Of course, I did want to know that she still cared about me, and in this, Savannah never let me down. I suppose that was the reason I saved every letter she ever sent. Toward the end of each letter, there would always be a few sentences, maybe even a paragraph, where she would write something that made me pause, words that made me remember, and I would find myself rereading passages and trying to imagine her voice as I read them. Like this, from the second letter I received:
When I think of you and me and what we shared, I know it would be easy for others to dismiss our time together as simply a by-product of the days and nights spent by the sea, a "fling" that, in the long run, would mean absolutely nothing. That's why I don't tell people about us. They wouldn't understand, and I don't feel the need to explain, simply because I know in my heart how real it was. When I think of you, I can't help smiling, knowing that you've completed me somehow. I love you, not just for now, but for always, and I dream of the day that you'll take me in your arms again.
Or this, from the letter after I'd sent her a photograph of me:
And finally, I want to thank you for the picture. I've already put it in my wallet. You look healthy and happy, but I have to tell you that I cried when I saw it. Not because it made me sad--though it did, since I know I won't be able to see you--but because it made me happy. It reminded me that you're the best thing that's ever happened to me.
And this, from a letter she'd written while I'd been in Kosovo:
I have to say that your last letter worried me. I want to hear about it, I need to hear about it, but I find myself holding my breath and getting scared for you whenever you tell me what your life is really like. Here I am, getting ready to go home for Thanksgiving and worrying about tests, and you're someplace dangerous, surrounded by people who want to hurt you. I just wish those people could know you like I know you, because then you'd be safe. Just like I feel safe when I'm in your arms.
Christmas that year was a dismal affair, but it's always dismal when you're far from home. It wasn't my first Christmas alone during my years in the service. Every holiday had been spent in Germany, and a couple of guys in our barracks had rigged up a tree of sorts--a green tarp braced with a stick and decorated with blinking lights. More than half of my buddies had gone home--I was one of the unlucky ones who had to stay in case our friends the Russians got it in their heads that we were still mortal enemies--and most of the others trooped into town to celebrate Christmas Eve by getting bombed on quality German beer. I'd already opened the package Savannah had sent me--a sweater that reminded me of something Tim would wear and a batch of homemade cookies--and knew she'd already received the perfume I'd sent her. But I was alone, and as a gift to myself, I splurged on a phone call to Savannah. She hadn't expected the call, and I replayed the excitement in her voice for weeks afterward. We ended up talking for more than an hour. I had missed the sound of her voice. I'd forgotten her lilting accent and the twang that grew more pronounced whenever she started speaking quickly. I leaned back in my chair, imagining that she was with me and listening as she described the falling snow. At the same time, I realized it was snowing outside my window as well, which, if only for an instant, made it feel as if we were together.
By January 2001, I had begun to count down the days to when I'd see her again. My summer leave was coming in June, and I'd be out of the army in less than a year. I'd wake up in the morning and literally tell myself that there were 360 days left, then 359 and 358 till I was out, but I'd see Savannah in 178, then 177 and 176 and so on. It was tangible and real, close enough to allow me to dream of moving back to North Carolina; on the other hand, it unfortunately made time slow down. Isn't that the way it always is when you really want something? It reminded me of being a kid and the lengthening days as I waited for summer vacation. Had it not been for Savannah's letters, I have no doubt that the wait would have seemed much longer.
My dad wrote as well. Not with the frequency of Savannah, but on his own regular monthly schedule. To my surprise, his letters were two or three times longer than the page or so I'd been used to. The additional pages were exclusively about coins. In my spare time, I'd visit the computer center and do a bit of research on my own. I'd search for certain coins, collect the history, and send the information back in a letter of my own. I swear, the first time I did that, I thought I saw tears on the next letter he sent me. No, not really--I know it was just my imagination since he never even mentioned what I'd done--but I wanted to believe that he pored over the data with the same intensity he used when studying the Greysheet.
In February, I was shipped off on maneuvers with other NATO troops: one of those "pretend we're in a battle in 1944 exercises," in which we were supposedly facing an onslaught of tanks through the German countryside. Kind of pointless, if you ask me. Those kinds of wars are long since over, gone the way of Spanish galleons blasting their close-range cannons and the U.S. Cavalry riding horseback to the rescue. These days, they never say who the enemies are supposed to be, but everyone knows it's the Russians, which makes even less sense, since they're supposed to be our allies now. But even if they weren't, the simple fact is that they don't have that many working tanks anymore, and even if they were secretly building thousands at some plant in Siberia with the intent of overrunning Europe, any advancing wave of tanks would most likely be confronted with air strikes and our own mechanized divisions instead of the infantry. But what did I know, right? The weather was miserable, too, with some freakishly angry cold front moving down from the arctic just as the maneuvers started. It was epic, with snow and sleet and hail and winds topping fifty miles an hour, making me think of Napoleon's troops on the retreat from Moscow. It was so cold that frost formed on my eyebrows, it hurt to breathe, and my fingers would stick to the gun barrel if I touched it accidentally. It stung like hell getting them unstuck, and I lost a good bit of skin on the tips in the process. But I kept my face covered and my hand on the stock after that and marched through icy mud brought on by the endless snow showers, trying my best not to become an ice statue while we pretended to fight the enemy.
We spent ten days doing that. Half my men got frostbite, the other half suffered from hypothermia, and by the time we finished, my squad was reduced to just three or four men, all of whom ended up in the infirmary once we got back to base. Including me. The whole experience was just about the most ridiculous and idiotic thing the army ever made me do. And that's saying something, because I've done a lot of idiotic things for good old Uncle Sam and the Big Red One. At the end, our commander walked through the ward, congratulating my squad on a job well done. I wanted to tell him that maybe our time would have been better spent learning modern war tactics or, at the very least, tuned in to the Weather Channel. But instead I offered a salute and an acknowledgment, being the good army grunt I am.
After that, I spent the next few uneventful months on base. Sure, we did the occasional class on weapons or navigation, and every now and then I'd wander into town for a beer with the guys, but for the most part I lifted tons of weights, ran hundreds of miles, and kicked Tony's ass whenever we stepped into the boxing ring.
Spring in Germany wasn't as bad as I thought it would be after the disaster we went through on maneuvers. Snow melted, flowers came out, and the air began to warm. Well, not really warm, but it rose above freezing, and that was enough for most of my buddies and me to throw on shorts and play Frisbee or softball outside. As June finally rolled around, I found myself getting antsy to return to North Carolina. Savannah had graduated and was already in summer school doing classes for her master's degree, so I planned to travel to Chapel Hill. We would have two glorious weeks together--even when I went to see my dad in Wilmington, she planned to come with me--and I found myself feeling alternately nervous and excited and scared at the thought
Yes, we'd corresponded through the mail and talked on the phone. Yes, I'd gone out to stare at the moon on the first night it was full, and in her letters she told me she had, too. But I hadn't seen her in ne
arly a year, and I didn't have any idea how she'd react when we were face-to-face again. Would she rush into my arms when I got off the plane, or would her reaction be more restrained, perhaps a gentle kiss on the cheek? Would we fall into easy conversation immediately, or would we find ourselves talking about the weather and feeling awkward around each other? I didn't know, and I'd lie awake at night imagining a thousand different scenarios.
Tony knew what I was going through, though he knew better than to call obvious attention to it. Instead, as the date approached, he slapped me on the back.
"Gonna see her soon," he said. "You ready for that?"
"Yeah."
He smirked. "Don't forget to pick up some tequila on the way home."
I made a face, and Tony laughed.
"It's going to be just fine," he said. "She loves you, man. She's got to, considering how much you love her."
Thirteen
In June 2001, I was given my leave and left for home immediately, flying from Frankfurt to New York, then on to Raleigh. It was a Friday evening, and Savannah had promised to pick me up at the airport before bringing me to Lenoir to meet her parents. She'd dropped that little surprise on me the day before the flight. Now, I had nothing against meeting her parents, mind you. I was sure they were wonderful people and all that, but if I had my way, I would rather have had Savannah all to myself at least for the first few days. It's kind of hard to make up for lost time with the parents around. Even if we didn't get physical--and knowing Savannah, I was pretty sure we wouldn't, though I kept my fingers crossed--how would her parents treat me if I kept their daughter out until the wee hours, even if all we did was lie under the stars? Granted, she was an adult, but parents were funny when it came to their own kids, and I was under no illusions that they'd be understanding about the whole thing. She would always be their little girl, if you know what I mean.
But Savannah had had a point when she explained it to me. I had two weekends free, and if I planned to see my dad on the second weekend, I had to see hers the first weekend. Besides, she sounded so excited about the whole thing that all I could say was that I was looking forward to meeting them. Still, I wondered if I'd even be able to hold her hand, and I speculated about whether I could talk her into taking a little detour on the way to Lenoir.
As soon as the plane landed, my anticipation grew and I could feel my ticker booming. But I didn't know how to act. Should I jog toward her as soon as I spotted her or stroll casually, cool and in control? I still wasn't sure, but before I could dwell on it, I was in the cattle chute, moving up the aisle. I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder as I emerged from the ramp that accessed the terminal. I didn't see her at first--too many folks milling around. When I scanned the area a second time, I saw her off to the left and realized instantly that all my worries had been pointless, for she spotted me and came running at full tilt. I barely had time to drop my duffel bag before she jumped into my arms, and the kiss that followed was like its own magic kingdom, complete with its special language and geography, fabulous myths and wonders for the ages. And when she pulled back and whispered, "I missed you so much," I felt as if I'd been put back together after spending a year cut in half.
I don't know how long we stood together, but when we finally began moving toward the baggage claim, I slipped my hand into hers knowing that I loved her not only more than the last time I'd seen her, but more than I would ever love anyone.
On the drive we talked easily, but we did make a small detour. After pulling into a rest stop, we made out like teenagers. It was great--let's leave it at that--and a couple of hours later, we arrived at her house. Her parents were waiting on the porch of a neat, two-story Victorian. Surprising me, her mother hugged me as soon as I got close, then offered me a beer. I declined, mostly because I knew I'd be the only one drinking, but I appreciated the effort. Savannah's mom, Jill, was a lot like Savannah: friendly, open, and a lot sharper than she first came across. Her dad was exactly the same, and I actually had a good time visiting with them. It didn't hurt that Savannah held my hand the whole time and seemed completely at ease doing so. Toward the end of the evening, she and I went for a long moonlit walk. By the time we got back to the house, it felt almost as if we'd never been apart at all.
It went without saying that I slept in the guest room. I hadn't expected otherwise, and the room was a lot better than most places I'd stayed, with classic furniture and a comfortable mattress. The air was stuffy, though, and I opened the window, hoping the mountain air would bring welcome cool. It had been a long day--I was still on German time--and I fell asleep immediately, only to wake up an hour later when I heard my door squeak open. Savannah, wearing comfy cotton pajamas and socks, closed the door behind her and started toward the bed, tiptoeing across the floor.
She held a finger to her lips to keep me quiet. "My parents would kill me if they knew I was doing this," she whispered. She crawled into bed beside me and adjusted the covers, pulling them up to her neck as if she were camping in the arctic. I put my arms around her, loving the feel of her body against mine.
We kissed and giggled for most of the night, then she sneaked back to her room. I fell asleep again, probably before she reached her room, and awakened to the sight of sunlight streaming in the window. The smell of breakfast came wafting into the room, and I tossed on a T-shirt and jeans and went down to the kitchen. Savannah was at the table, talking with her mom while her dad read the paper, and I felt the weight of their presence when I entered. I took a place at the table, and Savannah's mom poured me a cup of coffee before setting a plate of bacon and eggs in front of me. Savannah, who was sitting across from me already showered and dressed, was chipper and impossibly fresh-looking in the soft morning light.
"Did you sleep okay?" she asked, her eyes shining with mischief.
I nodded. "Actually, I had the most wonderful dream," I said.
"Oh?" her mom asked. "What was it about?"
I felt Savannah kick me under the table. She shook her head almost imperceptibly. I have to admit that I enjoyed the sight of Savannah squirming, but enough was enough. I feigned concentration. "I can't remember now," I said.
"I hate when that happens," her mother said. "Is breakfast okay?"
"It smells great," I said. "Thank you." I glanced at Savannah. "What's on the agenda today?"
She leaned across the table. "I was thinking we might go horseback riding. Do you think you'd be up for that?"
When I hesitated, she laughed. "You'll be fine," she added. "I promise."
"Easy for you to say."
She rode Midas; for me, she suggested a quarter horse named Pepper, which her dad usually rode. We spent most of the day walking up trails, galloping through open fields, and exploring this part of her world. She'd prepared a picnic lunch, and we ate at a spot that overlooked Lenoir. She pointed out the schools she'd attended and homes of the people she knew. It dawned on me then that not only did she love it here, she never wanted to live anywhere else.
We spent six or seven hours in the saddle, and I did my best to keep up with Savannah, though that was close to impossible. I didn't end up with my face planted in the dirt, but there were a few dicey moments here and there when Pepper acted up and it took everything I could do to hold on. It wasn't until Savannah and I were getting ready for dinner that I realized what I'd gotten myself into, however. Little by little, I began to realize that my walking resembled waddling. The inside muscles of my legs felt as if Tony had pounded them for hours.
On Saturday night, Savannah and I went to dinner at a cozy little Italian place. Afterward, she suggested we go dancing, but by then I could barely move. As I limped toward the car, she adopted a concerned expression and reached out to stop me.
Leaning over, she grasped my leg. "Does it hurt when I squeeze right here?"
I jumped and screamed. For some reason, she found this amusing.
"Why'd you do that? That hurt!"
She smiled. "Just checking."
"Checking
what? I already told you--I'm sore."
"I just wanted to see if little old me could make a big, tough army guy like you scream."
I rubbed my leg. "Yeah, well, let's not test that anymore, okay?"
"Okay," she said. "And I'm sorry."
"You don't sound sorry."
"Well, I am," she said. "But it is kind of funny, don't you think? I mean, I rode just as long as you, and I'm fine."
"You ride all the time."
"I haven't ridden in over a month."
"Yeah, well."
"Come on. Admit it. It was kind of funny, wasn't it?"
"Not at all."
On Sunday, we attended church with her family. I was too sore to do much else the rest of the day, so I plopped myself on the couch and watched a baseball game with her dad. Savannah's mom brought in sandwiches, and I spent the afternoon wincing every time I tried to get comfortable while the game went into extra innings. Her dad was easy to talk to, and the conversation drifted from army life to teaching to some of the kids he coached and his hopes for their future. I liked him. From my seat, I could hear Savannah and her mom chatting in the kitchen, and every now and then, Savannah would come into the living room with a basket of laundry to fold while her mother started another load in the washing machine. Though technically a college graduate and an adult, she still brought her dirty clothes home to Mom.