Souvenir (5 page)

“Aw shit,” he said out loud, surprising himself. He looked around, feeling foolish and guilty. They had done it again. This carton had Virginia tax stamps, not Connecticut. No accident there, Virginia had the lowest cigarette tax in the country. A big distributor could shave off a bundle in taxes by bringing a truckload up from the south. He’d bet some of the cartons had no tax stamp at all.

Tri-State my ass. Not unless it was Virginia, North Carolina and Connecticut. There was nothing left to do, nothing he could do. He had hours of work to go, and he couldn’t worry about tax regulations. He filled every brand, not looking at the stacks of packs as he slid them down each row. If anyone said anything, he’d plead ignorance. Let ‘em talk to Al. He locked the machine and squatted to cover the single packs at the bottom of the box with empty cartons.

“What’s new, Clay?”

The voice came out of nowhere as Clay was starting to stand up with the cardboard box. A sharp jolt went through him like he had touched a frayed electrical cord. Dropping the box he turned, jerking his hands up to protect himself, or fight, or plead, he didn’t know which. He saw a uniform, and his eyes widened, a gasp escaping his lips, his hands nearly formed around the shape of a weapon he hadn’t held in almost twenty years. All in a second, a slowed-down second in which the blur of the uniform resolved into blue and the smile on the face peered out from the veil of panic that Clay’s brain had sent rushing through him.

“Jesus, Bob, don’t sneak up on me like that, willya?” Clay dropped his hands, then brought one up to his heart. He smiled, willing the sweat to soak into his skin before it streamed down his temple. Make a joke. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Cripes, Clay, you look like you saw a ghost. You okay?” Bob put his hand on Clay’s shoulder, as if to steady him, like he might topple over any second. Was he swaying a little, or was that the room moving? Bob looked him in the eye, gave him the kind of look a cop couldn’t help giving. Penetrating, studying him.

“Yeah, yeah, you just startled the hell out of me, that’s all, and then I got up too fast. I’m okay.” Clay gave a little embarrassed laugh, shook his head. I’m such a klutz.

“Good. I called you when I came in, but you didn’t hear me. Deep in thought, huh?” Bob moved back half a step as he let Clay’s shoulder go. He stood a couple of inches taller than Clay, clear blue eyes and a crew cut giving his face a chiseled, steely look. The look matched his deep blue uniform, pressed and creased like it was new, badge gleaming, leather holster shined as well as his black shoes.

“Not too deep. How are you doing? Back on duty?” Officer Robert Quinn had been shot about a month ago, after pulling over a black Chrysler for speeding through a red light. He couldn’t have known it had been stolen a half hour before, by two guys from the Latin Kings who were going to use it as their getaway car for a hit on a rival gang president. Instead of license and registration Bob got six bullets fired at him, one of which hit. The driver was a lousy shot. Bob wasn’t. Down with a bullet through one leg, he squeezed off two rounds and watched the car swerve off the road and hit a telephone pole. The passenger hoofed it and was never found. The driver was slumped over the wheel, one bullet in the neck, another in his shoulder.

Bob had been a good customer. Came in most nights for a beer or two before he went home. Taking it down a notch, he called it. Clay had visited him in the hospital, complimented him on his shooting. There was something icily calm about how he had fired those two shots, closely grouped, and at a moving target at that. Not to mention having taken a .38 slug in the leg besides. Something recognizable.

“You in the war?” Clay had asked, as he stared down at the floor, counting the alternating blue linoleum squares. He was nervous in hospitals, the closeness of disease and death causing him to focus on the details of the room or the hallways to keep his mind off of the misery within.

“Yeah.”

“Figured. Where?”

“Army. Infantryman. New Guinea. Didn’t like it much.”

“Which?” Clay asked, smiling because he knew the answer, remembered the familiar complaints, the chickenshit, the officers, the chow.

“Neither,” Bob had laughed, then winced a little. “You?”

“Infantry, too. Europe. Can’t say I liked either much myself. But still…”

Clay had looked at the floor, then his hands, and then out the window. It was late morning, no one else was around, and the sunlight filtered into the room between the open blinds, scarring each man with lines of light and shade.

“Yeah,” Bob had said. “Yeah.”

They sat for half an hour, the noisy clanking of carts and nurse’s chatter passing them by. Everything that needed to be said out loud had been, and they sat in graceful silence in a clean room with white sheets, far from the fetid greenery of New Guinea or the cold white woods of Belgium, each knowing nothing else needed explanation, each knowing theirs was an unfathomable mystery that stretched from horror to love in that half whispered phrase,
but still
….

“Nah, desk duty for a coupla more weeks,” Bob said. “Everything okay with you?”

“Yeah, except there ain’t enough hours in the day. I’m running late, Bob, gotta go. Stop by one night soon, we’ll have a toast.” Clay picked up the box, looked to Bob for a response.

“Well, Joanne took all this kinda hard. I dunno. I think I need to stick around the house with her until she’s alright, know what I mean?” Bob looked down at his feet, a little embarrassed, as if his wife’s reaction reflected on him.

“Hell, Bob, you were shot. That’s gotta take some getting used to. Tell you what, bring her with you, after supper one night.”

Bob nodded, gave a wave, went back down the hall. He didn’t say no, didn’t say yes. Clay walked as fast as he could out the main door, back to his car. He hated the thought of Bob finding out about the cigarettes, about the stammered explanations and excuses. Bob was a stand-up guy, so how would he feel to be buddies with a cheat and a…what? What was he exactly? He started the engine, listened to it rumble as he tried to finish the sentence. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t.

Clay shifted into first and pulled out into the road. He didn’t like the direction his thoughts were going, so he changed them. He rubbed his forehead, felt the headache forming behind his eyes. Think of something else, move on. Would Addy come with him to Jake’s one night, if Bob and Joanne dropped by? The four of them could sit in a booth and just talk, like they were all out on a date. If he promised not to get caught up in any work, then she might come along. You never knew, did you? She might change her mind, come down to the Tavern like she used to, back when they were busy fixing it up every morning, hoping the paint would dry before the first customers showed up. Back when—what? What were they then that they weren’t now? Too many missing words this morning, too many blanks in the conversation he carried on with himself.

He pulled out onto East Main, heading down the hill to the train station and the vending machine in the waiting room. More empty spaces to fill up.

Chapter Three

2000

The pew was smooth, hard wood, polished to a bright sheen by generations of backsides. Oak of a deep-varnished hue, it curved to create a place for the ass-end to deposit itself while the soul lifted itself up in prayer, or simply tried to stay awake, depending upon the person and maybe the preacher.

…reading today…Book of Job…

Clay tried to sit up straight. The pew played with him, its surface gliding him forward every time he relaxed his posture. He’d push himself up, pressing his hand down on the seat to brace himself, and in a minute he’d ease up and feel the slow slide begin again as his suit pants, worn to a glean almost as shiny as the pew, rode the curve of the oak and drove him into a slouch.

…I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot perceive him; on the left hand I seek him, but I cannot behold him…

Addy reached over with her right hand and patted his, giving him a wan half smile. Clay felt his face redden as he realized she was comforting him, thinking he was distraught, upset, when he was just uncomfortable. Fidgety. He closed his other hand over hers, giving it a squeeze. Her skin felt like paper over wood, like the kites he used to make from newspaper and whittled down branches. Kites strewn with stories of Abyssinia and Nanking, book burnings and the Katzenjammer Kids, sailing over their heads, into the wind. He saw the kite, felt the breeze vibrate it and whip it out of his hands, heard himself laughing…

I turn to the right hand, but I cannot see him. But he knows the way that I take; when he has tried me, I shall come forth as gold.

Silence. No laughter, only the quiet of St. John’s Lutheran Church, a flag-draped casket in front of the altar, mourners sniffling, coughing, shushing the few children, hardly making enough noise to fill the big church. Clay uncupped his hands, releasing Addy’s. He rubbed his fingers against his own palm. Paper, yes. And not supple branches beneath, either. Not the bendable green wood of his youth, no.

…why do those who know him never see his days?

Come forth as gold…is that what the preacher said? Is that what this is all about? He tries us, and then we come out golden. Some of us ought to be 24-karat, then. Clay let his eyes set on the coffin. Bob would be one of the golden boys. The Depression, the war, the cops, his family. It all added up to something. Why did he feel like he was so much less? Had he traded away his gold before he earned it?

Men remove landmarks; they seize flocks and pasture them.

Clay felt irritated with himself as he tried to focus on the service. He sat up straight for the hundredth time, taking Addy’s hand again, wanting to feel connected to her, not wanting his thoughts to wander, visiting the distant past that was growing more vivid and alive as he aged and his own life moved more slowly, winding down to a weary grayness. He looked at the coffin again, then at Addy, wondering, wondering.

They thrust the poor off the road; the poor of the earth all hide themselves.

What is this guy talking about, anyway? The Book of Job, was that Old Testament or New? Sounded dark and gloomy, why is he reading this at Bob’s funeral?

They lie all night naked, without clothing, and have no covering in the cold.

Clay shivered. He was wearing a topcoat, but he shivered like a man out in the cold, alone. He hunched his shoulders and rubbed his hands on his thighs, trying to stir some warmth into his thin frame. He didn’t realize he had closed his eyes until he saw gloved hands rubbing green pants, saw his breath frost and felt the cold, cold earth at his back. He opened them, afraid of crying out. He looked around, at Addy, the preacher, the coffin.

They are wet with the rain of the mountains, and cling to the rock for want of shelter.

Who? Why was he saying this? Clay felt his face flush, as if he had been slapped. Shame? What did he have to feel ashamed for? Or was it the rain, the near frozen rain, pelting them in the foxhole, stinging their faces and puddling up, drawing their sleeping bags into the wet, brown ooze. Open your eyes, dammit!

He was moving his feet, trying to get them above the water, slamming them against the riser. He stopped, calmed himself down. Addy looked at him, strangely, concern and fear flashing over her face. He smiled.

From out of the city the dying groan, and the soul of the wounded cries for help; yet God pays no attention to their prayer.

Oh no, oh no no no, don’t go on, end it here, now. Clay balled his fists up in his topcoat, fighting the urge to get up, leave, scream, beg, plead. But he had done that all before, just like this character Job. And still, the hurt came, in waves, fresh and new each time, not even familiarity deadening the impact. He felt his eyes water and his lips tremble. He bit the inside of his mouth, incisors snapping down, drawing blood, warm, soothing, the tiny bit of pain well worth it, his own tranquilizer.

Bob, you are one lucky sonovabitch.

The preacher finished up the reading, gave his sermon. Clay tried to follow it, to keep his mind occupied. He listened, but couldn’t keep from straying into the past again. Not his own, but the past of the Bible, as Job’s pain spilled out from the pulpit and washed over the mourners. Did things make any more sense back then? Or do they today? He went over the story, trying to find some comfort, solace, or even holiness.

So this Job is a good man, and God makes him suffer. A lot. Job’s pals say it must be because he’s done something wrong. He says no, he’s a stand-up guy. He’s pissed at God and wants his day in court, wants to know what the deal is with all the suffering. God shows up, says what’s your beef? I’m running the show, where were you when I created the world and everything in it? Job’s rocked back on his heels, eats humble pie, and it’s all supposed to mean we should be glad God is in our lives, no matter how much we suffer. Or something like that, the kind of answer that shows these guys don’t really have any answers at all. Holy roller bullshit. But it all worked out for Job, didn’t it? Lots of sheep, camels, sons and she-asses. Lived to be a hundred and forty.

And Job died, an old man, and full of days.