by Caroline Neal
I’m sweaty. The streetlamp’s light spills in and out of the room. The trees rustle. Somewhere inside the house slides a centipede. A few nights ago, I saw the creature slither over the floor and haven’t slept well since. Anxiously, I shake the sheets before I crawl in clutching a Raid can, my new bedfellow. During the day, I tiptoe around, careful where I step, wishing to avoid a venomous bite. The waves crash in the distance. Slipping off my nightgown, I lie in my panties, toss and turn on the sheets and roll the Raid over my stomach hoping the cool metal will offer some relief. I stretch my arms overhead, allow my legs to spread, and lift my hair off my neck. The curtains billow. The rustling increases. I roll over on my stomach and look under the bed. Nothing. I remain still. The breezes ripple over my back. The noise turns louder and closer. Raising myself up onto elbows, I stare at the curtains puffing inwards and listen. A grinning man with cropped hair and yellow eyes presses his face against the screen, inches away from me. The Raid clatters to the floor as I cover my face and scream.
When I open my eyes, the man is gone. I hear a thump, kicked leaves and running feet. I slip on my nightgown, peek out the window and scan the yard. Rubbing my shaking arms, I go to the kitchen to call the police but hang up before dialing. Would they believe me, a young woman who lives alone? Who do I call? I’m new in town and don’t have any close girlfriends. My family is in Georgia, on the other side of the world. Chuck, my husband is deployed to South Korea. I turn on the TV and all the lights and check the door locks. The warped windows don’t close. The TV’s light illuminates the room, and the late-night shows keep me company as I hunt for the Raid, retrieve it from under the bed, and worry about the centipede’s and the man’s whereabouts. Armed with the Raid, I stand at the window watching the shifting shadows. The distant surf crashes. The coconut fronds twist.
I lay down, but I can’t sleep. I think about the last two years’ changes. Chuck and I married, moved from Georgia to New York where he completed a medical internship, and I worked as a nurse. The Navy paid for his education, and he owes them four years of service. Despite his request to move to his hometown, he received orders to Kaneohe Marine Corps Air Station. No on-base housing was available and after a long search, we found a place to rent. I applied at a couple of hospitals and work as a registered nurse. Finally, I sleep and wonder if I’d imagined the man and what I should do.
***
The year in New York was lonely. Chuck disappeared into the hospital working long hours while I made home health visits. Our work schedules, living away from our families, and the weather isolated us. I promised myself never to repeat the experience. After we unpacked in Hawaii, and I started work; I joined a jazzercise group, a church and the officer’s wives club; got a library card; wrote letters; volunteered at the base’s clinic and signed up for military sponsored recreational classes. I was happier. Life was easier. My plan worked up until Chuck left the island for six months.
***
When our new pastor, Grace, heard of Chuck’s deployment, she suggested that she add us to the prayer list. Despite my reservations, I caved. I couldn’t see a downside. I desired the community to see me, claim me. If the prayer added some protection, I wanted my portion. She prayed for us, our time separated and our reunion.
The prayer put me and my aloneness on display. I’m relieved the initial verbal prayer is over. The weekly bulletin will print my request for everyone to read. After being in the spotlight, I felt like I passed an initiation test, and could relax while I waited on God’s and the congregation’s response. Hopefully, a family will invite me to dinner breaking the monotony of my solo meals and God, if he’s listening, will cover me with a protective cloak.
***
Chuck’s military work schedule wasn’t any better than his civilian one. In fact, it’s worse. If he wasn’t in the field training, he slept at the bases’ ER every third night. Now, he’s overseas and inaccessible. Mail delivery takes weeks. Telephone calls are rare, expensive events that come in the middle of the night, not the best time for communication.
***
Before the deployment, the other wives and I attended mandatory briefings which seemed like pep rallies. Lieutenant Colonel Smith delivered a flag-wrapped speech punctuated with Semper Fi and Oorah, beseeching us to be strong and carry on, to support each other and our husbands and insisted our role was essential for the country. As an aside, he stated that the Red Cross could get a message through to a spouse in an extreme situation.
***
Is a Peeping Tom a reason to call Chuck? Then what? My request might mess up Chuck’s career. I don’t want to appear weak or disappoint either man.
***
The next day, I volunteer at the base’s clinic. I’m exhausted and rush to leave but stop when I run into my friend, Keith. We lean against the wall while I tell him about the man. He’s shocked that I didn’t call the police.
Keith continues to ask me questions. No, I’ve never seen him. No, I can’t describe him. Only his yellow eyes. His concern grows as we talk. He insists on following me to my house. We stand in my yard and look up at the bedroom. I point to the windows on the right, adjacent to the flat roof of the carport. Keith studies the coconut tree and concludes that the man shimmied up and jumped. I feel nauseous. He tells me sternly to call the police and the liaison officer, the guy who’s assigned to support the deployed unit’s families. His tone softens when he volunteers to sleep on the front porch and to recruit his buddy to do the same. I’d already made up my mind to work nights and had partially convinced myself the sighting was an odd event, that the man wouldn’t come back. Keith didn’t buy into my optimism and told me to take the situation seriously.
***
The next day at work is a good one. I understand more of the local words that residents sprinkle into conversations. Previously, my incomprehension of their language and culture underscored my “not from here” status and isolated me.
Before I leave the hospital, I ask my supervisor to assign me a mixture of shifts. Fearful that she’ll judge me, and think I wanted the man’s attention, I don’t tell her about the situation. Is my uniform too tight and a tad bit short?
***
That night after I dress for bed, I close the curtains with pins blocking out the light and the breeze. I wrap the robe around myself and pull-on socks hoping that they’ll absorb a poisonous sting. I sweat as I look for the centipede, check the doors, turn the bathroom light on and pull the phone closer to the bedroom. I add a yard stick to my arsenal before I lie down. The mango tree moans.
I cannot sleep. I roll to the left on top of the Raid and to the right onto the yardstick’s edge. Finally, I sling my clothes and socks aside before I unpin the curtains. The room cools. I doze. Half asleep, I hear footsteps, and what sounds like a rat scrambling up the tree, and a thump. Fully awake, I yank my nightgown on, grab the Raid, and stand behind the curtains. I catch sight of yellow eyes.
I take a stance, straighten my arms out in front of me, hold steady, position my finger over the can’s piston, part the curtains, and fire. The spray hits my target.
A cat arches its back, screams, and disappears off the edge of the roof. Angry at the cat, the man and at being alone, I fling the Raid down, sink to the floor and sob. The centipede scoots past. The wind blasts through the house. There’s no escaping the hot breath. I crawl on the floor and dial Keith’s number, but he doesn’t answer.
Hanging up the phone, I gather my weapons and climb into bed. Later, I hear the sequence of sounds but squeeze my eyes shut and pretend to sleep. The birds wake me.
As the sun rises, I dress to make a good impression on the liaison officer. I apply my makeup carefully and fasten my pearls around my neck. Stopping at the base’s back gate, I flash my ID to the military police who salutes and waves me through. Jeeps follow men running in cadence. Reveille sounds. I pull off the road before I locate the WWII vintage building and ask for 2nd Lieutenant Shanahan.
I sit on a rusty folding chair in a moldy smelling hallway. A Marine about my age leads me to his cubicle. A rattling fan rotates. I mumble my story and as I wait for his response a thought flashes, maybe the man at my window saw me on the beach and got the wrong message.
He interrupts my thoughts by asking where I live on base. Blushing, I reply that I don’t but live nearby. I blurt out that the man had a high and tight haircut. Shaking his head, he tells me that he’ll file a report, keep in touch. My eyes narrow. He quickly adds, the military doesn’t have jurisdiction in town. As he leans back in his chair, he warns me to be careful, and lock my doors and window. I roll my eyes, asking him how long has he had been on the island and explain that our windows don’t close, I’m a nurse, work odd hours, plead for him to contact Chuck and emphasize that I’m single again because of the military. I wait for his reply and wonder if the officer spends his weekends with other grunts at the beach sitting on a seawall, whistling, and cat-calling at women and taunting the pudgy or pregnant ones.
On those not infrequent occasions when guys shouted comments to my girlfriends and me, we kept our gazes forward and scurried past. We labeled them jarhead jerks but didn’t consider them dangerous. He squirms in his chair that I should write Charles and to be confident that the military would handle this situation as it develops.
I’m quiet as I twist my wedding band, resisting the urge to fling it at him. If it didn’t encircle my finger, I wouldn’t be on this island. The sun catches on his insignia. He has his manuals and their policies. I have my gut feelings. Leaving his office, my vulnerability and fears increase.
***
The next days, I mix up my routine. Keith or his buddy sleep on the porch. They appear and disappear around their schedules. I work different shifts. I see the man everywhere. Fear fogs my reality. My hearing becomes hyperactive as I listen for the sounds which haunt me. I feel hunted. While running down the hospital’s stairs to the lab, I see a man with cropped hair slink by and I sink into the corner. I don’t have a clear image of the man; he’s always in the shadows. His yellow eyes bore into my mind. His grin seems to jeer at me. His facial profile is familiar.
Fatigue threatens to overcome me, but Keith says to press on, that the man will tire of this game and my life will return to normal. What’s normal for a military wife?
***
It’s Saturday afternoon. The man first appeared six days ago. I spent the morning with friends at Kalama Beach Park and I’m beach kissed. Sinking into the tub, I emerge glistening with my hair slicked back. I rub the soap until it bubbles, the rinsed water rivets over my ribs. The room fills with steam. Leisurely, I towel dry. My shift doesn’t begin for another hour.
My starched uniform, and hose lie shapeless on the bed. My polished shoes wait to be slipped on. I walk around damp in my panties, fiddle with my bra clasps before braiding my hair. The curtains blow in and out. The Raid and the yardstick are within reach. The man hasn’t come to the house during the day. I don’t think.
I balance on one leg, unroll the nylon up one leg, and then repeat the motion for the other. Before I apply lipstick, I pull my uniform over my head, bend to tie my shoes’ bows, fasten my name tag, slip my bandage scissors into my pocket, and drape my stethoscope around my neck. After one final glance in the mirror, I place the key’s blade between my fingers before I grab my purse and walk to my car. As I unlock its door, I hear the telltale thump, jam the key into the ignition, and put the car into reverse.
The car bumps into something. I slam on the brakes, leap out screaming and run around the car looking for the man or the cat. Not seeing either, I resume backing the car into the street.A coconut rolls across the drive. At the stop sign, I pound my fists on the steering wheel, cry, before I become angry and determined not to be hurt. I place my scissors on the passenger seat.
My shift passes slowly, and I’m relieved when it’s over. Keith’s on the porch when I arrive at my house. We sit and talk without mentioning the man. The palms rattle, a mango drops, and the waves rage.
***
Sunday morning comes and Keith’s not on the porch. Driving up the Pali, I pass the row of churches until I reach the last one. The cloud-covered mountains ascend upwards as waterfalls stream downwards. I look forward to attending church, a place of safety where I can reset my thoughts. The ritual is a lifetime habit, and the familiarity soothes me. The Christ candle flickers on the communion table. A giant clam shell, the baptismal font stands to the left of the altar.
Grace blesses the elements, breaks the loaf, placing the portions on wooden plates, and pours juice into goblets. She invites the congregation forward. The music swells softly and congregants murmur to each other as we make our way to the table.
After folks receive the host and the grape juice, they turn to the person behind them, clasp hands and say, “Peace of the Lord be with you.”
I stand at the table, tear a piece of bread and dunk it into the juice before moving to the side to pray. I feel unprotected, angry, and wonder where God is.
When I open my eyes, I feel less alone and turn to offer the Peace. The man who takes my hand has cropped hair and yellow eyes. I freeze in the balmy breeze. The Christ candle sputters.
He clasps my hand tightly and presses his palm into mine.
Grinning, he offers me the Peace.
Gasping, I feel his breath, his skin blending with mine. I jerk my hand away and return to my seat as I wipe my hands repeatedly on my dress and wish that I could wash them.
Saul and Dave sit behind me and look at me with concern. Leaning over, I reach for my hymnal underneath my chair, try to breathe and taste bitterness. The congregation sings the closing hymn. The men and I remain in our seats after the benediction, making small talk while the room empties and watch the members meander out the sanctuary. The man exits. These men will know what to do. I hope.
As I smooth my pink dress with my hands, I wish that my neckline was higher and that my heels were lower. I mumble at first, hesitant to tell them of the week’s events but with their encouragement, my story spills and I say with certainty and anger that the man at my window had attended morning service. They express disbelief and outrage, not at me or my story but at the man. I’m shocked when they share that the man. Joe Cooper is active duty, a Marine and a member of the church. They plan to schedule an emergency Session meeting where they’ll decide how to handle the matter internally and insist that I call the officer to update him with the man’s name and service status.
***
As I drive home, I take a detour to Keith’s house. His roommates tell me that his unit left early for Pohakuloa Training Area. One roommate suggests that I spend the day with him and others surfing and drinking beer at the Mokes. Another invites me to go with their group by boat to the sandbar.
I accept the latter offer and agree to meet them at the base’s marina. Later, I pull my new bathing suit out of the drawer. Slathering on sunscreen, I rub the lotion until the sheen disappears, before wiggling into my one piece. The curtains flutter. I angle myself in front of the mirror scooping up my breasts and tugging the suit down in back. Before I give myself approval, I bend over to make sure the suit doesn’t ride up. A big wind poofs the curtains. I peel off the new garment and pull on my old suit. I’ll endure my friend’s ribbing instead of second guessing myself if I look suggestive.
Driving to the marina, the seascape distracts me. At the dock, I glance anxiously around and once we anchor at the sandbar, I continue to be on the lookout. I feel ugly in my old suit with my hair stripped up into a ponytail. None of the guys know about the man and I don’t tell them. Now that I have a name, the man becomes bigger than life, not an apparition as I hoped.
***
That evening, I remove our steak knives from their box thinking that I’ll scatter them throughout the house. I remember some past patients, battered women beaten with domestic objects, or shot if guns were available. My shock wasn’t easy to hide when I saw the shape of a man’s hand bloom purple on a woman’s back or the blue fingerprints encircling a neck. Worse were memories of assisting with pelvic exams and witnessing objects, a frog, a bottle, pulled out of vaginas. Women insisting that they had no idea how or who put those items inside of them. I don’t want to join the harmed-women club. I return the knives to their box.
After showering, I stand at the mirror and dab Noxzema on my sunburned shoulders. The feel of the man’s pressing flesh penetrates my nightmares. Circles hang below my eyes. Dark thoughts gather, as I recall Chuck’s comments about the base’s ER’s uptick in domestic abuse cases after a deployed unit returns. Some reintegrating Marines deny a change in their family’s dynamics. Their unrealistic expectations and the loss of connectiveness creates an emotional and physical tinderbox.
The next day, I drive past the ancient Hawaiian fishing ponds, stop and proceed through the base’s front gate. I storm into the officer’s cubicle and spit the words, the man is a Marine named Joe Cooper. The officer drones: the military doesn’t have jurisdiction. I glare at him.
Still in disbelief, I walk into my house to a ringing phone. It’s Dave. Session voted unanimously to tell Joe to stay away from the church and me. I express appreciation, refuse his hospitality and state in a flat tone that the officer’s response was unchanged. I confess that I’d fly home if I had money and think I hate Paradise, the military, and the church. He assures me that all will be well.
***
Weeks pass. The man, the cat, and the centipede appear and disappear. My panic increases. The terror and the tip toeing around become my normal. Pinwheel thoughts beat me up. Did I cause the man’s attraction? Fear blocks out fun and casts a wide shadow of doubt over me. I’m deaf and blind to nature. My desire to protect myself deepens. My sewing shears lie splayed open. When I write, I click my pen and study its point. The tension frays my nerves. I work, spend hours at the library and on the beach and hang out with Keith. The church deletes my name from the prayer list. The phone rings.
The officer says, “Ma’am, the MPs picked up the man for another offense. He’s in the brig.”
I hang up the phone and hug myself. With the man’s arrest, my worries evaporate in a poof. Done. I want to believe that. I tell myself I’m ready to embrace and enjoy island living.
But where is that centipede?
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Author’s note: The names of the characters and the military units have been changed. If you or anyone you know is experiencing domestic violence, please contact The National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233.
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Caroline Neal, an emerging writer, grew up in Macon, Georgia and graduated with a BSN from the Medical College of Georgia in 1982. In January 2023, she obtained an MFA from Queens University in Charlotte, NC. Along with her forty-year nursing career, she also owns and runs a commercial timber business. Caroline splits her time between North Carolina, Georgia and Hawaii.
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