Post Nam 2

Geographical centre of the Buckeye State. Part two.

SO HE WENT north to West Main. Dragging his feet past the law firm, Cooper, Adel, which had him thinking about that other world, an adult world closed to him. Who knew the law? All those books and serious talk. Of course he’d seen law on TV, heard “Will the witness raise his right hand...” but he was pretty sure that wasn’t how it was. On TV cops and law-men were the same, out to get the bad guys who sat in court and smirked at the judge. And the judge wore a black gown, which was odd. Once his Pa had needed to move house and he’d gone downtown and signed papers. Wasn’t that a law firm? Wasn’t that what real law-men did?

Past the point where West Main became East Main and past the two gas stations, Shell this side, Marathon on the other. He’d filled up at both during the early weeks with Buckeye Wrecking when Amy had insisted he used the Jeep to get to work. Such a short trip that later he’d walked. So why had Amy insisted he take the Jeep? Perhaps because it made him seem like a solid citizen, new car and all. Amy was good at figuring out things like that.

Now East Main had become Columbus Road leading to the pharmacy. He’d picked up a prescription there for Amy when she was away – the only time ever - visiting her older sister in Akron. Why would Amy need drugs? The plastic bag was sealed, would he have looked otherwise? Perhaps.

Walking any more didn’t make sense. He needed to think. Maybe.

Time to cross over to the park. Sit on a bench like an oldster and dwell on the future which wasn’t bright. Experimentally he closed his eyes and the pocka-pocka started up. Kept them closed and it got louder. Worse was the tension across his head, temple to temple, as if something would burst. He opened his eyes and for a time his sight was blurred as the sounds died away. Slowly his view of the park cleared and what he saw was ordinary. Finally depressing. Grass that said nothing.

They said you should forget failure. Push it to one side. For Dill it was all he’d got. Failure reminded him of a patrol scout he knew; whenever they took five he’d get out his Zippo and sort of roll it in and out of his fingers. Juggling it in a small way. Constant movement as if he couldn’t bear to be still. And now Dill juggled failure, cherishing it, feeling it, keeping it moving in his mind.

Dan Krajik had understood, at first. An unloaded  five-tonner, an accounts book with no entries, you had to be sympathetic. War affects young kids. Shit some needed counselling. They’d have laughed at that in Normandy after Omaha, but heck, we’d come a long way since. These kids had gone through hell and killing Gooks wasn’t like killing Nazis. Back then there hadn’t been TV cameras and reporters asking questions.

There were times Dill could manage the work and he saw the relief on Dan Krajik’s face, knowing he hadn’t been made a fool of. Loading the truck and making deliveries was no great sweat, though some afternoons Dill drove as if he were in a panicky dream, away from Buckeye Wrecking as if from a firefight. Sometimes he’d pull over and wonder at solid buildings made to last, homes with tiled roofs not palm fronds.

Funnily it was the book-keeping that was difficult. He’d stare at the blank page and try and remember. Finally, apologetically, go over to Dan to help him with the details.

After a month Dan had phoned Amy and suggested Dill take a short vacation: “Get his mind straightened out.” Amy had him paint the garage and Dill had done a good job; three coats in less than a week. Plus fixing a window frame. Relaxing work but he knew Amy wanted him doing more than odd job work. And the first step would be mastering book-keeping. Three weeks ago he’d gone back to Buckeye and the lapses had started all over. This morning he and Dan had had a little talk with Dan all fake-fatherly. “Son, I reckon you’re some doctor’s problem not mine. Breaks my heart but you gotta go.”

In his back trouser-pocket was a cheque which he hadn’t looked at. Probably a goodly sum, written out by Dan with Omaha Beach in mind. Dill sat surrounded by the grassy park, flat and anonymous. Not a bit like Nam. Again he closed his eyes and heard the insistent noise. Strange really, choppers had been the sound of rescue, now they seemed like a warning. Time to walk back to North Clayton and tell Amy the bad news.

That wasn’t going to be easy. She’d looked after him and more, even touching on the future. Not easy. For some time his legs refused to stiffen, allowing him to get up from his park bench. And even when they did and he was back on East Main his legs didn’t seem to want make a right on to North Clayton, forcing him left instead down Cherry Alley and a small back-street which he’d noticed before.

Fritz’s Guns said the sign, Friendly Service it promised. Old Glory in heavy lustrous material and fringed in gilt hung from an angled pole to the left of the door.

In Memphis, where he’d passed his teens, Dill had been the odd one. Everyone else had been crazy about guns, droning on about muzzle velocity, POI and snake bite. Even now Dill had no idea what a collimator sight was. Funny thing, in the military where guns were supposed to be a big deal, the good ol’ boy recruits stopped slavering about them. Grumbled about the weight of the M16 out on patrol.

For Dill the M16 was something you carried, like your dog tags or your canteen. Sometimes you loosed off a clip, more rarely you hit something that mattered. Nothing to get worked up about.

Gun shops were something  else, almost like churches, no, check that, like whorehouses. Men with wonder in their voices, doing a lot of feeling. But then Dill had never visited a whorehouse.

Was Fritz, of Fritz’s Guns, a real person or something to do with the Nazis? Politics often went with guns. Despite himself Dill found he was edging towards the shop’s display window. Behind the reinforced glass was a card reading Gun of the Week. Surely that was pure BS. Fifty different guns a year? Bee-ess!

The gun itself was a black rifle with tele-sight and suppressor. Priced “to go” at $250. It didn’t look like a gun you’d take off into the woods, the blackness made it seem towny. The tele-sight and suppressor said even more: waiting patiently, staring through the eyepiece, knowing where and when. Not a gun for a bar brawl. Why am I here? he asked. When he went in through the door a recording played Davy Crockett.

It was still mid-morning and the place was empty. Fritz, if it was he, was fat, wore a khaki tee-shirt with some kind of badge, head shaven but not recently, some bristle. Keen to talk, very keen.

“The tan says Vietnam. The build says Marine,” said the fat man extending his hand.

“Infantry. Marines are usually stockier,” said Dill, trying to disguise his reluctance to shake hands.

“Looking for something better than an M16? How about a Kalashnikov or is that kinda spitting on the flag? Seen our Gun of the Week? Good bangs for your buck. But, hey, am I putting you down? Could be you carried a side arm.”

Rank flattery, both ways. No one had ever imagined Dill to be an officer. “Nothing more than a PFC. Name’s Dill.”

“Waddya need, Dill? Could do you a US Kalashnikov, selling over the counter at $940. Special deal for a Nam vet: $900 plus a hunnert rounds.”

Why was he here? Failure had guided him. What were his needs? To overcome failure.

“I guess... I’d like to heft the K. I tried one of Charlie’s in Nam; a clip on the range. Like to see how the US gun compares.” What he needed was time.

The store was still empty and the fat man could afford to indulge him. “Nothing’s too good for a vet.” And unlocked one of the displays.

For a couple of minutes Dill fooled around with the K, as if it mattered. Handed it back, saying something the fat man would like to hear. “Definitely a slicker item than Charlie’s. But I’m here for a hand gun.” He paused to suggest this was a considered view. “Gotta be a Glock, I guess.”

“Smart choice, Dill,” said the fat man. “I got a wide range. Name’s Fritz, by the way.”

“Like the store.”

“Just like the store. How we’re going to start? Price or power?”

Again Dill looked for an answer that would please. “Power, of course, Fritz.”

Half a dozen Glocks were laid out on a table covered in green baize. Fritz said, “There’s another 27 models if you’re really picky. The 35’s close to top of the range. Big with the cops... law enforcement.” Dill nodded; “cops” was less dignified and this was a dignified emporium.

Fritz did the business clicking and clacking, handing over the guns. Dill knew enough to point the guns away from Fritz. This was the first time ever he had held a hand gun and it struck him the Glock had nothing that looked like decoration. Its simplicity made its desirable which was surprising. He’d thought he was proof against that. Was this how these things started?

Self-consciously Dill widened his stance. Held the gun in one hand then two. Put it in his trouser pocket then went to grab it, got it tangled with the pocket lining. Blushed. Vets didn’t blush.

Fritz had kept Dill under observation, reckoned it was now time he could go romantic. “Customers say this about Glocks: you feel safe, feel ready.”

Dill felt sweat at the side of his nose. What am I doing? What do I want from this? Why might this help?

Fritz lolled against the table. “You feel ready, Dill?”

Time passed.

Now Dill found himself hurrying away from the shop with Fritz staring after him from the open door, puzzled but mainly angry. “You sure you were in Nam? Shit, no wonder we can’t beat those skinny little guys.” Fritz tried to slam the door but couldn’t beat the pneumatic closer which uttered a dying sigh.

Dill walked up North Clayton, his heart beating. Found the side door was open and went in. The hard-back books that had once been in Gary’s room were piled on the kitchen table, yellow markers sticking out of the pages. Everything was tidy. Amy was in the parlour, sitting in the chair she had said was comfortable; she didn’t seem comfortable now. Glanced up at him remotely. Dill waited.

Her voice was hardly audible. “Dan Krajik called hours ago. You’ve been gone a long time.”

“Sat in the park.”

“Thought you might. Except I didn’t see you.”

“Walked the streets.”

“Which streets?”

He shrugged.

Amy said, “I drove all the streets between here and Buckeye. You went somewhere.”

He sat down heavily. “I don’t exactly know.”

They’d lived in the same house for two months. Got to know each other. Somehow she knew he wasn’t lying. “Somewhere different?”

He nodded. “But I don’t know why.”

“Perhaps I know why.”

He sobbed and she let him sob. Finally he said in a choked voice, “Fritz’s Guns.”

“Looking to buy?”

“I think so.”

He sensed her inspecting the pockets of his waterproof jacket. She said, “But didn’t?”

He nodded. She said, “Come in the kitchen, I’ll fix you something.”

“I’ll stay here.”

“No you won’t.”

He sat at the kitchen table as she searched through the cupboard. “Cream of tomato soup? That bland enough?”

As she worked the can opener he looked around, picked up one of the books. Leafed through and stopped at a marked page: Chapter Seven. Human resources: Asset or Liability? Amy had reckoned it too basic but he’d interrupted, said it was new to him. Even after she explained he rated it a big fat zero.

Amy watched him spoon up the soup and he knew she was trying to analyse what was in his mind. Another thing she was good at, but not this time.

“You ever think of seeing your family?”

It was the worst thing she could have said: no time to close his eyes. He imagined his Pa in fatigues, waiting on the stoop to pick a fight.

“At Fritz’s, why didn’t you buy?” asked Amy.

“Maybe you should ask why I wanted to buy.”

“That I know.”

“Yeah?” he asked, surprised.

“The US is full of guys solving problems with guns.”

So there’d been nothing special about this morning. Soup finished, he slumped in the chair. Bowed his head.

“Tell me,” she said, quite gentle now.

He spread his hands. “There’s no hassle buying a Glock 35, I knew that. It seemed too easy, I’d’ a wished it was tougher. Wished there were questions. Dan had given me a cheque as severance, Fritz woulda cashed it. Shit, he’d almost got the gun gift-wrapped. Started filling in the sales slip and that’s when I knew it wouldn’t happen.”

“Sales slip?”

Dill looked away. “Sales slip needs an address.”

“But you’ve got an address, right here.”

Now he looked at her, hangdog. “Yeah.”

It took her a while. “You didn’t want me...involved?”

“Didn’t seem right.”

“So the sale didn’t happen. We’re AOK.”

“Fact is, I wanted that Glock. At least I think I did. My mind isn’t too clear these days.” He told her about pocka-pocka, then pointed to the books on the table. “Look what you’re doing for me; trying to give me a future. I can’t take the risk, you don’t deserve it.”

“So you’ll be moving on?”

He tried to smile. “First time a place felt like home. More reason it shouldn’t get wrecked.”

“Give me another couple of days. I’d like to work out some ideas that may help you get work. There’s no real hurry.”

“Sure."

She reached out with her hands, her face relaxed. “I’ve liked you being here. It’s given me purpose. Let’s not be gloomy. Let’s eat out fancy tonight.”

A meal with all the trimmings; wine in an ice-bucket; fish done some way he didn’t recognise. She talked about the fun she’d had with Jerry, convinced he’d loved her. “But then,” she said laughing, “there was hardly time for him to lose interest.” When they got back there were shots of cognac, lighter and smoother than bourbon.

He got into the wide bed he’d be sorry to leave, pleased she was making things easy for him. Knew they would get harder over the next twenty-four hours. But fell asleep anyway.

Woke up in moonlight. Saw her sitting at the end of the bed in her nightgown. She spoke softly. “It’s OK, it’s nothing pathetic.”

He reached for the bed-side light but she intercepted his hand. “We don’t need the light. There is another option. Not the worst thing in the world. What worries you – that bad thing -  isn’t guaranteed, you know. It might happen, it might not. But if it did happen...” She paused and squeezed his hand. “... well, it would be quick, wouldn’t it?” He heard the smallest of laughs. “You could at least guarantee that.”

It was if she were speaking to him from a different world. A world of unbelievable softness. A cloud passed over the moon and when he looked round she’d gone. He closed his eyes and the pocka-pocka was still there but different. Familiar, not a threat. Like the sound of his breathing.

Next morning he smelled breakfast and went straight to the kitchen in his undershirt and pants. She turned, said gaily, “Suppose the mailman sees us? But then he thinks I’m weird anyway. Sleep well?”

Boone’s Pa had said she was weird. Some kind of weirdness! He said, “Would you have expected that? Me sleeping well?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Dill, I’ve never been sure you do a whole lot of thinking. You can, you’re intelligent enough. But mostly you spend time in the present. Probably because of Vietnam.”

“I did some thinking last night. Didn’t sleep.”

Amy sat opposite him, cradling her coffee mug in both hands. “Good.”

“What you said – about it happening – wasn’t the whole story.”

“Indeedy, it wasn’t.”

“You’re gone and I’m in jail for life. One big nothing. Of course I could use the gun - ”

She spoke quickly. “But I figured you’d never do that. It wouldn’t make sense. Not now the war’s behind you.”

“So, just one big nothing?”

“Perhaps. If it happens it happens. No blame from me.” She smiled reflectively. “You’ll remember I didn’t blame Jerry.”

“Shee-eet.”

“I’m betting it won’t happen.”

“You can’t be sure.”

“It’s not betting if it’s a certainty,” she said, smiling.

That stopped him. “I guess not. I must be less certain than you are.”

“Here’s how I see it. You didn’t buy the Glock even though you were tempted. That puzzles you but it seems obvious to me. In the end, you’ll work out your reasons. By then they won’t matter. Then you’ll be ready to move on.”

The scrambled eggs were cooling. He pushed a forkful into his mouth, spoke with a muffled voice. “But why? OK it’s a small risk, but still a risk. And if it does go belly up.... I mean, why?”

“Dill, I’m a mother.”

He was silent. “It’s to do with Gary.”

She was about to reach for his hand then changed her mind. Smiled instead. A beautiful smile, and so near. “Mothers should never hear of their son’s death. It’s unnatural. I mourned, of course. Worse than that was feeling helpless. And mothers are used to helping, it goes with the job.”

Dill tried to remember his Mom when he was just a kid. Before his Pa became kinda insane. Did his Mom help? He couldn’t say.

“When Gary... got killed, it wasn’t your fault. No way.”

“Motherhood isn’t exactly rational, Dill. I wasn’t there to help, however silly that sounds.”

“So now you’re helping me?”

“Let’s get one thing straight. Gary’s dead and you’re not Gary. I’m helping you, Dill.”

“To the point where you’d risk...?”

“I want you to know I’m serious. You’ve been wounded.”

Wounded? Him?

He asked, “So what do we do?”

“A bit like painting the garage. You need more time in a world that isn’t Vietnam.”

He pointed to the book, still open. “Back to Human Resources then?”

She spoke crisply. “For all of ten minutes. Before Vietnam Gary wanted to know about business. It’s something I know about. Before he even put on a uniform I  helped him – for the future. HR’s just a detail, Dill. There’s more important stuff ahead. Financial statements that’ll make your head ache. Tax breaks. Investment. Planning.”

She waved a hand that encompassed what lay ahead and he noticed its delicacy. “Plus muffins. I got muffins.”

“Comfort food.”