“I mean what we did... it was warranted, of course,” he whispered as if sharing a piece of his heart. “We had no other choice, right?”
She wanted to offer him absolution, but she struggled to do the same for herself. Instead, she had crammed that guilt and ache down deep, an emotional crutch that had served her in the past.
Bury it and deal with it later—or never.
Still, that seldom worked. Pain always churned back up, often in harmful ways. And for Duncan, who had seemingly led a charmed life, he had not developed the scarred walls to hold in that much guilt and emotional ache.
To help him, she let her own guard down and placed her hand on his knee.
Her father had warned her how taking a life, even when justified, wore on a soul. With too much time on hand, she could not help but wonder:Did those men have family? Wives who loved them? Children who needed them? Parents who took pride in them? Ultimately, did they believe their cause was as righteous as our own?
She knew cops got counseling after a shooting. Soldiers masked their actions with veiled jargon—engaging, bagging, dropping—avoiding a term far more weighted.
Duncan voiced it now. “Does this make us murderers?”
After her upbringing, she had gone through therapy and countless talks over coffee with her Al-Anon sponsor to address the guilt that came from walking out of a fire, maybe burned, maybe scarred, but alive.
She reached to Duncan’s bowed head and lifted his chin, to force him to stare her in the eyes, then answered his question. “No, it makes us survivors. Nothing more, nothing less.”
She read the pain shining there, knowing no words could truly lessen it. Only time held that power. Still, he swallowed hard and nodded. She leaned her brow to his, two survivors, grieving what it took to stay alive.
“I... I remember,” he said softly, “my grandfather shared wartime stories. They were accounts of misery in the trenches, of the sounds and terror of battle, of happier moments captured in between. But he never... he never...”
“Told about the deaths at his hand. My father was the same way.”
“When I was twelve or so, I once asked him how many Nazis he had killed.”
“What did he say?”
Duncan sighed. “He mumbled that the enemy weren’t Nazis, mostly just boys as terrified as he was. When I pressed him again, he claimed to have killed no one. But I knew he was lying. And he knew I knew it. And I never asked him again.”
“You let him keep his secret, his dignity. He no doubt fought bravely, but it’s hard to take pride in killing another.”
Duncan lifted his face, still keeping close. She caught a hint of whiskey on his breath, then a moment later, she tasted it on his lips, his tongue. She could not say who initiated the kiss, only that it was necessary.
He shifted to the bed and sat beside her, pulling her closer, drawing her fully to him. They fell into the blankets, finding a language, a comfort, that could only be spoken without words. Their hands and mouths sought out the tenderest spots. He hardened in response, but even then, it was less passion than compassion. They needed to feel, to accept a truth that lay beyond guilt.
We’re still alive.
26
5:02 a.m.
Afirm knocking shattered Sharyn out of a deep sleep. She struggled to understand where she was, only gaining clarity from the muscular arms embracing her. Blankets tangled them together. Clothing lay strewn about.
She pushed up to an elbow, shocked to discover she had fallen asleep.
With a groan, Duncan rolled over and lowered his feet to the floor. His hair was mussed and sticking boyishly askew. But as he stood, his firm buttocks and what swung between his legs at half-mast belied any such youthfulness.
She turned from the sight and fought through the blankets to search for her clothing.
“We’ve dropped anchor!” Naomi called through the door to them. “The crew are prepping a dinghy to ferry us to shore.”
“We’ll be right out,” Sharyn answered.
Duncan turned to her and leaned in close. “Sure about that?”
His mast had grown firmer, adding conviction of this question.
