Jeremiah put on his best shirt and checked the mirror once more. The first wrinkles painted the edges of his eyes. Not that he noticed. In the reflection, he saw the past. A younger man with the woman he loved by his side. Her skin, a dark, golden brown, glowing in the sunlight. The smile on her face disappearing as she listened to the words she understood but couldn’t grasp.
He turned his head and the image faded. The voice remained.
You must not marry and have sons and daughters in this place.
He hadn’t asked why. Maybe the shock prevented him. Maybe he realized no argument would change his mind. The Lord always knew best. Intellectually, Jeremiah knew this as well. Still, his heart often fought a battle to follow its own course.
Jeremiah tried to explain to Victoria why it wouldn’t work between them, but it only sounded to her like he was making excuses. In her pain, she ran to the arms of someone who would understand. He listened patiently, fell in love himself, and, six months later, asked Jeremiah if he had his permission to ask Victoria out. Jeremiah gave Ben his blessing. A year and a half later, Ben and Victoria walked down the aisle as man and wife. Jeremiah attended the wedding on Victoria’s insistence, although he would have preferred not to have been reminded of what he lost.
The jealousy, the hurt, slowly vanished. Only an idealized imprint of her, engraved into his subconscious, remained. The awkwardness he felt whenever he saw Victoria disappeared with time, replaced by indifference and, finally, contentment.
Anytime now, she and Ben would expect a child. He was sure of it. Or, at least, he hoped for it. If anyone deserved happiness, it was them.
Jeremiah slipped his jacket on and tucked a wine bottle under his arm. The walk through the heat would bring forth streams of sweat, but no one would notice a soaked shirt through the outer layer. His feet hit the pavement and he let his mind wander, rehearsing the toast Ben asked him to give before drifting into a pleasant daydream.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Jer!” Ben jumped out of his seat and headed towards the bar area. Grabbing his friend around the waist, he lifted his frail body into the air. The unwitting ballerina flapped his feet until they touched ground again. “Come on over, buddy. We weren’t sure if you were coming. Saved a seat for you, though.”
Jeremiah hesitated for a moment. Something was off about Ben’s greeting, his smile. They seemed almost forced. He determined he had simply imagined it and pulled the wine bottle from his now bruised ribs. “Wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” he joked. “Unless, of course, I could have found an excuse.”
Ben laughed a little too heartily.
Jeremiah handed him the bottle. “I’m not a hundred percent sure I should give this to you. It seems you’ve already reached your limit.”
“Haven’t had a drop yet,” Ben replied as he ushered Jeremiah through the maze of tables. “Probably won’t either.” He turned the bottle over. His lips approved of what he read. “Monte Bianco ’51. I think I’ll make an exception for this.”
“Not drinking tonight? Are you pregnant?” Jeremiah paused. “Is Victoria pregnant? Congratulations!”
“No, buddy. Nothing like that.” Ben’s smile faded in an instant but returned just as quickly. “By the way, how’d you swing this?” he said, returning the bottle to Jeremiah.
“I’ve got a little stashed away from the trust fund dad left me.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the memorial. My colonel wouldn’t give me leave.”
“I know, Ben. You’ve apologized enough.” Jeremiah made sure his tone conveyed his sincerity.
“Still, I wish I could have been there for you.” Ben placed his hand on Jeremiah’s shoulder. A few more steps and they reached a room at the back of the restaurant. “Hey, guys,” he called out. “Look who I found.”
Calls of Jeremiah, Jer, Jay Bird, and a few other monikers he didn’t care for rang out from the room. Victoria walked over and gave him a peck on the cheek. A deep red dress matching the ruby of her lips breezed against his skin.
“Hi, Jeremiah. Glad you came.” Victoria stepped back. “You’re looking well.” Her gaze fell. “Have you been eating? You really should come over for dinner more often. I can make those crab cakes you love.”
“I’m doing fine, Vic.” How are you doing? he asked in his mind. He let Victoria guide him to a seat. Two others he recognized approached before he could rest his sore feet.
“Jer!” A couple of stocky guys, who even through their suit jackets looked like they could compete for a wrestling championship, greeted him.
“Andrew. Mel,” Jeremiah said as his body instinctively folded into a protective position. His body took a couple more spins through the air. The law of gravity restored, Jeremiah hunkered into the chair and scooted himself close to the table. “What did I miss?” he asked Mel Ebed who had taken the space beside him.
“The usual rowdy nonsense. How’s the ministry going?”
“The usual rowdy nonsense,” Jeremiah repeated to him. “How’re your classes going?”
“I finished.”
“Great.”
“Got offered a job already.”
“Excellent,” Jeremiah said. “Where at?”
“At the Presidential Palace.”
“Guarding the gate again? I thought you were leaving the military.”
“I already did. They offered me a position as a secret service agent. I’ll be guarding the president. Or someone. I’m sure they’ll start me off low on the totem pole. Probably the first lady’s hairstylist.”
Jeremiah studied Mel’s face to see if he was joking. A few laugh lines creased Mel’s brown skin.
“You’ll do a great job,” Jeremiah said. “And if they wanted a guard for the hairstylist, they should’ve called me. I might actually be able to handle that job.”
Mel’s perfectly straight, beautifully white teeth graced the raucous room. “You’re one guy I’d never mess with,” he said. “Not with your bodyguard.”
Jeremiah took another overly friendly slap to the shoulder and a quick but painful back rub. Food, served family style, spread out before him. Wings, ribs, rolls, a few vegetables to legitimize the banquet, and a dozen bottles of wine resting on ice.
Victoria prepared a plate. Her fingers made light work as she chose only the best. Despite her outward appearance, Jeremiah noticed a tension as she talked. Subtle, the kind only a close friend would recognize if he were paying attention. When she set the plate in front of him, he grabbed her hand and gave it a squeeze. She remained for just a moment before pulling her taut fingers out of his grip.
“Thanks, Vic,” he said.
“No problem.” She brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. Her jaw quivered as she did it.
Jeremiah studied her face, watched how her eyes stared into nothing. “Hey, Victoria. What’s going on?” he asked in a low voice so no one else could hear. Not that they would have with all the commotion in the room.
“Nothing,” she said. “It’s all good.” Her demeanor told a different tale.
“Vic?”
“Nothing, Jeremiah.” Her words were more forceful. “I’m doing fine.”
She picked up an empty glass and walked away. Ben followed her movement and turned back to Jeremiah. A minute later, Jeremiah felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Jer,” Ben said, indicating with his head. “Would you mind coming outside with me?”
Jeremiah headed out behind his friend, through the maze of tables and past the bar, until they stepped into the street. The muted sounds of people eating and talking crawled through the windows.
“What’s going on, Ben?”
“I’m not supposed to say.”
“You and Victoria OK?”
“Yeah. We’re doing great.”
“What is it?”
Ben shifted his weight to his other leg. “Between us?”
“Unless what you say dictates otherwise.”
Ben looked up and down the street and pulled Jeremiah further from the door. “The Chinese have sent their forces against the Russians again.”
Jeremiah shrugged. “I heard that but I don’t understand why that would bother you. Or any of us for that matter. Does Josiah think they’re going to attack?”
“No.” Ben glanced around again. “No. We’re going to hit them.”
“What do you mean we’re going to hit them?”
“All I know is that I’ve been called to report tomorrow morning and that I need to prepare myself. The way they say it … we all know what it means.”
“But why?” Jeremiah began. “I don’t get it.” He started speaking to himself. “Did Josiah order a strike? He would consult the Lord first.”
Ben answered as though the question was for him. “Who else would have? But worse than that, the rumor is he’ll lead the first strike.”
A noise between a grunt and a groan slipped out. “I have to see him. I need to head there now.” Jeremiah opened his wallet and turned to Ben. “Can you spare a few dollars for a cab?”
“Please don’t go,” Ben said. “Not now. Everyone will ask why you left, and I don’t … I can’t answer them now. Please stay for a little while. You can make an excuse later about why you need to leave. Heck, I’ll drive you there myself.”
Jeremiah bit his lip. “I guess I can stay for a couple hours.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “I assume Victoria knows everything.”
“She knows I’m joining my battalion and that she won’t be able to contact me. That only means one thing.”
“Yeah.” Jeremiah let out a deep sigh. “You’ll be alright, you know.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Either way, I mean.”
“Oh.” Ben took some time to reflect. “Hey, bud. If I don’t make it back, will you look after Victoria for me?”
“I’ll make sure she’s OK.”
Ben examined the night. The buzzing of hornets fell from electric lights. Across the street, a pair of drunk friends helped each down the sidewalk. Far away, in the hills outside Megiddo, Tennessee, a Chinese sentry stared into the stars.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The phone rang twice before the operator picked up. Jeremiah spoke in broken spurts.
“President Josiah.”
“Please put him on.”
“Jeremiah.”
“I realize that.”
“I need to speak with him.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow?”
“No. Now. It’s imperative.”
The line went dead. Jeremiah thought about redialing. All last night he called. All morning he tried again and again. This was the first time someone answered. By the tenor of the response, he knew another call would achieve the same result. The rumor Ben mentioned was only that. Yet the pieces fell together.
The Chinese had stationed a couple divisions near the southern tip of the Shenandoah Valley. Insurgents from the northern states had allied with the Chinese a couple months ago and had begun to fight skirmishes to rid themselves of their Russian conquerors. Their attempts had failed. They would always fail. Only the Lord would bring to an end to his discipline at a time of his choosing. But the fighting had grown stronger. The Chinese, inspired by the insurgents’ efforts, agreed to provide supplies. Their support had soon grown to machinery and then to troops. A major clash peered over the horizon. But why would Josiah get involved?
The question haunted him as his fingers pressed the keypad. He ended the call before it could connect.
Sore feet started their weary march to nowhere. A merciless sun poured out its wrath on the hostile, proud world below. Jeremiah’s cheeks turned red. He lowered his head to protect himself from the sun’s fury. His crown felt hot as though it would melt in the refiner’s furnace.
The low rumble of a truck’s engine approached from behind, its wheels droning against the pavement. Only one other person braved the afternoon heat, quite the contrast from the stacks of oblivious revelers who strolled down the streets the previous night. War had begun.
The man stood on the corner talking into his phone. The shadow from the sign on a pharmacy obscured half his face, darkness painted with a jester’s brush. Jeremiah buried his hands further into his pockets. Sweat streamed down his ribs. Confusion drowning fear. Sadness and despair locked in combat with irrational hope.
The pharmacy called him inside. A pair of clerks turned as the door opened. Sallow lights illuminated sallow faces. Finding Jeremiah to be of no interest, the clerks went back to their hushed conversation. A few other people wandered the aisles to escape the afternoon, picking at merchandise and leafing through crinkled magazines. Jeremiah headed to the restroom and wiped off the sweat with a handful of paper towels.
He reemerged to a different world. Phones were pulled out, checked, and rechecked. Anxious glances exchanged with strangers. Mouths opened as if to speak, but the sound remained locked within.
Jeremiah’s heart raced. His hands found their way back into his pockets. A desperate prayer called to heaven. Empty, futile words to change the past.
Silence became shouts. People poured out of buildings as though the answer could be found beneath the raging sun. Jeremiah followed them outside and chose to head down the shady side of the street.
Blisters formed on his feet, burst, and burned, but still he kept walking. Pavement turned to dirt. Dirt to fields of green. Fields to rows of sickly beech trees forming a canopy over a trickling brook. Barely a thought entered his head. Only when he reached the edge of a lake did he stop.
A fallen tree beside the lake became his seat, a partially hidden boulder his footstool. A few, scattered clouds reflected off the water, white shaggy rabbits in a blue mirror. Jeremiah raised his head to the sky.
Outside of Megiddo, Tennessee, a jet dove towards the earth, flames lighting up the night around it. Long trails of smoke, hidden in the darkness, flowed behind as the pilot screamed into the headset. In an instant, the jet disappeared. A ball of orange and yellow and red rose above the earth where it hit. Jeremiah turned away. His chest shuddered. A single tear fell to the earth and mourned President Josiah.