Author's Note: I had an idea for a series of short stories from the life of the Sloans. This is story one. The plan is that they'll all stand alone, but I reserve the right for that plan to fail at some future date. I hope you enjoy this first story.

B O O K - O F - D A Y S:
Coming Home

?

?

by Writer JC

?

?

?

The city looked different, completely foreign to the things to which he had recently become accustomed. The tall buildings, bridges and busy byways spoke of a fast-paced civilized life among everyday citizens living in the land of Hollywood's rich and famous. Enmeshed within were also quiet, unassuming families, growing and loving one another, far removed from the darker side of existence. That was what he had been before. But that innocence had buried itself away some place so deep that he wasn't sure that he could exist in this place anymore, or even if it would accept him.

A chime sounded overhead, interrupting his observation of the city far below. A disembodied voice followed, echoing through the confines of the airliner's passenger cabin. Steve Sloan only listened with half an ear as the voice instructed the stewardesses to prepare for arrival at LAX.

This was it. Home. During his time in Viet Nam and even at the medical facility in Hawaii, almost to a man, talk was often of returning to that highly coveted place. It was the light at the end of the tunnel, and a reason to keep going. But now that it was upon him, he couldn't stop the quaking that resonated through his stomach. He clenched his hands into fists in an effort to stop the trembling there, as well.

He knew that not everyone returned to welcoming arms. Some were greeted with protest and accusation. But even that had to be better than darkness and despair and death. Didn't it? Squeezing his hands ever more tightly, he allowed his eyes to close as he reached into that well of detachment that he had learned to wrap about himself like a cloak. There had been times when that was all that he'd had to insulate his heart from the things he'd seen and heard and done. Like an old friend, it fell easily into place.

It remained as the plane came to a stop alongside the terminal's docking ramp. When he noticed the smiling stewardess who had greeted him when he'd initially boarded, he gathered up the black uniform helmet that identified him as one of the men who had given of themselves to be a part of Uncle Sam's solution to the situation in Viet Nam. Then, getting a careful grip on it with his left hand, he eased up out of the seat, struggling to suppress a grimace as pain shot through his still healing leg.

"Thank you." He managed a smile for her when she handed him the crutches that she had earlier stowed somewhere near the front of the plane. She returned it, and waited for him to get his bearings so that he could navigate the narrow corridor toward the front of the plane.

He had been given a seat in the first row beyond first class because of the additional legroom. It worked to his advantage now, as well, since he didn't have very far to go before he reached the door that deposited him in the enclosed exit walkway that would lead him into the airport terminal itself. It also prevented his having to avoid any gazes that might look on with distaste.

He made the journey in growing apprehension despite the protective distance he'd forced upon his emotions. The first class passengers were far ahead of him, leaving him to his thoughts and the muted thump of crutches as they moved across the rubber flooring. He was only half along when a particularly sharp pain arrowed its way through his leg, reminding him vividly of the day that he had received the injury.

The jungle had been heavy and thick, making breathing a chore. That chore was made much more difficult by Benny's near dead weight as they hobbled along in search of cover. The sound of weapons fire was all around them. He could almost hear it again, echoing through his mind. And then the explosion had come, and then the pain as shrapnel embedded itself into his already straining muscles -- several larger pieces in his leg and a couple smaller ones in his back and side. Both he and Benny had dropped flat, then. But he'd managed to get them out. Will power and determination had helped him that night.

The sound of footsteps overtaking him brought him sharply back to the present. He glanced around in surprise as the other passengers flowed around him.

"Do you need some help?" a voice asked near his shoulder.

Steve spared the man a brief glance, before declining. "No, thanks. I'm fine. It stiffened up on me during the flight." He got himself moving again, not giving the other man an opportunity to respond. Pain of body and pain of heart were of little consequence as he continued to make his way toward the terminal; his friend the cloak was there protecting him.

*~*~*~*~*

Mark paced another circuit in front of the row of seats where his wife and daughter were sitting. His eyes kept straying to the gate where Steve was supposed to be arriving. So far a few people had trickled through the doors, but none of them had been the son that they had last seen nearly two years prior.

From the time that he had learned that his son would be returning home, honorably discharged, it was as if he had finally released the breath that he had been holding since he had watched the long-haired teen give them all a heartbreakingly familiar grin before reporting as ordered to the U.S. Army.

He remembered vividly that it was a warm, sunny day. Mark had stood and watched while Steve enveloped first his sister and then his mother in a warm embrace. Hair, bleached blonde by the sun fell forward, covering his face as he leaned downward. He had seemed so happy and carefree that it was hard to imagine that he was going off to a war.

Mark had been so proud of him, and of the way that he had reacted when the numbers in the draft lottery had been announced, and Steve's number had been seven. And then, when the official documents had arrived, confirming that he had indeed been selected to report for possible induction into the armed forces. After explaining to his family over dinner that he felt that responding positively to the orders was his duty, he had proceeded to reassure them all in small ways. Like that last morning, he had beat even his mother up and prepared breakfast for them all. Or at least, he had attempted to. They had enjoyed burnt pancakes and scorched eggs with love and laughter until it was time to leave. And then, Steve had remained upbeat and smiling as he slung an overnight bag over his shoulder and waved a final goodbye.

And then he was gone. There was a pall over the family until the day they received their first letter from him. Over the months he had written when he could, but after he completed his training they became further in between. So many had lost loved ones in the conflict, that during the quiet times, Mark had no way of knowing how Steve was faring. Once he knew that Steve was close to coming home, alive, and relatively unharmed, he'd existed in a constant state of worry that something would happen to change that.

A gentle hand on his arm drew him out of his musings. He looked at his wife and smiled, folding his hand over hers. They'd drawn strength from one another over the years that they had been together, but most especially over the past months.

"He'll be here, Mark," Kathryn said, "Give him time." Though her features were placid, Mark could tell that she was nearly as anxious as he was. They had developed a system of reassuring one another, as it seemed to steady the both of them.

Mark released a breath. "You're right," he chuckled at her. "It's just that he's been gone so long, and now we're going to finally have him back with us." He looked back over his shoulder at fifteen year old Carol, who they had allowed to leave school early so she could be there with them. She was looking anxiously out of the large window at the plane that was parked there. "Our family is finally going to be whole again."

"Oh, Mark, there he is . . . " Kathryn's hands went up to cover her mouth and her eyes filled. Mark followed her gaze back toward the gate. Despite the short, buzz cut hair, the tall slim form clad in the green Army dress uniform was immediately recognizable as his son. He'd come through the gates, leaning heavily on a pair of crutches. Solemn blue eyes scanned the crowded space of the arrivals area.

"Steve!" Carol was the first to speak, launching herself through the milling crowd in her brother's direction. Steve's face registered a moment's shock before she threw her arms about his waist. He seemed to stagger backward a bit as he took her weight, and then engulfed her in a lanky-limbed hug.

Mark was perched to go right after her, but Kathryn's hand once again settled on his arm, holding him back. "Let's give them a moment," she urged, her voice soft and touched with emotion. Mark nodded in response, not sure he could trust his voice. He remained alongside his wife, drinking in the sight of his children together.

One of Steve's crutches had toppled to the ground at some point during the hug, while the other was propped against the wall to one side of him. After long moments, he pushed away from his sister. As he did so, a wince flickered across his face, but was so quickly replaced with a teasing smile that Mark almost believed that he'd imagined it. Then Steve made some comment to Carol, and she smacked him on the arm in response, before stooping to retrieve his crutch.

Steve chose that moment to look across the short distance, zeroing in on the two of them almost magnetically. His young gaze spoke more clearly of the confusion of emotions that he was experiencing than any words ever could. Their son had gone away a boy, but had been returned to them as a wounded man. Mark felt his throat tighten further as he and Kathryn closed the distance between them.

*~*~*~*~*

Steve noted peripherally that Carol, who had grown up quite a bit in his absence was handing him the fallen crutch. But he could not draw his attention away from the two people that he had loved and relied on the most in his life.

His mother was as beautiful, warm and loving as he remembered, though there were tiny hints of laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. Somehow, he had not noticed them before. And his dad, while still tall and slim, seemed to have changed as well, though more dramatically. Normally dark hair had taken on a distinguished salt and pepper appearance. For the first time Steve realized that his parents were getting older. Oddly, it made him love them all the more.

He reckoned that being on the battle lines had a way of making a person realize his own mortality, and that of those around him. But more than that, it made him appreciate the life full of love and security that he had experienced due to their parenting.

The pain of his injury didn't matter as he limped a step forward and greeted his mother with a hug. She smelled faintly of some spice that he had never been able to identity, and he knew that she had been baking. "Mom." Her name slipped from his lips in a choked whisper.

And then his dad was standing before him. Love and acceptance was reflected in his gaze. They embraced, his father patting him gently on the back before pulling away. He leveled him with another warm look, before saying with a slightly roughened voice, "Let's go home, son."

They were the words Steve needed to hear even though he hadn't realized it. He nodded, too choked to speak. The protective cloak disintegrated into a million pieces; he found that it was not needed here. He was with his family, his grounding force of love. He had finally reached the light at the end of that tunnel. He was home where he belonged.

?

THE END

?