Jackboot

by Will Van Allen

  “It was so fast. He called down he was a friendly and stood up. I think he asked something—”

  “Goddamn it, who killed my goddamn brother—”

  “It was the UN, sir.” Nielsen’s posture seemed to rectify. Weight was being dropped from his narrow shoulders.

  McConnell blinked. “The United Nations shot my brother?”

  “Yes…no. I don’t know, really. But, when they shot him, and I saw him fall, I snapped, and I knew I had to do something. I was so scared but I crawled over and checked his vitals and I peeked over the roof and saw the vehicles.” McConnell’s icy stare said to continue. “The UN vehicles, sir. I watched them drive off down the street. Three SUVs and a big truck.”

  “You’re telling me the United Nations shot and killed my brother?”

  “Yes sir, but I can’t be sure. I saw the same vehicles on the base the next day and I reported this to my CO and was taken to a room, where I waited until these guys came and interrogated me.”

  “These guys?”

  “SF, maybe. Special Forces. They seemed like SF. They weren’t in uniform. They asked a lot of questions.”

  “United Nations has Special Forces?”

  “No sir, these were Americans. They had some serious weight.” He cleared his throat. “I was instructed not to say anything to anyone about the event I claimed to have witnessed. I was told to simply forget it, if something had happened it was well above my pay grade, was highly classified, and if I did not comply I would face court martial. The SF left and ten minutes later my CO came in looking like he was about to shit himself—sorry sir—he told me to pack up. I was shipping home in twelve hours.” Nielsen steeled himself. “It was my fault sir. He went up there after me. I ran. Like a coward. And he—” His voice faltered under McConnell’s hardening gaze.

  McConnell stood and walked out of the room. He poured himself two fingers of Jameson, tossed it back then poured, and then another. He still hadn’t eaten anything and on an empty stomach the burn in his throat and belly felt good. Felt real. None of this kid’s story felt real. Or even plausible. His brother killed by the UN. Then the US military covered it up. Really.

  He returned to the living room where Nielsen sat staring at his hands. A part of him wanted to punch the corporal in the face. Another part wanted to know more about what the fuck happened over there. His better angels won out. “So what happened when you got stateside?”

  “I was immediately served with ELS status and restricted to barracks. Entry Level Separation, sir,” Nielsen explained off John’s look. “A CID officer informed me that they had received a prelim conduct report from Iraq and I had two options; accept the ELS graciously or BCD—Bad Conduct Discharge—into prison. I took the ELS and was processed out in four hours.”

  “Four hours seems awfully quick.”

  “Yes sir, it is.”

  “So you said nothing to no one stateside?”

  Nielsen licked his lips. “I’m not sure it would’ve done any good.”

  McConnell eyed him. The kid was spooked yet here he was in his house.

  “Why’d you decide to come and tell me?”

  “My dad. We talked it over and we agreed you deserved to know. He’s waiting for me in the car. He wanted me to tell you he’s very sorry for your loss.”

  “Seems to be the in thing to say these days.”

  “I wish it was me instead, sir. I really do.”

  “Me too,” McConnell said heartlessly. Then he softened. “But it wasn’t.”

  Nielsen stood up, dug a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it over. “That’s a pic I took the night before I left. It’s the truck and one of the SUVs.”

  It was a printout photo of the back of two dirty, white UN vehicles with black license plates. “You put yourself at risk.”

  “Even then I knew something was fishy. I hope it will be of some use to you.” Nielsen wiped at his eyes. “I cannot say how sorry I am, sir.”

  “Stop calling me sir,” McConnell snapped. “And stop saying you’re sorry. Saying it more won’t make it any better.”

  “Yes sir. Mr. McConnell.” He swallowed and looked sullenly at the cats for consolation but those bastard cats weren’t having any of it.

  McConnell scrutinized the young man. Sean had probably done the right thing chasing after this kid. Even though it cost him his life. He sighed. “Wasn’t your fault. Get over it.”

  Nielsen shook his head at the impossible.

  “Doesn’t mean you’ll forget. You’ll never do that. But you’ll figure out how to keep going without it haunting you and without you haunting it back. That’s life. The rest is fuckin’ gravy,” he snorted. “Or so my grandfather keeps telling me. It took balls coming here. I appreciate that you did.”

  “If you need me to make a sworn statement, or to testify, or—”

  McConnell shook his head. “Start putting it behind you, Nielsen,” he said, showing him to the door.

  The marine smiled weakly. “Fuckin’ gravy, sir.”

  They shook hands. With a last nod of grateful relief, the marine pulled the door reverently closed behind him.

  CHAPTER 13

  JUNE

  Spokane, Washington

  After Nielsen left he had stood in the kitchen and hovered around the green Jameson bottle then willfully abandoned it, crossed Aubrey L. White, descended the clumpy slope in uneven bounds to the riverbank, Geronimo on his heels. The dog cooled himself in the turgid, green water, carefree, tongue lolling in that big, goofy German shepherd grin as his human hopped out along the archipelago that had surfaced now that the spring’s torrent had receded and settled on flat stone worn smooth by time.

  Afternoon waned. The dying light of the sun coruscated golden through the pines up on the ridge opposite as a welcome breeze stirred the thick air and Geronimo, who had taken up residence on a rock a couple hops away, lifted his nose to greet it. Short-lived succor as the mosquitoes came to life, a host of obnoxious demons out in force for the evening. The dog snapped in irritation but they were legion, not easily deterred. Vampires of the world were always more diligent than the victims.

  McConnell ignored the bugs and they obligingly returned the favor. He was one of those queer folk whom the ruthless bloodsuckers did not like to bite. His plague was of a more internal persuasion though no less rapacious.

  A waxing moon rose, painting the water quicksilver. He dismissed the goose bumps on his arms, the chill stiffening his legs. Didn’t shift his unfeeling rear on the unsympathetic stone either, and disregarded the dog’s cocked head and plaintive whines of concern that it was time to be indoors. His feet screamed pins and needles for the want of a good stomp but then what? Where should his tingling trudge take him? His thoughts were as sluggish and dark as the river beneath its moonlit surface; if only he could gather it up, hold on long enough for the waters to solidify and substantiate in his grasp. But he wasn’t a thinker anymore. He was a doer. What to do? His head was fuzzy or hazy, maybe logy. His enervated brain adrift on an alien sea.

  Perhaps the answers he sought lay in that bottle after all.

  He creaked to his feet, stretched with a grimace, made his way across the archipelago, clambered up the slope, the dog taking the lead.

  Back at the house he alternated glaring at the whiskey and the phone as he considered and reconsidered calling his mom and sharing Nielsen’s story.

  In the end the bottle won.

  A landscape of purple mountains majesty and fields of flowery red and blue, parted by a rapid, frothy river. The sun high, the grass soft beneath his bare feet as his eyes followed the stream to where Sean finished baiting Anj’s hook, wiped his hands on his BDUs and picked up his own pole with a wry grin. He watched them fish, Sean laughing at his own jokes, Anj giggling like she was sixteen, which she looked, neither holding on to a care in the whole damn world.

  Sean waved him over. “Late as usual, old man. Fish ain’t gonna bite forever!”

  Anj smiled, h
er eyes full of bright life. His brother looked fit. He didn’t though; he was his same old, corpulent, scruffily bearded self. He headed over to join them, eager to remember such lighthearted joy, to tell his brother they were a go on the fishing trip, he had booked the boat, reserved a camp spot, bought new tackle, rods and reels, got their fishing licenses. Good to go!

  A cold presence materialized behind him and stopped him in his tracks. His throat went dry as frosty air sucked the warmth from the world. But it wasn’t there for him. It descended along the bank towards the other two, an inky, cloudy darkness, palpably malevolent.

  A figure stepped away from Anj and solidified into another girl, a smaller one, and his breath caught ragged in his throat.

  “Dad? Dad! Do something!” Katie stomped her soccer cleat, balled her hands into fists and rolled her eyes with incredulity.

  Sean grabbed up his rifle, pulled the trigger. “I’m out!” the marine said giving his brother a rueful look as the ominous shadow bore down.

  “What do I do?” he cried out, desperate, frozen.

  “You know,” Sean said.

  “You know,” Anj echoed, an eyebrow arched expectantly.

  “Hurry, Dad!” Katie screamed. She was scared and he hated it, he hated himself for not being able to stop the cold blackness as it branched out three nebulous arms of icy gloom for the people he loved.

  “John, you can’t just watch,” his mother scolded from above the riverbank. “It’s not polite to watch.”

  Marissa stood beside her, her arms across her chest. “I’m so tired of waiting.”

  What was he to do? What would his dad do?

  “Dad’s dead, John. Get the fuck over it,” Sean said matter-of-factly.

  “Dad!” Katie raised her hands to ward off the menacing shade now inches away.

  “No one ever plowed a field by turning it over in his mind, Johnny,” his grandpa spat solemnly beside him and then a shrill screech tore open the sky and swallowed him whole.

  He was kicking at sheets like they were banshees holding his legs. He sat up, covered in sweat, his throat caught in a raspy scream. Geronimo leapt up and barked, hackles erect, sniffed the air.

  But there was no one there but ghosts.

  The clock read 3:38 a.m. McConnell rose, realized his brain was still whiskey-logged, fell back to the bed. Gathering his bearings, he tried again, padded into the bathroom, gave a much-needed pee and then leaned against the sink, wiping at the perspiration on his face. He peered blearily into the dimly lit mirror. A dubious, irresolute, unhealthy, marginalized fat man regarded him with contempt.

  What the fuck.

  He slipped off his boxer-briefs and stared at himself in the raw and it was then his stomach committed its betrayal. He collapsed to his knees over the porcelain throne, his big pale ass in the air and threw up a vile whiskey-soured gut concoction. When he was done he rolled onto his back, belly a knot of contraction, throat burning, his mouth acrid. He panted as the dog whined just outside the doorway. He wiped his mouth and with effort rose to his feet and braved his reflection again.

  Who was this doughy doppelganger? The athletic, muscled physique of his twenties had gone to flab around the centerpiece of a stout potbelly and while he didn’t quite have man-boobs they were in development, a teenage girl sprouting rosebuds. The love handles, sagging eaves over a circumference of waist fit for the Michelin Man, and Christ, had he lost an inch to his penis? He felt around; no, no, he was still all there, the root now buried in a layer of subcutaneous Jell-O.

  Who was this man?

  He took the stairs two at a time (having to touch his hand down twice to avoid tipping over) to the abandoned, dusty weight bench in one of the disused bedrooms on the second floor. It lay there like a foreign altar about to know a naked virgin sacrifice.

  He strained, grunted, squirmed. Made hideous faces. Eyes teared as he lifted, curled, reverse-curled, pulled and crunched. From the doorway Geronimo watched the bizarre ritual with trepidation.

  He stumbled back down the stairs in a dusty-sweat lather. Bowling balls tossed about in his head, his vision dimmed and he was sure he was stroking out. He reached out to the wall and the wall held, the world slowly ceased its wobbling and the darkness receded. He staggered into the kitchen, sucked down a quart of water from the tap, his eyes on two bottles of Jameson, one empty, one half-empty, or half-filled depending upon a man’s habit. Jesus. When had he developed such a tolerance? If this was tolerance, what was intolerance? He straightened, locked eyes with the half-empty bottle and the wanton tumbler next to it. He stared hard. He could do it. He could drink it all away. Who would blink first?

  He reached for the bottle. Unscrewed the cap. Tilted it back—

  And poured its elixir down the drain. It wasn’t the dead that compelled him. It was the living. He left it upside down in the sink and made for the shower.

  Not bothering with light, leaning against the tile he let the shower’s pressure beat down against the back of his head and neck. Tendons and joints eased though his arms and legs continued to lodge resounding protests against their earlier extemporaneous abuse. He ignored them. He let go of his mind; his weariness, his guilt, his shame. And there it was, a coalescing radiant purpose rising out of a current of black obscurity. Clearer now than by moonlight upon any river.

  He stepped out of the shower, dripping before the mirror, wiping at its steamed surface.

  That man looking back wasn’t him.

  Fumbling for tools long latent he cut and hacked at his face, a painful process demanding copious dollops of shaving gel and garnering a dozen nicks, but he proved relentless until the task was complete. He bade goodbye to the symbol of his unkempt sloth, its last hirsute gasp washed down the drain. In the darkness he let out a deep breath.

  John McConnell turned on the light.

  CHAPTER 14

  JULY

  Spokane, Washington

  Wiping at salty droplets that stung his eyes he ground to a halt, pressed a button on his brother’s watch while bending and grabbing handfuls of his new, dark blue running shorts, his lungs gasping for air. His fifth gallop up the hill, he straightened and between gulps of air checked the watch.

  “Twelve seconds…better…than…yesterday…” he panted.

  Geronimo panted too but only congenially. The improvement in time meant nothing. This was unadulterated fun.

  Debatable. But it was intoxicating.

  Sweat dripped off the end of McConnell’s nose as he squinted into the late afternoon sun that hung high over the basalt cliffs across the river. Directly below him was the barren landscape left after the fire, in stark contrast with the vivid demarcation of green and sun-dappled suburbia to the right, his house just a couple hundred yards beyond the fire-ravaged wasteland. A dusty moonscape, scraggly saplings were taking root along the interlacing trails. One day it would be green again.

  Behind him on the top of the hill lay a copse of woods then Fairwood Cemetery and Joe Albi, the small, tired stadium where he had been starting defensive tackle in high school. Further on, the soccer fields where Katie had played when she was little, where she probably played now, though when he had jogged over she was nowhere to be found among the gaggling, bouncing ponytails, knee-high socks and shin-guards.

  He was running eight miles a day, mostly along the river, but the running not enough anymore, and as a reward for his competence he had added wind sprints up the hill, earning scratches from the brushy buckwheat and sumac as he scrabbled and grunted up the rocky terrain that tended to give way with every other lunging step.

  Rubbing at his smooth jaw he gazed through the evergreen boughs at the partially concealed homes below, the yards and pools and basketball hoops. The American Dream. Lots of young couples new to the neighborhood that last few years. How many of them were underwater on their mortgages? He didn’t worry about that anymore.

  The dog beat him home and was noisily lapping up water as McConnell reached the backyard gate. He joined in
, guzzling from the gallon jug he had left on the deck.

  He hit the weights, the new punching bag in the garage, showered, slipped on sandals, a pair of new shorts and T-shirt. His old clothes no longer fit. Cutting up Romas, cucumbers, chives he tossed them in olive oil, red wine vinegar and garlic while a New York steak sizzled on the gargantuan Weber grill Carrie had insisted upon in anticipation of all the fab parties she had planned. It was the same reason he had built the extravagant deck, poured the cement pad for the hot tub he’d been pricing when she had started screwing her boss. Or at least deigned to inform him of the aforementioned screwing. Not like the writing wasn’t on the wall.

  Eating on the patio (the eleven-piece, Saratoga Collection) he tossed a Frisbee to a still undiminished Geronimo. The dog’s reserves were fathomless. His, not so much but he wasn’t complaining. The fat had melted off—going from sedentary to an endurance trial it was bound to happen. Not that it was all deficit; he’d put on lean muscle, his arms and legs regaining definition. His shoulders had drawn back. His penis no longer rooted in blubbery tissue. Axed was the cardboard fare, the microwave no longer central to meal preparation. Gone were the Hot Pockets, greasy fast food and sugary carbs. Nixed were the Starbucks and Red Bulls that had kept him revved when he was a working man. Lean meats, protein shakes, fresh fruit and vegetable juice (courtesy of the Omega J8000 Carrie had to have) were the victuals of the day. He even ate salads of all things. Drank as much cold water as he could stomach, the colder the better in the record-breaking summer heat. His only vice his regimen of beer, adhering to the strict rule of three that had served his grandfather so well. Though he never cracked one before noon.

  His body had rejected the cleaner lifestyle at first. Kidneys ached from detoxification, the cold turkey cessation of caffeine, sugar and saccharin gave him throbbing headaches accompanied by nausea and the shakes. Malodorous poisons seeped out his pours, and he was plagued by either constipation or running for the toilet without the preservatives and oils so prevalent in the fatty junk that had been his daily staple. It wasn’t pleasant. He felt urgent, constant cravings for fast food like it was deep-fried cocaine.