The Ides of Matt 2014

The Ghost Of Willow’s Past-3

“Still filled with your parents’ stuff? Where are they?” Even as she asked, Amy knew.

That grim look clouded Dusty’s features, the same as moments before.

She knew the answer and wished she’d never asked, wished she hadn’t come this morning. But her mother’s ashes were still in her backpack. She hadn’t scattered them yesterday because the willow tree was gone. Last night Amy hadn’t slept a wink, knowing even if the tree were gone, that spot in the garden was where her mother belonged.

“Mid-Atlantic Ridge, I guess.”

Amy squinted at him, but he just shrugged.

“They died in a crash, Icelandic volcano. At least it was quick and they were together which I guess was good for them. I was just thinking that I’ve never cleaned out their stuff at the condo, because it never mattered. That’s just not where they are any more. They’re now part of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, a place where the earth’s crust is born.”

Amy watched his brows knit together as he looked somewhere far beyond the Portland Rose Garden. She’d had trouble throwing out the last napkin her mother had used, and here he hadn’t cleaned house after three years. She had to be out of the apartment by year end. How in hell was she supposed to do that?

Her mother had hidden her disease from Amy until almost too late. They’d had three days together, most of it spent with her mother in drugged sleep, the rest with Amy reading aloud about Amelia and Hiroshi’s yearly meetings at the old willow tree.

It had become a Patterson tradition. Each year since before Amy could remember, they had come to the Rose Garden and left small presents at the foot of the old willow on Christmas Eve. As a child, Amy had made colored drawings for the tree. Once she’d covered its trunk with little gold and silver star stickers. In later years she’d often purchased a special Christmas ornament to dangle among the bare branches, or scattered a little vial of soil she’d brought back from her travels.

Reading the diary to her mother, they’d finally discovered the origin of the yearly visit tradition. Amy hadn’t brought a gift for the tree this year, and with it cut down and gone, she didn’t know if she should.

“Sorry,” Dusty shook his head like a wet dog. “My mind has gone walkabout.”

“I lost my mom five days ago.” Again, words she’d never intended to speak had slipped out into the world as if someone had given them a nudge.

Dusty sat bolt upright and turned to her. No longer relaxed back on the bench, his whole attention was on her.

She waited for it, for the words she’d so come to hate. But he didn’t speak. He didn’t stare at her, though he was looking at her.

Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Say it!”

“No. I remember how angry I was at every person who said how sorry they were. It was so empty. Why would I go out of my way to make you angry at me?”

Amy shifted on the cold bench, wishing she’d worn another layer against the chill of the day.

“Who are you?”

His grin was easy. “I guess that’s a step up from yesterday’s ‘What are you?’ ”

Had she really been so rude? Well, yes, she had.

“Master Sergeant of the 160th SOAR at your service.”

“Which battalion?”

That stopped him. Now he really was staring at her.

“The fifth.” His voice was now careful.

Amy knew why. SOAR was very secretive. A civilian knowing about the fifth battalion must be unnerving him a bit. She decided to keep her own military background to herself a little longer. She couldn’t resist seeing if she could make him squirm. After all, he had stalked her this morning, sort of.

“What do you fly in?”

“DAP.” He bit the word off.

The Direct Action Penetrator, the nastiest and most powerful rotorcraft in the world.

“Beale or Henderson?”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“Master Sergeant Amelia Patterson, I flew with Emily Beale in the 101st when she was still a Screaming Eagle. I just finished my five years in the service prerequisite before I could apply to SOAR. I report for testing next week.” She held out her hand.

When he didn’t respond, she reached out and took his nerveless hand and shook it. Slowly his fingers came to life and curled about hers.

Despite the layers of both of their gloves, she easily remembered the feel of his warm strong fingers covering hers.

He didn’t release his hold as they talked.

She didn’t try to make him let go though the sun moved far across the sky.

5

Willow listened. It was harder, took more effort. No leaves, no branches, no trunk left. All that now remained of Willow ranged deep beneath the soil. The recent bite of the saw, the tearing of the stump both too painful to recall. But Willow still heard, still felt. He asked the ground to give up its heat and Amy and Dusty talked long through the cold day. It was warm only around that one lone bench in the Rose Garden.