LatinosUSA

I tossed a wooden block-mounted linoleum sheet from hand to hand as I shook my head. I was over thirty, a sniper in an elite corps, and engaged to be married. Yet, for whatever reason, my mother had bought me a set of lino chunks, “U” and “V” gouges, a small chisel, and a skew knife. I hadn’t whittled since childhood.

“Georgie, do you like it?”

I turned over the block I was holding. Maybe the bottom layer was chipboard, not actual wood.

“Do you?”

I looked at my fiancée. She beamed at Mom and Dad. I never understood why their approval  mattered so much. She is beautiful and talented; she doesn’t need two retirees to laud her choices.

“Georgie, we actually had to order twice. The first time, we received only the lino blocks. So, we ordered again, requesting tools.”

I smirked. The tools were nothing like the chisels and gouges, which had been secured in their own leather pouch, which Grandpa had gifted me for my tenth birthday and nothing like the tools used by the stonemason who had carved Grandpa’s gravestone.

Having temporarily finished shining at my folks, Candace scowled at me. I understood that look.

“Ah, thanks Ma for all your trouble.”

Dad spoke, “are you taking advantage of the free rehab the government’s offering soldiers?”

“I’m not dead! Just my captain.”

“Whoa!”

“I have all my limbs, unlike Avi and Simon.”

“Yes, and it’s good you visit them at the center.”

“Mom, don’t butt in.”

Candance frowned at me, again.

Dad cleared his throat and gestured us to the dining room table. It was laden with stacks of pancakes and a pitcher of orange juice.

No matter how I measure ingredients or swap them around, I can’t make flapjacks as fluffy as Dad’s. So, most weekends, Candance and I drop by to eat the ones he’s made.

Except, when I’m at the front. I won’t tell Mom what I’ve seen or done, there. She’d freak. Candace knows only ‘cause I wrestle around in bed from night terrors. She thinks I should talk to a therapist. I told her headshrinkers are bunk.

“…yes, would be great as art therapy.”

I missed Candace’s statement. She’s patient with me. Her insecurities are my boon. She’d have never dated me otherwise.

“Please pass the pancakes.”

Dad gave me a half smile. I think my parents worry.

“More coffee, son?”

“Yes. Black.”

“How goes the job search? You’d think with a graduate degree…”

I cut him off. Sometimes, the bad dreams run through my head during the day. I can’t return to an office. Plus, fieldwork creeps me out; I’m always scanning for enemies.

Candance looked hard at me, again. Maybe, I shouldn’t marry her. She has aspects of Mom. She worries, too.

When I carved faces onto my sisters’ dolls, instead of carving the branches I’d collected with Grandpa, Mom sent me to my first headshrinker. I wonder why, now, she thinks carving’s a good idea.

“Candance, more coffee?”

My beloved nodded. She’s my life. I should marry her. I can’t imagine returning to my parents’ house instead of to her apartment after missions.

That dear woman frets that she can’t cook. I never cared. I’d been a line cook in enough places for an entire battalion. It’s just that I can’t make pancakes as fluffy as Dad’s, so we return to my parents.

In fact, cooking ignited our romance. I was living with some guys since Mom and Dad couldn’t house me during COVID…something about their being high risk and my coming and going to a restaurant being too chancy.

Anyway, I invited Candance over. My mates were watching a game. Candance didn’t care about their loud, rude remarks; she has brothers.

We were alone in the kitchen. While the marinara simmered, I tried to entertain her by carving faces in the apples I had set aside for crisp.

Candance actually giggled and she slept over that night.

“So, try carving. I didn’t buy ink, but hobby shops sell it.” Mom droned on and on.

Less than an hour later, Candance and I were on the road home. She had stopped glaring. In fact, she seemed to have shrunk into herself.

“Let’s buy chips and make a picnic. There’s a park on the way.”

“Sure.”

That night, when horrors again woke me, I got out of bed and sat in the kitchen. The bag holding my birthday gift remained on the counter. I took out one block and some tools.

Silently, I pushed a “U” gouge around the block’s surface. I reached for one with a smaller bore. For seemingly forever, I used those gouges to create a monstrosity, which I then tossed in the bin. There might or might not have been tears on my cheeks.

I picked up another block. This time, I reached for a “V” gouge. Once more, I created something grotesque.

Using both “U” and “V” gouges, I repeated the process until only two blocks were left. Before marking them, I took out the kitchen garbage, which was full of peels, papers, and my nocturnal carvings.

Candance would soon be stirring. She always arrived at work promptly. I wanted to leave her something of beauty. On one of the two last blocks, I carved a vase full of many kinds of flowers. On the other, I carved her name followed by my last name.

Thereafter, I went for a long walk. I didn’t want to face her until after she returned from work.

When she got home, she showed me that she had bought a roller and three colors of ink. For hours, she experimented with making multicolored prints of the flower-filled vase. She said nothing of where she had placed the other lino.

That night, I had only one nightmare. In it, I had almost succeeded in rescuing my captain.

The next day, I called soldier services and asked for a mental health appointment.