Voodoo Lounge

by Christian Bauman

  She found a PFC sitting alone at a desk, crunching numbers on a big black adding machine, and leaned down to ask him a question. He pointed her toward the back, to an office door deeper in the hangar. She walked between the desks, then through the only open door, closing it behind her. An empty office, chalkboard on the wall. A soldier’s gear lay strewn across a long table.

  Alone in the dark room, she found a wooden swivel chair and sat, closing her eyes. She opened her eyes again, then closed them again. A funny place to find an old wooden swivel chair; a hangar at the Port-au-Prince airport. And just when she realized she was tired, too. A funny thing, and wasn’t it funny she was here, that she had sought this room out. She swiveled around, eyes closed. The rain pounded on the tin roof above her, no other sound to be heard. She sat still, just a moment, just for a moment to sit—such a long day. She must have dozed, because she dreamed—two, three feverish movements, what? who? incomprehensible—and when she woke she woke like a shot, eyes snapping open, body half rising from the chair—

  —(youbreatheinyoubreatheout)

  She sat, hard. Breathed in, breathed out. Reached into her cargo pocket, bit into one of the apples she’d grabbed from the apple boy, slowly chewing and swallowing. Thinking, not thinking. And when Marc Hall came in there was no look of surprise on his face to see her; and wasn’t that interesting. More like they’d just been talking and he’d stepped out and now he was back. His BDU top was off, just brown T-shirt tucked into BDU pants. His shirt and skin were wet with rain. She stood, the apple in her hand held down at her side.

  “I missed my flight.”

  He came within a step of her and stopped, just looking. Not knowing what else to say or if she was supposed to say anything and then thinking she’d had this all wrong and needed to say something to back out she said, “Sir.”

  “Please,” he said, softly, and smiled.

  He filled the room, Jersey thought. Blood and bone and testosterone, dark eyes and sweat. It wasn’t threatening, wasn’t overbearing, but it was there and big and now she knew there was no question he was looking deeper than he should and she didn’t mind at all but set her half-eaten apple down on the table next to her and with nothing else to say said, “I’ve got to get back to port.” After a few seconds of silence she added, “Sir.”

  “It’s Marc,” he said.

  “I’ve got to get back to my boat, Marc.”

  He nodded once, about to say something, and the door opened, a clerk there with a sheaf of papers, they hadn’t heard the knock because the rain was so loud on the roof of the hangar, and Jersey backed up as Captain Hall was backing away from her, the two of them backing away, and she thoughtWhat the fuck are you crazy get out of here get out of this you can’t do this and she was grabbing her helmet and her rifle and he was taking the papers from the clerk and she was half out the door when he turned and said, “Sergeant Harris.”

  She stopped and turned around. The clerk was shuffling through the stack of paperwork, oblivious. Report in hand, Marc held her gaze.

  “I have a chopper to the port in three hours, right after sunset.”

  She looked, and she nodded.

  “Thank you.”

  Voices again, but harder to put a face to any one voice now, shadows creeping from lakes of puddles left by the rain as the sun eased from the sky, dark and then darker shadows and you couldn’t see much of the surrounding mountains from here but what you could see was going black, with the pinpoint flicks of fires like they’d seen this morning on the sail in—this morning. Only this morning? Last year, must be.

  Moving across the airport, all motion again, Tory pressing on, a mechanical soldier with no mission at all, two hours of nonstop walking for the sake of walking, for the sake of being here—witness to something, witness for the sunset.

  Strange witness. Strange fruit.

  The mood different now, post-rain, purpose creeping as if rain had slapped everyone awake.

  Over here, gentlemen, over here—gather up.

  …keep ’em tight, Corporal. Tight and formed.

  Two MREs per soldier. If you haven’t topped off your canteens yet you’re wrong. Once we move out, it’ll be forty-eight hours or more until we rotate back…

  —the fuck you say. If you can’t find our truck, then I suggest you shit me a truck, Private.

  …through the gate at twenty-two hundred, so if sleep is something you require then find it now.

  File from the left, column left!

  Column left!

  March!

  …and keep your eyes peeled for those silver friendly fire tabs, fellas. You don’t want to be the asshole on the cover ofNewsweekthat shot up a hummer full of GIs. Your mama’ll be real upset.

  Second platoon! Down range! Lock and load, you ugly bitches. We’re outta here.

  Deuce-and-a-half and five-ton tucks forming at the gate now, and Humvees with tall metal rods welded to the front bumpers to break any decapitating razor wire strung across roads. Vehicle lights glowing in warm puddles on the concrete, gunners swiveling their mounts.

  What part of “They’re hanging people in the streets” don’t you understand?

  Soldiers thumping chests, slamming fists down on helmet tops and closed knuckles—hoo-fucking-rah!andAir-fucking-borne!

  Friendly fire, fellas,Jersey thought.

  Two and two in the Voodoo Lounge / friendly fire will slow you down.

  Her mind played her a picture of the face of the FADH commander from the park this morning, the lyncher, sneering arrogance and blood-splattered uniform shirt. Hummers rolled past her, headed for the gate, overflowing with soldiers and gunmetal. She willed them toward the man, willed them to find him, willed them the authority or plain good luck to take him down. Painfully.

  But, of course, that wasn’t the mission.

  She spent the last forty minutes in the darkening arrivals terminal, bustling activity and the stink and roar of generators behind her as she stood looking out between the iron bars of an open window, smoking a cigarette. The planes were still coming, less frequently, but still coming. She saw him—Marc, Marc Hall, Marcel, Captain Hall, him—cross from the hangar then disappear again around the terminal building. She didn’t move. When he came up behind her she knew he was there. His hand closed on her shoulder, face leaning down to the side of hers. She never turned, just felt him there, his skin next to her cheek, and it was done in less than twenty seconds.

  “I need to find you tomorrow. If—I mean—”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  And now she looked up, turning her face just the slightest bit so their eyes met. “Yes.”

  He squeezed her shoulder, then turned, both of them, crossing the terminal floor then out back again to the chopper flight line, Tory tightening the M-16 across her back. They were the last to crawl in, crouching behind the door gunner, making space in the black crush, all senses gone, too dark to see a face or a rank on the soldiers inside, so loud from the rotor nothing could be heard at all. The tail of the chopper lifted and Tory half-spun on her heels as much as she could, looking out over the door gunner’s shoulder now, and as they were pushed by the helicopter’s movement Marc’s hands came up—wide, strong—on her shoulders, to steady, hold her in place, and they stayed there, for the whole ride, pressing down. Once, when it could be fluid, when she thought it might look like rebalancing, her hand went up on top of his, her palm flat over the back of his hand, just that brief then gone again.

  Rank could fool you, she knew. Dick Wags, a staff sergeant, was only one pay grade higher than her, only the slightest of difference in the grand scheme of things. But he was almost five years older. And here was this Marc Hall, a captain, an officer, with the rank and authority to command a company. But they could have gone to high school together.

  The helicopter hovered, then swept a wide arc across the airport’s perimeter, nose down and making for the safety of open water.

  Pushing, pressing, buzzing
hard on adrenaline all day, the inevitable energy drop came with her boots nailing the concrete, jumping short from the chopper’s open door—the only passenger to hop out on this side of the port. Jersey stumbled once, recovered, got her balance back but not her energy. Turning, she looked for Marc Hall as the chopper lifted, but it was too dark to see in the open door and then the bird was gone. She circled the warehouse they’d dropped her behind, trying to find the boat.

  The LSV was tied a ship’s-length back from where they’d hit the pier this morning, portside-to and ramp up. The port was all activity, the water clogged with the other LSV and smaller LCUs, the pier all vehicles and soldiers, Trans Corps soldiers here, hustling and moving and yelling and directing, all of this under the wash of generator-powered floodlights. She approached the boat, dragging herself along. The gangway was up and the big steel pilot door closed. She raised her fist and banged on it once. It swung in immediately, the skipper—Mannino—standing there, preparing to leave. He was a short, round man; more a baker’s body than a soldier’s. He was visibly uncomfortable in the flak jacket and LBE and helmet. A chief warrant officer, he’d spent his twenty years of soldiering behind a helm, not crawling through the mud.

  It seemed to take him a second to figure out who she was. He blinked once, then raised an eyebrow and said, “New Jersey.”

  “Skipper,” she said, saluting.

  He stuck his head out the pilot door, glancing up and down the pier. “No saluting, Tory. Down range.”

  Her cheek twitched at that.

  Mannino backed up a step and motioned her through the pilot door onto the open well-deck. When she’d left in the Humvee this morning the deck had been full of vehicles, piles of chainlocks everywhere. It was empty now, empty and swept clean. Mannino pushed his helmet back off his forehead, eyeing her. Closely, she thought.

  “You all right?” he said, finally.

  She nodded once, and he nodded back. New Jersey and Long Island weren’t far separated, in more ways than one. Mannino tended to communicate with Tory and Dick Wags—his two Jerseys—in a series of nods, grunts, and arcing arm gestures only they understood. He put his hand to his stubbly chin now, rubbed, then dropped it to rest on the butt of his holstered pistol.

  “Those guys come back, talking out their ass,” he said. “Scaboo wrote some shit down, gave it to me.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “You sure you’re all right?” he asked again.

  “Yeah, Skip,” she said, then added, “Tired.” She was, but only said it because she thought it would give him something to fix and he was looking for something to fix.

  She patted her pocket for her cigarettes. He handed her one of his, lighting it for her. A first.

  “So?” he said. “Did all that happen?” He reached his hand behind his head and made a hangman’s-noose gesture.

  She nodded, exhaling a thin stream of smoke.

  “It was pretty bad.”

  “And that guy, that colonel—he moved you all along?”

  “Rules of engagement,” she said simply.

  He looked at her. “You serious?” He chewed his lip, then answered himself: “Never mind. Fuckers.”

  Mac came from the shadows across the deck, crossing toward them, Top right behind. Both of them fully dressed out, to leave the vessel; Skip had been waiting for them. Mac was the tightest guy on the boat, screwed tighter even than Dick Wags—helmet centered, BDUs starched. Mac’s was a little more cheese than substance, but not too bad. He was first mate and just thought everyone should know it. Top was Mac’s opposite, in more ways than one; rounder even than the Skipper, not really an E8 first sergeant but an E7 sergeant first class filling the slot. He and Skip had gone to basic training together, back when Christ was a corporal.

  “Sergeant Harris,” Top said to her. His voice was higher than you’d expect for a man his size. “Welcome home.”

  She tried to smile around her cigarette. It was tired and weak. She didn’t care for Top. His eye sometimes wandered beyond her permissible wander zone.

  “You’re off,” he said, looking down at his watch. “It’s twenty-one hundred. You’ve got till half-past midnight. Go get dinner and grab an hour’s sleep.”

  “Thanks, Top,” she said.

  The Skipper was still looking at her. It was hard to read his face, all shadows and deep lines. He seemed about to ask something. In the end he just sighed.

  “Fucking New Jersey,” he said, straightening his helmet, preparing to leave. “Pain in my ass.”

  “Yes, Sir,” she said.

  “Fucking Haiti.”

  Chapter

  8

  There were no dreams to crack this sleep. Too deep, too far. And brief as the space between eyelids.

  After two weeks at sea in a flat-bottomed ship, you come to expect the world to behave in certain ways. When the bleat of the alarm clock popped Tory’s eyes open, her right arm shot out from under the thin blanket to grab the edge of the steel desk bolted down next to the rack of bunks. She held herself there, half-suspended, waiting for the roll of the ocean—then realized the bulkheads weren’t rattling and the ocean wasn’t going to roll. She held herself there another beat anyway, to be sure, clucked her tongue, and dropped herself back down on the mattress. She reached under the pillow and switched off the alarm. Ten minutes past midnight. A new day. Not even twenty-four hours in-country, but a new day nonetheless. She lay still in the lower bunk, blinking awake, the cabin dark and womb warm.

  It was physically painful to wake after only an hour’s sleep. It hurt. It hurt in the chest, and in the muscles of the legs and arms. It hurt your head, too—there’s a despair to losing sleep, a second ofoh god I’ll do anything, a despair that for one moment is stronger than reason, stronger than government, stronger than love. She’d noticed it was easier to wake from quick sleep as a sergeant than it had been as a private. At the same time, it was harder at twenty-three than it had been at nineteen. She breathed through it and pinned her eyes open, waiting—forcing herself awake, waiting for the harshest pain to pass.

  It wasn’t completely quiet; she could feel the gentle rumble of one of the generators, deep down below in the engine room. A minute later Dick Wags’s alarm clock—buried deep beneath his pillow—went off in the bunk above her head. Everyone had their own alarm, even between roommates. At any given moment on the boat someone’s alarm was going off. She heard Dick Wags click the plastic switch and the cabin was silent again. She opened her ears, trying to hear anything of the port or the city, but nothing came through. Just the hum of the generator.

  “Roomdog,” Dick Wags said, his throat full and heavy.

  “Hey.”

  “Good morning.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Yeah.”

  They both just lay there, not moving. Tory pushed a hand under her brown T-shirt, rubbed her belly. She heard Dick Wags cough once, then the corner above her glowed red as he lit a cigarette, the click and snap of his Zippo loud in the tiny cabin.

  “Roomdog,” he said again, a few seconds later.

  “Hey.”

  “You made it back.”

  “I made it back,” she said. He’d already been asleep when she came in, an hour before.

  There was the sound of him inhaling then exhaling then the smell of the smoke from his cigarette.

  “Heard you got lost,” he said.

  “Some Army, isn’t it?”

  “Some Army.”

  There was a Zippo click and another brief red glow filled the room, then the tip of a lit cigarette hung down a few feet above Tory’s face. She reached up and took it from his fingers.

  “Thanks.”

  “Yep.”

  It was strangely intimate, the two of them in this cabin, the way they lived together. So close, in the dark, sharing everything they owned. Tory wondered if he noticed, if he thought about it, if he knew. She thought he did.

  She sat up more, wiping an open palm across her face, then s
moking the cigarette. They shared everything, but like all deployed soldiers, cigarettes didn’t easily enter the equation. Cigarettes were a commodity, even between best friends, even between roomdogs. Dick Wags was notoriously stingy with his cigarettes. Him offering one up, unasked, was almost unheard of. Tory knew where his head was, where his thoughts were going; she knew the question the cigarette stood in for.

  So she answered it.

  “It’s all fine,” she said.

  There was a long pause while he inhaled and exhaled, then he said, quietly, “You shouldn’t have been out there. You should’ve said no.”

  “I—”

  He cut her off. “You could’ve not gone. Without saying why.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She smoked instead of answering. There was no good answer, anyway. In the way he meant it, he was right. If anyone else had said that it would have been an insult, a slander. But Dick Wags wasn’t anyone else, and he knew something no one else knew. He wasn’t talking abouther safety.

  There was no one closer to her now than Dick Wags. She had no real family anymore. No one knew her as well as Dick Wags. After Junior Davis, definitely not. Maybe even closer than Junior Davis had been, and maybe it had always been that way and she’d just not noticed until Junior disappeared. Junior didn’t matter anymore, anyway. He was as gone as the day was long. But even when they’d been together, she probably trusted Dick Wags more than she’d ever trusted Junior Davis. What had she done with Junior Davis? Been his girlfriend. Dick Wags, on the other hand, made her a sergeant. She was sure she knew which was more important.

  Jersey smoked through these thoughts, not saying anything. Above her, Dick Wags yawned. He’d said what he wanted to say. He’d let it go now.

  Dick Wags had parents, but they’d kicked him out; years ago, before the Army, one night when he was nineteen and came home from his shift at Jiffy Lube drunk and cursing belligerent. He didn’t talk to them now. He had a fine life anyway. And a fine romance. He was married to Alicia, a young, sinewy corporal serving an office tour in the Fort Eustis transportation school. They lived across the York River way out near Gloucester, in a bungalow back in the woods. They weren’t like any other Army couples Tory knew. They’d been stationed together on LSV-12 in Hawaii, and married on the PI. They skied in the Poconos and the Catskills over the winter, driving long, kamikaze hours north from Virginia on coffee-fueled four-day passes. On summer Fridays they’d been known to go down to Langley Air Force Base before dawn and wait around for free space-A flights to anywhere; London or Las Vegas, Rota or Cheyenne—didn’t matter, as long as they hadn’t been there before and could get back within three days. If there wasn’t an easy flight by 10:00A.M. , they’d hop in Alicia’s black truck and spend the day on the beach at Fort Story, Dick Wags drinking cans of Heineken and fishing the surf from the hood of the truck, Alicia in her red bikini reading mysteries and sleeping on a blanket in the sand.