Chapter 19 - Marcus Hayes After the Army
I did not see Hayes for four years.
Then I did.
Not planned.
A veteran marksmanship charity event in Colorado.
My unit sent volunteers.
Grandpa participated as an instructor.
I was now Sergeant Emma Turner.
Promotion earned normally.
No magic leap.
I arrived at setup.
A man carried folding tables across the parking lot.
Short hair.
No campaign hat.
Older.
Marcus Hayes.
I stopped.
He saw me.
Stopped too.
Neither moved.
Then Grandpa walked between us carrying coffee.
“Morning.”
As if nothing.
Hayes looked at him.
“Mr. Turner.”
“Marcus.”
My body went rigid.
Grandpa had known he would be there.
I glared.
Later.
Hayes said:
“Sergeant Turner.”
“Mr. Hayes.”
Civilian.
That mattered.
Then:
“I can leave.”
Grandpa answered before me:
“You volunteered for setup. Finish setup.”
I almost laughed.
Hayes nodded.
No authority.
No intimidation.
He finished tables.
During event, he never instructed soldiers.
His role was logistics.
Water.
Targets? Keep generic.
He had been working with veterans’ transition program.
Not to redeem publicly.
Because he needed work.
Afterward he approached.
“May I speak with you?”
I looked at Grandpa.
He walked away.
My choice.
“Yes.”
Hayes said:
“I was wrong.”
Simple.
Then more.
“I knew who you were the first day.”
“I know.”
“I thought Jack sent you.”
“He didn’t.”
“I know now.”
Then:
“I tried to fail you.”
“Yes.”
“I swapped your rifle.”
“Yes.”
“I changed the log.”
“Yes.”
“I hated that you shot forty with mine.”
I almost smiled.
“I know.”
Then he looked down.
“I spent years telling myself your grandfather ruined my career before it started.”
“He didn’t.”
“No.”
Then:
“When I saw you, I thought if I washed you out, it would prove something.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
He looked older than forty two.
“I’m sorry.”
I let silence sit.
Then:
“I accept the apology.”
His eyes lifted.
“I don’t trust you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t need a relationship with you.”
“I know.”
“And if you ever call me sweetheart again, I’ll make Grandpa lecture you for six hours.”
Hayes laughed unexpectedly.
“I deserve worse.”
Probably.
Then he asked:
“Did you become a good soldier?”
I looked at him.
“That isn’t your evaluation anymore.”
He nodded.
“Right.”
We walked away.
Grandpa waited at truck.
“You set that up.”
“I did not.”
“You knew he’d be here.”
“Yes.”
“That’s setting it up adjacent.”
He shrugged.
“Did you want me to warn you?”
I thought.
“No.”
“Then quit complaining.”
Grandpa remained infuriating.
Then I asked:
“Do you trust him?”
“No.”
“Forgive?”
“Some.”
The family vocabulary.
Then Grandpa said:
“He finally retested.”
“What?”
“Not Army.”
A civilian instructor ethics certification required for his volunteer program.
“He passed?”
“Yes.”
“Who evaluated?”
“Not me.”
Good.
May you like
Then Grandpa smiled.
“Would’ve been funny.”
