T. Parker: Full Measure

Caroline leaned over and whispered in Patrick’s ear: “He said, ‛Caroline, remember, there’s a hot little fuckdoll in every profitable marriage. Practice up and learn how. If you don’t believe me ask your mother.’ Well, Pat, he and Mom had given me a new red BMW convertible for my Stanford career up north. Two hours later, and with my best worldly possessions, I was speeding due south from L.A. to San Diego, which I knew to be party central. I said nothing. His comment at lunch wasn’t the only reason I left. It was the least of them by some measures. Just the last straw. Well, once in San Diego I searched hard, and it only took me a few days to find the worst boyfriend any virgin valedictorian could wish for. Just like Dad, but meaner. Not only alcohol, but drugs, too. A little physical, that boy. Let’s just say I happily morphed into my opposite and within a year I was a very serious wreck. But I was putting the screws to Daddy all right! I’m not sure what would have happened if I hadn’t stumbled into a biker bar in Oceanside one day and been spotted by your father. I truly don’t. Archie was my blessing and my miracle, staggeringly undeserved. And that, Patrick, is how you got your mom. That is why I’m so careful in what I do. Why I control everything, from the way I knot my scarf, to what I read, to how I hold the book. What I say and how I say it. From the way I set a water glass in the sink to the way I rinse it. It’s not composure or serenity, certainly not vanity. No. Control is my vaccine against becoming that way again, the way I was before Archie. Which I know I am... prone to.”

Patrick was speechless past the shoe store, the cell phone kiosk, the luggage store, and the food court. He felt like hiding behind a Hesco block and smoking cigarettes.

“Did I embarrass you, Pat?”

“No. Some. I’ve never seen you blush, Mom.”

“I don’t exactly tell that story every day.”

“Um, did your dad know you did all that?”

“I tortured him with it.”

“That’s a story, Mom.”

“I’m glad Archie opened it up with you. Regarding Ted. I love you, Patrick. And I hope you love me. That was the whole point.”

At a young person’s store with suggestive posters and throbbing music she bought Patrick a new outfit that was expensive but looked cool, he thought. He showed his ID and handed the clerk the money himself in order to get the 10 percent military discount. The new sport coat fit well and the shirt was cotton but smooth as silk. Hundred and fifty dollar jeans!

“If you don’t melt Iris’s little wooden heart in that outfit, you’re going to have to find greener pastures, Pat.”

“We’re just friends, Mom.”

“Ho-ho. Don’t tell her that.”

Later at the mall hair salon — Messina had told him not to go to barber shops unless he wanted to look like an ex-jarhead forever — Patrick was pleased to find that his hair had grown just long enough to be styled. And to mostly cover the patch where his stitches had been after the beach brawl with the MPs. He looked at himself in the salon mirror as the stylist made tiny snips, itemizing his recent bad behaviors. He wondered if the world might be better off with him back on patrol where he knew what he was doing. A structured setting. It sounded good in many ways.

Now he walked across the parking lot toward the stadium entrance, saw the little band of protesters near the gate with their signs: WALK THE WALKS WE HAVE! NO GIFTS FOR ILLEGALS! SUPPORT POLICE — NOT JAYWALKERS! There were some ELECT WALT ROOD signs, too, though Patrick didn’t see the candidate. The people and their energy unnerved him and he was tempted to turn around and go home or to a quiet bar. He wondered if the loud concert music would set him off. He thought how Ted always said that things just got into him against his own will, and now Patrick saw how that might happen. Things are big, he thought. They have power. You can’t turn everything off. The guns of Pendleton started pounding away to the west, Patrick flinched but steeled himself, and his control held.

He went around to a side entrance and squeezed through the loosely chained gate, then ambled on to the Warrior Stadium turf that he’d last played on just four years ago. Wide receiver, decent hands. The turf was the same vivid green and the yard lines straight and white. He stopped midfield near the fifty and remembered catching a pass right here in the homecoming game, to no avail in their narrow loss. He looked at the scoreboard with the Warrior in the headdress, and the snack bar and press box painted barn red with white trim. He’d always liked the bright stadium lights. It was easy to wander back into that past. It seemed so small now, but safe and pleasant, like a small nest he’d jumped from. Could it be only four years? But down by the goal line everything was different — he saw the elaborate scaffolding and stage, and the big amplifiers, the drums and congas, the keyboards and the colorful guitars in their stands, all twinkling in the stage lights.

He found Iris talking with a group of volunteers setting up VIP chairs near the stage. She had on a blue silk blazer over a navy blouse, and jeans and knee-high boots, and the sight of her made his heart ache and his mind wobble. He stood there in his new clothes, feet together and back straight, waiting. The evening was cool and breezy and the sky was a heavy, fretful gray. Finally she turned. She studied him, curiously, as if she’d never seen him before, or perhaps had known him once and forgotten almost everything about him. A strange look. He felt skinned. She approached and Patrick smiled, but inwardly he wasn’t sure whether to meet the threat, hold his ground, or retreat. Please nothing bad. He’d never been this unsure of what to do, not even in the chaos of combat. She came up close and he saw the emotion in her eyes but couldn’t identify it. Just could not. “We can help set up these chairs,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. We can talk later. I love the horses. Let’s get this done.”

Patrick worked with the energy of the hopeful. Natalie and Mary Ann joined them but neither of them offered him more than a wave. Natalie took pictures of Iris and Mary Ann working for the Village View . It was dark by the time they finished. A few minutes later the crowd was filing in. Iris gave him his ticket and pointed out their seats, a third of the way back and in the middle. She excused herself to follow Natalie toward Cruzela Storm’s trailer for a brief interview and photo shoot. Evelyn Anders fell in behind them. Iris turned and looked at Patrick, and again her expression was inscrutable to him — his twenty-two years of worldly experience no match, he sensed, for millennia of female evolution resulting in Iris Cash. He waved lamely.

Evelyn followed Iris and Natalie, squeezing past two bodyguards, into Cruzela Storm’s trailer. It was roomy. Cruzela sat on a love seat with an acoustic guitar propped on the cushion beside her. In her daring stage clothes Cruzela no longer looked awkward and uncomfortable, but strong-limbed, sexual, and dangerous. She made Evelyn feel neither young nor particularly attractive anymore, but these were not bad feelings. It was good to see a woman who was all of that and more. Cruzela’s hair was a shiny copper mane, her face heavily made-up, her lips black. She rose and shook their hands formally, half a head taller than tall Natalie. “Help yourself to the food and drink.”

Evelyn backed away and stood near the food, unsure of whether to offer herself a seat in the presence of a star. Iris sat down across from Cruzela and started in with her questions. Natalie began shooting. One of the bodyguards, well muscled and his black hair in a ponytail, carried a chair over to Evelyn with one hand, and it seemed to weigh no more to him than a glass of wine. Boy, could she use one of those. She disliked public speaking, but half an hour from now she’d be up there in front of two thousand plus people, trying to thank them for doing the right thing. They sure weren’t here to listen to her.