On the Bourbon Trail – chapter three
Miljana mused about the archaic and symbolic wearing of the boyfriend sweater as she rounded the corner on the block where she and Tim lived. Intellectually, she viewed the tradition as something akin to changing your surname when you got married, a symbol of ownership that she balked at, and she walked the walk of her ideals, keeping her family name, Čajić, even after she and Tim had snuck down to City Hall and done the old-fashioned legal hitching. She didn't wear a wedding ring, either. She still wasn't sure why she had agreed to get married at all, intellectually anyway, but emotionally she had to confess to herself, and only herself, that being married was, in her mind, an affectionate and sincere handshake between her and Tim, and being an old-fashioned act made it all the more meaningful, unforced and unnecessary as it was. The whole thing felt a bit silly, and she would giggle whenever she had to introduce Tim as 'her husband', like she was in a stage play from the 1950s. It was kind of nice too, though, she had to admit, a bit of ownership that went both ways. She called it a legal partnership whenever anyone, like her brothers, scoffed at her sentimentality.
But back to the sweater. She wasn't actually wearing Tim's sweater but carried it draped over one arm, his Ranger hoodie, the RANGERS part in large and obvious capital letters across the back, LEAD THE WAY printed underneath it, leaving no doubt which RANGERS were being advertised, not a baseball team or a hockey team, not a park warden, not Texas or Colorado State law enforcement, not a Japanese superhero in brightly-colored unitard, but the US Army Rangers, SOCOM, shock troops. She borrowed it every Monday, wore it, or draped it conspicuously on her chair on warm days, when she ran her group therapy sessions at the VA Medical Center. It magically warded off any amorous advances from her male clients. She would purposely carry it into the building, putting it on only during the sessions, then take it off and carry it again on the way home. It was a point of pride that she not wear it like a boyfriend sweater but use it only as a tool when her job required it, to help her help the veterans she worked with by putting up roadblocks to prevent any entanglements or misunderstandings that might interfere with their recovery.
That was what she told herself. Unfortunately her career required an honest look at emotions and that included her own. Doctor heal thyself. Intellectually, the sweater was a tool; emotionally, it was pure chocolate. She loved putting it on. It smelled like Tim, like gun oil, a smell that she was growing annoyingly fond of. Taking it off was an intellectual win, an emotional loss. Hard to feel triumphant when the books were tallied and your emotions came out in the red.
She held it up and took a deep breath of it and relaxed a little. That smell was a promise that someone was waiting for her when she got home, someone who cared enough to ask about her day. Or, realistically, not so much a promise, but an intention of being there, and that was something.
When she opened the door and stepped inside, late, past eight on Mondays, session nights, the smell of gun oil was strong in the house, and not from the sweater, and that meant Tim was home and cleaning his rifle. She frowned, thoughts going immediately to the events at the charity dinner on the weekend.
"Tim?"
Gun oil on a Saturday or Sunday was normal; gun oil on a weeknight meant that Tim was chewing on something, and working on his rifle was his idea of active meditation.
"Tim?"
She heard the chair scraping as he pushed away from the table, and Tim appeared at the end of the hall.
"Hey."
"Hey."
He walked quickly to the door, scooped her up, bag, boyfriend sweater and all, and squeezed tightly. She was engulfed in that hug with all the familiar smells of 'them,' the legal partnership, though at moments like this that description seemed inadequate, insulting the complexity of her emotions.
When her feet felt floor again and she could put some space between herself and the crowding arms, she eyed him suspiciously. "You're not still pissed about that comment, are you?"
"No." He leaned in and kissed her. "Why?"
"You're sharpening your saber."
"I did my qualifying today."
She chewed her lip and studied his face. "Really?"
"Really. Did the armor work?" The hoodie had slipped after the squeezing and was almost on the floor. Tim grabbed it and tossed it on the couch.
"Yes. It has amazing powers. I think they're all picturing a six-foot, two-hundred pound, jealous, violent…" She paused, tired, trying to scrounge an appropriate noun from her weary brain.
"Ranger?"
"Yeah."
"But instead you got a…?"
"…"
"Believe it or not, I was not the smallest guy in my batt."
"No?"
"Nope, though the guys who were shorter than me could pretty much all bench press five hundred pounds. Built like fucking tanks, kinda cube-shaped."
"Why the Rangers, Tim?"
"Have we not discussed this?"
"Remind me."
"I was young, remember? Violence of action. Taking names and chewing bubble gum, or in this case dip. It was exciting. Can we leave it at that?"
"…"
"Alright, no. So they asked me if I wanted to volunteer for the Regiment in Basic, like I told you before, and then, well, I just couldn't say 'I quit' in front of everybody in RIP. That's what they make you do, say 'I quit' in front of everybody." Tim swept his arm out to encompass the imaginary group. "Though in hindsight, I think they expected me to. I was pretty scrawny. But that's the secret, you just don't say 'I quit.' Definition of a Ranger – 'I don't quit.' So they had me there. I was more stubborn than scrawny. I think it worked out alright."
Miljana was a stomach spasm shy of a laugh by the time he'd finished. "You're adorable," she said and ran a hand down the front of his shirt affectionately.
"Adorable?"
She walked into the kitchen and took in the disaster zone that was the kitchen table, gun parts and cleaning tools and an empty glass and an empty plate. She yawned. "I'd have quit the minute I discovered they didn't have a bathtub in the barracks."
"That would've been pretty early on then. No blisters and bruises for you."
"Nope, just a nice warm bath."
"It's a good thing you weren't there when I was going through."
"Why?"
"I might've quit just to follow your ass out of the gate."
"No, you wouldn't have. You weren't ready to appreciate me back then. You had to go hang around a bunch of smelly noisy guys first to really understand what you were missing."
"Smelly guys and goats. Almost eight years of it. I'm a slow learner. Did you eat already?"
She didn't answer, distracted looking at the brand new bottle of bourbon sitting beside the rifle and the gun oil. "If we were to dissect you, this is what we'd find." Walking over, she picked up the bourbon. "Gun oil, bourbon, bullets."
"Cut you open and we'd find sarcasm…sarcasm…and more sarcasm."
"How was your day?" she said, smiling.
"Interesting," he said, and told her about it.
"You got a private tour?"
"That's right."
"Just because you're a marshal?"
"You make it sound like an abuse of power or something."
"Did they give you the bottle to take home?"
"No." Tim looked offended, a bit baffled by Miljana's reaction to his description of the day. "I bought it at the gift shop after we tried some."
"A bourbon gift shop?"
"I got this, too – The Bourbon and Bacon Cookbook. Check it out." Swiping the book off the counter, Tim started reading the index: "Bourbon Pecan Pie, Bacon-Bourbon Caramel Popcorn – oh, that sounds good. Or maybe something healthy? – Bourbon and Bacon Mashed Potatoes, Bacon and Bourbon Collards…"
"Stop! Gah, I can feel my pants getting tighter around the hips just listening to you reading from it." She was still studying the bottle. "You and Art were drinking? What time was it?"
"We were sampling."
"Gah."
"Art needed it about then. I was keeping him company."
"Art needed a drink? Why?"
Setting the cookbook back on the counter, Tim stuffed a hand into his jeans' pocket, pulled out and unfolded the target he had been using at the range, and held it up for her, a prize. He grinned happily.
It took a second for Miljana to understand what he was showing her. She studied the face, recognition dawned, then she made sense of the holes in the paper, nice grouping. "Tim! What the fuck?!"
"What?"
"Give it to me." She snatched it and took a box of matches from a drawer and lit the corner of the paper, letting it burn, then dropped it into the sink when the flames started licking at her fingers.
"That's a bit dramatic."
"That's a lot damning. Nice shooting though."
Tim turned on the tap and doused the flames. "That's exactly what Art said, just different words and a different order. He commented on the shooting first."
"Tim," shoulders drooping, she reached a hand out, pleading, "Craig Franklin is an idiot. Forget about him. Don't give any weight to his words. I already called him and told him to find someone else to help him with the fundraising. You won't run into him again unless you go looking for him."
"You quit? But you liked that charity."
"There are plenty more out there that could use some help. I'll find another one."
"But…"
"No buts. Sometimes you have to choose a side. I resent what he said – for your sake and mine. You are not a coward. Neither are your friends – a bit crazy maybe…"
"You're starting to sound freakishly like Art."
"I hope Art said don't do that again." She pointed, exasperated, at the soggy ashes in the sink. "God, if you want to shoot at something annoying, take my laptop, please."
"Is it acting up again?"
He sounded so sincere in his concern for her, yet so unconcerned in her sincere efforts to get him off the track of the three words that had been burned into her prefrontal cortex because of her association with him – snipers are cowards. Miljana huffed, drifted defeated across the floor to Tim and thumped her head on his chest. "It's properly fucked. I had to reboot it six times today. I need a new one."
"I'll take it out to the range on the weekend and put it down for you. Hey, I know – I could get Mr. Asshole Franklin's photo off the internet and set it up as wallpaper on your screen and…"
"No! Fuck, Tim."
"Now?" He slipped his hands around her back, pulled her in tight, backed her into the counter. "Here?"
"Gah!" was all she could get out before he started chewing on her lip, but when he started down her chin to her neck, she said, "When are you going to grow up? How old are you?"
"Don't worry. It wouldn't be statutory. I'm over sixteen."
"Biologically maybe."
Tim lay awake later, Miljana's hair tickling his nose until he couldn't stand it anymore, the tickling overcoming his longing to face her. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling and tried to imagine what she might be dreaming about, gave up and tried to imagine what he might be dreaming about if he were actually sleeping. Afghanistan, likely. It happened often enough when he remembered his dreams, so he figured it likely happened as often when he didn't remember, or more even. It wasn't always bad dreams, though usually intense. Sometimes he woke up happy to be in his bed in Lexington; sometimes he woke wishing he wasn't in Lexington yet, that he still had some time in the Regiment. He liked his work as a Deputy US Marshal, mostly, but it could never hope to compete, could never hope to begin to compare with his work as a Ranger. What could? All the good and the bad, the frustration and the satisfaction, the extremes of thrills and boredom, the euphoria and the anguish, good luck finding a substitute unless he could get himself on the Mars mission with NASA, and even then. He was starting to get an itch, something in his brain, somewhere he couldn't reach. He needed a change, though nothing permanent, just a break, a vacation.
"I'm thinking of taking some vacation," he said aloud, not too loud though in case Miljana was truly asleep.
"What?"
She wasn't asleep. Her voice was foggy though.
"I'm thinking of taking some time off. Do you want to do something?"
"What?"
"Are you awake?"
"Yes." She rolled over and faced him. "Is everything okay?"
"Fine. Why?"
"You never take vacation."
"You want to?"
"I can't right now. I took vacation last month, remember? We were supposed to go to the cabin. You got called to Louisiana, remember? I took a lot of baths and visited with my mom."
"Right. I ended up in Baltimore for that trial."
"That's right, Baltimore. And I was here in Lexington, vacationing without you." She yawned widely and loudly and exaggeratedly. "You should take some time anyway. Go help Fischer at the range. Hang out. Relax. Cook me dinner every night – bourbon and bacon me to death."
She was starting to mumble, fading, curled up on her side bringing her knees against him. Turning his head toward her, he let her hair tickle his nose. He thought about the warrants on his desk, no court appearances on the horizon, off rotation at SOG this month. He thought about walking off the back of a Chinook into the unknown, a landscape of flattened satellite images and darkness and gunfire. The itch came back.
The office wouldn't miss him, not for five days, and he wouldn't miss it.
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