The Top Gun's Return

air from a popped balloon, and she knew all at once that what she really was, was afraid. And that it wasn't the car's speed that was scaring her…not anymore. It was something she saw in Tris's face, in the profile that had been so familiar to her but was now subtly changed by a nose that had been broken at least once. The profile that used to make her heart skip a beat and her pulse quicken, as she rode beside him in the sweet, sultry darkness of a Georgia summer night, country music thumping on the stereo… The profile that was still strong and arrogant, even aristocratic in spite of the nose, teeth bared in a smile, a comma bracketing his mouth and an irresistible fan of wrinkles at the corner of his eye. But now there was something dark about the smile, and the eyes held a glitter of excitement…and danger.

The speedometer needle wobbled unsteadily-she couldn't see the number through the mist of her fear. But she could feel the vibrating of the car's engine in her bones. 'Tris-' she cried out, trembling. She didn't know what was happening to him. To her shame, she had begun to cry.

When she thought she wouldn't be able to stand the terrible tension another second, she saw speed limit warning signs flash past through the shimmering haze of her tears. Tristan muttered something under his breath and the car's engine vibrations eased. The speedometer needle swiveled slowly back to 120. And as it fell, Jessie's fury returned.

Helpless to stop it, unable to express it, she ranted silently to herself: What was that? What did he just do? What am I supposed to do with that?

Because at the same time she felt so angry, she also felt guilty for it. How could she be angry at somebody who was back from the dead, for God's sake? This was a man who'd spent the past eight years in an Iraqi prison, Lord only knew what they'd done to him there, and she was supposed to be patient with him, wasn't she? Give him time, they'd told her.

But, a tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind, what if Tris isn't going to give himself time?

I don't think I can do this. It played over and over inside her head as she sat in furious, trembling silence and Tristan drove the rest of the way back to the guest house sedately within posted speed limits. I don't think I can do this.

It was a lone voice at first, but gradually she came to realize that what was going on in her head wasn't a monologue or a mantra any longer, but rather an argument. And what the dissenting voice-was it Momma's? Tristan's? Her own? Who knows?-anyway, what it was saying was, Sure you can. Suck it up, girl. If he could survive eight years in prison, you sure as hell can handle his return.

Okay, but we have to talk about this, she argued back desperately. I have to get him to talk to me about what happened to him. I just have to. And soon. This can't wait much longer. Tonight. We'll talk tonight.

But when they turned into the guest house parking lot, she realized that any confrontation with Tristan was going to have to wait a little while longer. The previously almost empty lot was suddenly full of vehicles, many of them vans and panel trucks bearing satellite dishes and multiple antennae on their rooftops. The world news media had caught up with them.

'Oh no,' she murmured.

'Looks like the honeymoon's over.' Tristan's smile barely stretched the hollows in his cheeks as he maneuvered the car into a vacant spot on the edge of the lot, well outside the huddled circle of media vehicles and equipment. 'They were bound to find us sooner or later. The military's done a helluva job to hold 'em off this long.' He turned off the motor and looked over at Jessie. 'Ready to face the music?'

The skin under his eyes looked bruised. Seeing that, she felt something swell inside her and a shivering sensation crawl under the skin along her back, neck and chest. She knew what it was, she'd felt it before: maternal outrage. If she'd been a momma wolf her hackles would have been rising. Or, in her case, maybe a more apt comparison would be one of Granny Calhoun's hens fluffing up her feathers so as to look twice her actual size, ready to defend her nest against all comers.

'Tris, you're exhausted,' she said as he opened his door, 'maybe we can sneak in the back way.'

He shook his head, already easing his bad knee over the sill. 'I'm not gonna go skulking around like a coward.'

Outside the car he paused to steady himself with a hand on the door frame, then leaned over to pick up his cane from the back seat. When he straightened again his skin looked gray, but Jessie saw him, with a visible effort, pull himself up to a military stance, and a muscle tighten in his jaw. 'Gonna have to face them sometime. Might as well do it and get it over with.'

Duty calls, she thought, rekindling an old resentment. And at the same time a familiar sense of pride. Taking his arm as they crossed the parking lot, she could feel tremors of exhaustion and weakness racking his body, and yet she knew he'd die before he'd ever admit it. And looking at his rock-hard features, nobody would ever guess he was holding himself together by sheer strength of will. But that's how he did it, she thought. That's how he's been surviving. Sheer willpower.

Not even willpower, though, could keep him from faltering when the mass of reporters spotted them and descended like a human tidal wave. She felt his body flinch as if from a physical blow. Glancing up at him, she saw that his face had turned a sickly bluish white-a familiar phenomenon from her experience as a nurse and one she knew was usually a prelude to somebody hitting the floor.

And with that thought, there it was again, that swelling, feather-fluffing, hackles-raising momma-bear fury, and without even thinking about it, she had taken an iron grip on Tristan's arm, and with her free arm thrown out like an icebreaker, was ploughing him through the river of pushing, shoving reporters, thrusting microphones and whirring, clicking cameras.

Having achieved the guest house steps, she turned to face the crowd, and as she did she was shoving Tristan behind her, shielding him from them with her own body. Somehow, he'd gathered the strength to lift his hand to ask for quiet. The din subsided, but before Tristan could begin to speak, Jessie heard her own voice-firm, forceful and calm-the one she used to reassure frightened parents in the NICU.

'I know how anxious y'all are to hear from my husband. I just want to ask you to please be patient and respect our privacy a little while longer. Lieutenant Bauer has had a long day. I know he'll be a lot better able to answer your questions after he's had some rest. Now, if you would…please…' Her voice faltered, and she felt Tris's hands on her shoulders-lending her his strength, she wondered, or drawing from hers?

She heard his deep, quiet voice, and a thrill rushed through her. 'I just want to thank you all, and let you know I'll try to answer your questions in due time. I believe the base's public affairs officer is planning a press conference before I leave for the states, if you-'

'Lieutenant Bauer, just one question,' someone shouted. 'How does it feel to be back from the dead?'

Again she felt his hands tighten on her shoulders. 'It feels…great.' She knew from his voice that he had to be grinning, and that it could only be one of those great big honest-to-God old-fashioned Tristan grins she loved so much. Her eyes filled with tears.

A reporter shouted, 'Mrs. Bauer, would you mind if we asked you a few questions?'

She hadn't expected that. Not sure what she should do, she tilted her head back and glanced up at Tristan. He gave her a nod and his skewed half smile, but the tiredness in his eyes seemed bottomless. She put her hand over his where it rested on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. 'Why don't you go on?' she murmured for his ears only. 'I don't mind stayin' a minute.'

He hesitated, then murmured back, 'If you're sure…'

'I'll be fine. Go on-go.' She turned back to the crowd of reporters with a determined smile. A moment later she felt him leave her, and there was a tingling coldness on her shoulders where his hands had been.

'Mrs. Bauer-when did you find out your husband was alive?'

'Mrs. Bauer, Mrs. Bauer-what's it been like to have your husband come back from the dead?'

'How is he feeling, Mrs. Bauer?'

'When do you plan to-'

'First of all,' Jessie began in a loud voice, holding up her hands, 'y'all have to understand, this has been happenin' awfully fast. I don't think it's really hit me yet.' There was a ripple of sympathetic laughter. Somewhere behind her she heard the guest house door open and close. She paused, and the crowd grew hushed, listening as she went quietly on. 'All I know is, my husband is alive, he's here with me, and very soon now he's gonna be back