Got to Get Back to the ReasonGot to get back to the Reason

A haunted young veteran endures "It's a Wonderful Life" with his wife on yet another Christmas day.

 

Got to get back to the Reason

 

There he was again. Jimmy Stewart bumbling through his wonderful life like he always did every year. That ungrateful, blind b*****d who needs a miracle to realize his life might not actually suck. I wasn’t about to see it again.

“Julia, you know I don’t want to watch this,”

“Dear, you know we always do! It’s been a tradition for us since we met.”

I gripped my armrest tightly; the plush didn’t need to conform to the temper of my thick fingers anymore. It knew me now, better than she did apparently, and it didn’t need to even think. And there I sat, a man, no a soldier, more familiar with the feel of a trigger than my daughter’s own hand. A soldier who could stare into the eye of his enemy before blowing him to oblivion. How many houses had I stormed? How many men killed? And I couldn’t even stare into the eyes of my wife and say a forceful “No!”? Some man.

My hand fell to the fluff of our Jack Russell, snoozing lightly beside me. I stared out into the night, letting the sight of the frosting trees overwhelm the sound of the television. For I-don’t-know-how-long, I followed the snowflakes twisting, circling, contorting like ash after a confirmed hit in the blindness of night, and I half-expected to see dying men walking past the window carrying their own limbs. No sir, I’m afraid you won’t be making it out of this one. I’ll be taking your dogtags tomorrow.

My wife was saying something; it didn’t sound like it needed a reply. The clock struck 12 o’clock and I, Ebenezer Scrooge, was enduring another Christmas Day. “Tonight you will be visited by three ghosts,” Tell them to take a number. The first will arrive at one, Wow, one hour of peace is heaven. The second at two, If only they were that jolly. The third at three, That’s Death right? We’re good friends.

I found myself mesmerized with picking at a thread on the sofa. Julia pushed herself off the chair and slipped beside me, scooting the dog off the sofa. Ah yes, the romance, Donna Reed and Jimmy Stewart next to the telephone. Damn, I thought we were further than that.

Julia’s soft, brown curls found their favorite place between my shoulder and chest; when did that become uncomfortable? I swear, the most comfortable spot for a woman is the most uncomfortable spot for a man; it’s a product of sin I’m sure.

The scenes on the TV passed by blandly in a gray haze of gibberish.

“David, will you hold me?”

My arm reached across her waist, brushing over the holiday colors of whatever typical Christmas embroidery lay stitched onto her blouse. There was nothing new to the touch. I knew Julia well, almost like my third arm. I tried to recall our first night together there in those moments with her sniffing at Jimmy’s throwing his marriage dowry to the fearful mob. It was awkward, remarkably bland if I remember correctly. There were her eyes, (My God those green eyes!) breathing life to the sheets around us, widening in wonder (or was it fear?) as if I was going to either bring her the greatest pleasure or the worst suffering. Only for a moment the green faded, as if begging for more or less in my memory, and I was back in the line of fire staring into the same begging eyes of my companion, vomiting bloodstained pleas, telling me it was too much, too much.

“End it David!” I don’t know how a man can talk without a lung.

“No, you’ll make it!”

“End it, d****t!” He screamed over and over in my ear.    

“D****t! You’ll make it!”

I jerked slightly on the sofa, and I saw Julia look concernedly at me from the corner of my eye. No, I don’t remember our first night together at all. Where are we? Oh yes, good ol’ Jimmy saves the day again from mean ole’ Mr. Potter.

“Would you have done that with our marriage dowry, honey?” Julia liked to ask every year.

Crap, how did I always respond to that question? I fought a war for us, honey dearest. I thought of shooting back as sweetly as I could. But more than one dead body knows I don’t shoot sweetly. Julia knew I wasn’t in the mood and just nestled back down again.  

                And there’s George Bailey’s children, damn, all four of them. Are they insane? 

“Our daughter is so beautiful isn’t she, David? She’s such a miracle. I would have never thought we’d have a child.”

“A wonderful miracle,” I spout out. At least she knows you well. It’s hard having to remind your daughter that this nice man who visits every so often is your father. She looked at me earnestly as if to say more; I hoped she was not thinking about having another one. You don’t need four kids to have a wonderful life. One can already be hell.   

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it and lay her head back down. No, let’s not start a spat please, honey. I knew I was ruining the night for her, but I told her I didn’t want to watch the movie didn’t I now?

                And then I felt. Hate. Hate for myself. “This is your family!” I felt the voice ring in my mind. “Look what your missing? Look at your wife? She’s miserable inside! What kind of husband are you?” Shut the hell up! I did everything to keep her safe! I sacrificed my own self for her! Life was worth the risk for her. Don’t lecture me about being a husband. Any smile she makes is because of me, because of what we did. Because of what—“You’re not human.”  

                “Oh I hate this part!” Julia stated. Now what’s going on? Yup, that’s right. Eight thousand dollars missing because of that idiot of a banker. Run, run, run, Jimmy Stewart.

                “Do you know what time it is now?” She asked, clearly wanting to avoid Bailey’s misery.  

                Julia could tell I wasn’t interested in answering. “Let me get the cookies!” she nibbled at my ear, and stood up gracefully to walk into the kitchen. That was good; my arm had long since fallen asleep, and I could barely move it. Crazy as it may be, not a far cry from morphine albeit without the screaming from the next bed over.

                She came back hopping every now and again in the hazel-colored lamplight like some cute bunny in autumn; she always did that to bring me back to reality. I smiled slightly.

                “Your absolute favorites!” she giggled with a mouthful of cookie between her teeth. I saw her tickle spots purposefully left open, but I didn’t bite. I never did anymore. I reached for the first cookie and broke it in half; it was a heart shape. Damn.

                “How does my knight in shining armor like it?” She asked with a cookie sprinkled kiss to my forehead.

                I looked straight into those hopeful green eyes, “Don’t call me that, Julia. I’m not a knight.” Bam.

                I knew I hurt her there. That was our thing before. “You’re my knight, David.” She persisted. “You’re Amy’s knight.” And that’s been my identity: the knight, the prince charming. Grab your horse and save the princess. Fight the dragon, yadda yadda. Only my dragons were other daughters’ fathers, sons of honor, knights who fought for their own princesses. Julia was silent for a moment, twisting her foot awkwardly. “You haven’t read her any fairy tales since you’ve gotten back. You don’t read her anything anymore.” It was out, here we go again.

                “What?” I can hear poor Jimmy at the end of his rope now: “Dear Father in heaven, I'm not a praying man, but if you're up there and you can hear me…” Oh God how many people I heard pray that prayer and didn’t see the end of the month in one piece.

                “And you don’t pray with her either.”

                “You want me to delude her from reality?”

                “I want you to be a father.”

                That was it. I jerked up and watched her retreat to the end of the room, every limb trembling as if I’d just pulled a M9 on her. I saw her wonderful thighs tremble and wondered how many chocolate roses, love poems, and kisses I had stuffed her with, just for the wonderful sight of her running into my arms. But those times were dead. 

“What Julia?” I said, “What do you want from me? You think I’m a terrible father? Me? The man who protects everything we love? Or what? You want me to show her Sleeping Beauty? Is that what you want? The prince? The happy ending?” I went to our video shelf, “What, you want Snow White? I’ll read her Snow White,” I threw it to the ground. “Peter Pan? You want to keep her a kid forever?” It went behind the couch. “Beauty and the Beast?” knocked the window. “Alice in Wonderland?” hit the dog. “These stories don’t show you how to shoot between the eyes, honey. They don’t show you anything! In fact, Julia, the only movie I’d even consider her watching in our delusional household is Lion King, you know why? Because her father might not be coming home tomorrow and she needs to be ready.”

                “We always loved those stories!” Julia whimpered, “even if they were a bit silly.”

                “Oh grow up Julia!” I stormed, “do you have even have a shred of an idea of what I go through? Or do I need to send you photographs with my letters? Get online and surf CNN once in your life,” I pointed to the television and began to chuckle madly. “Life…is not wonderful, Julia! It’s a bloodbath; it’s greedy; it’s unfair; and if you ever saw what I’ve seen, it’s a f*****g nightmare with walking corpses; with screaming mothers crying over their sons; it’s children trying to put limbs back on their dead parents; it’s a POW tied and bound asking for mercy from a man with a machete in his hand, and he gets nothing. Nothing Julia! You want to know why I don’t pray?” I pointed a hard finger and stared at her down the sight, “Because no one, no one, is coming back for us, Julia. It may come as a shock to you, but in real life, most families don’t get their Harry Bailey back from war!”

                That's a lie! Harry Bailey went to war - he got the Congressional Medal of Honor, he saved the lives of every man on that transport!

                The tears were streaming, but I hadn’t beaten her down just yet. “Our Harry Bailey came back, knight or no knight,” she was sniffing uncontrollably, “And…and…if you ever experienced what I’ve seen, you would’ve heard our daughter’s first laugh,” her tears were floods, “have you heard it David?” she was almost begging, “It’s the score that sounds throughout the heavens! Oh David, you would have seen her reaching to you with her fingers! These fingernails that move and twist like diamonds in a glass! She asks when you’re coming home, David. And I bear every sunset, every sunset we used to spend together, without you, and…I think, I think the oranges and purples burn like our passion, and…and somehow I know you’re alive because it’s never red. I just…know it,” now it was her turn to giggle and point to the television. “Do you even watch the movie? Life…is wonderful, David! It’s our daughter’s first ice-cream;” her voice became loud, “it’s your favorite cookies on a winter night!” she tossed them at me in a passion, “it’s watching a bird build its nest in our tree outside and caring for its eggs! It’s the feeling of grass when you roll down a hill or the first time you step into the ocean!” She stopped, “Do you know why I still pray, even though you’re face to face with death everyday? Because everyday I see a grace that shows me we’re not forgotten,” I watched her trembling hands reach into a cupboard and pull out something. She stepped towards me. “Or do I need to show you photographs?”

And before I could protest I saw a photo of our daughter; was it our daughter? She seemed so unfamiliar, just a tiny little fluff with two stars twinkling back in the arms of my wife. “There’s starlight in our arms,” Julia seemed to read my mind. There she was again, blowing a dandelion this time. My God, her lips were precious. There she was in our backyard, blue and sparkling like the most beautiful piece of ocean that’s been warmed by the morning sunlight. There was Julia, staring at our sunset with eyes that sprinkled with the sweetest glitter like green sugar on white icing. Julia again doing her famous dance in the kitchen, little Amy mimicking her. Our Jack Russell licking her first birthday cake off her face. For every man I saw gunned down, every lifeless face that passed my mind, every bomb and ration I remembered, picture after picture was slid toward me until I became overwhelmed by the growing pile of photographs at my feet. I heard the screams, the laughs. Saw the blood and the ice-cream. The bombs and the dandelions. My arms began to shake; as the pictures became too blurry to make out I covered the rest with a sweep of my hand.

“Oh God, why haven’t you shown me these before?” I felt myself ask past the sweat and shakes; I knew it was coming. I hadn’t had an attack all week, but it was coming.      

                “I have,” Julia seemed to plead, “you look at us but have you ever seen us?”

                The room was closing in, and all I knew were the four corners of my sight. There was nothing behind me, around me. I had no thought or remembrance. I only knew that I was sprinting out the backdoor, and all I heard from the living room were sobs from the television: “I wanna live again, I wanna live again.”

I made it onto the porch, gasping for air, just before I was forced to turn around and be drowned in a flood of passionate sunsets and twirling dresses, toothless grins and flowing trees, sugar cookies and shouts of “Hosanna”. I remembered our first night together as we kissed there on the porch and buried my nose into her curls and tried to breathe in that wonderful strawberry aroma I had begged God for every night while I was away. My legs gave way and both of us tumbled to our knees, her arms surrounding my shaking frame and I dropping my head onto her shoulder, staining her beautiful holiday blouse with my tears.

“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” I sobbed into her neck. “What to think, what to remember, what—” I couldn’t continue through the pain.

She took my head and placed my ear onto her beating breast.

“This is the Real,” she whispered to me on that cold winter night. And as the sound of my sobs rose to heaven, the snow came down like fragile, exuberant crystals upon our broken, but wonderful, life.

Author's Note

Enjoy as always.