Delta File

Taipei

TaipeiH

er phone buzzed, dancing across the nightstand as Chan Dwyer Davis rushed around her dorm room picking up the papers and purse contents that she’d need for another day on the platform at Chengchi University. It was her personal phone rather than the one she’d been issued by her faculty advisor for use in Taiwan. The ID told her it was Shake calling, but he usually checked in with her on the weekend, and today was Wednesday. She grabbed the phone and accepted the call hoping there was nothing wrong with her husband or with Bear.

There was no problem at home, not with the house or with their beloved dog, Shake quickly assured her, but Chan detected an uneasiness in his tone. There was something he wanted to say, something that he thought might be mitigated by banter about her welfare and inquiries about her teaching chores.

“I’ve got a few pages of notes about Chinese food, lousy plumbing, and language frustrations for you, Shake. Stuff I was saving for your weekend call. We can go over it now, if you want, but I think there’s something on your mind other than a standard sitrep.”

“Well, yeah, Chan. You know those boxes of photos and stuff that you wanted me to sort through?”

“I hope you’re doing it. You’ve been promising that trip down memory lane ever since we moved to Texas. I’m expecting a full exploration of the Davis family tree when I get home.”

“Yeah, I’m doing it. And that’s the thing. I found some stuff that really made me curious, stuff I didn’t even know existed. Some ancestors I’ve apparently got who I really want to know more about. You know?”

“Did you call that cousin of yours? Can’t remember her name but you told me she’s the resident Davis family historian.”

“I was gonna do that, Chan, but—I don’t know—I kind of decided it might be better, or at least more interesting, to just head back there and do a little exploring. You know? I mean Bear is fine for another week or two. I think maybe I’ll do a little road trip. Get some details and have a good story or two about the family tree when you get back. Is that nuts?”

“I don’t know if it’s nuts, but it files as unexpected in my book, Shake. I can’t get you to talk about your family or childhood beyond sketchy mumbles, and now you want to go back to Missouri and stroll down memory lane. What’s up with that?”

He spent the next ten minutes trying to explain himself. Chan heard about the unknown Civil War steamboat captain and the mysterious World War I Marine. Those were military connections that would understandably pique her warrior husband’s interest, but she sensed there was something more behind the road trip he outlined. And that outline was vague and impromptu from a man who prided himself on preparation, a guy who firmly believed and often reminded her that proper prior planning prevents piss-poor performance. He seemed to be asking for her blessing or approval, and there was an element of fear to that. At times his tone reminded her of a little boy standing on the edge of a dock, wanting adult reassurance that it was OK to just jump off into the water.

She listened until he ran out of explanations and then told him she thought it was a good idea. He should just do it, she said, just have some fun and do some exploring. She’d be anxious to get periodic reports. It was what he wanted to hear. And Chan knew her husband well enough to realize the trip back through his childhood haunts was about much more than a couple of mysterious ancestors, regardless of what he said in the phone call.

She was curious about his background and childhood experiences, always had been since the day she realized she was in love with Shake Davis. So much of what he told her came as a result of overdosing on whiskey or incessant wheedling. And not much of that was in sufficient detail to answer the questions she had beyond the chronological timeline of events that he generally related. What she really wanted to understand was what made her husband the man he was, the man she loved and respected for his character and kindness as much as for his varied and often lurid experiences around the world. Somewhere in Shake’s past there were things, personal, emotional, and psychological experiences that he was reluctant to relate—even to her—and he’d often said that she was closer to him than anyone he’d ever known.

In the years after they were married, Chan had learned some personal things about Shake from his best friend Mike Stokey, the man Shake considered his blood kin despite no familial relation between the two. Some of that was helpful, some of it answered nagging questions about Shake’s character or habits that were directly related to his wartime and paramilitary experiences. Mike had told stories that helped explain superficial things like his reluctance to sit with his back to doors, why he amassed various weapons and practiced so diligently in their use. It gave her an understanding of why he would appear naked in public rather than leave the house without a razor-sharp pocketknife, and why he was so meticulous about his clothing and always folded his underwear. War stories revealed why he made some of his often jarring but insightful comments about world news or some bloviating politician on TV. Yet there was much more that she wanted to know beyond the obvious, so much that Shake either claimed he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—remember. He had a knack for dissimilation or obfuscating when she probed too deeply. That only made her more curious. What was he like before the Marine Corps? What things made him want to serve most of a lifetime in uniform doing dangerous things? What was it that made his heart so big and strong? How could a man who had witnessed such cruelty and brutality, a man whose working life was steeped in extreme violence, emerge on the other side of it all with any degree of tolerance, any empathy for weakness in others, or the kind of gentleness that he often displayed?

It could be he didn’t know. Or if he did, it could be that he didn’t consider those early influences relevant or important. And now he did? Maybe Shake was at a time in life, a stage in his perspective on the things he’d done in that life, that he was willing to look back to where it all started. Shake often told her that age was just a number. You only get old if you let yourself go down that road. How many times had she seen him sitting on the edge of their bed early in the morning, his wounds and scars glistening with sweat while he stretched and grunted his body into motion? “Another day above ground,” he always said with a tight smile. “The Old Man is knocking but I ain’t gonna let him in.” So maybe the Old Man had a toe or two stuck through a crack in Shake’s door.

Walking across the university campus toward her first lecture period, Chan found a vacant bench and watched the chatty student mobs milling around between buildings. She had time to review her notes on the laptop, but couldn’t bring herself to it. She thought momentarily that she wanted to be with Shake on his journey into the past. No, that wouldn’t be right or fair to him. She’d feel like an eavesdropper, an interloper or a spy. And he would likely be reluctant to delve deeply while she watched and judged. Best let Shake work it out on his own and get comfortable with her questions later.