A Weldon Family Christmas: A Southern Steam Novella (Weldon Brothers) (2 page)

Emma smiled, unsure if she should be relieved or not.  She had wondered if Rocky had been jealous of Jared and James’s closeness and that had precipitated Jared’s withdrawal from James.  Even now, she had to question if the shadows in Rocky’s eyes were over James.  Ultimately the twins had to live their own lives, but sometimes, when twins were as close as James and Jared had been that took some careful navigation.  She shifted her gaze between the two.  “Is this something that either of you have any reservations about?”

Rocky’s brow creased with confusion, as if she didn’t know why there would be any.

Jared’s laugh had a strained edge.  “Only that we’ll fall on our face again.  If we can’t make a go of low income housing, Shamrock’s reputation will be unsalvageable.”

Rocky elbowed Jared in the side—hard, from the looks of Jared’s wince.  “That’s bull sh-uh-malarkey Jared Weldon!  Say that again and I’ll take you to the cleaners.”

“What’s that?”  Jesse yelled from the kitchen then popped his head through the doorway.  “Did you hear what I heard, Jackson?”

Jackson, with his arm wrapped around a flushed Nan, appeared in the doorway.  “We’ve an ally in the enemy camp?  We’d be glad to coach you on his weak spots.  Did you know that he can’t stand for—”

Jared covered Rocky’s ears.  “Another word and you’re going to the cleaners.”

Rocky elbowed Jared again escaping him and spoke to Jesse.  “He hates to have his feet tickled.”

“Yep,” Jesse said.

Jackson shook his head.  “Wait a minute, Jesse.  The boy just threatened us.”

“He did at that, bro.  I’m thinking a creek dunking is in order.”

Emma stood up, cradling Jason, knowing one day that the little tyke and Jake would be following in their rambunctious dad’s footsteps.  She bit her cheeks to keep a stern face.  “Make a move for that creek in these temperatures and I’ll clean everybody’s clock.  It’s dinner time.”

John slid up to her side, bouncing Jake in his arms.  “Best do as your mom says, boys.”

“That’s not going to get you out of the dog house, John Weldon,” Emma said under her breath.

John chuckled, and she saw Jesse mouth something to Jackson.  She knew her boys and nipped their plan in the bud.  “Anybody tries to dunk anyone in a toilet and there’ll be no apple pie or chocolate cake—for a year.”

Jesse and Jackson groaned and everybody laughed as James then walked in the door, carrying a motorcycle helmet, and decked in riding gear.  Emma’s heart sank as a gust of cold air rushed in. She heard John gasp, but her gaze stayed focused on James.  From the wild gleam in his eyes she knew her son had taken another step closer to the edge of danger.  There was riding and there was riding to run and James was running.  She didn’t think he’d been on a bike since he was sixteen, when a good friend was killed in front of the twins on a ride.  “What did I miss?” he asked.

John grabbed her arm.  “Em?”

Hearing desperation, she swung around to him.  Flushed and looking bewildered, he was pushing Jake into her arms and clutching his left arm to his chest.  She grabbed Jake as her husband fell forward.  “John!”

Jared caught his father before he hit the ground.

“Dad!” Jackson yelled, rushing to John.  “Nan, get the emergency kit out of the car.  Jesse, call 911 then the ER.  Possible MI.  Tell them to bring in Allen.  He’s the best.”

“John!” Emma cried, her heart squeezing in pain.  She thrust the babies into Alexi’s arms and rushed to her husband, desperate to touch him.  She fell to her knees next to him, tears filled her eyes and she gasped for air and clutched his hand. Rocky grabbed Jason and James took hold of Emma’s arm.  “Mom, come over here and sit down.”

James pulled her back.  “Let Jackson help him, Ma.  Come on and sit down.”  Tears blurred her eyes and her stomach twisted with dread.  She gasped for air and clutched the Huey keepsake in her fist. 
Dear God,
she couldn’t lose him.  She just couldn’t.

Vietnam
December 1971

J
ohn was in hell
and had been there longer than he wanted to think about.  He wasn’t sure if he’d make it out alive or even if he wanted to anymore.  He hadn’t expected anything to be a picnic.  Nam was bad from the moment he’d stepped off the plane, but that first spring had been the worst.  His Marine Infantry Battalion went head-to-head with the NVG and everything he believed about life, himself, and his country changed.  Their mission had been to stop an NVG division near Dai Do off the Cua Viet River from a planned attack on the Dong Ha Marine Headquarters.  They’d found the enemy camp empty, with evidence that the enemy had hastily retreated to the North.   As his battalion returned South, the NVG’s had ambushed them from both sides.  It had been a blood bath.

John had been taken prisoner by one group of the enemy along with six other men.  They were given to a village of secret communist supporters.  He’d spent five days in captivity and would carry the scars of that forever.  Only he and one other man had escaped.  The other four men had been tortured to death, one at a time in front of the remaining prisoners.  He found out after making it back, that there had been so many American casualties in the ambush that the dead had to be airlifted out in external cargo nets.

John had spent the next two weeks in a hospital for evaluation. He’d watched news reports on anti-war protests in the US.  There’d been signs asking how many babies the American troops were killing each day.  Intellectually, he understood the outcry.  Nobody was sure what the war was about and bad things were happening everywhere he turned, but some of the shit being said just wasn’t true—at least he’d never seen or heard of it happening and he’d heard a lot.  The negative propaganda was demoralizing.  He wanted the peace-loving SOB’s to come walk a day in the shoes of a marine blown up lured into a trap by a kid calling for help, or live in a South Vietnam village that the NVG’s had decimated.  The atrocities John had seen committed on fellow human beings had killed a part of his soul.

Declared “fit” for service, John insisted on staying in Nam.  He had one goal—fight like hell so he could rescue other men who’d been taken prisoner and were living in an even darker hell.  Like everyone else around him, he kept it together on the outside and played the role of the invincible marine.  He kept his nightmares hidden and everything else he buried, because on the inside he was dead—or close to it.

There was no rhyme or reason to this muddled war he fought.  There was the enemy, which could be anyone no matter their age or gender.  There was survival—either kill or be killed.  Or kill yourself, but even as worthless as everything had become, he couldn’t seem to walk into the jungle and eat his own gun.  Ultimately, there was rescue.  John did what he had to do, hoping that every day he was out there he’d find and save a POW.

It was a week before Christmas and he was in Saigon for a few days, a reward for saving his XO from a booby trap.   John had wanted to see a buddy in the hospital.  The man had lost his legs as well as several friends in his platoon.  The village they’d been searching had supposedly been anti-communist and friendly.  No big surprise that it had been a death trap just waiting for the Americans to arrive.  The jungle was riddled with them.

Tonight, much against John’s will, he’d been dragged to a Christmas party for the troops.  All he had wanted was to find a bar and drown in a bottle.  How anyone could remotely think about Christmas in this hell was beyond him, but beleaguered decorations and worn furniture spruced the crowded room and a sense of cheer buzzed in the air.  It was false, or course, no doubt generated by everyone’s need to pretend that they weren’t in hell.

One good thing was that the shindig was for the grunts and not the officers, so the men were relaxed and boisterous.  Scattered about were more American women than he’d seen at one time since leaving the states.  All of them were wearing powder blue dresses and American Red Cross badges on their sleeve—the famed Donut Dollies.

John had heard about the women volunteers who visited the hospitals and mingled with the troops, but this was the first he’d seen them.  They all looked like angels and every man in the room appeared to be praising their glory.  Part of him was damn glad to lay eyes on their heavenly faces while another part of him wondered why’d they’d been allowed into this hellhole.  No life was sacred in Nam—even missionaries were shot, captured, and tortured.

He shuddered at the thought of any woman going through what he’d been through and a sudden cold sweat covered his body.  Damn, John.  Don’t think about it.  Not now.  Keep it together.  Breathe.

Grabbing some punch, he moved to a window; being able to glance outside helped ease his panic and the sense of being caged.  As he stood there grappling for calm, he heard a woman laugh.  It was beautiful, light and musical and had him turning her way.  She and a blonde woman stood with about ten men.  Details about the other people around escaped him.  All he could see was her.  Simple but full of grace, she had her wavy, blue-black hair pulled into a pony tail.  Her strawberry lips and peaches and cream skin made him hanker for a taste of his Georgia home.  But it was her blue eyes that got to him the most.  They twinkled with stardust.

As if sensing his interest, her gaze connected with his and she froze a moment as an electric shock arced between them—one that had him imagining what kissing her strawberry mouth would feel like.  With a knowing look, he nodded her way and she turned back to the group of men, her cheeks flushing pink.  Unsettled, he went back to his punch and the solace of the window.  She brought back memories of things he wanted to forget.  Things that didn’t fit inside hell or inside him anymore.

Damn.  He didn’t mean any disrespect either, but there was no avoiding what she did to his libido. Not that he’d act on it.  The women who came to serve were not to be touched.

A few minutes later, he saw her reflection in the glass behind him.  He could feel her, too.  As if her presence rubbed against his senses, shocking him with static.  His heart kicked.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but have we met before?  You nodded as if we had and I didn’t want you to think I was slighting you by turning away.”

He didn’t face her but watched her reflection in the glass.  “No.  We haven’t met.  Why are you here?  In Nam?  In hell?”

Her incredible eyes widened at his abrupt demand.  “I get asked that a lot,” she said softly.  It’s because you are here.  Every soldier in this room, the hospital, or out in that jungle deserves to have a moment of comfort.  Be it through my smile, my voice, a listening ear, a conversation, or help in writing a letter because they’re too injured to do it themselves.”

“What if your smile and your voice makes everything that much more painful to bear?”  He struggled with the need to feel more of her closer to him.  He had to fist his hands to stave off the desire to touch her.  He wasn’t sure if the coldness in him wanted to consume her, or use her warmth to thaw his soul, all he knew was that his reaction to her was more intense than he’d ever felt before.

He heard her breath catch.  Then his knees nearly buckled when she set her hand on his shoulder.  “I hear that after grave injuries the path to healing is more painful than what caused the wound in the first place.  You’re not alone in your suffering.”

John whipped around and she withdrew her hand.  She was slender and delicate and way too fragile.  He tried to stop the rush of emotions bubbling from his gut as his pain overrode his desire.  “What?  Are you going to tell me that you understand?”

She shook her head.  “No.  And I pray I never come face-to-face with the violence and the evil responsible for the carnage at the hospital or for the pain I see in your eyes.  But God is with you.  He knows.”

John’s laugh was bitter.  “Don’t you know Hell is the absence of God and we’re in it?”

She held out her hand to him.  “I’m Emma Rollins from Georgia.”

Southern and graceful.  No wonder she reminded him of home.  Against his better judgment, he clasped her hand, a warm, soft haven he had to force himself to release.  “John Weldon.  Also from Georgia.  What part?”

“Madison.  It’s a small town outside of Atlanta.”

“Savannah.”

She smiled warmly.  “One of my favorite places to visit.  You know, I had an uncle in World War II.  He said the same thing about Europe in his letters to home.  That it was a hell from which there’d be no salvation.  He changed his mind a few years later.”

“How so?”

“He realized man made hells only lasted for a season, not for an eternity.”

He shrugged, not wanting to be rude, but if she’d seen what he’d seen, if she’d been where he’d been, she’d realized there were some things that marked a man forever, not just for a season.  Her blue gaze was full of concern and the twinkling stardust had dimmed.  He was an SOB for being such a downer.  “Sorry.  This wasn’t a very cheerful conversation.”

“It was honest and that’s what’s important.”  She laughed, reviving the twinkle.  “If I was looking for cheerful I’d have gone to Disneyland.”

The corners of John’s lips reluctantly tugged into a slight smile, something he hadn’t done in a long time.

“Emma?” A fellow Donut Dolly called from across the room. “Can you come help?”

She glanced across the room.  “I’ll be right there, Maggie.”  She turned back to him.

“I wish you were there right now.  In Disneyland.  Anywhere but here surrounded by danger.”

“How long are you in Saigon?”

“A week.  I go back the day after Christmas.”

“I’ll be here until Christmas Day then we’re joining Bob Hope in Long Bình for the Christmas show.”  Her friend called again.  “I’ve got to go,” she said.

He nodded, more disappointed than he wanted to admit.

 She turned then swung back.  “Be careful, John.”

“Marines are always careful.”

She shook her head.  “No.  Be careful you don’t let today’s hell steal tomorrow’s heaven.”

She walked away then, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from calling her back.  He left the party then, looking for a bar and that bottle in which he could forget about everything.  He found it.  Had two drinks, but rather than disappearing, Emma’s image and words grew larger in his mind.  Leaving the bar, he hit the street, wandering about, walking places that even he shouldn’t.  He was looking for a fight.  Looking to explode.  Just daring fate for someone to try and take him down.  Unfortunately, everyone left him the hell alone.

He came to a church that he’d been to once or twice when he first set foot on foreign soil, back when he believed he was fighting for freedom.  The glow from the windows told him people were inside. His vision blurred with tears he hadn’t been able to shed before and he kept walking.

He hurt so bad, he could barely breathe.  Emma Rollins had ripped his guts out and he wasn’t sure he could stuff them back inside.

Present Day

J
ohn wasn’t talking.  His
eyes were closed, and he’d gone from flushed to pasty white.  Jackson and Jesse’s expressions were grim as they started CPR.  As a hospital worker trained in CPR, Emma knew the signs were bad.  She sat frozen, unable to breathe, unable to cry out from the pain ripping her apart.  John! 
Please, Dear God.  Please, don’t call him home, yet
.  She needed more time.

Nan rushed inside with Jared’s emergency kit and a small AED unit.  She didn’t say a word.  She opened it up, drew out supplies, giving an ambu bag to Jesse and placing an IV in John’s arm.  She hung the fluids on the back of the rocking chair and slid next to Jackson.  As Jesse gave two breaths, Nan took over compressions and Jackson ripped open John’s shirt, applying the AED leads.

Emma’s heart sank at the tiny wavy line appearing on the monitor
.  Please, God, please!

“All clear,” Jackson said.  Nan and Jesse released John and sat back.  Jackson delivered a shock then Nan immediately began compressions.  Jackson pushed medication in John’s IV.  When it was Jesse’s turn to give John oxygen, Jackson went back to the AED.  Emma heard approaching sirens.