Across the Spectrum (33 page)

“I’m sorry,” I finally managed to say.

“What for? Don’t ever apologize for feeling bad about
killing something, Allie. Taking life is a serious matter.”

I tried to look at him, but my eyes kept filling with water.

“That’s one reason we learn to be good with traps and
weapons, daughter. So we don’t make mistakes; so an animal doesn’t suffer.”

“I . . . I was afraid to let go of the
mallard. I thought maybe I’d broken its leg,” I finally whispered.

“I’d brought my gun, in case that happened,” Papa admitted.
This shocked me, ’cus I hadn’t noticed. Had I been so preoccupied?

We sat there awhile, the slight breeze curling round our
faces. Then Papa said: “Seems like Josh and your Momma have been killing our
capons lately. I thought that was your job. You giving up eating chicken?”

I knew what he meant. “Capon” was an old word folks used for
the young male birds that would never be roosters. It surprised me that he’d
noticed I’d been ducking out on wringing chicken necks. Swallowing, I tried to
find an answer for him. “I felt that duck die, Papa. I felt the life drain out
of its body. Chickens . . . well, chickens aren’t good for much
but eating, but they must feel it, too. Know when they’re going to die, I
mean.”

“Not if you do a good job,” he said quietly. “That’s an
advantage of grabbing one duck at a time. You can yank it under and break its
neck.” I just looked at him. “Didn’t think of that, did you? That’s what Shaw
did. He has trouble killing, too. Think there’s some of the healer strain in
him. But folks gotta eat.”

“Not dead things,” I said quickly. “We could eat bread and
potatoes and stuff.”

Papa gave me a long look. “But wheat ears die so we can have
bread. All those grains will never have baby wheat ears of their own, because
they gave up their goodness for us. Potatoes are the roots of a living plant—a
plant we kill by digging up.”

Sweet lord, I’d never thought of it that way, but what’s
seed but thrashed wheat we’ve set back?

“It’s a cycle, daughter. All things feed on death . . .
and in time, we will be food. For the fire, or the worms. Our spirits go
beyond, but all flesh returns to the earth.”

“What about people who die wrong?” I had no idea where that
question came from.

“Wrong . . . before their time?” I thought
about his words, and then he added: “Or at the hands of the dark side, like
Dolph did?”

Those tears started rising again.

“I haven’t studied the mysteries as much as your aunt,
Allie, so I can’t swear to it, but I don’t think there’s anything mankind’s
come across yet that can kill the spirit . . . except maybe
another man.” His face grew thoughtful, and worried, suddenly. He looked
quickly at me, and then back to the lake. “But that can happen when you’re
still living, daughter. If you kill a man, all you’ve done is change him from
living to dead. His spirit is free, and his body returns to earth. You have to
be alive to have your spirit eroded.”

“So you have to eat death to have life,” I murmured. It
seemed that everyone, whether they had power or not, brushed up against the
mysteries.

“Yes. The trick is to live well—to treat life and death with
respect. Dolph didn’t have much time to learn these things.” There was a pause,
and then Papa said slowly: “But I will tell you this, Alfreda—something I
haven’t told your momma. Your brother died well. Even with the madness setting
in, something human remained. He seemed to know it was time to end the chase.
When he was trapped, and couldn’t reach the rabbit he’d been hunting, he just
turned and waited. The group came up so fast, they speared him before anyone
could blink. After that, the madness set in again, so we had to kill him to
save ourselves. But somehow Dolph was able to keep himself from attacking us,
those few moments when he might have. I have no doubt that whatever and
wherever heaven is, he’s waiting for us.”

That made me feel a lot better, suddenly. I wasn’t sure why,
but it did. “Dolph was a good person,” I announced.

“True,” Papa agreed.

“But sometimes he did stupid things,” I went on. “Or . . .
even mean things.” I felt greatly daring, voicing that thought. “Like when he
threatened to dunk me in the rain barrel if I followed him when he walked out
with Becky after church.”

“Folks can be mean sometimes,” Papa said slowly, “and
sisters and brothers can be worse than most. But when you needed each other,
you stuck up for each other, didn’t you?”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“Dolph was smart, and funny, and a good trapper and farmer.
He was a kind son and brother, most times, and a good Catholic,” Papa murmured,
taking out his pouch and pipe. “He was also stubborn as a mule, and had a
cutting tongue when he wished. Men need a few flaws, Allie . . .
otherwise they might start thinking themselves perfect. Make sense?”

Guess I didn’t have to worry about perfection. “Now Josh has
gotta carry on for two,” I muttered, repeating something Aunt Dagmar had said
to Aunt Sunhild.

“No,” Papa said sharply, and then seemed to work at
relaxing. “Josh has gotta be himself. No one can carry another’s burden. Dolph
did his living and earned his rest. We need to let him go. Don’t fall into that
thinking, Allie. Bad enough your momma’s setting too many hopes on Joshua.
Don’t you do it, too.”

We sat quietly for a while, the breeze pushing at us. I
brushed futilely at the wet sand on my skirt while I did some thinking. Finally
I said: “I’ll miss the grass snakes in my bed. He always tried to pick friendly
ones.”

Papa started chuckling. “Good thing. Didn’t you put the last
one you discovered under his pillow?”

It was my turn to grin. “Yup. Wish I could tell him about
being tucked behind a turtle’s dream.”

The flint struck iron, and Papa puffed on his pipe. “Dolph
may be the safest person to tell about your lessons, Alfreda. When you say your
prayers at night, it doesn’t hurt to ask God to pass on that you’re getting
chummy with turtles and snakes. Dolph would be glad you’re carrying on the
tradition.”

Tradition . . . “Josh has been so nice to me
lately, I’m not sure I can put a snake in his bed,” I admitted. “If Ben would
grow just a little bit more . . .”

This time Papa laughed aloud. Another puff, and he asked:
“You going to save the feathers, like Shaw suggested?”

“What would I do with them?”

“I’ll bet Shaw has some ideas.”

Nodding, I slowly got to my feet. It never hurt to remember
the price of something. Best to always count the cost up front. “We’d better
get back and pluck those birds, or they won’t hang long enough before
roasting.”

“Rinse off first,” Papa suggested. “Or your momma will have
a fit.”

I contemplated that, and repressed a grin. I could get
bloody from a fall, and Momma never batted an eyelash—just patched me up. But
tear my dress or muss my hair . . . some things never changed.

A rising run of notes echoed through the woods, this time
sounding like the slide of a violin. I took a deep breath, and realized I was
content. It didn’t matter about the bird, really . . . it, too,
was a Mystery. And I’d know the answer in time. Everything came in its time, if
you were paying attention.

Shaw walked over about then, and asked: “Do you want us to
carry your ducks for you?”

I shook my head. “Thank you, but I’ll carry them myself.”

I worked on a Vietnam-related novel for fifteen years and it
was an arduous process of creation. However, in the course of those fifteen
years, the subject of the war and the experiences of its soldiers left me with
the urge to do something far shorter and from a different approach, and a
couple of years after completing the novel, all of a sudden “Short Timer”
poured out. By that point, it was a story I was meant to write, and so I did.

∞ ∞ ∞

DeWitt dragged his boot out of the sucking, red mud. Half
a klick to the
LZ.
Boone
was still alive.

Boone. Of all the squad, DeWitt would rather have carried
out anybody else, but that didn’t matter now. Boone was who was left. So Boone
was who he’d try to save.

Boone moaned, wiggling, trying to walk. Dirty but intact
skin showed through the rips in his fatigue pants. The rifleman’s legs were
still good, if he could only stay coherent enough to make them work. But the
unfriendly fire was closing in again, so DeWitt carried the man, no matter how
much it made him stagger through the elephant grass.

“Perimeter’s just past that line of trees,” DeWitt
whispered, spitting the words out between quick, sharp gulps of air.

The line of trees lay lost somewhere in the vegetation and
the dripping wet shadows of the night. DeWitt could not have seen it even if an
illumination round had gone off straight overhead. But he knew it was there. He
knew Boone needed to hear that it was there.

One guy, DeWitt thought. Dear Jesus, let me bring back at
least one guy.

“I’m short,” Boone mumbled, his eyes rolling aimlessly in
their sockets. “Forty-three days ’til I get my papers. Captain said he might
send me back to the rear next week, let me work with the
ARVN
until my tour’s up.”

“That’s right,” DeWitt said, keeping Boone talking. “Think
of next week, man. They got refrigerators in the rear, Boone. The beer is
cold
.”

Boone laughed, licking his lips as if he were already
tasting the brew.

Small arms fire blistered the jungle about five-zero-zero
meters to the right. DeWitt adjusted Boone’s weight across his shoulders and
kept moving. Speed was everything now. Boone was losing too much blood. And if
the
NVA
didn’t know
exactly where the Americans had run, they’d figure it out soon enough. The two
grunts couldn’t stick around.

DeWitt wheezed. His knees groaned as the path took an upward
turn. The incline slowed them, but its presence was a good sign; it proved they
had found the hill. The
LZ
was at the top. Still secure, said that last transmission, before Welles had
stepped on a mine and sent himself and the radio to hell. Still able to bring
in the medevacs.

DeWitt had just glimpsed the line of trees in the moonlight
when a long, turbulent rattle issued from Boone’s throat. DeWitt lowered his
burden to the mud. Boone didn’t move. His eyes, glassy and pallid, looked at
the stars as if some type of salvation waited there.

DeWitt pulled down the rifleman’s eyelids. He would be going
on alone.

Again.

He fished through the bloody fatigues until he found the
laminated photo of Boone’s girlfriend. The night turned her portrait into
amorphous blotches of white and grey, only vaguely female. On the back was her
address, written in Boone’s fifth-grade penmanship. DeWitt pocketed the photo
and left Boone behind.

With only his own weight to support, DeWitt could have moved
quickly. But he merely slogged up the hill. The small arms fire faded to a
distant, staccato drumbeat. Mist rose from the ground, hiding the roots and
decomposing leaves, muting the edges of the jungle night.

DeWitt sighed. The humid air took on a life of its own,
negating the sounds and sensations of Vietnam. Gradually it brightened, picking
up a purplish tinge. DeWitt kept plodding forward.

“Purple Haze all in my
brain . . .”

The jungle disappeared within the mist. The air clung like a
wet rag, ripe with the taint of ozone. DeWitt’s body itched. The veneer of
sweat, dirt, and other people’s blood evaporated from his skin, taking his
clothes as well. One last step, and the haze itself vanished. DeWitt stood
naked in the middle of a bathroom in a suburban tract home. On the wall above
the toilet hung a calendar that read August, 1983.

His reflection confronted him from the mirror. The image was
far from the infantryman he’d once been. Gray dusted the temples of his finely
kinked, receding hair. His basketball-player physique carried two dozen extra
pounds around the waist. The tattoo he’d acquired in Saigon barely showed
anymore against his dark skin.

DeWitt Langdon, Accountant. Age thirty-nine. Vietnam was a
million years gone.

But in his hands, he still held the photograph of Boone’s
girlfriend.

He turned it over, smearing the fingerprints on the back—the
blood was that fresh. Reading the address, he wondered how many times the woman
had moved in the fourteen years since Boone had written the information down,
how many times she’d changed her name.

Cradling the photo in his palms, he threaded through the
house to his garage. He pulled a metal storage bin from under his workbench,
opened it, and laid Boone’s memento inside.

He sighed. With a bone-weary tread, he made his way to the
bedroom. Wanda was awake.

“Trouble sleeping?” she asked.

He tried to relax as she rubbed his shoulders. “I’ll be
fine.”

“You’ve been so preoccupied lately,” she said, worry
creating a valley between her eyebrows. “Thinking about the wedding?”

He took her face between his hands and lifted her mouth to
his. “Never you worry about that,” he said between kisses. “You’re the woman
for me, no doubt about that. Ain’t your fault I can’t sleep.”

“I thought I’d cured your insomnia,” she said impishly,
caressing his balls with her fingernails. His scrotum contracted, skin
tightening around each hair follicle.

“Maybe I need more therapy,” he said. He rolled her onto her
back, reached for a breast, and found the nipple already rising to greet him.

∞

“I’m going to Safeway today,” Wanda said. “You think a
five pound ham is enough? That teenager of yours will probably eat like a
horse.”

DeWitt tried to update his mental image of his son, but his
mind wouldn’t accept the revision. The picture would metamorphose back to the
diaper-clad toddler he used to bounce on his knee and take to the park. Rudy
had truly been his kid at that age, not the barely-glimpsed figure seen on
certain holidays and for a couple of weeks each summer. His ex-wife claimed she
never meant to deny DeWitt his chance to be a father, yet taking Rudy to live
nine hundred miles away amounted to the same thing.