Come Landfall: A Novel

Four: Surrender

four Surrender Frank strategized their dates like an art, a Dixie Chicks concert at the Biloxi Coliseum, boiled crabs and beer at the Friendship House, a James Bond movie, a boat ride. Angela told him that men she’d gone out with had typically called last minute, mostly to hang out at Rudy’s. “I’m impressed with your planning,” she said, “of course, I don’t officially date military, like I said.” He laughed and said, “Nothing official about us.” “I did mention you to Nana.” “When can I meet her?” “When I know it’ll stick, at least for a while.” “You already heading out the door?” “You’ll meet her soon enough.” When they sat in his car looking out at lighthouses across the Sound, and the oldies station played Dylan’s “Lay, Lady, Lay,” she leaned over and kissed him. As she sang along quietly, he fantasized about her lying across the big brass bed. The way she pressed against him, he knew she was willing. But the time for that was not right either. As November unfolded, she entered his mind at every turn, as he did his five-mile run at dawn wearing a rucksack, then a hundred push-ups and fifty chin-ups; pored over “Severe Convective Storms” and “Meteorological Measurement Systems” in weather class; spent two hours on computers studying forecasting. Angela, Angela, wove through it all. The courses that awaited him, some at other bases—field training, water survival skills—would demand physical stamina. Mental discipline above all was essential. Coela Bellatora was the motto, he told Angela. 46 Roy Hoffman “Weather Warriors. Mud to sun.” “I’ll go for the sun part,” Angela said. He tried to approach faith in their conversations, finding out she’d had little churchgoing as a kid—her mother had her baptized in the Presbyterian Church to please Nana—but that was about it. “Religion’s fine,” she said. “Just don’t let anybody preach to me about it.” In fellowship meetings he had shared his story a hundred times. He would wait until the time was right to reveal it to Angela. On his free time, when he went to Biloxi Beach to walk and pray, he knew that the Lord had given him a very special kind of faith journey. He liked to trace it in his mind. Growing up at Sunrise Baptist in Marks, he’d sat in the front pew with his mother and sister as Daddy preached. When he was baptized at age nine, he could not imagine anyone but the Reverend Frank Semmes dunking him into the baptismal pool. He was brought back up into a father’s as well as pastor’s embrace. In his teens he began to realize he was also on display, a “PK,” a “preacher’s kid,” held to a higher standard of behavior, watched by all. The men in their starched suits, the ladies in prim dresses—they looked on at his family as if it were they who sat in judgment. And he gave them all much judging to do. By the time he’d gotten his driver’s license, the girls became his vice, his insides turning over with yearning from the glance of a slender blond or black-haired darling as mysterious as night. When his buddies began to pass around flasks of sour mash whiskey , it was like a struck match to a fuse. One swig, another, and he was a goner. The devil could come in a dress and heels, or blue jeans and sandals, no matter. Burying himself, half drunk, against the flesh of a hot babe was all he wanted. “No son of mine’s going to be running the roads, stinking of whiskey and whores,” his daddy told him. “No, not my son.” “Jesus turned the water to wine,” he’d spoken back. His father raised his hand to slap him but held his rage and simply come l andfall 47 said: “You’re a foolish boy. Wine, wine? ‘Oinos’ is the word in Greek, grape juice. Not booze, not whiskey! Jesus was no saloon keeper. You’ve heard me preach on that, if you were even listening. Study your Bible, study!” Lord knows he had tried. He had sworn off liquor and started poring over Bible verses until he could not see straight. He listened closely as his father preached on Matthew...