a bit this afternoon. The village is hosting a bit of a dance at the square and since the weather is going to be nice, I thought you'd like to get out of the house for a bit." Valentine tells him as she cuts her own sandwich with a knife.
Oh. He sighs and bites into his lunch in order to buy some time. Not bad. He swallows. "Did you say dance?"
"Yep." She tells him as she peers over the rim of her glass. "I don't really expect you to dance; I'm meeting Amanda and Rachel there and thought that maybe you could just socialize for a bit, yeah? Get to know some of the locals?"
It's on the tip of his tongue to say why would I do that except for the expression Valentine is wearing. She really, really wants to do this. Christopher thinks it is a terrible idea, but he loves Valentine and part of that is loving to make her happy because of all the times lately he's done just the opposite. This, however, seems like a particularly bad idea: take a wounded vet with a bum leg to a dance that is apparently going to be filled with people. A crowd.
"Alright." He agrees with a sigh.
She smiles and leans her head on his shoulder for a second. He spends the rest of lunch barely hearing anything Mrs. Wannop or Valentine say to him, contemplating what a dreadful idea this really is.
ooo
The dance hall isn't so much a hall as it is a single open-plan room bordered on three sides by white walls decorated with colorful strings of lights. People from the village mosey about in small groups and pairs. Several tables have been set up and two of them are covered with small treats and drinks. Christopher notes the distinct lack of hard liquor, though there are several varieties of beer.
The evening starts out well. Valentine moves between socializing with her friends and introducing him to some of the locals, then to pulling him out on the dance floor for a couple of slow songs, like the one they are currently swaying to. He's got his cheek nestled against hers, her hand in his and one arm wrapped around her waist; he's not moving much, just shuffling his feet a little to keep them turning. It is good, though, and the music isn't all happy-poppy-bubblegummy stuff like he'd feared.
"Is this the type of stuff they will play for us?" He asks with his lips against the shell of her ear.
"Is that alright?" Valentine whispers back.
"Of course." He tells her and for a few moments he allows himself to enjoy the feeling of her in his arms.
Christopher lets the silky strands of her hair fall between his fingers. She hums and moves closer to him. He kisses her cheek and she turns her head to catch his lips with her own. Behind them, the music slows almost to a stop and there's a slight pause before something with a faster beat begins. Amanda appears as if conjured beside them. Christopher gives her a smile and Valentine another kiss and starts to move away.
"Thank you." Valentine says, squeezing his hand. He smiles and gives her a wink before turning towards the refreshment tables. He has to admit this is not as bad as he thought it would be; his chest feels lighter than it has in a long time and he's even seeing some of the bright colors that surround the revelers. With a polite nod, one of the volunteers offers him a red plastic cup of punch. He thanks her and finds a seat at an empty table.
Christopher takes a sip of his punch and almost chokes. Well, he's found the hard liquor without even trying very hard. Across the floor, Valentine catches his eye, smiles and waves. Amanda, Rachel and now another woman he doesn't recognize all give him flirty waves. He takes a drink of his punch and waves back. They seem to giggle and move back together in unison, swaying and shaking to the beat of the song.
In no time at all, an older man takes the seat opposite Christopher. Christopher says nothing, just continues drinking his punch and watching Valentine dance. His attention is drawn to the old man when he clears his throat.
"Are you Tietjens?" The man queries.
Christopher looks him over; he seems to be wearing a grey jacket, white shirt and red bow tie. For some reason, Christopher finds himself pleased that he can see that, even if it does look a little out of place here. He nods carefully.
"Good, then." The man holds out his hand and Christopher shakes it over the table; the man clasps it in his own (much smaller) hand then gives Christopher's arm a hearty smack. "It's so good to meet you."
"Likewise." Christopher rumbles, now displeased that his cup is empty. He is only feeling a slight buzz and decides its more from the atmosphere than the liquor.
The old man chuckles and calls behind him. "Mariam! Mariam, bring Tietjens over here some more of that brew you're serving!"
The woman who gave Christopher his drink hustles over with a glass carafe and pours him a fresh cup.
"Thank you, ma'am." He tells her. She blushes and half-curtsies, giggling like a schoolgirl. Christopher frowns.
"Oh, don't mind her, my boy. She's a crazy old biddy. I ought to know, I've been her younger brother for seventy-four years."
Christopher laughs then sets his sights back on Valentine.
The old man laughs, too. "I just came over to welcome you to our community, young man." He turns his head until he catches Christopher's line of sight. "You've made a great catch there."
Christopher nods his agreement. "Indeed I did."
"I would also like to say thank you for fighting, you know, over there." The old man has leaned in close as if the information is a secret they are sharing.
Christopher truly has no idea how to express his discomfort at that statement so he drains half his cup of punch in one drink then mumbles, "thanks."
"You glad to be home?" The old man asks.
"Yes." Christopher states firmly, hoping the man will get the hint. Half of what's left in his cup disappears rapidly.
"You know, young man, you're a hero now; been over there fightin' fer our freedom and all that and here you sit, a shining example of what we want our boys to grow up and be: a real man's man."
The old man has moved from his seat and is now standing beside Christopher with one hand on his shoulder. Christopher finishes his punch and looks around for a way to make a quick exit. His leg is beginning to tremble. Granted, he knows the old man means well, but he cannot be boxed in this way.
Without realizing it, another man has joined the first. This man is also dressed all in grey and the lights around the place are reflecting off of his shiny bald head. There are long grey hairs sticking out from his ears; he's got to be fifteen years older than the first man at least. But the old guys are paying no attention to their quarry. Now they are talking about what it was like when they were in the 'war and Christopher is losing focus fast. They are blocking his view of Valentine and it's like someone has cut a phone line.
The music increases to a deafening level until Christopher can't take it anymore.
"Sirs, listen. I mean no disrespect to either of you or the units you served with, but you've got to understand that I am no hero."
Christopher is standing now, shoulders hunched and trying to get away from the old men. "I'm only alive out of lucky circumstances."
Suddenly it's all too much. "They all died!" He shouts. The entire place goes silent as Christopher slams a fist against the table. The seniors finally realize what they have done and they back away from him slowly. Searing pain is now working its way up his leg and he is desperate to get away from this. He limps across the room as fast as he is able and pushes out the side door.
Christopher falls with his back against the wall as his leg gives out beneath him. There is a tearing sound as the seam in his khaki trousers gives way. Like before, he clutches his leg and tries desperately to make it stop. The world is spinning and he's back there again, the heat and the sand and the blood and the bombs and oh god, the nausea and the sweat and the screams of the dying…and he is never going to get away from it. Never...
Until the world finally shuts up and turns off.