Humping toward his tent, he remembered something his former SEAL buddy and workout partner Neal Stafford always used to say: If it don’t suck, we don’t do it.
It did suck that his friend had to die defending a mountaintop in southeastern Afghanistan. They had shared a strong belief in the cause of defending freedom, a love of friends and family, and an unconquerable will to win.
As long as men like Neal fight on our side, Crocker said to himself, we’ll be okay.
Chapter Four
If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start.
—Charles Bukowski
Two days later Crocker pulled his pickup into the driveway of his home in Virginia Beach. He parked on the graveled drive and looked at his watch: 0214 Thursday morning, November twenty-second.
Exhausted and happy to be home, he entered through the garage past Holly’s silver Subaru and climbed the concrete steps to his combined rec room/home office, which was crowded with stuff—weights, a desk piled with mail he had to either answer or throw out, an elliptical training machine he had partially assembled. Photos on the wall—one of him in his white uniform the day he received his SEAL trident, various platoon and skydiving photos, others of him crossing the finish line at the Hawaii Ironman competition, and kissing Holly on their wedding day.
He opened the door to the hallway and saw their German shepherd Brando curled up on the floor asleep. The dog looked up at Crocker as if to ask, “Where the hell have you been?”
You don’t want to know.
Seductive smells emanated from the kitchen, but he wasn’t hungry, so he set down his kit bag next to a potted ficus and climbed the steps to the second floor. Moonlight streamed through the skylight. The grandfather clock chimed once, marking the quarter hour.
He wanted to look into Jenny’s room at the end of the hall, but she wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was seventeen and hypersensitive to people entering her private space unannounced. So Crocker walked in the opposite direction along the carpeted floor toward the master bedroom, turned the brass knob, and pushed the door inward.
He stopped and inhaled the sweet smells of jasmine and rosewater—two scents his wife favored. She slept on her side on the far side of the bed with her back facing him. Setting his backpack on the floor, he entered the bathroom on his right. Splashed water on his face, which looked like it belonged to someone else, brushed his teeth, and undressed.
Reentering the bedroom, he lifted the soft white duvet and sheet and slipped into the big bed. The warmth of Holly’s body surrounded him.
He lay on the bed taking it all in—the sound of Holly breathing, the shadows on the ceiling, the LED TV screen on the opposite wall—thinking it was hard to believe that he was really here and not in a tent in some far-off land. He realized that he felt even closer to and more protective of Holly since her kidnapping in Libya. Her colleague had been tortured and killed before her eyes. She had been tied up for days and told she was going to die. Yet she still had the strength and grace to pull herself together and continue to be the loving, generous person she had been before.
Silently, he thanked God as the trees outside swayed in the breeze. An owl hooted. Holly sighed, turned, and opened one eye. “Tom?” she asked half asleep. “Tom, is that really you?” as if she was still dreaming.
“It’s me, sweetheart. I’m back, but I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Wake me? Don’t be silly.” She reached out, wrapped her arms around him and held on as if she didn’t want to let go. “Oh, Tom. I missed you so much. Welcome home.”
He said, “I’m sorry about Neal.”
She flinched slightly, then rolled over and kissed him on the lips. “Don’t be sorry,” she whispered. “It’s awful, yes, but it’s the price he knew he might pay.”
“How are Alyssa and the boys?”
“They’re grieving and trying to cope. But let’s not talk about that now.”
He kissed her back, and held her, and they gently made love.
The next thing he knew it was morning, and Holly was walking toward him through the dappled light carrying a glass of orange juice. She caressed his forehead and informed him that the first guests would be arriving in an hour.
“What guests?” Crocker asked, glancing at the clock and seeing that it was almost eleven.
“Your sister and her family. My brother.”
“Why?”
“It’s Thanksgiving, Tom. Jenny and I are making dinner.”
“I didn’t realize.”
He carved the turkey, sat at the head of the table and said grace, ate, talked to Jenny about school, and conversed with everyone about everything, including the approaching end of the Mayan calendar, the recent presidential election, Hurricane Sandy, and the resignation of General Petraeus. He even retired with the men and boys to watch the Redskins-Cowboys game on TV.