Tangled Up in Blue

Friends in High Places

Blue

I shift around in the chair, sweating.

Where the fuck is Groves?

I'm sitting right under a vent, and the heat's turned up too high. It's not that cold outside.

Groves had mentioned, when he was in the disarming small-talk phase at the beginning of the day's interrogation, that a major winter storm is expected to roar down the plains all the way from Canada in the next few days.

"We might even end up with a white Christmas," he'd remarked, conversationally.

I'd forgotten it was almost Christmas.

Thinking about Christmas makes me think of my mother. 

Keegan must have told her the whole, awful story by now, and Mama's probably furious at me and ashamed of me.

But at least now maybe she understands why I've been so aloof since I got out of the service; why I've recoiled whenever she touched me; why just being in the same room with her absolutely tears my heart out.

My mother is the one I most did not want to know the truth.

But by now, I'm sure she knows, even though it wasn't me who had the guts to tell her.

Buried truth, it always grows,

Building steam until it blows,

Choking, blinding, white and hot,

All the good gets turned to rot.

"Buried Truth." Another Bryson song that has begun to haunt me. 

It's as if the lyrics were written for me. About me.

I've just closed my eyes and let my head fall onto my arms on the table when I hear the door open.

I sit up straight, expecting Groves.

Then I shoot automatically to my feet and raise my hand in a salute.

Even if I hadn't seen the two stars on his Army combat uniform, I'd have recognized Major General Gregory Chisholm.

Commanding general at Fort Sill and the youngest major general in the army, he's said to be a rising star, on his way to becoming a legend in his own time.

Chisholm orders me to sit down, then strides over and places his fists on the table, leaning toward me.

His icy blue eyes drill into mine.

There's an obvious, hard edge to the man that reminds me of my dad.

His piercing stare is intimidating; after a few moments, I drop my gaze.

It's not standard procedure for the commanding general of the base to drop in on interrogations.

Something else is going on.

He pulls out the opposite chair and sits carefully, back straight, hands clasped on the table.

"Specialist Daniels, do you have any idea how much wasted time and aggravation you have already cost me?"

"No, sir, I do not."

But I'm pretty sure you're about to tell me.

"I've been fielding calls about you all morning," he says, ticking them off on his fingers, lip curled in distaste.

"Virginia Cooke, of all people. And a United States senator. I even got a call from the goddamn Pentagon, Specialist. The Pentagon!"

He pauses so I can show an appropriate level of contrition.