“Leave it be,” he said, starting to pull away. “It’s just a scratch.”
Juana just shook her head and reached for his arm to unwrap the bandage, which was stiff with dried blood. Tipping water from her canteen, she wet the end of a rag and dabbed at the wound. The injury was just an annoyance; come to think of it, Deke realized that he had gotten banged up much worse than that doing chores on the farm or hurrying to get the hay in before a rain, ignoring the rough twine from the heavy bales cutting into his hands until they bled or the deep scratches on his arms. And, of course, the claws and teeth of that enormous bear had done a lot more damage than the Japanese, nearly killing him as a boy.
The wound began to bleed again, which wasn’t a bad thing, the fresh flow of blood carrying away the dirt and dust so that a clean scab would form. Juana put a fresh bandage on the wound and bound it tightly. It hurt like fire, but Deke was so captivated watching her work that he didn’t so much as make a sound.
“You are a good man,” she said.
“If you say so.”
But was he? Deke had often wondered about that. The last few months had forced him to question everything he knew about himself, and humanity in general. He had proved himself to be a very capable soldier, even a skilled killer, but neither of those things meant that he was a good person. He missed seeing the good in people, including the good in himself.
Normally, he might have disagreed with Juana, but tonight he didn’t mind hearing her words. Just five kind words spoken in truth the way she saw it. They were like a salve to all his wounds, physical and mental.
“I do say so,” Juana said. “And when I say something, I mean something.”
All he said in return was, “Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself. A lot of girls wouldn’t pick up a gun to fight, but you did.”
“Of course I want to fight,” she said, her voice going hard, sounding indignant. “Life has been very hard for the people of the Philippines.
“We’ll help you beat the Japanese,” Deke said. “But after the war, it sounds as if the Philippines should be run by Filipinos.”
“I could not agree more.”
She surprised him then by reaching out to take his hand. They had never touched before, at least not in this way. Her skin was rough, like a farmer’s hand. He was reminded of his sister Sadie’s touch, rough but gentle at the same time. It was a touch with heft and strength behind it. He squeezed her hand.
Later, he couldn’t have said how they both knew what to do next. Something unspoken passed between them.
Picking up their blankets, they moved deeper into the house, away from the others, giving themselves some privacy. If any of the others saw them leaving, they pretended not to notice.
The candle provided a soft light. In a corner of an unoccupied room, they once again spread their blankets on the stone floor. For a while they simply sat studying one another, their shoulders touching, a kind of electricity building between them. The very air seemed to crackle. Deke found his head spinning as if he’d just had a drink of Old Man McGlothlin’s moonshine back home. Being this close to Juana felt intoxicating.
There was enough light that he could see her upturned face, her closed eyes and slightly parted lips. Deke didn’t have much experience with the opposite sex, but he knew one thing for sure. Here was a girl waiting to be kissed.
“Deke,” she whispered.
“Juana.” He exhaled her name like he was breathing out to take the longest shot he had ever taken. In a sense, it was. They kissed again, and he felt himself melting into her. Their hands wandered over each other, slowly at first and then more desperately.
Like any inexperienced young man, Deke had always worried about what to do that first time he made love, but everything happened naturally and urgently. Afterward, they lay sticky and spent under a blanket despite the warmth of the tropical night. It was the part that came after that was harder, at least at first. Deke ran through several emotions ranging from embarrassment about giving in to his urges, to wanting to go off by himself to process what had just happened, to the desire to do it all over again — but that wasn’t going to happen because he felt pleasantly limp as a shoestring and empty as a sack turned inside out.
