“Beverly, it’s an honor to shake your hand,” said my newest acquaintance, “Williams is sure to be one of the best. You must be an outstanding young lady.”
I smiled graciously and glanced up to catch a wink from the soldier at my side. The Cadet Lieutenant was right- Patrick Williams would stand among the strongest and the bravest. He already did, at least in the realm of ROTC.
Click. I caught one last snapshot of the military ball before we left. My eyes scanned the room to take in the scene- guys in “Class A” uniforms, girls in modest yet elegant gowns, cheesecake leftovers and half empty glasses of sweet tea on the round tables bordering the empty dance floor. Patrick and I said our last goodnights and made our way out of the double doors.
Patrick escorted me to his truck, opening my door first, as always. I climbed in as gracefully as possible in my floor-length dress, gathering the hem before he closed the door. I watched him jog around the truck and jump in the driver’s side. He looked more like a prince than a foot soldier in his green formal uniform and black bowtie. Before, when I only knew Patrick from a distance, I would have described him as “cookie cutter handsome,” speaking unappreciatively of his blonde hair, striking blue eyes, and chiseled facial features. My lack of admiration quickly diminished. An old-fashioned girl can’t easily resist a chivalrous gentleman. It didn’t take long for me to give up my standard of “no military men for me, thank you.”
“How was your dinner?” he asked, “Good MREs, huh?”
“Ha, is that what those things taste like?” I laughed.
“I wish!”
We faded into a comfortable silence for the next couple minutes. Patrick kept one hand on the steering wheel and one holding mine. My gaze floated aimlessly through my window into the peaceful night. I could see my reflection in the side mirror, my auburn curls now softened to waves, my makeup slightly faded.
“…So,” Patrick’s voice brought me back and I turned to face him in attention.
“Did that give you a better idea of what it will be like?” he asked.
Sudden uneasiness pulled my gaze back outside. I knew what he was talking about, and I had expected this conversation to resurface tonight.
“Yeah.”
“Bev,” he spoke gently, “We’ve been together for a while now, and I understand that this whole military thing has been hard for you to accept.”
“Yea, it has, but I knew what I was signing up for. You’ve made it clear from the start that serving in the army is your calling.”
Calling. I shuddered as it shot out of my lips like a bullet aimed for nothing. It was Patrick’s word for his future career. By now I knew that he said it with utmost seriousness. He was the type of person who gives all- heart, soul, mind and strength. To fulfill his duty and retire at an early age with a cozy financial pillow was not his goal. His life would never be that safe or simple. Never…
“I wanted to tell you about a conversation I had with Cadet Pierce the other day,” Patrick started, “you know– the one you met on our way out? We were talking about what it’ll be like living on a base…”
He went on to describe daily life of living, working, and raising a family on a base. While he spoke, I halfway listened and halfway dreamed. I thought about the many conversations we’d had, when I had honestly told him that I never pictured myself as a military wife. It wasn’t the constant moving that bothered me. The desire to travel and live a season overseas was something Patrick and I shared, but it was different. I pictured entering a new place with camera in hand to capture every sight of life. For Patrick, his entrance would carry weapons of war containing the power to end life.
Earlier that day, Patrick and I visited a local shooting range. The cloudy sky shielded us from mid-afternoon heat in the open field. Patrick let me have a turn with the hand gun. He was the one who taught me to plant my feet to the side and turn my body to the front, leaning slightly forward, and arms holding the weapon straight out. He showed me where the focus and I had it perfectly, but the anticipation of the explosion sound caused me to flinch, missing the target.
“Well, that was a little closer,” I said sarcastically.
“Let me show you how it’s done,” he joked in his Clint Eastwood-impression voice.
Patrick had been holding my camera as skillfully as I handled the gun, so we traded. Now we were both in our niches. We faced our targets from a distance.
Lift the tool effortlessly to eye level.
With left eye shut, zoom in with right eye squinted.
Aim.
Bend the right finger just slightly to shoot.
A sharp line in the sand was drawn here.
Any delicate sound the camera might have made was swallowed up by the BOOM of the gun, firing a bullet into the target, just right of center. We lowered the devices to examine the contrasting results. The bulls-eye was punctured deeply, wounded beyond healing, while the view screen displayed a picture beautifully lit by the daytime sun, offering a work of art to any eyes willing to look. I quietly soaked in the black and white of that moment.
“…So, it’s a lot closer to normal life than I thought,” Patrick finished his explanation.
“That doesn’t sound bad at all,” I said, “But… it won’t always be that way, right?”
“Well, there will be times when I have to be away,” he said, drifting mentally to the months upon months that he’d spend on special assignments. A companion, though willing to follow him anywhere, would have to wait and hope for his safe return.
I released a revealing sigh. “It’s just hard to imagine being with someone, but not really being with that person.”
“I know it’s not ideal. But people make it work if they really want to.”
I hated when we spoke hypothetically, knowing that we really pictured ourselves when we said “someone” and “people” and “they.” Patrick released his confident grip on my hand to rub his forehead.
“The choice is yours to make, Bev,” He said.
“What does that mean? Why is that on my shoulders?” I tried to control my tone of voice.
“I mean- my decision is already made. I’m in it. You have to decide if you’re in it, too.”
By now I knew that the “it” in this equation was not our relationship. That was the dependent variable and the military was the independent variable. In just a couple months, we would both graduate from our hometown university and he would go where the army sends him, whether I joined him or not. Even if I married the man, the equation would never change. When God asked “Whom shall I send?” Isaiah said “Here I am!” When the army said “Go,” Patrick said “Yes Sir.”
I propped my elbow on the door and faced the window again. Convenience stores, restaurants, and gas stations flew by us. At a red light we stopped by a building with a tall flagpole flying the stars and stripes. It waved high above its surroundings, glowing in the light shining upon it. I glanced over at Patrick and saw he had spotted it, too. He always beamed with pride at the sight of the American flag. He raised his eyebrows with not one wrinkle of fear.
The light turned green and we turned into my neighborhood. Patrick took my hand again.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” he said, “Take all the time you need.”
I smiled to thank him. “Ok. Let’s not ruin a lovely evening with such serious talk.”
Just moments later, the truck rolled into my driveway. Patrick turned the key and reached for his seatbelt. Before he opened the door, I slid across the middle seat to reach my arm around his right shoulder, resting my forehead into his left shoulder. His strong arms welcomed the embrace. I thought my doubts might melt into the floorboards, freeing my mind to find answers that seemed nonexistent. I thought all distance could be reconciled here and now, as long as I didn’t let go.
