As he walked to his berthing area, some men welcomed him back like a returning hero, shook his hand, asked him what it was like on the other side. Others avoided eye contact with him. For some, maybe, his absence from the watchbill had caused the resentment, but in truth the ship could suffer the loss of one man in port without too much trouble. Dunham thought it more likely that they were mad at him because he’d broken their deal, the deal all shipmates had with each other on every ship:
Now that he knew he wasn’t going to the brig, he wasn’t too worried about the guys who were pissed at him. He would work hard, win them back, volunteer for every shitty duty. Despite going AWOL, he was good at his job, and his presence was valued. And when it got really rough, he had a few memories of Ashley he could replay, scenes of their love in vivid HD, viewable only in his mind. They were set mostly in or around her bed, but a few were on the beach and once hidden in the trees near Waimea Falls. He’d had to gently put his hand over her mouth then, she was yelling in pleasure, he was certain a park ranger would come arrest them both.
He knew that on his death bed, as his last breath escaped, that would be the last memory to cross his mind.
He had promised Ashley a letter. She had an old letter she treasured from her grandfather to her grandmother, written from the deck of a destroyer during World War II. (That grandfather was her one-quarter American.) She’d memorized every word of it, and made him read it with her, and he had to admit that it did appeal to him, the yearning, the straining for the right words, the fear that the war would keep them from ever reuniting. Ashley thought that letter was the essence of romance, and she lamented that no one got love letters to save, preserve, and hand down any more, just text messages and maybe emails that would evaporate with your next phone upgrade. She had made him promise to write her a real love letter, with paper, an envelope, and a stamp, and to send it in the last mail bag before the ship departed. They’d even bought a small stationery set together at the mall during one of their rare, brief excursions beyond Ashley’s bedroom.
In his berthing area, he pulled the letter out of his pocket and reviewed what he’d written so far.
He cursed himself for his lameness, and felt the pressure of his deadline, the even greater pressure to write something worthy of historic preservation. He was no writer, he knew that. But wasn’t true love supposed to inspire him, like it had her grandfather? It had to. And he had to get it done before they departed in two days. They would keep him hopping in the galley in the meantime. He vowed to think about the letter as he went about the mindless work of scrubbing pots and chopping vegetables, composing something completely great in his mind so when he got the chance he could just dash it off, get the letter in the mail bag, and fulfill his promise to her. Maybe he could do it at night, they’d still have to let him sleep no matter what kind of trouble he was in. He’d write the letter then, in the rack with the curtain drawn. He looked at his painted fingernail, another crazy thing love had made him do, and felt it sting a little where the nail had cracked.
Fuck, he missed her.
Twenty-four hours later, Dunham pulled a large tray of lasagna out of the galley stove. He walked two steps, coughed, and collapsed.
Captain Jefferies was in the wardroom, reviewing charts with the XO and the navigator, when he heard the news. He sighed and looked up at Lieutenant Dwyer, the Duty Officer.
“Get two men to take him to Tripler,” he said. “Take the van.”
“Aye, aye sir,”
“Drama just seems to follow some men around,” said the navigator as Dwyer left.
The captain frowned at him, even though a version of that thought had passed through his mind as well. “Let’s just hope he’s okay.”
