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by Kimberly Heggen November 2001 A
short, rather plotless little piece of Jim-angst. This takes place some
unspecified time after S2P2. Spoilers for that episode. No other warnings that I
can think of. Inspired by a walk through a cemetery. It's
late -- I don't know just how late, because I'm facing away from the clock, and
I don't really care all that much anyway -- and I'm curled up in one corner of
the couch. The book lies open on my lap, the words blurring slightly as my tired
eyes momentarily refuse to focus. I start to yawn, seduced with pleasant
fatigue. At first I force it back, then I give up and luxuriate in it,
stretching my arms and straightening my legs out of their cramped position. The
motion causes my book to slip to the floor, losing my place. I lean down to
retrieve it and nearly knock over the mug of lukewarm tea that sits forgotten on
the coffee table. Maybe it's time to go to bed before I do something really
clumsy. I set the book -- a much-loved collection of some of Steinbeck's works
-- on the table. Instead of getting up, I lean back into the cushions and close
my eyes. Just a few minutes; then I'll get up and go to bed. Other
than the crackling of the dying fire, and Jim's steady breathing from upstairs,
the loft is quiet. He went to bed early; I'm not sure where he was all day but I
sure didn't see much of him. He did seem tired when he got home, and he dragged
himself upstairs by about nine-thirty. I teased him about it, about how old guys
needed to go to bed early so they could get up at the crack of dawn. Now
I listen to the quiet rhythm of his breathing and wonder what it must be like
for him, to hear every tiny sound. I have to strain to actually hear him; he's
not a snorer. Although he suddenly seems to be getting louder for some reason,
as well as more erratic. I
sit up, curious. Maybe he's having an interesting dream. After all, he didn't
say where he was today; maybe he was out with some woman and now he's dreaming
about her. That could account for the funny little moans that I'm hearing now.
Suddenly embarrassed, I stand up and start folding up my blanket. If Jim's
having X-rated dreams, I don't think I really want to listen to any more of
this. "No,"
I hear from upstairs, spoken softly but clearly. "No." With
blanket now folded, I sit back down on the couch and listen. "No," he
says again, less distinctly. "No, it can't be true. Oh, God, I'm so
sorry." Okay,this
doesn't exactly sound like The Adventures of Jim and the Swedish Bikini Team.
Either Jim's flipped his lid and he's apologizing to his pillow for drooling on
it, or he's having one hell of a nightmare. Feeling somewhat voyeuristic, I
strain to catch what he's mumbling now. He's starting to get fairly
unintelligible. I catch a few words, more apologies and denials, and slowly I
realize the reason that his words have become so difficult to make out. It's a
difficult sound to recognize, because it's one I've never heard from him before. Jim
is crying, in his sleep. Weeping as if his heart has broken, never again to be
whole. This
represents a fairly difficult moral dilemma. In a way, it's almost as
embarrassing as my previous theory regarding the nature of his sleep
disturbance. Do I ignore these admittedly heart-rending sounds, or do I go
upstairs and wake him up? Comfort him, even? I like to think of myself as a
sympathetic, nurturing person, but Jim tends to be as prickly as a porcupine
about expressing emotion. He'd probably deny having a nightmare, then
chew me out for waking him up. No...
the safest thing for both of us is for me to gather up my stuff and go to bed.
He'll settle down in a few minutes. Bad dreams don't last that long, right?
He'll just roll over and start dreaming about something more pleasant, and then
I won't have to listen to all of this sobbing and whimpering. Which, by the way,
is getting louder. Almost
angrily, I snatch up my blanket and book and stride purposefully towards my
room. I'm almost there, almost safe... when Jim shouts so loud that I expect the
windows to blow out. "SANDBURG!!!" I
drop the stuff, and before I know it I'm bounding up the stairs. Oh, God, what
the hell is going on here? Is he having some kind of attack? Hallucinations? I
clear the top three steps almost without touching them, and come skidding to a
stop on the wood floor, my gaze fixed on the man who lies tangled up in the blue
comforter. The
light in the upper floor of the loft is pretty dim, just some moonlight and the
glow from the street lights. Nonetheless, I can see Jim pretty clearly. He's
curled up into a fetal position, shuddering and moaning. And he's definitely
still asleep. I
approach cautiously. I guess I'm committed now, but I still have this
uncomfortable feeling that I'm about to wake a sleeping bear. A grumpy sleeping
bear, who's going to be very embarrassed about the whole thing. Taking a deep
breath, I lean over him and grasp his thrashing shoulder firmly. "Jim,
wake up! You're having a bad dream! You're going to wake the neighbors!"
There, that was good. Keep it practical. Nothing touchy-feely about waking him
up that way. Nonetheless, I keep my hand on his shoulder. His
eyes fly open, and for a moment I'm staring into the face of a terrified man.
His nostrils are flared and his pupils are dilated; his breath comes in
stutters. Then relief and recognition flood into his eyes, and I feel the
clenched muscles beneath my hand relax ever so slightly. "Sandburg,"
he breathes. His right hand comes up across his body to seize my wrist in a
white-knuckle grip, almost painfully. His eyes hold my gaze, in a grip less
physical but no less compelling. "You're here." I
smile a bit weakly. "Of course I'm here. Jim, you were making enough noise
to wake the entire building." He
shudders, once, and closes his eyes. "I'm sorry. Just... just a bad
dream." His hand maintains its tight squeeze on my wrist, not quite hard
enough to cut of my circulation, but tight enough that I can feel his
fingernails denting my flesh. Tears gleam on his cheeks, silver in the
moonlight. I resist an impulse to reach up with my free hand and wipe them away.
He'd kill me just for noticing. "Must
have been one hell of a nightmare." I try to keep my voice light. He
just nods, eyes still closed. His grip on my arm relaxes a bit, and I start to
slide my wrist away. I'd like it back before Mr. Kung-Fu Grip here decides to
see if he can crack my bones with his bare hands. But he clutches at me, almost
convulsively, and ends up squeezing my hand instead. It's the terrified grasp of
a drowning or dying man, trembling slightly with effort. It
doesn't look as if I'm going to be going anywhere anytime soon, so I sit down on
the edge of the bed. Jim is sprawled in the middle, so there's plenty of room.
"Hey, Jim, you still awake? You want to tell me what this is all
about?" His
eyes open again. They still look haunted and hollow, but there's a trace of
sheepish embarrassment around the edges. "Sorry, Chief.I'm okay. Go on back
downstairs and get some sleep." "I
wasn't asleep. I was up reading." And how am I supposed to go back
downstairs without my hand? 'Cause Jim doesn't seem to be relinquishing it.
"C'mon, tell me. I promise I won't laugh." He's
quiet for a few minutes, and looks away. I see him swallow a couple of times, as
if he's fighting back emotions. I squeeze his hand gently, wishing that I had
the right words to help him talk about this. Something has frightened Jim very
much, shook him up to an extent I've never seen before. I
think, if he would just break down and cry, or rage, or both, he'd feel a lot
better. But Jim is Jim, and he's going to stay in control if it kills him. It's
only his sleeping subconscious that has let me know that anything is even wrong. At
last he clears his throat. His voice, when he finally speaks, is raw and hoarse.
"I went out to the cemetery today. To see Marty Mulhauser's grave." He
rubs his free hand across his face, scrubbing away the drying tears. "Do
you know who he was?" I've
heard the name, but I'm not sure. "No. I think you've told me, but I don't
remember. Sorry." He
shakes his head. "Don't be. If I've mentioned him, it would have been a
long time ago." He pauses again. "Marty was one of my men on the
mission to Peru. When they rescued me, they also recovered the bodies of my men
-- I'd marked the graves -- and brought them back to the States for burial.
Marty's the only one who's buried in Cascade. I go out there every once in a
while, just to think." I
don't answer, as there doesn't seem to be anything much I can say to this.
Instead, I squeeze his hand again, feeling the warm life of it. On some level,
I'm aware that this is a side of Jim I've never seen before; a Jim who wants me
to sit on his bed while he tells me his fears, a Jim who clutches my hand like a
small child with a trusted adult. Maybe it's the time of night, or the dark, or
simply the residual power of the nightmare... but I'm not sure I've ever felt
this needed. "So
I went out there today. I sat for a while, thought about our times together in
the service, and left some flowers. I spent a couple of hours wandering around
the cemetery, looking at the veterans' graves." "That
sounds peaceful," I venture. He
nods. "It is. I wish to God that Marty hadn't died, that none of them had
died... but I think I've finally quit blaming myself for the whole thing. I
couldn't have done anything about the crash, and I did the best that I could for
my injured men." He's
quite again for a moment. I don't want to interrupt his reverie, especially
since he seems to be feeling a bit better, but he still hasn't told me about his
dream. "Jim, what was your dream about?" Jim
grimaces. "I'm getting to that. Do you mind?" "Sorry."
At least he sounds more like himself. I look down at our joined hands. I wonder
if he even realizes that he's still holding mine. "Go ahead." "I
spent quite a while out there, and then I went for a long walk. I was pretty
tired when I got home, and I had a lot on my mind. That's why I went to bed so
early." "I
noticed," I say neutrally. "In
my dream, I was back out at the cemetery. Only this time, when I found Marty's
grave, I noticed something different. The headstone was still in the same place,
but there was another one next to it that looked exactly alike. Which didn’t
make sense; it was a military-style headstone, but the name on it... well, it
was someone who wasn’t the military type." He looks up at me, and I’m
struck by the deep anguish in his eyes. "Chief, it was your name... and the
date, the date of your death..." His voice cracks. "Jim,
it was just a dream. I’m here, I’m alive." I squeeze his hand. "It
was the day you almost died in the fountain," he whispers. "You were
dead, buried next to Marty. Two friends I had failed to save. I... was on my
knees in front of your headstone, screaming that it had to be a mistake." "So
that’s why you called out my name," I say softly. Now it makes sense. He
nods, and we sit quietly for long minutes. When he finally speaks again his
voice is a little stronger. "Sorry, Chief. Didn’t mean to scare you like
that. I’ll be okay, now." He waves vaguely in the direction of the
stairs, with his free hand. "Go ahead and go to sleep." His
grip finally relaxes with these words, and I slide my hand out of his...
somewhat reluctantly. But it’s never a good idea to push Jim past his comfort
zone. I’d prefer to stay up here, watch him fall asleep, be available if the
dream returns. Instead, I stand up. "Are
you sure you’re okay, Jim?" "Positive.
Now go back downstairs and let me sleep." He rolls over, away from me. I
grin into the darkness as I make my careful way to the stairs, hearing the
gratitude that lies underneath the gruffness. Sleep well, my friend, and dream
of laughter and peace. (finis) |
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© 1999-2001 by Kimberly Heggen. All rights
reserved. |
