A Battle Raging (2 page)

Maya headed toward the front to look at the roster. Fortunately, she had made some notations about the students as they had presented.

On her way to the front, she started to peer at Mr. Yarborough's (would never forget his name) sketch.

And stopped in her path.

"What the…" she started, her words sputtering in surprise and anger. He looked up at her, his face inscrutable, but his eyes twinkling with amusement.

She stood there embarrassed as she sensed the students
in the row behind them craning their necks to get a look at what had her fuming.

Because he definitely hadn't drawn an orange. And he obviously wasn't a beginner.

The lines and shading were blurred, giving the picture more of an impressionistic feel than an actual depiction. But the hair, the features, the darkness of the skin, the eyes staring off in the distance…the sketch was unmistakably her. As was his interpretation of her body, unclothed.

"This is not the assignme
nt," she said, her voice tight.

"I didn't feel like drawing an orange."

She heard the laughter in his voice, which only stoked her anger. She refused to be made a fool of in her own class.

"
Why
are you taking this class, Mr. Yarborough? Obviously, you aren't an amateur. There is nothing you can learn in this class that you obviously don't already know."

"I'm here to refresh my skills, to ease back into drawing. I haven't done it in years." This time, the laughter was gone. There was something solemn in his tone.
Something bordering on regret.

She took a deep breath. This class was sliding downhill at an astronomical speed. She didn't know if she could salvage the rest of the hour but she was going to try.

She took the edge of the paper and tore it from the easel, leaving a fresh page ready for use.

"Now, do the orange," she instructed in a neutral tone.

The smile was back as he said beneath his breath so no one but she could hear him, "I'd rather do you."

She gave him a withering l
ook at the double entendre she was sure he'd meant. And wished she could say out loud the impossibility of that ever happening, not just considering that his ass was in a wheelchair but that she would never, ever be attracted to someone with such an ugly soul, no matter how attractive he was on the outside.

She walked away quickly before she could say something she would regret. Instead she
balled up the nude picture and put it in the waste basket. Then she did another circuit of the class to look at the final results. She discussed the results with each student, telling them how to better flesh out the orange, make it seem tangible and more "alive."

She had
already decided to bypass Mr. Yarborough altogether, but then corrected herself. He had after all paid like everybody else and was due her attention. She stopped by his easel, not knowing what to expect. The only thing she did know was that if he'd drawn another nude of her, she wouldn't be responsible if her hand connected with his face.

He looked up at her approach, his expression
indicating he was duly chastened. She looked over his shoulder. The orange he'd drawn was the best one in the class by far. Not that it really surprised her, considering the talent he'd shown with the nude. He hadn't depicted the fruit in any accurate measure, but had applied his own interpretation to the subject. And had exceeded her expectations.

"That's wonderful," she half whispered.
And he smiled, which was totally unexpected given his earlier performance. So he could accept compliments. Maybe this was a case of honey versus vinegar, something she could use in her favor.

Her voice still lowered, she said to him, "You really don't belong here. There's nothing I can teach you."

The smile disappeared and again his face became blank. He had closed her out.

Then
he said "You're wrong."

She decided that it wasn't worth the effort to argue with him.
It was just too stressful to deal with him.

She looked up at the
wall clock. Ten minutes to two. Ten minutes to the end of the class. Ten minutes too long right now.

"OK class, we made a good start today so I'm going to
end a little early today. Next meeting, I will discuss lighting with you and we will work on what I hope will be an exciting project. Take care."

She waited at the front of the class as the students filed out. And of course, there would be a lone straggler. He seemed to be waiting for the other students to leave, which was prob
ably prudent.

After a few minutes, everybo
dy but the two of them had left the studio room. She waited as he sat there, but now it seemed he wasn't going to leave.

"I'm sure you want to get your money's worth of minutes, but the class is over Mr. Yarborough.
"

His eyes were disconcerting. Such a contrast to his swarthy complexion.

"I would like my sketch," he said simply.

"Feel free to take it," she answered him, her head nodding toward the sketch of the orange.

"No, I want my other sketch."

She felt her skin flushing. "I threw it away."

"I still want it."

"Why, it's all balled up."

"Doesn't matter. I want it."

"Why do you want it? It's terribly embarrassing to me."

"Because…it's the most beautiful work I've done in years. And it's mine. I shouldn't have to beg for what is mine. Like you said, I paid for this class."

He was right, of course.
She had no real reason to prevent him from taking his sketch, even if it was a violation of her privacy. She sighed as she walked to the waste can and retrieved the balled up paper. She opened the wad but was hesitant to try to work the wrinkles out with her hand for fear of smudging it. She handed it to him.

He stared at the image and her discomfort grew. It was as though she'd actually posed for the sketch, as though he'd actually seen her naked. His impression of her body was too close for comfort.

He folded the picture again and again until he could fit it in his jacket pocket.

"Thank you," he said softly before maneuvering his chair toward the back and out of the door.

She stood there looking at the empty door. Only nine more weeks to go. Nine weeks during which she wasn't sure she would survive.

Lex headed the advance unit this time out. It was hot as hell with the noon day sun bearing down on them. Twelve men altogether. The temperature had already passed the one-hundred degree mark an hour ago. Rivers of sweat trailed down Zack's face and back, dampening his skin and uniform. Despite the blazing heat, a cold pit had settled in his stomach. He was all too aware that any of them might accidentally set off an IED hidden beneath the ground's surface. Just one step could blow them all to kingdom come. That was always a danger, no matter where they went. They had lost Mike in a similar bombing only a couple of months before in Anar Dara and none of them had come to terms with the loss. Now they had reached a bombed out section of the Pur Chaman district within the Farah province to do reconnaissance on an area of deserted homes. Word was that members of the Taliban were using the district as a temporary headquarter to initiate an all out attack on U.S. forces. The deserted buildings, many of them nothing more than huts made of mud brick with just a few stone edifices, made optimal hiding places for insurgents and could be a death trap for U.S. units.

The sweltering heat made
the five-pound weight of the M27 he was hauling feel even heavier. Not that the weapon was actually heavier, but heat tended to enervate a man (or woman), make every step feel like it was dragging a body down. But the weariness was offset by the adrenaline arising from the mind-numbing tension. Any sound, no matter how innocuous, might signal a band of insurgents ready to ambush them. And a sound might come from anywhere, or from all directions. Might be just a dog wandering among the devastation. Or could be a Taliban motherfucker with his gun trained on them, ready to send a flurry of bullets through their brains.

Lex
began giving orders.

"Deacon, Yancy, Smith,
take the houses on the northern corner of the block. Sweep it clean. Milburn, Davis, Smith, Jr. take the opposite side. You know what to do."

There were two Smiths on this detail
- Jack and Lamont. To avoid any confusion, Lex referred to Lamont as Junior as he was the younger by twelve years. A cherry, actually as this was his first tour of duty.

"Yarborough, Eisenberg,
Clarence, take that cluster of buildings over there. Hinton, McDonald, you two are with me. We'll sweep the rest of the street, starting with that two story building in the middle of the square."

The
trios of men splintered off to their designated assignments. Zach led the way to one of the deserted homes, Marty Eisenberg and Joseph Clarence following closely behind. Before the barrage bombings, the area had been about ninety-five percent Tajik. Seemingly the regular citizenry had evacuated. Anyone they found still in the vicinity was to be treated as a possible hostile.

In the distance, beyond the village a silhouette of mountains reached skyward, meeting a haze of blue, yellow and white. A beautiful sight amidst so much destruction. An illusion of peace amidst a reality of war. Just an illusion.

Zach reached the gaping hole that had once been the door of the
targeted house. Rubble lay everywhere inside on a stone floor. The east wall of the home was totally decimated and they could see the outer wall of the neighboring building. There was some sort of graffiti written; from what Zach knew of the language, he deciphered that it was anti-American.

Toward the rear
of the home were remnants of a straw pallet and a small table. Sparse furnishing even by village standards. The blast had destroyed everything else. No doubt the people who lived here had little incentive to return, although there were instances in other villages where the evacuees did return to try to start their lives over.

Ahead
was an alcove that he guessed led to other rooms. He hand-signaled Marty and Joseph, his weapon ready as he stepped into a very small hallway, and they formed a line behind him.

Just a whisper of a sound. Again, could be a rummaging animal.

But it wasn't.

A blast from a room to the left. Zach saw the flash just seconds before he felt something ripping into him. He'd been facing the east of the hallway, a gamble that allowed the insurgent to take him down.

Yells and shots rang above his head as he collapsed to the floor. Strangely, the initial pain died; he felt nothing.

Zach shook himself awake, forcing an end to the dream. Or rather, an end to the nightmare. He reached for the sweating pitcher of ice water he kept on his nightstand. He moved in a half sitting position and poured the water in a glass next to the pitcher. Most of the ice had melted through the night, but the water was still cold. He welcomed the cold as it ran through him, chilled him. Made him remember that he was still alive.

Death was a running theme in his life.
Had been for four years now, when he for all purposes had died that hot, summer day in Afghanistan. And had been revived in a MASH unit several days later, with a surgeon standing over him telling him he was lucky to be alive. That was the day he found out that Joseph Clarence, moving in just behind him, had also been struck down. But there had been no hope there as half of his face had been blown off. The rest of the men had taken down the few insurgents who had been headquartered in a couple of buildings.

His being alive was a miracle
according to the surgeons and nurses who had worked to bring him back. The enemy's bullet had torn through the lumbar region of his spine which in a lot of cases is a fatal injury. However, it had left him with a permanent lesion. They tried to convince him that he should be grateful that he'd only suffered what they called an incomplete injury. Which meant that he could have sensation below the lesion. But no movement. No fucking movement ever. He would never walk again.

Sometimes he wished the bullet had gotten him in the brain
, just like it did Joseph. Joseph who never liked being called Joe. Only twenty four years old. A wife and an infant son. Zach often wished that he could turn the tables and that it was Joseph who had gotten the reprieve. He would have done so much more than Zach ever would. And even in a wheelchair, he would have been there for his family. Not just a waste of space.

One of the bedroom windows was partially
opened and the temperature in the room had dropped into the fifties. Despite the chill, he felt a sweat bead running along his forehead. Mind over matter. His dream had taken him back to that scorching day and his body was responding. Much as it did when he dreamed of a sexual encounter, either from the past or arising from his fervid illusion. On those nights he would awaken and find himself hard, ready for someone who was not even there.