Page 6 of A Christmas Harbor

Coldplay had released “Christmas Lights” in December 2010, the same month Congress had finally pried open Uncle Sam’s padlocked closet so gays and lesbians could serve openly in the military. It should have been the happiest holiday of David’s life.

But after fifteen Christmases of pushing away anything and anyone that threatened his career, after fifteen Christmases ofSorry, I told my family we’re just friends…there had been no one left to celebrate with. After so many sacrifices on the twin altars of fear and ambition, sacrifice itself had become a hard habit to break.

Even here and now he was blowing it, drifting into memory and regret instead of connecting with the real person beside him, this bedraggled puppy of a man who would risk an ulcer just to make a bartender happy.

David turned back to Paul.

“So what do you teach?” they asked each other in unison. Then they laughed and said, “You first”—also in unison, which made them laugh harder. God, this was awkward.

“In my family,” David said, “house rules state the youngest goes first, which is probably you.”

“Maybe not. I just turned thirty-seven.”

“Forty-two.”

“You’re older than you look. Must be the hair.” Paul jutted his thumb at himself. “I teach literature. You?”

“Nuclear engineering.”

Paul coughed. “Wow, I was expecting something jarhead-y like Artillery 101 or Advanced War-Crime Rationalization.”

David would have bristled if not for the twinkle in Paul’s eye and the warmth of booze in his own veins. “I’m more of an egghead than a jarhead. Jarheads are Marines, by the way. That’s my dad and big brother.”Washis dad and big brother. “I’ve spent most of my career on submarines.”

“No way! What kind? Assuming there’s more than one kind of submarine. I have no idea.”

“There are three types, basically: attack subs, guided-missile subs, and ballistic missile subs. I was on the last kind.”

“Ballistic like…” Paul used his hands to form the head of an expanding mushroom cloud.

David nodded. “That’s why we call those subs ‘boomers.’”

“So you were just scooting around under the ocean, ready to end the world at a moment’s notice?”

“Pretty much.”

“Holy shit, that is so goth.”

David laughed out loud. That was a new one. “Yeah, back in the nineties we used to dress as Grim Reapers, but our scythes kept getting caught on the bulkheads.”

Paul grinned. “I can see how that might ruin the whole vibe. Still…my God, I’ve never met anyone with a job like that before. What kind of life was it?”

David took a moment to find the right word. “Busy.”

Paul pointed his cinnamon stick at him. “Not the answer I was expecting. Busy doing what? Besides driving the sub and getting ready to unleash holy hell on the planet.”

“Running drills. Studying for the next qualifications. Watching out for other subs. Cleaning.”

“Cleaning?”

“Constantly. Even us officers. Even the captain. With a hundred and fifty crew members in a confined space, it starts to stink pretty fast if you let it go. Not to mention the potential damage to equipment.”

“That makes sense.” Paul did an actual eyelash-flutter. “So did you wear one of those cute sailor outfits with the smooshy hat and the carefree blue tie?”

This man had a unique way of describing things. “You mean the crackerjacks? Those are for enlisted members, and not for everyday work.”

“So what do officers wear underwater? I’m picturing the Beatles’ outfits inYellow Submarine.”

“Nothing so flashy. Tan shirts, khakis, sometimes coveralls if we’re getting our hands dirty. Between the drab clothes and fluorescent lights, a sub is a pretty unsexy place.”

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