Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle by Anthony Decosmo Page B
Authors: Anthony Decosmo
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day.
Many of their friends—back when they had friends—eventually asked the obvious question: did Thom and Jean have problems because they were an interracial marriage? Had her Italian father caused trouble?
Sure he had, until realizing that Thom was as an officer in the Marines. Soon the two swapped war stories. Tales of Korea in exchange for tales of Afghanistan. Hell, dad-in-law liked him even more when Thom was transferred to a Task Force that would operate under U.S. Army jurisdiction.
Unfortunately, their problems were not nearly as dramatic or as interesting as racism. He almost wished they faced a deluge of prejudice; then maybe they could have bonded in an "us against the world" type of way.
No, their problems had to do with him, but not because of the color of his skin.
When they married, she had been supportive of his job, yet afraid that his next mission would be his last. Their good-byes were passionate and sad. After a few years his assignments changed from somewhat predictable deployments to spur-of-the-moment missions; phone calls in the middle of the night.
Confused anger and tears replaced those passionate and sad good-byes. No amount of explaining would comfort her, no sincere apologies could appease. But like an exhausted boxer in the fifteenth round, Jean slowly succumbed to the blows. She grew too tired to burst into tears or scream out her frustration. No more emotion, just acceptance, probably the same way in which she accepted that the sun would rise every morning.
Her kisses good-bye were just a reflex, his predictions of return superfluous—it did not matter. She knew he would return when he returned, whenever that would be.
He loved her. He knew that. She loved him. He knew that, too.
They did not argue anymore. She did not question his job or offer any protest. On those evenings when he happened to be home she made dinner and they spoke of the weather, and the news, and repainting the master bedroom or what she should plant in the garden.
When he was not home, she shopped, she met with her bridge club, she visited her deteriorating mother in the retirement village outside of Los Angeles, and she even went to an occasional movie by herself.
She kept the home spotless; that was her pet project keeping her busy and focused.
Clean, neatly tucked sheets covered the bed in the spare room, and paper flowers decorated the night stand there. Yet no one came to visit. The master bedroom was equally as clean and well kept, an easy task, considering that half the bed was empty half the nights.
The living room, with the television and the couch and the recliner, was immaculate, decorated with wedding photographs, a Thomas Kincaid print depicting a snow-covered village, and the latest version of whatever coffee-table book had caught her eye at the mall.
A nice house. Not gigantic, but roomy. Not sophisticated, but very well maintained. Not a whole lot of land, but a nice size yard with privacy fencing to keep the world out.
What a perfect little home. All it needed was someone to live in it. The Gants were merely ghosts walking the halls.
He leaned against the counter and watched. She wore a bandana to keep her long black hair from her eyes while working in the dirt. She wore jeans and a gray t-shirt and dug into the soil to eliminate the remains of a dead or dying plant or weed.
Thom wondered what would happen—how she would feel—if one of these missions were his last. If one time he told her he would be back in a week and he was not back in ten days, or two weeks, or a month.
He wondered how she would feel when the big American-made SUV with the government license plates and tinted windows pulled to the curb and two well-manicured military types in dress uniforms and carrying attaché cases came marching up the walkway.
Would she be afraid or relieved?
He knew Jean would not have given her heart to someone whom she could ever stop loving. He knew that she was a part of him and he was
Many of their friends—back when they had friends—eventually asked the obvious question: did Thom and Jean have problems because they were an interracial marriage? Had her Italian father caused trouble?
Sure he had, until realizing that Thom was as an officer in the Marines. Soon the two swapped war stories. Tales of Korea in exchange for tales of Afghanistan. Hell, dad-in-law liked him even more when Thom was transferred to a Task Force that would operate under U.S. Army jurisdiction.
Unfortunately, their problems were not nearly as dramatic or as interesting as racism. He almost wished they faced a deluge of prejudice; then maybe they could have bonded in an "us against the world" type of way.
No, their problems had to do with him, but not because of the color of his skin.
When they married, she had been supportive of his job, yet afraid that his next mission would be his last. Their good-byes were passionate and sad. After a few years his assignments changed from somewhat predictable deployments to spur-of-the-moment missions; phone calls in the middle of the night.
Confused anger and tears replaced those passionate and sad good-byes. No amount of explaining would comfort her, no sincere apologies could appease. But like an exhausted boxer in the fifteenth round, Jean slowly succumbed to the blows. She grew too tired to burst into tears or scream out her frustration. No more emotion, just acceptance, probably the same way in which she accepted that the sun would rise every morning.
Her kisses good-bye were just a reflex, his predictions of return superfluous—it did not matter. She knew he would return when he returned, whenever that would be.
He loved her. He knew that. She loved him. He knew that, too.
They did not argue anymore. She did not question his job or offer any protest. On those evenings when he happened to be home she made dinner and they spoke of the weather, and the news, and repainting the master bedroom or what she should plant in the garden.
When he was not home, she shopped, she met with her bridge club, she visited her deteriorating mother in the retirement village outside of Los Angeles, and she even went to an occasional movie by herself.
She kept the home spotless; that was her pet project keeping her busy and focused.
Clean, neatly tucked sheets covered the bed in the spare room, and paper flowers decorated the night stand there. Yet no one came to visit. The master bedroom was equally as clean and well kept, an easy task, considering that half the bed was empty half the nights.
The living room, with the television and the couch and the recliner, was immaculate, decorated with wedding photographs, a Thomas Kincaid print depicting a snow-covered village, and the latest version of whatever coffee-table book had caught her eye at the mall.
A nice house. Not gigantic, but roomy. Not sophisticated, but very well maintained. Not a whole lot of land, but a nice size yard with privacy fencing to keep the world out.
What a perfect little home. All it needed was someone to live in it. The Gants were merely ghosts walking the halls.
He leaned against the counter and watched. She wore a bandana to keep her long black hair from her eyes while working in the dirt. She wore jeans and a gray t-shirt and dug into the soil to eliminate the remains of a dead or dying plant or weed.
Thom wondered what would happen—how she would feel—if one of these missions were his last. If one time he told her he would be back in a week and he was not back in ten days, or two weeks, or a month.
He wondered how she would feel when the big American-made SUV with the government license plates and tinted windows pulled to the curb and two well-manicured military types in dress uniforms and carrying attaché cases came marching up the walkway.
Would she be afraid or relieved?
He knew Jean would not have given her heart to someone whom she could ever stop loving. He knew that she was a part of him and he was
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