Alex Ayers - The soldier_s wife

He had married her on impulse. He had his orders for Vietnam. He was dating her. They were sleeping together, laughing, loving, sharing their secrets. He had wanted something more than just a relationship. He had wanted a wife, something to come home for, something to stay alive for.

"Hot, sweaty, smelly, long." He snubbed his cigarette out and took a swallow from the drink, rolling the burning fluid around his mouth and then swallowing it and letting it burn pleasantly down to his toes.

"I was afraid for you."

"I know. I was afraid too."

"For me?"

"Both of us. It's over now, though. I'm through with the service. Another month and we'll be civilians."

"Have you decided what you're going to do?" she asked, setting her glass on the coffee table and folding her hands in her lap. Her head tasted to one side and her cheery eyes made him smile.

"No. Bum around for a month or two. We've got enough money socked away to give us a long vacation."

He closed his eyes and rubbed his hands on the leather arms of the chair. It was good being home, he thought, good and safe. Maybe the nightmares would stop now, maybe he would be free of the horror-filled nights and the drenching sweat had plagued him for six months – ever since – ever since…

"Penny."

"Huhhh?"

"Penny for your thoughts?" She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the chair and ran her slim fingers through his hair, letting them trace the heavy outline of his jaw and scrape across the stubby beard shadowing his dark face.

"Make it a mill and you've got yourself some thoughts." He pulled her down into his lap and kissed her gently on the lips. She smelled like a blossoming flower, fresh, dewy, virginal. He ran his hand over her milk-white flesh and watched as his fingers left red, exciting trails across her skin.

"You have a great body," he said cupping her pert, firm breast and squeezing it. She kissed him lightly on the nose.

"For a rough and ready Marine, you seem pretty tame to me," she said, touching his lips with her finger.

"You're my commanding officer, aren't you?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow and looking sternly into her young, delicately defined face.

"You bet you life on that, Captain Farrow, U-S-M-C-R, winner of the Silver Star and Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry." She leaned back and thrust out her chest, tucked her chin in and flapped her arms playfully at her sides.

Allen's face went livid and he pushed her away, startling her.

"What's the matter, did I say…"

"It's nothing… nothing… I'm sorry, Gwen."

He stood and stepped over her. She had slipped off his lap onto the carpet and was awed, staring up at him. He rubbed the back of his thick neck nervously and poured another glassful of the brandy drink.

"Still a little jittery, that's all," he excused, turning around and looking at his dumfounded wife sitting on the floor, her hands at her sides, her jaw drooping.

"Sorry," he said sinking down beside her and pulling her close to him. "I… I've still got some things on my mind. Things I want to forget. Things I have to figure out."

There was a silence between them.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No… no, not yet." He rubbed her arm with a trembling hand, his eyes darting furtively from one of her eyes to the other. "Patience, I guess, Gwen. A little patience. I'll work it out."

He pulled her to him and pressed her tightly against his chest. She felt his chest heaving as he breathed quickly. His arms held her like a vise. She had hoped she could tell him about it tonight, but now it would have to wait.

He wasn't ready. Something was the matter and she didn't know what it was. But she didn't want to take any chances, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. She'd wait and when the time was right, she'd tell him about the group. She'd explain why she joined, why she made love to the other men and women.

He would understand. If she was careful. She had to be careful. He was a different man than any she had ever met. He kept things inside him, letting them percolate for months.

And they would explode violently, gushing out of him like a raging storm. So she had to be quiet and wait for an opportune time. It would come soon, she hoped. The club wanted to meet him, to have him join.

And she wanted it too. She wanted it more than ever, for without the club she would have been a nervous wreck while he was gone. They helped her. They steered her on the right course and kept her happy. They satisfied her needs and loved her in the dark moments when she was lonely and frightened.

Allen would understand. He had to.

Allen had been gone six months when they came.

Gwen had tried everything, from bowling leagues with the Officers' Wives Club to college night courses.

She was nervous and irritable, clinging to the door and watching for the postman every day, hoping he had a letter from Allen.

But the letters came, three and four at a time, only once a month. Allen had written he was on reconnaissance patrol most of the time and could only write when they came in to headquarters. His letters were short and choppy, mostly asking questions and saying he loved her and would be home soon.

What little she knew about what he was doing came in the form of news stories from the Camp Pendleton Scout, when occasionally his name would be mentioned and the reporter told about a night attack or the blowing up of a bridge deep in enemy territory.

The Vietnamese medal had come first. The commanding officer of the reconnaissance company from the camp had sent her a letter with a copy of the citation explaining why Allen had received the medal. The letter had praised Allen's work and stated that he was also recommended for the Silver Star.

But the glory had only salved her loneliness for a while, and then she sank back into the morose climate of the war-widow existence, always doing things with other women, never being seen alone with a man, avoiding going out too often at night for fear someone in the neighborhood might get the wrong idea.

It was frustrating and she often cried herself to sleep, beating her small fists into the pillow and wishing for Allen to appear in the doorway, to take her roughly in his arms and cover her body with kisses, to rape her, and then caress and comfort her in his strong, hirsute arms.

But her dream never came true and she ended up sobbing herself into the darkness of sleep, to awake to another empty day.

That was all before she met them. They had come on a Saturday afternoon.

The doorbell rang and Gwen peered through the split in the curtains before answering it.

"Yes?" she said through the locked screen door.

"Mrs. Gwen Farrow?"

"Yes?"

"We're Bob and Sybil McCusker. A friend of mine in Vietnam knows your husband, Allen, and we thought we'd drop in and say hello."

"Allen?"

"Yes, may we?"

"Certainly. Yes, please, come in." She nervously unlatched the door and stepped aside as the couple entered.

"Sorry about the locked doors and everything, but you know how it is these days. Can't trust anyone." Her voice was excited as she ushered them into the front room.

"Care for something to drink? It's a hot day."

"No, thank you," the woman said, smiling up at Gwen.

"You sure? Only take a see to fix something. How about you, Mister…"

"Bob. Call me, Bob, Gwen. Yes, I'd like something. Glass of water will be fine."

"We have some beer…" Gwen blushed and wiped her hands on her apron. "I mean… I have some beer or gin if you'd like a drink."

"Well… sure, how about a Collins?" Bob asked, smiling at her. "Sybil?" he asked, addressing his wife.

"Fine. But don't go to any trouble."