THE TIME OF LEAVING by Micah Ward

THE TIME OF LEAVING by Micah Ward

The air conditioner is an old window unit and struggles against an August night in Savannah. The man lies on the bed under a light film of sweat. The woman sleeps facing away and is covered to her waist by a sheet. He looks at the clock, 4:00 am. He might as well get up.

He walks quietly into the kitchen pulling on the old gym shorts he keeps by the bed. He doesn’t want to wake the woman from her sleep. Earlier in the evening she had cooked a simple meal and afterwards they had enjoyed the comfortable loving of those who know they are past the exuberance of youth and are okay with it. He pours Tennessee whiskey silently. He knows that he shouldn’t drink this close to leaving. But he has left so many times over the years that it has become something of a tradition.

He walks through the living room past the duffle bag and clothes. Opening the French doors, he steps outside onto the balcony which belongs to one of the four apartments in the 1940s era house. The sweat increases as he leans on the rail and looks at the sprawling live oak trees with their gray goatees of Spanish moss. It was hot in the Tennessee summers where he grew up. But this is wet blanket hot. A sticky hot that wraps around and weighs you down.

He looks down at his truck parked in the dirt parking area. The woman will keep it while he is gone. She will also close out the apartment and put his few possessions into storage. She’s a better woman than most he has left and he wonders if he is a step up or a step down for her. She never talks about the other men. No complaining. No comparing. He is grateful for that.

He walks back into the apartment, cool now compared to outside on the balcony. He empties the last of the whiskey into his glass and crosses the living room. He sits in a chair, and looks at the duffle bag and the clothes on the sofa. He was twenty the first time he left and that was twenty-two years ago. There were more times of leaving between that first one and the one of this early morning. He might have avoided going this time if he spoke a quiet word to the right person. But something inside of him won’t allow it. There are so many more stripes on his uniform now than there had been the first time. And more first timers going now that he feels responsible for. He considers waking the woman and trying to explain but he feels a lack of the proper words. It is hard to understand unless a person has been there or somewhere like it.

A soft light appears from the bedroom. He walks toward the kitchen and takes the last sip of his ceremonial whiskey. She walks from the bedroom wearing only a large gray tee shirt with ARMY written across the front. She makes coffee.

“You shouldn’t have gotten up,” he says.

“Is it time for you to leave?”

“Pretty close.”

“I’ll make you breakfast.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he says and starts to dress in the living room.

“From the looks of that bottle you need something on your stomach.”

He dresses amid the aroma of coffee and the sound of frying bacon. The same scene will repeat itself all over Savannah that morning and in most homes, it will be very ordinary, unlike the way it is here.

“I’ll take you out to the base,” she says, “I don’t mind.”

“I know you don’t but I’ve already scheduled the taxi.”

She brings two cups of coffee to the table. A plate with bacon, eggs, toast.

“It’s not much but maybe it will get you to the next meal.”

“Aren’t you eating?”

“I’ll have something later.”

They sit in comfortable silence while he eats. When he comes back, they will have more quiet meals like this. And he will come back. He always comes back.

“I don’t know when I’ll get to call,” he says. “It depends on the flight schedules and layovers.”

“I understand. Call when you get a chance.”

There is nothing else to say. They stand in the living room looking at each other. She places the green beret on his head. A hug. A brief kiss and he walks through the door with his duffle bag.

“I’ll call as soon as I can.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

He walks down the hall and she leans against the door frame and thinks of the last one. The one that did not come back.

Micah Ward is a retiree who writes, runs and enjoys craft beer in central Tennessee. His short stories have received three Honorable Mentions at the Lorian Hemingway Short Story competition. Another one of his stories was included in the short fiction collection Remnants and Resolutions published by the Colorado Springs Fiction Writers Group. Micah was named the 2012 Club Writer of the Year by the Road Runners Club of America for his non-fiction. His articles and short fiction can also be found on the Medium website.