by Dave King
I must have been the only kid who never ran away from home. It’s not that I never got angry with my folks, but even as a youngster I was even-tempered and cautious. Later, though, when I was about thirty and we were learning that I wouldn’t improve, I jumped in my mom’s car and drove and drove. I got as far as a cash machine outside Denver, where the text on the little screen was different from what I was accustomed to. I stood for a long time in the glass box of the ATM, pressing my knuckles to the Braille lettering of the countertop. This is how to become one of those frightening vets: demanding, insufferable, unmoored and unloved. Then a woman arrived with a small girl of about six. The woman was holding the child’s hand and fiddling with her wallet, but she hesitated at the sight of me, and as she hustled the child back toward the safety of their car, I rushed past and drove straight home.
I break into a run, cutting away from the sidewalk and onto the grass, and I come down heavily on a broken branch or some kind of stump. But I keep going until I thump up my porch steps. Just the old rattan glider and some dead leaves cowering in a corner. I scramble back down the steps and around the narrow side yard and across the back, glancing again at the darkened stable. As I come up the driveway side, I see figures by the vehicles.
“Howerrrd!” Nit’s leaning against my truck, chatting with a heavyset guy and a light-haired gal. I charge toward them, bathrobe flapping, and he holds up his hands and says, “Down, boy.” To show it’s in fun, he adds, “Heh-heh.”
Pulling my bathrobe around me, I blink at the gravel, and as I stand there panting I recognize the smell of pot. And I can’t help myself: I breathe deeply. Nit says, “What can I do for you, man?”
I hold my hand flat in the air at Ryan’s height. They look intrigued. I gesture more specifically, and my robe falls open. The girl steps forward and finds the belt hitched behind me, and she pulls my robe around me and knots the belt, giving the lapels a straightening tug. Just a tiny thing, with honey-colored hair that smells of peaches, but she could fuss with me all night, I think. The reminders of Sylvia have gotten my blood up. Then the heavyset guy suddenly holds out the joint, and the girl steps away. I wave a hand: no.
Nit says, “Uh, Howard. We came out here because . . .” I glare at him. We have no rules against pot in the house, but I’ve no patience for nincompoops. “Well, I didn’t know how you felt about, like on account of the little guy . . .”
I point at him. The little guy! I do the height thing again and raise my eyebrows, and this time it transmits. “Oh, him? Like watching TV, last I saw. Inside, in the, uh . . .” He blinks meditatively. “I gave him a coat when he dozed off.” As I rush toward the house I hear Nit mutter, “Keep in touch.”
Ryan is indeed in the darkened parlor. He’s curled up on the couch with a green fatigue coat pulled over him, and it looks like he’s inside a giant sock. An empty soup bowl sits perched on an end table—some kind of gumbo, from the small pile of rejected okra—and at the sight of this I’m filled with relief: he’s here, not gone, and someone’s fed him. Still, I’d credited him with independence, and it’s shocking to find him waiting to be put to bed. What a sorrowful lack of options! I take the bowl and spoon to the kitchen and give them a wash, but in no time I’m back in the parlor, staring at the sleeping form.
I say, “Hoon.” R’s are hard for me, and this may be my first attempt at his name. He doesn’t move. I give him a nudge, then squat down and slide an arm under his bent knees, and I’m getting the other arm around his shoulders when he wakes with a start. Our faces are only inches apart, and as his eyes find my scar he gives a cry. With a struggle, he frees himself from the green coat and shoves me away, and I stand up, clutching my robe. He kicks twice, still partly asleep. Only then does he recognize me.
For a moment, something crosses his face; then that moment passes. He remembers we’re in the midst of a quarrel and pulls the coat to his chin. “I’m sleeping,” he announces irritably, and squints at the dark room. I put my hands on my hips. Ryan says, “I can sleep here,” in a tone that suggests someone gave him permission, but I won’t have him crash in the living room like some passed-out party guest. I wave at him to get up, and he struggles to his feet and precedes me upstairs, stomping a little on every tread; when I flick on the overhead light he whines, “Ow!” and disappears into his bedroom. Five minutes later I’m back in bed, too, though it takes me a long time to fall asleep.
11
BY MORNING I WANT to put yesterday behind us. When Sylvia and I quarreled as kids, I apologized whether I was wrong or not, but nobody’s expected an apology from me in years. I’m hoping to bury the hatchet in routine, so I mix up western omelets, but when I show Ryan the bowl he declines coolly. He’s being civil but aloof, and he doesn’t seem to realize how prissy this is. Laurel offers the phone again, and he says, “No, thank you,” a bit starchily. I concentrate on my cooking and avoid Laurel’s eye.
A box of cheap chocolate-covered doughnuts has materialized on the counter. Ryan takes two and a glass of OJ to the table. Nat appears, flashing his pearly whites, and says, “Ooh, my man! You don’t want to know how long those bad boys sat in the truck.” The yellow cake looks like packing material under its waxy brown frosting, but Ryan testily pronounces it good. Then he picks up and exits the kitchen, and Saturday cartoon sounds float in from the parlor. I glare at Nat—why the hell couldn’t he toss his damn trash in the bin?—but he only pours what’s left of my egg mixture in the frying pan, and when his omelet is cooked he takes half in to Ryan.
I haven’t had many close relationships in my life. Sylvia and my parents, of course, but three’s a low total for a man my age. Looking back, I remember childhood friendships but few high school buddies—once Sylvia and I were an item I was devoted to her. In the army, I met fellows from all over the country, with different backgrounds from my own, and I loved that; I was finally in the world. The first time I heard Spanish music was in basic, and the first time I had friends who’d been raised in slums or on farms. It was the first time I lived away from this house! Then basic ended, and we got separated overseas: different specialties, different platoons. Then my sixteen days. The men in my unit were good guys, I suppose, but I barely got to know them, shocked as I was by so much that was new: the weather, the landscape, the impossibility of phoning home. The heat, the smells, the way I missed my mom and dad and Sylvia and everything American and familiar, and even the bunk I’d had back in the barracks, and some of the boys I’d gotten to know there. The horrifying, defoliated landscape I’d flown over on the airlift in, and the very presence of live ammo, suddenly inescapable: ours, theirs, rounds and clips and grenades and mines and flashes of light over distant trees. Some of the seasoned soldiers had been together for months and were wary of newbies: we were bad luck—ignorant, unskilled, naive, hopeful, frightened, and error-prone—and everyone knew we couldn’t all make it through. So it was a while before I could tell one grunt from the next, and the first person I grew friendly with was Rimet, who also was fresh meat. He just cracked a joke one morning in the chow line. But even on that last day, as we humped through the hills, I suspected Rimet and I weren’t lifelong friends. I had more in common with the lieutenant, I thought, and I hoped to get to know him better. We’d gotten stoned, and the LT was looking for orchids, and I felt as good as I’d felt since my arrival. The sun was out. So some men have war buddies they keep in touch with for years afterward, but not me. And I never know what to do when someone’s angry at me.
All morning, Ryan keeps himself occupied. I figure the hell with him and go out to polish the truck, but when he helps Nit and Nat load up their van I think he might pitch in here, too. He pays me no attention. I go inside and stretch out on the parlor couch, and when the house empties, I hear Ryan tromping upstairs. I’m not unaccustomed to being alone, and for years I’ve spent my time exactly like this. But it’s harder to feel comfortable about being excluded, so I stare at the ceiling and wonder if Laurel’s detected my exile. I have my reasons
for manhandling him yesterday, but when I imagine defending myself to her, I foresee the verdict. In the Court of Laurel, I’m a condemned man.
Around one, I tap on his door; he opens it a few inches. I’m here to reconcile, and I pat my stomach. Come on, it’s the weekend! Let’s go somewhere for lunch. “I’m doing my homework,” he says, but something’s funny in his expression, so I push the door. Inside, sunlight streams across the unmade bed, and clots of white fluff cover the floor. It takes me a moment to spot the pink bundle, like a flocked bathrobe, cast in a corner, and I realize he’s demolished the Energizer Bunny. A strip of torn wallpaper lies in a wedge on the far side of the bed. I push past him to pick it up.
The hell with him. The hell with everything! My dad papered this room himself, with my help, and to avoid another regrettable outburst I take off, slamming the downstairs door. I buy a tuna sandwich and head to the nun’s private sitting area in back of the convent building, and I eat my lunch and listen to the roar of the ha-ha and scowl at the gravel between my feet. Sister Margaret appears and says, “Why, Howard! What brings you here on a Saturday?” She opens a fat book and starts to read, and I go back to my truck in the parking lot and sit there awhile.
When I get home, Nit and Nat are in the back yard. The heavy guy from last night is there, too, and they’ve got a small fabric pouch, like a beanbag, which they’re knocking around with their heads, elbows, and heels. Ryan’s playing right along. I stand by my truck and watch them dart about in the sunshine, and I wonder if anyone will toss me the little pouch, but only Laurel seems to see me at all. She leans on my hood and says, “That boy was all by himself when I got home, Howard. I don’t think that’s right. And I want him to call his mother.” I go inside and turn on the TV.
As evening falls, Laurel comes looking for me again. “Howard,” she says from the parlor doorway, “there’s a few things we need to—”
I jump up—perhaps too quickly, because the house shifts, and the room’s all stuffy. Somewhere there’s conversation, and I remember I left Ryan with Nit and Nat; the world of talking is just out of reach. I wonder if I’ve been asleep, and as I reach out to steady myself, I swat at a standing lamp. Yellow circles flash over ceiling and floor. “Bot,” I say, and wipe my brow with my arm.
Laurel looks at me a moment, then puts up both hands. “Well, I told you I wouldn’t get involved,” she says. I wait for the inevitable—but Howard, blah, blah, blah—but she only stares contemplatively out the window. And suddenly I wish she’d just go ahead. I’d love to know what’s on her mind, if I could only respond. Because hell, I’ve got some thoughts of my own. We could hold a seminar—Laurel, Sylvia, those idiot boys—on handling Ryan during his stay, and I’d tell everyone within hearing that this wasn’t my best week, but I did what I could. And how about a little warning if I’m to be someone’s dad? How about respect, too—from the kid, from everyone. Or forgiveness! Love! Oh, once I got started I’d never shut up. I’d make a case for myself: Yes, my Boo Radley act yesterday was in all ways uncool, but how fair is the freeze-out? I’m getting my bearings, not just with Ryan, but going back decades, my whole life. Sylvia, too. I want a chance at something! And I’d tell Laurel to quit looking at me fishily. I stood up fast and got dizzy, what of it?
But I only steady the lamp, then fold my hands under my overall bib. Laurel says, “Harrison and Steve were talking about a movie later,” and after a moment she saunters to the kitchen. I follow because it seems we’re in the middle of a conversation, and I know I’ve been glaring at her, but when we get to the kitchen I just peer through the screen door. Outside, Nit and the fat friend are lying in the grass, their hands on their bellies. Nat’s looking at the newspaper, leaning close as the light fails, and Ryan’s teasing Ruby with the beanbag. Nat lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, and I realize summer’s here.
Laurel fans her face with her hand. “Anyway, a movie sounds good to me, and if you like, I could take Ryan.” Ran. Sure, I’ll stay home with the dog. She sets a tray on the counter and gets out six glasses, then opens the freezer and finds a can of frozen lemonade. I watch her strip the lid from the can and dump the contents into a pitcher, and I take three lemons from the fruit bowl and place them on the counter. “Thanks,” she says.
Out on the main road, a car radio waxes and wanes. Somewhere a girl squeals. Ruby gives three short yips, and one of the boys shouts, “Hey, hey, hey! Don’t give her that thing—what’s the matter with you? It ain’t good for a dog, man, and she’ll fuck it up with her saliva.”
Laurel frowns, her knife bisecting a lemon. She glances impatiently toward the back yard and says, “Is that what you want? Turn him over to the frat house? It’s fine, but I mean . . .” She stirs the lemonade, making the ice cubes clink. “Because maybe you oughta just come on along to the movie yourself. You’re supposed to be in charge.” She looks up, raising her eyebrows, and again I wonder what she knows of my disgrace. I’ve never before been to a movie with Laurel. “Hmm?” she says, as if anticipating a response. Truly, I’d love to respond.
Laurel picks up the pitcher and tucks a bag of Fritos in the crook of her arm, then turns and opens the screen door with her butt. “Howard, things happen sometimes, and we go along with them. This placid life you’ve got going, your routine. It works great for you, but isn’t there space to fit a boy in there somewhere?” In the other room, the TV is still yammering, and I don’t know whether to go back to the parlor or follow Laurel outside. Does it seem I haven’t made adjustments? I don’t move, and the corner of her mouth turns up a fraction. “Start by bringing out those glasses.”
12
YEARS AFTERWARD, I saw a film about the war. The opening credits rolled over a shot taken from the air, and I could see brown, bony ridges of hills and sparse trees spaced out like shaving stubble. There were rice paddies, too—neat corrals of shimmering gray set like panes of glass among black frame divisions—and the complicated coastline, with its many inlets and small streams, grassy fields, and pretty, orderly villages. This was nothing like what I remember from my sixteen days, and it wasn’t until the story moved inland that I saw a landscape I recognized. Where I was, the trees bled together into four walls of foliage, and base camp was a cluster of dark tents on a slope. Below us, only a few klicks off, lay a yellow plain that had once been a plantation, but the plain was surrounded by lumpy hills and was invisible from the places where I passed my days: my tent, shared with three other guys; the mess and service tents, with latrines and showers tucked further away; and the dirt squares and spaces between, where men smoked, played cards and makeshift basketball or lounged on sandbags, cleaning their guns. Of that nearby valley I caught only fleeting glimpses when the platoon humped in or out of camp, but two days before my injury I climbed a lookout tower for the whole panorama, and I could see how a third of the valley had burned in a long, dark crescent of destruction. A few blackened trees rose from the toast-colored underbrush, and the sight of that two-tone basin, its scorched portion and its golden portion nestled together like phases of the moon, filled me with dread. I was foolish enough to pray I’d never set foot there—and I never did. Instead, I had the cover of the jungle’s big leaves. The wet season was beginning, and strange things were blooming, and in my loneliness I took time to look closely at my surroundings, and to imagine that by sticking to this protective concealment I could avoid the danger waiting afield. I think there are lots of things that in this way are just like the war: you can understand them by examining them up close, like leaves, or construct a whole based on tiny, tiny glimpses. Or you can climb up for the broad view, with its stark truths and lost details; but it’s almost impossible to comprehend all ways at once.
By Sunday, Ryan’s begun to thaw. Reading the funny papers on the floor of the parlor, he shifts to let me squat beside him, and before turning a page, he asks if I’m finished reading. Of course, I’m only looking at the drawings.
Last night’s movie excursion succeeded largely becaus
e Nit and Nat ran into some fellow dude and disappeared, leaving Ryan to share a supersize popcorn with Laurel and me. And Sunday’s dawned warm and full of smells. I watch a pair of cardinals flutter from the peak of my stable to the grass below, and I wonder what all the fuss was about; I remember the same feeling after quarrels with Sylvia. Still, the week has convinced me it’s a mistake to guess at what children want, and I resolve to back off. I’ll put a roof over the boy’s head and see that he eats well and goes to school. I’ll keep an eye on him, but I’ll stop there. His happiness is his own business until Sylvia returns home.
Almost immediately, though, this resolution falters. In the evening, Ryan and I are heading to the market when the radio plays a promo for a Golden Gloves regional championship match. I’m thinking of groceries, yet when Ryan says, “Cool, man. The fights,” I turn abruptly downtown. I haven’t forgotten Sylvia’s promise that we’d do guy things, and I don’t want him thinking only Nit and Nat have fun.
Curtis Hall was where the circus played when I was a kid, and once, when I was fifteen, Mom and I heard the Metropolitan Opera here. Ten years later I heard it again, with a speech pathologist who believed being in a place where the lyrics didn’t matter might augment my healing process. But now, as I purchase our tickets at the door, it’s not opera I’m thinking of, but a Led Zeppelin concert I heard with Sylvia before going away.
The ring is on a little platform in the center of the room. It has red and white ropes and gold bunting on the sides. Ryan and I drop our jackets on our seats, then go to graze at a food court along a side wall, and at a pizza booth I give him money for a slice and a Coke. I step to the next stall and signal for a pair of franks.